#new hotel snow crest

[newhotelsnowcrest]

Stay at New Hotel Snow Crest in Badrinath, Uttarakhand, for a serene retreat. Enjoy modern comforts, stunning views, and easy access to the sacred Badrinath Temple and the enchanting Satopanth Lake. Book your stay for a perfect blend of spirituality and adventure amidst the Himalayas.

Website: https://snowcrest.co.in/ Email Id: sales@snowcrest.co.in Phone No: +91-9980100123 Location: New Hotel Snow Crest, Main Road Badrinath Dham, Badrinath, Uttarakhand 246422

[nametakensff]

Suggestible (D/isco E/lysium, M/M)

The first fic of a few I have for these two because I am deeep into this shit now lol. Ended up at 4K!

H/arry, whilst working on the murder case in M/artinaise and ever so slowly piecing his identity together, notices an interesting reaction in K/im to his budding cold. I guess the first part of a series that will become increasingly NSFW, but for now mostly just alluding to it!

Based on an insane little piece of dialogue in the game where K/im suggests that other people sneezing makes him sneeze

~~~~~~

Content:

Future/hinted M/M, cold sneezes, sympathetic sneezes, H/arry has a latent sneezing fetish that he doesn't remember having yet, spray, stifles, sneezing into handkerchiefs, slight elements of voyeurism but only because H/arry is a confused mess lmao

CW: lots of drug and alcohol mentions, lots of self-hatred

NB - I guess please don't read if you plan on playing the game and want to go in with no prior knowledge - it doesn't really have any plot heavy spoilers but takes place within the story

(also also - decided to write this in 2nd person narrative to somewhat resemble the style of game play - it's not perfect but it was fun to try haha)

Minors DNI please!

Lieutenant Kitsuragi trails behind you as you jog your way across the empty boardwalk and towards the fishing village. The air is piercing and bitterly cold – you are starting to feel the effects of it as the salty air whips against your face. It has been snowing on and off for hours, and you are woefully underdressed. This has not been a good day for you – few new leads, endless dead ends. And a hangover. The hangover to end all hangovers. Not even the frigid winter weather can distract you from the dull thud of a lingering headache, painful pulses beating in time with your heart. It feels as though your brain is too swollen – or your skull is too tight.

Suddenly, you feel it – the familiar, fluttering sensation of a building sneeze. You have been a little under the weather ever since you awoke in your hotel room several days earlier, having no recollection of who you are and woefully bereft of substances to abuse. You had put any subsequent discomfort down to just that – the miserable lack of alcohol, nicotine and narcotics in your system. This tickle, however – it is something all of its own. You stop dead in your tracks, practically skidding to a stop as it crests. You have no hope of holding back the encroaching sneeze. Your mouth hangs open, a great yawn of irritation, before – at last – release.

It comes out sounding more like a desperate shriek than anything else; a few startled seagulls scatter, flying away in a maelstrom of confusion and feathers. You didn’t mean to cause such a scene, but the cold air, the breeze, and now the beginning of a miserable cold – it all proves too much for you. You take in another shuddering gasp before you’ve even recovered from the previous explosion and do it all over again.

“HAAAEEEIISHHHHhhh!!!”

There are no seagulls left to scatter this time, but you hardly notice for the way this sneeze, even more violent than the one before it, sends you flying forward and staggering on your feet. You manage to catch yourself before you fall face down on the sandy ground, panting slightly in the aftermath. It practically tore itself out of you, leaving your throat more than a little hoarse. Perhaps a drink would be just the thing to remedy your misery…

You’re shaken out of your alcoholic deliberation by a familiar, soft voice. Lieutenant Kitsuragi is resting a gentle, gloved hand on your shoulder, hovering next to your crouched form. His voice is as placid as always, but you can’t help but notice a slight hint of concern. You right yourself immediately and snuffle at the mess that’s threatening to overflow from your nose, already a bright shade of red from years of alcohol abuse and the biting cold of the beach.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor?”

The Lieutenant notices the thickness of the sound, a barely perceptible look of displeasure passing over his face. You see him reach into his pockets and pull out a large handkerchief – the very same you have seen him use before to cover his face as you performed a field autopsy together. He proffers it to you and you hesitate for just a moment - then your nose starts to run into your moustache. This prompts you to take it from him and snuffle into it apologetically. You realise this pathetic sniffling will do nothing to stem the flow – you surrender and blow your nose with as much conviction as you possibly can. The sound of it is devastatingly loud, almost as disruptive as the sneezes preceding it. You glance at Kim sheepishly from behind the material. If it’s as disgusting to Lieutenant Kitsuragi as it sounded to you, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

When you’re finished, you offer the soiled fabric back to him with an outstretched hand. He looks at it with mild dismay.

“You keep that, officer. I carry a spare with me at all times.”

Stupid. That was stupid of you. Why would you hand him a snot rag? You dismiss the thought before the negativity drags you down further into the already miserable grips of your hangover. But for whatever reason, you keep note of this new information regarding the handkerchiefs. It’s not as though this is out of the ordinary for Kim. He’s so organised and focused – a great cop. Not like you. Of course he would carry a spare. Moving on, you ask the lieutenant for his opinion of what you ought to do next.

“Hm…We should return to the Whirling-In-Rags. Try Klaasje again and see if she’s ready to discuss the murder in more detail.”

It sounds like a perfect idea to you. The wind is fiercely cold and you never did get round to buying a windbreaker. Your hangover is making it impossible to tell if the major discomfort you’re feeling is from the alcohol dissipating within your husk of a body, or the virus threatening to take hold of your sinuses. Either way, getting out of the cold is imperative.

You approach the vicinity of the Whirling-In-Rags Hostel – at last. Your chest burns. Normally, a brisk jog is nothing to you – if anything, it energises your ailing body after a particularly lengthy binge. But today, you feel miserably worn out. You pause for a moment, look towards the Lieutenant, and attempt to speak. You fail, nothing but a series of wheezing gasps issuing from between your lips, followed by an increasingly hacking cough. You buckle over your knees and continue to hack like the washed-up middle-aged man you know you are. Kim places a hand on your back - he seems worried.

“This isn’t good. You’re unwell, detective. Perhaps you should rest a while in your room?”

Something tells you this isn’t a suggestion exclusively for your own benefit. A perfunctory glance tells you that Lieutenant Kitsuragi is tired, and as miserably cold as you. He wouldn’t mind a break inside a warm building, thawing out over a cup of coffee. Nevertheless, you feel disappointment blooming in your chest. As if you weren’t already a pathetic excuse of a policeman - missing memory, decked head to toe in questionable clothes and with a penchant for drug and drink on the clock – you’re now so weak you can’t even handle a mild case of rhinovirus. Pathetic.

You stand upright in an attempt to signal that you are and always have been a perfect beacon of health. You tell the Lieutenant that time is of the essence; you’ve been working on this case for days and have no time for further setbacks. He acknowledges this with a small nod; he seems to appreciate this professional, business-like approach to the matter. He doesn’t say anything more but merely walks beside you as you stride towards the Whirling-In-Rags.

You barely manage to take a few steps before the tickle is upon you again. You tense your jaw and attempt to quell the sensation by taking in shallow, measured breaths, but no dice. In seconds, it tears its way out of you as before, echoing off the walls of the nearby buildings. It is so loud that you wonder if the scabs protesting outside of the Union can hear it over the sounds of their own angry chants. Again, you stumble forward under the force of it, feeling light-headed.

The Lieutenant reaches out to grip your shoulder, steadying you just in time. You wait and sniffle miserably in preparation for the following sneeze, lingering in the depths of your sinuses, but it never comes. You straighten up, blinking tears of effort from your tired eyes, when you become aware of a certain sensation. Kim’s hand squeezes your shoulder with a sudden flex. Could this be a gesture of affection? Reassurance? This is not the Lieutenant’s regular style. He is far too cool for that kind of thing.

You look over your shoulder in curiosity as the Lieutenant continues his grip, despite your having collected yourself. You can see that behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes are unfocused and heavy-lidded. His mouth hangs slightly open, and he is holding a fist – expectantly? – before his face. The expression is…familiar. You’d seen it before, though not on Lieutenant Kitsuragi.

As you furrow your brow in deep consideration, reaching for an explanation that only just manages to elude you, slight movement from Kim pulls you out of your thoughts. You watch as his head tilts back, stays there for a just a moment before he’s jerking forward into his gloved fist, pressing it against his nose and mouth. His features contract severely, moulding his ordinarily placid face into a twisted, almost angry and unrecognisable countenance. You feel his fingers flex again. His entire body shudders, and as it does so, you hear him utter a tiny sound.

“-hHdt’!”

You blink, still not putting two and two together. Maybe this amnesia was worse than you had initially assumed it to be. Was he – seizing? No. Of course not. You continue to watch in confusion as he seems to uncrumple with a gentle exhalation. You think he might be done, but no. Just as quickly as one breath is exhaled, a replacement is sucked back in hurriedly. You watch as he repeats the action, ducking forward into his fist again, more forcefully this time. His shoulders jump with the effort and his hand squeezes substantially harder against you.

“h’Ngxt-!! hh…”

That strange sound again – this time followed by an uncharacteristically shaky exhale.  A moment later the Lieutenant straightens up and assumes his regular composure, releasing your shoulder as if nothing just happened. If you hadn’t watched this series of events unfold right in front of you, you’re sure you would have missed it altogether. He blinks several times as if to clear away tears. Still you have no idea what the fuck just happened – any remnants of the pained expression that cinched his features tight has vanished, leaving him to look as calm and collected as before. You stare at him, eyes roving over his face. This intrusive observation gives you the last bit of information you need to understand. His nostrils flare delicately as he indulges in a sniffle, moisture gathering around the irritated rims and glittering ever so slightly in the afternoon sunlight.

Had those been…sneezes? Those tiny little swallows of air?! You feel a grin spread across your face, any discomfort of your own forgotten for the moment. You bless him enthusiastically. Ignoring the inkling that tells you not to tease or cajole him, you also comment on how adorable the Lieutenant’s sneezes are. Like a kitten. A badass cop kitten.

He thanks you somewhat reluctantly, blatantly ignoring the kitten comment. He clearly wants you to move on from him and focus again on the case. You continue to make your way towards Whirling-In-Rags, but don’t miss out of the corner of your eye the sight of the Lieutenant covertly pinching his nostrils shut, before pulling down towards his septum. He is wiping the resultant moisture of those sneezes away with his gloved fingers. This realisation makes your heartbeat spike for just a moment. You choose to ignore this.

You walk into the establishment – the increasingly familiar sounds and sights greet you as you pass through the door. The Hardie boys are in their booths, an unwelcome fixture. You glance sidelong at them – Titus glares daggers back at you. You think you should puff up your chest and stare him down in a battle of warring machismo, but at last minute think otherwise. It would do nothing to repair your already abysmal lack of authority if you sneezed at him mid stand-off. You glance away. He smirks, arms crossed firmly over his broad chest, clearly enjoying this silent display of dominance. You get an all-consuming urge to spin around and put him in his place – but you feel shitty. Much too shitty. It would probably end with his fist in your face.

You approach the staircase leading to the bedrooms when you feel that familiar, irritating tickle blossoming anew in your sinuses. Not again, not here! Not in a busy room full of so many people. You want to maintain your cool cop image – sneezing is not a cool thing to do. You briefly think to yourself that Kim is cool, even when he sneezes - but it is a foolish thought. You’re not him. You fight to suppress the gasp that fills your lungs, fumbling in your jacket pocket for the handkerchief the lieutenant had given you – but you’re too late. Two huge sneezes rocket out of you, sending veritable clouds of spray across the base of the staircase. They practically break the sound barrier, two near identical “IIIIEEEESHHHHhhtt!!!” screams of irritation. Kim doesn’t steady you this time – you reach out and do that yourself with the help of the banister.

Jeers erupt from the Hardie boys across the cafeteria floor – you only just manage to hold back an embarrassed blush from creeping over your weary face. You have finally managed to extract the handkerchief from your pocket. You decide a honking performance will do very little to remedy this utter humiliation, dabbing softly at your aching nose instead. You begin to climb the stairs; a sordid walk of shame.

“That’s just what this establishment needs, following the hanging, bloated corpse – a biohazardous drunk anointing his plague unto us all.”

That snark came from Garte – the bartender. No, the Cafeteria Manager.

“Just ignore him.” Kim mutters close to your ear. You proceed to flip the bird at Garte instead. As you make your way upstairs, you swear you can hear a tiny gasp from behind you. Without the sensation of a hand gripping your shoulder and signalling the completion of a sneeze, you have to strain your ears to even confirm they happen at all.

“’Ngxt’ch! h’ddt’! Hh’Ggkt!!”

Those are definitely sneezes. Slightly louder than before, enough that you can hear the Lieutenant’s own soft voice blending in with the strained sound of them. Your stomach is suddenly alive with butterflies. In your mind’s eye you can visualise the way his face crumples with each of them – nostrils flaring outwards as he valiantly bites down against them. You are sure if you try to do the same, your head will explode. Or at the very least, an aneurism is a surefire possibility. You shudder at the thought of it. You want to offer a blessing to the Lieutenant, but based on the previous reception it received, you decide against it. This could be the start of a beautiful partnership – Harry’n’Kim, Du Bois and Kitsuragi. Disco Cop and Cool Cop. You can always brainstorm on your trademark duo name at a later date. Either way, you decide to ignore the Lieutenant’s strangled outburst. A soft exhalation behind you signals that he is finished – for now.

You reach the top of the stairs. With great dismay, you realise that perhaps for the first time in your life, you are experiencing firsthand the effect of all those years of chain smoking. The wheezing gasps bend you over for a moment. Lieutenant Kitsuragi stands nearby, just short of nervously hovering, waiting for you to recover. You finally catch your breath and stride as confidently as you can towards Klaasje’s room. You extend a fist to knock on the door when you feel the soft touch of Kim’s hand on your arm, stopping you in your tracks. This has to be a new record. He has touched you on four separate occasions – all in a span of under thirty minutes.

“Perhaps you should take this opportunity to rest after all, detective.” Kim offers. You sense by the firmness of his voice that this is less of a gentle suggestion and more of a request. He smiles wryly.

“You are not very likely to get her to open up to you if you deafen her with your sneezing.”

Your stomach flips at hearing that word come out of his mouth. It is confusing but not entirely unpleasant. Whilst he doesn’t laugh, you can see the amusement held in the subtle quirking of his lips. You think for a moment that you should tell him your sneezes are the pinnacle of masculinity – ladies dig a huge, manly sneeze. You choose instead to sigh, practically deflating as any will to remain poised upright seeps out of you. You know he’s right. The filthy sheets of your bed beckon to you.

You agree with him and turn heel to your own room. He looks pleased – perhaps a little relieved. How disastrous did he think the interaction would have gone, had you proceeded? He turns to face you as you stand outside your respective doors.

“Don’t worry, detective. I will wake you up in a couple of hours, and we can resume our investigation. There is no point in making yourself ill.”

You nod. You are both about to enter your rooms when you feel it again. The tickle. It is persistent and increasingly difficult to control. You feel a gasp inflating your chest, helpless to do anything other than let the sensation overpower you. There is no time to even lift the handkerchief to your face. You do manage to turn away from the Lieutenant as the sneeze rips through you, baptising your own door with a trembling “aaAAAAEEEEGSHHHHhh!!!” A cloud of spray settles on the wood, droplets of spray shimmering under the harsh lighting. Gross.

“Bless you.”

A blessing. You feel relieved – and slightly giddy. Your stomach flips again. It is likely out of politeness, but the Lieutenant has at least not run for the hills in response to your disgusting display. You start to thank him when – oh, sweet confusion - he interrupts you with another sneeze of his own. He isn’t fast enough to bring a fist to his face this time. You can see every minute twitch of his facial muscles as he suppresses the sneeze through sheer willpower alone.

“Hh’Gnxt!! Huh’NGxtt!!”

The second sneeze follows immediately – his head dips twice in quick succession. That look of desperation suits him just fine, you think. You decide to abandon the thought as quickly as it forms. You are only partially successful in doing so. His hand reaches into the pocket of his trousers – he succeeds in removing the handkerchief in the duration of that second sneeze, you notice in great appreciation. You would never have managed to pull that off.

You watch as he raises the handkerchief before his face for a final sneeze. This one looks more irritable than the ones prior – the expression plastered on his face is openly more agonised than before. He pauses for what is likely only a second longer before the tickle reaches its apex, but that is more than enough time for another thought to cross your mind – one of an entirely salacious nature. You think that the face he is making resembles the sweet agony of another kind of release. You try to unthink it, but it’s too late – you’re absolutely, undeniably thinking it. The second passes. At last, the lieutenant smothers his final sneeze into the waiting folds of the handkerchief. It is considerably louder than before, even with the assistance of the fabric covering.

“hHh’nNGgxtt!!..chu…”

The soft vocal exclamation that rounds off the sneeze sounds weary, like it took a lot out of him. He sniffles briefly into the handkerchief, rubbing at his nose before tucking the cloth back into his pocket. Is it your imagination, or is said appendage starting to look a little reddened from the effort?

“Excuse me.” The Lieutenant mumbles, sounding uncomfortable. Embarrassed, perhaps?

You bless him before you remember to bite your tongue. Luckily, he accepts it with a soft “Thank you.” You watch as he removes his glasses and swipes at a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He replaces them just as quickly, giving you hardly any time to take in the sight of him without the thick frames. It is for a brief moment only, but the word ‘vulnerable’ comes to mind.

It dawns on you quite suddenly that he must be sneezing because you have infected him with your disgusting, no good germs. You ask him if this is the case, unable to hold back the shaking guilt as you voice your question-cum-self-abasement. He waves it off immediately.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that, detective, I assure you. I’m fine.” He pauses for a moment, looking hesitant to say more. You say nothing. This awkward silence seems to prompt him to continue.

“Sometimes the power of suggestion is too much for me. When somebody sneezes in my vicinity, I find my body often wanting to do the same. And your sneezes are particularly…” He trails off for a moment, in want of an appropriate term.

Masculine? Sexy? Bad-ass? You go with the first one. He shakes his head gently.

“…Suggestible.” He finishes. You’re not quite sure you catch his drift, but you do recall that he had mentioned something like this before. ‘Dancing makes you dance like sneezing makes you sneeze’. He had said that, in the church – he had been enthusiastic to interject, and then immediately changed the subject. You had had no idea what he had meant at the time – not once had you ever heard anyone say anything even remotely similar. It had been easily forgotten. Until now.

You smirk. You hope it isn’t akin to ‘the expression’, but is happening nonetheless. You cannot help it. This. Is. Gold.

You manage to hold back from laughing, but what you cannot help is calling him adorable. For the second time that day.

“I’m a 43 year old RCM policeman. I am far from adorable, officer.” He states firmly, almost as if he is chiding you. You do not miss, however, the softness in his eyes and the momentary twitching of his lips into a tiny smile. You do laugh at that. Bad idea. The laugh quickly morphs into a painful, wrenching cough. Whatever light-hearted moment you’d been sharing, you have ruined it. Your throat burns with the effort. God, but you want a drink. And a smoke. Maybe some speed. You finish at last, wiping spittle from your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Please rest, Harry. I will check up on you soon.”

He casts a final worried glance your way before nodding curtly. You watch as the door clicks shut behind him. After a moment, you make your way into your own room, not even bothering to kick off your shoes as you collapse onto the pile of twisted sheets. Far too tired to think about the past that eludes you, about the case, about any of it, your eyes start to slip shut.

But it is back. The tickle. You have no means of fighting it, and you’re not sure you want to. You sneeze, smothering it into your sheets at the last second.

“HHHRRMMMPPPSHHHh!!!”

You peer cautiously at the sheets. You have left a considerably large damp patch on the section that covered your mouth and nose. Gross – that should be your middle name. You feel disgusting, but before you can begin another spiral of self-deprecation the exhaustion overwhelms you entirely. A final thought passes through your mind as you surrender to it. Did the Lieutenant hear you?

Next door, settling into the chair at his desk, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi tenses at the sound of your sneeze. It was loud enough to be heard not only the next room over – indeed, anyone on the second floor may have been startled by it. His breath hitches, once, twice, before he is tipping forward into his gloved hands, steepled around his face. Depleted of energy from the prior onslaughts, he is unable to hold them back at all.

“-hh! Hck��tshuu! Hupt’Tshhht!! ‘TSCHH’uu!! hm...”

He glances in unmasked irritation at the damp speckling of moisture now adorning the palms of his gloves.

“Merde!” He grumbles under his breath. The Lieutenant pulls the gloves from his hands, pausing to scrub at his itchy nostrils with his knuckles for one indulgent moment, before resuming the paperwork he had failed to complete the night before. He hopes, for both your own sake and his, that once he wakes you your sneezing spell will have passed – due to a temporary chill and nothing more. Neither of you have the time for this absurdity. He sniffles once more and begins to write.

[catfever7]

So New Mexico.....I like it here....I legit would/will come back. I 100% need to see more stuff then just two and a half days allows.

Also I met this cool dude here that I wouldn't mind seeing again ;) ;)

Sooo got here Thursday night, got the rental car, drove to the hotel , got settled in, changed my clothes...then got a text from Cody that he was in the lobby.

*Met Cody on FB dating a day or two before coming to NM, I added Albuquerque to my profile and he popped up as a suggestion and I liked his profile, similar things in common plus he's cute...so I sent himma like and we matched. .we talked on FB dating for a little bit, then I gave him my number and we texted until I got to NM*

Anyway, Thursday night..went to a few breweries Cody likes, had a few drinks, then went back to my hotel to hang out.. talked a lot, laughed a lot, made out and thennnn sexxxx. Sooooo good. Remember how I was all "Boo hoo hoo" I'm probably never going to find anyone that fucks me as good as Oreo did? Wellll Cody delivers and then some. I was super satisfied. SUPER.

We were both hungry after lots of sex, so we go to Whataburger and get food and then go eat.

Just reallly,really good times Thursday night.

Friday - I go do tourist stuff during the daytime and then at night, Cody wanted to know if I was down to hang more? I'm like fuck yessss.

So he gets me at my hotel, we go to a bar/restaurant he likes called Gecko..he eats. I drink.

Then we go on a drive out to Sandia (not the Peak, just the Crest) there is snow up there. So my plan of going to Sandia Peak is notttt happening. But the Crest was cool..even with snow and ice, we made it uppp there, cause Cody knows how to drive really well. If it were me alone. I would not have (also it was really dark/late).

Anyway, drove back to the hotel, hung out more..listening to Music talking and then more sexxxx. Goddd I like him.

So this is my last full day here..going to Meow Wolf over in Santa Fe, Cody suggested me taking the back roads and going through Madrid to get there. He's busy today/this afternoon with Band practice. But tonight...will I see him.again?

I hope so...

[traipseartist]

May 7th - Salt Lake City to Jackson Hole

My dear friend Lewis finds himself in a pickle. He has driven his Honda Civic, Stacey, all the way to Boise State for his first year of his MFA and now it is May! School is out! And home in DC is calling.

The practical and heartless could drive relentlessly from Boise to our Nation's capital, on-the-run-from-the-law style, in probably two days time. Three if it's more of a misdemeanor. However, there's a lot of America in the in between, and this seemed like a good excuse to taste that dust instead of just kicking it up.

Lewis saved me the pain of a very erratic layover schedule by meeting me in Salt Lake City, and picked me up at 12:30am in the spooky spaceship that is the new Salt Lake City Airport after I crossed a few moving-sidewalk switchbacks and crested baggage claim.

After a gentle snooze at Lewis's high school friend, Marcello's house in Layton, Utah--we deflated Stacey's tires a bit, carried a futon I slept on four doors down back to Marcello's father-in-law's porch, and I snapped a pic from Marcello's doorstep before we saddled in. Destination: Jackson Hole.

Weaving our way through the last of northern Utah, we tracked along the Wasatch range to avoid the boring void of the main highway.

Intending to visit a creamery Marcello claimed was worth the detour, we instead caught up on life and paid no mind to the ticking of the mile markers. I'm sure at some point we were meant to turn, but by the time we realized, we had come upon Cache Meadow Creamery off an Idaho road that jogged us into the state just before we were to enter Wyoming. Cache Meadow Creamery is in fact just an out-building with a locker to shove cash into--an honor system to indulge in $5 robin's blue chicken eggs, rolled butter, and home made ice cream.

One half pint of honor-system ice cream later, we scrabbled up, up, up the mountains.

We pointed wildly at icey-capped hills, signs for The Oregon Trail, The Pony Express, Pete's Pond and Recreational Facility. We stopped in Soda Springs to watch the local geyser spew sulfuric, carbonated water high into the air and let a loping Union Pacific train passing by hold us up for a while longer.

A good intermission for us to switch, complain about the cold, (It's May! And Snowing!) and truck upwards again. Jackson Hole lay only a little bit further on, and it was everything you'd expect a skiing town to be: sleepy locals glad another season has passed, art galleries with driftwood sculpted moose in full lope, a sickening fascination with antlers.

Perhaps The Silver Dollar Bar, an establishment in the basement of the Wort--a historical hotel--was the kind of honest retro joint you'd hope for in a sea of classic mountain resort town choreography. Big silver dollars embedded in polymer make for the counter that snake the corners of the dining room. Magenta light throws you in a 80s roller skating rink or a 50s drive-in tizzy even though you know from the menu this place was founded many decades before.

Lewis explains the science of the cryptic puzzle format and I eat a BLAT with cheese on it. We walk to the edge of town to obtain liquor as the bars, out of season, begin to shutter at 9pm. Snow pours and Lewis declares that it is December, as this is less upsetting a thought, and asks me about my Christmas shopping. We sleep to wake another day with an asphalt carpet lain before us--Medicine Bow awaits.

[wildhawkadventures]

New Reports of Damages as Landslide Area Increased

New Reports of Damages as Landslide Area Increased

January 15, 2023 – The danger of landslide in Joshimath is not over yet. Gradually more hotels are also coming under its purview. Like Hotel Malari Inn and Mount View, the Snow Crest and Comet hotels on the way to the ropeway have also been obliterated by the landslide. Both owners have started vacating their hotels. On the other hand, cracks appeared in 22 more buildings in the city area on…

[wolveria]

Inside Your Wires - Ch 38 [Final]

Pairing: Human!Connor x Android!Reader

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, slow burn, fantasy bigotry, violence, brief noncon elements, angst with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: You return home.

Chapter Warning: Smut (FINALLY)

AO3

It took much longer than expected to find a moment alone with the deviant leader. You ended up sending a message to the detective’s phone stating he should return to the apartment without you.

When he texted back a quick are u sure? you reassured him that you would return as soon as you could, and that he should rest as he hadn’t slept in almost 24 hours.

The emoji he sent was either one of agreement or protest—it was difficult to tell with your messaging software that wasn’t meant for such things—but by the movement of his phone GPS, he was doing as you requested.

By the time you had helped move the rescued androids into a local hotel, emptied out and taken over by the deviant group thanks to Markus Manfred’s influence, the sun was cresting over the horizon.

You explained the situation to Bellona, and the deviant named Chris reconnected you to his laptop where he delved into the root of your programming.

You didn’t remember much as you were barely aware, powered down into stasis mode, but when you woke you had a sense of… lightness. It shouldn’t have been possible, and it was certainly illogical that you would know anything had changed, but the rest of Elijah’s influence was gone. CyberLife could never control you again.

By the time Chris unhooked the cables from the back of your neck in the hotel room, the sky was turning pink and the snow on the ground took on a light glow. You pinged the detective’s phone and located it at his apartment, and by the time a DPD officer dropped you off in front of his building, you surmised he had fallen asleep by the fact it hadn’t moved.

You thanked Officer Lee and went inside the lobby. It was empty, and the rooms you passed on the detective’s floor were still and silent. You wondered how many of the residents had fled during the night, unsure who Detroit would belong to in the morning. You wondered how many of them would return.

Wedging the broken door against your shoulder, you tried to be as silent as possible as you replaced the door back on its jamb behind you. The apartment was dark and quiet, the blinds pulled across the living room windows, and a quick scan revealed the detective asleep in his bed.

Not wishing to disturb him, you planned to wait on the sofa, much as you the last time you were at his residence. But a restless energy filled your limbs, and you stood at the window after depositing your jacket on the back of his couch, the blinds pulled back enough for you to look out over the city. The sky was cloudless, a clear blue as the sun began to warm the snow-filled avenues and boulevards. It truly was a new world that emerged from a dark night, and you still didn’t know your place in it.

“Yin?”

Your unfocused attention snapped back into place, and you turned to face the detective.

“Sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You offered him a smile, one you wore like a polite mask. It wasn’t something you intended to do, but when caught in an unknown situation, you fell back onto former routines.

The detective’s gaze narrowed and he stepped forward, the morning light illuminating his bare torso.

“Yin, why are you out here? You know you can—”

He made a small noise as you moved quickly. You came to a stop before him, unable to look away from them. The bruises marring his skin, blotched over his chest and abdomen like a painter who had been too cruel with their brush.

You had done this. Your hands and feet had wrought the damage to his body. The confrontation on the rooftop could have easily ended in his death, and the state your mind had been in, you might not have cared.

Ocular fluid flooded your vision, and when you tried to apologize, no words came out.

The detective gently laid his hands on your shoulders, one thumb brushing against your bottom jaw.

“Yin, I know what you’re thinking. I’m fine. This wasn’t your fault. But no matter how much I say it, you still feel responsible. It hurts, right?”

You slowly nodded. Hurt, yes, that was an appropriate word for the intense discomfort filling your chest cavity. It wasn’t logical, you didn’t have nerve receptors, but there was no denying the phantom pain you experienced when seeing the detective’s bruises.

“May I…”

You trailed off, lost as you fought to voice the illogical urge.

“Hmm?”

The detective removed his hands, slightly tilting his head. Despite your stress, it was a gesture you found very endearing.

You lifted your hands halfway toward his chest, fingers hovering with uncertainty.

“May I touch you?”

His gaze widened, and a light flush spread across his cheeks.

“Uh, yeah, of course you can.”

You weren’t sure why you asked. Your scans were just as efficient at this range as they would be with physical contact, and you certainly weren’t trained to be a medical android, but…

…As soon as your fingertips touched his warm skin, you had your answer as to why this was something you needed. Making physical contact with your fingertips, the millions of sensors lighting up and shooting the same signal to your processors, proving to the deepest part of your core that the detective was alive. It was a reassurance you needed.

But as you traced over the first bruise, two inches above his heart, your impulse to touch him became something else.

You traced your fingers downwards, over the planes of his stomach to the slight rise of his abdominal muscles.

The detective shivered but didn’t pull away. You stepped closer, your hands angling around his hips and up his sides. You wanted to feel every inch of him, but at the moment, there was something more pressing to accomplish.

