#opin chapter 3

[the-kr8tor]

What is Normal for the Spider is Chaos to the Fly

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW violence and gore, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW food mention.

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CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Eyes closed, you breathe in the fresh spring breeze, the first of many this season. Pollen makes your nose itch, bees buzz around the field of flowers, yellow dots kissing the soft petals. A babbling brook sits near you, perfect spherical rocks worn down by the waters makes you want to skip them across the transparent clean water where fish lie and swim right under the currents.

The bright sun above shines down on you, its light fighting through your eyelids and through the canopy of the oak tree. Its strong trunk provides the perfect back rest, the wood is stable and protective of your relaxed form. Like the softest carpet, the green grass below is splayed under you. Blades of grass and wildflowers swaying amidst the wind just like how your lashes flutter with every soft blow of the cool air.

“Why'd you stop?” Hobie asks from below. You crack open your eyes to see his lopsided smile, jade eyes crinkling in the corners. His head is resting on your lap, fingers absentmindedly playing a tune on the beaten up guitar on his chest. There's flowers in his hair, courtesy of you. “C’mon, lovie, I was just starting to fall asleep.”

You chuckle, and he smiles wider. The sun bathes you in its glow, a halo of light around your head, a heavenly sight for a mere mortal. “You're spoiled you know.” You realize your fingers are in his hair, soft fingertips paused on his skin. Your vision goes blurry, with a blink, everything shifts back. “So spoiled.”

“Says the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He says it with no ounce of malice.

“How'd you know about spoony?” You joke, he laughs, a sound better than anything you've ever heard of. “How was work?”

“Lonesome, you didn't come by.” You tilt your head, lips pursing into a soft smile. “Do I still smell like gunpowder to you?”

“No, you smell like flowers.”

“Is it too late to say that I'm allergic to ‘em?”

You giggle, “No you're not. You haven't even sneezed.” Grabbing a daisy from his hair to wiggle it under his nose, his face scrunches up comedically, and then he fakes a sneeze. The loudness of it startles the birds nesting by the branches, wings fluttering rapidly further away.

“Good job, you scared the birds.” You look down at him, hand inching closer to the daisy ring you've made a while ago.

“What? I can't sneeze?” His eyes are glued to you, the sun paints a pretty picture of his viridescent eyes shining in the light.

With a deep inhale, you take his hand away from the guitar, slipping the flower ring you've been itching to place on his finger. Hobie seems to freeze up either in your touch or the sight of the makeshift ring. You show him your hand, an identical white flower whose stems are wrapped gingerly around your middle finger.

“Ta dah.” You say shyly. The tightness around your chest clenches at his silence. “I'll take it off, I'm sorry. I thought—”

Hobie quickly reaches up to shield the ring away from you, “No, don't—it’s brilliant. Thank you.” You beam at him as he intertwines his fingers around your own, the rings in full display. “Suits me, I think. But it looks better on you.” You inhale, the comfortable warmth is replaced by icy air. Everything shifts.

The breeze is colder now, the grass is frozen under your feet, frost clinging to each blade. The canopy is no more, only dark angled branches with tiny leaves hang off the precious oak tree. A puff of smoke billows out of your dry lips, Hobie hugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm, body heat shielding you from frost bite.

“Cold?”

“Yes, very.” You shiver, and he holds you closer. “This sunset better be worth it, Hobie, I had to put down a really good botanical book for this.” You say, cheek pressed atop his chest, breath warming his neck. You'd choose him over any book.

“First sunset of the season, love. It's worth it, I promise.” Without a second thought, he takes his coat off to place it over your shivering shoulders. You huddle closer, wrapping yourself around him. Sharing your warmth.

Blue slowly ebbs away as he pulls you closer. The clouds part ways for red and orange, pink splashes across the sky, a watercolour painting that leaves you gasping for air. Or was it his lips upon yours for the first time that has you heaving for air?

Hobie kisses you with the gentleness only a lover could provide, yet with the tentativeness of someone who isn't sure you'd kiss back. The pads of his fingers brush along your jaw, ghosting over your flustered flesh. With a sigh and a pull on his jacket collar, you kiss back. Lips pecking the corner of his own, clouds of smoke mixing in, hands warm on your searing cheeks— he slowly leads you towards the same oak tree. Your back hits the wood with an almost silent thump, his hand protecting the back of your head. Eyes closed, you memorize his lips by kiss alone. Your hands knead at his nape, he shivers not from the cold.

“I'm in love with you.” He says it confidently, like he's been saying it to himself for years. He feels like he has.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that.” Your eyes meet his own in a dance. Eyes flicking down to his lips, jade eyes looking between your blown out eyes and your quivering lips. “I've been in love with you. For a really long time.” You feel his lips open, mouthing the three words back against your own. It's barely above a whisper but you know that he'll scream it if you asked.

A flash of his warm hands around your own, a glimpse of a knife carving yours and his initials on the wood that you both call home. A muffled promise lingers in your ears, soft, just like his lips on yours.

You open your eyes and you see him above you. Hobie pinches your nose with a laugh, calloused fingertips squeezing lovingly at you, emerald eyes swimming with affection. The warm air passes by, humidity stuck in your nose. The sweat of your brow is quickly wiped away by him.

“Stop sayin' that, yeah?” You don't remember what you said. “You're bloody gorgeous, she doesn't know real beauty even if it hits her powdered arse.”

“Hobie!” You laugh, hands planted on his hips, the fabric of his shirt is hitched up for easy access. “She's still my aunt, and my legal guardian.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile agrees with him, but if you say it out loud you're afraid that the ground will swallow you alive and Hobie will be ripped away from you.

“It's a nice day today, you plannin’ on gropin’ me the whole afternoon?”

“Yep!” You look down at where his hands are placed, palms cupping you right above your ribs. “You planning on doing the same to me?”

“Say otherwise and I'll take my hands away from you—”

“No!” You say quickly before he could finish.

Hobie guffaws loudly, face leaning closer to yours. You close your eyes, expecting the expected. Instead, his head falls on the crook of your neck, blowing warm air into your skin.

Your laughs echoes around the clearing, fading into the sound of leaves crunching under your footsteps.

Orange leaves fall down on you like rain, a puff of breeze settles in your muscles, rattling your bones. Despite the cold, you inch your way closer to him, his smile beckons you over, grassy spring coloured eyes lighting up at the mere sight of you. His back resting on the strong oak tree that carries both your names.

“You know, we could always meet up at your place now that you're the up and coming associate.” You hold your hand out towards him, his fingers slide on your palm so naturally that you think you're made for eachother. “We can stop sneaking around now thanks to you.”

Hobie feels like he can finally breathe once he has his hands on you. He twists your wrist gently, leaning down, he presses a quick kiss on your pulse, eyes meeting your own. Years of being together, and he still makes your heart race.

Warm lips on your skin, he pecks it again for good measure before leaning away and pulling you closer. His hands are around your hip, while you wrap yours over his shoulders. “We could. But even after all my hard work, your aunt still doesn't—won't approve of us together. I'm me and you're you, love. What would they say when they see their heiress skulkin’ around the harbour, hm?”

“They won't say anything because I'm good at skulking around.”

“Or they'd say you're hurtin' your prospects of a good husband.”

“Fuck them! You and my garden are all I need.”

He calls your name solemnly, “we have to face the fact that—”

“What? That I'll be stuck in a loveless marriage in the near future?” You shake your head. “I refuse.” A humourless laugh breaks through.

“Good thing you said that or this will be awkward.” Hobie takes out a pair of gold rings from his pocket, it shimmers in the sunset, cold metal upon his warm trembling hands. “It took me a hundred days to save up for them, they're scraps from the factory. All melted together to make a pair.”

“Y–you're stealing from us now?” You could barely finish your joking sentence with the sob fighting to escape your throat.

Hobie laughs, a breathy one that has you mentally making up another joke just to hear it again. “Been at it since they hired me.” He hands you one, not sliding it down your finger, no, he places it right in the middle of your palm. “Remember those daisy rings you made years ago?” You nod, eyes brimming with tears. “I've made ‘em real this time. But the next one would be pure gold, none of the mixed ones I've melted with it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as you glance at the gold ring that is a hodgepodge of different shades of yellow gold. Some seem to be darker, some lighter. “You deserve real ones.”

“You could make me a ring out of grass and wood, and I'll still wear it everyday.” Taking the ring, you slide it into your middle finger, a promise, he says in your ears, a promise, you repeat against his lips as you slip his own ring around his finger. A promise you both carved out into the tree and into your hearts, a promise that you'd carve out into your skin if you could.

The smell of burning wood wakes you up with a start, You've woken up with tears trapped in your eyelashes.

Your eyes open to a boiling pot of brown liquid. It's familiar, awfully so that you've hated it, it reminds you of someone you'd rather not remember. Looking up at the sky that is darkened to a pale blue, turning the orange and green plains into its royal colour— The roaring open fire is the only bright thing in sight, a yellow glow amidst all the bitter blue.

The amber flames screams among the dead silence and the vast emptiness, ‘Someone’s here! Someone’s alive over here!’ yet, you don't feel like you are.

You cough from the cold, throat itching from dryness. Lifting your hands up to tug the blanket further up, you now notice the deep crescent moons left on your palms. Some even bled through the night, dried blood decorating the lines on your palms and under your fingernails.

“You're awake. Good.” Hobie's voice hits you like a carriage, sleep ridden mind still hazy. For a second you thought that you're still dreaming of him. But his solid form and smoke from his cigarette resting on a stone says he's real. Your mind can't dream of something so tethered to reality like this. “You want some?” He rattles the now empty tin cup, brown liquid dripping from the rim to the ground below.

“You're offering me a cup?”

He furrows his pierced brows. “‘course, there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. Do you have something to eat instead? Or water?” Sitting up, you wipe the sleep off your eyes. Your joints hurt, stomach gurgling, and ankle aching. You hate it here, he's the only one that's making everything bearable even though he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than be with you. It still hurts, thinking that he does.

“Yeah.” Standing up with a groan, it seems like sleep didn't agree with him either. There's bags under his eyes, worsened by the shadow from the brim of his hat. Taking something from his pack on Buckeye, who still slumbers quietly, he holds out a canteen and a piece of dried meat wrapped in cloth. “‘ere.” The familiar scar on the back of your hand has him reeling away. He remembers the day you got it, he remembers how his hand trembled as he stitches your hand back together.

“Thank you.” You say, stiffly smiling. He nods, returning back to his seat.

Breakfast went over fast, with dawn turning into morning, and the crisp air warming down, you take the blanket off your shoulders. Bucky trotts on the road, coyotes chirp on your left and a tumbleweed passes by on your right. It feels like you and Hobie are the only people on the road, or even in the whole world.

You clear your throat, attempting to break the quiet after riding for hours in absolute silence. “So���are you an outlaw? A mercenary for hire, or even a trapper?”

“‘m one of those things, yes.”

“So mysterious. You know you're still an open book to me.” Looking over your shoulder, he grabs your chin to make you look away and to keep your eyes on the dirt road. To which you laugh at. “Yep, still an open book.” It's true that you still know him for the man that he was, but there's missing pieces of him in your mind. You intend to dive to find the pieces so you could piece together who he is today. Before you go home, before you part forever again.

“How would you know?” Hobie tamps down a smile even though you won't be able to see it. “Maybe I've changed in those five years.”

“Oh you have.” You'd know. “But I can still see through you. I know you, Hobart Brown. Or did you also change your name too?”

“It's Larry now.”

“You serious?” Looking behind, you see him sporting a smirk. A smile spreads across your lips at his playfulness, a semblance of the Hobie you once knew.

“For example?” He asks, something he might regret. “What do you see through me?”

“Well, you put this big bad façade up because it's what everyone expects you to be. But in truth, it's so you could survive here. I bet it's working well since you're still here breathing.”

“I don't care what anybody thinks, Y/N.”

“I know that too. But you still do it because you don't want them talking to you, coming close to you. I remember how hard it was to even get you to speak to me.”

“I was a kid, we were children, and I was new in town.”

“I got you to talk though. Still proud of myself that I got to see the real you.” You puff out your chest. “This place is just like our old town, you know. Harsher, yes, but this time you don't bother to try, not like last time.” Your voice lowers into a murmur. He knows why he doesn't bother, because there's no one out here that could get him out of his walled up shell just like you did. There's no one like you. “I still know you, after all these years. Even if you think I don't, or at least the version of you that you left me with.” The sky gets darker, grey clouds floating next to white fluffy ones, and you still remember how he held you the first time you shared a bed. “You've changed and I confess that I barely know this side of you. I don't know what happened to you in those five years but could you let me try to get to know you again? Just like last time?”

The clouds above darken his green eyes, something passes by them, something that has his hands gripping tighter around the reins.

“It's goin’ to rain.” Is all he could say. “We should hurry and find shelter, there's a shortcut I know.”

You inhale the sharp familiar smell of petrichor, letting it settle in your lungs, letting it drown you, letting it seep through your skin so you can focus on it rather than the flatness of his voice that lacks what you're used to.

“Sure,” you swallow thickly, nails digging into your hemp bindings instead of your flesh.

