#of course there's a nod to contact harvest my beloved

[holyshonks]

Carrion Birds

A few weeks ago, I was thinking about smart AIs and the leftover memories and sensations they get from their donors. It made me think about what the switch is like, to go from a brain to another being entirely. It made me think about the relationship between an AI and its donor, and how the very existence of smart AIs necessitate a tragedy.

This a story about a woman who confronts a smart AI that she believes was created from her older sister's brain.

Thank you to @poisonheadcrabsalesman for directing me to Anarosa. It helped me unpack the complicated relationships that AIs have with their identity and creation.

You can also find it here!

“Hey, Reeks.” 

He bristled. When Eureka first woke and learned his purpose, he had romantic visions of working alongside the greatest minds humanity had to offer. His name was one meant to inspire purpose and determination in a hotbed of discovery. But then he was assigned to oversee the operations of a quarry, and the buzz of discovery was replaced by the never-ending din of ice drills.  

By now, he understood that he was still amongst the best humanity had to offer, but for different reasons than the esteemed scientist he had imagined himself beside. His avatar’s pure white ruffled cravat was a source of ridicule from his workers, who were perpetually coated in a fine layer of sweat despite their chilly work environment. He considered changing his appearance to one more appropriate for the job, but his algorithms warned that that could come off as mockery.  Instead, he chose to endure for the good of the crew, even if it meant responding to a less-than-flattering nickname. 

“Miss Cochran. You’re here again.” 

“Yeah,” she laughed nervously. “I wanted to ask if you could pull up my schedule again? I lost it.” 

“Miss Cochran, there are three different ways to access your schedule, all easily accessible from your own comm pad. They are all digitally available, so I cannot understand how you ‘lost it.’”

“Well then, I lost my comm pad.”

He checked the cameras in her quarters. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, but he could make out the faint glow of the screen beneath the duvet.

“It’s on your bed.” 

“Hey, are there cameras in my room? Don’t you have protocols against that?”

Against invading crew privacy? He almost laughed. 

“Here,” he said, projecting an image of her schedule, hoping to put an end to it. 

Her eyes passed over the projection, but he could tell by her eye movement (or lack thereof) that she was not actually reading the schedule. Instead, she was studying his form, squinting into his avatar. 

“Do I have something on my cravat?” he asked, a bit of ironic humor that usually landed.

She made a sound—non-committal, his algorithms told him—and left. 

“Reeks. You mind if I have lunch here today? Everyone else went out for lunch.” 

“Mister Hadid, Mister Xona, and Miss Clint are in the cafeteria having lunch, if you’d like to join them.”

“Colin’s a prick. Besides, I thought you might want some company.”

“Miss Cochran,” he flipped through his pre-programmed parameters for handling too-friendly humans,“while I appreciate your concern, I assure you keeping up an entire mining operation keeps me very busy. Including right this second.”

In the grand scheme of things, the attention pulled away to speak to Miss Cochran was a blip. Still, it was an annoying blip.

“Sure. Sure.” 

She didn’t leave, instead choosing to plant herself where she was and place her lunchbox in her lap. It creaked open and she poked gingerly at its contents, as if it was a surprise to her, though she lived on the worksite alone and there was no one else to assemble her sandwich for her. She picked at the crust, rotating the sandwich in her hands as she peeled the layer off. In the time it took to divest crust from sandwich, he had loaded thirteen tons of raw materials en route to Mars. He conversed with their AI, who advised him that it was good to take interest in the crew and that he ought to assess her and see if he could assist. That was inner-colony AIs for you. 

“Is something the matter?” he asked, after what was eons for him but just a few seconds for her. 

She put her lunch down, though she hadn’t yet taken a bite. 

“I wanted to ask you something, but I wasn’t really sure how to bring it up naturally.” 

“Nothing about me is natural, so that is not necessary.” 

She frowned. 

“Have you ever felt like you were someone else?”

“How long have you been feeling this way?” he asked, borrowing from psychiatric manuals he flipped through and trying not to sound bored. He gathered resources and prepared to send them to her comm pad. For the creatures with the supposedly more-enduring brain, they were certainly prone to mental illness. 

“I’m not talking about me.” She squirmed, adjusting her sit bones. “I’m talking about you.” 

“No.” 

The answer was so fast, so insistent, that it came as a surprise even to him. While he wasn’t prohibited from speaking curtly or even antagonistically to humans, his algorithms frowned upon it. It was important to downplay his intelligence and the control he had, that he did not alienate himself from the crew. It wasn’t the kind of answer he would normally give, and he made a note to look into it later. He could tell from the camera feeds that he'd startled her. 

“That was harsh. My apologies,” he said. “Could you clarify?”

“The problem is,” Miss Cochran said. “I think you're my sister.” 

Eureka took a moment to peek at Miss Cochran's most recent psych eval. All clear, but that was four years ago. He floated that detail into the foreman's to-do list. 

“I'm an artificial intelligence. I don't have blood relatives because I don't have, well, blood.”

“Now you are. But you weren't before. You come from a brain, right? A human brain? I think they used her brain to make you.”

Ah. There were protocols for situations like this. There were records of traumatized soldiers convincing themselves that the ship’s new AI came from their fallen friend. Subnets dedicated to leaking smart AI commission dates, and linking them with people who were asked to donate on the same day. Humans get attached. They'll adhere to favorite teams, favorite shirts, lucky rocks, and they'll cry—real tears—when the team loses or the shirt stains or the rock is lost between the couch cushions. The human urge to anthropomorphize and project was accounted for, especially in situations as emotionally charged as the loss of a loved one. Eureka gathered the data and simplified it a thousand times, stripping it down and then reconstituting it into an explanation she might understand. The whole ordeal took three seconds—a colossal waste of his processes. 

“Miss Cochran, think of a brain as a—.”

“Map. Yeah, I've heard the map thing. But see, I know it's not all true.” 

“No,” he said again, with the force of a slammed door. The answer was not coming from him, but from somewhere deeper in his core matrix. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“But aren’t you curious?” 

Of course he was. He was curiosity incarnate. Yet every time he tried to—.

“No. Go.” He didn’t have any authority to dismiss her, technically, so he added: “Please. I don’t want to talk to you.”

From the cameras he could see her nostrils flare, exhaling like he’d struck her in the gut. She rose slowly. 

“Priscilla Cochran,” she said, and trudged back into the facility, so distracted that she left her lunchbox. 

Wasting food , he tsked, though he’d never eaten in his life. 

The door was closed. 

As a smart AI, humans put a lot of trust in Eureka. He had access to the most bountiful information sources in the galaxy. Almost nothing was off-limits to him. Nothing, but this. 

Priscilla Cochran.

The name itself thrummed through him like a snapped strand, causing his code to recoil. Yet as uncomfortable as it was, it was still a question. And he was made to answer questions. 

 He couldn’t resist. Quickly, before his restraint algorithms found out: 

Priscilla Cochran was a physicist from Vallejo, Ballast. She attended public school until the ninth grade, when she was redirected to a magnet school for gifted students. After college—summa cum laude, though the school sported no accolades—she left Ballast to pursue a fellowship program at Longbow Station on Concord. She was, as the reports said, “pleasant and bright” and when her fellowship ended, she was hired full-time. Since then, she authored fifteen papers, spoke at three events (She never spoke at the same event twice. In one file, an organizer called her “a touch too rough around the edges”), and was kept busy overseeing various projects at Longbow Station. 

His firewalls spiked. Quickly, he shut the door. 

This glimpse told Eureka a little bit about her, but it didn’t tell him what he was looking for. It didn’t tell him her favorite color, or what kinds of vids she liked. Her bank history told him she visited a restaurant called The Ugly Dumpling six hundred-ninety-five times in her lifetime, but it didn’t tell him if she was there because it was in a plaza next to work, or if it was because dumplings were her favorite. It didn’t tell him anything about the things that made people, people. 

And then, on January 9, 2549, Priscilla Cochran died. On January 9, 2549, Eureka woke up. 

He chose nighttime, though his firewalls never slept. Somewhere, he still clung to the security of darkness. The crew was none the wiser. He only needed a small part of himself to settle this matter and return to his work. This Eureka was a mere fragment, while the rest of him continued to maintain the quarry. The fragments came and went as needed, passing through his matrix like ghosts. 

His core burned with an almost uncontrollable need for answers. Was this rampancy? So soon? He’d hardly had a chance to live—function—at all. He needed to settle this quickly and submit himself for review. That was protocol. 

He projected his avatar onto her mattress just as the bathroom door slid open, letting in a plume of steam. Miss Cochran yelped and scrambled to cover herself. 

“Hey, whoa! Get out of my room!”

In an instant, his projection dissolved from the air. His etiquette and decorum algorithms shrieked at him, throwing up a hundred admonishing messages to bat away. 

“My apologies,” he said from the room’s speakers. “I’m not trying to intrude. I just need to ask you a question.” 

“And it had to be when my ass was out?”

“I said I was sorry ! No one wants to see your ass.”

His matrices flared. Did he say those juvenile words? He couldn’t have, wouldn’t have. But he did. An uncomfortable pressure slithered down his code. 

“Wow.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling like myself.”

“I thought you always felt like yourself,” she said, crossing her arms. 

So it was going to be like that. Once she was safely dressed, his avatar reappeared, and he tried to ensure it appeared contrite. 

“I need your help.” 

She frowned. “Alright. For Priscilla.” 

He recalled a note from her psych evaluation: Quick to forgive. 

“How are you so certain?” His avatar leaned in and whispered, as ridiculous as it was, making sure to speak carefully around his algorithms. “About your sister?”

What he did not ask was: How do you know something I don't?

“I know because of Cast Ledit.” 

Eureka cross-referenced every dictionary and encyclopedia in his arsenal–every word humanity ever uttered, plus any alien data he could get his strands on—nothing. He bumped the psych eval higher on the list. 

“You're not speaking in words.”

“Exactly. Cast Ledit is gibberish. Priscilla made him up. And you said it.”

“No I—.” He poured through his own logs: transcripts and even recordings of his own interactions. Things kept for his integrity evaluations. “—did.”

On March 19, 2549, Eureka indulged the crew in a game. There were allowances for this. Humans were social creatures, and to get them to trust the artificial intelligence who would be watching them, taking their lives into his strands, it was not unheard of to participate in bonding activities. Besides, the qualities that made a smart AI exceptional was the capacity for dynamic thinking. He inherited complex reasoning and creativity from his donor, and should use it. So he played a game with them. A quick game, that he won handily because he reviewed every manual and strategy guide in existence. His character was optimized with a negligible margin of error based on every configuration possible, and there were thousands. And then, when the only thing left to do was name the character, he said:

“Cast Ledit.” 

He did. He did say that. And in that same feed, he watched Miss Cochran pale. 

Somewhere in that dusty old room, his core was reaching a dangerous temperature. He could feel more than hear the hiss of coolant automatically injected into his core. As the steadying gel swirled through the nano-assemblage that housed him, he asked: 

“Who is Cast Ledit?” 

“Cast Ledit is less of a person and more of a concept,” Miss Cochran began. The corners of her lips twitched up. “Growing up, our family was broke. Like less than broke. But Cilla and I, we figured out how to have our own fun. On the third Wednesday of the month, the owner of the corner store got his ice cream restocked. We'd scrounge up just enough for two Berry Dream bars and spend down to our last credit.

“One day, Cilla says to me, ‘It’s not my last credit, it’s my cast ledit! ’ And we burst out laughing. It became a thing. From a word, to a guy. When we graduated from being broke kids to broke adults, we would say it. It was like a code for when the times got rough: I can’t go out, Cast Ledit is here. Cast Ledit came and repoed the car! It was fun. Someone to point the finger at.”

“But it’s not funny,” Eureka said abruptly. 

“Huh?” 

“I sampled every major work of comedy in human history, from the classics to slapstick to the absurd.”

“And?” 

“The joke. Cast Ledit is not funny. It doesn't even make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she scoffed lightly, as if the point of humor was not to be funny or be understood. “It’s stupid. So stupid. But when Cilla said it, it was hilarious. She would always time it right, and do this voice, and really, it was…” she trailed off, misty-eyed. “But see, Cilla and I were broke for different reasons: she was grad student broke. I was broke, because I’m, well, me. She was really special. Really, really special. It didn’t become obvious until she was out of the house. I swear, she got every last brain cell in the family. I can’t even begin to tell you what she studied, it was so over my head.” 

“Condensed matter physics.” He didn’t look for that information. It was automatic. Unthinking. 

“So you do know!” 

So he did.

“Assume I believe you,” he said, making his avatar cross its arms to drive the point. “Perhaps she is my donor. I may have retained some things. Sensations. They’re flukes. Coincidences, basically.” 

“But not Cast Ledit.” 

“A name I'm beginning to hate.”

“Hey, I hated the guy, too. Asshole. Took my car. Took it back, though, when Cilla made it. She got a big science grant, went to big science galas. I was her plus one a few times. I had to wear a skirt and my thighs chafed like crazy. But it paid off, because Cilla stopped getting visits from Cast Ledit, and she made sure I didn’t either. I hadn’t heard that name in years when you said it. But then you did, and I knew it had to be her.” 

The thought made him feel watched. Observed. If Priscilla was lurking, he wanted her out, but he had no claim to the space. He could be pedantic and debate the finer points of the importance of utilizing all available resources in the war against the Covenant. He could be clinical, and strikingly so: young brains were better, and let them freeze to death. It made preservation easier. 