“Yin?” the detective breathed out with another shiver. “What are you—”

Perhaps you should have let him finish the question. Instead, you lowered your lips to his collarbone and swiped your tongue across the bruise there.

The detective made a noise as if he’d been struck in the stomach. You ran your cursory scans again and found everything within acceptable parameters. Heartrate, perspiration, even the hormones mixed into his scent informed you that he was reaching peak arousal.

More pressing than your scans were the flood of information that lay on your tongue. You tasted him again, gently pressing your tongue along the ridge of his collarbone.

The detective released a small noise, a muffled groan that he attempted to hide, and your own internal components ran warm. Recalling both the memory of the detective inebriated in the bathtub and dreaming in his bed, there was little comparison to the experience of him being sober and alert.

When you reached the side of his neck and tasted him with your mouth, the detective’s hands flew to your hips and squeezed. Your own hips sought his automatically, metaphorical sparks lighting up your circuits.

“Detective?” you asked, lips brushing against the bottom of his jaw.

“Y-yes, Yin?”

“I want you.”

Before you could begin to doubt if he would reciprocate, he groaned and pulled you closer.

“I want you too, Yin.”

He tilted your head and captured your lips, data flooding your sensors as his lips parted and his tongue licked into your mouth.

Yes, this was much better than the first kiss.

A warm, bubbling lightness filled your chest as the detective pulled you along with him as he slowly walked you both to the bedroom. You didn’t know how he managed it while kissing you, only bumping his hip into the doorjamb before entering the bedroom.

The curtains were drawn and the light was dim, but the blush of his cheeks and his dilated pupils were still visible as he pulled away.

As soon as you had enough space to move, you began stripping off your clothing in haste, movements frustrated when the knot of your tie wouldn’t loosen.

The detective gently took the tie in his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. He loosened the tie, and you immediately unbuttoned your dress shirt, eagerly pulling it out of your waistband and tossing it to the floor.

“There’s no rush. We can take it slow—”

Your lips were on his, cutting his words short. Instead of reprimanding you, he pulled you in tight and groaned. You swallowed up the sound, your hands on either side of his jaw as you plunged your tongue into his mouth.

If he’d wanted to take his time, that thought was clearly forgotten as he cupped your backside and squeezed.

A jolt ran through you, echoed by your hips pressing against his, yearning for more.

The detective grabbed you by the backs of your thighs and picked you up, carrying you to the bed and lying you back against his pillows before breaking the kiss. He hovered over you, hair disheveled and lips slightly swollen.

“What do you want, Yin?”

You frowned. He’d stopped kissing you to ask such a redundant question?

“I want you, Detective.”

“Yeah, kinda got that.” He snorted. “I mean, how do you want to do this? How do you want me to make you feel good?”

You frowned further. Oh.

“I… do not know. Should I activate my sexual subroutines?”

“No, no, definitely not.”

“But I lack the experience to make this pleasurable for you.”

“Oh, Yin,” the detective said. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

His lips on yours, he chased away the doubt and discomfort creeping through your processors. He broke the kiss too soon, and you frowned up at him.

“What if I take the lead this time, and next time, you’re in charge. How’s that?”

The memory of the detective under you, panting and nearly frantic as he rolled his hips, made your breath hitch.

“That is agreeable.”

“I think so too.”

The detective’s tone was teasing but his smile warm as he moved down your body. He kissed down the middle of your chest, over the bandeau and down your stomach, and when he reached your waistband, he popped open the buttons of your jeans.

You watched, curious, propped up on your elbows as he unzipped your pants and tugged them off. He planted kisses along one thigh, sending warm sensations through your middle.

He reached your underwear and stopped, looking up at you for silent permission. You hooked your thumbs through the waistband and started to pull them down, and the detective pulled them off the rest of the way.

You’d never given much thought to your body; it was simply a tool to be used, or a weapon to be wielded. Now it was something more, something to be admired if the detective’s wide eyes were an accurate gauge.

“You’re gorgeous, Yin.”

A few days ago, you might have explained that you were designed so be so. But now, you wanted him to see you that way. Desirable.

You slightly shifted your hips, anxious for him to get undressed.

Instead, the detective stayed where he was, moving closer to your groin as he spread your thighs.

“Gonna try something that should make you feel good. Let me know if it gets to be too much, or you don’t like it.”

You frowned, not understanding what he meant but curious to see what he would do. You could not have anticipated he would lower his face between your legs and lick.

A bolt of heat sizzled up your spine in tandem with the detective’s tongue running up your labia. You gasped, unable to stop your own reaction, and the detective smiled. He did it again, slower this time, pressing his tongue so it prodded against the sensitive clitoris.

You gripped the sheets, struggling for composure. If your instability errors weren’t a thing of the past, they would have been flooding your HUD at this point.

“Still good?” he asked.

“Y-yes. Very.”

You had barely gotten the words out before he delved back in, humming his acknowledgement against the sensitive nub. Your hips jerked off the bed, and the detective chuckled as he spread your legs wider, propping them on his shoulders.

“D-Detective. I don’t wish to hurt you if-if I lose control of my motor functions.”

“Trust me, being crushed between your thighs is not something I’m worried about.”

“You sh-should worry. The force of my legs are enough to cause serious injury.”

“What a way to go.”

He licked another stripe up your folds, sending you into a sizzling wave of tingling delight. When he wrapped his mouth around your clitoris and sucked, you stopped thinking altogether. Sensations overwhelming coursed through you, and you didn’t realize your fingers had found their way into the detective’s hair until he moaned against you.

The sound traveled up your groin, and you gripped him harder. Instead of pulling away in pain, his licked and sucked with new enthusiasm. When his finger prodded at your entrance and breached inside, you released a needful whine.

“Connor,” you breathed out. “C-Connor, wait.”

He stopped immediately, looking up at you from his position between his legs. His hair was disheveled from your grip, his mouth wet with the lubricant leaking out of you.

“What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer just yet, attempting to calm your systems that were disarrayed and overheating.

“Is everything okay?”

Concern etched his brow as he pulled himself up and rested on his side next to you.

You reached out and brushed a hand over his cheek, fingertips oversensitive as they traced along his stubble.

“Everything is… is wonderful, I promise. But… I have a request.”

His brows lifted.

“Yeah? What is it?”

A strange heat bloomed over your cheeks, most likely a result of overheating.

“I would like my first orgasm with you to be with vaginal penetration.”

He blinked several times.

“Oh. Oh. Yeah, of course, that’s-that’s more than fine. That’s great—”

“And I wish to be on top.”

Never before had the detective’s face gone so pink so quickly.

“Um, hell yeah, you can.”

As soon as the words were spoken, you were on top of him, straddling his thighs. His hard length strained against the front of his sweatpants, and you wasted no time in pulling them down past his hips.

He made a small, needful noise as you visually examined him. From the shape and size of his erection on previous occasions, you’d made an accurate guess as to the size of his penis. From the size comparison of the national average, the detective was more than satisfactory.

You took him in hand, curious at the strange feel of loose skin moving over taut muscle beneath. A bead of precum leaked from the head, and without thinking, you bent down and ran your tongue over the slit.

He bucked his hips and let out a grunted curse, but you held your weight on his thighs and weren’t dislodged.

The taste was curious, salty and uniquely him. You licked again, drawing a desperate whine from him, which became a groan when you took him into your mouth. The weight of him on your tongue was satisfying.

“Y-Yin, sweetheart, oh, Jesus, that feels amazing, but… not gonna last long like this.”

Ah, yes. You’d forgotten about the refractory period in humans, and that they didn’t have the stamina of an android.

You released him with a pop, licking your lips of the salty residue, and moved off of him long enough to remove his sweatpants entirely.

This time you sat on his waist and the detective’s hands gravitated to your hips, squeezing them as he stared up at you with awe. In theory, you knew what came next, but the lack of experience made you hesitate.

The detective understood.

“C’mere.”

He took you by the shoulders and gently pulled you down until you were nearly horizontal. He placed kisses along your neck, light enough to not overwhelm but persistent enough to hold your focus.

The detective’s hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your nub and circling.

You let out a choked noise and shuddered, automatically grinding down on his hand.

“That’s it, baby.”

He adjusted your position and removed his fingers, replaced by the head of his cock rubbing your clitoris.

You twitched involuntarily and gripped his shoulders, squeezing. The detective flinched. You quickly let go.

“I-I apologize, Detective-I didn’t mean to—”

His kiss silenced your regret, swallowing your words as his fingers curled in your hair. The detective pulled away, his composure stretched to its limits as he panted for breath.

“I’d be disappointed if I don’t have a couple new bruises after this.”

You frowned. And then the detective rolled his hips, and your next words came out in a rush of overheated sensors and strained biocomponents.

“Please, Detective. I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes went wide. And then they went dark with molten heat.

“All right, sweetheart.”

He pulled you close, gripping you tight as his cock prodded at your entrance. You buried your face in his neck and attempted to temper your strength as he breached inside, sliding you down onto the rest of his length.

The stretch was an odd kind of pressure, but one that made you grow warm and strangely sensitive.

With your face so close to his neck, you automatically leaned in and pressed your lips to the detective’s neck. You couldn’t stay there long as he rocked his hips, moving inside you so you couldn’t stay still.

His fingers dug into your skin as he picked up the pace. You groaned and gripped the sheets on either side of his shoulders. You didn’t want to damage him with a slip of control. Each thrust added to the pressure building in your abdomen, his length gliding against your walls with the aid of the lubricant.

Your systems were having difficulty keeping up with the stream of data to where it melded together, creating a sensation that was more intuitive that raw data. It wasn’t something you could have experienced before becoming deviant, and you faintly wondered if it was always this intense for humans.

“Connor,” you gasped out. “I’m… I’m going to—”

You were silenced with a shudder, your walls fluttering around his cock.

“Gonna come?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good.” He spoke between clenched teeth. “Come for me, Yin.”

You buried your face in his neck and cried out as you clenched around him. Your vision glitched in multicolored smears before shutting off entirely, waves of heat and light flickering throughout your sensors.

His sharp groan was muffled in your hair as he throbbed, overloaded sensors activating as semen spilled inside you, sending a new surge of heat through your systems until they reached their limits, and crashed.

You didn’t realize something was amiss until you opened your eyes and found the detective staring down at you. You were on your back with no memory of getting there.

“Yin?” The detective looked as if on the verge of an anxiety attack. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course, Connor.”

Your words came out sluggish. A pleasant, low thrum ran through your abdomen and between your legs, the space empty and cold with the detective no longer there.

Oh.

“It appears my systems may have temporarily shut off due to overheating.”

“May have?”

“It was a simple restart. No harm was done.”

“No harm? Jesus, Yin, I thought I’d killed you or something!”

Your lips pulled up at the corners.

“As impressive as it is, I cannot be killed by your penis, Connor.”

He released a breath and rolled his eyes, but he pressed a warm kiss to your lips before pulling away and getting off the bed.

“I’ll be back. Try to cool off, hot-bot.”

You frowned, but watching him leave the room was a pleasant distraction, as was getting the full view of his return.

He gave you a smile, one tilted at the corners, before kneeling next to you, a clean, damp towel in his hands.

Understanding his intentions, you said, “I do not need assistance cleaning myself.”

“I know.” He bent down and pressed his lips to your cheek. “But this is the part where I get to take care of you.”

The warmth of his brown eyes, at ease and lacking their usual guardedness, you laid back on the bed and allowed him to proceed. The cloth was warm and the care he took extended the warmth past the areas he cleaned. By the time he tossed the cloth away and laid next to you, your body was pliant, and your system slow to respond but pleasantly so.

“I am feeling strange,” you commented mildly as he wrapped his arms around your waist, tucking his chin against your shoulder.

“Bad strange or good strange?”

“Good, I believe.”

“Me too. About the good part, I mean. I don’t feel strange.”

Your expression softened and you turned on your side facing him. The detective dislodged his arms without complaint, and when you were pressed along his chest, he pulled you in even closer.

“Well, I don’t imagine this was the first orgasm you’ve ever had.”

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through your chassis.

“Yep, you’re definitely back to normal.” He kissed your forehead and added, “I can’t see your face, but I know you’re pouting.”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout. You’re CyberLife’s poutiest android.”

The detective winced, his vitals showing slight distress.

“It’s all right, Connor.” You placed your cheek against his chest, listening to the constant rhythm of his heartbeat. “I know where I come from. Talking about it won’t upset me.”

“I’d be upset. I am upset.”

“Don’t be. I’m here now. With you.”

His heartrate slowed and his muscles loosened.

Your satisfaction at calming the detective was short-lived as a thump from the front door.

The detective was out of bed in a flash, yanking on his sweatpants and grabbing his gun from its holster on the nearby bedtable.

Before you could alert him as to who it was, he ran out of the room.

“Christ’s sake, Connor!” came a brash voice from the foyer. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, who else did you think it was?”

There was a moment of silence before the detective loudly called, “Yin?”

You searched around and grabbed one of the detective’s discarded shirts, pulling it over your head. The edge reached the top of your thighs, but it was sufficient.

When you entered the living room, both humans stared at you. The detective only half-clothed and his pistol in one hand, loose at his side. And Captain Anderson, dressed in a warm jacket with a bright blue and yellow shirt peeking out underneath the collar, a toolkit next to him on the entryway table.

“Hello, Captain,” you greeted him. “I see you received my message.”

“Message?” The detective’s brows were forced into a hard line. “What message?”

Captain Anderson rubbed the back of his head and said, “The one where your android—er, Yin—asked some help to fix your door.”

The detective turned slowly to stare at you. You met his wide eyes unblinking.

“Seeing as CyberLife will be dissolved as a corporate entity, it is unlikely there will be any funds or personnel assigned to fix the property damage I caused. Therefore, I sent Captain Anderson a message asking if he would know of any associates or colleagues who could repair a door and doorframe.”

The detective blinked.

“And you sent this message… when?”

You tilted your head, and then smiled.

“Oh, don’t worry, Detective. I sent it before we had sex.”

The detective made a choked noise, and the captain ran a hand over his face.

“That is more information than I ever needed to know,” he said. “But… can’t say I’m surprised.”

When the detective turned his shocked gaze on him, Captain Anderson waved him away.

“Go back to bed, Connor. I can handle it from here. You need—you both need to get some rest after the shit you went through.”

His softened expression was directed not just at the detective, but at you as well. Something warmed in your chest, and you gave him a solid nod.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Eh.” It was your turn to be waved away. “No need to thank me. Can’t have Connor with a busted door so any ol’ bastard can barge inside.”

“One was enough,” said the detective.

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here. Go bother that girl of yours and leave me be.”

You sent the captain a small smile before you lost sight of him, guided back to the bedroom by the detective’s hand on the small of your back. He closed the bedroom door and locked it before pulling you back into bed.

You followed him under the covers, immediately resuming your previous position of being pressed against him from chest to groin, your legs entangled with his.

He gave a low laugh, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“Should have known you were a cuddler.”

“You’re warm,” you explained. “And your scent is pleasing.”

“God, you’re so weird.”

You were about to disprove the fact you were not weird when his next words brought you short.

“I think I love you.”

Silence pervaded the room. The detective began to pull away, muscles stiff, but you wouldn’t it, wrapping your arms around his ribcage and up his back.

“I’m processing.”

“All right,” he said quietly.

Given all the data you’d collected, all the algorithms you could create and the patterns you could compile, there was no known answer to the question that required a response.

Your LED went through a spectrum of colors before it dulled to red, warmed to yellow, and settled on blue.

“Going by the definition of love, not only across species, but within romantic relationships, I… believe I love you as well.”

He pulled back to meet your eye.

“You do?”

Something in your chest, taut like a wire even though none were misplaced, loosened. You traced your fingers up his jaw until you cupped his cheek.

“Since before I became a deviant, I suspect.”

His eyes were large as he studied your face, his throat working as he swallowed.

“If that’s the case, then… I want to be with you, Yin.”

“Are you certain?”

You wanted him to be sure, needed him to be sure this is what he wanted.

“God, yes, Yin. I’ve never been so certain in my life. But…”

He placed his hand over yours when you’d stopped moving.

“But,” he continued. “By people standards, I’m not exactly a catch. I’ve got a lot of baggage, and a lot of shit that’s broken inside. I’m a mess.”

“That doesn’t matter to me, Connor. I want to experience a romantic relationship with you, including all that entails. The negatives and the positives.”

His eyes softened.

“Well, then… let’s give it a shot.”

Your skin warmed, and the detective gave a groan when you kissed him. The blush was back on his cheeks when you pulled away, and he struggled to compose himself.

“But, if at any point you want to be with someone else, human or android, I won’t stop you. You can leave at any time.”

“I appreciate the warning, Detective, but I’m not deterred.”

Against your expectations, he grinned.

“What?”

“That’s how I know I’m in trouble.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You stop calling me Connor and start calling me Detective.”

You frowned.

“But I’ve called you ‘Detective’ for most of our time together.”

“Exactly.”

You peered at his growing smile until the corners of your mouth twitched.

“You may have a point.”

He pulled you in and pressed another kiss to your temple. The detective had transformed overnight, openly affectionate and generous with his touches.

You liked the change.

You settled against his chest, once again closing your eyes as you prepared to go into stasis mode. A part of you hoped when you woke up, this wouldn’t be a wayward preconstruction.

“Teasing aside… thank you, Yin. For everything.”

You gave a small smile, eyes still closed.

“I love you, Connor.”

His breath caught in his throat, and with your head against his chest, you could hear the changed percussion of his heart.

“I love you, Yin.”

 *******

I’m not alive, but I can feel

I’m not human, but I can dream

I’m a machine, but I can love

Or at least, I can love you

[sketch-mer-6195]

You Sure? (ROTTMNT Leonardo Hamato x Kalani Rotasu {OFC})

Disclaimer: This is the official start of the series for those who have been trying to follow me and this series that has yet to really gain momentum. This is a little different than what I originally intended. But, there are still plot twists that I want to get in, the angst that I have been dying to write, and this complicated relationship that these two have. This is set in a not so distant future, everyone is over the age of 21, so they are responsible adults... Give the Mad Dog’s credit okay, they’re our lovable knuckleheads! For those who have just found this, welcome! I do hope you do enjoy this series.

Warnings: Slight swearing, ROTTMNT Movie spoilers (for those who have not seen the movie). Word Count: 1688

Part 1. Shove Off!!

This was not supposed to happen. But there was no other choice and he needed to get help from one person that he knew he could trust. Even if they weren’t on the best of terms. Adjusting his pants and rolling his shoulders to try and relax his own nerves, the red-eared slider mutant turtle waltzed right into the Nexus Hotel and walked to the main elevator. Yokai both in and out of disguise mingled in the vast and extravagant lobby of this prestigious hotel in New York City and in The Hidden City. How memories filled his mind of being a champion with his father. The home of the Battle Nexus: New York. Where Shredder came to life and so much more. As he made his way to the elevators, the same Fox yokai, a little gray fur sprinkled across his muzzle, stood guard at the main elevator with the same scowl that the turtle remembered oh so many years ago.

Time to schmooze and be the Face-Man.

“Hi, yes is the owner available? I’m here and I have an appointment with her. Still working on that fancy whisker mustache. Fancy if you’re still aiming to look younger or older. Entirely up to you, bud.” Leo smirked as he crossed his arms across his plasteron.

The yokai made a disgruntled sound before pulling up his walkie talkie to his snout. “Milady, there’s a pesky turtle here wanting to see you.”

As soon as he released the button, the speaker came to life with the start of a scoff.

“Tch, tell ‘em to shove off, I have more important matters.”

If he hadn’t perfected his poker face, he would have swooned a little hearing her voice again. He could feel his hands growing a little clammy at the thought of seeing her once more, but he needed to. She was his best hope.

The yokai nodded and shot a venomous glare at Leonardo. “Milady said to shove off and that she has more important matters.”

Leo groaned and rolled his eyes. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

But before the argument could commence, the elevator chimed, signaling that someone had arrived at the main floor. As the doors opened, Leo couldn’t believe his eyes at who he was seeing. His old man was right, women do age like sweet saki. Her dark violet hair once long now in an asymmetrical bob haircut with her Kappa lilypad hat and lotus flower. A long silk kimono furisode that was a dark navy blue, complimenting her teal skin and making her yellow sclera eyes pop. Her gold yellow obi accentuated her waist. And of course, how it was off the shoulders and just peeking her bust just slightly and revealing her small shell on her back that held an emblem that he was for sure she would try and hide.

The Hamato Crest.

Leo’s heart clenched slightly and his stomach flipped a little as he saw his ex stand there with a cold stare that suddenly broke when she saw him. Mentally slapping himself, he let his colors shine as he walked up to her with his broad and brilliant smile.

“Surprise! I’m here to see Miss Kalani Rōtasu?” He looked her over and smirked at her.

But his smirk was wiped off quicker than a freak snow storm hitting the big apple as she slapped him across the head with an unamused and rather infuriated glare. If looks could only kill, he wouldn’t be there.

“Why are you here, Hamato?” Kalani hissed, her voice dripping with venom as she did her best to keep herself composed. "You know what, no. I don't want to even hear you utter a single letter out of you."

"Kal, come on. You don't even know what I'm here for. For all you know, I might be here just to visit." Leo reasoned and hoped that she would take it.

But she was much smarter, he knew that. Although she did love to play along. She was a brilliant girl. One that he couldn't stop thinking about. Kalani on the other hand was torn and conflicted but she was not wanting to cause more of a spectacle of herself. Taking a slow breath in, she looked up at Leo and pinched the bridge on her beak and waved her bellhop away.

"My office. Now, Leonardo." She said, turning on her heel and walking back into the elevator.

With a small triumphant smile, he followed her behind and helped gather the train of her kimono so it wouldn't be caught in the door. As she silently shooed the staff member out of the elevator Leo pressed the button that went straight to the penthouse and her main office. As they ascended to her residence, a thick layer of silence filled their time. Leo couldn’t help but fidget slightly while Kalani looked straight ahead. Her posture, how she held herself, her figure, her eyes. Her lips. And her accent. God did he miss hearing her voice.

"-nardo. LEO!" Her voice cut through him like his katanas bringing him back to the present.

The elevator doors were wide open, Kalani holding the button to keep the door open with a raised brow but a glint of mirth in her eyes. Staring at that moment, he was enamored with old feelings. But swallowing them down was easier right now; he smirked and walked inside the main office that was once Big Mama's. Still with many of the old furniture such as the high wing chair and large desk and safe. But lighter, and more Kalani's style. There were lighter colors, some framed pictures and her mystic weapon, her large tessen hung proudly on the wall and on full display with the Hamato crest. A sense of pride and joy filled him as he saw the crest and open on display in Kalani's office. As Kalani took a seat behind her desk, she gestured to the chair across from her to Leo who sat down with a small grunt and leaned back as casual as ever with that same smirk.

‘Why does he have to be here? And why must he be such a… Argh! This is not what I need right now. But that smile…’ Kalani shook her head to try and focus on the blue clad slider who had an all knowing smirk that grew into a broad smile.

She still had feelings for him as he did for her. So he hoped. But her eyes narrowed which made him gulp and cleared his throat to try and calm his nerves.

“So, how’s work?”

Queue facepalm.

Kalani gritted her teeth before taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of her nose out of frustration. This was not the time to catch up. 

“I have no time for this, Leon. I have important business to attend to." She explained before standing and pointing at the elevator that they had just left out of a few minutes ago.

'Whoa whoa whoa, I didn't come here to just get booted. You told your fox man to tell me to shove off. Then you come and bring me up here just to tell me to leave again?! The hell is wrong with you!?" Leo exclaimed, rising from his seat and placing his hands on the desk as his own temper was slowly bubbling up.

"Being an absolute fool, but that's something you do on a daily basis, oh 'greatest ninja master of all time.' Casey's words, not your own." She shot back with her sharp tongue.

Letting out a disgruntled groan, Leo straightened his posture to make himself look larger and try to keep his hands to himself. "Will you drop that shit!? That was over ten years ago and you still hate me for it!"

Kalani let out a bitter laugh as her eyes grew with fire behind them. "Of course. You almost got the entire world destroyed because of your ego and stupidity only to be thrown into a prison dimension and not even care to think ho-...' She gulped and took a sharp breath in. 'To think…" 

Leo stood there, frozen in place, his nails digging into his palms and biting the inside of his cheek hard to suppress his tears. A hard lump lodged itself in his throat as he saw Kalani tremble where she stood. Her face hidden under the lily pad. His trained eye watched the glimmer of a couple tears fall from under her hat and land on the desk. His browline furrowed deeply as he did his best to stay composed and not crumble. As he uncrossed his arms, Leo pivoted on his heels and headed for the elevator only to stop a couple feet and speak over his shoulder.

"Phone number hasn't changed."

Her breath hitched and got stuck in her throat. As she lifted her head, Kalani watched his retreating figure only to vanish behind the elevator doors. Slowly like a leaf in autumn, she fell into her chair and covered her face with her hands as she finally let out a hard and choking sob out of her chest. The water that was in the lotus flower spilled down the back of the chair, soaking her clothes and chilling her skin to the point it made her body shudder with a hard shiver. As she dropped her hands down her face and onto her lap, her yellow scalesed eyes darted to her only framed photo that resided on her desk. A well ornate silver frame with her and Leo. A bright and dazzling smile while Leo looked at the camera with a kiss pressed to her cheek and that signature smirk he was still able to pull off. How she could go back to those simpler times. Be happy and not fear of possibly never seeing him again. To be with him. To rekindle the undying love for the mutant turtle she fell in love with all those years ago. Leaning over, she laid the picture face down and let out a depressed sigh.

"Those days are long gone…"

Taglist: @asmosshampoo @kitomon @raphsweapondealer @post-apocalyptic-daydream @turtle-babe83 @thelaundrybitch @mysticboombox​​ @infuriatedleprechaun 

If you wish to be added or removed, let me know in the comments bellow!

Stay Happy, Stay Healthy, Stay Hydrated and always remember. W.W.L.J.D.

HOT SOUP!!!

[scraregenrecs]

Can u rec some post canon or au Stevie/Alexis fics?🥺

Hey there anon! So this request kicked off a bit of a discussion amongst Team Scraregenrecs about whether or not canon divergences 'count' as AU. So we haven't included those on this list but if you or anyone else wants to see those... well, you know where we are 😉 In the meantime, though:

POST-CANON:

[art] alexis.rose.comms by @afterism, rated G

A snapshot from Alexis' instagram when she visits Schitt's Creek.

(Or, there's only one person who can convince Stevie to wear a flower in her hair.)

Baby, Gotta Say It by @middyblue, rated E, 15980 words

Several months after they hooked up at the wedding, Stevie and Alexis go for a drive.

falling into place like dominos by @petalwritesx, rated M, 4897

Alexis spins the bottle and Stevie doesn’t know if she wants it to stop in front of her, or if she’s hoping it points literally anywhere else. She thinks she’ll figure it out when it stops moving, but… even with the neck of the bottle unmistakably pointing at her foot, she still can’t identify what the feeling is. Is that happiness or dread settling in the pit of her stomach? Since when do those completely different things feel exactly the same? If she’s being honest, though, it feels like a combination of things. It’s that feeling you get right before you do something you know you might regret later… like throwing back a jello shot (which she wishes she had done), calling an ex at 3am, or maybe jumping out of a plane.

David and Patrick hold a second housewarming party, this time at their newly-renovated cottage. For old times' sake, they decide to play spin the bottle. Meanwhile, Stevie has been wrestling with her feelings for Alexis since she left for New York... and it never occurred to her that those feelings could flow both ways.

i have possibly, maybe, pined a bit by bluebluebaby, rated T, 5567 words

Stevie picks up Alexis from the airport... they get snowed in en-route back to Schitt's Creek and figure some things out.

(Featuring: Oh No There Was Only One Bed! and Edibles and Vending Machines)

I Think She Knows by @vulcantastic, rated M, 35417 words

Post-"Happy Ending." Stevie is sorting out her feelings for a certain Rose, and it's not the one you think.

right side of my neck by @blneberrys, rated E, 5913 words

Alexis, though. She’s sat several seats down at the bar, leaning over as she babbles to the bartender and twirls her hair. She’s in something short, riding up to expose the muscle of her thighs, and her dress has a slit in the side: straddling the line between her waist and hip. Even in the low, amber light of the Wobbly Elm, Stevie can see the goosebumps high on her skin, the way her hand rubs across the wrist that cradles her colorful drink. Alexis’ hair is tied up, and as she sways her head in conversation it brushes against the nape of her neck, the plane of upper back, just where the crest of her spine dips under skin.

“Hey,” Patrick says, and Stevie’s attention is drawn back to him.

Patrick wiggles his eyebrows at her. “White wine?” He asks.

*

Stevie always wants things she can't have. The most recent iteration of this curse is Alexis Rose.

Stevie/Alexis Friends with Benefits series [two fics] by @petrodobreva, rated E, 13758 words total. [These fics don't have to be read together to be understood, they stand alone... but you should totally read both.]

Alexis is on a beach vacation with her family...and Stevie...with whom she's had a friends-who-occasionally-hook-up situation for a while. As if her mom wasn't already enough to worry about.

//

She has stayed here so many times over the years; the Roses stopped pretending that Stevie might stay in a hotel when passing through LA or New York years ago. She’s had a key to this place since Alexis bought it. She leaves two sets of sleep clothes here. And a mug.

the holiday by @anniemurphys, not rated, 19478 words

“Invite Alexis to Christmas at my parents’,” he told David.

David groaned, tipping his head back. “My sister continuously ruins my life,” he grumbled, dragging himself up off the couch reluctantly and picking up his phone.

Patrick brings David, Alexis, and Stevie home for the holidays.

You're ready and you're willing by @yourbuttervoicedbeau, rated E, 3401 words [chapter two is Alexis/Stevie]

Everyone's feeling a little frisky after dressing up as Mystery Inc. for Hallowe'en.

AU:

Just Good Business by @yourbuttervoicedbeau [fic], Amanita_Fierce, @sarahlevys, @januarium, @petrodobreva, @reginahalliwell, @rhetoricalk, @schittposting, @sunlightsymphony, unfolded73 [podfic], rated T, 1597 words

Alexis is the host of A Little Bit Alexis, a celebrity gossip podcast. Stevie's her (supposedly silent) producer, but she couldn't help a few sarcastic comments coming out. Listeners quickly grow to love their dynamic and assume they're a couple, and correcting them might go down badly. But the more they play it up, the more they wonder.

the devil's in the details (but you've got a friend in me) by @leopxld-fitz, rated T, 4403 words

Stevie is an up-and-coming writer, fresh out of Canada. Alexis is the head of a major fashion magazine with a mixed reputation. Stevie can't stop thinking about her new boss and, honestly, it's kind of getting to her.

A Devil Wears Prada AU.

wrapped up in you by @hullomoon, rated T, 7114 words