Hobie clicks his tongue thrice, a sharp almost whistle, and out runs Bucky faster on the sandy lonesome road. Hooves thudding like the rumble of the heavens above, a lightning storm races behind you, sparks of light flashing and clashing on the mountainous rocks of the west.

“Hold on,” Hobie whispers close to the shell of your ear, goosebumps spreading through you like poison ivy on skin. He leans forward, leather clad body shielding you from the harsh howling winds that approaches quickly. “This storm's comin' in fast.”

Wind whips your cheeks, cool air making you narrow your eyes into slits to protect it from the dusty debris. A silhouette of a person appears at the end of the road, you feel Hobie stiffen up from the suspicious man. Arms cage you in, the mysterious man's shadow gets closer and closer as Bucky whines and halts to a stop. Hobie hides your hands with his own, a small act that brings your mind a minute of peace.

“State your business.” Hobie says in a practiced tone, commanding like the one he used with the man who snatched you.

The old man walks with a twisted cane, a makeshift one made from an old branch. His eyes are dull and almost silver, blue rings around his irises, eyebrows thick and white, beard bushy and hair almost gone. Right behind him lies a dip in the road, a chasm from where you sat, a deep gorge from what you surmise. Right next to the road sits a dingy solemn cabin, roof looking like it's about to collapse under its own weight, hinges creaking, window shutters opening and closing harshly from the wind. A border collie barks at you, mismatched eyes unwavering, warning you of something to come.

“Just ‘ere to warn you, son.” The old stranger trembles, either from the cold or from his bad leg. “Anyone who come ‘ver down that road doesn't come out unscathed.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his yellowed shirt. “Just tryin' be a good samaritan.”

“Yeah? Penance for the war then?” You give Hobie a look. He glances over to you in return.

“I was on yer side, son. I won't be out ‘ere warnin’ you and the missus if I wasn't now eh?”

“Thank you for the warning.” You pipe up, the brief silence has made the whole situation more awkward. “We'll try another route then—”

“No,” Hobie stands his ground, “just like she said, thank you for the warnin’ but that's the closest route to Strawberry.”

The man takes his hat off even with the intense shaking of his hand. He then places it on his chest like he's already mourning you. “Safe travels. Don't say I didn't warn ya.” With a whistle, the dog runs over to him before helping him walk home.

“Wait!” The man stops in his tracks, even the dog turns around to face you. “A storm's coming, you'll be cold. Here.” Sliding your hands away from Hobie's, you take the blanket from your lap.

“My eyes are bad but do I see you givin' me your coat?” He smiles toothily.

“Y/N—” Hobie warns.

“Yes, but it's a blanket, not a coat.” The man chuckles deeply, cheeks red and warm.

He whistles again, and the dog walks over to you. “Give it ‘ere to ol' Nellie.” The dog wags her tail, tongue lolling.

“Hi, Nellie,” you giggle as you lean down to place the fabric in her mouth. “Take good care of it. Good girl.” Hobie's hand is holding your waist, single handedly preventing you from falling over.

He remembers your kindness, how you don't falter when you see someone you can help. You're unequivocally kindhearted, a stark contrast to himself, and what he has become in those five years he wasn't by your side. He remembers how much he loved and longed for you. He needs to know who sent the letter on his behalf, but it can wait, maybe he'll thank them when he does find them.

You don't notice him look at you with the same expression he had years ago.

With a happy wag of her tail, Nellie skips over to her owner, handing him your blanket. “Thank you, miss, you've got a kind soul.” There's warmth in your chest, nodding towards the man. “You take care now. And you.” He looks over your companion. “Better watch her back and protect her kind soul eh?”

“Get inside, don't want you gettin' my blanket drenched.”

A laugh billows out as he waves you away. Entering his humble abode with a loud bang of his door.

“I think we should listen to him.” You say above the winds.

“We'll be fine,” Hobie's voice is softer. “I've been ‘ere before. Just listen to me, yeah?” He kicks gently, and Bucky takes his cue to run in the same direction again.

“If I listened to you back there then the poor man would've shivered from the cold.”

“And now you'll be the one shivering from the cold.”

“He needed it more than I did.” You almost scoff as you hold on tighter around the horn of the saddle while Bucky trudges downward on the slope and into the gorge.

“Don't expect me to get you a new one.”

Now you scoff. “Then don't.” Yet, your chest clenches from his words.

Buckeye finally slows down halfway through the gorge. Hobie inhales deeply, jade eyes flicking above the rocks. The walls seem to close in on you, fifty foot tall walls of ancient stone looming over you. A stream runs along the path, murky brown water splashing with every movement.

“Why'd you slow down—?” Your eyes widen at the moving figures above. “There's people up there.” You whisper as you watch them observe you. The bows on their back gather your attention, eyes piercing through you than the sharpest of arrows. Hobie suddenly grabs your chin, still gentle but with a sense of urgency this time. He turns your head towards the road, rough leather sliding from your chin to your hands.

“Keep your eyes on the road. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“Yes.” He says immediately.

“Do you know them?”

“Yes, now keep quiet.” Tipping the brim of hat in respect, you do as you're told. “Or they'll be the one askin' me questions. And we don't have time for friendly banter.”

When he says those words, you hear a whisper of his name from above, then a bout of laughter echoing downwards. Subtly looking over your shoulder, you see him crack a small smile.

You turn back towards the road, a soft morose smile on your lips from how much you've missed from his life. You want to know what happened to him in those five years, to be told stories of his adventures under the campfire. To be part of those stories once more, not whatever you're in with him. An afterthought, a burden.

You're starting to feel all the love he once gave you was just from your mind. Made up by you, dreamt and imagined.

—

The cave you've found shelter in is perfect. It's big enough to house you and Hobie, even Bucky rests inside, dry and happy while his dark eyes follow you— as if trying to keep an eye out for you. The cave protects you from the hammering rain outside and from the lightning that pierces the clouds. You lean on the rocky mouth of the cave, hands reaching outside to cup the rain and feel the sharp water droplets drench your skin. Lifting your head up, you watch the sky. The storm has no end in sight, yet, there’s a bit of light passing through the grey, a ray of sunshine that brings hope, blue peeking in between the dark clouds.

Water splashes against your flesh, cleaning the tiny gashes and dried blood that you're not sure is all from your body. The rope that binds you is soaked, weighing heavy around your wrists like steel bracelets.

Wind howling, lightning cutting through the sky like a bullet through skin— You don't feel his heavy gaze on you.

The roaring fire behind you provides warmth just like the man tending to it. And like the fire he's tending, he realizes that his affection for you still burns him inside out no matter how he tries to snuff it out.

The fire crackles, you watch your shadow dance with the flame's movements. You still don't feel his heavy stare on your back.

With a forced smile, an idea pops in your head. You let the water on your palms fall, flicking away the droplets, making your own patch of rain.

“I've got a proposition.”

“Come eat, smelly” You both speak at the same time, amusement flashes behind his precious emerald eyes that's illuminated by the embers.

"I don't smell." You laugh in between, loving the fact that he seems to be in a better mood. Sniffing at yourself, you scrunch up your nose from the smell. "That much. You're not any better.”

Hobie shakes his head, hiding the curl of his lips with the brim of his hat. He places a can of peaches in your direction. “We'll be in Strawberry by late afternoon. There's an inn there where we can rest and bathe.”

Sitting down next to him but still giving him enough space, you tuck your legs under you, wiggling your hands in front of him.

“Can you untie me now? I'm not going to run, Hobie. Where will I go?”

“Tell me about your so-called proposition.” Hobie raises a brow, teeth biting down and clenched around the leather before fully yanking his glove off. You suddenly feel hot when he unties your hands without another word.

There's no identical ring around his finger. Your happiness is snatched away at the sight of his empty finger. What was once a promise is now gone from his flesh that you used to trace with your own hands.

Clearing your throat, you watch the shadows on the cave walls flicker behind him. “W–we take the scenic route. I want to see the sights the new world has to offer. Before returning.” You don't even want to call it home anymore.

“The new world? You sound like a grandma.”

“You saying ‘state your business’ wasn't any better, grandpa.”

Hobie's eyes meet your own, green eyes aglow. A remnant of the Hobie five years ago. You could get used to this, his warm gaze that soothes you from the inside out, something that you never took for granted before but never thought you'd miss dearly. You welcome it back with open arms. Even if it was brief.

A flash of bright lightning hits outside your cave, startling you, free hand placed on your quaking chest.

“It's just lightning, love.” A freudian slip, a term of endearment that travels you both back in time. Now that he said it once more, he finds that it still fits you like a warm hug on a cold winter's day, or a first kiss, one of many.

Slowly turning your head, your lips tremble, eyes watering from a silent cry. You try to reach for him, but he deflects your touch by twisting around on his seat, taking a swig from his canteen. The only one that he has.

Quietly eating, your insides are yelling for you to hold him close, to be near him, to hug him until the screaming stops. You can't satiate the feeling, it bites at your bones, chewing, eating at you, going hungry, starving. You stand up, leaving the can of peaches on the ground, returning to the mouth of the cave so the feeling will ravage you alone once again like it always has for the past five years. You've survived this long, but there's barely anything left of you now— a husk, barely a speck, so you cry and cry, sobs muffled by the rain.

You don't feel his gaze on you. He feels the same gnawing feeling in his belly, crawling up to his chest, eating what's left of his heart like a vulture that carries all his grief and guilt.

—

You're back on the road again, the ground is wet and muddy. Clay and grass sticking to Bucky's hooves as he trudges along the soil. You purposely don't remind him about the missing rope around your wrist. Loving the freedom the lack of it brings, you brush your fingers through Buckeye’s hair; dark wavy tresses that reminds you of fine silk.

“You take good care of him.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, I'm just saying it again for emphasis. I hope you're taking care of yourself too.”

You feel him shift in his seat, fatigue rattling his bones that's exacerbated by the rocking movement.

“Do you feel alright?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyebrows are furrowed, sweat dribbling from his forehead.

“‘m fine.”

“You don't look fine. Riding bareback this long hurts, we can switch places—”

“It would be better if you had your own horse.” Hobie groans, stretching his shoulders. Buckeye seems to notice the conversation, huffing and staring back at his rider. “‘m not replacing you, Bucky. Not yet anyway.”

The dark horse neighs, a high pitched sound that makes you laugh. “He was not happy with that.”

“He's not happy with anythin'” Hobie shakes his head at the horse, you're amused by the whole situation. “Picky eater, always demanding sugar cubes instead of a carrot or an apple. Fuckin' spoiled.” Bucky neighs again, louder this time, clearly annoyed.

“Just like his rider.” You giggle, Hobie stifles a roll of his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his pierced lips. “Careful with your comments or he might buck you off and have me as his rider instead.”

Hobie's amusement fades, his eyes hardens, a sight that has your heart thrumming loudly, a sight that you're very familiar with back at home.

“I‘m sorry— I–I didn't mean to.” You frantically apologize, shaking your head, hand reaching for his own, palm hovering over his gloves.

“Look ahead.” He gestures forward. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.”

“Are you sure?” You can't seem to slow down your breathing.

Hobie notices, blinking, he tentatively takes your hand in his. Squeezing once, jade eyes searching your hurt face. Guilt passes through him.

He should've come back for you.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly, slowing down Bucky's steps. “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod, inhaling and exhaling. “Good, keep doin' that.” Inhale, exhale, “atta girl. Now listen to me, I need you to hold on tight, and do what I say.”

“What's wrong?” Did you do something wrong again? You hold on tight just like he asked.

“Eyes up front, sweetheart.” The floodgates open, he can't stop himself from calling you those honeyed names. And you can't stop looking at him. With a gentle hold to your chin, he carefully moves it forward. You see five people waving you over further down the road. They're accompanied by a broken down carriage, three wheels missing, no oxen in sight, just a few horses hitched near them.

They call you over, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh thank God!” You hear them say, their forms getting closer and closer.

“They need help.” You say, Hobie's hand around the reins tightens.

“And we're not goin' to give it to ‘em.”

“What? Why?”

“That's bait, we're not fallin’ for it.” His eyes don't leave the strangers’ hands.

“Bait—? They genuinely look like they need help.”

“We're close to town, and they have horses. They could've gone over there instead of flagging down an armed stranger.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Yes, but I am.” With a swift kick, Hobie guides Buckeye to a mad dash. Your back hits his chest from the sudden momentum. A dull ache on your spine, a tingling sensation on his ribs.

Buckeye passes by the broken carriage, leaving dust in their eyes. “C’mon, Bucky! Get us out of ‘ere, boy!”

Wind in your eyes, you look behind, your heart falls in your stomach when you see them follow immediately on their horses, guns drawn, aiming at Hobie.

“Oh fuck!” A bullet whizzes past your head, missing you by just a few inches. You feel it's hot searing metal fly past, “they're shooting at us! Why the fuck—!”

Hobie twists, with one hand on the reins, and the other on his gun, he shoots down one man with precision. The bullet hits its mark, right in his heart. A fountain of crimson splashes from his wounded body, his feet still strapped in the stirrups, flinging the now lifeless body around like a window shutter in a storm.