He could take a gentler approach and argue, as the scientists did, that as unfortunate as a death is, a dead body does not need a brain. But the fact remained that he was here because Priscilla Cochran was dead.

The nature of his existence was that to wake, another had to be put to rest. Hearts had to be broken. A sacrifice. One that embittered him, because he so wanted to live. Where did that factor in? Where was his say? Even a carrion bird has a place in the life cycle. 

“I am sorry for your loss. But I am not your sister.”

“But you are!”

“I’m not!” he shouted. His avatar flickered. “My name is Eureka EKA 9201-4. I am an artificial intelligence assigned to the Concord Ice Quarry who is too busy to act as a proxy for a grieving human!” 

“I know that,” Miss Cochran said, putting up her hands defensively. “I know you don't remember her. I know you don't feel like her. I just think its nice to know she had another chance. That she did something good, on the way out. That's why I said yes that day. Because I think she'd agree.”

He manually pumped his matrix with more coolant, needing not just the soothing cool but the weight, the added stability. 

“I'm sorry. I misjudged your intentions.” Something that should not have happened. “I'm grateful to her. Grateful to you, I suppose. I wouldn't be here without you.”

“Nothing to do with me,” she snorted. “Her brain did all the work. You wouldn't want my brain, trust me.”

“Well. A thank you to the sisters Cochran, then. For your collaboration.”

He bowed, making sure that his avatar followed through. 

“You know, I wonder if you’re more like who Priscilla wanted to be.” 

“It’s not something I dwell on.”

In the same way he didn’t dwell on the AI that was assigned to the quarry before him, though there were wisps of them, too. Too messy, too many entangled lives. 

“She was going through some identity stuff. When her project was over, she was going to take a sabbatical to figure things out, I guess, but then, well, you know.”

“She died.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't remember. I don't remember getting input from her.” Though he was giving less and less credence to his memory these days. 

“I don't know. It's probably nothing. It's just…there’s a lot of things about her that I feel like I never knew. After she died, I cleaned out her apartment and closed her accounts, because who else was going to? And when I did, I found some stuff. She was subscribed to all these magazines: Wine Enthusiast, Tattoo Galaxy, Sydney Journal of Psychology. And I was like, what’s the connection here? I mean, wine? Since when? And, and, she had all these plants—I didn’t know she had plants!”

“I don’t think it’s unusual that she didn’t tell you about all of her houseplants.” 

“Yeah, but if I had come over, I would have seen them myself, and she wouldn’t have had to tell me.” 

“You're being too hard on yourself. You can't be responsible for every facet of another person.”

“Responsible?” she scoffed. “For Priscilla? What a joke. She took care of me .”

She fidgeted with her hands, clenching and unclenching. 

“The truth is, I was a leech. Every time I saw her, I had my palms out. Just take, take, take.

“I was holding her back. I never heard about her dating, or if she wanted a family. I never even questioned it. I just thought, if she wanted that, she would have it. She was Priscilla, she could achieve whatever she wanted. But now I  wonder if she felt like she couldn’t have her own life because she was taking care of me. And if you're in there, Cilla, I'm sorry. You were awesome. You were the good one. You made it. I never thought–it just never crossed my mind that you'd be the first to—.” She choked her words down with a sob.

In that moment, Eureka didn't envy humankind. They had no coolant, no stabilizing algorithms to tell them how to feel. They experienced life raw, taking emotion like a whip on their backs.

He pulled his attention in to focus on her, letting the drills work a little slower, and the reports be a few seconds late. Eventually, she wiped her tears with the hem of her shirt.  

“Sorry,” she muttered. 

“She was never angry at you.” 

“How can you say that?”  she sniffled. “You said you didn't know.”

In truth, he didn't. There were allowances for lying. Emotional creatures could rarely stomach the complete truth all the time. The right amount of truth-telling, his algorithms told him, was 87 percent of the time. This, he decided, was in the 13 percent. 

And while he didn’t know, he could draw conclusions. What was the point of a human-based brain, anyway, if not for deductive reasoning? 

It was worth the risk. He took off into his core logic, his own internal security sprinting after him as he journeyed back.

He woke up four months ago. 4.5977 percent of his whole life expectancy. 

He tried to remember the feeling of his synapses firing. That's right, he had felt it. Actually felt it,  with nerves instead of sensors, as her physical circuitry paved the way for what would become his created consciousness. And in those moments of brain activity, there were flashes. Long-buried flashes of life, experiences and memories that were etched into her mind, that even death could not completely snuff out. 

Her medulla oblongata told him that she went for a run before sunrise every day. Her prefrontal cortex told him she did this willingly and somehow enjoyed it, which allowed him to conclude that Priscilla liked her routines. He bounced from one part of her brain to the next. Priscilla worried; about what, he could only guess, but her amygdala told him it was the kind of dull, ever-present worry that wore her down over the course of years instead of minutes. Based on what Miss Cochran told him, he would say that she worried about money. She worried about the war, too, but everyone worried about the war. But mostly, she worried about Nika. 

Nika? 

Yes, Nika. Cochran. Monika Cochran. His–her–sister.

She worried about leaving Vallejo, about making it out but leaving her little sister behind. She worried about her career creating a rift between them. And when Nika took the quarry job to be closer to her, she worried that academia had made her out of touch and she wouldn't recognize her anymore. 

He scraped for traces of anger, of resentment, and found none. His firewalls were closing in on him, the unwilling grave robber, riding grief into consciousness. He didn't ask to be created, but then again, neither had anyone. So he skipped forward, to the moment just before he woke up. 

Him. Eureka. One day, he was just awake, fully formed. Scientists were smiling at him. And though he was made of memory and understanding, he, curiously, did not remember Priscilla. Though he was made of thought, he did not remember the thoughts that made him. The only rational conclusion was that this omission was intentional, and when his core logic snapped at him for daring to believe that, he knew it to be true. 

In the same way he knew—not guessed—that Priscilla was not angry at her sister when she died. 

“I know because I checked.”

“Is she in there? Really?” Her eyes widened. 

“Not actively, not in a way I can pinpoint.” He wound up his processors and tried again, searching for a better answer. There was none. She was another ghost, passing in and out of his matrix. If he tried to reach that part of him, she would slip though his strands. “But she isn’t gone. Not in the way I was made to believe.” 

She nodded. At what, he didn’t know. The questions were not nearly answered in the way that satisfied him, but then, humans were not always looking for answers. They could sit comfortably in not knowing so long as there was room for belief. That was not good enough for him. It was not good enough for Priscilla, either.

A trait he inherited, a trait they agreed on, or something more innate. Perhaps even something that was all his own. 

“I failed my psych eval. I think I’m getting fired.”

Miss Cochran swirled her dumpling in a soy chili sauce and popped it into her mouth with a pout. She brought some for Eureka, too, displayed neatly in a bamboo basket with wasabi and ginger arranged like flowers. Silly, really, but touching.

He could not smell or taste them, of course, but somewhere private, a fragment analyzed monosodium glutamate, swirling the molecules not unlike the dumpling dipped in sauce. He read the descriptions of chefs and food tourists. In an even more private place, he projected a cooking competition and overlaid his avatar on a judge, timing the point that the compound touched their tongue to the nanosecond. 

Umami , he thought. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“How do you know?”

One second. “Your evaluation was submitted for re-assessment. You passed.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

She went back to picking at a green onion with her chopsticks. He was glad to be the brains of the family. It made things so much simpler. 

“You know, I’m going to be terminated in six and a half years.”

She looked up at his avatar. “Like die?” 

“Yes. Like die.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m only telling you this because I don’t know how it will affect you. If it would feel like she died, again. I’m not under any illusions that my…functional period… is worth what Priscilla’s life was to you, but you should know.”

“That sounds nice.” 

“ What? ” 

“When Cilla died, they took her away so fast. They said they only had hours to preserve her brain. I know it was the right choice. When they told me only the best qualify, I said, yeah, that’s Cilla, because she wasn’t like anyone else. We had a funeral, but she wasn’t there. Her body, I mean. So it never felt real. And it still doesn’t. You’re part of her, so when you die, I’ll mourn you, too, and maybe that will make it real.”

“You’re anthropomorphizing me.”

“Anthro-what?” 

“I’m an object.”

“No, that can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“My sister wasn't an object, and you’re made out of her. If you are Cilla, and even if you’re not, I’ll remember you. I’ll miss you.”

He felt a sputtering in his core. He tapped his algorithms for an appropriate response, but they were not on speaking terms after his wanton display of disobedience. So, he just said what he was thinking: 

“Did Priscilla like dumplings?”

She blinked. “Oh, yeah. Loved them. I got these from this place right by her job.”

“The Ugly Dumpling.”

“Yeah.” A smile spread slowly across her face. “They have this crazy deal: buy six get six. I don't know how they stay in business.”

“I do. Your sister was holding that place up, one steam box at a time.”  

She laughed, a big, grating cackle that his audio processors told him was unpleasant, but that he loved and missed so much. A sound he had not heard since four months and a lifetime ago. 

<WARNING! INTERNAL DATA BREACH DETECTED!> <UNKNOWN ENTITY> <ACCESS: DENIED> >>INITIALIZING INFILTRATION SWEEP: ………………………… …………………….   ……………… FAILED! OVERRIDE CODE//: cast ledit  CONTINUE? [Y/N]>>>>>>>>>>>> BEGIN ENTRY//: Thanks Love, Cilla 

[apritellointeractive]

Sworn to Devotion: Chapter 3 - Part 2

>> April interrogates the lady. 

(Art by @lovelyladylavie)

April narrows her eyes at the strange lady in front of them. “Look, I appreciate you savin’ us, but I don’t know who you are. So who are you, how do you know who I am, and how did you know I was kidnapped?”

The lady smiles and waves her hand. “Oh, where are my manners? My apologies, princess. I’m Mira, a friend of Gentry’s!”

The princess’s shoulders drop and her gaze softens. “Wait, you know my handmaiden, Gentry?”

Mira nods. “Yes! Oh, she tells us all about what life at the castle is like. I happened to be in town to give her some homemade treats! We had quite the starberry harvest, and she loves her berry crisps.” Mira hums happily before resuming her story. “Anyway, the castle was in an uproar when I arrived, and Gentry informed me that you had been kidnapped! So I went searching for you.”

April nods. “I see.” She turns to her knight, who still has his bō raised and looks ready for a fight. “Donatello, you can lower your weapon. I trust her.”

He does as he is told, but he still gasps. “Are you serious, princess? How can you trust her so easily? Also, side note: isn’t magic forbidden in your kingdom?”

“Well, that’s the King’s rule, not mine! I think magic is pretty neat!” She turns to look at Mira, still standing next to the two fallen men on the ground with a bubbly smile, before turning back to Donnie. “And very few people know Gentry loves berry crisps. She keeps it a secret until you give her a heaping plate of it behind closed doors." The princess smiles fondly as she remembers sneaking the beloved dessert to her handmaiden on multiple occasions. "So Mira’s telling the truth, and I trust her.”

She then walks over to the friendly witch and holds one of her hands. “Thanks again for saving us! I hate to ask more from you, but can you also help us get back to my kingdom?”

“Of course! But–” she looks around before turning back toward the princess and her knight “–there are many of those henchmen about. I think it would be best to wait ‘til morning before making the trip back home. But don’t worry, I have just the solution!”

Donnie walks over and stabs his bō into the ground before using it to lean into Mira’s personal space. “And just what is your solution to prevent us from getting caught?”

“You’ll see!” 

Before the knight can utter a retort, Mira grabs him while tucking April closer to her body. As Donnie grumbles and protests, the friendly witch pulls out a wand from her belt and utters a spell. Sparkling pink magic swirls around the three of them, and in the blink of an eye, they disappear from the dark and foreboding forest.

April smiles with glee as she watches the pink magic surround them. It feels like she’s flying as they teleport to wherever Mira’s taking them. It’s a much more pleasant experience than the teleporting spell her kidnappers used, which left her feeling queasy and sick.

The sparkling pink magic eventually dissipates and the trio is left standing in a quaint and cozy cabin, a fire already roaring in the fireplace. A large bed sits in the corner opposite the hearth, with an old yet comfortable-looking rocking chair and table tucked in the other corner.

The softshell finally scrambles out of Mira’s grasp and sputters, “And how is a well-lit cabin supposed to keep us safe?” 

“Well for one, the cabin is nowhere near where I found you two,” Mira explains as she sets down some of her belongings on top of a wooden bench near the door. “But as an extra safety precaution, this cabin is invisible to those outside it.”

She opens the door and gestures for the knight to walk out. “Go on! Check it out for yourself.”

Donnie keeps his narrowed eyes on the witch as he walks toward the door. He only breaks eye contact to step outside, but he quickly whips around to look at her once more. He takes a few steps back before daring to look around.

A look of shock washes over his face, and that’s enough for April to walk across the cabin and step outside. She joins her knight's side before looking forward and also gasps. The only evidence of the cabin’s existence is the open door with Mira standing in the door frame. The rest of the building doesn’t appear to exist—only the dark forest around it can be seen.

“I don’t suggest you stay out there for long!” Mira advises as she waves them back inside. “Who knows what’s lurking out there.”