"When you said your sister would be here I thought she'd be a spectator like us, not a competitor."

or Alexis is an Olympic rhythmic gymnast and Stevie is very gay

You Can Break by another_Hero, rated T, 2001 words

“That’s so sweet of you,” said Alexis, “but I just started this drink, and I drove here, so.” By Stevie’s calculation, there was a zero percent chance Alexis had driven here—she wouldn’t want to be pressed into leaving alone. But then, she hadn’t come with anyone else, and Ray’s Saturday-night taxi service didn’t run on Tuesdays.

--

Happy reading!

- @sarahlevys and @yourbuttervoicedbeau

[detroitbydark]

Chapter 10

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Rating: Teen

Characters: Jessa, Sev, Scorch, Walon Vau... Every character imaginable and few that you probably didn't expect to see

Warnings: None!

Summary: Harvest Day is very busy day. The boys head home. Jessa faces some hard questions. Walon has to decide what is right for his growing clan.

A/N: 15K holy hell. Thanks your patience with this one. it was an undertaking! As always thank you to my wonderful @crimson-dxwn​ for letting me bounces ideas off of her and for her beta'ing. Thank @fractiouskat​ for being an A+ cheerleader and thank you to @royalhandmaidens​ for the greatest banner ever!

Kyr’vhetine Tuur comes on a most un-autumn like day with temperatures before the sun had fully risen already beginning to look to those of a cool summer morning. The winds had disappeared almost entirely overnight, leaving only a gentle breeze that barely kissed the nunas’ feathers

It was going to be an excellent day to celebrate the end of the growing season and the bounty of the harvest, Kal had proclaimed before the groups had split off.

Walon wasn’t one to argue the good fortune of a perfect day. He was old enough to know they didn’t come often and still young enough to appreciate it for all it was.

He pulls a deep filtered breath in while his HUD scans the surrounding tree line.

Per tradition, hunting parties had broken off at the crack of dawn in search of game. This would be one of the last good days for a hunt before the snows came and the animals disappeared into the white wonderland of northern Mandalore. It wouldn’t be prudent to attempt again until the heat of summer fell and the mothers had dropped babies and could be more easily avoided.

Rav Bralor and her boys from Yayax squad - as well as the former commander Levet - had come in the night before, much to Walon’s chagrin. Sleeping arrangements were far tighter these days with the various marriages and additional children. He’d had to put his foot down when Kal had offered his rooms up to the entirety of the Bralor clan. In compromise, Walon had allowed Rav and Levet to take up Jessa’s room and she had moved into Scorch and Sev’s while the rest of the clan piled in with the other bachelors.

Walon pretended that he didn’t know his Ad’ika had spent most nights asleep in Scorch’s bed already and simply explained that he didn’t think either commando would appreciate others sleeping in their space. She’d eagerly complied.

She was still asleep when he, Mird, Rav and Levet had gone to meet the other early risers for their hunt.

The verdant summer greens had faded first into jewel toned fallen leaves and finally crisp brown litter that spilled across the forest floor. It added a layer of difficulty that the Mando’ade found a pleasant challenge. Shatual were a finicky creature, as likely to run away from a hunter as they were to attack it. The crunch of leaves under boots was enough to solicit either response and many an unlucky Mando had found themselves enjoying the scent of bacta rather than the taste of shatual haunch after a hunt gone bad.

Each clan of the former training sergeants was represented this morning. Kal and Ordo had set off in one direction while Mereel and Corr had gone another. Rav and Levet had joined in as well. Walon, no human adiike of any ability in sight, had Mird as his hunting companion.

The strill stalks ahead through the tops of the veshuk trees, silent as death itself. The sun had yet to penetrate the forest around him and the stillness, the sheer quiet of the morning calmed him like little else could. Two days and still Fenn Shysa’s intel bothered him on a level he wasn’t familiar with.

Of course the Empire would look to make money where it could. Of course clone lives meant less now than they had to the GAR and the Republic at large.

Maybe it was the fact that they all had adiike still on the ranks - if they’d managed to survive this long - or perhaps it was the fact that they weren’t even being sold as slaves.

Walon, Kal, Rav and the rest of Cuy’val dar had raised competent soldiers, the best of the best. He himself had spouted that they were to be tools of the Grand Army, that their one purpose was fighting for the Army that in the end would give little thought to the clone -the men- they sent into battle. Now, to hear of them being sold as surplus like a decommissioned line of blasters or transports left Vau feeling sick and angry in a way that wasn’t familiar with. Righteous indignation was a state of being for Kal Skirata, but for Walon Vau it was new and uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to do with the rage simmering in his chest.

Mird chirps from his spot in the canopy above, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. He nods carefully to the strill and readjusts his sensors to pick up heat signatures through the dense brush. Not twenty yards away a flare of color through his HUD as a great shatual buck rises from its bed, shaking its head unawares of the danger that waits for it.

Over two and a half meters from top of its dark nose to the white fluff of its tail. The spread on its rack is impressive and would make a fine display on any wall. It makes a low bellowing noise, calling for any unbred females.

Walon can see the lines of Mird’s body strung tight in preparation. It’s almost time and the Mandalorian can feel the cool calm of a hunter’s mind wash over him. There is nothing else in the moment, only hunter and prey. He says his thanks to the Manda for another day of air in his lungs and another opportunity to stalk the dark forest. He doesn’t need to look at Mird any longer. They’ve been doing this since he was a teenager. The strill is ready and waiting for the signal. Walon leans back slowly against a veshuk tree and raises his slugthrower to his shoulder. Only one word leaves his mouth.

“Oya.”

The shatual turns its head in time to see its death, teeth on display bearing down on it from the trees above.

A strill with business in mind will always go for the throat. A tiny shiver of pleasure skitters down the back Walon’s neck as the creature finds its target. It’s satisfying in a way that Walon’s never been able to put into words. The shatual tries in vain to throw the smaller strill off, shaking its big neck from side to side. Strill teeth are long and sharp and Mird will not be budged, even as blood from the shatual begins to run into his eyes. Walon watches his oldest friend readjust his grip, only his back feet touch the ground as he all but hangs from his prey. The shatual makes a forlorn sound as its front legs buckle, sending him down to his front knees.

Walon levels the sight on the slug thrower as the creature turns broadside. It bellows again but it comes out wet and choked. Vau finds the sweet spot, imagining an invisible “x” over the spot he wants to hit. He pulls in a gentle breath, all thought of auctions and clones and adiike pushed aside. He squeezes the trigger on his exhale and the shatual falls silent.

————

Sev doesn’t balk when Scorch asks to make a quick pit stop in Enceri. He doesn’t bat an eye when he forgoes their usual perusal of the blaster smiths for a box of fresh pastries. He doesn’t so much as question Scorch’s motives until they get to the flower shop. Even then it’s just more of silent Sev with extra eyes burning into the back of Scorch’s head.

The words had come to Scorch easily enough, they always did. They needed to woo their intended. He didn’t like the word courting, something about it felt too old timey and proper, not like something two former commandos turned bounty hunters would do. Sev seemed to find his explanation acceptable. He was good for rolling with the punches no matter what anyone else said. He even let his like and dislikes of the various options be known in a series of very Sev-like grunts and scoffs. Scorch liked the red ones. Sev liked the pink. They split the difference and got both and jumbled them together into - what Scorch felt - was a very appealing assortment. It took almost no time and it left the former commando pleased with his previously unknown ability to romance a woman.

And then they were heading home.

The sun had barely crested over the mountains when they arrived at the airfield and performed a quick once over of the Duke. She’d require a more thorough shakedown later but today was Kyr’vhetine Tuur - Jessa and Sev’s first on Mandalore - and in Scorch’s eyes that took precedence. His heart is light and bubbly as their speeder bikes cover the ground between the airfield and Kyrimorut. Last time they’d done this he’d had a half frozen woman wrapped in his arms and now, just months later, he was plotting ways to get her back into them. Into theirs.

He knew his vod enough to know that he wasn’t fully on board with the mission as of yet. He didn’t see the odds of a favorable success and he remained open but unimpressed by the possibility of it all. That was ok. Scorch had enough hope and atin’la for the two of them.

It’s not until Kyrimorut becomes little mounds on the horizon that the jitters start. Scorch has picked up women in cantinas. He’s taken them back to small hotels or their homes. Scorch has left everyone with a smile on their face. He has never properly courted someone. It’s been ten days and he’s starting to second guess what he thought was there. Maybe Jessa didn’t feel the same pull. Maybe the kiss was a fluke.

“Shut up.” Sev’s voice growls through their comms, “you’re thinking too loud.”

Scorch says nothing.

The yard in front of the yaim is crowded with a speeder and a trio of speeder bikes. The Bralors. Scorch frowns. He really doesn’t want to do this in front of an audience.

The pair park in the usual spot and slide from their seats. The sun is bright, its rays warming the wind whipped beskar covering them. Sev’s buyce cocks to the side as he turns toward the tree line. Scorch can make out the shape of their buir from a kilometer away.

“Went hunting without me,” Sev grumbles sounding like a petulant child who’s missed dessert.

Mird takes up position next to Wal’buir and Scorch can just make out the shape between them. Impressive.

“I’m going to go lend a hand.”

Sev is gone, taking off at a brisk jog with his pack still on his back before Scorch can say anything. If he didn’t think it’d get him slotted, he’d call him a coward.

There’s nothing left to do but take the plunge. Scorch waves to Atin and a few of the boys from Yayax squad as they head out toward the livestock pens. Chores would be done in a snap today and everyone can enjoy themselves after.

His HUD takes a moment to auto adjust from the intense bright light of the sun to the dimmer interior of their home. Conn, Burr, and Kad are all playing in the main area of the house. The three boys sit around in the floor with small carved animals playing near but not exactly with one another. Three matching heads of dark hair turn when they see him, eyes widening comically as they scrabble to get up. He’s done this a thousand times now and it never gets old. He swings his pack off his shoulder and, careful to not jostle the bouquet inside, draws out a handful of colorful hard candies. The children are nearly vibrating with excitement as he doles them out. Before he can turn to the kitchen, Conn already has three in his mouth. Bes is going to kill him, he thinks with a grin.

Surprisingly the kitchen is not the hub of excitement it usually was. He glances at his chrono. They must be having a late breakfast because of the hunt. Fi and Parja are pulling pans out of the oven and Laseema is busy filling small pots for the table with different jams and butters. Kyr’vhetine Tuur meant there would be something to eat within arm’s reach all day, so it wasn’t shocking to not see the usual spread of hearty filling dishes lining the long table.

“Scorch! You made it!” It’s Fi’s voice, bright as the autumn sun. The former Omega Squad commando greets him, ambling over and giving him a quick grasp of the forearm and knock against the bucket in greeting.

“Good to be home,” he agrees, feeling disappointment begin to sink in. Parja is grinning his way. “She’s in the walk-in. She’ll be out in a-“

There’s a clatter as a tray is unceremoniously dropped on the counter and before he can turn to see he’s got his arms full. One boot falls back to brace his weight and keep him from stumbling at the onslaught. He tenses for a moment, training threatening to kick in until thin arms are wrapping around his neck and he’s got a visor full of dark hair as Jessa presses in close to his neck.

“If this is how I get welcomed home I’m leaving more often.”

Jessa’s arms around his neck squeeze tighter as he stands straight and pulls her feet off the floor. Her legs come up, knees tightening around his hips. Scorch’s hands grip her thighs because they need support. Yeah, that’s why.

“Don’t you dare.” She whispers lowly.

“Keep this up and a guy will think you missed him.”

Scorch doesn’t see the knowing look that passes between Parja and Laseema. He doesn’t hear Fi’s laughter. It’s just him and his girl and the rest of the world can kriff off.

Jessa leans back, her hands float to either side of his buyce. She stares into the T of his visor like she can see through it. The breath he’d been taking catches in his throat as she leans in and presses her forehead to his bucket.

“I missed you.” It’s so soft his buyce barely picks it up.

“Missed you too, Mesh’la.” If he didn’t have his bucket on he’d kiss her right here right now and not care who was watching. He’d push her back against the wall and he wouldn’t stop ‘til she was breathless. He doesn’t think she’d mind with the way she’s looking at him. Fett bless codpieces because his was saving his shebs from utter embarrassment.

Someone clears their throat behind them and Jessa’s pale blue eyes go wide. She wiggles against him and a small groan slips past his lips as he lets loose her legs. She untangles herself and slips to the floor, cheeks flushed crimson as she wipes at invisible creases in her pants.

Parja’s buyce cocks minutely. Scorch grins from ear to ear under the cover of his own. At Parja’s side Fi nudges her in the ribs. “How come I don’t get that kind of welcome home?”

“Bad balance.” Fi nods in understanding flushing a deep crimson as she continues. “Plus, there is that thing with my mouth-“

The former medic coughs and quickly places his hand over his riddur’s mouth. “Roger that. No need to clarify.”

Scorch reaches out, placing a hand above Jessa’s hip. When she turns he uses two gloves fingers to tip her chin up. She’s a sight for sore eyes. He wants to drag her back to the Vau side of the yaim and keep her all for himself. And Sev. Just the three of them like it was supposed to be. Only, she didn’t know that yet and they had to help her see. Her hand covers his wrist as she looks up, her skin is soft over the small strip of skin between his nerf hide gloves and where his flight suit began.

Jessa’s dark hair is pulled back into a messy top knot and she’s wearing a plain faded tunic that dips low, giving him just a peek of cleavage. She’s never looked more perfect in all the times he’s seen her.

“We brought you something.” It’s regrettable that he has to step away, he misses the contact as soon as it’s gone. He slips his pack from one shoulder and lets it slide around front. He’s careful to open it, glancing up to see her curiously eyeing him.

“It’s not going to explode is it?” The quirk at the corner of her mouth lets him know she’s joking, at least partly.

“Woman after my own heart,” he sighs dramatically. “You want fireworks? I’ll show you fireworks.”

Fi makes an ‘oof’ of pain as both his Riddur and Laseema pop him in the arm at the same time, “I didn’t say anything?!”

“You were thinking it,” Laseema says, arms crossed over her chest.

“But I didn’t say it!”

Scorch shakes his head, ignoring the audience. The bouquet is a little bedraggled, a little more worse for wear for its ride from the airfield to home. A few of the pink flowers have bent at odd angles and one of the red ones, a rose, has lost its structural integrity (and majority of its petals).

The look in Jessa’s eyes lets him know she hasn’t noticed a single one of the issues. They go wide with surprise and then crinkle at the corners as she smiles, clapping her hands together over her chest before reaching out, hand hovering just shy of the flowers.

“Scorch! They’re beautiful! And they’re for me?”

It’s a little confusing because he certainly hadn’t ever thought to bring flowers for Ordo or Atin. He nods his head and presses them into her hands.

“Pretty flowers for a pretty girl. Sev had a hand in them too.” She pulls a long slow breath in through her nose. The scent really didn’t translate through his bucket but she seems to enjoy it.

“Sev? Sev Vau?” Fi’s voice is full of confusion. “We’re talking about the same psychopath we all know and love.”

“Hush.” Parja admonishes her husband. It’s an expected reaction. Sev was known more for his kill now ask questions later, Devil may murder attitude than he was for his softer side. In fact, Scorch was beginning to think the extent of his soft side only existed in a conveniently Jessa sized space. He was good with that. Maybe it was selfish to try to force her into a space they could both be with her. They didn’t even know if she wanted this but they had already plotted out a course of action and he was loathe to change it now. It was the Vau way. Make a plan and push forward until it worked or you died. Square peg round hole? Use a det.

Jessa folds the flimsy wrapped bouquet against her chest. She takes a step forward and Scorch can’t help but admire whatever has come over her in the ten days they’ve been hunting. She grips the back of his bucket and pulls his head down and presses against his again. There’s more confidence in that one movement than he’s seen in all the months she’s been in Kyrimorut.

“We should get those in water.” Laseema’s voice is a blessed interruption from the pure drivel he was about to spout.

Jessa nods and turns toward the cupboards, searching for something. His eyes fall to the round curve of her-

“Ahem…” his eyes snap to Laseema’s skeptical face. She’s got her arms over her ample chest and he suddenly feels the eyes of the rest of the room on him. Ok so now he feels seen. Parja is unreadable under her buyce. Fi’s eyes hold humor and Scorch knows immediately that the whole homestead - and then some - is going to know about this before the day is out.

Good. Maybe that would keep the other hounds from taking to the hunt. Not that Jessa was prey or should be hunted or…

“Scorch?”

Stang. He’s been caught. Jessa’s turned back with a stoneware pitcher and the flowers he’d given her artfully placed inside.

“Mesh’la?”

“Princess.”

All eyes turn to Sev and Walon standing in the doorway. A large shatual haunch is draped over Sev’s shoulder while their buir carefully uses a cloth to clean one of his hunting knives. He’s thankfully forgotten and Jessa passes the table, depositing the makeshift vase. She doesn’t exactly leap into his arms like she had for him but she’s still more than mildly enthusiastic to see the Mandalorian in front of her.

As usual, Sev appears impassive. The slight rise in his shoulders speaks otherwise as Jessa - much smaller than the man in front of her - comes to a stop and absolutely kriffing beams at the former sharp shooter. Wal’buir stands a step behind the pair, looking on with veiled curiosity.

“I like my flowers.”

“I picked the pink ones.” It's a Sev-level simple exchange.

“You did good,” she murmurs softly.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” It’s the first time Scorch has noticed the clean linen bandage wound around her palm. Of course, it would be the first thing Sev noticed. He watches her reaction carefully. His buir watches knowingly as Jessa tries to shrug it off.

“It’s nothing really. A little cut.”

Parja is the one to speak up this time. “Jess’ika tried to take in an entire Imp garrison in Keldabe the other day.”

Behind Sev, buir scoffs. Sev seems unamused as he brushes past her and places the freshly butchered haunch on the open durasteel prep counter and moves to the sink to wash his hands. Buir glances down at her as he passes and moves to the stack of mugs and carafes of caf sitting on the table. Apparently the old barve is going to let it play out without his intervention.

Scorch hovers in space watching as Sev turns back to Jessa. She’s shortened the distance between them and he nods to her hand. It takes a moment. Jessa clutches her wrist tightly and Scorch wonders what the Fek happened. Mird trots in from parts unknown and plops down next to buir. The merc begins cleaning off equal parts blood and saliva from the strill’s mouth as if nothing were amiss.

“It wasn’t really a big deal,” Jessa says, a defense. Fi makes a sound in his throat.

“Anytime now Princess.” As if ordered from a commanding officer she takes the final steps and holds her hand out. Scorch moves to taking up post at Sev’s shoulder as his vod begins untying the wrap.

“How long?”

Their buir answers from across the room. “Three days.”

Scorch lets out a low whistle as the bandage rolls away and the bacta soaked linen is removed. It’s nasty, deep looking. With three days worth of bacta and presumed early cleansing… he works it out in his head. It had been a bad wound. Sev is stock still, holding her hand in his palm.

“What did it?”

“My knife.” There’s no waiver in her voice, she looks him in the eye, a defiant tilt to her chin.

“You mean my knife.”

Jessa mouths falls open a hair before her teeth clack together and she sets her jaw.

Sev is unmoved. “Hand it over.”

And there goes the pleasant welcome home.

There’s more pairs of eyes on them than Scorch is really pleased about. A staring contest in the kitchen was not part of the plan. It’s a war of the wills as Sev takes a step into Jessa’s space. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t react at all.

“There’s two ways this will go and I end up with the knife in both.” Sev’s rumble is a threat that is crystal clear to anyone within earshot. He holds his unwavering gloves hand palm up between them. Scorch glances at his buir and sees a single shake of his head, fall back and wait.

Jessa pauses the length of a breath. Then she presses her injured hand hard against Sev’s cuirass for support while she pulls her leg up. Scorch has to give it to her. She keeps her eyes locked with his vod’s visor. If she were jetii his brain would probably be frying by now. He wondered if that was even possible and makes a mental note to ask Bardan later if that was a Jedi brain sizzle was a thing.

With her left hand she pulls the knife from the sheath hidden in her boot. For a second he thinks she may just drop it on the floor between them. The thought seems mutual as he glances around and the few inhabitants of the kitchen are watching with unrestrained curiosity. Jessa’s thinking very loudly. He can see it in the way her movements hitch. Had he given off that many signals Sarge would have cuffed him by now.

“Ad’ika, do give the scary Commando the weapon and be done with all the posturing.”

Jessa’s eyes drop but her voice remains steely. “Yes buir.”

There’s a lot for Scorch to unpack there, but his buir doesn’t seem willing to add anything to clarify for either of his confused sons.

Jessa presses the knife handle into Sev’s open hand. Her own ball into fists as she steps away from the larger Mandalorian in front of her. Scorch’s eyes immediately fall to the painfully slow drip of blood from her injured hand as she clenches and unclenches. Her partial handprint is painted in blood on Sev’s cuirass. Laseema notices and grabs a clean cloth. Jessa’s cheeks flush red as she turns away from both of them to face Laseema.

The Twi’lek shoots both men a dirty look as she presses the cloth into Jessa’s palm. She doesn’t flinch as the older woman fusses over her quietly. He makes out a few particularly colorful Ryl words.

“Let’s go to medical and get this redressed, ok?” Laseema’s soft voice belays the fierce glare in her eyes as they focus on Sev. With a huff and a protective arm draped around Jessa’s shoulders she ushers her toward the Skirata wing and medical just beyond.

“Real nice.” It’s Parja now on the attack, arms crossed over her chest in a manner most unwelcoming. She turns to follow the other two women. Their buir sighs deeply and Sev cocks his head at the door the three have just vanished through.

“Well, that could have gone better.” Fi says what Scorch thinks only in a much less exasperated tone than his own inner dialogue. That escalated quickly. A moment’s glance to his brother shows the other Mando is just as confused with how quickly that hit FUBAR status.

Behind them Walon Vau clears his throat. “So would my di’kutla boys care to know what happened while they traipsed across the galaxy?”

———

“You’re getting spoiled and fat, Kal.”

Walon does a fair job of hiding his amusement at Rav’s assessment of their fellow Cuy’val Dar vod.

Not to have his holiday merriment karked up by the Bralor clans matriarch Kal grins and pats the fine layer of paunch, barely noticeable around his middle.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you vod’ika”

That has Walon scoffing into his glass of ti’haar. Kyr’vhetine Tuur called for day drinking and Bralor clan had brought their latest batch, a reason for a lunchtime tasting if he’d ever heard one.

For his part, Mij Gilamar does little to hide his laughter, openly laughing at the Skirata clan leader. Rav was right, as Rav usually was. Kal’s favorite rocker had moved from its home by the hearth of the karyai to a comfortable position where he could lord over the comings and goings of the day. When lunch had been served Laseema had brought a plate loaded to the brim with the best cuts of meat, juicy orchard fruit, and freshly roasted root vegetables.

Kal turns his sharp eyes to Walon, ignoring the mirth dancing in Mij’s. “Nothing to say, Walon?”

He rolls his eyes, lowering his glass from his lips. “Rav’s assessment skills have not atrophied with age.”

Rav makes a disgruntled sound. “Thank you, Walon. I think.”

Mij, quiet to this moment, picks now to speak. “He can’t exactly say anything.”

Walon can’t exactly disagree. His own belly was quite full in part to his newest acquisition. Jessa had given him a plate - while not as loaded down as Kal’s had been - that could have easily fed two commandos. And some for Mird. She’d been very clear that she’d swiped a choice soup bone and some delightful strips of fat for the strill. His pet had taken the scraps happily before he’d been offered the bone and disappeared to do whatever it was that a strill did with bones. All Walon knew is that it would never be seen again and he wouldn’t need to clean up shards of it.

Rav leans back in her chair, not a rocker but still more comfortable than any of them had grown used to over the years, she sips her drink and Walon waits for it.

“When I heard through the grapevine that you’d adopted another I was shocked. And now that I’ve seen her I’m more so.”

There it was. There was no worse gossip in the galaxy than a Mandalorian.

“I feel like I should be offended by that.”

Rav smiles. “Take it as you will. I’m still trying to figure out the why and obviously you are not going to illuminate us with your reasoning.”

Walon crosses one leg lazily over the other as he leans back. In a small shaded area across the open yard Jessa sits happily chatting with the Skirata wives. She looks genuinely happy and that makes him feel warm… or maybe that was the ti’haar.

As if sensing eyes on her, she turns and catches his. Her smile is radiant, like sunshine brought to life.

Walon leans forward and liberates the ceramic liquor bottle from Kal’s side and tops his glass off.

“The little ad has grown on me, much like a tumor.”

Mij, never as tolerant of alcohol as his peers, chortles merrily. “Leave it to you to compare having children to cancer.”

Walon shrugs. “Have one and find out.” Mij scoffs at the idea and the group settles into a comfortable silence.

Jessa and the wives chat idly. Further past the women, the former commandos and Null ARCs are dividing up into teams on the makeshift pitch. Some words pass between one of the Bralor adike and Walon curiously watches as Scorch grips his brother's shoulder and pulls him to a stop.

Meshgeroya would be good. The lot of them needed a good match. The amount of testosterone flying around the yaim as of late was stifling. It would be good for the mass to get it out of their systems before someone had an unfortunate incident.

“Of course it would be yours, wouldn’t it?” Rav sounds about as worried about the averted skirmish as he feels. Boys would be boys and Fett clones would be Fett clones. He hadn’t met one yet that hadn’t gotten at least some of Jango’s competitive nature.

“Who’s to say my lads started it?” He raises a brow in Rav’s direction and she challengingly raises one right back.

Kal clears his throat, drawing the attention of the trio. “We’ve got to discuss the information the Mand’alor passed along at some point.”

“Din’kartay?” Mij asks, setting his now empty glass on the ground. Kal nods. His eyes follow the first snap of the match for a few moments as bodies collide and whoops and hollers rise into the air. His eyes travel over the gathered group, all four of them sharing something no other Mandalorians could - a past and a shared future in the form of their adopted children.

“Surplus auction has been moved up.”

Walon’s eye widen. “Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?”

“Just got the comm this morning, after the hunt,” The greying merc explains, “It’s a week from now.”

“A week?” Rav waves it off. “We’ve planned ops in less.” Walon wasn’t feeling the same sense of comfort as his vod. Something was coming, the proverbial other boot waiting to drop.

“We’ve got a problem.”

There it was. Of course, there was a problem. Kal doesn’t wait to ratchet up the drama of it all thankfully.

“Our intel says the boys are going to be in two separate places, troopers in a subterranean holding bay and the few commandos we're expecting are going to be a part of the main auction floor, two stories up.”

Mij frowns. “So we need a two pronged approach.”

“Which means two teams with one in the actual auction itself.” Walon sighs at the realization. “And none of the boys are exactly inconspicuous.”

Kal nods sagely. “That is the issue.” His eye wanders again and still Walon feels like he hasn’t heard the worst of it. “Bes can’t go. She’s already starting to show and we can’t put her or the baby at risk.” That is valid reasoning. Walon nods slowly. “This is a high end event. The cream of the crop.”

“So that means human…” Mij says shaking his head with disgust, “Las’ika is out.”

“Parja is Mando.” Rav says with an air of pride. “She’s not going to pass for aruetii elite even with time and training.”

This time Walon follows Kal’s eyes when they stray from the group. Jessa is sitting in the small half circle of women while the children run around and play a short distance away. She glances shyly at the commandos playing their game. The shirts have come off and while the buir’e and family could tell one from the other without any issue, to the casual observer it would be hard to seperate a Skirata from a Bralor from a Vau. Parja makes a comment and Jessa’s face flushes bright red. Her anger with Sev from earlier seems to have subsided if the way she’s staring at his shebs has anything to say about it.

“Your Jess’ika came from money.” Kal presses on, a fool’s errand. “She can play in that sandbox as well as you could-“

“No. Absolutely not.” Walon doesn’t even want the idea entertained among the group.

“She won’t be in any Imperial database. She’s got no record. Who would you have go, Walon? Send a twi’lek? Send a pregnant woman?”

“Neither, but I’d also not have my child sent as a sacrifice either.” Rav and Mij are silent. Yes, keep your mouths closed as Bu and Buhi fight, he thinks sourly.

“Doesn’t she deserve the chance to say no herself?”

“Again, absolutely not. She is so eager to please and you with your words of aliit and pats on the head would have her signing up for war before she even knew what was going on.”

“If your worries are about Sev and Scorch-“

Walon holds up a hand, “they are not my concern in this, she is. I put them through the crucible myself. They are more than capable of handling anything placed in front of them. Jess’ika is an unknown commodity-“

“We’ve all been through the ringer at one point or another but-“

Walon raises a brow. “If this is going to be a story about poor Kal the war orphan you can stow it. She has no training.”

“Walon-“

“Gentlemen?” Mij asserts easily. His ire turns from Kal to his own sons as soon as his head turns a cheer of “Oya” rises up between the teams. Sev is on top of one of Rav’s boys raining hellfire while Scorch runs his yappy mouth and does a commendable job of taking a punch from another. The rest of the pack has circled and is shouting encouragement.

“Can we not just have one nice day?” he grumbles, pushing himself to his feet.

“Cov!” Rav snaps at Yayax Squad’s former sergeant from across the open yard. His enjoyment of his brother's tussle is quickly replaced by the stark realization that their buir was on her way and she was not pleased.

Walon watches as Sev slows, giving who looked to be Jind under him, a chance to breathe. He sits back on his heels still atop the prone Mando, chest heaving. He has the decency not to smile but Walon can see the delight from the little tussle dancing in his eyes.

Scorch on the other hand, continues to run his mouth as he trades blows with Yayax’s second in command, Yover.

“And now you keep your eyes where they ought to be.”

Walon can only imagine what started all of this, but he’s very clear in who’s going to be the one to finish it.

“Six-Two!” Scorch’s momentum falters as Walon snaps irritably, “Are you nearly done?”

“Yeah buir- just- about-there..”’ Scorch punctuates the last hit, slipping a foot behind Yover’s and shoving him to the ground. “Finished.”

Walon feels a surge of pride but it is far outweighed by irritation.

“Care to explain what the thought process was for this?”

Sev reaches down and helps pull Jind to his feet. He holds back a smile as Walon glares.

“Verbal correction didn’t work so methods required escalation,” Scorch explains without getting to the actual cause of the whole skirmish. “We’re good now, right ner vod?”

Yover glares balefully from his spot on the ground before nodding assent and holding his hand out. ��Apologies, sergeant Vau, we were out of line and needed a quick recalibration.”

Walon’s eyes narrow. Rav has Jind by the chin, turning his face right and left assessing the damage. His eye is already swelling but it appears as if Sev worked his middle over more than anything, really rather harmless in the grand scheme of what he was capable of. The other commando appears no worse for wear.

“You said something stupid, didn’t you?” she questions, and he offers her a lopsided grin in response. Walon watches as she cuffs the larger man, though there is no real animosity behind it. He ducks and offers a sheepish, “Sorry Buir.”

“Nothing’s broken?” Mij joins the group.

“Just my pride Doc.” Jind tries to make his glance over to the group of women casual.

For the love of Fett… Walon rolls his eyes. All of this over a woman. Jessa is looking on with unshielded concern but her eyes follow Sev and Scorch as they fall back to one another’s side

- not the boys from Yayax squad.

“Your adiike ought to be muzzled, Walon,” Rav grumbles, as they step back and the men begin to reset their game.

“Probably, but they’re a bit territorial and I can’t blame them.”

Rav glances over and sighs, “I need to get mine into Enceri. Let them meet a nice girl.”

“What is it you’re saying about my daughter, Rav?”

“She looks sweet Walon but the apple never falls far from the tree, now does it?”

Walon pauses at the thought. It’s a wonder it’s never hit him before. Rav takes his silence as permission to continue.

“So will it be Sev or Scorch?”

Mij hums as if the question has occurred to him as well. Walon curses himself for not asking it sooner.

——

“It’s over with. You can relax.” Besany means well enough sitting cross legged on the blanket the small group of women shared but it’s hard to press the nerves of what she’d just witnessed to the background.