Hobie shoots again, a horse falls, another bullet, and one gets iron in their gullet. And another and another, one on the leg and one on the shoulder, but they still ride on. Until Hobie's gun clicks, its chamber now empty, in slow motion, you see the remaining survivors use the opportunity to aim at Hobie's head. With quick thinking, you twist uncomfortably, body stretching behind to grab the hunting rifle strapped on Bucky's back. Within a second, you sit upright with the barrel pointing at them.

Hobie sees it all happen while he frantically reloads. His gun jams from carelessness, heart beating like a snare drum, fingers frantically trying to fix it. The sun is in his eyes as he sees you cock your head over his shoulder, the long barrel of the rifle is placed atop his leather jacket, finger itching to press the trigger.

“Duck.” Your voice is calm as Hobie follows through your command, the firing pin ignites, sparks fly, the smell of gunpowder permeates the air, bullet whizzing and hitting your mark— Right in between the eyes.

Gore explodes from what used to be a head, then a scream from the remaining target. Hobie steers Bucky, whilst you fight. Fight for him, and for yourself.

Pulling the bolt handle, without missing a beat you release the shell with a clink of metal. The remaining man looks at his dead companion in horror, still riding on next to him, now missing a head. Just like they did, you use the opportunity to reload, hand reaching for Hobie's gun belt, taking what you need, reloading with an expert hand. You pull the bolt to place the bullet, pushing it in, you aim once again. At the same time, the man screams, aiming at you. But you're faster.

Inhale. You shoot, hand steady, eyes focused.

A wet squelch can be heard, then a body thuds harshly on the ground as a horse neighs, crying and trotting wildly. You finally exhale. Hobie reins Bucky in, hooves digging in, he stops.

“Holy shit.” Hobie stares at you with a growing smile, cheeks aflame, not from the adrenaline nor the fight. “You can shoot.”

“You taught me.” Your eyes doesn't leave the violence you left behind.

“Yeah, but not like that!” He laughs in disbelief. His heart hammers in his chest, and he remembers all the times he held your hand in his while he teaches you the basics.

“What do you think I've been doing since you left?” You swallow thickly, nerves catching up, hands trembling around the rifle. “My books can only take me so far until I've read the entire library.”

Hobie holds your cheek, face concerned, thumb running along the tear you don't notice slide down your cheek. “Can you look at me, lovie?”

Slowly but surely, you turn your head. “We manufacture guns, Hobie, it's important for me to learn.”

“I know, but shootin’ it at people is different.” He would know, he worked at the same place. “Are you alright?”

“Now you ask me that?” You hand him the rifle, breath shuddering. “Can we go now, please?”

Hobie could only nod, hand itching to hold you again.

—

You finally reach Strawberry, it has a sweet sounding name but it's anything but sweet. The streets are thick with mud, the smell is much better than the other town but it still makes your nose itch. The place is situated on the foot of a mountain, the air is cooler with heavy winds persisting. Rows and rows of establishments lie along the road, a saloon with a balcony on your right, a doctor's office on your left. Convenient, you think.

A brothel sits next to the saloon, women gathered around on the porch, smiling and hollering at the people who pass by. Hobie garners their attention, (who wouldn't be?) despite riding with you on the same horse. He doesn't give them any attention, a disappointment on their part. His eyes are too busy looking over your profile and the inn that's situated on the hill.

You flick your eyes over to him, as if he has a sixth sense, he stares back. “What?”

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Hobie hides a small smile over your shoulder. He stops Buckeye at the front of the inn, hopping off, he hitches his horse first before giving you a hand, surprising you.

Without a second thought, you take his outstretched hand, bare against his leather clad one. You land carefully on the soft ground, cringing at the wet squelch of mud on your shoes.

“I need a bath,” you stomp over towards the porch and out of the mud. Hobie's hand finally leaves your side once you step foot on the steady planks. “And a nice bed.”

“That's why we're ‘ere.” He says while he takes his pack from Bucky's back. Giving the horse a pet and a much deserved sugarcube. He whispers something to the horse, to which Bucky neighs in reply. Stepping on the porch right next to you, the dark horse nods at his rider.

You laugh at them. “What'd you tell him?”

“I promised him a place at the stable so he could get a proper rest. ‘m gonna take him once you're inside.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?” Panic sets in your stomach.

Hobie furrows his brows, “no, ‘course not.” I'd never do that. He thinks, but he already did, years ago. “C’mon.”

Bucky neighs to you this time, tail swishing behind him. “G’night, Buck.” You give him a small wave. “You did a good job today.”

Entering the inn, the smell of pine and something fruity catches your nose. Its walls are all wooden, lined with old photos and animal furs. There's a fireplace in the common area where a couple of people sit and chat by the fire. The place is cozy, it's the first time you feel like you can finally have a nice comfortable place to sleep in since you landed in America.

Hobie knocks on the reception desk, leaning on the table, clearly tired and weary. Whilst you try not to think about what you did earlier, you roam your eyes everywhere in an attempt to push all the thoughts away, to kick the gore you saw, and the act that you've executed far far away from you. Your hand trembles at the sight of a deer head hanging on the wall. Then you remember the man whose head you blasted to pieces. Heart beating faster, breath stuck in your throat, Hobie suddenly takes your hand— squeezing, reminding you to breathe.

Before he could comfort you further, a middle aged man appears behind the desk. Shoulders broad, mustache well maintained and curled at the ends. Blue eyes wide and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Strawberry inn.” He says in a comfortable yet deep tone. His eyes flick towards your intertwined hands, lips smiling faintly. “The name's Finn, room for one?”

Hobie clears his throat, taking his hand back on his side. “Yes, two beds.”

“Ah, a conservative couple eh?”

“Sure,” Hobie acts, nodding along.

“Name?”

“Larry Smith. And baths for the missus and I.”

Finn nods, showing him a sign on his desk. “three dollars for a regular one, five for a deluxe bath.”

“Deluxe?” You ask, curious.

Hobie beats Finn to the punch by explaining it himself. “It's when a woman helps you scrub down.”

You blink twice in quick succession. “Oh.” Cheeks warm, you awkwardly bounce on your feet. “A–are you going to take the deluxe one, Ho–Larry?”

“I might.” He says with a smirk, eyes shining.

“Okay.” You crane your neck towards Finn, “what's our room number?” Your tone inches towards something that has Hobie amused.

“Uh, three—” You're already snatching the keys from him and then quickly speed walking up the stairs. You turn to the right, Finn calls after you. “Left side, ma’am.” Frustrated, you walk the other way. He then turns towards Hobie with a shake of his head. “Happy wife, happy life, english. Don't tease her like that or you'll end up sleeping in the stables.”

Hobie bites his tongue so he couldn't laugh. “I know that now, thanks, mate.”

—

You feel nice, nicer than you should be after what you did. There's a pebble inside you that keeps growing and growing in the pit of your stomach right next to the boulder that has resided there for years. You have no idea what is, but you want it gone just like how you disappear under the tepid water of the tub.

Hobie has laid out clothes for you, it sits on the chair in the corner. A white work shirt that smells like him and a pair of clean socks. Your skirt hangs on the doorway, days worth of dirt and dust clinging to it. The walls are thin, you hear the hinges squeak in the next room, the arguing couple above; and a child's cry from below. The water laps at your chin, now cold and icy on your slowly freezing skin. Like muscle memory, you hold your hand up, the jagged long scar across the back of your hand has you tracing the remnants of the injury— what he used to do to remind you that he's there, that you're safe. But when he left, when he disappeared into the night, leaving you to the horrid predetermined life, you had to do it yourself. You had to carry yourself everyday with the heavy boulder in your heart, surviving each day without him, hurting, rotting in that damned empty mansion you never asked for.

You thought you could finally take the boulder out of you and place it down once and for all when you saw him. it's still there, weighing you down like a hundred ton steel of grief and longing. You don't resent him for what he did, running away, leaving you when the night before he promised you sweet words, words of freedom, words of an escape. No, you don't hate him. Yes, there's days where you would curse his name, but it never lasts. It never does, even now. You still love him even when he doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Your eyes prick from all the unshed tears, everything makes you cry nowadays, even the old lonesome man you met on the road brought a tear to your melancholy eyes. But you can't seem to find the courage to cry in front of him, to let him see your salty tears flow out of you like a raging river of sorrow. And moreso, you're afraid, afraid of home, afraid of what's waiting for you at the end of the road. Whether it be a coyote with its maw opening to lunge at your neck. Or a rattlesnake ready to strike silently at your open wound.

You're not afraid of him, you're afraid to lose him again to the coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Lifting both hands, you watch the blood that collects within the lines of your palms. Rubies ebbing into your life line, your love lines, and into your death— you'd carry the life you've taken until you're six feet underground, decaying, milky bones turning to dust, food for the worms. And yet, the blood in your hands would stay there, even when your hands are eaten by the soil, brought back to where you once came.

Hobie's right, this place changes you. Molds you into something that can survive its harsh environment, just like the plants you once read about. And just like the coiling vines, the flowers that wait and bite their prey; the leaves that kill when cut— you intend to survive the harshness of it all.

With a deep inhale, you leave the metal tub. Water splashes across the floor as you stand up, the even colder air leaves goosebumps in its wake. You dry yourself and dress like an automaton, movements rigid, eyes blank.

Opening the door with a creak, you're met with Hobie standing in the hallway, just across from you. His hand still lingers around the doorknob, viridescent eyes blinking slowly at you.

For a second that felt like hours, you watched each other. How his eyes flick over your form and over his work shirt that you wear. How water still clings to his chest, soaking parts of his white shirt. And how his finger twitches around the doorknob whilst steam escapes from the slits in the doorway. He observes you with vigilant eyes, how your lips are slightly parted, chest breathing heavily. And how much your legs are begging to run towards him, feet pointed in his direction, heels lifted up slightly, but you don't. You don't run to him, instead, you toss him the keys to the room before he could ask for it himself. He catches it with ease.

“You're closer to the room.” Walking closer, you rub your arms for warmth.

Hobie sniffs, hand wiping a stray droplet from his forehead, pack slung over his shoulder. He unlocks the door that's a few steps away, with a click, he opens it for you.

“You look like you're about to pass out.”

You push past him, trying to smile, but you fail. “I feel like I will in a second—” pausing by the doorway, you sharply inhale. “You asked for two beds right?”

“Yeah— fucker.” Hobie clicks his tongue at the sight of the single bed standing in the room. “I'll go get our rooms changed.”

“I'm fucking tired, Hobs.” You lumber your way towards the inviting bed, too tired to even check the room and its sparse décor. “Complain tomorrow. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before.”

“That was different—”

“How is it any different?” Shucking off your shoes, you blink at him through tired eyes. “It's just sleeping next to each other. We were doing anything but that back then.”

He curses breathlessly under his breath. “Fine, don't hog the blanket.”

“Don't kick in your sleep.” You smile for the first time since you pulled the trigger. Slithering inside the warm covers, you lay your head on the lumpy pillows. Heaven to you after sleeping but nothing on the ground or hay for the past few weeks.

“I don't kick in my sleep.” Hobie does the same, laying next to you, giving you enough space in between. “You're the one who kicks in your sleep. Like a fuckin' donkey.”

You lay on your side, inching closer to him. “Please, I'm more of a mustang, not a donkey.”

“Back then you were more like the rider than a horse.” He jokes with a smug smile across his lips.

Your cheeks are aflame, laugh creeping up your throat. The heaviness in your chest subsides, the blood in your hands thins. “You wanna bet?”

Hobie's joking expression is replaced by something else. Flustered, amused, and a mix of an emotion that he has only felt for you. “Fuckin' hell, love.” He turns away from you, lest he lets his thoughts get to him. “Good night, you fuckin' minx.” He hears you laugh, immediately he wants to turn back around and meet you face to face, just like before. But he doesn't.

You're met with his back. The feeling comes back, like a cockroach that wouldn't die even with how much you try to stomp on it. It was foolish to think that he'd love you forever. It was foolish to think that he'd greet you with open arms after years of being apart. How foolish, they'd always whisper to you, naive, and stupid, always standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes always looking for something, someone. Someone that lays before you now.

“Good night, Hobie.” He mouths your next words like clockwork. “Only dream of good things.” You refrain from doing the next thing, a kiss for sweet dreams, a whisper of the three words to remind him of you in the dreamworld.

Hobie silently wishes you did.

Soon enough, soft snores can be heard from behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he makes sure you're asleep before quietly standing up. Sheets rustling, he tiptoes over the noisy planks, breathing silent. Hobie takes a chair from the corner, propping it under the doorknob, shaking the chair, he makes sure that it's locked up tightly. He can never be sure with the simple singular lock on the door.

Once he's sure that it will hold up, he takes his gun from the hanging gun belt, checking the chamber, he keeps it on the waistband of his trousers. After checking all the windows and the fireplace, he finally joins you back in bed. Gun placed on the bedside, ready to be used just in case. Laying on his side, he faces you, observing how the moon shines just across your face. You look peaceful, relaxed, and he remembers how much he has missed you. Like an impossible itch. A craving that cannot be satiated. Incurable, until you're within reach.