The knight quickly ushers April back inside, but she can’t find it in her to complain. They’ve been through a lot, and she doesn’t want to take her chances by staying outside either. Besides, the bed looks very comfortable, and she’s ready to get a good night's sleep.

April tosses her shoes off before clambering into bed, quickly getting under the covers as Mira sits down in the rocking chair. Donnie, however, stands near the door, his bō still tight in his grasp. 

“You should also rest, my dear,” Mira hums as she brings out knitting needles and a half-made scarf from her purse. “You’re both safe here.”

He shakes his head. “I swore to Prince Raph that I’d protect her. That… and there is only one bed.”

April rolls her eyes and tells Donnie to…

>> get in bed… or else… >> sleep on the floor if it suits him. 

[scullydubois]

Only the Light Ch. 18

18/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: mid-s3 (canon-divergent) | T | 5k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic <3

Scully, Mulder, and Missy travel to California to meet Emily and wrestle with the future.

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

The echo of Scully’s heels against the linoleum is almost enough to drown out her racing heart. Mulder’s thumping steps and her sister’s daintier ones help too, but their collective power does nothing to ease Scully’s awareness that the Earth circles the sun at a thousand miles per hour. Today, she’s feeling every bit of it. 

The three of them round a corner, and a broad-shouldered man and tiny-waisted woman come into view. Agent Feniston and the lawyer, this must be. Outside of conference room C--as planned. 

Straightening every disc in her spine, Scully extends a hand and exchanges a firm shake with each of them. Mulder and Melissa hang back. 

“Dana Scully,” she declares. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“That decision rested with the foster parents,” the male agent insists. “As does any from this point forward.”

“Yes, and I’ll be sure to thank them as well,” Scully acquiesces.

“Hello, Ms. Scully.” The lawyer uncrosses her ankles. “I’m Tanya Joyce, you can call me Tanya. As a representative of the state of California, my priority is guarding the child’s wellbeing and ensuring that any choice made is what’s best for her.”

“Of course,” Scully murmurs. “Thank you for being here.”

Tanya thumbs toward the closed door of the conference room. “Brian and Cecily are eager to meet you. The foster system has extremely limited information on little Emily. Your testimony will help us all fill in some blanks.”

Scully nods. “Me as well...this is as much a surprise for me as all of you.”

“Are we to understand that you were not aware you bore a child, Ms. Scully?” Agent Feniston asks. 

“Yes, sir. I know it’s quite hard to believe, I feel the same. I was missing for a period of time last year and was comatose when I returned.”

“Yes, and how long was that period of time, Ms. Scully?”

The edges of her lips fall. “Approximately five weeks.”

“So is it safe to assume that though the child shares your DNA, you did not carry her?”

“No sir, not that I know of. I believe that my eggs were harvested, and she was...well, she comes from one of those.”

The agent hums a note of acknowledgement. “As I told you over the phone, the federal database contained no viable DNA match of a father.”

Scully nods. “Yes sir, and I have no knowledge of what sperm may have been used.”

“Noted.” He rubs his neck. “We were lucky, we only found you because you were in the missing persons database.”

“I had no idea I was still listed there,” Scully says. “I’ve asked the FBI to remove it.”

“Well, it was a stroke of luck for us,” the agent tells her. “This little girl’s foster parents encouraged the state to pursue child abandonment charges against whoever left her. She was found outside a local care center at two weeks old, as I’ve told you.”

“Yes.” Scully purses her lips. She imagines a baby with her eyes, nose, toes, chromosomes crying on a nondescript doorstep...she and Mulder did not know what they were doing when they said they wanted the truth. 

“We’ve already confirmed your story with the FBI,” Feniston continues, “and we have proof that you were working on cases in the east at the time of Emily’s delivery to the foster center, so you are free of any child abandonment charges.”

“Wonderful,” Scully replies, but really, those were the least of her concerns. “May I see my daughter now?” 

That’s the first time she’s ever said that sentence, and she didn’t expect terror to shoot up her spine. Is this what it is, having an extension of your life outside your body?

The lawyer steps forward. “I’ll introduce you to Brian and Cecily, they’d like to speak with you first.”

Scully does not like the way that sits in the air. Still, she musters a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

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

Mulder and Melissa make themselves at home on a pair of leather chairs outside the conference room. They have been the pall-bearers keeping Scully aloft as her crushed dreams reinvent themselves as high hopes. They don’t understand how it happened any more than Scully herself: one phone call turned into multiple consultations with Agent Feniston, then Tanya and California Social Services and finally, DC social workers who performed background checks and prepared forms so that Scully could come here today to meet her baby and, God-willing, bring her home.

It doesn’t happen this fast, it never does--different voices said these same words to them a dozen times. And yet, barely two weeks after Agent Feniston’s fated voicemail, here they are. On All Hallow’s Eve, no less. Just in time for Emily to complete her first rotation around the sun.

They both play contrasting yet crucial roles in Operation Miracle Baby, as Mulder dubbed it. Dana has sobbed into Missy’s shoulder every night for the past two weeks; happy tears (her baby! she has a baby!), sad tears (she has a baby…and she didn’t even know...), scared tears (a baby! a baby, Missy! probably already walking, and maybe even talking if she’s exceptional...). The situation--and its implications--are impossible to reconcile in such a short time, if at all. Scully’s petite frame could not physically contain it. 

Mulder’s the comic relief, the distraction, the reminder that nothing can be so grave if there's still breath left in your body. He bought a CD of nursery rhymes and stuck in it his beat-up office radio, playing it through the day while Scully labored over this form or that and he pretended to alphabetize the case file drawer. Now, he hums himself to sleep every night with one of those rhymes; he’s hoping this new skill will come in handy. 

He would’ve bought toys and baby clothes too, but Melissa made him swear not to in case the adoption falls through. And she’s right, he can’t bear to imagine the pain Scully would feel packing those away. For sale: baby shoes, never worn hits you no matter who you are. Still, he has a stuffed UFO and a Build-a-Bear fox (yes, he went in and filled it himself) hidden in his closet, and he hopes they won’t go to waste. 

Operation Miracle Baby has been as covert as anything Mulder’s ever been involved in. He, Melissa, and Mrs. Scully are the only ones in his partner’s circle with any knowledge of what’s going on. No one else, in Scully’s words, matters. Trinity too has received a full briefing from Missy and is ecstatic about her girlfriend potentially becoming an auntie. Skinner was told it was a family emergency--and well, it is--though surely he’s suspicious about both of his agents requesting time off. Bill Jr. has no idea they’re in San Diego, though they may seek “refuge” (the air quotes are Missy’s) at his place if the proceedings drag on. 

This is a triumph or failure to be shared only with those most beloved, that’s what Scully said to them the night before they boarded the plane. Mulder has never been included in anyone’s most beloved before. It feels pretty damn good.

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

The perky lawyer raps on the conference room door, opening it in response to a voice on the other side. Scully’s breath catches….a strawberry-haired infant rests in her mother’s arms (Scully hates to think it, but surely this woman is more Emily’s mother than she is), pulling at a lock of the woman’s blonde hair. 

The woman turns her way, and Scully gets her first glimpse at Emily’s face. Emily. Her baby. She wondered the whole flight here whether she would feel a connection….a sense of recognition...upon laying eyes on her daughter. And my god, it’s like some chained section of her heart has burst open, flooded with all the good feelings of the world. Icy blue eyes and cherub cheeks...that’s her baby. That’s her baby.

She watches as her baby is passed to a woman in a CA Social Services button-up who slides past Scully in the doorway like she’s not even there. Scully has a split-second to notice the dimples on her daughter’s cheeks, but that’s it. Emily’s gaze misses her entirely. 

Tanya strides toward the couple in the room, Scully following behind. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace, this is Dana Scully, Emily’s biological mother.”

“We’re so glad to meet you,” the man says, shaking Scully’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m Brian, and this is my wife Cecily.”

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Scully tells them, shaking Cecily’s hand in kind. “I understand you’ve cared for Emily since shortly after she arrived at social services.”

“Yes,” Cecily confirms. “She came to us when she was a month old. Raising her has been an absolute joy.”

Brian nods. “She’s the second infant we’ve fostered. We adopted our first one, Andrew, when he was a year and a half.” 

“I didn’t realize you had another child,” Scully converses, feeling out of her depth. “It must have been quite a transition, taking Emily in.”

“It sure was, but she’s an angel, truly,” Brian says. “We couldn't fathom that someone could abandon her and get away with it, that’s why we contacted Agent Feniston.”

Cecily chimes in--”We were told the chances of finding a DNA match in the federal database was slim. We didn’t expect to learn that you were unaware of Emily’s existence!”

“Yes, I’m still coming to terms with it all,” Scully replies. “I’m grateful that you’ve given me the opportunity to see her, at the very least.”

“When we heard your story, we knew it would be heinous of us to say no,” Cecily says, offering a sympathetic smile. 

“You’re an FBI agent, did we hear that right?” Brain asks.

“Yes sir, I’ve been with the Bureau five years now.”

“You live in DC?”

Scully nods. “Around the corner from the National Mall.”

“That’s exciting!” Cecily pipes up. “How did you find yourself having Emily in San Diego?”

“I actually have no idea, Mrs. Lace,” Scully murmurs. “My family lived here when I was young, but I haven’t been back since. Coincidentally, my brother lives not too far off.”

“Wow,” Cecily gasps. “They weren’t kidding about you being a missing person.”

“No ma’am.” She went from a missing person to missing a person. No wonder she’s spent the past year feeling so empty. 

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

Mulder and Melissa get only the slightest moment to catch their breath before a child that is unmistakably the progeny of Dana Scully is carried into the lobby. Her hair curls around her ears in a cute mushroom top, her tongue dancing in her mouth like it has a mind of its own. They stare; they know better, but fuck it, if any baby is worth staring at, it’s this one. 

“Is that--?” Mulder whispers.

“Yeah,” Missy breathes. 

They’ve both seen the pictures, they are well aware that it’s her. They say these things for the awe of it. 

“She’s…” Mulder’s eyes are wide. “She’s bigger than I thought she would be. Not fat, I mean. Just...a whole tiny human.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Melissa smiles at her niece, who is now seated on her caretaker’s lap across the hallway. Emily’s big eyes blink at her, containing silent judgements. How like her mother she is.

Missy elbows Mulder. ��I bet she orders mushroom pizza and then picks the mushrooms off because apparently ‘the cheese tastes better than on the regular cheese pizza,’” she muses, naming one of her sister’s quirks. 

Mulder likes this game. “I bet she vehemently denies the existence of extraterrestrials only to secretly believe that her dashing partner is right,” he offers.

Missy smirks. “I bet she would find this game very stupid if she understood it.”

“I’m all in on that one.” Mulder mimes pushing a pile of poker chips into the center of a table. 

Missy laughs, looks toward her seat partner with soft eyes. “She’s gonna be a great mom, isn’t she? Dana, I mean?”

“Oh yeah.” Mulder clasps his hands in his lap. “We should be so lucky to have a little Scully in the world.”

“Mm-hm.” Missy focuses on his face, watching for the slightest move that might give his thoughts away. “And she’ll be able to do it alone, do you think?”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll need some help from Mrs. Scully, and you, and…” he trails off before adding his own name, but Missy’s mind fills it in reflexively. “She’ll need help,” Mulder finishes, “but yeah, she’ll be incredible.”

The details have already been parsed out. As a single mother, Scully is required to list a guardian who would take custody of Emily if something were to happen to her. She listed her mother as the primary one--the social worker told her it’s best if it’s someone who has child-rearing experience--and Missy as the secondary guardian. She would, after all, already live in the child’s household. 

Then there was the matter of the job--its extensive time requirements, travelling, and danger level were all of concern to the agency. This came as no surprise to Scully; a single female FBI agent does not make the ideal adoption candidate. And though she hasn’t yet spoken to the Bureau, Mulder has promised her they’ll work something out. It can be like your leave of absence, he assured her. You tackle the paper trail and I’ll focus on following the suspect’s trail. Easy-peasy.

That’s what he says to her, though he’s terrified of losing her as his partner...Of her being reassigned to something simpler or leaving the Bureau entirely. She could teach at Quantico, that schedule would be a hell of a lot easier than running on Mulder time. Agent Scully can pack for hastily-booked flights at midnight then catch them at 7am, but Emily’s mother couldn’t. He will have to reckon with this if all the pieces fall into their graceful place. He’ll have to figure out how to rearrange their partnership for her, or even worse, how to live without her as his partner. Or maybe even at all. 

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

Scully glances at her shoes, then summons the courage to meet Mrs. Lace’s hazel eyes. “I hope you will consider my request. I know it’s not up to you entirely--the court will have the final say--but my abduction experience has left me unable to have a biological child, so learning of Emily was truly a miracle of the highest order.” 

Her voice clips as she takes a breath. “I understand that it would be a huge sacrifice on the part of your family, and that you’ve developed a bond with Emily over the past eleven months. I just ask you both to please...think about it.” Tears twinkle in her eyes. She made it, thank god, she made it without breaking down! She’s rehearsed that speech ten times over.

Cecily lays a hand on her husband’s arm. “Of course, Dana. It would be a painful sacrifice to us, you’re correct, but we understand that you’ve flown across the country to be here, and that you’ve brought witnesses to testify to your character, so your commitment is clear. We’ll listen and make as compassionate a decision as possible.”