Conn, Burr, and Kad play a short ways away, oblivious to what had just transpired. They stack sticks in a tower trying to see how high they can make it before it topples over and they dissolve into laughter. Bes was probably right. This was probably normal and she needed to relax.

Jessa runs her finger along the hand sewn seam of the blanket. Her eyes follow as the stitches flow in and out of the fabric. Parja pats her hand. Jessa looks up.

“They’re fine, see?” She inclines her head toward the game that has restarted. “Sometimes things boil over, but it’s usually nothing a few well placed punches can’t settle.

“It’s just-“

Laseema offers a gentle smile. “When you haven’t seen it before it’s a little overwhelming?”

Jessa snorts. “That’s one way to put it. Terrifying maybe?” It’s Parja’s turn to scoff.

“If Sev Vau wanted someone dead they’d be dead. And in short order at that.” She gestures to the pitch and the bodies crashing together. “That was just working out a minor disagreement.”

It’s not hard for her to find the man in question among the crowd, the four jagged scars down his back stand out pink and raised over the hard planes of muscle, stark against the deep tan of his skin. Further up she can make out a circular scar, not as extreme as the other ones but perfectly symmetric as if done with a scalpel on the back of his neck. She's curious but not enough to actually ask about it. There’s a feeling that some things were sacred. Some things you didn’t just ask questions about. Even without the scars she wouldn’t be able to miss the way he moved. Like a jungle cat, he stalks from one spot to the next. He’s solid and sleek. He’s a hunter to his very core. No one else moves like him.

Scorch is simple to find for other reasons. It’s not the smattering of burns across his chest and arms or the way his sweat soaked curls stick to his forehead. No, it’s the sheer volume of his voice. Currently he’s crowing over Corr with the ball tucked under his arm. His eyes are sparkling and Jessa follows a bead of sweat as it trails from his hairline down his temple.

Sev appears at his side and butterflies tumble over one another in an attempt to escape her stomach. The sniper nudges his brother with his shoulder and says something and then both sets of eyes look up. Caught in the act of staring, she quickly looks away.

If the other women notice the interaction, they don’t let it dissuade them from the train of conversation that has seemingly jumped off the track and gone from encouraging their young friend to commenting on some of the more enticing aspects of the men on the field.

“Why are they so pretty?” Laseema asks, tipping a bottle of Ne’tra Gal up and taking a drink. Parja holds her own up in a mock toast.

“I don’t know but you’ll never hear me complain.”

“Sometimes I find it hard to believe stronger genetic variation doesn’t exist through the whole batch.” Everyone turns toward Bes. Parja nudges Jessa in the side as if to say, wait for it.

“Literally, how can there be so many perfect shebse?”

There’s a pause and then laughter bubbles up, giggles and chuckles. For a moment they are not mothers and warriors and former slaves, they are just women enjoying the view on a nice day.

“Who has the best?” Laseema asks as the giggles die down. In unison, Bes and Parja announce Mereel as the winner.

“You could bounce a credit off of that ass.” Bes says, barely able to maintain a straight face. Jessa flushes as Laseema agrees. She really hadn’t looked but now that she allows herself to she had to admit it’s a glorious sight. They are all glorious. Stripped of armor and flight suits, of the black under armor tops they all still prefer from their days in active duty they are pristine examples of what a man could be physically.

“You could wash clothing on Levet’s abs.” Parja adds. Bes nods in agreement. And it goes like this through the various family members. Fi’s smile. Atin’s back. Corr’s thighs. Bardan’s eyes. Jessa is happy to sit back and smile, every now and again nodding as the Skirata men are ogled and rated.

“What about the Vau’s?” Bes asks after a few minutes. There’s silence. Jessa feels the prickle of irritation at the quiet until she looks up and realizes three sets of eyes are looking intently at her.

“So…” Parja asks slowly, “you're part of this game too you know.”

For a second she thinks she might just wave them off, say something about not feeling right saying *hose kind of things but Parja is right and though she’s loathe to admit it - she has been looking and not just since the armor and clothes started to get peeled off and piled neatly on the sidelines. She flashes back to this morning in the kitchen when she’d pushed out of the walk-in and seen the familiar gunmetal and yellow beskar’gam and how her wits had left her. His arms had felt so good around her, holding her close after she’d flung herself - consequences be damned - at him. Scorch is an easy answer.

“His hands.”

This seems to be an answer everyone is agreeable with. Laseema hums quietly and all eyes travel back to the field and watch the former commando of the moment. He offers a cheeky smile and wave before the ball is snapped and turns back.

“Opinions on Sev?” It’s Parja again distracting her from the game at hand. The Mandalorian woman has a sly grin on her face. What was she getting at? Of course, Jessa had opinions on Sev. The strong muscles of his arms bracketing her, his thick trunk she could lean back into… jessa takes a moment to slow the race of thoughts.

“Sev doesn’t count in this.” Bes speaks up. The tone of her voice, the dismissive way she says it raises Jessa’s hackles.

“Yes he does.”

Bes startles nearly as much as Jessa does at her own words. Of course Sev mattered. He mattered more to her than any of the Skiratas and just as much as Scorch. “Best shoulders of the bunch.” She adds primly after an awkward moment of silence.

Parja barks out a laugh and watches the next play, Sev has his arms wrapped around Atin, pulling him down to the ground and pinning him face down with an elbow pressed into his back, “ok, she’s got a point.”

Laseema nods while Bes remains red faced and quiet.

The children, Kad, Conn, and Burr offer a distraction from the awkwardness that hangs in the air. The younger two head immediately for their mother while Kad seems to take a moment contemplating which aunt suits his current needs best. Jessa yawns. She hadn’t slept well the night before with strangers just a door away and it was beginning to take a toll.

It’s all Kad needs to see. He is a headstrong child when the mood hits and he was not one to be denied. Having learned both of these things Jessa doesn’t argue as he crawls into her lap.

“Sleepy?”

He doesn’t acknowledge the question but as she’d discovered even if a child was tired they’d be loath to admit it. Kad turns his face into her shoulder and Jessa wraps her arms around him. Bes and Parja excuse themselves. Bes steers the boys toward the yaim for naps of their own and Parja makes an excuse about bringing a tray of food out for the ‘old barves’ to pick at.

Laseema lounges back onto her elbows, eyes following the game that seems to be wrapping up. Jessa isn’t entirely familiar with the rules, but it doesn’t seem like the players are really following any set guideline. More or less they’re playing for the enjoyment of it. Jessa visually checks in on her boys. Always close to one another, Scorch talks rapidly to Sev as he points to Ordo and then to Corr on the other team. Sev nods in acknowledgement at whatever plan has been made.

Kad nuzzles in closer to her chest and Jessa eases the pair of them onto the blanket to lie down. The sun is warm and it leaves her feeling drowsy and content. Kad lays his head on her arm as she rolls to watch the game. His little fingers poke and prod until her other arm is draped over him to his liking.

In the air the song birds flit, taking a break from their southerly migration. The sounds of good natured ribbing and laughing comes from the game field before her and the group of buir’e behind her.

“So which would you choose?” The question catches her off guard. “Sev or Scorch?”

Jessa doesn't speak. Her eyes follow the pair as they play. Never far apart. Working together without words as if they were of the same mind. She can’t imagine one without the other or how it must have been for both before Sev had been brought back from Kasshyk.

The thought of making a choice has never occurred to her because the thought of anything more than the simple life she’s settled into is a seed barely sprouted. She frowns at the thought. If they both wanted to pursue something then of course she’d have to choose one versus the other but It doesn’t feel right, like separating a set. How would they react? Would they be competitive? Would they fight against one another? Would it tear the family apart? She’d rather be alone the rest of her days than see her fragile new family torn apart by her choice.

“Neither.”

Laseema cocks her head questioningly. Her lek curl and uncurl in a soothing manner Jessa can pick up from the corner of her eye.

“I couldn’t choose. I wouldn’t.”

———-

During a mission, when exertion and strain and sweat were a thing, Sev didn’t mind the thin sheen of perspiration that accumulated on his skin. He ignored the beads of it at his temples and the way rivulets of it ran down his back. Afterwards though, it was different. Since Kasshyk a lot of things had been different. Things he’d never tolerated - the loud way his brother chewed for example - became almost reassuring, while things that had never concerned him - like the coating of sticky sour sweat - were intolerable.

A couple of the guys - Levet, Corr, and Mereel - join him on his journey to the locker room after the match. He’d give it to Skirata, this place, their home, had all the bells and whistles. Everything he could want was here. Had he not just needed a quick wash down in the locker room he could have slipped off to the smaller bathroom shared between the twin bedrooms in his clan’s wing of the yaim. But no, the blood pumping and friendly competition had him feeling nostalgic. Locker room it was.

It takes him only a few minutes longer than the others to clean off, an extra few seconds of scrubbing with the mild soap that had followed them since their days on Kamino, while the others joked and laughed. Feeling clean made his bones settle, made them feel less like they wanted to rattle out of his skin.

Levet says something and Sev turns his attention. “Hmm?”

Levet has a towel slung low around his hips while he uses another to scrub at his damp hair. “You gotta excuse the boys. About earlier,” he says.

Sev thinks to tell him he didn’t have to do a kriffing thing, but this was Commander Tactful and even after his service to the GAR had ended, he was still trying to do what he’d always been good at.

Sev doesn’t need defusing. He wasn’t about to go off. He just needed the Yayax boys to understand that the Princess was a hands off, eyes to yourself affair. Levet tosses him a towel as Sev turns the water off. He catches it with one hand and bringings it directly to his face to rub residual droplets from his eyes.

Without the gloves Sev can hear the servos in Corr’s prosthetics whir as the younger clone dries himself off. “Sev is a little protective over his vod’ika,” the former trooper cracks.

That wasn’t quite what he was trying to make clear. He huffs into the towel. Is that really what it looked like to everyone?

“It’s understandable,” Levet agrees, “hear she’s been through a lot. There’s a lot of people who would take advantage of that; my boys aren’t them though.”

Mereel, who’s been quietly pulling clothes back on makes a discontent sound. “Seems to me if someone wanted to court the dal, they ought to make their intentions known the old fashioned way. You know, put it on public record.”

Sev can feel the Null ARC’s eyes on him. “You planning on making that move?” There’s a chill in the questions he doesn’t make any attempt to hide.

With the exception of the slow drip of water from the recently cut off shower heads, the room has gone quiet. Mereel stops where he stands, shirt halfway up his arms but not yet over his head. It’s an interesting time to realize Scorch isn't here to have his back if the sudden tension in the air ignites into something more.

“Are you?” It’s Corr’s smart mouth, he’s got a smile sliding across his face. “Because I was thinking I might stand a chance.”

In unison Sev and Mereel throw damp towels in his direction. He catches one easily with one prosthetic hand, the second - a half second behind - barely misses smacking him wetly in the face.

“Come on, really? Do you see this?” Corr turns to Levet motioning up and down his body with durasteel digits. “I could pull a woman like that.”

Levet, always level-headed and prudent doesn’t even favor him with a grin, “No, vod’ika you couldn’t.”

Mereel gives Corr a hearty pat on the back. “We can’t all be me. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable woman out there for you.”

“Gee thanks, vod.” He makes to sound irritated but Sev can see the smile lines forming at the corners of his eyes. The little bastard was still good diffusing a situation and he’s both irritated and grateful. He didn’t need a three on one but he also had no further intel on what was going on in the karking Null ARCs head.

Sev layers a fresh set of blacks under loose pants and a tunic. He collects his armor in a neat stack. No one else was putting there’s back on and he was going to take the opportunity to try without for once. He knew he’d likely wind up back in it before supper. Armor wasn’t just physical, it was mental as well.

He tries to tell himself that it’s got nothing to do with Jessa, but really it has everything to do with her. And what happened earlier. He follows Levet, Mereel, and Corr from the locker room but when they hang a right to head back outside he takes a sharp left toward his buir’s karyai. He waves off Levet’s curious over the shoulder glance. The others don’t attempt to wait or question.

It should probably sting, but it doesn’t. The Skiratas and Bralors were family but Sev only cared about two- three other people (and a mangy strill) when it came right down to it. Those were the opinions that mattered.

And he had karked up one of them. Or so he’d been told.

He heads straight toward the room he and Scorch shared, directly to the small desk that went mostly unused now that they’d set up shop in the armory. Jessa’s knife - his knife - his buir’s knife sat gleaming on the top, nearly sparkling against the dull grain of the wood, as innocuous as a honed blade of its caliber could be.

Maybe he should have gotten the story from her first. Maybe, as Scorch had suggested afterwards, it would be better to handle these things behind closed doors in the future. The thing is he hadn’t, and it wouldn’t have changed that he was going to take it back.

He was fracking impressed by the sheer gett’se it must have taken to stand up to a fully armored Mandalorian staring her down. She’d had fire in her eyes. It was like he could see her trying to decide what nice cozy intercostal space she could seat the knife in. For aruteii, it was fekking nehutyc. That still hadn’t meant the blade she was going to shank him with was hers.

It had always been too big. He knew the first time she’d held it to his throat - he swallows hard at the memory - that it didn’t fit well in her far smaller hands. He knew it was ungainly for her and awkward to wield but he hadn’t ever really meant for her to be in a position to use it. It was supposed to be a security blanket, something to pacify a terrified girl, but like everything else she’d surprised him. It wasn’t just standing toe to toe with him this morning. Wal’buir had told him what had happened in Keldabe. Before Mird had gotten help she’d been about to take on two fully trained Imperial troopers. Jessa was a smart girl and to Sev that meant she knew what she was getting into and not getting out of. The thought both set his teeth on edge and his kad to stiffening.

“Fekking Skirata.” Like his buir, Sev found it easy to blame the feisty old merc for everyday problems.

He grasps the handle and flips it in his grip. It was still a solid weapon, just not what she needed. He could fix that. Next time there was a blade between them she wouldn’t look at him like he’d done her wrong. Sev didn’t mind the anger and murder in her eyes but he didn’t ever want to see that look of betrayal again. He didn’t want to ever feel like it was her against him unless her life was on the line. He slips the blade into the sheath at his hip. It wiggles more than he liked but he didn’t intend on having it on him for long.

As he’s leaving, he catches a splash of forest green tucked under the covers of Scorch’s bed. He grabs the scarf without a second thought and folds it carefully as he heads out.

——

Parja’s in the kitchen. It’s nice because he hadn’t wanted to go looking. He hadn’t wanted to need to find an excuse to pull her away from the other women, or worse, her gossipy riduur. He knows the Mandalorian woman enough that if he could convince her it was important she’d keep things quiet. Fi, not so much.

She’s stacking a tray high with tidbits of cheese, meat, tiny pickled peppers, and bits of bread. His stomach growls and Parja’s head shoots to him.

“I’m gonna put a kriffing bell on you,” she curses quietly, narrowing her eyes. He didn’t have time for her ire, nor did he have the patience.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“After that stunt you pulled today? You’re lucky I don’t run you through myself.”

He tries to keep his lips from pulling back, he really does. He succeeds partly. Parja is undeterred by the silent snarl.

“You know she’s been a mess with the pair of you chakaar gone? You know she hasn’t been sleeping since Keldabe? You wouldn't know, because the first thing she gets out of you, Sev Vau, is nothing but trouble.” She’s pissed. He knows this because she’s gotten close and is using her index finger to jab an exclamation on each of her final words dead center of his chest. He probably deserves it.

“Can you do something for her then?” he questions. Parja takes a step back, sizes him up, then crosses her arms over her chest.

“What is it?”

Sev pulls the knife from its spot at his hip. Parja’s wide eyes move from the blade to its handler and back. He spins it in his hand, presenting the handle like one would a peace offering.

“I need you to make this work for her. I thought maybe - maybe you could make it into two.”

Parja takes the offered weapon. She studies it with the eye of a craftsperson and the tactical experience of a Mandalorian. Sev waits patiently. Somewhere outside someone is laughing obscenely loud, Mij Gilamar by the sound of it. “So-“

“You know I’m no armorer, no blade smith either?”

“You’re family and I trust you.” He waits again. She’s searching his face. After a moment she nods slowly. He hopes she’s found what she needed.

“Just tell me one thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t tempt me.” There’s a hint of humor pulling at the corner of her mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Say again.” Obviously he was commissioning her to make a set of blades. It really couldn’t be much more straightforward than that-

Parja rolls her eyes, humor once again gone. “Are you and Scorch courting her together or separately? And don’t think you can put me off or lie to me, Sev Vau.”

By Fett, he hated that word - courting - it sounded so… he just didn’t like it. He really didn’t want to have to go all the way to Keldabe to have this done, so he swallows down any apprehension and nods. “Together.”

“Good. Now let me get a few ideas from you.”

——

She sleeps light and dreamless in the spill of warm sunshine. Kad nestles close to her as she shelters his little body with her own, his small hands cling to the front of her tunic. She can hear the occasional voice of someone passing nearby, of footsteps approaching stopping and then continuing on. Months ago she’d have stiffened and been on edge. She’d never have freely offered her back to danger, but now it was different. Everything was.

Kad stirs as a familiar pair of boots scuffs closer.

“Ba’vodu…

“Udessi…” Jessa soothes, quietly trying to coax the child into just a few more minutes of blissful cuddles, “I’m right here.”

He wiggles in her grip, a giggle rising up. “Ba’vodu! Boom!”

Jessa rolls to her back bringing Kad with her. He’s off her chest and half stumbling to still-shirtless Scorch’s waiting arms.

“Boom! Boom!”

Scorch hoists the giggling child into the air. Kad squeals with delight as he’s easily caught. “Yeah, verd’ika, there’ll be some big ones tonight. I promise.”

It’s an ‘oh’ moment, a split second where Jessa realizes as many times as she’s seen the other men around her toting the kids around it’s never looked so attractive as Scorch doing it.

“Ba’vodu Mesh’la!” Kad whines and Jessa cocks her head as if she’s not entirely sure what she’s heard.

“I taught him that. You can thank me later.”

It takes a moment to realize what he’s said, and when her brain finally plays catch-up she feels her cheeks flush.

“I eat food now?” Kad is unconcerned with what is playing out as he pokes at his uncle until the bounty hunter has had enough and pretends to drop him to the ground. He catches him an inch before he hits the ground and Kad acts like it is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.

Another family member, Bardan, calls his name and he’s off like a shot the second his feet hit the ground without a single look back. It must be nice to be a child without a worry in the world.

Jessa pushes up, resting back on her outstretched hands. She can count on one hand the amount of times she’d seen him out of beskar, the amount of times in this state of undress less than that.

The matte grey of his pauldrons had only served to highlight how broad his shoulders truly were, and now without the added cover she can get a good impression of the muscles that moved down from those shoulders. Biceps and forearms defined by his work lead to the hands she’d mentioned earlier. He flexes his arm. Jessa’s eyes snap back to his. Caught. Scorch grins from ear to ear.

“Did you have a good nap?”

Jessa nods. The sun still has her feeling drowsy and content. “Wasn’t ready to be done with it,” she admits. He drops down to his knees and then flops lazily at her side.

“I’m not Kad, but I’ll offer myself up as a cuddle buddy.” He holds one arm up, inviting her into his personal space like the night she’d had a nightmare and he’d held her until she’d fallen asleep.

A soft breeze blows cool against her exposed skin. Goosebumps rise to the surface. Jessa slides next to Scorch. It’s out of necessity, she tells herself. He’s a human furnace, suiting his name, and she was going to use that to enjoy the last bit of time she would get outside sans layer upon layer of clothing. His arm braces behind her back as she leans into his side.

“You fit good there,” he notes. Jessa says nothing. She feels good this close to him. The light scent of sweat and salt radiates from him.

“You stink,” she murmurs quietly.

“You like my stink,” he hums back. He doesn’t exactly smell bad and she doesn’t argue. She’d spent too many nights with her arms around one of his pillows, buried under his covers to deny what he said.

“What were you fighting about with Yover?” She watches him from the corner of her eye. Scorch looks out across the field, seemingly staring into nothing. There’s a boyish smirk plastered across his face that makes Jessa think all sorts of things, not least of which is what his lips might feel like if he kissed her again.

“Nothing you need worry about.”

Thankfully he’s good at chasing away her soft, reckless thought. It’s not the answer she wants and he laughs at her irritated growl. “If you keep making that sound how are people supposed to tell you and Sev’ika apart?”

She can think of a few ways, but keeps them to herself. She rolls away, putting a shred of distance between them so she can turn to look at him fully. She missed him - them - so much. Scorch opens his mouth as if to say something and then shuts it suddenly. It’s not like him. With a puff of air past his lips he flips onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes.

Given the opportunity, Jessa seizes it. She lets her eyes rove now that he’s not watching. From his arms to his broad chest and tapered waist there is a light smattering of scars. None are particularly deep with the exception of a few to his forearms.

“I can feel you staring.” Brown eyes peek out from under his arm. “Something you like, Mesh’la?”

“You’ve got a lot of scars,” she notes, gaze not wavering from its exploration. Now that she’s begun she can’t find it in her to stop.

“Ah yes, my marks of personality.”

“Marks of…” She offers him a confused expression.

“Buir- Sarge back then, always said scars gave you personality. He helped shape our inherent charm. Have you seen Atin’s face? Vod has tons of personality.”

“Where did this scar come from?” Jessa reaches out and touches the slick looking slice on his flank. Goosebumps rise up under her fingers. A quick glance at his face shows nothing amiss.

“Sev has this great trick for slotting Trandoshans he picked up from the old man”

“But why do you have a scar?” She’s sure that her mind shouldn’t go where his words were leading it. Sev would never- well at least not Scorch, she thinks realistically.

“Spicy dreams.”

Jessa jerks. Scorch’s arm tightens around her. Sev blocks the sun from shining on the pair as he towers over the two.

“Aww Sev, was that a joke? I knew ya had it in ya.” Scorch sits up and Jessa follows, crossing her legs neatly as she does. Scorch eyes her. There must be something akin to the growing horror she was feeling painting her face because he tries to explain more.

“Sev doesn’t like to be woken from his beauty sleep.” As if to accentuate it, the man in question makes a lazy wave at his face as if to say ‘see’?

“I need every bit I can get.”

Undeterred by the look she is wearing, Scorch encourages her to stand up, giddiness and glee coloring his tone like a small child excited to show off a prized rock or funny shaped stick it had found.

“Show her!” Scorch nudges her gently until she has no choice but to stand with a roll of her eyes. “It’s a great trick.”

Sev rolls his eyes back but motions for her to stand in front of him. She’s still angry about this morning but her sense of curiosity is getting the better of her. Sev hesitates as if he knows he’s still not in her good graces but it lasts only a second before he pulls her close and spins her around. It’s a familiar position, the line of his body pressed against her back. They’ve done this once before and she flushes at the thought now of how vulnerable she’d been in the locker room and how Sev had taken care of her then.

“You ever deal with a lizard?” Sev’s voice is gruff. Jessa nods. Transdoshans made excellent slavers. Two had held her still while a fat fingered Gamorrean had branded her after she’d been bought. She presses back into Sev, seeking more of the heat he transferred without the layer of beskar between them.

“They got these… what do you call them?” He looks to Scorch.

“Plastron?”

“Like the belly of a lily turtle?” Jessa asks. “Mother kept them in the water garden.” A strange look crosses Scorch’s face as he nods at her explanation.

“Yeah, Princess, like a turtle,” Sev murmurs, reminding her how close he was. “So they’ve got these plastron across their bellies and the rest of their bodies have these thick scales that do a damn good job of blocking most sharp pointy things.” Sev’s hand comes to rest at her waist just back slightly, his thumb pressing into a spot above where she knew her kidney to sit. “Except right here, where the plastron and scales connect there is a soft spot.”

To emphasize the point, Sev presses his first two fingers into her flesh. Jessa winces and he lightens his touch enough to take the edge of the discomfort off.

“The trick Buir taught us is you’ve got to adjust your grip accordingly so when you get the chance-“ his fingers press forward, sliding along her side til they reach her belly, “you can spill their guts.”

The way he lets them sit there for a minute before he steps away makes her tummy flutter. She’s glad for the separation. Jessa folds herself faintly back into a seated position.

Curious eyes watch from afar. Jessa feels them acutely and glances past Sev. Ordo Skirata is not being covert. He holds eye contact for a second before moving on, one of his young sons clinging to his leg.

“Wonder what Ord’ika is up to?” Scorch says, more to himself than anyone.

“Better be minding his own damn business.” Sev’s voice is a reassuring growl as he flanks her other side.

——-

His belly is full of spicy skewered nerf and deliciously fatty bits of shatual. Sev has never been one to search for a buzz in the bottom of a bottle like some of his vode (Scorch included), but a bottle of sweet Ne’tra gal dangles lazily between his fingers. The abnormal heat from earlier in the day has bled away to an appropriately crisp autumn evening as the sun set an hour before. It felt good.

He alternates between staring up to the cloudless expanse of sky and taking the occasional pull from the bottle in his hand, allowing himself a moment or two to enjoy the sweet barley and hops of traditionally brewed ale. Unfettered by the light pollution of the larger Mandalorian cities to the south, the stars shine like gemstones above. It wouldn’t last long. Fireworks were coming next - Scorch had already kriffed off with Corr for last minute preparations. They’d be lucky if Doc wasn’t working on a new prosthetic by morning with those two at work.

After fireworks the kids would be shuffled off to bed and - so he was told - the real party would start. It sounded like a big excuse to drink too much and do something incredibly stupid by an open flame. Probably would be fun. He still wasn’t sure about the whole thing. He’d been through a few celebrations since being brought to Kyrimorut, but this was his first fall and Scorch had been doing his best for months to talk it up and try to get Sev as excited as he was.

He’d seen lots of things blow up in his life. From one side of the shabla galaxy to the other, he’d seen enough to consider himself an expert of sorts.

Jessa lies in the grass by his side. Her eyes are fixed on the sky above. She’s been quiet since she laid down next to him. It was wrong. She usually said something. Anything. Most times he’d have no fault in the silence, but all around them people were talking and laughing and they were just there. Being weird. Somehow he thinks it’s probably residual from this morning. He sighs heavily. Blue eyes flash out of the corner but then focus back above.

“You looking at the stars?”

Jessa makes a soft hum of agreement.

“Kriff…” he curses lowly, turning toward her, “You still mad at me?”

“I wasn’t mad.” And Palpatine was a well loved public figure.

“You were,” he asserts, “You looked like you were ready to slot me”

“I would never.” She finally turns, fixing him with eyes that affirm his previous assertion.

“But you wanted to.”

She sighs, rolling onto her side and tucking an arm under her head. In the growing dark with her hair spilling around her she is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. It’s taken a while, but he’s finally willing to admit that attraction.

“Too much beskar,” she states bluntly, “Besides, I’d miss you if you were dead.” There’s a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Sev feels a strange pull in his chest somewhere between asphyxiation and taking a barely controlled ascent down a fast line.

Her smile drops away. “Sev?”

“Yeah Princess?”

“If you ever do something like that again? In front of the rest of the family? I will do it.”

The bark of laughter that leaves him has heads turning all around them. Curious and concerned eyes fall on the pair. Jessa’s eyes narrow. That feeling in his chest intensifies. She looks like a pissed off loth cat waiting to attack. Fekking gorgeous.

“Roger that, Princess. I won’t even fight back.”

She softens visibly, pushing herself into a seated position only a hairs breadth away from him.

“Good.”

With that settled, the pair turn their eyes back up to the darkening sky. The silence doesn’t feel weird anymore with the issue between them blasted to dust.

Sev feels content in the moment.

The sound of the first mortar being released into the air catches his attention. The light of the small explosion comes just a few beats after in the form of neon red that lights the sky. It’s impressive. More follow at regular intervals, different colors and sizes, sounds and shapes. Like burning flowers in the night sky they flash to life only to die a few moments later. The smell of explosives rolls like a fog from the launch point to the onlookers.

Sev glances around and finds the small children staring transfixed as the fireworks erupt into life, their tiny mouths cracked in o’s of delight. He tries to remember the first time he ever saw anything explode or heard a bomb and he can’t quite place how old he must have been. He’d been fascinated, but not nearly as much as Scorch had. Scorch had been obsessed. No one loved blowing something up as much as his vod.

The next mortar explodes with all the force of a sonic boom and Sev finally notices Jessa’s stiff posture next to him, the way she twitches when each firework ignites.

“You ok?”

“I’m fine.” The words rush out of her mouth in a way that lets him know she’s not.

“You don’t need to be scared.”

Her head swings around. “I’m not-“ A pair of twin explosions follow each other in rapid succession and she nearly comes out of her skin. Sev remembers watching another squad when they were just tiny cadets, the way they had all crowded in around a vod who obviously was having issues with the sounds, pressing in until their pod mate had calmed.

“Come here.” He motions to the spot in front of him. Jessa shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she lies again.

Sev huffs. Did she not see that he knew? Stubborn dal. He should let her stew in her own fear. That would teach her, but then he’d have to listen to a lecture from Scorch and he hated when he got lectured. Before the next can go off he leans over, closing the paltry distance between them and loops his arm around her waist. She squeaks as he pulls her effortlessly into his lap, spreading his legs and tucking her into the spot between them. She struggles for a second. He notices, not for the first time, the she never curses, not in Mando’a nor in Basic. He thinks if she did she would be right now. She squirms against him and he regrets not putting armor back on.

“Stop wiggling,” he grunts into her ear. She stills and Sev takes the opportunity to wind an arm around her and pull her tight against him. Sev doesn’t see the eyes that have followed them or the way other members of the homestead lean in to whisper to one another because Jessa is relaxing back into his grip, melding with him and his brain isn’t sure what to do. The next volley of decorative ordinance pop and she barely twitches. The purple shimmer of rhydonium paints her features in a soft glow as it fizzles out of existence.

He holds her tighter and by the round after she doesn’t move at all. Her head rocks back and rests against his shoulder. He can feel the heat of her all along the front of his body and his mind travels to places it hasn’t in ages.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she murmurs.

“If you say you were fine, I swear-“

“They kept the barracks near whatever tunnel we were working in at that time,” she begins.

Sev nods. This was a Kappa Black thing. He should have known.

“We worked in shifts. You had to try to sleep while they were blowing through the asteroid around you.”

It made sense. If you’d seen any amount of osik the galaxy had to offer you weren’t likely to leave it all behind.

“Odds are you're not gonna get blown up here.”

“How do you shut it off so easily?” She twists, glancing up at him.

“Turn off what?”

“The fear.”

Sev stops. He’s never really dwelled on it. “I don’t turn it off. I focus it. Fear is a tool.” He recites an early lesson. “It’s a blade. You either use it on your quarry or you use it on yourself. Never been much on killing myself.”

Jessa goes quiet, thoughtful. She wiggles in closer as reds and greens and blues light up the sky in front of her.

“Cold?” It seems like the right thing to say. Sev had seen a holomovie once on a stakeout that reminded him of this. He’d had to read lips because he’d been perched in a Corrie window watching it from his scope in a building two over. He got the gist of it though. Romantic osik that made him want to gag on the warra nuts he’d smuggled along. Now though it doesn’t feel nearly as unrealistic as he’d thought back then.

“Maybe a little.”

From the cargo pocket of his tac pants Sev retrieves her scarf, the same one she’d left on Scorch’s bed earlier. It’s not easy to unfurl it one handed, but he manages and drapes it over the front of them. She makes a soft sound, a sigh of contentment as she burrows under the fabric.