His tired eyes stare at the glaring scar across the back of your hand. Hobie remembers how you got the scar on your hand, it was warm that day, searing hot whilst you ran into the woods frantically to meet him. As a result of your unmindful actions, a sharp branch takes a chunk of your skin; leaving him to sew it close for you. He reminisces of how your face contorts to pain with every suture, and how you grip his shoulder to tamp down your screams. He wasn't careful, or even thinking about how it would scar, he just wanted to get it over with so you'd stop hurting. He held you for hours after, held you more after your great aunt saw the damage. She called you broken that day.

He blinks and he's back to the present. He can never go back. You can never go back. So he inches his hand closer to yours, pinky brushing along your skin. Finally, he curls his pinky finger around your ring finger. Linking his life line to yours. Just like he always does to the identical hidden ring around his neck. Your scar peers from the side, a reminder that everything that happened before was real. That all those saccharin touches and words were flesh and blood. He wishes he could go back, to take you away the moment she called you broken.

In his sleep he dreams of you.

[zahmaddog]

Part 4: Not Alone

Part 1: Making Friends on Pabu

Part 2: The Warning

Part 3: Truth & Intimacy

Warnings: Fluffy AF, Light Romance, Violence

Word Count: 2324

Hi friends, thanks for reading. This little fan fiction has been my escape for a few minutes every day. It's not amazing and there's probably some plot holes I won't dig myself out of, but I'm having fun. Crosshair is such a brutally sweet character and I've loved trying to write him decently. There's some cameos and serious plot going on in this next chapter. Sorry if you were here for a one-shot. Maybe I'll try to write some of those after I conclude this story. Anyway, enjoy!

You awoke the next morning next to Crosshair in your ship’s narrow bunk. Rolling into him, you noticed he was already awake. 

“Have you been awake long?” you turned more fully towards him, concerned.

“I slept well enough,” he sighed. “Maybe better than I have in years.” He tightened his embrace around you. You relaxed into him once more and admired his breath on your skin.

“You know,” he started to open up, “I’ve spent too many nights alone in barracks, prison cells, and ship bunks. I woke up early, assuming I was alone again.” He hesitated, “But you were here… with me.”

He pressed a kiss into your shoulder. “This is the longest I’ve ever wanted to stay in bed,” he admitted.

You smiled and interrupted his embrace to turn to face him. You leaned your forehead against his and gazed into his intense brown eyes.

“Even if we could stay here forever—” you started, but Crosshair interjected, “It wouldn’t be long enough,” he sighed.

—

Feeling well-rested, you and Crosshair eventually made it out of bed and wandered into your ship’s kitchen. Feasting on what cereals and rations you had, you filled pockets and your bag with extras for the road. 

“I have a bunch of armor laying around in the back,” you said with a mouthful of cereal. “I figure we just see what fits and blend in with the crowds.”

“What is your plan to sell the piece off?” Crosshair interrogated a little. “I have some contacts that collect Jedi artifacts. I’m hoping they’ll be interested,” you sighed. “You’re hoping?” Crosshair grumbled. “I don’t have a plan. But this is all I can do right now,” you worried. 

“You are — ,” Crosshair started.

“Reckless. I know,” you admitted.

“ — Trying your best,” Crosshair tried to lighten up.

“Do you have any ideas?” you asked softly. “You can definitely call some shots if you want.”

Crosshair exhaled, “No. There’s no way to shake the Empire’s attention off of you, but getting rid of this should help.” He hesitated to open up with you again, “I’m here to protect you, for as long as I can.”

—--

Coruscant's underworld buzzed with foreign and familiar chatter between living species and droids. Each street had its own crowd to get lost in. Wearing the dark, unique helmets and armor you had on the ship, you and Crosshair moved through the crowds attempting to attract as little attention as possible. It was much easier said than done. “We already have eyes on us. You didn’t have any helmets that would make you look—” Crosshair complained. “What?” you stammered back.

“Well, less like a bounty hunter?” He opined.

“I already told you; I can’t show my face here,” you looked him up and down, “And you shouldn’t either.” “Nobody is going to care about another long-lost clone,” Crosshair muttered. “You were never an ordinary clone, and you know it,” you rebutted. “True.” Crosshair concluded.

You and Crosshair continued to wander up a street in Coruscant. The gutters were littered with trash and reflected blurred neon lights. Changing music boomed from each venue you passed; hearing passerby’s slice of life conversations in the midst. 

Walking as casual as you could, it was true that you were gathering eyes. Crosshair’s height and stature along with your full-faced black helmets caused the on-coming foot traffic to spread, giving you space in every direction. It was as if you and Crosshair were walking through the crowd in a bubble.

“We’re almost there,” you sigh close to Crosshair’s helmet. You duck into a faintly lit bar with Crosshair following closely behind you. Making your way past the bartender, small dancing crowd, and booths, you disappear down the back stairs into a hallway with closed doors.

You slink to a door in the middle of the hallway and knock, but nobody answered. “You didn’t check to see if they were here first?” Crosshair pressed. “I couldn’t risk using my personal comm number. She won’t pick up anonymous calls either,” you explained while trying to manually open the door. The door wouldn’t budge.

“How the hell did you end up back here?” A voice down the hallway materialized. 

Pulling your pistol out startled, you shined a light on the figure approaching. 

“I see you’re still kinda jumpy, baby,” the man ran his hand through his longer locks and stopped advancing just a few feet from you and Crosshair.

“Oh Maker, why are you here?” you lowered your blaster and light. 

“Who’s he?” Crosshair and the man said simultaneously. You looked at Crosshair and hesitated, “Crosshair, this is… my friend, Ric.”

“Just friend?” Ric, boisterous as always, exploded, “You faked your death and didn’t tell anybody you’re actually alive?” “That would defeat the point of faking my death,” you bickered. Ric pressed harder, “Or rather, you faked your death instead of breaking up with me?”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, “It’s a lot more believable for all parties if someone mourns my death.” 

“Do you even know what you put me through?” Ric nearly yelled. You shrugged again acknowledging the question.

Ric took a step forward in anger. “You’re psychotic!”

Crosshair took a step forward and put his arm in front of you in hopes to de-escalate the conflict and protect you. 

Ric flinched forward at Crosshair, you raised your blaster at him.

“Don’t touch him,” you ordered to Ric.

Ric took a step back, motioning his hands to drop the conversation.

“Does he even know who you are?” he eyed Crosshair up and down and paused. You and Crosshair didn’t move from your near-combat stance. 

Ric sighed, “Why are you back?” “I’m looking for Zena,” you said tartly.

“Off-planet. So I guess you’re stuck with me,” Ric huffed.

“Lovely,” you grumbled.

Gritting your teeth you mentally ran through your situation. Ric knows you're alive, so regardless if you worked with him or not to get rid of the holocron, he’s a real liability. He knows your identity and situation with the Empire. “So, what can I do you for?” Ric tried to restart the conversation.

Crosshair felt your hesitation to rengage. “We’re looking to offload something of high value,” Crosshair snaked into the transaction.

“Does Zena still collect Jedi artifacts and weapons?” you found your voice again. Ric’s face shifted to a more serious expression, “What did you find?” “How do I know you’re not going to sell me out the second I tell you?” you fretted.

“If Zena is interested, then it’s in my interest to acquire it,” Ric crossed his arms. The deal was going nowhere fast. Your gut growing anxious from distrust, you exhaled and looked around the hallway to ensure privacy.

“You rarely squirm, baby” Ric imposed, “You must have something real good.”

“You’re gross,” you shot at him while you unzipped your bag. You took out the holocron and showed Ric. His eyes grew large and he came closer. 

“Is that real?” Ric reached out to grab it, but Crosshair pushed his hand away. “It’s real. Is Zena interested?” you bantered back. “No. Not in that. But I know someone who is,” Ric responded. You and Crosshair look at each other, both sensing something was off. “I’d rather know who I’m selling it to personally,” you said as you put it back into your bag. “Thanks for your time, Ric.”

“You don’t trust me?” Ric stepped in front of you to prevent you leaving the hallway. “How is it that you don’t trust me, but I trust you?”

“I’m not here to rehash the past, Ric. I’m dead to you, remember?” you affirmed.

Embarrassed that Crosshair had to witness a conversation with a ghost from your past, you took his hand and squeezed it a little in gratitude that you had him there for support. Ric was manipulative and years ago; you’d use him and he’d use you. 

“Just let me know if Zena is interested, okay?” you pushed your way past Ric in the hallway, Crosshair following you closely. Crosshair looked down at Ric intimidatingly as he passed. 

The club music rattled within your chest as you tried to make your way up the stairs and out of the bar; it was so loud you couldn’t make out what Crosshair was trying to indicate to you. 

With his helmet masking his lips, it was difficult to make out his sudden urgency as he waved his hands and was shouting. He jumped on you, forcing you to the ground, just as blue blaster fire went over your head. The music stopped.

You peered up from the table Crosshair dove you behind. Imperial guards moved into the bar, their blasters fixed on you. Looking back to the rear staircase, you see Ric lean against the wall, as if he were waiting for a show to start.

“Bastard,” you muttered to Crosshair.  “He must have called them before we even got inside.” 

“You sure know how to pick them,” Crosshair mocked you a little.

Crosshair readied his rifle and patiently waited for more soldiers to file inside. He focused on one of them, hesitated, then pulled the trigger sending a ricocheting fire that blasted nearly all of the stormtroopers down. The few remaining soldiers were easy to pick off between you and Crosshair. Within seconds, the room was stabilized and returned to silence.

You stared up at Crosshair, “My boyfriend is a… God.”

“Boyfriend?” Crosshair gushed. “Uh-huh,” you could hear him smile through his helmet.

More soldiers burst into the room, sending more shots into your direction. You and Crosshair blasted a few, but were ultimately overrun. You and he ducked behind the table once more in a slight panic.

“Where were these Imperial reinforcements when I needed them?” Crosshair fumed. 

“They know I’m here. I’m not a big ticket item for the Empire, but I am for—-” you lost your thought as you peered to the door. “Oh, son of a sarlacc.” 

The guard at the door divided and a familiar face appeared, Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin. 

The room fell to silence.

“It’s a coincidence I happened to be on-planet for your arrival,” his words danced in the air. “I had a feeling you would re-surface eventually,” 

You sighed, the jig was up. You stood and bravely took off your helmet, locking eyes with the Admiral. 

“Hi Uncle,” you snarked.

“And you’re not traveling alone, I see,” the Admiral tilted his head to see Crosshair kneeling behind the table at your side. 

Crosshair stood and took his helmet off too.

“And with a clone, no less,” Tarkin sneered. 

You grabbed Crosshair’s hand and laced your fingers with his.

“Or, with a clone, no less.” Tarkin emphasized, raising an eyebrow. He squinted his eyes at Crosshair, “It has been a while since we documented you escaping imprisonment, CT-9904.”

Crosshair narrowed his eyes at the Admiral and tightened his jaw. “You remembered. How touching,” he growled.

“I never did understand your fascination with old toys,” Tarkin said, focusing back on you, “Or how you could lower your standards to court Imperial property.”

Crosshair lurched forward in anger, but he hesitated as the blasters remained fixed on you both. 

Tarkin walked close, inspecting you and Crosshair. “Search them,” he instructed his guards. 

The guards took your helmets, blasters, patted down your armor, took your knife, and then your pack. One guard opened the bag and slowly lifted the holocron from it.

“Sir, we found this,” the TK buckethead reported handing the holocron to Tarkin. 

“This changes a few things,” Tarkin said as he took it into his hands. “The Emperor and Lord Vader have searched the galaxy for such artifacts with little success.” His eyes traveled from the holocron back to you and Crosshair. “I have little interest in their ancient religion, but not disclosing this information would be unwise.”

“Guards,” Tarkin began to walk from the room, “Load them up on my cruiser and take them to our ship. I’m sure Lord Vader will have no mercy for these traitors.”

“Lord–who?” you questioned. You remembered the Inquisitor saying the same name back on Pabu, but you dare not reveal your run-in with the Inquisitor in front of the Admiral.

“It appears you’ve been smuggling valuable information, Jedi information.” Tarkin explained poorly.

“Jedi information? It’s an art piece,” you argued.

“Take them away,” Tarkin jeered.

“But you’re family!” you grunted as a guard cuffed your wrists and hit your shoulder to walk forward. Tarkin turned before exiting and without emotion relayed, “You are no family of mine.”

You and Crosshair were led to a cruiser parked in the middle of the street. Coruscant's social rumblings gave the scene no pause, as if Imperial arrests were as common as a local stray loth-cat. 

“I’m sorry,” you shifted to Crosshair as much as you could. “We’re in this together,” Crosshair assured you.

“I’m not sure what this just turned into. But I have a bad feeling about this,” you whispered.

“Mm-hmm,” Crosshair agreed.

The cruiser’s doors locked and sealed dampening the club scene of Coruscant behind you. You and Crosshair were shuffled to the side of the ship and were motioned to sit. Hearing the engines ignite, the ship took flight. 

The cruiser left Coruscant's atmosphere and docked inside an Imperial starship. You and Crosshair stared out the small corner of the window you could see.