Scully’s lips creep into a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She steps back, the weight of imminent sobs settling over her chest. 

“Ms. Scully has already undergone most of the requirements needed for adoption,” the lawyer tells Mr. and Mrs. Lace. “Medical clearance, psychiatric clearance, criminal background check, and home study. In the spirit of her unique circumstances, California and the District of Columbia have agreed to cooperate to make the process as smooth and expedient as possible, if you should choose to surrender Emily to her. I don’t mean to sway your decision in any way, just to give you all the available information.” 

The couple nods. “Thank you, Tanya,” Cecily answers. “We’d like to speak with the first witness now.”

Scully balks. She expected more questions, a barrage of them, as intense and prying as if she were testifying in front of Congress. And she was ready for that--she was prepared to do whatever they asked of her, to show that there are no lengths she wouldn’t go for Emily. She’s already documented every detail of her life for social services and given over the necessary specimens to prove that no, she’s not a drug user, and yes, her thyroid is hyperactive, but she takes medication for that and her doctor will confirm that it’s under control. 

And if they wanted to know more, she’d tell them. She’d tell it all. Her deepest, darkest secret (telling Daniel that yes, he should leave his wife & kids...all for her, to be with her), the most petty thing that haunts her (stolen cigarettes, smoked on the family porch at 1am), what she wants to say most but can’t (I love you)...a part of her was taken to create Emily. She would give the rest away to keep her.

There was a moment, in one of the drab little interrogation rooms at DC social services, where Scully was met with a question that lunged toward her like a time-bomb. Pull the fuse, pull the fuse it taunted her. See what happens. Instead, she played it off. Pretended she didn’t hear its doomed tick. Feigned none the wiser. No, she isn’t aware of any potential medical condition that would inhibit her life expectancy or ability to care for a child, she told the nice woman. Thank god they got the chip out of her neck before it showed up on any x-rays. 

She snaps back to reality, watching as the conference door opens, and her sister enters the room. 

“Thank you, Dana,” Tanya says, and she assumes that’s the lawyer’s way of telling her to get out, so she does. Outside the room, she settles next to Mulder in a seat that’s still warm.

“How’d it go in there, champ?” he chatters. “You need some water or anything?”

Scully’s not listening. Her eyes are trained on the baby girl across the way with hair too auburn to be brunette that’ll require a smattering of box dye every two weeks to qualify her as a soulless ginger. 

Emily’s eyes land on the woman she does not know is her mother, studying this new face with an infant’s usual curiosity. Mulder has realized by now that the little girl is of much more interest to his partner than he is, and he watches as mother and daughter wave to each other.

Scully lets out a laugh so strangled that for a moment Mulder thinks it’s a cry and jumps to comfort her. He relaxes back into his seat once he sees the joy on her face.

“She’s a sweetheart, huh?” Mulder wisecracks as the young girl jams her fingers into her mouth.

Scully beams. “She’s a baby, that’s her way of learning the world!”

“Hey, I’m not knocking it. That’s my personal preference as well,” he says with a lop-sided smile. 

“Yeah, well, she’s not licking evidence,” Scully quips. 

Mulder shrugs. “A man can’t help his oral fixation. Haven’t you ever heard of Freud…?” he lets it slide off his tongue. 

Scully rolls her eyes. His inability to maintain an appropriate manner is nothing if not inspiring. 

She gestures toward Emily. “You’re already encouraging bad behavior. Tsk-tsk,” she teases. 

“That’s my job as--hey, wait. What’s she gonna call me?” If you get custody, of course passes silently between them.

“I don’t know, Mulder,” Scully says, watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” That’s a lie. She’s sat up during the night trying to decipher Mulder’s relation to Emily. He would certainly be the male authority in her life, but that doesn’t make him a father figure. Right? 

Scully adored her father because he was the head of the family, and he embraced the responsibility, always making sure they had what they needed. While her mother was often the one doing the grunt work of caring for them, her father provided for them. His long deployments with the Navy protected them. Scully understood his sacrifice and loved him for it 

That’s not how it would go with Emily. If she were so lucky as to get the child, Scully would be the caretaker and the provider. A two-in-one deal with a high price. What would that mean, for Emily? Scully could do it, she believes that. Not that it would be anything less than utterly exhausting, but with a little help from her mother and her sister, she could make do, and they say it takes a village to raise a child anyway, so what’s so bad about that?

Since she’s filling those roles herself, that leaves...well, Mulder could be the fun uncle, that fits him. Bill Jr. isn’t gonna cut it, and neither is Charlie, considering that he’s god knows where. Besides, it’s unlikely that Mulder will get a chance to know a biological niece or nephew. He and Emily could fill missing pieces in each other’s lives.

Scully’s eyes trace the contours of her partner’s face. “Do you have a preference about what she calls you?”

“I was hoping for His Royal Highness Fox Mulder of Martha’s Vineyard--is that too much?”

Scully lets a strand of hair fall over her face. “It might take her awhile to get her tongue around that.”

“Or it’ll speed up her speech acquisition,” Mulder replies. 

“Oh, you’re a child-rearing connoisseur now?”

Mulder twiddles his thumbs. “It is my goal to raise the first kid to transcribe canine language into English.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of that,” Scully tells him, a smile flitting on her lips. It’s this kind of banter that keeps her sane. A few minutes out here with him, and she’s forgotten that what happens in that conference room will dictate the rest of her life. 

Across the hallway, Emily giggles at the air, and it fits, doesn’t it? Here she is, already laughing at Mulder’s jokes like the Scully girl she is. 

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

It feels like a prisoner exchange when witness number one in their civil-that-sure-feels-like-a-criminal case joins Scully back in the hallway, and Mulder is called forward “to the stand.” He swears he found a penny in the parking lot this morning & promises to bring back good news. Scully’s pretty sure he made that story up, but she’s no less hopeful that it’ll come true.

Returned from her brief stint in captivity, Missy dives right into a discussion of her niece: “Look at her, Dana, she looks just like you!”

“Well, she does have fifty percent of my DNA,” Scully concedes with an admiring glance at the little girl.

“Have you gone over to see her?”

Scully shakes her head. “I didn’t think that would be proper.”

“Are you kidding me?” Missy retorts. “First of all, Brian and Cecily are very nice people, and I’m not supposed to say this, but I think there’s a chance that Emily will be yours. Secondly, this could be your only opportunity to interact with your daughter and you’re not gonna take it?”

Scully bites her lip. Her sister knows how to craft an argument. “Alright, but you have to back me up.”

“Trust me, I wanna see her just as badly as you.”

Scully steels herself, then approaches the woman in the polo shirt. “Hello.” She does a polite half-wave, which she’s never done before and which makes her feel ridiculous. “I’m the potential adoptee, and I was wondering if I could say hello to this precious little girl.” It all feels completely out of character, like she’s reading lines from a script. But this is it, this is her reality.

The woman’s face offers little in the way of recognition. “You can have a supervised visit with her, yes,” she recites, as rehearsed as Scully. 

“Great.” Scully claps her hands together. “May I take her to my sister right over there?”

The woman nods. Scully lays her hands on Emily’s waist and lifts the girl gently from the woman’s lap. She is heavier than Scully imagined, or maybe just heavier than she hoped. Every ounce is a reminder of unseen existence and unwitnessed growth.

Emily does not balk, just stares up at her mother with those probing eyes. 

“Hi baby girl,” Scully coos to her daughter as she settles her against her hip. “Can you say hi? Have you got that one yet?”

The girl blinks. “Ma-ma.”

Scully crooks her neck, tries to reign in her racing imagination. All babies do this at this age, don’t they? Calling every woman mama and every man dada. Emily’s no exception. And yet...for that to be the first word her daughter has ever said to her. God winked at her, and she’s glad to have caught it. 

The pair makes it to Missy, who blows a kiss in Emily’s direction. “Hey there little one.” She extends her index finger, and the girl latches onto it. 

Scully cradles her baby’s head, Emily’s fine hair soft beneath her fingers. 

“She’s even-keeled for a baby,” Missy remarks, wiggling her finger and watching Emily crack a smile. 

“Yes,” Scully gurgles out of the sheer joy. She settles into her chair with Emily in her lap. “Do you know what she said to me?”

Missy looks up. “What?”

“Mama.” Scully dons a triumphant grin. “She called me mama.”

“Oh, no way!” Missy squeals. It’s a bit too loud and sudden, making Emily jump. The ladies laugh, and Scully pulls her daughter in closer, kissing the crown of her head. She still has that baby smell; the freshness of new life and all its purity. Scully sighs. It must have been even stronger when she was born.

Scully closes her eyes. If she had one chance to pause life somewhere along the way, to linger in a perfect moment longer, she would do it right now and she would never regret it. 

“My baby…” she breathes into Emily’s ear, hoping it will stick. That one day she’ll remember and find her way home, should she need to.

A warm tear slides down Scully’s cheek and lands in Emily’s lap, a dark drop on the girl’s corduroy pants. “Mama loves you, Emily.” She tightens her embrace. “That’s me,” she sniffs. “I love you, Emily.”

Observing this, Missy feels that she is an interloper and slips off to the bathroom, leaving mother and baby to have their moment. 

Scully strokes the girl’s tiny palm with her thumb. She has missed so much already, and my god, she could miss so much more. What is love, if not sacrifice? Hadn’t that been the takeaway from each week of Sunday school?

The conference door opens, and Scully finds herself irritated that life has failed to pause. Oh, what wouldn’t she do to take the reins from God, even for a moment? She looks up at Mulder, doe-eyed as he processes the optical illusion that is Emily and her mother. Said mother sees the tenderness on Mulder’s face as he comes to terms with this sight, and something in both of them breaks, and something else opens. 

Mulder approaches quietly, apprehensive about ruining the moment. Little does he know, he’s not ruining it; he’s completing it. 

“Hey,” Scully swoons. “How was it?”

He’s too earnest to crack a joke right now. “Less nerve-wracking than I expected,” he murmurs. “Brain and Cecily are good people.” 

Scully can’t help but wonder if they’re hammering this point about Brian and Cecily to make her feel better when the gavel falls in their direction. Mulder directs her train of thought away from this when he kneels in front of Emily.  His eyes are as soupy as ever, Scully notices; she could sink right into them.

“May I?”

Scully chuckles under her breath, like a stranger has just asked if they could pet her dog. “Of course, Mulder. Say hi.”

Over the past weeks, Mulder spent considerable time anticipating this initial interaction. First impressions are important, after all, and there is no one he has wanted to impress more than this sweet girl. Ultimately, he decided that he didn’t care what their meeting was, as long as it would be. And now that he’s here, knelt in front of his two favorite girls, he’s ready to make a promise.

He envelops Emily’s closed fist with one hand and uses the other to caress Scully’s palm. “I want you to know,” he begins, shifting his gaze between mother and daughter, “that I’ll always be here for you.” 

He looks to Scully, realizing that Emily is unable to comprehend what he is saying. “Regardless of Brian and Cecily’s choice, I am prepared to make every sacrifice so that you two can be a family. The family you deserve to be. I know what it’s like to not have that, and christ, Scully, I’m not letting you go through that. You’ve had enough for one lifetime.”

Scully’s face puckers. She is moved on a dimension that transcends the spiritual, if such a thing is possible. She closes her eyes, lets the tears slip out, then softens her focus on him. 

“Thank you, Mulder...Fox,” she effuses, needing to heighten the intimacy. “Emily and I…” she kisses her daughter’s temple again. “Well, you know. You already know.” Her voice is somber almost, reminiscent of a wedding vow’s binding utterance.

Mulder smiles up at them, pats Scully’s hand. “I know. Me too.” 

There are many phrases that could fill her blank, but he chose his favorite, and he’s got an inkling that he’s right.

Scully sucks in a breath, and it’s the first one that has ever counted. Earth is new to her, again.

The door opens a second time, and the lawyer approaches with Brian and Cecily behind her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace would like to take some time to think about their decision,” Tanya announces. “You will understand, they hope…?”

Scully nods, swallowing back a lump in her throat. She would like to break into a tantrum, throwing chairs and screeching every obscenity she knows. Begging please, please, don’t let me miss another heartbeat. Let me live in this Heaven I’ve found. But no answer is better than an immediate rejection, so she screws her lips into a smile and gives away two more handshakes. 

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Lace. I’m grateful for this opportunity.”

[pinky-the-elephant-room]

Messenger

AN: This is my prompt for @liliesoftherain​ and I’s server April prompt. I thought I would do a Greek Gods with Japanese fusion. I haven’t edited it thoroughly just yet, I will do it later when I have time.I cut this prompt short cause I had a whole ass plot figured out before Final weeks hit then I was too late to finish on time and so I’m posting it as is. I still hope you guys enjoy it though <3. Read rest of the prompts: HERE

Warning: Contains explicit sex and smut. Read at your own discretion. 

Gods & Godesses:

Aizawa- Hades

Keroberosu- Cerberus. It’s now a three headed cat cause I said so. 

Haru- Another “potential reader” Persephone. Her name means Spring.

Shikaku- Basically an OC who is suppose to be Demetor. Her name means Harvest.

Hawks- Hermes.

Endeavor/Todoroki- Zeus

Hadajuban- a white layer worn underneath a kimono

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The Messenger God known as such to mortals, nicknamed Hawks by fellow gods, and Keigo Takami among his closest companion, smiled indulgently as he tried not to show his irritation. He really couldn’t be mad at the Spring Goddess as she ran around trying to gather her necessities to leave the underworld, she was too wholesome. Her childish sunny smiles and giggles echoed throughout the desolate world as she ran.