“Better?”

“Perfect.”

——

If the flames of the bonfire grow any higher, Walon is sure they’ll be able to see it from Keldabe. Not that you could tell any of the celebrating adiike that. No, drums and Bes’bev and various stringed instruments of unknown origin had been pulled out and now not only was their fire and drink but also music to go with it all.

Rav is beating out a rhythm on her bucket next to Atin, using a hide covered drum of his own making. The rest of the Bralors take turns on the winds and strings. Fi chortles out a bawdy song about a twi’lek dancer and the battalion of troopers that had loved her. Walon can make out the words “seduced by her lekku of love” before uproarious laughter drowns him out. Off to the side, Laseema rubs tears from her eyes barely able to control her laughter.

“They don’t work like that vod!” She manages to get out between giggles.

“Atin?” Someone asks. The former Commando in question offers a toothy grin but says nothing. Walon rolls his eyes. He’d like to think his adiike were better behaved, but Scorch is taking shots of ti’haar with Corr in celebration of a pyrotechnic display gone well. Sev, while not drinking like his vod is encouraging it.

“You gonna let a trooper get one up on you?”

Jessa is pressed shoulder to shoulder between the pair. Her cheeks are flushed with life and she looks happier than he’s ever seen as she fidgets with the thick braid of hair draped over her shoulder. Corr offers her a shot and she takes it like one of the Commandos. She barely flinches. Mandokarla indeed.

Even slightly inebriated himself, Walon can see Scorch’s keen gaze watch her like a mother nuna. Sev’s is more fixed on Corr. A pair of guard massiffs if he's ever seen them.

No, Walon didn’t need to worry about her overdoing it with Sev and Scorch present. Likely, he should be more concerned of their safety should they need to cut her off. The murderous look she’d given his sharpshooter this morning spoke volumes of the personality that was starting to bloom.

“Vau.” His musings are painfully disrupted by the shorter merc easing himself into a sitting position next to him.

“Skirata,” Walon greets.

“We need to talk about earlier.”

Like an obnoxious fly buzzing about, Walon tries to ignore him. Still, Kal’s eyes continue to bore into the side of his skull until, like a fly he cannot help but give him his full, irritated attention.

“You’re trying to ruin my Kyr’vhetine, aren’t you?”

Kal gives him a bemused smile that slips quickly into something more serious. Yes, he was going to ruin it.

Walon’s eyes drift to his children. The makeshift band has begun to play a song the is unmistakably Ryl. It’s heavy drum lead beat and accompanying strings lends itself for dance and Laseema throws her head back and laughs from her spot near Parja.

“Am I being called out?” She asks the group of musicians. There’s an uproarious cheer as she sets her drink down and pushes up off the makeshift log bench. “Fine then.”

Walon watches her bunch her tunic in her hand, tying the loose fabric just above her hip. Blue skin peeks out as she extends her hands at her sides and begins to dance.

Traditional Ryl dancing is almost impossible to look away from. The movements are fluid and driven by the rhythm of the music being played, steady drum beats with a mixture of plucked and strummed strings.

It’s not merely a dance but a delicate balancing act played between the musicians and the dancer. Laseema knows this game better than many he’s seen. Her hips shimmy and roll with the beat as she steps delicately about the circle of aliit. There’s cheers and hoots from the crowd and the smile that graces her face is radiant. Like so many others she had blossomed and truly begun to thrive in Kyrimorut. He was sure no small amount of that was in part to Atin. While he’d taken the Skirata name, Walon had quietly patted himself on the back for creating the man and survivor he was today.

“The auction…” Kal begins and Walon sighs deeply. From his spot at its Master’s foot, Mird glances up, tongue nearly too large for its mouth lolling out to the side. It’s warm by the fire but the strill is loathe to be anywhere Walon isn’t.

“The auction,” Walon agrees. The thought gives him a headache. A year ago he had just become reacquainted with the idea of having an ad and now here he was with three healthy, somewhat adjusted adiike. He was loathe to upset the newly formed balance, but he knew somewhere deep in his gut - as he didn’t trust his dead heart on such matters - that they needed to be part of whatever was set to happen. Each of the Cuy’val Dar sitting around the fire had trained multiple squads and so few were accounted for outside of those that had already been known to have marched on. If there were others they deserved a chance and their buir'e deserved a chance to give it to them.

Kal seems to understand he’s finally got his attention. When he speaks it’s not of someone trying to convince a friend in a fool's errand but instead a hardened mercenary beginning to plan for an op.

“We’ve got so little time to prepare. The lads will do fine but-“

Walon holds a hand up, “I know. I know.” His gaze travels over to how newest acquisition. Laseema is pulling the giggling girl to her feet while Scorch eggs her on. Sev watches with his hands on his knees. He appears relaxed, laconic, but Walon knows what lies beneath - always alert and on guard.

Laseema slows her movements, working her hips in a tight figure eight and Jessa imitates. It’s uncoordinated at first, but with each rotation she seems to sync into the music a little more, so Laseema shows her another step and then another. Parja joins the fray with absolutely no rhythm but shereshoy that cannot be argued with.

“You can’t deny that she’s our only option.”

“I never said I did.” Walon watches as Mereel enters the small fray of dancers and pulls Laseema close. Fi slides in and grabs his wife. He’s just as off rhythm as she, but they both seem oblivious to anything but one another. Jessa spins happily, the green scarf tied in a triangle at her hips twirls out like the layers of a skirt and Walon can imagine her being spun around a dance floor in another life. She’s happy and content and what is about to come could very well ruin that but she’d do it. He knew that in the same way he knew Scorch would spring to his feet the second one of Yayax squad attempted to move in her direction. Honestly, it’s astounding it takes as long as it does but after the correction earlier maybe it’s not too shocking. It’s Cov this time who gets two steps to near before Scorch is sliding in between the Yayax squad leader and the girl. Jessa only seems to see Scorch, beaming up at him as he slips in behind her.

Walon raises a brow. He hadn’t expected either of his lads to move like that.

“Sev and Scorch are not going to like this, I take?”

Walon chuckles. “I don’t imagine, but they also know their place and what an op like this means. They can give their hormones a backseat long enough to get the job done.”

“That’s going to be a mess when they work that out between them.”

From her spot pressed against Scorch’s chest Jessa finds Sev. He’s nursing another drink, only the second of the night by Walon’s assessment. She reaches out, palm up and curling her finger. Sev raises a brow and shakes his head, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as Jessa sticks out her lower lip and pouts. Someone shouts about making her the filling in a commando sandwich. Kal chokes, coughing violently into his drink.

Walon’s never known Sev to willingly do something commonly perceived as fun and dancing… he imagined it would be a cold day on the plains before he’d see his Ad’ika do that.

“I don’t doubt they’ll work it out in a way all their own.”

“That’s what I worry about.”

From the corner of his eyes, Walon studies the Skirata patriarch. He considered (if only to himself) him a friend for a few years now - since Mygeeto at very least - but there was a time when he’d have happily put his fist through the other man’s orbital bone if given the chance. Sometimes he still said things that made Walon’s old arthritic knuckles ache in anticipation.

“They’re not yours to worry on. I feel you have enough without adding my adiike to your plate.”

Kal hums and Walon knows this will not be the last time he will have this conversation. The song being played ends as he’s thinking of the inevitable irritation of having to repeat himself.

“Jessa.” The girl turns her head at her buir’s sharp call of her name. Scorch’s hands tense where they rest at her hips, but she shimmies out of the bounty hunter's grip.

“Yes, buir?” The musicians are mumbling amongst themselves about what to play next.

“Naberrie Waltz.”

Confusion flitz across her face, settling along with the crinkles between her eyes.

Walon is undeterred. “Do you remember it?” Jessa nods once and Walon rises to his weary feet. Scorch hover protectively behind her. With an irritated flick of the wrist Walon shoos him away.

“Show me the waltz.”

“But the music isn’t-“

“I’m aware, Ad’ika. I’m sure your parents spent large sums of money teaching you how to do things that didn’t always fit what you wanted at the time. Has their money gone to waste?”

A bemused look crosses her face as Walon offers a hand. It’s been a long time since he’s waltzed. Far longer than his new daughter has probably been alive but the steps come back as if it was just yesterday as a light hand on her waist guides her in a slow turn. He knows eyes are on them. He can see the flash of mirth in the eyes of the other Cuy’val Dar but that is none of his concern. Jessa’s spine is straight, her head, carriage uniformly perfect. Even though the song is all wrong she doesn’t miss a step. She slipped into it as easily as he feared she would. She could do what Kal was asking, maybe not perfect but she could figure out how to play the part. He glances down and catches her wondering eyes.

“Very good, Ad’ika. Very good.”

She smiles at the praise and allows him to continue to spin her around. Sev and Scorch’s looming shadows stand at the edge of the circle. Those two weren’t going to like what was to come one bit.

———

aglist: @bylightofdawn​ @leias-left-hair-bun​ @skdubbs​ @passionofthesith​ @haloangel391​ @fractiouskat @peacelandbread​ @clonewarslover55​ @cherry-cokes-world​ @nelba​ @jedi-mando @shadylightbearherring @poppunkdee @iamassbuttkingofhell

@royalhandmaidens @wolfswing @generic-geek-girl @captainrexwouldnever @kesskirata @ahhrenata @apathetic-catastrophie

Mando’a translation

Kyr’vhetine Tuur- harvest day (one of four Mando holidays @crimson and I dreamed up)

Mando’ade- sons and daughters of Mandalore

Adiike-children

Riddur- spouse

Din’kartay: sit-rep, or sharing of information/planning

Gett’se- balls

Nehutyc- gutsy (also feisty)

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter twenty-two: black sun morning

p.s., did anyone catch alex on make weird music earlier? i was writing and i also had pressing matters to tend to as well so i missed him.

The town ahead of them was the town of Merrill, which had a turn-off right smack in the heart of it all, which in turn took them up to Klamath Falls, or the big city of the area as they overheard from the attendant at the next gas station on the outskirts of town. Alex was still taken aback by the sight of the attendant there outside of his window once they returned to the road ahead of them.

“So, we’re definitely gonna stay the night here,” Sam told him as they followed the little two-lane highway past a series of farmland and some low tree-covered hills. “Stay the night and then we’ll head on up to Crater Lake in the morning.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he declared.

The road took them into the hills off to the north; another corner around the bend and they were met with a cluster of little houses and a small lake. Probably man-made, given it didn’t seem to go anywhere. The trees that poked up from the hillsides were a dark green with the heart of springtime: they had found their way to the eastern side of the mountains, but Sam knew that they were near it all, especially off to the north where the snow still shroud over those slumbering volcanoes. She almost expected to see dragons at the summit of the quiet white point due north of there.

“Quite the town here,” Alex remarked as they reached the lowbrow outskirts.

“Yeah, I’ll say,” she added.

“Where are we staying at?”

“Well, let’s see, the guy at the gas station—the guy who scared the hell out of you—told me that they’ve got rooms on the northern end of town.”

“Still cannot believe that happened,” Alex said with a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders.

The road soon widened out into four lanes and they wound through the southern edge of town. They snaked past the man-made lake as well as a series of little, tightly woven neighborhoods and a tree-covered ridge. At one point, she spotted a pale blue water tower through the trees on her side. They wound all the way around to the other side of the valley to the more desolate and rocky hillsides, through all the green lights and then past a line of trees until they reached the first red light. Sam peered out her window to the road on her left, and the way it rose up above a railroad and then dipped down into the northern end of town. Mount Shasta stood off in the distance, a lonely point with a lower twin next to it.

“Quite the little town here,” Alex repeated with a little nod of his head.

“The big city of the area, too,” Sam pointed out. The light turned green and they rolled forward. “Let’s see, the guy said the hotel is... up by this next stoplight. He told me to hang a right and then go up the hill a bit. It's right near the school.”

“There’s a school up here,” Alex stated. “Like a college school, or—?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet!”

She merged to the right lane right before the light and then she caught it green once more.

“Good job, good job,” he remarked, and then she headed up the block to the crest of the hill. Indeed, there stood a nice hotel at the very top.

She took the first spot right near the driveway: a bit of a walk but after such a hefty drive and three full days of traveling for her, she knew that they both could use it. Alex slung his travel bag over his shoulder and he walked close to her as they made their way to the front lobby. She looked back at him and the pensive look on his face; she then realized that he still kept his eye on Mount Shasta off in the distance.

Their room overlooked the valley below as well as Mount Shasta, especially when the sun loomed low over the horizon and bathed the whole side of the mountain in bright pink light. Even though Sam hoped that they would have one bed in there, she was slightly disappointed to find two queens in there before the vast bay window on the other side.

All the memories of the tour down in New Zealand flooded back to her, except this time around she had come along with Alex, and the two of them were alone. He set down his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed closest to them and then he peeled back the top cover and he flopped down onto his back.

“Ohhhh, it feels good to lay down,” he groaned, and he raised his arms up over his head.

“It feels good for you to lay down!” she scoffed, and he burst out laughing. She set down her things and she turned to him with a twinkle in her eye. Given he lay right there on the edge closest to her, she could see up his shirt a little bit.

“What time is it?” he asked her, and she took a peek at the clock on the nightstand between their beds.

“A quarter to four,” she told him; she returned to the bedspread before her and stripped it off of the top. “I am so glad we picked staying in a hotel rather than make our way up to Crater Lake now. I asked the guy at the gas station and he told me it’s another hour from here.”

“It’s a lot of driving, too,” Alex pointed out, “and it’s a lot of stress on my car to boot.”

“Why, are you hungry?”

“When am I never hungry?” he joked to her, and she giggled at him. He tucked his hands underneath the back of his head.

“Never thought life out in the wilderness would be so eventful,” Alex remarked.

“Out in the wilderness,” she echoed him.

“It’s a phrase in the music world,” he explained. “When someone quits a band or gets fired and has to find his way, he’s got to find his way through the wilderness in order to find the next clearing up from there.”

“I see! The wilderness has plenty of food to go about, too.”

“True! Hence why I said it’s so eventful.” He then propped himself up onto his elbows. “D’you see a bakery when we were at the stoplight at all?”

“I didn’t, no,” she confessed, and then she turned to him and the little twinkle in those deep blue eyes.

“Oh, during these few days we’re up here, I’m gonna fill that little belly with all kinds of good food,” she teased him with a little shake of her head. “All the ginger snaps and all the cookies you can dream of, Alex.”

“I eat too many cookies and I turn into Jabba the Hutt, you know,” he cracked back with a wag of his finger. She reached towards him for a little pat of his stomach and he lunged back towards the wall. She giggled at him and then she reached for the phone on the nightstand. She sat down on the side of the bed and dialed Ruben’s phone number.

It would be another hour before they had dinner at a little Thai place in the heart of town and a series of driving about the blocks in search of something that piqued their fancy. Given the sheer amount of money which she had at her disposal, Sam wanted to spoil him silly there in that proverbial big city. But then again, she had to keep it all together lest something happen to them while up at Crater Lake. Extra ginger on his second helping of noodles and she could keep his beautiful stomach extra happy for the rest of the evening. A part of her wished she wouldn’t do that to him, but then again, she watched him grow more and more comfortable with her at her side.

Spoil him silly, after all this time of toiling in obscurity with Testament and all the things that those five men had to experience up to that point. Spoil him silly, especially given the fact he was still that proverbial little Jew boy with a couple of professors for teachers and having grown up sheltered in the San Francisco Bay Area. Spoil him silly, for his being such a good boy to her all this time.

Near the restaurant stood a cozy little art shop twenty minutes from closing up for the night. She didn’t have her journal with her at the moment, but she knew that a new pad of paper would serve her justice for the gallery back home.

At that point, night had fallen over their heads and she wanted to drive a sleepy Alex back to their room for the night. She had vowed to carry him into the hotel room, but he insisted on walking in even with his pants unbuttoned. No sooner had she unlocked their door and set down her purse when he collapsed onto his bed and fell right to sleep. She set up her drawing pad on the desk for safe keeping and without another word, she headed into the bathroom to change her clothes, and then she returned back out to her bed on the other side of the room. She crawled under the covers and switched off the light: the sole light came from the orange lights outside.

All the while, Sam flashed back on upstate New York and all of the lush greenery over there as well as the cozy feeling to all of the houses and apartments back there. She hoped that Joey was doing alright back there while she closed her eyes and went right to sleep herself.

She dreamed that she stood somewhere on the ledge on one slope of Mount Shasta and right above her loomed a diamond shape with mirrored faces on either side. She caught a glimpse of something that resembled to ginger root and she took a look down to what stood before her. A stray massive ginger root with a series of pearly white tips: through the branches, he stepped out so as to greet her.

The mysterious man. This time without a face and in its place a dark shadow the size of a watermelon: he wore a long black cloak which billowed back under the face of the mirrored diamond overhead.

“It’s been a while,” she told him in a flash and an echo.

“Indeed, it has,” he replied to her in a voice that reminded her of John.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you getting me off of here?”

“My hands are tied,” he told her; his voice bled out like bleeding watercolors.

“What do you mean?”

The shadow crossed over his face, such that a little plume of white spread over his head and Sam thought about Alex.

“Alex?” she called out to him. Instead, he ducked back into the shadow and he took the shape of Eric for a momentary glimpse, followed by John again, and then he bowed back into the shadows, a phantom and mere figment of her imagination. She stood there on the snow-covered ledge and she took a glimpse up to the diamond with its mirrored faces. Sam hoped that the volcano behind her wouldn’t erupt as she reached out to it.

“Why would you love me like this—” That sounded like Alex.

She opened her eyes and she gazed up at the shadowy ceiling: pale orange morning light filtered in through the rich velvet curtains to her right. Alex himself groaned in his throat and rolled over onto his back on the bed next to her. He let out a low whistle and he ran his fingers through his jet-black hair.

“You awake?” she asked him.

“I swear, it feels like I've just fallen asleep,” he confessed. “I barely slept last night.”

“All that ginger getting to you?”

“Nah. It was more just—the unfamiliar bed and the feeling that I'm without a band.”

“Aw.” Sam sat upright in her bed and she looked on at him as he lay there without a shirt on and his pants still unbuttoned. He was so full the night before that he had neglected to take off his pants. And yet he looked refreshed: his skin was still smooth and his eyes had a bit of an extra glimmer to them, even when in the shadow. She took a glance over at the clock on the nightstand and she saw that they had ninety minutes before the lobby downstairs closed for the morning.

“What say we grab some breakfast downstairs and then boogie up to the lake?”

“Yes, please! You know I want a cup of coffee.”

“Speaking of being out in the wilderness,” Sam remarked as they wound their way through the dense forest. A narrow two-lane road from thirty miles north of town, right in the middle of nowhere had taken them up the side of the mountain. Even though it was springtime, patches of snow still blanketed parts of the forest floor on either side of them and Alex shivered through his thin sweater.

“Next time we come up here, we’re taking our windbreakers,” he told her.

“Definitely.” She rubbed her hands together and then she turned the dial on his heater. They rounded the next corner up and they were met with a view of the valley down below. All of the little volcanic buttes off in the distance and the dots of forest to go about the cold barren earth.

“I’m getting all the stranded at Tahoe memories now,” he remarked as he peered out the window at the panoramic view before them.

“Except this time around, we’ve got a clear blue sky,” she told him. Another bend in the road and they reached the top of the rim, the rim of Crater Lake.

The water resembled to glass given not a lick of breeze could be found anywhere. The rugged slopes tapered down to the surface and then vanished underneath so not a single sliver of coastline could be found anywhere. It was right then Sam missed Joey. She knew that he would have loved it up there, especially as the road took them to the nearest vista point. A fleeting thought nonetheless, but the thought returned to her as the two of them pulled over for a view themselves.

Alex peered over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses at the water down below. Wizard Island loomed across the waters like a sleeping dragon: the people back at the hotel told Sam that the volcano still had eruptions now and again, all of which took place either on the island or underwater. The morning sun caressed over the slope of Mount Scott to their right.

“Wish Marla was with us,” she confessed as she took off her sunglasses and wiped off the lenses with the hem of her shirt. “She’d be all over this place with her camera.”

“Makes me wish I was in photography a bit,” he told her. “You know, I told her that she should take her camera with her at all times. I ought to, too.”

“You should! Especially if you’re going places outside of Testament, too.”

They climbed out of the car in unison and stood before the railing for a grand view of the lake. The lack of a breeze allowed them to peer straight down to the water’s surface. As smooth as glass still, and as clear and blue as Alex’s eyes. Indeed, Sam peered back up at Alex himself right as he folded his arms over the railing and stared out to the waters.

“Such a weird place,” he noted. “Weird but I love it, though.”

“I do, too,” she added. “It’s a different kind of quiet place, too.” She thought about the quiet place back upstate that she and Charlie had set up for themselves.

“It’s a quiet place that’s a little bit noisy to boot,” he said. “Noisy underground, that is.” He stooped down and picked up a piece of black rock. The morning sun added a bit of a sheen to the top surface: even with Alex’s hand underneath it, she could see that it had a bit of a green hue to it.

“Volcanic glass,” she declared.

“My gift to you,” he told her.

“We don’t want to upset Pelee, though,” she pointed out. “The volcano goddess. We take something from her realm and the place will erupt in the future. She took Emile out; she could take out any one of us next.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind this, though,” he assured her with a wink. His eyes were as blue as they had ever been and she had no idea if it came from the clean air up there or the bluest of waters down below, but they were rather hypnotic at that point. She showed him a coy smile and she took the stone for herself.

“Thank you—and we should treat her to a gift of some sort, too,” she pointed out.

“I’ll take it,” he said with a nod. They took another drive to the other side of the rim, that time for a glimpse at the pathway down to the waters below, and also a raft out to Wizard Island. Alex wanted to go for it himself but Sam had another idea.

The Willamette Valley on the other side of the mountains, especially since it was still plenty early in the day.

All the little tastes of dark green up to that point served as mere appetizers to what awaited them down below. Everything was in fact either a rich shade of green or in bloom with something bright and colorful from the utter cascade of rain over the winter. Alex rolled down his window and relished in the clear sunshine all around them as well as the blackberry bushes that sprouted up along the sides of the road.

“Part of me wants to stop and pick all these berries and eat ‘em all,” he joked at one point. But the berries were no match for the rest of the valley before them, especially the town of Eugene. Sam recalled the conversation she had had with a couple in the lobby while they gathered breakfast for themselves, the best donut shop there was that side of the Cascades.

All she remembered was it was called Smell the Magic and she wanted Alex to have one of their signature spicy red chocolate donuts.

“Spicy indeed! Yowza!” He fanned himself with the napkin and she giggled at the soft blush that crossed his handsome face.

She thought about buying a whole box to bring back to the Bay Area but she decided not to. Maybe later on when the boys can all come together in peace again. Another round of lunch and then they returned to their humble hotel room right before dinner time. No sooner had he taken his spot on the edge of his bed when the phone rang.

He picked it up himself right when he was caught in the middle of sitting down next to her.

“Hello? Oh, hi, Greg. How'd you get this number?” Sam took her seat on the edge of the bed next to him. A part of her wanted to put her hand on his knee out of comfort and to feel him, but she resisted the urge. She needn’t bring the whole trip to that level.

“I see and happy birthday, by the way,” Alex said.

“Yeah, happy birthday, Greggy!” Sam called towards the phone, and he showed her a smile at that.

“Yeah, that was her.” He turned to her. “Your dad told him we were here.” She nodded and then he held the phone closer to his face.

“No, we’ve been in the dark for a couple of days—Samantha and I have been on a little road trip,” Alex continued with a furrowing of his eyebrows. “What? Really?”

He turned his head to Sam and locked eyes with her. He then raised his eyebrows and his mouth fell agape. “Oh, my god.”

Sam moved her head in closer to him so she could better hear Greg for herself. She couldn’t hear him past Alex’s head.

“Oh—okay, yeah. I’ll tell her. Alright. Talk to you soon, man.” He hung up right then.

“What happened? Is everything okay?”

“There’s a riot going down in L.A. right now,” Alex said with a bit of concern, “they don’t know if they’re able to calm things down. He said this thing’s huge, too. Bunch of looting and fires and traffic backed up for literal miles.”

“Oh my god!” Sam declared, and she brought a hand to her mouth.

“Yeah, I just think—you know, your mom is down that way and I wonder what’s going on in Catalina, too. Twenty-two miles across the water but—you know.”

“Seriously!”

He shifted his weight there on the edge of the bed and then he handed her the phone again.

“You better give her a call,” he told her in a hushed voice.

They traded spots on the bed and she dialed Esmé’s number with a bit of a quiver to her fingers. Her eyes started to burn, but not from the sheer amount of driving. Alex huddled closer to her as she held the phone close to the side of her face. Sam closed her eyes as the phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth time, a pit formed in her stomach. Alex nibbled on his bottom lip; she thought about the time that they had dinner at her house on Catalina Island, and Esmé was all over him, especially once he had filled himself full of all she had to serve the two of them.

“Hello?” Sam never felt more relieved to hear her mother’s voice.

“Mom?” Alex let out a low relieved whistle.

“Sam?”

“Mommy—” She choked up and Alex fell onto his back there on the bed next to her.

“Sam, what’s the matter, baby?”

“Alex and I are on a road trip and we just heard that there’s a riot down there in L.A.,” she said with a break in her voice.

“Oh, gracious god, yes! I’m seeing a big plume of smoke from Long Beach—I can see it from the living room window. It’s just terrifying—I was just told not to leave the island for a few days or at least until things smooth over out there. You're with Alex, you said?”

“Yeah, he’s right here right next to me.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sight of him lying there flat on his back and with his arms up over his head. A part of her wanted to pat his stomach, especially since his shirt lifted up from his waist and showed off a small sliver of that smooth skin. His black hair fanned out from all around his head.

“We both just got word of it,” Sam told her. “We got a call from Greg—he got the hotel number and then called us to tell us about it.”

“It’s going to be a while before things cool down—what with all the tension is still in the air right now,” Esmé replied with a low whistle.

“What caused it?” Sam asked her.

“Four policemen beat the ever-loving hell out a black man named Rodney King and they were acquitted,” she said in a single breath. “That’s according to the news.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I guess another black woman was killed, too,” Esmé told her, “and a lot of people just couldn’t take it anymore. Our city’s still segregated years after segregation ended.” She cleared her throat. “I should probably tell you that we have a fair number of black relatives in our bloodline.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“My grandmother—your great grandmother, whom you never met—she was a black woman. Her parents hailed from Nigeria, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Never heard single a question about it,” she confessed. “You did express some curiosity but it’s the same reason why I never really told you about my relationship with your father until only recently. But yeah, I'm a quarter Nigerian. And your father has some blood in him as well. Our close ancestors hailed from Africa, Sam.”

“Wow! That explains why I've always felt so odd in comparison to other kids at my art school.” Alex lifted his head at that and he frowned at that. She raised a finger at him.

“Never expected a black woman to be walking amongst them,” Esmé chuckled at that.

“Well, and it’s because I figured, our last name Shelley, it’s a last name out from Northern England.”

“That’s something that I've been steadily trying to figure out for myself,” she pointed out. “I only know so much myself besides what your grandmother’s told me when growing up and knowing she had coarse black hair that matted easily. Unless there’s a test of some sort to tell us about where we come from, there’s only the select few written records we have at our disposal. Just one of life’s many mysteries and the riot at the moment has only made me wary of telling anyone of our story. Someday, we’ll be brave enough.” She sniffled and then cleared her throat, and Sam could tell that her mother was in tears. “Anyways, where are you kids right now? How's Alex handling tour life?”

“You know he got fired from Testament, right?” she told her. “It’s a long story, but—yeah. He's out of it.”

“No!” Esmé gasped. “Oh my god, how is he?”

“He’s doing better than he thought. Hanging out with me and trying to find his way out here in the wilderness as it’s known. He's got his guitar on his back and he’s got a friend in me, too.”

“I was just going to say, he’s got a friend who can care for him. He's got his parents, too.” She then cleared her throat and she paused. “Oh, wait. I have another call coming in. Call later when you get home?”

“Yeah, of course! Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, Sam. Give Alex a little hug for me if you know what I mean.”

“Mom!” Sam chuckled at that. “Okay, good night—”

And they hung up at the same time. She lay down next to him and she gazed up at the ceiling overhead. Alex sighed through his nose and he glanced over at her.

“What exactly caused it?” he asked her.

“Four cops beat a black man and they were cut loose,” she replied.

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah, my mom said they just beat the shit out of him. That's just—I have no words for that.”

Alex rested his hands across his chest and lay there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead himself.

“Apparently, my maternal great grandmother was a black woman,” she said.

“Really?” He rolled his head over and raised his eyebrows at that.

“Yeah, and—come to think of it, my grandma had really coarse dark hair, too. Coarse dark hair despite her pale skin. I haven’t talked about it much because it just—never came up in conversation before. I think I have another great grandparent who had some of that blood in them, too, on my dad’s side.”

“I would think, with a last name like Shelley, it’s bound to have some kind of story behind it.”

“It’s an English name, I know that much. But since it’s my grandmothers, it just makes me wonder what else my family has kept hidden from me all these years...” Her voice trailed off after that.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked her.

“Let’s see... I didn’t bring my journal with me,” she recalled, “but I did get that pad of paper at the art store here in town.”

Silence fell over them. Silence except for the pipes in the walls all around them.

“I need to draw black skin now,” Sam declared, and she sat upright on the edge of the bed, and Alex rolled over onto his side: his laying there accentuated his hips and his thighs a bit.

“Please do,” he advised her. “The world needs you to draw black skin.” She walked on over to the table for her drawing pad. She needed some tools as well. “Greg said it’s just down there in L.A.,” Alex continued.

“I say we stay up here for a couple more days, though,” she told him. “You know, just in case.”

“Oh, definitely.”

[newhotelsnowcrest]

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[moonflowerlesbians]

count your blessings instead of sheep

Hello, friends! Back in November, I decided to partake in my first fandom Secret Santa exchange. I’m not much of an artist, so I opted for the holiday-themed fic route, and this one-shot was born. So, @satelitesprite I hope you enjoy, and Merry Christmas! Thank you so much to @damiesecretsanta​ for organizing. 

Read this work on AO3.

Title: count your blessings instead of sheep, Rated T, Word Count: 4763

Summary: In which Dani takes Jamie's White Christmas comment a bit too seriously. (But Jamie's absolutely not complaining.)