You were then led off the ship and checked into the starship’s detention level. 

You were pushed into your cell, which was across the hallway from Crosshair’s. The transport guard left you without a word, leaving you and Crosshair imprisoned. You stood at the cell door and listened to the Stormtrooper’s chatter down the hall. 

“Vader will arrive sometime in the next few rotations to deal with these prisoners personally,” the transport guard said to the prison guard.

You gazed at Crosshair, his eyes complex in emotion.

“I’m sorry you’re alone in a prison cell again,” you apologized.

“I’m not alone,” he remained soft.

Part 5: Family Matters

-----

Tag list: @tentakelspektakel

[fayes-fics]

Portrait: I

Masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The first portrait session.

Warnings (for this chapter): none

Word Count: 1.4k

Authors Note: Enjoy! <3

I

It's an early spring morning when you watch from the drawing-room window, heart in your mouth, as he descends gracefully from his carriage, so elegant in a navy jacket over a maroon waistcoat with a soft gold silk cravat. You listen as your family butler lets him in, and before you can arrange yourself on the setee, he strides in business-like. All he knows is that he is here to paint a portrait of a bride for her intended. He already has his hand out to shake yours… until he sees it's you. 

His whole stance changes, and you know in an instant that he recognises you from the gallery that night. Now, up close, you see how tall he is, the turn of his aristocratic nose and his eyes that are the haziest blue you have ever seen. It's impossible to look away. 

There is something charged in the air as, instead of shaking your hand, he delicately takes it up to his lips and brushes the lightest of kisses across your knuckles. There is no skin contact, seeing as you are wearing silk gloves, but even that simple gesture has you undone. You can feel the warmth of his fingers and his lips through the material, and you have to school your breathing; your stays suddenly too tight around your ribcage.

“Miss y/l/n,” his voice is a veritable rumble, and your body is aflame. You are his. Completely. There is no other man you wish to know, wish to marry. Ever. You want him to take your hand and run. Run far away until the name Thomas Baden-Smith is but a distant memory…. “Show me where you wish for this portrait to be painted.” he cuts into your yearning reverie.

You stumble, almost dazed, towards the chaise you have set up in front of the fireplace for this exact purpose. His gaze flits between you and then around the room.

“The light there is not quite right,” he opines with a head tilt. “I would like to move you,” he adds, drawing closer. You sit there dumbfounded for a second until you realise he is looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to get up so he can rearrange the furniture.

“Sorry, good sir,” you apologise and jump to your feet, stepping aside, not missing how his nostrils flare at the honorific title you bestow upon him.

He moves the chaise, so it is on a diagonal. Then asks you to sit again as he moves to stand in front of the window. All you see is his silhouette as the bright sunlight blazes behind him.

“Perfect!” he exclaims after a moment of consideration, gesturing for his valet to set up his easel where he stands.

The valet does so and then bustles quickly from the room. It is just you and Benedict now. And the grandfather clock in the corner, loudly announcing each second with its pendulum swing.

You decide it is good that you cannot see him so well with where he has chosen to stand. Perhaps you will be able to sit still. Not think about the tingle you still feel on your knuckles where he kissed you, barely a chaste brush as it was. Just last year, you shared a stolen kiss with your childhood friend Daniel behind the greenhouse, his tongue in your mouth, his hands grabbing your bottom. But that was nothing compared to the split-second Benedict Bridgerton’s lips burned a metaphorical hole through your glove and your heart. And indeed, the polar opposite of the disdain you feel every time you are within a few feet of your intended, albeit the very reason you are sitting here in the first place.

You have to force yourself to concentrate as Benedict details how the process will work, explaining it will take around five hours and that he will paint the portrait over the course of five sessions. Adding that he has heard from a good friend that this is the most successful approach, as after an hour, people tend to get restless about sitting still.

“Do you have a pose in mind, or would you like me to suggest one for you to adopt?” he asks, and your mind goes blank. You honestly had not even considered that.

“Nothing in particular. Just something acceptable for my future husband to hang in his hallway,” you answer quietly, reluctant to vocalise the reason he is here.

Something flashes in his eyes, and it dawns on you that perhaps your parents did not elucidate why they requested his services. 

“Right, well,” he bustles, seeming a little off-kilter, “we should endeavour to capture the very reason he fell in love with you….” 

“He does not love me,” you cut in, desperate to clarify, “and I certainly do not him. Not all people have the privilege of marrying for love, Mr Bridgerton,” you end, your voice brittle.

You see him nod and swallow heavily as if he has words he doesn't want to allow to escape. “Permit me a closer look to determine the best pose?” his request gentle and respectful. 

Suddenly he is kneeling in front of you as you perch on the chaise. You have to fix your gaze on a spot on the wall behind him; you dare not look at him as he seems to study your face.

“You have a face that captures the light perfectly,” he murmurs, and you know a blush stains your cheeks and creeps lower your collarbone feeling heated and prickled. A gasp catches in your throat as a long, elegant thumb and forefinger delicately grab your chin and move your face to be slightly in profile. It's his bare hand on your skin. Your body flushes hot, and there is a sudden pulse at the apex of your thighs; you have to swallow hard to tamp the saliva filling your mouth.

“That's it,” his tone triumphant, “don’t move.” 

Your eyes dart to meet his even as you keep your head where he requested. There is a split second where your gaze holds, and his pupils enlarge as you slowly draw your bottom lip under your teeth without realising. There it is again. That jolt that you ardently want to believe he feels too.

It's almost a relief when he clears his throat, stands up and walks back to his easel, puttering around with paints and brushes as you watch in your peripheral vision. Just as you think you are back to an even keel, he peels off his jacket and rolls up the frilled cuffs of his crisp white shirt, exposing his toned forearms. You feel a galloping tightness in your chest, yet again, you cannot look anywhere but him.

“This is to prevent charcoal or paint transferring,” he explains, erroneously assuming your intense stare is borne of confusion rather than abject enthrallment. 

“Of course…” you respond, shaking your head lightly to rid the reverie of thoughts your mind is supplying, tumbling images of your fingertips tracing over the vein that runs from his wrist to his elbow.

“At first, I like to sketch an outline as a guide for my painting,” he explains, and you just nod, unsure of what else to do.

And then all is quiet as he concentrates on the task at hand. It is a strange trance-like state you enter as the moments tick by. Holding the pose as you hear charcoal scratch over the canvas. Attempting to syncopate your heartbeat with the gentle dull rhythm of the grandfather clock. Anything to school your body’s reaction every time your eyes stray to him.

Half an hour has passed when the pins and needles start to creep into your limbs, your body more on an even keel as it adjusts to his continued presence. Your brain feels like it needs some stimulation, and alas, you cannot read a book, so decide conversation it must be.

“How many young lady’s portraits have you painted?” you ask as he seems to change for a different pencil.

“None,” he admits with mild contrite, “you are my first. My speciality is usually landscapes.”

“First of many, I am sure,” you affirm. “Once they see your work here, you will have a line of customers.”

“You flatter me, miss,” his cheeks heating a delightful shade of pink as he dips his head and continues his work. Not without his eyes twice darting to yours and then looking away. 

You pretend not to notice the ache in your chest his humility causes as the clock strikes the hour, signalling the end of your session.

And when he leaves a few moments later, wrapping up the canvas without letting you see it, you feel strangely bereft—as if he has taken a little piece of you with him out of the door. 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush

[clawbehavior]

Hi!!!

For the wip ask game, can I ask about these:

5,3,7,10

Sorry for being greedy 😅

And thank you 🌸

hi anon,

i always like getting your asks because you let me talk about multiple stories at length, which is like crack for a writer. quickest way to get me out of writers block is to let me opine at length about my stories. i appreciate you.

thanks for playing this asks game:

5. elevator au, elevator au, elevator au. i am struggling to nail down one detail that's throwing off the entire story. i can't figure out how gaon feels about going from arguing with yohan, to having to accept yohan is right, to wanting to punish himself by having sex. because i can't figure that out, that chapter has been in limbo for 1+ years, even though i think about it every two weeks. which sucks!!! pray for me. in the meantime, you can read an excerpt from it here

3. i talk about political intrigue au here

7. hospital au, aka 'even gods can't change the past'. love this story even though it deals with themes people might find appalling. i have three snippets for this: 1) a prologue, where gaon and yohan meet and argue politics, 2) gahan with their three daughters in an epilogue, and 3) a chapter in the far future where gaon misses his son really badly. meeting jinjoo's newborn son helps him come out of his depression. 

10. gaon and isaac twins but the omega version, aka a spinoff of 'enantiomers'. omega gaon was previously married (to the law school dude from canon). his marriage became strained when they couldn't conceive and his alpha MIL became overbearing. so imagine his surprise when yohan gets him pregnant within weeks. based on that meme about a younger alpha fucking an older omega out of menopause

also, are you one of the anons who replies to my writer asks/writer games? you help me stay active as a writer. whenever i get writer's block or frustrated i come on here to play these writer games because that helps inspire me. i dedicated 'my heart goes back to you' to you in thanks for that.

[separatist-apologist]

Dressing For Revenge

I don't start shit but I can tell you how it ends. Don't get sad-get even.

Summary: When the end of the war with Hybern finds Lucien unexpectedly crowned High Lord, he realizes everyone he's ever cared about has been lying to him.

The new High Lord of Day Court vows revenge.

Elain Archeron is determined to see him get it

Evil Elucien AU

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | AO3

Married.

Mated was the important thing, but marriage was the condition to the entire affair. His little, once human wife demanded he marry her like a human male might. Lucien would have told her no, but Elain was clever. She’d asked while unfastening his pants, and had punctuated her question with the wet glide of her tongue until there was only one answer.

Yes. Anything you want. Yes. 

Though Lucien’s ceremony did serve one purpose, beyond pleasing the female so willing to get on her knees—rumor told him Rhysand was irate. Uninvited, which meant he couldn’t spin his little lies and play his little games, Lucien was free to hold court. To tell his own stories, embellished as they were. 

He knew just enough to be a thorn in Rhys’s side. Just enough to alarm the other four courts, who might wonder why Rhys was hoarding Cauldron-made females and trying (with some success) to marry them to his closest officers. Lucien had been delighted, telling Tarquin and Kallias the harrowing tale of how Elain had managed to escape while she stood wide-eyed and nervous at his side. 

“They’ll drag her back if they ever manage to get their hands on her,” Lucien added, sliding a possessive hand over Elain’s waist. She stepped closer, as if she needed his protection.

“If you see me there, know I did not want it,” she added, his theatrical little mate. Tarquin and Kallias exchanged a look, and Lucien wished he knew what they were thinking. If they believed any of it.

“Rhysand has requested a visit,” Kallias finally told Lucien, learning over the intimate table of food Elain had set up. “To discuss this, I assume.”

“He says you’ve kidnapped his High Lady’s sister,” Tarquin added, looking Elain over with his sharp gaze. Lucien couldn’t help but recline back in his chair so Elain could speak.

“I came of my own free will,” she insisted, unaware of how that simple sentence filled his cock with blood. She was going to come of her own free will later that evening when he put his face back between her legs. The wedding was tomorrow, and Lucien was tempted to say fuck it to his promise not to fuck her and do exactly that. 

He tempered his lust before Tarquin or Kallias were made aware.  Instead, Lucien sent Elain out with Cressida and Viviane to work a little magic—the sort that told the nobility of Prythian that his mate was, if nothing else, wild with lust. Rhysand and Feyre couldn’t be kept out of the other courts forever, and all Lucien truly had going for him were centuries of minding his own business. 

“I only want peace.” It was an endless refrain, the words falling easily from his lips each time someone suggested his marriage was merely a political ploy. Surely it could be both–he could be winding up Rhys and he could want her. 

Though, it was mainly a political ploy. The first move on his chess board. Azriel’s illegal trip into his court—and the result of his ruined shadows—were merely rival courts who didn’t trust each other. Lucien had a right to his mate, especially if she’d come of her own free will. 

Another male from another court trying to take her was a death sentence.

“He should be grateful he kept his life,” Thesan opined over a private luncheon. Lucien was all too happy to soak up the praise, to be considered merciful. As if he weren’t baiting Rhys into a vicious, violent response. 

It was Tamlin who Lucien was most interested in seeing. Spared an invasion by Lucien’s brother taking the throne, Tamlin fell into brutal moods seemingly at a whim. A diplomat in Tarquin’s court had informed Lucien that both Autumn and Summer kept the borderlands under control when Tamlin was tired of ruling and turned to the wild as a beast. 

Eris, it seemed, would eventually march into Spring and drag Tamlin out, depositing him back on the throne with a warning that next time he might not be so generous. Lucien might have laughed—if Eris kept Tamlin alive, it was only because it served his larger interests. Not one of them did anything out of goodness. 

Only greed. He, at least, could admit the sort of creature he was. 

Tamlin looked rough. He met Lucien in the Solarium, the golden sun filtering through the rounded dome crowning him High Lord. Nothing else about Tamlin’s appearance did, though. His once mighty friend had clearly seen better days. Lucien went to him, sandals clipping over the marble, to clap Tamlin on his shoulder. 