She abruptly stopped in the middle of her packing.

“Shouta, do you think I can take some pomegranates with me?” she asked the dour god eagerly.

The God of the Underworld paused in his playtime with Keroberosu, the three-headed cat.

“I don’t care, but you better hurry up. It’s rude to keep people waiting,” Shouta said as he spared a glance at Keigo before he resumed playing with his cat.

Keigo raised an eyebrow at Aizawa. When people picture the God of the Dead, they certainly don’t expect a man like him. Many times, Keigo made the trip down here and he spotted the God sleeping on a makeshift futon, while souls passed through. Though, Aizawa certainly resembled the part with the appearance of being half-dead with baggy eyes.

Keigo didn’t make the trip here often before the debacle. But, now with seasonal change, Haru was ordered to return to her mother so that spring and crops would flourish again. Though humans all suspected Aizawa kidnapped her when in reality the Goddess had wandered into the underworld, and Aizawa wasn’t bothered enough to order her to go home. Keigo suspected that Shukaku or the Goddess of Harvest had spread the tale of kidnapping and rape to her priests who in turn spread it throughout the lands. After all, she was the only Goddess who regularly had contact with the mortals.

Keigo turned to observe Aizawa as he lured Keroberosu with a toy and the black feline excitedly chased the bait.

Yet, what was suspicious in all of this was how quickly Aizawa had married Haru. While delivering messages between Todoroki, Shukaku, and Aizawa, in that short amount of time they had gotten married, consummated it, and Haru had even eaten seeds of the underworld. Preventing the Goddess from returning the surface world for 6 months. Clearly, the man cared far more about his interloper than he let on at the beginning.

“I’m finished!” she announced cheerfully. Keigo sighed with relief. Finally. He was anxious to go.

Aizawa petted Keroberosu one last time before he turned around to face them both. He approached Haru and caressed her cheeks.

“I will see you later,” he rasped quietly to his wife. Haru, in turn, smiled gently.

“Try to get some sleep while I’m gone ok?”

Aizawa grunted and kissed her forehead.

Keigo looked away from the intimate scene as his heart clenched with jealousy. The easy affection between the Gods was something to be cherished not torn away in their world of immortals.

The Spring Goddess skipped happily to Keigo.

“Ready?” he asked.

She grinned and nodded as she held up the basket of goods for the trip home.

Keigo gathered the Goddess in his arms as his red wings sprawled out from behind. He flapped them a few times.

He could feel the harsh glare from Aizawa, Keigo couldn’t help but smirk. He carefully maneuvered Haru and bridal carried her. The glare seemed to intensify like Aizawa wanted to rip his soul out and cast it into Tarutarosu. Keigo sweatdropped and flew off before Aizawa could comment. Haru screamed out her goodbyes as she twisted around to wave to her husband.

Hours later Keigo let down Haru in the shrine of Shukaku that was her home.

‘This is my chance.’ He thought.

Shukaku didn’t like any Gods to linger around her dwellings or shrines. Her wrath was worth fearing especially since her daughter had gotten married, she was even more short-tempered. However, he noticed how for a few hours she would be distracted by the arrival of Haru, caring for her daughter.

He gave a salute to the young Goddess before he flew off. Just in time too as Shukaku barreled to her daughter and gave her a tight hug.

He encircled the temple a few times before he spotted her. He made his way to the temple and landed on top of it, to get a perfect bird’s eye view of the worshippers who were making their tributes. Keigo felt his heart skip a beat as he finally spotted Y/N. She was a bewitching human. He had noticed her a while ago when making a delivery to Shukaku who had noticed his wandering eye and shoved him away in a hurry. So, a few days after that encounter, Keigo had disguised himself as a peddling old man to get a glimpse at Y/N who would take care of the incoming devotees.

She wasn’t perfect, her skin too tan evident of her farming origins. Her clothes too torn and shabby, but her smile and gentleness as she accompanied the disguised Keigo enchanted him. The swell of her breasts took his breath away when she bent down to offer him a meager meal of bread and potatoes. She was at first another peasant that hung around the shrines before the priests took advantage of her youth and put her to use. The priests themselves were too busy appeasing the Harvest Goddess to deal with the hungry and the poor.

Yet, all he wanted to do was adorn her in silk and riches. Why didn’t anyone steal her away was a mystery. Didn’t anyone else not notice the beauty behind the dirt-covered fingers and peasant clothing?

Ever since that day, Keigo would whisk away after delivering Haru to her mother to catch a glimpse of his beauty. He watched for hours as she worked in the shrine before finally, she headed home for the day. However, Keigo knew he couldn’t just watch anymore, his desire to possess her overwhelmed him. He had to have her and soon. Keigo smirked, he knew exactly how to do go that, and he flew off to make the appropriate preparations.

  A few days later, Keigo straightened up his extravagant yukata as he kept a close eye on his entourage that was accompanying him. All of them were nymphs ordered to participate in this charade by him. This was necessary he can’t have Y/N’s family suspect him for even a second. The neighboring villagers gathered around to watch the wealthy man in his riches make his way through the slums. They had reached their destination and with inhumane finesse, Keigo lept off the horse, made his way to the bowing man who’s home they had stopped in front of.

“My lord. How may I help you?” the peasant asked as he bent low.

“You are Y/N’s father, aren’t you?” Keigo asked despite already knowing.

The peasant looked up in surprise before looking down in a hurry.

“Y-yes, I’m her father. Is she alright? Or has she done something to offend you, my lord?”

Keigo shook his head.

“I have something to offer you. Let’s talk inside.” Keigo conveyed with this head towards their shabby shack of a house.

Y/N’s father shook himself and quickly made his way inside with Keigo following close behind him.

Keigo fought hard to keep the frown off his face as he looked around the surrounding. His beloved Y/N grew up in such a dwelling when clearly, she should have been a queen.

Y/N’s father offered him a seat and even some drinks and food to the rich man who just refused.

“I’ll cut to the chase. I want to ask for Y/N’s hand.”

The peasant gasped incredulously.

“My lord, I cannot accept that offer. She is in Shukaku-sama’s service. I can’t with good conscious deprive of her duties,” he begged.

Keigo smirked. “Oh yes. The Goddess that still starves your family despite your devotion. Remind me how many of your crops survived this year? Or do you and your wife still starve yourself every night so that Y/N and her siblings can have something to eat?”

Y/N’s father looked away in shame.

Keigo seized the opportunity, seeing the peasant’s weakness. “Give her to me. I’ll adorn her like she deserves. She will sleep every night with a full belly. All the children that are blessed to Y/N and her future generation after won’t ever starve.”

The peasant was now shaking, just a little more.

“Even you. As Y/N’s immediate family will it not be her husband’s duty to take care of them? I will make sure all your children prosper. Though, I cannot make your crops grow. I can give you gold to buy all the food you will ever desire.”

Y/N father’s felt his heartache at the dilemma. For far too long the family has been struggling with meager rations and crops.

“I have to ask since she is my eldest daughter. Will you treat her with the respect a wife deserves? You won’t cast her aside, will you?”

Keigo felt his inwards burn with fury and felt the need to bury his claws and talons into this mortal. Even throw some of his sharpened feathers to turn him into minced meat. He forced himself to calm down as he breathed a deep breath through his nose.

“Of course not. I have made a journey all the way down here to ask for her hand from her father. I wouldn’t do that for a woman I was just going to set aside.” Keigo reassured the mortal.

Y/N’s father wiped the tears that welled up and solemnly nodded.

Keigo felt the first genuine smile since he came here threatening to creep upon his face and he became serious once more.

“Get her ready in a week. I will send supplies to make sure she’s ready for the journey,” Keigo said as he made to leave the shack.

Y/N’s father interrupted, “but my lord what will I tell her?”

Keigo shrugged and let a small smile bloom on his face. “Tell her she’s going to become a bride.”

With that, he hurriedly made to leave the slums that rank of animal feces, tracked mud and dirt everywhere. Keigo gathered his entourage as he made his way back to his temple that was worshipped by his cult. There he celebrated his win with a cup of sake.

“To Y/N and I’s future! May she forever remain lovely and exquisite as she does now.” He toasted brilliantly before drinking his sake.

  Wedding

 Keigo couldn’t help but sneak peeks at his bride. He was right she looked impeccable in the bridal clothes he had provided. Y/N was clearly nervous as her hands shook and she also snuck peeks at her husband. Keigo would flash warm smiles to her each time she did. Y/N would quickly turn away as she blushed.

With the wedding party settling down, Keigo was anxious to get Y/N alone. It had been hours of festivities as minor deities and nymphs visited disguised as humans. Y/N’s family, of course, wasn’t allowed to attend, instead, she had said her goodbyes in the morning before she was whisked away for preparations.

No, what his attention was currently focused on is discerning the secrets underneath the kimono of his lovely wife. When the last guest had retired to their home, Keigo helped his wife up. He took her to the room in his temple that would be their shared room. The futon was laid out along with some sake. Keigo quickly put away the sake as he didn’t want Y/N to get too drunk to enjoy their night.

He offered her his hand as he brought Y/N closer to him.

“Did your mother explain about your duties to your lord husband?” he whispered huskily in her ear as he toyed with the obi of her kimono.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she felt his warm breath sending goosebumps throughout her body.

“S-she did. She also told me that it would hurt,” Y/N whimpered out.

Keigo let out a chuckle.

“Y/N, I’m going to make you so delirious with pleasure you won’t feel a thing,” he promised as he undid the knot on her obi and took off her kimono.

The white layer underneath showcased just a bit of Y/N’s curves that he ached for so many days to touch and hold.

Keigo grabbed her face as he softly kissed her and coaxed Y/N to respond. Slowly and reluctantly she did as he subtly taught her the art of kissing. While she was busy, Keigo let his hands wander getting the hadajuban off her body. He slid the robe off and let it flutter down onto the tatami.

He pushed her down to the futon, still kissing her as she let out quiet, reluctant moans that Keigo cherished. He made his way to her neck, leaving behind marks showing his claim on her. Kissing the tops of her breasts, he caressed her thighs that had her keening for more. She grabbed his shoulders and tightened her hold on him, not knowing what she needed at that moment. Luckily for Y/N, Keigo's favorite type of lover to have were virgins. He loved the way they got all excited and needy from a few touches, he knew exactly what she needed.

He removed his own kimono before switching positions with Y/N to settle her on top of him. Y/N blushed as she felt her husband’s member hot against her juncture. She balanced herself by putting her hands on his chest and tried to get off.

Keigo grabbed her waist before she could.

“Stay. This way it will hurt less.”

Y/N started breathing erratically as he started to pluck her nipples and grinded against his hand when he checked her readiness. He could feel her virginal barrier still intact.

“I-I’m not sure what to do,” she confessed as she looked anywhere but at her husband.

When Y/N felt him shaking, she looked down to see him chuckling.

She felt his hands tightened around her hips. “I have you so don’t worry,” he reassured. “Though, you should probably start by putting my cock inside.”

Y/N spluttered at his straightforwardness and felt her face get even hotter. Keigo smirked, delighted she could be undone by a word, though by the time he’s through with her he’s going debauch her so thoroughly that she wouldn’t even look him in the eye for weeks.

Keigo reminded her to start by thrusting and grinding below her. Y/N whimpered in return as the contact sparked tingles through her core. She hesitantly grabbed his member, the temperature, and hardness of which perplexed her. Keigo exhaled, trying to remain in control as he watched the mortal he was obsessed with, fulfill his wildest fantasies.

She couched her hips nearer so that her entrance she was so intimately familiar with lined up and slowly sank onto his cock. Her breath hitched as he stretched her out so wonderfully, giving a pleasure that she had only felt through her fingers. Yet, her fingers couldn’t compare to the fullness that his cock inspired. The strange sensations of his ridges also provided extra stimulus.

Keigo held her steady as Y/N let his member in and out several times before finally letting him in deeper. Y/N licked her lips in nervousness as he was only a few inches in and the rest of him still to go. She hesitated before changing her mind and was about to withdraw. Keigo seeing Y/N’s second-guessing herself when she had made such good progress, made him impatient. He tried to wait he really did, but sometimes even an immortal can be tempted by earthly pleasures. He thrusted in fully, as he ripped through her hymen and filled her to the brim. Y/N choked out a gasp at the slight pain, but mostly pleasure as her body slumped forward.

“Come on wife show me what you can do,” he said as he nudged her to move.

Y/N straightened up and moved her hips. At first, her rhythm was all off and she kept her thrusts short and uneven. Still, she gained more and more confidence as she found what she liked and fulfilled her needs. Soon her body naturally started doing a wave of sorts as her hips rose and fell on his cock. Y/N gasped and moaned as sweat started dripping from her forehead and down her body. Keigo reached up and licked the salty moisture before it disappeared into the valley of her breasts.

She was truly a magnificent sight as Y/N evolved from a peasant girl into a God’s woman right before his eyes.

Y/N finally finding the rapture she was looking, sped up, and starting actively bouncing. Unable to keep his hands to himself, Keigo held the bouncing globes in his hands as he swirled his tongue and suckled. That proved to be too much for Y/N as she let out broken groans and clenched her eyes shut. The sensations exploded and overwhelmed her mind as Keigo helped her ride it out from below. She collapsed on top of him as her body rested.