~~~

One day at a time, they’d said. Jamie had looked at her so earnestly, spoken with such conviction, as if by sheer force of will she would bend the world, stacked so vehemently against them, to her whims. And, Dani supposes, she may as well have succeeded. They’re still here, after all. Still together. Still alive.

Jamie had said something else, too, that same day. A confession she’d admitted almost shamefully. A film about honoring memories and protecting what matters. A sight she’d like to see.

Dani gets to thinking, planning, scheming, if one could call it that. She makes a silent promise, to Jamie and then herself.

If they make it until December, Vermont is as good a place to spend the holidays as anywhere, she thinks.

Dani can’t seem to stop moving. The cuticle on her thumb is raw and bitten; her legs, one crossed over the other, bounce, bumping the tray table in front of her on occasion and nearly sending her drink toppling into her lap. She all but leaps out of her seat when Jamie places a hand on her knee.

“Easy, there,” Jamie raises an eyebrow. “Tremble any more and you’ll disrupt radio frequencies.”

It’s a weak attempt at humor, but Dani appreciates it nonetheless. The little notebook in her breast pocket burns a hole in her blouse, stuffed full of ideas and anticipatory hope.

“Might be able to help if you told me where we’re headed.”

She’s been trying for weeks to nose her way into Dani’s plans, to glean some inkling of direction since Dani first hinted, one quiet evening in early November, that maybe thinking about Christmas isn’t such a bad idea.

“Yeah?” Jamie had said, soft, not quite believing. The future, their future, had been a taboo topic, danced around like an active bomb.

“Yeah,” Dani confirmed, “trust me?”

“‘Course.”

Then it had been library visits and guidebooks and scribbling telephone numbers on lined pages and Jamie-don’t-you-dare-open-that-box.

Dani rocks with the gentle movement of the train beneath her as it rounds a bend in the tracks.

“Whatever happened to the fun of not knowing?” Dani tries for a tease but falls somewhere just short of playground wedding jitters. A little confused and perhaps regretting her choices. She clears her throat. “I just,” she sighs, “I want you to have a good time.”

Jamie scoffs. “Ah, well, you know how difficult I am to please. Such high standards and all.” She gestures to the tray table between them, littered with snack-sized pretzel packets and a can of seltzer to share.

Dani rolls her eyes. “The picture of refinement.” Jamie pops her shirt collar with a huff and a wry smile that earn her a playful kick to the shin, and she pouts. “Still not telling you.”

Jamie retracts her lower lip, her ploy failed. “Should’ve known I wouldn’t get you to crack on the last day. A steel trap, you are.”

Dani snorts at the obvious exaggeration. They both know just a lingering stare from Jamie has her weak at the knees.

She can’t say she’s complaining.

On the subject of their trip, though, she has managed to keep impressively silent, offering only such vague clues as, “Thoughts on the desert?” and “D’you suppose four thousand is too much if it’s a room with a balcony?” At latter of which, Jamie had gone slightly pale, but she had declared, albeit shakily, something along the lines of, “whatever makes you happy,” as she blanched.

And, oh, how Dani had loved her for it.

As the temperate trees outside their window turn to evergreens and the cold trickles in from the mountains, it becomes abundantly clear that Dani has not brought them to the desert. Just one more stop until theirs, and Dani can’t help the flash of worry that streaks through her like lightning.

She’s a perfectionist by nature. Or, at least, she was. Likes her ducks in a row, likes her trains on time and her schedules stuck to. These past months have been agony, each day a guessing game, no way to be sure what will come next. She understands the necessity, has tried to embrace it, even, but when the opportunity presented itself for her to plan something concrete, she leapt at it.

Jamie had stepped back, understanding how badly Dani needed this. A part of her, she told Dani, late in the night, wrapped in blankets and sweet embraces, was simply glad Dani could bear to think of the future, even short term.

When they left Bly, Dani would not allow herself to entertain the thought of next week, much less next year. But, as time slid past with no sign of her co-inhabitant, she relaxed, millimeter by millimeter, drop by drop, the tension slipped from her body. The paranoia, the jolt of terror upon rounding a corner, looking into a mirror, faded gradually each time she saw only herself, one eye brown, one blue.

Each day with Jamie pervaded her idea of “normal” until that is what their life became. Normal. Waking up together, seeking out breakfast, exchanging quips before setting about their adventure of the day felt...normal. A remarkable concept for the woman whose notion of normal shattered with a pair of glasses.

She sits across from the woman she thinks of as her best friend and marvels at how different her life was, even just a year ago, when the sentiment of a Christmas with someone she loves was unfathomable. She can only hope Jamie doesn’t hate it.

Jamie, who is folding the tray up and sweeping crumbs into her palm to dispose of, only to realize she has nowhere to put them. She looks around for a moment, mumbles a shit to herself, and stands to toss them in the bin in the restroom, while Dani watches affectionately.

“What?” Jamie says, when she returns, gathering her things.

“Didn’t think that one all the way through, did you?” Dani says, a little smug. It’s not really a question.

“You said one more stop, yeah? Thought we should be ready.”

“Eager?”

“You’re having a go at me,” she rags, “Been building this up for a month. Can’t blame a woman for being a wee bit curious.”

A conductor wanders past, loudly announcing the next stop.

“Vermont, eh?” Jamie wraps the strap of her bag around her hand once, twice. She’s nervous, too, Dani realizes. The unpredictability has taken a toll on her, as well. Jamie, who woke up at five-thirty like clockwork, who tended to the same plants on the same grounds with the same tools, who saw the same five people each day. She likes routine, just as Dani does.

Perhaps, should they make it to the new year, it’s time to find a place to plant themselves. A place to call their own, if Jamie will have her. Somewhere to land. The thought sends a thrill through her.

Dani nods. “Trust me?”

Jamie studies her. “Always.”

Dani collects her belongings from the overhead as the train slows to a creaking stop at the platform. They appear to be the only two disembarking. Unsurprising, really. From Dani’s research, the town’s population is in the low thousands. The station, a one-story, low building, is rustic, all exposed wood and lantern lighting fixtures.

“Clayton?” An older man calls as they step off the train. He leans against the hood of a town car emblazoned with the logo of his proprietor.

Holiday Inn, Est. 1942

“That’s me,” Dani chirps, meeting him halfway from the tracks, where he takes the bags from her arms with an amiable nod. Jamie follows him to the trunk -- boot, as she insists it’s called -- and drops her rucksack next to Dani’s, while Dani, herself, opens the door with a grand flourish. “M’lady.”

Jamie sends the driver a sidelong glance, but he slides into the front seat without a word. She accepts Dani’s invitation and turns to her once they settle a respectable distance apart on the back bench. The driver, Wallace, as he introduces himself, turns the key in the ignition.

“So, the Holiday Inn?” Jamie prods. “Wasn’t aware the big hotels did shuttle services now.”

“Not a hotel,” Dani corrects.

“No?”

“An inn.”

“Ah, thanks, love, that clears it right up,” Jamie deadpans, but there’s no bite to her words.

“Hold your horses,” Dani placates, “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Can’t feel my bloody hands, been holding these damn horses so long.”

Dani swats her across the stomach. “Quiet, you.”

“Oi, ‘s no way to start a holiday, is it?”

“So, what brings you across the pond?” Wallace cuts in, the car rounding a bend on its climb up the mountain. “We don’t get many Brits around here.”

Jamie looks to Dani, a smirk curling upon her lips. “Not entirely sure, actually. You want to take this one, Poppins?”

“She hasn’t been stateside since we were kids,” Dani supplies. “I thought it might be a nice change of pace to spend the holidays with my cousin since it’s been so long.” Then, muttering to only Jamie, “She’s more sarcastic than I remember.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. You know, I haven’t been overseas since the war. Can’t bring myself to fly these days.” He continues to regale them with stories of his time in France, and they allow his tales to fill the silence for the duration of the ride, Dani offering polite interjections wherever appropriate. This is, in part, a way to keep Jamie from asking questions and spoiling the surprise mere moments from its fulfillment.

They turn onto a narrow road lined with towering fir trees. Undisturbed snow from a recent bout of winter weather bows the branches. Jamie watches out the window, transfixed by the changing landscape. Dani cannot see her face.

“Here we are,” Wallace says, with a note of pride. “She needs a little work, but she’s home.”

A house comes into sight as the car crests a hill, a three-story colonial with a broad front porch and white trim. Rocking chairs perch near the railings, and pale blue shutters frame tall windows. An old barn stands a little ways down, weather-worn, but charming.

Dani hears a quick inhalation from beside her. Jamie’s gaze is fixed straight ahead. Dani’s stomach flips.

Their car pulls up in front of the lodge, and Wallace grabs their bags from the rear.

“We’ll be just a sec,” Dani says.

Jamie’s back is to her as she turns in a slow circle, absorbing the scenery, until her eyes come to rest on Dani, who fidgets with the nail on her index finger.

“So,” she begins, “I, um, I know we said we’d take it slow. But, you said snow could be nice, and you’ve done so much for me, and I just wanted to give you this one thing, but I get it if it’s too much or too cold. I just thought, you know, it might be nice since you said you saw White Christmas as a kid that one time, and I know it was probably a joke, but--”

“Dani,” Jamie interrupts, with a saccharine laugh and the most gentle smile, “love, not to interrupt what was shaping up to be quite the eloquent speech, but this,” she gestures at the picturesque cabin and the trees and the mountainside, “this, you didn’t have to do all of this.” She looks around hesitantly, then takes one of Dani’s hands in her own. “I almost forgot I mentioned that story, but, apparently, you didn’t.”