“You look well,” Tamlin said with a wan smile. Lucien could not repay the compliment without betraying himself for a liar. 

“I’m glad you made it,” Lucien said instead, leading Tamlin towards the grand hall. Let the other High Lords see that Tamlin had come, too. Everyone but Rhysand, who was too insane to be among polite company. Elain was doing a perfect job of smiling with wide-eyed sweetness as she recounted her hasty escape. 

Her fear she might be locked back up, should she stop being so vigilant. 

“Married, huh?” Tamlin asked, trying—and failing—to inject humor into his tone. “Never thought I’d see the day you settled down.”

Lucien kept the frost from his voice. Tamlin met him on the single worst day of his life. “I feel quite fortunate.”

“I’m sure. Stealing your bride right out from Rhysand’s nose. How I wish I could have helped.”

Their eyes met. Lucien said nothing, though he nodded. He tried to block that whole thing out. He and Tamlin weren’t friends, and they both knew why. He’d wanted to protect Feyre and, in the end, had thought the best way to do so was to follow her out of Spring. 

If he examined his actions too closely, he might fall apart. So Lucien shoved it all down deep, content to revel in his hatred. He certainly felt victorious, walking into that room. He was High Lord, wasn’t he? And his mate, who looked like the sweetest trophy, perched on the throne he'd built just at his side. She smiled when he entered, rising to greet him. The picture of a good, well-bred female. 

“They’ll kill you for this,” Tamlin offered before slipping into the crowd. It wasn’t lost on Lucien that Tamlin was the only one who came without a retinue. No friends, no sentries, nothing. Alone. 

Pity spiked in his chest. For just a splitting moment, Lucien wondered what it was all for. If he wasn’t better off closing his doors to all of them, mating Elain quietly, and just forgetting the rest of them. If he failed, did he risk ending up like Tamlin? 

Elain reached him, drawing some of his attention away from the future. He reached for her face, holding her cheek in the palm of his hand. “You look lovely,” he said, eyes raking over the off-shoulder golden gown she wore. 

“You look unsettled,” she said, her gaze sharpening ever so slightly. 

Lucien let her follow his gaze back to Tamlin, seated at one of the long tables by himself. He spoke to no one, goblet in hand, and no one dared to speak to him. 

“It was good to invite him,” she said, her tone sharper than he’d heard all day. Beneath her doe-eyed innocence was a female smart enough to rival every male in the room. “You should have invited Eris.”

“Fuck Eris,” was his automatic response. 

“What’s the alternative, Lucien? He aligns himself with Rhysand? You don’t have to like him.”

Be smart, was the unspoken request. Lucien was blinded in this way and he knew it. Eris had an arsenal of weapons at his disposal. None so potent as their mother, still housed and under Eris’s protection. 

“You don’t understand this,” Lucien snapped, sliding his hand over her hip to walk her up that dais. She went with him, altering her expression into one of love-sick devotion. He wished it was his normal court and a normal night so he could shove her to her knees and put his cock in the back of her throat. 

“Family is complicated, and giving Rhysand any allies at all would be a mistake. He’s too powerful as it is. Sideline people, Lucien. Put your own feelings aside if you want revenge or admit you intend to hold this fruitless grudge until you die.”

“Cauldron boil me, we’re not even married,” he grumbled, dropping into his throne like a spoiled prince. Elain took her own seat, covering his hand with her own. 

“I’ll entertain him if you can’t. Invite him to the ceremony. Remind him you two share blood…and who put that crown on his head.”Lucien ran a hand through his thick hair. “I should crown you High Lord while I’m at it.”Elain settled primly in her chair, her lips pressed into a satisfied line. She didn’t outwardly agree, but he knew inwardly his words pleased her. 

Lucien marinated in his thoughts for the rest of the day while Elain played hostess. He sent that letter—last minute, so Eris understood he was an afterthought. His mother could join, but the rest of his brothers could not. Eris could bring members of his personal guard so long as they were unexceptional, magically. And, because Lucien never missed an opportunity to be an asshole, required Eris bring Elain a gift given she would now be his sister. 

He didn’t visit Elain that night, though putting her on her knees might have settled the knot in his chest. Lucien wanted to be alone, wanted to stew in his thoughts without her trying to fix things. Or worse, reminding him of all the good reasons why allying with Eris—no matter how awful. As if she’d have ever done the same with Feyre. 

If Lucien was honest with himself, he would have admitted he was nervous for more than just Eris. Some not insignificant part of him expected Rhysand to burst in at any moment, laughing that he’d fallen for it. As Lucien carefully braided pieces of his hair, as he dressed himself, that was all he could think of. 

She wasn’t going to be waiting for him. She’d be gone, she would leave, she’d reject him like she’d been doing for years. Lucien was a mass of nerves when Arina and Ajax came for him, the pair cautiously pleased. 

“I have Tamlin sitting with the High Lord of Winter,” Arina began, eyes sliding to a stack of paper held in her delicate hands. “Viviane could talk to a wall.”

“Summer and Dawn are intermixed,” Ajax added, flanking Lucien’s other side as the pair strode down the hall. 

“Unity,” Arina all but teased, her green eyes filled with questions. Why is all this necessary?

Still, his advisors were smart enough not to ask what he was up to, and smarter still to figure it out without Lucien ever needing to share. 

“And Elain?” he asked, trying to remain utterly unaffected. Casual and aloof—and failing, if the amusement on Arina’s face was any indication.

“Ready when you are,” she said with an easy smile.

“Lord,” Ajax added, his words tight. “Autumn Court…where should we put them?”

The dungeon. The words were on the tip of his tongue as he rounded the corner. What would happen if he challenged his brother, besides? Brothers fought–and Vanserra’s were expected to kill each other, besides.

“Wow,” he said instead, eyes landing on Elain. She was waiting in the open atrium, looking towards the closed doors of the hall nervously. Color flushed over her cheeks when she whipped around to look at him. She wore a dress of white, trimmed in melted gold. Standing in pooling sunlight, she didn’t need the pretty circlet woven through her rich, golden brown curls. Lucien forgot he was standing between his two most trusted friends, rooted in place as he drank her in.

She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. His eyes traveled down the curve of her throat to the dipping vee of her dress. Her exposed collarbone and the pushing swell of her breasts were dusted with a shimmering powder that made it seem as if she glowed. The beaded white gown clung to the soft curves of her body, flaring to the ground gently. 

“Lord?”

“Put them anywhere,” Lucien dismissed. He didn’t care about his fucking brother anymore. He didn’t care about his planning, his plotting—anything but his mate. Standing under that golden dome, pearls in her ears, and a sunstone on her finger. 

“Hi,” she whispered as he came towards her. Lucien was suddenly afraid to touch her. He felt like that male standing before her moments after arriving in Velaris. Uncertain. Confused. 

Fascinated.

“You look…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. She waited, chin inclined, for him to finish what he was saying. He saw her defenses raised, her expectation he would not be kind. Was this who he was, then? It was clear she didn’t trust him.

Lucien didn’t want his mothers marriage reflected in his own. He reached for her face, sweeping his thumb over her cheek. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, forcing the words to soften in his mouth. He’d make the first move, then. She swallowed, her heart a jumping staccato between them. He wanted to kiss her and thought he might wreck the pretty, pink paint gracing her mouth. 

He’d have her later, he reminded himself. 

Lucien dropped his hand, offering it to her instead. “Are you ready?” he asked, thinking this wasn’t quite the way of things. He wasn’t supposed to walk her down—her father was.

He was dead. Who else was left? Instead of being gifted his bride, he’d walk at her side and mark them equals. True equals, he thought. Everything Elain had, she’d earned. Cauldron blessed by the mother herself. Not by High Lords and not by theft, but by virtue. Her very soul examined and found worthy. A Seer in a land that so rarely gifted that magic to begin with—and powerful enough she could shift the tide in wars, both with her prophecy and a blade in her hand. 

Two sentries pulled open the doors, silencing the chattering crowd. It was the first marriage between a Day Court High Lord and a consort in over eight hundred years–and though rival lords were rarely invited, Lucien had turned his own wedding into a political spectacle. 

Five powerful sets of eyes would watch Elain vow before all the gods to love him, honor him, and obey him of her own volition. 

And at the resulting dinner, they would discuss what was to be done when rival lords sent spies across their borders. Lucien wanted written policy and agreement. It was only a matter of time before another member of the inner circle came crawling into Day, and next time, Lucien intended to send their bloodied face back in a box. 

Then, and only then, would he eat whatever Elain had dreamt up, haul her up over his shoulder, and fuck her like he’d been dreaming of. Lucien was considering he could have everything he wanted. His mate. A family of his own choosing, of his own making. His political ambitions, unhindered by a High Lord too emotional to be logical or rational. 

Lucien was practically giddy, stepping into the hall. All eyes on the pair of them. He squeezed her hand, hoping to steady her. It was impossible not to notice that there was no one from Elain’s family there to represent or support her. Lucien hadn’t tried to get Nesta and some small part of him regretted that. There was no way Elain hadn’t realized that she was utterly isolated in Day with him.

Even Arina, smiling brightly at Elain, wasn’t a substitute for a sister. His eyes fell on his brother, seated in the middle of the room just behind Summer. Eris was glaring at him with icy eyes, his fury a living, writhing thing. It clicked for Lucien, staring down his brother. How he could give his wife her sister, how he could keep tabs on Rhysand, could have his mother without having to be too close to his brother.

Eris would understand. Would accept it, even. No one had ever loved Eris without strings. Why should Lucien? 

He refocused his attention on Elain. One thing at a time. To get what he wanted, he needed to be patient, and clever, and most of all, he needed to focus on the most important thing at any given moment. Cementing his mating bond in front of five High Lords was all that mattered. 

Lucien, standing atop a golden dias, in a room over her noble blooded faerie in the realm, turned to Elain with an easy, hopeful smile. None of it was feigned. He didn’t love her—though he hoped to. Lucien took a breath, took her hand.

And he began. 

Lucien didn’t think he’d ever truly recall any part of his wedding with absolute clarity. Elain was too beautiful, his heart too loud, to hear the words that were spoken between them. A tear slipped from her carefully made up eye, to which Elain brushed away quickly with a sheepish smile. He hoped her show of emotion was real. It certainly felt real when she tilted her chin for a kiss, one he accepted greedily.

Married.

But not mated. That was the lynchpin in Lucien’s plan. His wife had planned a spectacular party which would culminate in Elain offering him a piece of wedding cake. It gave Lucien an immense amount of free time to work the room, Elain at his side.

“Is that your mother?” she whispered when they entered the ballroom. His mother was seated at a table close to the throne he and Elain were walking towards. Lucien’s spine prickled at the sight of her. He had so many questions that he was too afraid to have answered. He didn’t look her in the eye, though he could see from the angling of her body that she was desperately trying to get his attention. His brother had his arm over his mothers chair, that same hateful stare burning against Lucien’s back. 

He led Elain up the steps, holding her hand as he went. She sat first, and then Lucien as he was still the Mother chosen High Lord. His mother, who he was still avoiding like a coward, had produced two High Lords. A feat, all things considered. Lucien could not think of one other instance in which such a thing had happened. 

And he was angry about it. 

“How long do we sit here?” Elain asked, trying again when it was clear Lucien was not going to answer about his mother.

“They dance first, and our courtiers present us with gifts,” he explained, leaning over the arm of his throne to brush a finger against her skin. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch, thrilling him. 

“Are you going to talk to Eris?” she whispered. 

“Noticed him staring, did you?” Lucien’s mouth slipped into a tight smile. 

Elain’s attention was diverted when Arina, dressed in shimmering panels of gold, padded to the center of the room in her bare feet. She wasn’t alone—the other dancers had joined, their bodies slick with coil and dusted in gold. Lucien hadn’t seen one of their shows in a while—too often, he had Elain between his legs so everyone could see just how enthusiastic their new Lady was. 

“I didn’t know she danced,” Elain whispered. Loud drums from the back of the room punched out a hypnotic beat, joining the other musicians who made the very air feel like water. Elain wasn’t the only one transfixed—when he glanced at his brother, Eris’s mouth was half open, as if he’d never seen anything like Arina before.

Lucien settled back against his throne, smug as hell. Stuck up Autumn likely hadn’t. Eris likely ruled with the same prudish morals Beron once had. Lucien made a mental note to tell Arina to harass his brother a little, if only to get under Eris’s skin.

It didn’t last long. Eris was back to glaring at Lucien before Arina’s hips ever stopped swaying. He didn’t stop—not when courtiers and other High Lords began making a processional towards them. Jewels and fine fabric and spices were laid at Elain’s feet. All of it earned Lucien’s approval.

His brother brought his mother, making up the rear of the train. He dropped an ornate, gold box at Elain’s feet with little care while his mother very clearly did her best not to cry. 

“You look well,” she managed, her eyes glassy and hopeful. Eris looked as if he might pull the dagger hidden in his knee high books and cut Lucien’s throat.

“A ruby diadem from the trove. Surely you remember the one,” Eris said. Lucien’s lips curled off his teeth, a snarl slipping from him. His own Autumn crown had a twin for his wife—one he’d tried to give to Jesminda, before she died. He hadn’t considered that Eris might lay such a thing and Elain’s feet.