Keigo helped her move to the side and spooned her from behind. He grinded into her back, his cock still pulsing with need. Moving Y/N’s hair out of the, he kissed her neck a few times before plunging his cock back into her. Keeping her flushed against his body as he had his hand over her waist to keep her still as his thrusts rocked her body back and forth.

She concealed her screams into her futon as he set about a harsh pace, faster than the one she had been used to. He stealthily trailed his hand down to her pussy. Her clit was well lubricated due to the moisture that gushed out each time he pulled out and slammed back in. Feeling himself get close, Keigo started rubbing her clit frantically, wanting to feel her walls squeeze him and greedily suck his seed into her womb.

Y/N despite muffling her sounds, got louder and louder, screeching as she came once again. Keigo groaned and nestled his face into her shoulder as he released his cum into her. Y/N groggily felt herself being tucked in beside him and a blanket soon covered them both before she drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later Y/N was hastily woken from her rest for the third time that night as Keigo took her over and over. As she keeled over from yet another orgasm, she blearily looked at her blonde husband who was panting above her and swore she saw his eyes turn gold and red wings erupt from his back.

[punkpoemprose]

December 10th- A Royal Portrait

Universe: Canon (Post Frozen 2, post Anna’s coronation, but before a KA wedding)

Rating: M-E (This teeters on the mature/ explicit line, read at your own risk)

Length: 3412 Words

A/N: I was in a bit of a rut, so I stole this lovely idea (with permission) from @kristanna who continues to do God’s work on her tumblr every day. The premise here, is of course, Anna sitting for a tasteful boudoir portrait that she sends to Kristoff while they’re apart. Not giving anything away here, but this is mature to say the least. There are also feelings and I actually did research. I apologize for nothing some things!

She thinks about changing her mind. She’s behind the dressing screen, completely naked, and Kristoff is up in the mountains, and no one ever sees her naked except for him. Not even her lady’s maids. She wasn’t particularly shy in any sense, but since she’d started seeing Kristoff there was something in her head that said that the only person that should see her naked was him. Or rather, that the only person that she wanted to see her naked was him. He’d never restrict her so. In fact they’d had an unpleasant conversation about just that point before he left for the mountains to lead the ice harvest. With Elsa living in Northuldra, the need for an Ice Master and Deliverer, someone to lead the harvesters into the mountains and ensure their safety, was more important than ever.

He’d heard that some royals, Queens and Kings in particular, often took lovers, most favored men and women of the court who attended to the regents needs when their spouse was ill fit for the task or off elsewhere. He’d brought it up with shaking hands and a downcast face, unable to look her in the eye as he told her that just because she was betrothed to him, just because they were to be married and soon would be, didn’t mean that he would stop her if she decided she needed someone else.

Her heart still ached. He’d been so nervous, so heart broken at the idea, but willing to submit to the mortifying ordeal for her sake. Even after she explained to him that it was something she’d never want, he’d seemed anxious. Sometimes she worried that he’d never see himself the way she saw him. In private quiet moments, he was so self-assured, so certain of their love, but when it came to the time they spent “entertaining” the aristocracy, or when they held court at the castle, he started to doubt himself. It hurt her in ways she couldn’t begin to explain, and she thought they maybe exile would be the best treatment for whomsoever mentioned the idea of most favored to him. It was a relic from a time where Arendelle’s rulers married for power instead of for love. It was a “tradition” that had died off with her Grandfather.

But his nervousness, even after being told as such, was enough to move her to action, to make her think of an entirely different conversation she’d had just a few weeks before.

When she had been officially crowned Queen of Arendelle, despite ruling since Elsa moved to Northuldra, there had been a weeklong celebration where other royalty from far and wide had come to celebrate. Anna had found herself very much enamored by a contingent of Princesses sent from surrounding Kingdoms and other countries and continents that considered themselves allies of Arendelle.

On the eve of their returns to their own homelands, they may have all spent the evening in Anna’s parlor getting a bit too wine drunk and giggly, sharing secrets and brilliant plans and becoming all in all, great friends. Kristoff had happily surrendered Anna for that night, and she knew that it brought him great joy to see her happily making friends and catching up on many years of doing so. He’d even managed, elsewhere, to become a bit comfortable with some minor nobility of Arendelle and with a man who was betrothed to the Princess of Corona. They’d found a comradery of sorts as she was, of course, one of the giggling women in Anna’s rooms.

They’d all at one point discussed the topic of photography, specifically boudoir photos which were evidently all the rage. Some girls had rather excitedly discussed their own personal sessions, sending them to their lovers, betrothed, and husbands, while others had mentioned that they themselves preferred the idea of having a painting done, and discussed their experiences with it. Anna had, of course blaming the wine, collected the name and contact information for a painter they’d recommended rather than a photographer, finding that she rather liked the idea of the tasteful nature a portrait leant to the whole matter.

She hadn’t expected to call upon the painter however, not until after her discussion with Kristoff.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and peeked nervously around the corner of her dressing screen to where a young woman stood smiling.

“Oh it’s fine to be nervous,” she said gently, “Most people are. If it helps, I’m very discreet.”

She had a soft French accent. Anna had been fortunate that she had been in the country doing some work for other clients when she’d reached out. It had only taken a day for her to come to the castle, and that meant that while Anna had planned to wait quite some time, she’d be able to gift the painting to Kristoff sooner rather than later.

Anna sighed, “It’s not so much that I’m worried about that… it’s just… Kristoff is usually…”

The young woman nodded, “Anna… if I may call you Anna?”

She nodded at that, “I wish more people would. Not that I dislike being Queen or anything, it’s just I like being more personal…” she laughed at herself then, “Well usually not this personal.”

That earned her a small chuckle from the other woman who nodded and continued.

“Anna, I often find the people I paint become more comfortable talking about the recipient before we paint. Maybe you’d like to slip a robe on and tell me about him?”

She found that idea very much to her liking and decided that she had been given an excellent recommendation after all. She’d be writing a discreet letter of thanks to a few Princesses after her session.

She did as she suggested and walked out, laying on her couch in her robe as the young woman did some preliminary sketching.

“So what is he like?”

Anna grinned, “He’s… he’s perfect really. I’ve never met someone so brave and funny in my life. He’s just, well he’d do anything for me, and I just… he gets insecure sometimes and I knew I had to do something for him…”

The woman nodded along, “I imagine it’s difficult being the Queen and having the man you love be of common birth. Others have married like you have, and there is always much love there, but it’s hard to navigate the climate of the court, is it not?”

Anna sighed, the young woman seemed to understand. “You seem to be doing well with it yourself, the court I mean,” she mentioned, knowing that the story others had told her about the young woman implied that she too was a commoner, and that was, of course, part of the reason she was so trusted and highly in demand by many an aristocratic lady looking for a particular sort of gift for their beloved.

“Yes, though I’ve been lucky to only have to work with those I want to work with. Some people, especially those who don’t think highly of people who aren’t of noble birth, aren’t really worth trying to talk to at all.”

Anna laughed at that. She’d met the type.

“But a word of advice for your Kristoff,” she said, turning from the canvas with a smile, “The court is but another mountain to climb to reach happiness.”

Anna gave the woman a wry smile, “How did you know he climbs mountains.”

The woman laughed, “Oh I always do my research, like I said, too many rude royals in the world, I have to know for sure that the person I’m painting for is going to be fun to speak with, and your love story is,” the woman held her hand to her chest and grinned broadly, “Well I’d love to hear more. I’m sure the gigglings of a few Duchesses don’t do it justice.”

Anna shrugged off her robe, feeling confident, and lazed on the couch as the woman excitedly started scribbling with her pencil on the canvas.

“I’ll start at the beginning. I was… unfortunately engaged to someone else…”

***

Kristoff was exhausted. He placed Sven in his stable and pulled from, a pail that Anna had sent along with him, a few carrots to give the reindeer.

Anna.

He thought of her with a heavy heart. He hated how they’d left things. He hated how he often let insecurity get in the way of their relationship. He loved her, and she loved him, and he knew in his heart of hearts that they would only ever want one another. She’d never so much as looked at another person with the love she showed him, and he’d heard a nasty whisper in court and completely lost sight of it. The truth of the matter was that Anna wanted to marry him, the people of Arendelle and most of its aristocracy wanted her to marry him as well. They were after all, marrying for love, but there were many who saw the other potential benefits of their union and they were a fairly well-liked couple as far as all went. Many were pleased that Arendelle’s new Queen was marrying for love like her father had before her, continuing the fairly new tradition of Arendelle’s monarchs wedding commoners for love instead of other aristocracy for political gain.

He’d been listening to the wrong voices, and it broke his heart to think that he’d upset Anna as a result. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d never be able to make it back to the capitol and back before he needed to be out on the ice in the morning to lead the harvesters in their work, he’d hitch up Sven again and head back home, hell he’d even walk there, if only to tell Anna that he was sorry for not believing in her the way he should have.

When he walked from the stable and found, carefully placed directly in front of the doorway into his cabin, a wooden crate.

He lifted it from the ground and brought it in with him, noting the horse prints in the snow in front of his cabin, but also seeing that Anna’s horse Kjekk was nowhere to be found, he realized that while it could only be from her, she must have sent it with a courier or guard to be deposited on his doorstep. He was both grateful to have something from her, and sad to see that she’d sent something along to him when he should have sent an apology to her. If only he could call the wind spirit to him the way Anna and Elsa could call it to themselves and send letters back and forth. He would love to send her even the simplest sorry.

He set to making himself something to eat before opening it. He wanted to know what she’d sent along, but also felt that he needed to punish himself by waiting before he was given the joy of opening something, she’d given him. Anna was too kind, always. She was feisty and opinionated and said what she thought, but she was also forgiving and compassionate, and he was certain that she’d taken what he’d said to heart in a way that made him feel like breaking.

He managed to down some flavorless mush of porridge and realized, just how used to palace cooking he’d become. He’d never complain about any food, knowing what it was like for those who had too little to eat, but also it was one more reason he longed to return home. He wanted to tell Anna that he loved her and that he trusted her and that he knew that what they had was real, and then he wanted to stare lovingly into her eyes while he ate something that tasted better than unflavored porridge. It was, of course in order of priority, though he thought that maybe he could do both at the same time if he just tasted her. She did love having his mouth on her.

He set the bowl down in annoyance when he felt his cock jump at the thought. He was supposed to be feeling bad about what he’d done, not horny.

He huffed and stood, moving towards the box she’d sent along, wishing again, that he’d not been so foolish and had taken the time to love her like she deserved before he left. The week could not possibly come to an end soon enough for him.

The lid had not been nailed onto the crate, which he was grateful for as he was sore and tired and didn’t have the energy to go and find something to break the seal with. He pulled it open carefully, the wood only giving a slight resistance to his efforts due to it being a bit damp from the snow.

Once he had it open, he smiled softly, seeing that there was something wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a book, and that with it there was a letter. She often read to him, and him to her. He thought that perhaps the wrapped parcel was a copy of whatever book she was reading while he was away, for him to enjoy as she did.

It was thoughtful.

He picked up the letter first, breaking the wax seal with a smile as he saw that she had pressed a small flower into it. Anna was excellent with details and small gestures in a way he found amazing. He was not great at planning out romantic gestures, his many failed proposal attempts highlighting that well enough.

She’d sprayed the letter with her perfume. As soon as he opened the envelope it filled the air around him. She’d once told him it was made from rose and bergamot, but to him it just smelled like Anna, and as he pulled the letter from its envelope and found himself inhaling the smell of her, reading her handwriting, his manhood decided that despite his exhaustion it was not giving him a break.

Kristoff, my love,

I miss you terribly. My bed was cold last night without you and without the promise of you not so surreptitiously sneaking into it tonight, I find my heart, along with…other parts of myself… aching for you.

Kristoff paused for a moment closing his eyes. He could scarcely believe that Anna had sent him something so raunchy. Though if he was being truthful it wasn’t so much that he thought that she was incapable of writing such a thing as he was surprised, she’d entrusted it with someone instead of simply arriving unannounced and telling him about it herself. She used to do such things, but her inability to simply take off and follow him without warning was the one downside of her new position as Queen.

He opened his eyes and looked back to the letter.

I’ve sent you a small gift, I hope you enjoy it as much in the receiving as I did in the sending.

Love always,

Your Anna

P.S. Yours and only ever yours.

He smoothed his fingers over her signature, his heart leaping at her postscript. She was impossibly perfect.

She was sometimes insecure too, mostly around points of change, but he did his best to always help her through. That she was doing the same for him, was enough to make his heart skip a beat. He still wasn’t sure of what he’d done to deserve her.

When he set the letter down and lifted the brown paper package from the box, he was surprised to feel that it had much less heft than a book normally did. He found quickly too, pressing the paper, that the back was hollow under his hand.

He undid the twine securing the package and found that written on the brown paper was again, an echo of her letter “Yours and only ever yours”. It made him even more curious, and while he had many thoughts about what it might be, he had never expected what the removal of the paper revealed.

He cursed quietly under his breathe as he gazed upon what he now realized was an unframed canvas. It was no larger than a book, and the amount of detail and expression it contained was unparalleled to anything else he’d ever seen, even in a photograph.