Dani grins sheepishly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jamie assures, “this is stunning. Everything I could’ve imagined. But, and I’m sure I’m starting to sound like a broken record, I would be just as happy spending Christmas in a shack under a bridge, so long as I’m sharing that shack with you.”

“I’d like to think this is at least a few steps up from a shack.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. Can’t say I’m mad about it, either. Quite fond of being warm, you know.”

“Speaking of,” Dani segues, “inside?”

“Please.”  

Dani drops her hand and leads Jamie up the porch steps, the old wood groaning underfoot.

“Dani Clayton?” A portly woman steps out from behind a counter.

“Present,” Dani says brightly.

“Anne,” the woman replies merrily, “I believe we spoke on the phone. Welcome, the both of you, to the Holiday Inn. Such a pleasure to host this little family reunion.”

Jamie appears perplexed for only a moment. “Jamie,” she greets, accepting the proffered handshake, “lovely to meet you.”

“Right, well, your room is up the stairs to the right, third door in.” Anne smooths her apron and passes Dani a key. “Wallace, my husband, should’ve dropped off any luggage, and please join us and the other guests for Christmas Eve dinner tonight, won’t you?”

“We’ll be there,” Dani promises.

“So, cousins, then?” Jamie prompts once Dani has inserted the key into their lock.

“I figured it was the easiest way to get around two women sleeping in the same room,” Dani says apologetically. “Family bonding, and all.”

“S’pose sisters wouldn’t have made sense with the accent.”

“We look nothing alike.” Dani shuts the door behind them. “Wouldn’t have been believable.” She flops unceremoniously onto one of the two double beds. The pale pink quilt wrinkles as Jamie sits, leaning back against the oak headboard. The windows are shut, but the off-white, lavender-printed curtains sway in an unfelt breeze, and a small fire crackles in the brick hearth. The sun is just beginning to set over the treetops, casting the room in a golden haze.

“‘S nice here,” Jamie remarks. “Feels familiar.”

“I, um, I may have picked this place because it looks like the one in the movie. Had them fax me images of the rooms to find one--”

“That looks like the one Betty and Judy shared in White Christmas,” Jamie finishes, noting the white doors and gleaming brass knobs.

“And, the inn, too. I tried to find out if we could go to the real one where they filmed, but turns out it was a set on a soundstage in California.”

“You mean to tell me the painted backdrops were just,” she gasps for dramatic effect, causing Dani to laugh, “painted backdrops?”

Dani groans. “In hindsight, it should’ve been more obvious, but at least I tried?”

“And an admirable effort it was,” Jamie chuckles, tugging Dani’s sleeve until she moves up the bed to lay her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “Looks just like the real thing, right down to my very own Judy.” She presses a kiss to the top of Dani’s head.

“Mm, I think you might just have a thing for blondes in turtlenecks.”

“Seven-year-old Jamie might’ve been a wee bit taken with Vera-Ellen,” Jamie shrugs. “Who’s to say?” She continues, “Not a lot of pretty blondes for me to fall for back in those days.”

“Oh, well, as long as she’s pretty,” Dani teases.

“Happen to like my version much better, thank you. Terribly sorry, Vera, may you rest in peace; can’t hold a candle to Dani Clayton.”

“It’s because I made one of your childhood dreams come true, isn’t it.”

“Hm,” Jamie muses, “proud of that one, are you?”

“Just a little.”

“It’s wonderful, love,” Jamie speaks softly, raking easy fingers through Dani’s hair. “Promise.” A pause. Her hand freezes for a moment, then resumes its steady path. “No one…ah, no one’s done anything like this for me before.”

Jamie’s life thus far has been far from perfect, as Dani knows from the pieces Jamie has shared. Bouncing from home to home as a child and landing in with the wrong crowd. A life in which stability and consistency did not exist, in which Jamie came to learn that companionship--love--is conditional and hinges upon her ability to provide. At the first sign that she could not be serviceable, in some way or another, she was cast aside.

She learned to work with her hands. Plants cannot reject you, after all, and there are always cracks to be patched, leaky faucets to be repaired. To some, the work might feel tedious, but to Jamie, the monotony feels safe, providing her a sense of immutability in an otherwise turbulent life.

And, as Jamie tells it, three years into her residence at Bly, a goddamn American started traipsing about the garden, and everything went to shit.

More or less.

Dani thoroughly wraps herself around Jamie’s middle, eliminating any space that existed between them. Words fail her, but she hopes her message resonates all the same.

Things are different, now.

***

When they eventually untangle themselves, it’s in favor of washing away the grime of travel with a hot shower. Dani unpacks as Jamie steps under the spray, rejecting the proposal to join, on account of one of them should make sure they’re on time for dinner.

They’re still almost late, though, neither realizing that the barn they’d seen that afternoon doubled as the formal dining room, and they stumble in just in time to settle at a small table in the back of the packed hall.

“Didn’t realize this was dinner and a show,” Jamie comments, observing the raised platform at the front of the room.

“So, there may have been another reason I picked this place,” Dani explains in a whisper, so as not to irk the other patrons seated nearby. “They have this Christmas Eve tradition I read about in one of the travel books and--”

Music echoes through the space from a small pit orchestra set up to the side, and a spotlight illuminates the stage, where two figures are hidden by pale blue fans.

“They may, or may not,” Dani winces, face screwing up into a weak grimace, “kind of, invite local performance groups to do songs from the movie?” She bites her lip, peering at Jamie through one eye.

Jamie, for her part, appears equal parts enthralled and perturbed. “Gotta hand it to you, Poppins,” she says, mouth slightly agape, “You know how to keep to a theme.”

Dani likes to think she hadn’t been chair of the prom committee in high school for nothing. “I really hope you don’t absolutely hate this movie, or this will be a very awkward dinner.”

“Wasn’t one of my favorites,” Jamie admits, leaning in, “but it certainly is now.” Under the cover of the tablecloth, she grips Dani’s hand and gives a discrete squeeze, Dani relaxing at her touch. “It’s very sweet,” Jamie murmurs, amused. The silver chain resting around her neck reflects the stage light as she turns her head. The number draws to a close, met with enthusiastic whooping from the jovially intoxicated crowd.

A server delivers two plates, starter salads, to their table, jotting down polite requests for main courses and alcoholic beverages.

By the finale number, Dani is warm and a bit wine-drunk. Her chair has migrated, over the course of the evening, to perch mere inches from Jamie’s. The gardener’s fingers move with the melody, eyes closed, an easy smile on her lips. She hums under her breath to match the vocalist crooning into the microphone. Dani commits the sight to memory. Jamie, here, draped in flickering shadows, untroubled by good intentions, chores that ought to be done, single-sided debts to be paid to no one and everyone. She is utterly beautiful. And Dani is utterly smitten.

Perhaps it is the wine. Perhaps it is the security provided conveniently by the position of their tucked-away table. Dani parts the tablecloth and traces down Jamie’s slender wrist, their fingers slotting together like a key in a lock. She presses the briefest of kisses to Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie’s thumb runs over Dani’s knuckle.

The antique oil lamps lining the walls glimmer warmly, and the final verse of the reimagined Irving Berlin classic fades into applause.

It is snowing lightly when they wander back to the main building and into their room, faces flushed from the chill. Dani giggles, squirming away from Jamie pushing a cold nose into her neck. Jamie chases her, pins her to the door with a sound kiss. Dani cups the nape of her neck, holding her close. The flurries melted into her hair are cool against Dani’s palm.

“Good night?” Dani asks, pressing their foreheads together.

“Mm,” Jamie puffs against her lips, nuzzling closer “was perfectly splendid.”

“Was it, now?” Dani ribs coyly.

Jamie pulls back just far enough to meet a pair of heterochromatic eyes. “Dani,” her voice is insistent, sincere, “thank you.”

Dani feels herself blush under the intensity of Jamie’s stare.

“I mean it.” Jamie’s index finger curls pointedly under Dani’s chin, tilting her head up, and something pulls low in Dani’s gut. “Thank you.”

Her lips are soft, pliant beneath Dani’s, speaking volumes in the silence. The snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the earth in mysticism the way only a new snow can. In here, though, the air burns.

They break apart at their lungs’ insistence, chests heaving in unison, but they do not stray far, choosing instead to stay, wrapped up in each other, neither willing to allow the moment to pass. Jamie smells faintly of smoke and the inn’s shampoo. Her sweater stretches slightly in Dani’s insistent hands.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any mince pie and whiskey stashed away?” Jamie nods to the fireplace, lips kiss-swollen and hair mussed.

Dani pauses, a little taken aback, and feeling a bit like someone’s just doused her in icy water. “Do I have...what?”

“Have you got any mince pie and whiskey?”

A flash of panic shoots through her, and she runs through a mental checklist. Is there something she missed? Something Jamie had said?

“Um, should I?”

“What else are you supposed to leave Father Christmas?”

“Milk and cookies?”

“Milk and cookies,” Jamie scoffs in a poor imitation of Dani’s Midwestern accent, “how’s that going to keep a person going all night? Blimey, man’s got to travel ‘round the world, you know.”

“Blimey, must’ve left them in my other suitcase,” Dani laments, outlining the fair curve of Jamie’s collarbone, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin.

“A real shame.” Jamie’s exhale is a note heavier.

Dani hums, “Bet I can make up for it.”

Jamie’s brows rise. “Oh, can you, now?”

“Mhm,” Dani affirms, with a sigh. Before she can go any further, though, her face splits into a yawn, and any semblance of seduction is instantly dashed.

Jamie laughs, stepping away and checking the grandfather clock that stands in the corner of the room. “Half eleven. Ought to get you to bed.” She leans in, with a wink, “Santa won’t come if you’re not asleep.”

“Oh, come on,” Dani says reproachfully, rolling her eyes in a manner not dissimilar to chiding Owen’s god-awful puns. She tugs Jamie toward the wardrobe.

They slip between the sheets a short while later, lying close in the double bed, a perfect mess of legs and arms and contentment.

“‘S after midnight,” Jamie whispers, long after Dani thought her breathing had evened out. “Happy Christmas, love.”

Dani’s heart swells. “Merry Christmas, Jamie.”

***

Pale sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, coating the wallpaper in a serene glow. It’s rather poetic, Dani thinks, the way the light falls across Jamie’s sleeping face, highlighting the graceful tilt of her cheekbones, the button of her nose. Jamie looks ethereal in the morning, something Dani cannot truthfully claim about herself.

She traces the high arch of Jamie’s brow with her thumb, and the woman’s eyes flutter open. She blinks, adjusting to the feeling of being awake, until her gaze settles upon Dani, propped up on her elbow.

“G’morning, sleepyhead,” Dani coos.

“Been up long?” Jamie asks, voice low and sleep-rough.

“Not long,” Dani replies. “Was getting hungry, though. Thought you might like to see what Santa brought you before breakfast.”

Jamie sits up slowly, a cheeky grin turning up the corners of her lips. “As though waking up next to you isn’t enough?”

“Sweet-talker,” Dani says, nudging her, “It’s small, I promise.” She rolls out of bed, grimacing when her bare feet make contact with chilly wood. She rummages through her backpack, the one Jamie knows not to investigate, and emerges with a small, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. A red bow is stuck to the top, a little squished, but thankfully still intact. Dani crosses her legs on the bed.

“Now, hold on.” Jamie reaches for her rucksack, pulling out a newspaper-covered object. She sets it on the bed. If Dani didn’t know any better, she would think Jamie seems, almost, embarrassed. “Not much experience by way of gift-giving, I’m afraid.” She wrings her hands in her lap.

“Hey,” Dani soothes, “like you said. I’m happy just being with you, okay?”

Jamie gives her a small smile. She huffs, “Look at me, being all gloomy on Christmas morning. C’mon then, open it up.”

Dani picks at the newsprint, unfolding each section delicately, deliberately. As she peels away the final layer, in her hands, she holds a small camera and a few rolls of film. She looks to Jamie, who studies her carefully, gauging Dani’s reaction.

“Might be silly, but I thought, you know, all this traveling, might be nice to collect a few momentos. Have something to look back on a few years down the line.”

Years. Years. Years. Dani allows herself to imagine them, together, somewhere, anywhere, on a couch, years from now, turning the pages of a photo album.

Yes, she decides, years.

She must have some kind of expression on her face, because Jamie speaks. “Alright, there?” She says it casually, lightly, but underlying the words is a pool of worry. Worry that Jamie has overstepped, that she’s made a mistake, that Dani will cast her aside.

“Years,” Dani says. “Years,” she repeats, high-pitched and carefree. She captures Jamie’s lips in a kiss, a celebration of time gone by, a promise of time yet to come.

“Take it you like it, then?”

Yes, Dani wants to scream, God, yes. You’ve given me the future and there are not enough words in the world to explain how I feel about you.

She settles, instead, for inserting a roll of film and bringing the viewfinder to eye level, the lens pointed at Jamie, who still wears a small smile. She is illuminated by a halo of sunlight, catching wayward hairs in its rays. The shutter clicks, and it’s loud in the stillness of the morning.

At the confused tilt of Jamie’s head, Dani attempts to clarify. “I wanted,” she explains, sounding only a little strangled, “the first memory to be of you, and me, here. In this moment.” She sighs, “Just us.”

Jamie’s face softens as she understands. Her hand snakes around Dani’s head, and she pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, your turn,” Dani decrees, when they separate, and Jamie accepts the offered gift. “Not as exciting as a camera, but I hope you like it.”

“Poppins,” Jamie breathes, staring at the unwrapped item on the bed as if afraid to touch it, “it’s beautiful.”

Dani had found the journal at a craft fair they visited in Chicago. The man said he’d been working with leather for twenty years. The book is bound in green leather, with shimmering gold trim around its border. On the front cover, a leaf, also covered in thin gold foil, is stamped into the material. Dani had been immediately drawn to it.

“I think we had similar ideas,” Dani jokes. “I thought, since you’re always talking to yourself and coming up with new ideas, you might like a place to put everything in that brilliant brain of yours.”

“Feels like I’m saying this a lot lately,” Jamie chuckles, “but thank you, Dani. I love it.”

As if on cue, Dani’s stomach makes itself known, and she cringes.

“Right, how about breakfast?” Jamie inquires.

“I can wait,” Dani says, “The dining room closes at ten.” She glances at the clock. “We’ve got time.”

“For what?”

Jamie catches the mischievous glint in her eye. “Pretty sure I still have to atone for my grievous crime of depriving Santa of whiskey and mince pie. Unless, that is, you’ve decided to let me off the hook?” She gingerly places Jamie’s journal on the bedside table next to her camera.

“Oh, you, my dear,” Jamie all but purrs, punctuating each word with a kiss, “are still very much on the hook.”

***

Breakfast has all but ended by the time they make it downstairs.

Dani decides that cold pancakes have never tasted so good.

[cincinnatusvirtue]

Abandoned places: Dunalastair Castle/The Hermitage, ruins in the Scottish Highlands, Homestead of Clan Robertson...

The Scottish Highlands have a storied history and one steeped in romantic imagery, locations & characters.  The history of the Scottish Highlands for the last few centuries is linked in the minds of many with the Scottish Clans system, an outgrowth of ancient Celtic social traditions.  The clan system, despite a common belief of one single related family, is in fact a more broad system of kinship.  One in which a singular family would maintain leadership of surrounding families in the area and in exchange for their recognized leadership and the collection later of taxes, the leading family’s most senior patriarch was to provide guidance and protection to the loyal families, creating a unique social bond where all were “related” or members of the same clan.  These leaders were the clan chiefs and traditionally lead the able bodied men of the clan in times of war and conducting raids on rival clans, usually for cattle, the common currency of Scottish clans.  Meanwhile, in times of peace they made alliances and conducted diplomacy with other clans, sometimes through marital alliances.  Over time, clan members whether descended from the chief or in member families adopted a common surname or variations thereof, these become known as the septs of the clan and over time different branches could expand as lands changed hands.  Its from this system that well known Scottish surnames have spread the world over such as Stewart, Campbell, Bruce, Montgomery, MacDonald, MacKinnon, Munro/Monroe, Macleod, Mackenzie, Robertson and others have come to be known.

Clan Robertson, known in Gaelic as Clann Donnachaidh (Clan Duncanson) has two hypothesized origins of their name.  One is they descend from the second son (Duncan) of the Scottish Lord of the Isles Angus MacDonald, descendant of the well known Somerled of mixed Gaelic/Viking ancestry.  The second, more widely accepted theory is lineal descent from the Gaelic (Celtic) Earls of Atholl, a district in the Highlands on tradition Clan Robertson land.  These earls were descended from the King of Scots, Duncan I (1001-1040), probably through his son Mael Muire, made Earl (ruler) of Atholl.

The name Robertson came about in the 15th century when the 4th Clan Chief, Robert Duncanson, an ardent supporter of the Stewart King of Scotland, James I was angered by the monarch’s murder.  He then tracked down and captured two of the conspirators, Sir Robert Graham & Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl (James I’s uncle).   Robert handed over the conspirators to be placed under torture and death by order’s of James I’s wife, Joan Beaufort.  Robert Duncanson was awarded the crest badge that remains with the clan to this day by James II on 1451.  The crest shows the a imperial crown clutched in a hand with the clan motto in Latin displayed: Virtutis gloria merces (glory is the reward of valor).  As a further reward of gratitude from the Scottish king, the Clan Chief and clan got the additional lands in the realm of Atholl, including the Barony of Struan, over which Clan Chiefs rule to this day.  In honor of Robert Duncanson, his descendants became known as Robertson which spread to the all members of the clan subsequently.  Presently, it has many variations including Robb, Robbie, Roberts, Robins/Robbins, Robison etc.  Other variations from the original Duncanson include Duncan & Reid.

Struan & Atholl are found in the Scottish Highlands in the traditional county of Perthshire, modern day Perth & Kinross.  The clan lands included the villages of Struan and Blair Atholl among others as well as Lochs Tay & Rannoch and are to be found in the Grampian Mountains, a range that makes up the Central Highlands.  It is a land with snow covered mountains, forests, many rivers and valleys intertwined with the aforementioned lakes and some moorlands to the west.

From the late 17th century into the 18th century, one of the longer reigning clan chiefs of Clan Robertson was Alexander Robertson, 13th Chief of Clan Robertson (circa 1670-1749) who in time would be known as the Poet Chief for his love of the written word and poetry.  He was known as a fierce Jacobite, displaying the long standing loyalty to the Stuarts/Stewarts, he is the only known clan leader to have fought in all three Jacobite rebellions (1689, 1715 &1745) against the armies of William III and later the Hanoverian Kings of Great Britain.  In 1746 his lands were confiscated following the defeat of Jacobite forces including Highlanders at the last pitched battle fought on British soil, the Battle of Culloden.

Alexander Robertson had no children and so his chiefdom passed on to other family.  In his lifetime, he built a castle estate he called the Hermitage, it was located near the River Tummel between the Dunalastair Reservoir and Loch Rannoch, the famed mountain Schiehallion with its snowcapped peaks overlooks the grounds.  It is surrounded by forest and it served as the traditional Clan seat or castle.  The Hermitage was a place where Alexander entertained his guests with drunken parties and poetry recitals recalling the great historical deeds of his ancestors, often portrayed in a romanticized heroic manner.  His poetry was sometimes scandalous both for its sexual explicitness of romantic conquests, innuendo and sedition against the Hanoverian monarchs of Britain.  He also forbade women from entering the grounds of the Hermitage due to his perceived misogyny as sometimes reflected in his poems reflecting his own sexual conquests.  In 1746, following the defeat at Culloden, the Hermitage was burned to the ground by Hanoverian government troops as a lesson to the leaders of the rebellious Jacobite movement.

Alexander, moved into a small single room hut some miles to the west in Rannoch Moor, the western most part of the traditional Robertson lands.  He was still the Clan Chief but dispossessed of his traditional lands and his cause he turned to his only two comforts at that time, poetry and alcohol.  He still wrote of the heroic deeds of the clan’s ancestors, performing a clan essential duty, ancestor worship.  However, his alcoholism continued to worsen and caused health issues in his advanced age.  He had few visitors willing to visit him in the isolated and desolate location he found himself in, which coupled with alcohol fueled persona increased his isolation, he died in 1749, around the age of 80.  Despite his alienation in the last few years of his life, Alexander’s coffin was accompanied by 2,000 clansmen who followed it 15 miles across moorland, river valleys and mountain lined lake shores to be buried in the old graveyard of Struan, part of the clan’s barony.  

Eventually, a new home was built on the site of the Hermitage which included double towers around the year 1800.  This home was called Mount Alexander, after the famed Poet Chief.  In 1853, Clan Robertson’s 18th chief, George Duncan Robertson sold it to the MacDonald family.  The new owner, Sir John MacDonald, demolished Mount Alexander and by 1859 completed the structure which stands today, built in the baronial style it was known as Dunalastair House (Alexander’s Fort) also in honor of the famed Poet Chief and his Hermitage estate.  It went through a number of owners and the greater estate has current owners but Dunalastair House was in use as a residence up through World War I, by the conclusion of that time, it no longer could maintained due to expense for the many servants and groundskeepers needed.  During World War II, it was used as a boarding school for Polish boys who fled to Britain to escape the Nazi and Soviet takeover of their homeland, it was also converted to a girls school later.  However, the home was not well maintained and by the 1950′s its remaining contents were at last sold off. Abandoned thereafter, it was subject to vandalism and the elements of weather.  The lead roof was stolen by the 1960′s and since then the Scottish rains had emptied onto the roofless stone ruins with its towers and spires, still with a dirt road leading to its grounds in the midst of forested lands, the ruins are visited by curious travelers to this day.  The surrounding grounds are still owned by a private family but they now have  another home they reside in, there are cottages on the estate that are rented out to travelers and there is a nearby hotel that also uses the name Dunalastair.  

In the present, no grant or additional money has been put into restoring the house to its former glory, so it remains a ruin of days long since passed, but the site, nestled amidst the Highlands and in the shadow of Schiehallion’s peak and surrounded by flowing rivers, shimmering lakes and groves of forest over rolling hills is a romantic spot, like it was in the Poet Chief’s day.  Also on the grounds are the burials of a number of former Robertson Clan chieftains, reminders of times of times long gone...

[moe-lazyeye]

The storm before the bigger storm (botgd2)

The large framed Central captain peered over the tips of frozen grass from where he lay on his stomach. He gazed at the Rebellion headquarters below the hill he and his men had gathered on. After making sure no dragons could be seen in the night sky, he carefully got up onto his knees, his breath fogging in the evening air. He brushed some snow from his thick, red beard. "Okay," he hissed, "Start setting it up."

There was the rustle and clank of armor and shifting feet as a team of men began to dig holes in the ground and wheel a wide, metal contraption towards the crest of the hill. They were only halfway through the processe when one of them barked an alert, as someone ran onto the scene.

The captain turned around with his sword, but then froze. "Borris?!" He sputtered, and the lowered his voice. "What the hel are you doing here. This is a warzone you have no clearance."

Borris, now clean shaven and notably less bloody, breathed heavily as he grasped his knees. He reached up, and shoved the captain in the shoulder. "I should ask the same of you! You told me we wouldnt do this!"

"Well the Sorceress superseded that promise." The captain argued. "I still had to report to her and my other superiors after all. They think this a good means to test some of our new weapons at a low risk level. And besides..." he sniffed. "If our deductions based on your information and what we found at the scene of the ruined hotel is correct, then they are harboring Rhenco and the filthy half breed that tried to kill you there."

"And the kid that helped me escape from said half breed and Rhenco!"

"Yes, Grey Bergman's offspring." The captain scoffed. "You know he wouldnt have helped you if he knew you were a citizen of High Central. A pity you weren't able to bring him to us. He would have made excellent leverage."

"Listen to me!" Borris begged, pushing a finger to his friends chest. "He, killed, Jarod...he found Rhenco's weakness. He saved me from both them and my own despiration. If it hadn't been for him I would have killed myself."

Borris could tell he was getting through, but the captain's jaw was still clenched. "We know of the horrors of Haddock's rein. The so called chief is no better. That and we know there is a Donz in their ranks! Do you remember him Borris? The man who burned down our home? Our city? How many friends of ours were killed by his bronze clad men?! It was that baseless attack that allowed us to be split by the Rebellion in the first place! There are too many reasons to do this and not enough to not. We'll give them something to think about, have a little payback, maybe negotiate a minor deal, and then haul ass early to keep things from going south."

Borris folded his arms uncomfortably. "Please...reconsider...just a little...for me brother."

The captain worked his jaw again, and then relented a little. "Okay...okay I can send a scout to find out where the boy lives and, at best, where he is before we begin the attack. We'll aim for the other side of the target area when we find out. But that's it..."

[aworldoffandoms]

Runaway - Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Long Awaited Answers

Authors Note: Hey everyone. Sorry for the long wait! I’ve had a lot of personal things happen lately (also uni ugh lol) that took precedence than writing but it’s here! I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to my beta reader who looked over this for me. You're the best! :)  

Pairing: Liam x MC [Ariel]

Word Count: 5, 188 (+/-) 

Rating: PG-13 

Warnings: Minor swearing

Summary: Liam gets his answers while Ariel processes Leo’s appearance. A new face appears that spells danger for both Liam and Ariel.

You can find the first few chapters of this fic on my masterlist that's in my bio :)

Tags: @hopefulmoonobject @annekebbphotography @am-i-invisible777 @blznbaby @khakie4 @lauradowning29 @blackcoffee85 @captain-kingliamsqueen @moneyfordiamonds @super-secret-fandom-blog @jovialyouthmusic @zaffrenotes @ao719 @umccall71 @carabeth @furiousherringoperatortoad @pixieferry @pixelpenny  @jlouise88 @dcbbw

Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Pixelberry and all characters belong to them. The plot is all mine.

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged!

Today was the day.

Liam bounces on his feet in an unfamiliar show of anxiousness. His face pinched in anticipation as his fists clench and unclench, waiting for Bastien to bring around the car. Plumes of chilled air waft in front of him as he adjusts the heavy woollen collar.

He was fidgeting. That was unheard of. A near constant experience with diplomacy and serving as a good host to any self-impressed general or chancellor visiting the palace showed any sign of restlessness could spell dissatisfaction. How far the calm and collected king had come.

This, however, he determined, was an exemption to that specific rule.

Maxwell shoots a glimpse at Liam’s form, regarding the tense way he carried himself, his posture posed at the ready. Prepared for anything.

Maxwell exchanges a glance with Drake and Olivia, their eyes meeting in shared concern.

“You think he’ll get the answers he wants?” Maxwell asks.

Drake shrugs as his eyes cut to his best friend who had started tapping his foot on the snow-covered pavement impatiently.

“I don’t know, Maxwell. All we know is where we are going and . . . never mind, that sums it up.”

Drake pauses, sending another worried glance at the young man next to him, eyes now downcast and fixated on a few ruts of Moscow pavement.

“Drake. Will you stop?” Olivia huffs as she adjusts the silken collar at her throat. “Liam’s an adult. He doesn’t need you hovering over him. Just leave him be.”

Olivia glances over herself and seems to struggle to extinguish the worry bubbling up from her chest. Maybe her words had a sense of hypocrisy to them. She hadn’t seen Liam like this since the day of the royal wedding when Olivia had spotted him inside the cathedral, casting glances to the large ornate doors almost willing them to open to by sheer force of will alone.

And even that now that seemed like a distant dream. Her heart clenched for her oldest friend, not having seen him smile since that penultimate night. That had to be a record she noted. How many days had it been, a hundred? Two? She’d figure it out later.