Elain slid her hand over his own, offering both Eris and his mother a sweet smile. She didn’t know.

She didn’t care, more likely. She rose, having settled him just enough to step off the raised platform to loop her arm through his mothers.

“Would you care for a drink?” Elain, the consummate hostess, asked. His mother nodded, offering Lucien one last pleading look. He ignored the guilt that flooded through him, drumming his fingers over the arm of his throne.

“What,” Eris began, not bothering to conceal his words, “the fuck are you doing over here? Play acting High Lord again?”

Lucien fucking hated Eris. “Does this look like play-acting?”

Eris sneered. “You look like a child in father's robes again.”

Lucien rose from his seat, his temper rising in his throat. A rip on the bond in his chest drew his eyes across the room where Elain stood, laughing at something his mother had said. Some silly childhood story no doubt, trying to win over his wife so he might speak with her. Elain was still paying attention. 

“This is a conciliatory gesture,” Lucien said through gritted teeth.

Eris barked out a laugh. “This is a show. Tell me what you want.”

”My wife wanted you here,” Lucien said dismissively, joining the throngs of well-wishers and revelers. 

“And you wanted, what, exactly?” Eris added, those shrewd eyes never leaving his face. “Another ally in your obvious vendetta against Rhysand and Feyre? You stole his Seer, you destroyed Azriel’s shadows…he’s going to hit you back, and hard, Lucien. You’re not the only one who can work a room.”

“He killed twenty younglings in Winter. Destroyed Spring after stealing their soon-to-be Lady, and in the resulting destruction, allowed a foreign army to sweep through Summer. Who do you imagine is particularly charmed by Rhysand and his child bride?”

Eris snorted. “The same people charmed by you and yours. You have the moral high ground for now,” Eris whispered, waiting for Lucien to reveal his hand. 

“I lost my eye while he was fucking that cunt,” Lucien snapped, grabbing Eris by his upper arm. He pushed his brother towards a pillar, lowering his voice. “You think anyone in Prythian likes Rhysand on anything but a technicality? His own territory is unstable, and none of them know it. He can’t keep the Illyrians in line and is still in our business, telling us how to run things.”

“So what’s your plan? Kill another High Lord in broad daylight and hope everyone hates him as much as Beron and you get to live happily ever after in your sandcastle?”

Lucien hated Eris. He waved a hand, dropping his grip on his brother. “Don’t worry about my plans. Enjoy the party. Make sure you tell Elain thank you for her hospitality.”He turned his back, walking towards her.

One.

Two. 

Three.

“Wait,” Eris called. Just like always, Eris wanted something too. Lucien turned, cocking his head. They were still brothers. Eris knew him just as well as Lucien knew Eris. “A trade.”He hadn’t expected that. “What could you possibly want?”

“The dancer,” Eris said, his words strangely breathless.

“Arina? What—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” Lucien interrupted, surprised that the thing his brother wanted was a female. “In exchange for what?”

“Whatever ridiculous thing you wanted when you wrote that letter.”

They stared at each other. “Arina bites.”

An amused smile slid over his brother's cold, pale features. “My type.”

“Nesta Archeron. My wife wants to talk with her. And I want someone inside their court. Someone I can trust.”

Eris chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Nesta accepted her bond with Cassian. She won’t leave. She’s more likely to stage an ambush than she is to defect.”

“But you’ll try?”

Eris shrugged. “Your funeral. She’s toothless now. Just another declawed kitten for his court to play with.”

“And your deal with Rhysand?” Lucien prodded. Eris gritted his teeth.

“Abandon your plan. Whatever scheme you’ve cooked up, forget it. Put your female to bed and be grateful to have her.”

Lucien shook his head. “Yes or no, Eris.”

“Make nice with mother. She misses you. She loves you. We’re brothers—of course I’ll fucking help you. But fuck, Lucien…you’ll get yourself and Elain killed if you don’t back down.”

“Fine.”

Eris and Lucien stared each other down for a moment, their fingers twitching as if they ought to shake on it. 

“Arina goes if she wants,” Lucien dismissed, altering the terms before the magic settled. 

“She will.”

Eris turned, sweeping away before Lucien could offer any further questions. His brother would learn the hard way, just like so many other males, that she wasn’t about to run off to another court because a High Lord had taken an interest in her. Lucien had gotten what he wanted, and in return all he had to do was be nice to his mother.

He made his way to the pair, forcing a smile he didn’t quite feel. “Mother,” he said by way of greeting.

That glassy quality returned to her gaze. Please don’t cry. 

“Lucien,” she breathed.

“Feel free to stay as long as you like,” he said, snaking his hand around Elain’s waist. She brightened, mouthing told you as if Lucien couldn’t see the whole thing. Amera Vanserra nodded, tucking a piece of auburn hair behind her ear.

“I would like that.”

Lucien offered one more tense smile and then swept Elain towards the long table. “I’m starving,” he complained.

“Soon,” Elain agreed, lacing her fingers with his. 

Lucien shook his head, suddenly too raw for his liking. His careful walls were cracked and crumbling, and if he continued as he was, everyone would see the fragile beat of his heart just beneath. 

“I can’t wait,” he said, pulling her flush against him. Lucien reached for a chair, pulling them both into it. Those who happened to see chuckled, more curious than anything of the mated pair.

He was well aware everyone wanted to know if the stories were true. Lucien wanted to know, too. 

Elain reached over the table for a small meatball stuck on a toothpick. “I’ve arranged everything just so,” she said, teasing the piece of food just in front of his face. “Don’t spoil my fun.”

“I’ve had enough,” Lucien half growled, half pleaded. Their gazes held, and he knew she could feel his desperation. 

I can’t take another minute of their presence. 

His brother, sniffing after his friend and his mother floating about a palace he never knew she’d even seen, reminded Lucien of everything he’d lost. All the lies, the time wasted, the centuries of wishing, of wondering, of hoping. He couldn’t count the times he had cried into his pillow as a boy. Wondering why his father seemed to hate him more than his brother. Why he was singled out for every small thing, why he received no affection, no praise? 

No love. 

“Spoilsport,” she chided, but she put the food against his tongue all the same. They had an audience, people watching to see what would happen, Kallias knew, but the others were blissfully unaware. Lucien chewed, his eyes never leaving her face. He expected some vicious clanging in his chest, a bell tolling from the heavens above. 

Mine. She’s mine. 

It was his only thought. Lucien blinked, reaching a hand to cup her face. “Elain,” he breathed, as though he were saying it for the first time.

Her smile was genuine, creating dimples in her cheeks. How had he never noticed that before? Freckles dusted a constellation of stars over the bridge of her nose from where she’d been kissed by the sun. Her brown eyes were flecked with green and rimmed in gold.

“Look at you,” he whispered, drinking her in with new appreciation. “My Elain.”

She brushed her fingers over his lips, as if she, too, were seeing him for the very first time. He leaned forward, the tip of his nose brushing her own. There was a stillness to the moment, their breath mingled in the air between them.

And then a hand on his shoulder, jolting him back to reality. “Would you like privacy, my lord?” Ajax asked it with amusement, reminding Lucien he still had an audience. Lucien cleared his throat, looking up at the room. They were being watched by the amused High Lords and their courtiers—and ignored by his own. Day was far too used to the lurid displays he and Elain often put on to find any of this interesting. They danced and feasted, creating a clear disconnect between guests and residents.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Lucien declared, hoisting Elain up into his arms as he stood. She squealed in delight, cheeks flushed as she ran a hand over the bare swaths of his chest. “Stay the evening—stay the night.”

There were murmurings of appreciation and as Lucien stepped out into the hall, he motioned for Ajax to come with him.

“Make sure the High Lords know they’re welcome to return.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Lucien took off, groaning when Elain licked the side of his neck. “It all feels good,” she whispered, breath fanning against his skin. “Tastes good.”

“Don’t stop,” he asked, though the growing erection between his legs was making it practically impossible to walk. He nearly crashed into a pillar when her teeth nipped at the hollow of his neck, and just barely got them into his bedroom before he was ripping himself out of his ceremonial sandals and clothes. 

“It’s worse than they said it would be,” Elain panted, fumbling the buttons on the back of her gown. Lucien strode to tear it apart, too, but she slapped her palm to his bare stomach.

“Let me,” he growled.

��What if my daughter wants it someday?” she panted. He went still at the notion. Children. He didn’t know how to ask the question, to make her admit she wanted that future with him. Why couldn’t his political marriage have all those things? He’d need an heir, wouldn’t he?

He wanted an heir. 

While Lucien dreamt of the litter that might one day run through his halls, Elain managed to get off her dress. Her naked body was hardly anything new and yet the sight of her filled him with brand-new appreciation. Lucien went to her, pushing her against the bed as his mouth found hers. She tasted like spun sugar. He was addicted, her tongue immediately stroking against his own as her nails raked lightly against the back of his neck. He was already grinding himself against her, the head of his cock pressed into her thigh. 

“I need,” he panted into her mouth, “to be in you.”

Elain moaned, arching against his body. Her legs had fallen open, giving him unparalleled access to every inch of her. There was no rush, given they had an eternity together, and somehow Lucien felt as if he didn’t fuck her right then and there, he would die never having been given the chance. 

Lucien slotted himself against her, dazed to find her wet. Elain hadn’t stopped kissing him and he didn’t think she realized until he pushed himself into her. With a gasping breath, Elain broke away to try and look between their bodies.

“This is really happening,” she breathed, digging her nails into his shoulder. 

He hated himself. Halfway into her, Lucien froze. “Do you want me to stop?” He would—it would be hell, given how tightly she was gripping him, and he would. He’d stop, he’d get off her and walk away.

“No,” she said. One word was all it took to fill Lucien with immeasurable relief. He thrust the rest of his cock into her, holding himself for a moment while she wiggled, getting used to the size of him. Lucien was rather content to let himself get used to her—absurdly tight, dripping wet, and mind-numbingly tight. She’d been made for him. 

“My pretty mate,” Lucien whispered, teasing one of her peaked nipples with his fingers as he began his slow, measured thrusting. She arched her neck, eyes rolling into her head. “Is this what you like, Elain?”

She only whimpered. Lucien thrust a little harder, still toying with her nipples to draw more of those gasping moans. He was merely a creature of need—everything he did was to heighten their combined pleasure so he could have her again.

“What about this?” he asked, thrusting faster, letting himself get a little rough. He pinched and she moaned, meeting him thrust for thrust with her pretty, rolling hips. Pleasure skittered through him, building like an out-of-control fire. She was a match for the magic coursing a river through him.

Elain was a song, was bright, burning light that filled any room. She tightened around him, eyes fluttering open to look.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered, reaching for her jaw. He thumbed over her lips, delighted when her tongue darted from behind her teeth to tease at his skin. She sucked him into her mouth, teasing and rubbing like she so often did when it was his cock in her throat. Lucien could feel the combined sensations on his sensitive head, driving him half wild. 

Using his other hand, Lucien pressed his thumb to her slick clit, making tight circles over the little nub until Elain was bucking beneath him, just as wild as he felt. They were both out of control, the slap of skin combined with their breathy, pleading moans. He didn’t want it to end, and yet Lucien was desperate to finish. 

He’d wondered for so long what it would be like to have her. Mating bond or not, Lucien was certain he’d still have felt the same. Would have lost himself when he felt that first wave of her cunt pulsate around him, thrusting viciously—chasing the same pleasure she was drowning in. Lucien was loud enough that anyone nearby could hear him come. It was pure ecstasy losing himself in the softness of her, of pumping and pumping until he could feel his own emissions sliding out with each new drag of cock to make a mess of the sheets beneath them.

Lucien pulled her against him, arms tight around her body. 

“Was it what you thought?” she asked, stroking through his hair, lips against his cheek. 

Lucien pressed a messy kiss to her mouth, his need getting the best of him. His hips were already grinding into her again. 

“Ask me again in a week, Elain.”

[akallabeth-joie]

Les Mis 1.2.2

Following up from Pilf’s post, because clothing is the topic I have stuff to say about. [Also the rest of the action feels very natural follow ups from the previous 15 chapters: the people and house we met in 1.1.1-14 are about to encounter the guy having an awful day in 1.2.1, and this is Hugo’s set up for that.]

Caveat: my main research area is the mid-19th century (right around the time Hugo was finishing Les Mis, not the years it is set), and my working language is English. The US in 1860 is not France in 1815-1832, but I think some elements here do transfer over, or at least offer insight into how Hugo’s readers might have interpreted the text.

Main observations re: Baptistine Myriel’s clothing:

9 years is a very long time for a dress in active use. Washing and non-washing dresses will have different trajectories, but in contemporary non-fiction, making a silk dress last 7 years is a feat of clever planning and care. Five years is noteworthy. One to two years is more typical, and 3 months isn’t necessarily a frivolous waste (wearing a silk dress only once would be). Much like with the soup thing, the Myriel household is taking ‘practicing good economy’ to an extreme, almost absurd degree.