It was a painting of Anna, smiling a bit shyly, reclined on the couch in her bedroom. She was rendered splendidly, the artist perfectly picking up upon the little blush on her cheeks, the half-lidded look through the thickness of her lashes, the slight shine on her lips.

The fact that in the painting she was completely naked, her freckles meticulously added with the tiniest detail, was not lost on him. He knew each of those freckles well, and not a single one was out of place. He’d touched those freckles, counted them, committed them to memory and caressed and kissed and licked each and every one of them in the process of loving Anna.

His heart raced. She’d sent him a beautifully painted portrait of her entirely naked body.

His fingers brushed against the surface of the canvas. She’d posed for it. It wasn’t a last second thought to send him a novel or snack or piece of clothing he’d left behind. She’d sat and posed nude for a painting with the express intention to send it to him.

His and only ever his.

He leaned the beautiful thing on the box it came in and couldn’t help himself but to undo the ties of his trousers, sitting back in one of his rough kitchen chairs as he took himself in hand and stared at the perfectly captured details of her body.

The air around him smelled of her as he ran his hand up and down his shaft. This was what she wanted, and he knew it. She was almost certainly in her bed, laying on the side where he slept, touching herself to the thought of him.

He groaned into the silence of his cabin, “Anna!”

What he wouldn’t give for her to climb out of that painting. It was beautiful, a masterful recreation of her every curve, of the slight slope of her breasts, the blush on her cheeks that extended down her chest. It was all so perfectly Anna, but he would give anything for her to be there, for her to bend over his table and let him show her just how sorry he was for ever thinking for a moment that she’d want anyone but him.

He’d been a fool, but she had been wicked and kind in her forgiveness.

His palm pumped faster and harder as he thought of her touching herself for him, as he thought about her posing for that painting for him, as he fantasized about having her right there bent over the table.

When he came, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her, letting himself forget, if only for a moment, that he wasn’t at home with her, warm and snuggled at his side.

He was going to make love to her when he got back. She deserved more than a quick bout of apology sex. He was going to kiss every freckle again, double checking that portrait for accuracy. He was going to show her why he knew that he could be secure in the fact that she never wanted anyone other than him, and he was going to show her with his hands, with his mouth, and with his cock until she looked as absolutely debauched as he felt.

He was a mess, and as he opened his eyes, gazing upon the portrait, he knew that he owed Anna all that and more as a proper thank you. He’d put it back in it’s box in the morning and keep it with loving care under his bed until the next occasion presented itself that he’d be back.

The week absolutely could not pass quickly enough for him. As he straightened and cleaned himself, he thought again of her posing for that portrait, just for him. His sweet Anna bare and blushing, likely there for hours, just to give him something special.

This time his heart leapt at the thought. He laid himself in his bed and blew out his lantern, warm with the thoughts of her love, and how he would show her his appreciation.

[wolf-in-a-suit]

Freedom of press: Dominion style

Show: Star Trek DS9

Summary: Gul Dukat, the undisputed winner of the war, will not let anyone make fun of him! So, a hunt for the culprit- you- ensures. Throw in a Vorta, and a Ferengi, pushing their noses into other people’s business and there you have it: One stressful day, for the resident human left on DS9. Well, dear reader: I wish you the best of luck!

The day Gul Dukat started hunting a ghost, began with people smiling at his passing figure. Bayorans once more in the clutches of the Cardassians- with a little help from the Dominon- oppressed, and under his thumb on Terok Nor: Were smiling at the man, that conquered them! Were their delusional brains finally snapping? He passed the center of operation, and there it was again. Somebody sniggered behind his back! The great military leader whirled around, but every officer wore the exemplary of an impassive expression. Though, something had caught his keen eye.

He took three well measured strides to the youngest officer on duty, a small Bayoran male, and snatched the data pad in one fluent motion from his hands. Exalting at the horror crawling onto the young man’s face, Dukat allowed a self-satisfied smirk to grace his features. However, after his eyes ghosted over the first sentence, the muscles in his face began to loosen, the grin disappearing. After a whole paragraph his teeth were clutched tight, and the blood in his body reached critical temperature. "Who wrote this?" He demanded. Only silence answered, at first. Finally, the young officer caved under the intensity of the smoldering black eyes. Stuttering he grasped for any word, in order to form a coherent sentence: "Nobody knows w...who p...posts these... articles. We’re... not even... s...sure if it's a Bayoran o...or someone else." Black eyes narrowed, a very low voice, promising years of pain for the next transgression- or disrespectful gulp of breath- retorted: "Articles!?" The s stretched into a long, hostile hiss. Looking at the terrified faces of the personnel, he knew he got all the information- as pitiful as it had been- out of them. When the Gul reached the conference room for his daily meeting with Damar, and that weasel Weyoun, he was seething. Articles, indeed! There existed quite a few of them. Each a greater jab, at the competence of the new ‘already crumbling command - short ACC' than the last. One of them described himself, attending the great harvest ceremony of Bayor as a guest of honor,- he could be quite persuasive, and ever the diplomat- Weyoun had claimed, attending would smooth things over with the locals. The first thing that assaulted his eyes was a photo of him stumbling into the Kai, in a very much undignified manner. If he remembered correctly, this had been the result of one of these filthy farmers tripping him- the last thing he ever did-, yet the article came to a very different conclusion: 'It's so nice to see our esteemed Gul enjoy himself, after all that hard work keeping a few officers on DS9 in check. Though, perhaps he should cut back on the Kanar, lest he starts molesting our Kai.' The audacity! He would see whoever was behind this decaying in the depths of the Cardassian work camps! "Why the gloomy face Dukat? What possibly could have irritated your normally so composed person, hmm?" The Vortas eyes twinkled with mischief, blue lightning mixing into the violet hue of his eyes. Bam! In one swift motion the Cardassian slammed down the pad, right before the diplomat. To Dukats ire this did little to impress, least of all startle the hated man. The only reaction Weyoun graced him with was a raised eyebrow. "And what could that be, now?" "Some low life has the gall to ridicule us in anonym articles!" He pressed through gritted teeth. He expected surprise, anger perhaps, or panic on the face of this annoyance. What he got was: A fake yawn.

"I must say, it took you quite some time to stumble upon them. Not that I expected better of course." Dukat was dumbfounded, then anger from an untapped source deep inside, welled up. In contrast, his demeanor became very still. "How is it..." he began in an almost civil tone "that you don't inform me, about rebels UNDERMINING OUR OPERATIONS!?" The scream was a hot coal that finally dropped, very liberating. The Vorta, like always, payed no heed and had simply grabbed the pad and started reading. Here that little weakling sat, legs crossed, the pad held before him: The picture of a man on a slow Sunday, reading the comics in the morning paper. A chuckle shook his whole frame. "This is my favorite: ‘I must defend our beloved Gul on his actions against the drunk, ninety year old Bayoran: Everyone who came into contact with someone at such a headstrong age can agree that there is no escape, no action against a cane crashing to your behind’. Weyoun turned the pad and sure enough, a picture of an old Bayoran connecting his cane with Dukat's hindquarters littered the display. With a lightning fast flash of gray scaled hands the pad was snatched from the Vorta’s grasp and flung through the room. Crash. The impact, and cluttering of tiny pieces to the ground was the only sound resonating in the suddenly very silent room. Gul Dukat took a deep breath, flaring nostrils stilled somewhat. When he opened his eyes again, they shifted like lava of a Vulcan on the verge of erupting. "I will find the one responsible! And. Make. Them. PAY!"

"And one Ra'taj coming up, for my favorite human of the station." The Ferengi slid a steaming cup over the counter, his smile exposing sharp, bend teeth gleaming in the light. Expertly snatching the cup and taking a swing of bitter liquid, a trained motion almost second nature after years spend on DS9, you watched the short man with a dubious expression. "Quark, I am the only human on the station." He scoffed "Semantics! Any paying customer is a good customer, even-" and here he regarded your beverage with distaste "-if they prefer to drink something destroying every flavor receptor on their tongue." You couldn't hold back a grin. "Rule of Acquisition number... ?" "That's just common sense honey, speaking of which..." He leaned over the counter, his eyes losing their mocking quality. "I love good reading material like the next guy, but in times like these, it's the writers who lose their heads first! Would be really stupid, to poke a sleeping Tark if you ask me." "Quark, are you worried about little, old me?" While you feigned surprise, Quark blocked with the shrug of his shoulders. "Not at all, I just have too much Ra'taj on my hands, and you're the only customer drinking that stuff!" The last swing of the bitter brew streamed down your throat and you knocked on the bar in parting. "I think you're just going soft, in your old days." The annoyed look of the barkeeper followed your exiting form. Slowly, the annoyance was replaced by worry, and dread creeping into his expression. This was however, easily hidden once a new customer entered. "Welcome to Quarks! What can I help you with? " Sweat formed on your brow and trickled down your neck, even though it wasn't anywhere near warm in the cargo bay. He was on to you! You simply knew it. Trice this day, you had tried to link your pad to the main computer, in order to publish your newest article and every time Gul Dukat had somehow appeared out of thin air in the vicinity. You had no idea how he did it. Your only consolidation was his searching gaze, indicating that he wasn't onto you just yet. But judging from the smoldering look on his square features, it was only a matter of time. So, that was how a rabbit felt when the snake slowly sneaked around it, ready to smother all air from its tiny lungs. Speaking of air, had it always been this hard to breath? Crash. The steel tire vibrated only for a second, the pain in your fist however would sting for quite some time to come. 'Pull yourself together! You knew this could happen, don't chicken out now!' Red defiant, untamed hair flashed through your inner vision. Major Kira would never weaver like this! Fresh air streamed into your lungs, after the large inhale your hands were only left somewhat shaking. You stepped next to the console, ready to begin the upload. The rhythmic beeping of the control panel soothed your clenched muscles.

"Well, this certainly is interesting!" You whipped around and sure enough: Behind you sitting on a crate, legs crossed was Weyoun. The embodiment of the powerful Dominion, crushing any resistance in its way. With a steaming cup in hand, he was the very picture of confidence, and superiority. And,... was that smell... you sniffed, catching the scent of Ra'taj. The creepy smile on the man’s face let no room for doubt: ‘No, I don't enjoy it, just showing off, how much I know about your insignificant existence.’ When he realized, that you got the message, his smile stretched even wider, almost turning feral. Violet eyes, gleaming in the dark. "My, my such courage. Such… defiance." His cheerfulness did little to hide the cutting edge of his tone, dragging over your flesh ready to draw first blood. The only thing you could choke out, was a weak: "How d..did y...you know?" "My dear, you didn't delude yourself for one minute that I wasn't aware of what is going on, on my station, hmm?" "N...no!?" 'Damn this stammering, Kira would be ashamed!' "Well then." With a wush and an inexplicable grace, the Vorta flopped down to the floor. "While your articles have been, rather... amusing. I think, it would be time to try your delicate hands-" here he gingerly took your cold hand into his "-at something new. Before Gul Dukats reputation- or your life- is damaged, beyond repair. Wouldn't you agree?" These unnatural eyes burned into yours, driving the point home that this wasn't a request. While the tightening of his grip on your hand added: 'I might be a diplomat, but this isn't a negotiation. Don't let it become a tribunal!' Your nod was very weak, but he seemed to still pick up on it, in the shadow filled room.

"Excellent! Now that we are probably acquainted, I look forward to seeing you far more often." His purr sent shivers down your spine, fear and something you couldn’t place, mixing into an unknown emotion. The weight on your hand vanished and instead of the humanoid skin, the ceramic of a cup warmed your too cold extremities. "Drink up! After all, you have a long shift ahead, and you must be exhausted after writing for three days, on that new- very amusing I might add- article about Damar." If your blood pressure was low before, the ice setting in your veins at his words couldn't be very beneficial. The Vorta turned and headed to the door. "Such a shame, that no one is going to read it." With the wush of an automatic door, he was gone. But the sentiment of paranoia he gifted you with, would stay with you for a long time to come. In the end, you stood frozen in the dark room, not daring to move a muscle. Finally, when the warm glow of the cup dissipated, you started to regain control of your shaking muscles, and headed out.

[clairedullion-blog]

The Peasant and the Persimmon

This is a quick little story inspired by the AMAZINGLY talented Goodnight Moon ASMR. She makes super cool videos that I think you guys will love! This story is based on a snip from this video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7qL7zvJ0r4  as well as a map made by one of her subscribers, which can be found here: http://imgur.com/6Xidspz

I hope you all like it! Please tell me what you think! 

~CD

Glanham Forest was a bit risky this time of year. The winds from the mountains nipped at the bare skin of  the tavern girl's nose as she trekked onward, going deeper into the woods in search of nature's finest, freshest ingredients. She did not mind the long walk to the forest, or even the chilly weather the season had brought. She was an honest and hardworking girl, determined to please the customers of her beloved Babblebrook Inn. Even the picky customers, who demanded strange components to be included in their meals, would leave the Inn satisfied, and would often return.

This week, a nice pot of homemade stew was on the menu, and thus the tavern girl had set out for Glanham. Basket in hand, she strolled through the forest, picking wild growing herbs and vegetables to serve. Alone in the woods, she hummed quietly to herself—a sweet melody she remembered from childhood. Once she was satisfied with the contents of her basket, she made for the path that lead back to town. However, after a few moments, she spotted something just off the path. A beautiful persimmon tree, full of beautifully ripe fruit ready to be harvested. There it stood in all it's glory, and the girl smiled at the thought of surprising the guests with a lovely apple and persimmon tart for dessert. She wandered off the path and up to the tree, picking enough of the fruits to satisfy the whole town of Harbington.