She shook her head in disbelief. Olivia, the fearless and headstrong Duchess of Lythikos wished for the sweet, adorable interactions between the King and Queen just to see them both shine with joy.

Ugh. She’s turning soft. What an appalling prospect.

Bastien pulls in front of the hotel and Liam immediately turns to the car slips in silently.

The car ride to the location is silent. A not so subtle undercurrent of tension rides through the car. Most of the occupants in the vehicle decide to overlook it. It assuredly wouldn’t change anything if one were to start a conversation.

With the snow steadily falling, and their surroundings melding into non-descript houses and run down shops, the silence was too much to ignore.

“Are we going to talk about what to expect when we arrive?” Olivia says, irritatedly. Her foot was stuck in between the seat and the door and the way Drake was pushed next to her, it’d be impossible to get it out. Well, not entirely impossible. There were a few ways she could think about, but they involved pain and fury. Not worth it, she decided.

The car falls silent again, yet it was only a moment before there is a long exhale of breath and Liam turns.

“Well...I’m expecting answers at the very least. That’s all we’re telling ourselves today. I want to know why the queen decided to leave. I fear this is my last resort before I just...”

Give up.

It was two simple words. Two short syllables.

He did not wish to give up the pursuit for Ariel but he was on his last tether. There was no softening this conclusion. It was predominantly true. He didn’t want to admit it but...that was to be the culmination if this didn’t end well.

Liam prepares himself as they continue their journey, hand instinctively reaching up to the message securely tucked into the breast pocket of his coat before lowering it. Surely there was no need for it anymore. The words burned into his mind anyway. Why confirm what he already knew?

The words on the page repeat in his mind like a mantra.

Kolomna

25715 Priroz Street…

Knock three times, rap three, wait...

Knock three times, rap three, wait…

“Your Majesty? Sir?”

Liam tore himself away from the chant and meets Bastien’s gaze the best he could.

“We have arrived at our destination.”

Liam glances out the window and as in the photo that was sent to him, he finds a nondescript, run-down apartment complex with an elaborate arrangement of graffiti on the wall next to two sets of doors, the cruelty of Russia’s weather wearing down the material of the large metal doors. Both had further complicated designs of graffiti on them and words in Russian that read something along the lines of this area being some sort of hellhole.

Liam’s fluency in Russian was good, though more than a little rusty after years of non-use. Of course, the language seemed to vex everyone except for Kiara. Little did.

Liam gives an uneasy smile to his bodyguard, stepping out of the car. The snow falling around him in gentle, elegant waves contrasted with the warring of emotions inside Liam’s gut.

Anticipation. Fear. Nervousness. Curiosity. Anger.

That last one wasn’t a surprise. Behind the carefully shot photos and stoic face, the anger had simmered. It would be a lie to say he didn’t remember his cotillion classes and Constantine’s stern warnings. Anger was not something to be shown in the face of others. His father would be proud to see his teachings had survived, even if he had not.

Liam squares his shoulders as he strides to the door, almost wincing at the soft crunching sound from the few layers of snow that had fallen since the early hours of the morning.

“You ready, Liam?” Drake says eyes fixed on the doors rather than his friend for once. Despite the cold air stinging at the skin, he reached for Olivia’s hand before sending an apologetic smile, at the sight of her famous fiery glare.

Liam is oblivious to anything taking place, only staring at the door for a few moments, his entourage waiting patiently for him until he’s ready.

Three knocks, three raps. Wait. The wind whistling through the trees and dancing with the snow is the only sound to settle in the air encircling them. The little puffs of breath swirling through the air stop as the group holds their breath.

There’s the whisper of footsteps behind the door and the unmistakable sound of locks being turned screeches the door open.

His eyes widen as he catches the sight of the individual standing in front of him. No, it couldn’t be. The last time Liam had seen Princess Marguerite of Monaco, it had been at an engagement dinner party to that obnoxious American billionaire. How far both of them had come since then.

The person on the other side of the door gives him a small, timid smile, her amber locks still pinned up in a dignified bun, her posture set with quiet grace, bracing for what was to occur.

Despite the situation and the precariousness of what was happening, she’s polite as she gives Liam a slight curtsy.

“Hello, Your Majesty.”

Liam cannot believe his eyes as he stares at the woman in front of him as she continues to speak, her voice carrying over to them in the elegant and sophisticated drawl of her native accent.

“I believe you will have some questions for me. Please come in, out of the cold. I will answer the questions you are longing for.”

Liam doesn’t hesitate as he steps through the doors, following the woman in. With a cursory scan around the apartment, Liam notices small, dignified touches of her royal upbringing. The table neatly set with a bright, but fading bouquet despite the icy chill blowing in through padded windows. A tapestry hanging down beside the entryway to the kitchen, the familial crest on full display proudly. A single porcelain teacup quivering precariously on the cracked stone countertop, painted with a delicate flower, though the petals were worse for wear now.

“So…” Drake starts, wanting to diffuse the tension that had settled into the room ever since they discovered who was behind the door.

How could she be here? Wasn’t it dangerous?

The lounge room is cramped with a small, worn divan which they all take their places, finding places to sit where allowed. The woman smiles, dutifully crossing her legs at the knees, leaning them slightly just as any noblewoman would do when in public. Marguerite meets the gazes of all those that reside in her lounge room and when her eyes finally land on Liam, she gives him a short encouraging smile.

“Please. Go ahead, Your Majesty. I’ve been expecting you.”

Liam’s smile falters as those emotions bubble up, but he manages to keep down the rage wanting to erupt from him. “Well... where do I start?”

Marguerite offers some sensible words. “How about from the beginning?”

Liam lets out a shaky chuckle. “Well...I suppose that is a good place to start as any.”

Liam fights to pull his thoughts to string together coherently. All the questions he anticipated asking her about were already jumbling inside his brain, crashing into each other and breaking into tiny little off thoughts.

“Why are you in Russia, Your Highness?”

Marguerite makes a slow exhale, her shoulders slumping with the action, her earlier tenacity slowly ebbing away to be replaced by a deep sadness. Her teal eyes dull as she answers him.

“I am here because it is the only place where both my family and I can be protected.”

Liam’s face contorts in confusion as she talks. His ears pick up on the tone, the words sounding practiced like she was reciting off a teleprompter or at least a practiced speech of some sort. It was more like she was trying to convince herself of the fact more so to herself than to him.

“Safe? What could warrant you leaving your family, worrying them, and your country...to be holed up here? And alone, no less?”

Marguerite exhales again, the sound dejected.

“It is because of my family that I had to leave. They would be harmed if I did not leave.”

“Harmed? By who?”

Marguerite freezes, her eyes growing in panic. Liam reads her expression and he can tell that she has disclosed too much too early. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth.

In the few moments that pass, Marguerite must come to a conclusion because her face contorts into a firm mask of calculated divination, chin lifting up in a dignified show of her lineage, her jaw clenched in purpose.

“I am here because the Sons of Earth made me. Anton Severus more specifically.”

The floor drops. It’s happened once or twice in his life, Liam admits. There was the moment when the alarms had been raised for the queen’s disappearance at their wedding, at the sound of his father’s exultant voice as he proclaimed the new king. This was perhaps the third or so. If he was counting.

Nazario had been right. Liam had suspected it all along, but the now that it was confirmed, it seemed like a whole new level of hell.

“What would the Sons of Earth have to do with you going missing? This was Cordonia’s failing, not Monaco’s. I see no reasons why you would be . . . implicated.

The Princess of Monaco doesn’t explain but only answers his question with a small nod and Liam bites back a snappish retort. What more could this man want? The crown had spent the last two years trying to find common ground with the neighboring countries after the fear Anton spread through Cordonia and beyond the borders. And now, this organisation was bringing Europe to its knees. Was all his work wasted for no real goal in the end?

But now that it was said to his face, it all made sense. All the puzzle pieces coming together.

“Can you tell me what Anton Severus has to do with any of this?”

As soon as Anton’s name leaves Liam’s lips, the petite princess’ face contorts into utter disgust as she spits out expletives in French, all former hints of glory and royal upbringing gone within an instant.

Gaining her composure, she offers them a self-practiced smile.

“Anton has claimed the figurative ‘throne’ of the Sons of Earth. He took over from his father who died a few months after your marriage to Queen Ariel, though I suspect you already know this. He still believes in the teachings of the Nevrakis’ lineage but he has resorted to executing that on a much . . . larger scale.”

Liam slumps backward in his chair, calming his shaking hand as to not betray a hint of weakness. So, because Anton couldn’t obtain the throne of Cordonia he’d try his hand at the European monarchies.

Could Anton be so arrogant to assume he could get away with trying to usurp the sovereignties of Europe? How could he have that much power? Ludicrous.

Bastien stood straight from his place by the entryway to the lounge room, his brow pinched in concentration. His hands crossed in the center, a silent signal he wished to speak. Liam would know. He and the bodyguard had perfected it years ago for dinner parties and boorish meetings with foreign leaders. How he wished it was that situation now and not this.

“What is it, Bastien?” Liam asks, himself fixing his posture to match that of Bastien. Alert. Weary.

Bastien raises his eyes to Liam and rests his arms behind his back. “From what Princess Marguerite has given us I believe I can connect some of the dots from the interrogation we conducted in Cordonia.”

He moves closer to the group of nobles huddled together in the apartment as his eyes rest on Marguerite. “Your Highness, King Liam had me conduct some investigations on some prisoners from the multiple assassination attempts on him and the queen. We got some mediocre information, however, there was one name that kept resurfacing.”

“Does the name Gregory Williams mean anything to you?”

Marguerite shakes her head. “No. Do you have a photo of him?”

A little slip of paper holds the spotlight as Marguerite plucks it delicately from Bastien’s hands, the royal mask of serenity passing back on her face before snapping back to one of anger. Behind her, the clock chimes a tiny song.

“I suppose I’ve had the misfortune to come across him. He was the one that threatened my life by knifepoint. Even though he‘s one man — he has connections.”

“Well...that is unsettling to hear. Tell me, Marguerite...over the past few years I have been trying to find her but I have come up with nothing. Do you know where my wife is?”

There is a long pause before Marguerite sighs, standing up, her shoulders slumping as she runs her hands along her arms. In the moment, the born and raised princess disappears, a timid child fearing the wrath of others surfacing. She stares outside the window for a moment, feasting her eyes on the soft snow falling to the ground and blanketing the streets in white, before she turns.

“Marguerite? Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Yes, there is. I know she won’t like it but I feel that you have to know…”

Liam’s brow furrows at her words, leaning closer to gauge her expression. She was definitely in a fight for logic right now.

“And what may that be, Your Highness?”

Marguerite sighs, running a hand down her face in a rare show of normalcy without the need for decorum.

“I know where Ariel is.”

If he was floored before it was nothing compared to what he felt next. Now it was as if he’d been hit by the royal train then hit with all the weapons in Olivia’s estate. Knowing Olivia, it would have been quite a lot.

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

Blue eyes lock onto deadly serious green ones, one frantic, the other painfully calm.

“I know where your wife is and I will tell you but you have to promise that you will not immediately go to her. There are lives at stake here.”

The rest of the room seems to disappear for a hot moment, a sharp contrast to the biting swirls of winter knocking at the windows.

“Hang on...this is insane. How do we know you aren’t stringing us along like some piece of wolf bait?”

Olivia Nevrakis stares at the princess with a trademark burning gaze. Marguerite stares right back, unflinching.

“I am not, and to prove it to you I will give you her location.”

Liam leans forward, his stomach twists in anxious anticipation. He needed to know as the desperation of it crawling up his throat and lodging there.

The room stares at the princess in silence and she opens her mouth to tell them before a forceful knock hammered at the door, sharp and undulating.

Marguerite's eyes flutter closed and she heaves a sigh. Reluctantly mumbling something incoherent, she nevertheless heads over to it, her posture that of someone who had been stuck in place for too long and had almost lost hope.

The door opens and the princess gasps as her head turns to the group in horror before snapping back to the shrouded figure standing in the doorway.

“What--what are you doing here?”

The figure steps through, pushing the princess to the side and slows to a stop in front of them, his lips pulled up in a smile which made Liam’s skin crawl. He knew what he was capable of. If he wasn’t dangerous four years ago -- he was now.

“Well, if it isn’t the King of Cordonia and his posse. I’ll have to say . . . it is quite a pleasure to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same for you.”

Anton laughs and the sound is hollow, full of arrogance.

“Ha! Well . . . I’m sure you’ll be able to appreciate what I have in store for you.”

“And what may that be, Anton?” Liam scoffed, stepping out from behind one Bastien furiously trying to tug him back.

Anton raises his eyebrow as if Liam should know what he’s talking about. He steps closer.

“Oh, Liam. After all these years I would have thought you’d be more smarter.”

“What do you want?” Liam spits out the words, the venom behind them clear.

“It’s better if you offer me no resistance. There is someone I think you should meet.”

“And who could I possibly want to see from you?”

Anton’s gaze flicks over to Olivia who was standing behind Drake before his gaze rested on Liam again.

“Come along now. It’s rude to keep the queen waiting.”

***

Ariel lets out a shuddering breath as she peers at the man before her. The low din of conversation in the tavern all but a dull echo in her ears.

Leo gives her a grin, still set in that easy relaxation that she’s grown to love and hate at the same time.

“So . . . are you going to tell me why you’re in Alaska and not by Liam’s side? Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful,” he gushes, raising his hands in mock defensiveness. “But I don’t think you’re the Queen of Alaska.”

Humour, mischievousness and a free-spirit come to mind when describing Leo, being blunt was not one of them.

Ariel’s haunches rise and she narrows her eyes in defense, her voice falling to a low hiss. “I could ask you the same thing too. Alaska? Really?”

Leo’s mouth quirks in an amused smirk. “I’ve always wished to visit Quebec. Katherine however, wanted to be here. And of course, like the good man I am, I most politely acquiesced.”

The woman beside Leo gives Ariel a slight, timid smile and matches that with a faint attempt at a royal wave. “Hello, Your Majesty. Please, call me Katie.”

Ariel shushes her, well aware Tiana was more than likely eyeing her from her spot behind the bar. People were more than fair to gossip in this tiny town than to come across a grizzly bear, which Ariel had just come across the other day.

“Serena!”

Leo and Ariel stare each other down, Ariel not registering her alias until a cold hand clamps down on her shoulder, letting go immediately when she jumped in shock.

“Are you alright, honey?” Tania says, worry creasing her forehead as she glances from Leo to Ariel in quick succession.

Ariel gives her co-worker the well-practiced smile she learned while surviving under the hawk-like gaze of Cordonia’s press.

“I am fine, Tania. Can you be able to take my tabs two, six and eight? They have orders waiting. Please?”

Tania stalls for a minute, her eyes staring Ariel down, yet she relents and gives a nod.

“Sure. I’ll tell Herman that you’re taking your break, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Thanks, sweetie. I owe you.”

Tania gives Ariel a wink as she tucks her notepad in the pocket of her apron, the sharp ding of the bell signaling a new order splits the air.

“Definitely. I’ll hold you to it.”

Ariel gives one last quick glance around the tavern before she sighs heavily and slides down in the booth with Leo and Katie.

The air’s quiet despite the din of clinking glasses and scraping forks nearby until Leo clears his throat, pushing a tiny cup of weak coffee towards the waitress.

“Ariel…” Leo starts, his voice gentle.

Ariel flicks her eyes to his face and finds his expression somber. Gone was the mischievous prince who loved to have a laugh. Now, all she could see was a man who was concerned for those he loved.

“Leo. You can’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“And why not?”

“Because you can’t. It’ll put me in danger and Liam. You can’t.”

Leo sighs heavily, running a hand through his blonde hair as he glances over to his companion, giving her a warm smile.

“Katie, babe, would you be able to give Ariel and I some privacy? Family stuff, you know.”

Katie gives an understanding smile to Leo, leaning over to kiss his cheek before getting out of the booth and perusing the selection of music on the jukebox.

Ariel glances at Katie and around the tavern, just about anything to avoid the oncoming conversation. Why did she decide on Alaska? Why didn’t she go to Siberia or Antarctica? Those were places that people couldn’t find her, probably because she would have frozen to death within a week. Now, sitting here with a man she newly feared, that seemed all the more reasonable.

“Now that my wife is gone...would you care to explain what the hell is going on?”

Leo’s hands squeeze hers and she doesn’t realise she’s crying until he slips her a handkerchief from the pocket of his winter jacket. It’s a little crumpled maybe, but clean. The latter surprises her.  

Ariel gives Leo a smile and dabs the piece of cotton underneath her eyes to catch the tears running down her face.

“Okay, I’ll tell you . . . but again, you have to promise me that you will not tell Liam or Drake or any of them. I cannot have them coming after me. It’s even more dangerous for you to be here. They have eyes everywhere. It’s a miracle that I’ve lasted this long…”

Ariel glances at Leo and finds his expression blank, as usual, the massive question mark in his eyes evident in the way his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth turns down in confusion.

Ariel sighs again, shifting in her seat as she leans closer to him, dropping her voice to a low murmur.

“Anton is after Liam’s throne again but this time, he won’t just take Cordonia’s throne. He’s going to take the whole of Europe if he can. That’s why royals have been going missing.”

Leo holds up his hands as a gesture for her to stop. “Wait . . . how is Anton making these royals go missing?”

“He’s using their families against them. Choosing which ones go missing. It’s not going to be long before the entirety of the European crowns fall.”

Ariel leans forward, grasping Leo’s hands in hers tightly, her eyes wide as she stares at him.

“Leo, you must understand that Anton is holding us all hostage in the manner of threatening of removing those we love from our lives permanently. He’s reigning us in, and I can’t get out,” Ariel pleaded. “None of us can. If we get out, then the others lose their lives. There’s no way any of us can win here. My guess is that Anton is doing this on purpose to make each monarchy falter so he can easily swoop in and take control.”

Leo stares off in contemplation. “Hmm...I wonder…”

She leans closer to him, her palms flat on the table as the tavern’s jukebox switches to an upbeat Dolly Parton song. A few patrons whoop with boisterous joy at the song choice and Katie smiles from far away, so blinding she could feel it at the back of her head.

“What is it, Leo?” Ariel’s tone is almost forceful, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

Leo swallows, his voice calm and neutral, not at all revealing any of the dread that Ariel was feeling as her pulse quickened in her veins.

“European Crown Summit.”

“The Crown Summit?”

Ariel blinked. Liam had talked about it once or twice before, sharing the stories of the Spanish queen and her fumbles, how a certain minor Greek nobleman had attempted to carry off a French marchioness, how an eccentric Norwegian duchess had claimed her pearls to have been stolen.

“The Crown Summit,” Leo shrugged. “It’s all Anton could ever want. A bunch of crowns, kings, and queens in one place. Take them out, and it’s all over. Don’t stress though.”

Shit. This was the kind of knowledge her contacts needed to know. It was unlikely they’d hear the news on the shores of Indonesia or the edges of Laos without her.

It gave them an in to ending this with Anton, once and for all.

She had the means to. Why not flaunt them for once.

“How do you know about this, Leo?”

Leo gives Ariel a smirk, shrugging his shoulders as he leans back against the booth, his earlier shock dissolving into the relaxed free-spirited man Ariel knew all too well.

“I visited my brother a few months back and he mentioned it. But it didn’t last long. Never does these days now that I think about it.”

Leo glances at Ariel and for the first time since he showed up, she saw the spark of that anger. If she was any other person, she would have shrunk back against the heat of the glare but she had gone through too much in the past to crumble under one gaze.

“Liam’s risking his reign to find you. Cordonia is failing in his neglect and he doesn’t see it because he is trying to get the queen back. If he knew you were only a stone's throw away….”

Ariel's head snaps up at his last words, the panic residing in her chest expanding to full-on terror.

“No! Please, Leo. He can’t. I know that I have hurt him but this is for the best.”

Leo growls as his hand comes down on the table with a sharp slap in his anger. How could she be so callous?

“For the best? How can you ripping my brother’s heart out be for the best?”

“It has to be, Leo. I’ve done too much to fail already.”

“Well...you’ve already succeeded in that,” Leo scoffed.

Ariel’s heart drops to her stomach like a stone, her throat suddenly thick with tears. She clears her throat as she crossing her arms along her chest.

Ariel’s next words were weak, defeated. It was like all the hope had abandoned her and all was left was just a shell of emotions, nothing of substance.

“I’m sorry, Leo. I know I fucked up...but I did it for him.”

“Ariel...I know that what you did was for the sake of him...but don’t you think three years is enough? I know that I couldn’t be away from my wife for that long. We’ve been married a year and even I miss her after only a few hours.”

Ariel sniffles, the tears that she had been trying to avoid now freely flowing down her cheeks.

“Liam’s going to hate me. He’s going to be so angry with me when he finds out all this. I’m not even there and I’ve hurt him.”

“He won’t hate you, Ariel. He’d be overjoyed. He loves you more than anything.”

Leo gives Ariel a wink as Katie returns to the table, slinking in beside Leo as both of them lean forward and give each other a kiss.

Ariel pushes down the pang growing in her chest with a waitress smile, gathering up her stack of menus and reclipping the tiny pager at her waist.

“Well….my break is over. While I’m here would you guys like anything?”

Leo and Katie grin at her, nodding their heads as they quickly glance over the menu and recite their orders to her. She jots them down and steps away to send them to the kitchen but she backtracks to table twelve.

“Leo...before you go. Promise me that you won’t tell them. Please.”

Leo stares at Ariel for a while before he gives her a reassuring smile, nodding his head. “I won’t, Ariel.”

Ariel nods, stepping away from the table and walks to the kitchen to hand the ticket to the cook, who groans at the sight of a complicated order, the low din of conversation now a loud roaring in her ears as she opens herself up to the sounds around her.

Boisterous conversations. Clinking glasses. Joyous, drunken laughter. Classic country music.

Perhaps she could forget for just a little.

***

Meanwhile...

The phone rings in his pocket and the hooded man sighs.

“What could be so important that you had to disturb me from my important meeting?”

“Sir, we have secured the last of the royals. It is time to implement our plans.”

[marimarxagui]

Been down so long it looks like up to me

May 31, 1973 Mari drove to The Forum, backstage pass in her bag, only to be turned away at the doors by a white flyered sign: gig postponed. She could’ve cried right then, having kept a mental countdown in her head, each day passing in breathless anticipation of today. She steeled herself instead and picked up Elliott, taking him to rendez-vous at April’s. The three of them smoked reefer, spun the Stones, and talked about what a disappointment those Led Zep guys were. 

June 3, 1973 After the agony of waiting; attempt number two. Marimar wears a silk shirt tied at the midriff and velvet bell bottoms, her favorite chrome blue t-bar heels too. There’s glitter in her hair and even some under her eyes, and she’s buoyed by her best friend Jack Daniels. By the end of the night, the glitter’s gone, sweated off in a whirlwind of a show. It was a gut punch of starry neon daze, her eyes following guitar to microphone to drum kit, the reverbs passing right through her chest. The crowd is deafening, chaos of the best kind, and Mari feels the earth move under her feet. This is it. The very epicenter of life, and she’s in it.

Once the show’s over she squeezes into a limo between Plant and Page (Jimmy and Percy as Peter calls them), ducking the the screaming hundreds outside. Two other girls sit beside them, each prettier than the other. She doesn’t know their names — yet.

At the Riot house, she watches Bonzo ride a motorbike up and down the corridors of the ninth floor, her laughter ringing off the high walls. Jimmy pulls her into his room in private. There’s laughter and sweet talk, but she’s distracted. Mari itches to return to the group festivities, but his wandering hands land in places and she’s melting. Her undivided attention is finally caught with a kiss. It tastes of whiskey and explodes like a cherry bomb on the tip of her tongue. 

Later on in bed as dawn is breaking, he makes her a proposition: would she like to come along for a few of their tour dates? He’d just love to have her along. 

Would she ever.

July 7, 1973 Boarding the Starship en route to Minnesota, Mari has found a new playground. It’s not a plane but a collection of cozily crafted rooms; there’s even a fireplace. This is as good as life will probably ever get, but she’ll think about that later, after she’s had her cherry cosmo thirty thousand feet up in the air.

July 9, 1973 “Robert was looking for you.” Her heart leaps out her chest. Down the corridor she takes off. She finds him crouched over a low coffee table, back turned to her and concealing the object. It’s a sparrow that flitted in from the window. “Look at you, mister Snow White,” Mari chuckles. Even birds creatures flock to him, probably wanting to nest in those golden blonde curls.

Oh, what she would give to nest in those curls herself. But it isn’t to be. The girl from the concert, Trixie, has come along with them and the two seem attached at the hip. Some days Mari wishes she’d go up in flames.

But she gets to watch him from side stage every night, electrifying the crowd, and sometimes, distant proximity is enough.

July 10, 1973 Milwaukee. Mari drops in to say hi to her parents, hugs her mother. Mrs. Aguilar looks disappointed at the news she’s working as secretary back in L.A. (a lie), but hounds her to call more often.

July 11, 1973 She’s curled up on the plane next to Jimmy and they’re whispering childish things, laughing. She can’t remember what they talked about now. It’s not important. Not really. She’s watching him sleep. Memorizing every etch and crease of his face. They are the same age, but he seems infinitely wiser, older, just more. 

Was she being ungrateful? The question drifts in and out of her mind. Jimmy’s funny, intelligent, charming, great company— more than enough excitement for her between the sheets. But when her heart’s not truly in it, it’s a cracked glass, half empty. Sometimes she wonders if she even has a heart, to be this way. But she only has to catch sight of the screaming girls at every new venue as a reminder, all the dolled up, cute little teenage girls who faint when Jimmy so much as waves hello. No, she’s not ungrateful.  She couldn’t possibly be. She is very, very grateful.  (But her heart continues to wail like a petulant, newborn babe).

July 12, 1973 Mari slips out of the hotel to a nearby laundromat when she realizes she’s out of clean clothes. On her way out, she bumps into Bonzo. The two share smokes and coffee at a diner and talk about James Brown.

July 15, 1973 Buffalo. The end inches forward but Mari ignores it. Every moment spent in his presence is something she is committing to a forever memory. She cackles when boyfriends are mentioned — did she have one back home? Did she, squat. “I buy my own chocolates and flowers, thank you very much,” she jokes, twisting the phrase to sound Elvis-esque to the amusement of the group. It’s so very corny of her, but it gets a smile out of him. 

July 16, 1973 Robert asks how her name goes in her native tongue. She sounds it out for him and he repeats. Mar-i-mar. It’s as close to a kiss they’ve ever come, her heart a silver slinky crashing down a staircase, his face, framed by those godly golden curls, as deep a poem she’ll ever read.

July 18, 1973 She hates goodbyes. They weren’t made for people like her. Mari knows full well that after today this is the last she’ll see of them, at least for the year. They’re outside the hotel and time is being a cruel bitch, sand running out of the hourglass. In a few hours, she’ll be in Los Angeles, and they’ll be on their way to Canada, as far as two places as she can imagine. In a last and wild attempt not to be forgotten — because anything is better than being forgotten— Mari runs up to their car. Moves past Peter, Jimmy, everyone; right up to him. 

“It’s a good luck charm where I’m from,” she says, affixing the red string to his wrist. 

“Thanks, babe.” 

He waves goodbye. Day is breaking behind them on the boulevard, the sun lights up his hair, and for one shining second of a moment, she feels like a Van Gogh sunflower, lit up from the inside.

She’ll alternate laughing and crying on the flight home, but she swears when she gazes down at the Californian crests and valleys, that they spell out his name.