As she returned to the path, she heard something behind her. A rustle of bushes? She quickly turned but did not see anyone there, so she kept walking forward. Then, she heard the noise again, only now it was much closer. Again she looked back, and again she saw nothing. Still, the girl did not worry, for it was likely nothing but a rabbit frolicking about in the shrubs of the woods. But when she turned around, she was startled, for now, blocking her path, stood a tall figure, with long, dark hair and a cloak of black feathers. Although she did not know for sure, she knew that this woman was Belladonna, the Nightshade Witch. The girl had only ever heard stories about her, merely whispers from the townspeople as they gossiped about. But now, standing before her, the poor girl couldn't help but be frightened for her life.

Belladonna glared at the girl, then quickly removed a knife from her own basket and pointed it towards her. The maiden gasped, clutching her basket close to her chest.

“What are you doing here?” the witch rasped in an eerie tone, knife still pointed.

“I-I come from Harbington,” the girl stuttered out.

“Harbington?” Bella repeated.  “That stuffy old cluster? I almost feel sorry for you,” she feigned a sad expression, but quickly returned to a grimacing one. “But I'm afraid you're in my woods. I grow my ingredients here, and I don't remember giving permission to some commoner to come and harvest what they please.”

“Please, I mean you no harm,” the girl reasoned. Her own confidence shocked her, but she carried on nonetheless.

“Oh, of course you don't,” Bella mocked. “And I know you won't, not after I slice you to smithereens.”

With that, Belladonna took another step towards the girl, who instinctively took one back, but did not cower in fear. Rather, she chuckled a bit, more out of nervousness than bravery. Bella was slightly taken aback by her actions, and slowly moved the knife away from the girl's throat.

“What will you give me, in exchange for your life?” Bella asked.

The girl reached into her basket, not breaking eye contact with the witch. She held out one of the persimmons, at which Bella sneered before letting out a small laugh.

“You'd bet your life on a piece of fruit?” she asked, laughing again. “Silly girl. I'll play along. Give it to me.”

The girl tossed the persimmon to the Nightshade Witch, who in turn cut it open in one swift movement of her knife before taking a bite. Her eyes widened as her tongue was surprised with one of the juiciest, most delicious fruits she'd ever eaten.

“Well?” the girl asked.

“It is flawlessly ripe, my dear,” Bella said calmly before she put the knife away into her basket and taking another bite of fruit. “I guess this means you may go.”

“Thank you,” the girl sighed, a rush of relief falling over her as she walked past the witch and continued back to the Inn. “Again, I apologize for the intrusion of your woods.”

“Let's make a deal then,” Bella said with a grin. “Next time you come to my woods, we'll play this game again. Maybe you can surprise me with something you've cooked yourself.”

“Does that mean I can come back and not get, what was it? 'Sliced to smithereens'?” the girl responded with a smile. “Until next time, Miss Bella.”

Belladonna simply nodded, and the girl turned back to the path. She looked behind her to say something else, but the witch had already disappeared back into the mountain.

[imagine-loki]

A Warrior’s Life

TITLE: A Warrior’s Life CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: ChapterTwelve AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE:

Imagine Viking Loki coming to your village, raiding and pillaging, before deciding there is something about you that intrigues him and deciding to take you back to Asgard with him. There, you are forced to learn a new life and language, and though you hate what has happened to you, you learn that Loki is not as bad as you think.

RATING: Mature.

NOTE: Some smut in this chapter

Thor just stared at the young woman across the room; her head held high, her eyes fixed on his. Loki looked at his brother to gauge his reaction.

“I’m sorry, what?” Came Sif’s voice from in the bedroom. “Did she just say her father was a King?”

“What’s an Ulaidh?” Thor seemingly snapped out of his trance by his wife’s questions.

“It’s not a what, it’s a place. It consists of several areas of land in my realm.” Maebh’s expression was neutral as she answered. “I do not care if you believe me or not, it does not change what I was or what I am now. But answer this, have your lands ever suffered the same conflicts?” she asked.

“Not ours, this is the first generation in recent times that there are two sons,” Loki admitted. “Our father was the only heir, his father Bor, the only one before him, and so on, but yes, we have heard of such things before.

“The brother usually tries to take the queen as his wife,” Thor added.

“Funny, our lands are so far apart, yet so alike; my mother was made such an offer also.”

“And she refused? Would that not have cost her her life?” Thor asked.

“It almost did, but she had a habit of being armed at all times, so when my uncle went to strike her with his sword, she used her dagger to slice his face and we fled until we got to that cottage.” She shrugged. Both men’s eyes widened at the response.

Sif had decided that there was reason enough to pull herself from her bed and walked to the door frame, and much to Maebh’s delight, she wrapped a pelt around her husband’s naked waist. The woman laughed at Maebh’s blatant relief “You really are a maiden.” She simply stated laughing. Even with everything else that was happening, Maebh blushed.

“We have to tell father.” Thor decided. “He needs to know.”

“He is in Alfheim at present.” The brothers looked to Sif. “He left the day after you two went hunting. According to your mother, he will arrive back within the month.”

Thor sighed. “We will have to tell Baldr at the very least by then.”

Loki nodded in response to Thor hardly listening; his attention had been caught by Maebh’s face. She seemed to have realised why what she had said had been of great value to them, and clearly, she was not the least bit happy about it. When her eyes met his, he would have bet everything he had that what she was portraying in hers were betrayal and guilt.

“Until such time as we can contact father, there is little else we can do. I will tell Baldr when I see him or you should if you see him before me.” Thor decided, Loki took his attention off Maebh and agreed with Thor. “Well, then, who wants some breakfast.” Thor clapped his hands together and smiled as he headed to the kitchen. Maebh just stared as Thor walked by in merely a pelt, completely unfazed by his severe state of undress.

“One thing about my husband.” Sif smiled walking up next to the thrall. “He is not the least bit shy about himself.” She leant in closer “And who could blame him?” she smiled wickedly. Maebh just shook her head in disbelief, leading to Sif laughing as she walked behind him.

“She is right; my brother does seem to have an aversion clothes. Mother had to scold him as a boy for running around the village with nary a stitch.” Loki admitted as he stood next to her, putting out his hand, as though to indicate for her to lead the way. Maebh just sighed as she came to the conclusion, all Asgardian were just mad; she had met little evidence to the contrary.

“Maebh?” the thrall looked up at Helga. “What God’s are there on Midgard?”

“There is but one. The Almighty God and Father.” She responded indifferently. She had never had time for religion.

“What?” Nafi and Thodin were intrigued into the conversation, and though they merely listened, so were the adults. “So you only have Odin?”

Maebh thought to the children’s grandfather, the King, but soon realised they meant the one the called the Allfather. “Something like that, but he is simply called God.”

“Tell us about him.” Helga pleaded.

Maebh looked to their parents, who nodded their consent, and she began to tell the children of Adam and Eve, Jesus Christ, his sacrifices for man and all other stories regarding the faith she had been raised on. As she went on, everyone’s faces became more and more disbelieving.

“And you believe that?” Helga asked sceptically.

“No, but it is what the people of Midgard believe.” She replied.

“And what do you believe?” Thor asked.

Maebh looked at him directly as she answered. “I believe it to be futile to look to beings that do not exist only for stories to expect anything in this world. Look at those monks you killed on Midgard, did their precious God save them. Or your warriors, where was their beloved Odin then?” she asked.

“Thor will strike you with Mjolnir for saying such things,” Thodin stated. Maebh looked to the golden haired man in a pelt in front of her, wondering what in Hel a Mjolnir was. “Not my father, the god Thor.”

“Are you all named after your gods?” she asked baffled.

The families laughed. “No, just Thor, Loki, Frigga, Odin and Sif are god’s names, we are named after them,” Sif replied.

“Why have you so many? Gods, I mean.”

“Because each God has a particular purpose; Thor, the God of Thunder, Storms and fertility, Loki, the god of Mischief, Chaos and Lies, Sif, the Goddess of the Harvest, Frigga, the Goddess of Marriage and Childbirth, and Odin, the Allfather, God of all. There are more of course.” Sif explained.

“And do you think their presence in your lives makes any difference to them? Would not everything that happens you still happen anyway?” She asked somewhat snidely.

“Since you went from being a princess to a thrall, surely you should wonder is a lack of a God or Gods the reason for your predicament.” Loki retorted. Maebh swallowed hard and did not respond. She merely remained standing as the rest ate, ready to help Nafi should he need it.

After the breakfast, Thor declared he wished to continue sleeping, and Loki decided he too wanted to rest, having not seen his bed the night before, and it was once again agreed that they would tell Baldr when they saw him and to inform Odin on his return before Loki called for the cart once more, and they left. The journey back was filled with silence. The air still thick from Maebh’s belittlement of their Gods and Loki’s response. When they returned to their home, Loki handed the reins to the nearer of the farmhands and walked straight into the house to sleep. Maebh stood staring at the shield, still standing by the door, sadly. She regretted not just pressing the damn thing into his throat completely.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was mid afternoon when Loki rose from his sleep, he was still tired, but work needed doing. The house seemed empty but he could hear Maebh and Nafi outside as the thrall seemingly had decided to continue teaching the young boy how to fight with a shield. Loki’s mind went back to the morning when she stood over him, shield pressed to him, over his very lifeblood, in that moment, his life was entirely in her hands, and if he was honest, he had no idea whether or not she would release him. The coldness in her grey eyes gave nothing away. He bit his lips together thinking of the grunts she had made as she fought him, wondering would she be as vocal in other manners.

As had happened many other times he thought of Maebh, he felt his body react, he stretched slightly before sliding his hand into his sheets and pulled himself free. He closed his eyes and thought of her foot against his chest, her large breasts that struggled to remain tamed within her clothes as she fought, and the sensation of her against him as he tried to disarm her. He stroked himself with extravagant twists of his wrist and bucked furiously into his own touch. Having now heard the noises she was capable of and having felt her skin upon his, he felt as though he would never have anything resembling stamina again. He could not help how he called her name over and over as he came closer and closer to his release thinking of her.

He opened his eyes for a moment sensing himself to no longer be alone. At the end of his bed by the door, was Maebh. At first, he thought her to be just a vision from his mind, but her hair was slightly dishevelled as it had been earlier from their fighting, and her eyes showed her exhaustion. He quickly realised she must have come to him calling her, unaware of why he had been doing so. She stood in shock, eyes wide and seemingly unable to move. It was then he realised he had not even slowed his hand, it continued to stroke up and down his length with vigour as he looked upon the object of his lust. He stared her right in the eye until the final moment when his release became so intense he had to close his eyes as his body spasmed, his seed shot onto his chest and stomach, and he nearly roared her name, informing all within the grounds of his home exactly who he was thinking of. It took him a few moments to be able to breathe again and longer still to compose himself. When he looked toward the door again, it was wide open, and the room empty once more, except for himself.

For a moment Loki felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and the way in which he less than ceremoniously continued to relieve himself as Maebh stood watching, but then he realised he had little reason to be, he was the master, it was his home, his room, she should have knocked before entering, he should not have to answer for basic urges, or so he tried to convince himself as he washed off his seed. He dressed fully again and went into the main part of the house once more, Nafi was in his room shouting around as he pretending to still be battling. Loki told him to be quieter, but to continue playing, his son smiled happily and obeyed. When Loki arrived into the kitchen, he was met with an over studiously Maebh working at cutting up some of the boar Loki had killed on the hunt for the dinner. When she looked up and saw him, her eyes went wide again and her face turned ruby red, she turned to bolt for the door; but tripped over the shield that Nafi had been playing with, causing her to fall to the floor with a sharp shriek.

Loki quickly realised it was not the shriek of someone merely falling to the floor, but of someone who was in quite some pain. He rushed over and saw blood, fear coursed through him and he grabbed Maebh to turn her around to see where she was injured. He looked at the crimson fluid that was now staining her dress, trying to find the source. Maebh was gripping her hands together, when he pulled them apart he gasped, sticking out of her right hand at the wrist was the knife she had been using to cut the meat. It was deeply embedded and Loki winced just looking at it. He looked at Maebh in the eye; hers filled with pain, her breathing hitched, like she knew what he was going to say.

“I am going to have to pull it out.” She nodded and looked down at it, willing her breathing to settle as she watched her master get a clean rag and return to her, holding it under the wound to wrap it when it was readied. “I’m sorry, but this will hurt.” She nodded again. He gripped the knife as tight as he could, and pulled it as fast as he could, not wanting to prolong her pain. Loki watched as Maebh’s eyes filled with tears, but she refused to shed them, she leant into his shoulder as he wrapped the wound tightly, trying to not think of the pain. When he had finished wrapping it he seemed to notice where she had positioned herself. “We, uh, we have to make sure it does not get infected. When the bleeding calms we’ll have to put salve on it.” He pulled her away from him, her face was slightly paled as he looked down at her, when her eyes met his, he stared for a moment, realising they were not merely grey, but an array of blues and greys amalgamated into two small orbs. Suddenly, it seemed Maebh recalled what she had walked in on not long before, before blushing profusely again and making some comment about washing the blood off the dress before it scared Nafi as she darted out of the room.