Also, the fact that Mlle Baptistine is still wearing her silk dress “in the style of 1806″ in 1815 is notably weird. Fiction and non-fiction sources of the 1850s/60s show economically-minded women remodeling their silks every season in order to keep up to date. Magazine articles give instructions for turning last year’s flounced skirts into gored ones, or adding puffed overskirts to update narrow gored skirts. Advice books recommend getting an extra yard or two of fabric so that you can update the sleeves of your dress when it’s taken apart for washing. Trousseaus should have some of the dresses left “unmade” (as lengths of fabrics) in case fashions change over the year. A missionary woman writing from not-yet-Seattle in the mid-1850s opines that the dresses she made for her wedding less than a year earlier are too “rusty” to be worn at home (in New York) but are sufficient for living in the woods.

So my impression of Baptistine is that she’s meant to be The Superlatively Economical gentlewoman, and also Not At All Vain About Clothes. She’s not spending her time or money on fashion, but the fact that she is still bothering to wear a silk gown for dinner is signalling that she’s still performing (her class’s) respectability. From this, and her letter about re-doing her room, I expect that her whole wardrobe and all the house’s domestic interiors are scrupulously clean and mended, but also old and likely inharmonious. The two women will do the work to live respectably, but will not spend any unnecessary money on their own comfort or aesthetics.

Hugo taking the trouble to describe Baptistine’s dress (”short waist, a narrow, sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps and buttons”) just reminds me of how much crinoline-era Victorians do not like the Neoclassical look. All of these specific elements are basically the opposite of early 1860s fashion--waists are worn just at/above the natural waist, skirts are about as wide as they can get, more fitted coat sleeves are replacing the wide-open sleeves of the late 1850s. It’s a bit different from how most modern folks seem to view the 1810s style (Austen! Romance! Bridgerton?): I’ll need to dig through my notes, but there’s at least one 1850/60s cartoon and one article I recall which amount to ‘yikes, the fashions of 50 years ago were awful’, and another article from the late 1860s which holds that the crinoline is a great improvement on the raised-waistline silhouette. I think we all prefer to ignore the weirdness of the c.1865-9 Second Empire style, but there were absolutely pairing high waistlines with fitted sleeves and trained skirts over elliptical or half-hoops (transitioning from the rounder cages of the late 1850s and early 1860s into the bustles of the early 1870s).

[spacedoutman]

【𝕻𝖞𝖌𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖔𝖓 | 𝕬 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖚】

(𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 3)

Description: Kiss was the perfect name for the infamous bank robbers who kissed everything goodbye to go out in a blaze of glory. Wreaking havoc on 1930s America, what happens when the chase ends?

♥ Paul Stanley x Reader

Note: I love folk shit so god damn much and I am so happy to be able to share some of it here. I halfway grew up in the Appalachians so a lot of it I'm actually pretty familiar with! Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: None for this chapter

𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 4 / 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 2 / 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 1 / 𝖆𝖔3

“You are way too good looking to be working here.” The woman said in a snarky mutter as she snatched the duster from your hands.

Her expression softened. “You’ve been working your ass off all day.” She gave you a quick pat on the back. A wide grin shone on your face. “If you get the kids to bed, you can take whatever you need from my beauty supply—as long as it isn’t everything.” She finished lightheartedly. You nodded.

“Thank you so much, madame!” You bubbled. “I appreciate it greatly!”

“I should thank you for keeping this place so clean.” The woman sighed tiredly, sliding her hands on her hips. “Even if I didn’t have the kids, I couldn’t do as good of a job.”

You smiled. “I appreciate it again, Doris.” Doris nodded. She was taller than a tree but hunched like a willow. Her platinum hair was tied in a thousand colorful curlers—making her plain red dress stand out like red on white.

“Get on, doll.” She said through her thick Queens accent. “See you around.”

“Bless you.”

Doris nodded once and sauntered off. It felt like a boulder rolled off of you. You sighed in relief. The wind seemed to sigh with you as it billowed the flower-patterned champagne curtains through the open window. Your smile lingered as the soft breeze rolled over you. Your shoes clicked across the polished oak floors and arabesque carpets as you left.

The golden setting sun swallowed the rustic living room, making it look straight out of a fairy tale—but all that was on your mind was hitting the bed. You yawned, slouching heavily as you made your weaved around the deep red couch, heading up the stairs. You opened the first door you saw. A wall that looked like a photograph of the evening sky met your eyes—but with color.

Three children snuggled in their beds, peeping over the blankets.

“HI!!” They all whisper-shouted together, packed with cheer.

You chuckled. “Y/N!” The oldest, Eloise, sat up, waving happily. She was a young girl with two blond braids over her shoulders. You waved back, grinning widely. “How are you?” Your heart melted.

“Good and you?” You put on an exaggerated but enthusiastic polite voice, walking over to the small book shelf.

“Good.” Eloise nodded. “Mom told me that was polite.”

“Very.” You cooed.

“Can I hug you?” Another kid, Kenneth, who actually had a head full of carrot orange hair whispered.

“Of course.”

The children climbed out of their beds and tip-toed over like it was Christmas and past curfew. You hugged them all. The kids overjoyed grins lit up the room. “Can you read a fairy tale tonight?” Eloise asked. “We all agreed on it this time, actually.” Kenneth chuckled. He playfully crossed his arms and looked away, pouting dramatically.

The youngest looked down. He crept over to his bed and sat down, wrapping himself in his deep blue quilt. Your expression softened. your brows drew together. “I read you two’s pick the day before yesterday.” You said gently. “Would you mind letting Frank pick for now?” Kenneth and Eloise looked at each other. Kenneth lowered his head. Eloise put a finger to her chin.

“Alright!” Eloise enthusiastically opined. “He just doesn’t speak up enough.”

“It’s best to include everyone.” You reassured. Kenneth nodded. “Now, what would you like, Frank?”

“A book about war.”

Meanwhile.

Gene’s foot tapping made a great drum beat. He played the fiddle so quick it should’ve lit on fire, nodding along to the tune he and Paul sang. Paul’s hand danced on the dulcimer while he strummed with the other. Another chaotic song about morning whiskey. They’d get it right some time. The two didn’t even drink. No matter how far down the night weather plunged, the loft hoarded heat.

The roof was just high enough for the two to sit up all the way—but one wrong breath and piles of dust and hay and maybe even an empty birds nest would pile onto their faces and possibly suffocate them.

One of the fiddle strings snapped. It had to be the fiftieth time that week. Gene let out a gravelly sigh. “Get the washboard.” Paul teased, taking a small pause. He played again, singing a flowery little tune. His heart beat to the rhythm. Gene peeled himself off the hay stack. It sounded empty without the fiddle.

He crawled down the ladder. Its creaks and bellows ripped through the air. Paul tapped his foot a bit louder. The music scratched the itch in his brain nicely. He closed his eyes. His singing turned to mumbling as he made up lyrics for the song he didn’t remember. The sound filled the barn like an orchestra as he lost his hands to the tune. He moved with the rhythm before-

“Please, there’s got to be something we can do.” Gene’s soft voice fretted.

Paul’s eyes widened. He lowered his dulcimer and crawled over to the ladder. The owner of the place, mister Boyd—James Boyd, to be exact, screamed obscenities. Paul’s lips pinched as a sour face knocked his smile out. He laid the instrument down and crawled down the ladder. Hay drifted down around him like feathers.

Boyd’s shouting boomed louder than a cow mooing in his ear. Paul leaned against a pillar. He frowned a little. Gene was completely still, yet somehow small as he could be. He wiped his mouth. His eyes went dull so fast it hurt. A slight scowl fought its way onto Paul’s face as he eyed Boyd like a hawk. The man was short as a fence post and thin as a twig.

He always wore a tie and a finely pressed white shirt.

“I swear to god, whatever we’ve done, we’ll make it up to you.” Gene’s gaze darted from Paul to Boyd. His eyes turned overly bright and feverish and his movements fast.

Gene’s racing heart slammed in Paul’s ear. “.. Could I ask what’s going on?” Paul’s voice lightened. He sounded more hesitant than anything, yet a little poison hid snug somewhere in there.

“Gladly!” Boyd thundered, staring down his chin at them. “If the two of you don’t pack your bags and get your asses out of here, I’ll have the cops called immediately!”

So much spite drenched his voice it flew out of his mouth. “Can I ask why?” Paul strained to stay polite. Gene stepped back. His gaze clung to the ground.

“You two have done nothing but cause’ a ruckus!” He tossed his hands in front of him, showing off his freshly polished watch made of pure gold.

“Please-”

“Get out.” The man hissed. “I’d better never see either of you again!”

A comeback choked up in Paul. Gene eased his hand on his shoulder. Paul took a deep breath and let it go with it. The two walked out in defeat. The tense air followed them all the way down the path as they left the farm. At least the smell of shit didn’t.

The truck rattled and the road boomed, Paul winced a bit every time they hit a pot hole deep enough to bury a man. Gene laid his head against the dusty window, staring into the night as the washed out woods smeared around them. Paul drove Gene’s pickup truck as fast as the old thing would go, clutching the steering wheel so hard it would snap. Gene closed his eyes.

“That’s another job.” Paul commented gruffly.

“I always thought he liked me.” Gene confessed, completely at a loss.

“Please. I don’t think he likes anyone.” Paul said more snappily than he would’ve liked. “And that leaves us to do what? Degrade ourselves even more? Get a worse job like eating sawdust?”

“Paul. Calm down. I just don’t think he could pay us anymore.”

“Stop trying to justify his behavior.”

“T.. This is a difficult time.. and I have no doubt he’s struggling as well.” Gene said sincerely through a breaking voice.

“He could’ve at least had the good grace to.. I don’t know, talk to us like human beings?” Paul sarcastically sneered, whipping around a corner.

“He’s probably not even thinking about that..”

“Well that’s his fucking problem, isn’t it?”

Gene looked down. Paul furrowed his brows tightly. He breathed so quickly he could start a fire in his lungs. Gene’s eyes widened for a split second. “Paul.. the gas is low.” Gene squeaked. Paul slowed down. His grip loosened.

“Let’s go get gas.”

“Alright.”

[annepsilvaauthor]

Fighter Weapons — Chapter 6

Pairing(s): Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x OC (Claire Mitchell) / Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Natasha "Phoenix" Trace

Summary: An untold story. A series that shows what happened during the Top Gun of our beloved pilots of Top Gun: Maverick.

Warnings: Subtle sexual innuendos, brief language, alcohol consumption, angst, smut, fluffy.

Word Count: 3.990

The darlings who don't want to miss any updates ↪️ @missathlete3131 @togetherisawonderfulplacetobe @switch3rr @na0my @aprilwithapricots @goldenloverschild @blue682628 @rightwhereiwantyou @jackiequick

Prologue l Chapter 1 l Chapter 2 l Chapter 3 l Chapter 4 l Chapter 5

ғɪɢᴛʜᴇʀᴛᴏᴡɴ, ᴜsᴀ

One more day of school and Hangman was swinging one leg frantically as he played with the damn toothpick with his tongue. They were in an anteroom, where there was a very clear projector reproducing the pilots' paths in previous training. Claire and Blade analyzed the maneuvers.

"What's the matter with you?" Claire asked Hangman when it was finally his turn.

He just shrugged and let out a smug smile.

"What would you say, very fast... very agile..."

"And very aggressive." she pointed with some disapproval.

"It's combat. Every second counts." he countered without any fear.

The room was dark, everyone lined up together in armchairs like in a movie theater. Hangman sat in the center next to Coyote and the other pilots around him, as if he were the sun and the rest were just satellites and planets orbiting him. He had sat there on purpose.

From there you could see Rooster absorbed with a notebook, with a slight smile on his face towards the instructors. Phoenix had sat next to Hangman for lack of choice, as she was a few seconds late that day and lost her spot, which certainly wouldn't be next to him.

"The most coveted tricks in the world won't help you if you end up alone. Your wingman has to be able to follow you. Trust in you. You must know that he can depend on you. It's more than just flying around to make the news."

Even in the dim light of the projection, with just a few blue dots moving on a black background, Hangman could see a certain hardness in her gaze, disapproving of his way of flying.

"Well, what you need... what you have to keep looking for... what you want is a wingman who can keep up with you. Who can be there with you move for move. Then you have something."

"As we saw in the video, you almost hit your wingman." Blade intervened in the discussion. "Not the smartest move."

"But it was the least obvious."

"He will never admit he made a mistake." Rooster commented without looking at him.

"My wingman wasn't fast enough to keep up with me. We had seconds to dodge your attack, sir. I had to do it." Hangman ignored Rooster and spoke directly to Blade.

"That was risky, it compromised your wingman and the plane of millions." Blade replied.

"I hit you. That's what matters."

Rooster took a deep breath and frowned, clenching his jaw. He knew Phoenix was right, he couldn't be put off by Hangman's behavior, but he was still human. Listening to an asshole say he didn't care about the team as long as the mission was accomplished was ear-splitting.

"What would you do in this situation?" Claire asked the rest of the room.

"I would have done the same. Every second counts up there." Coyote commented and gave his friend a thumbs up.

"I would have left it on a draw. It was already past thirty seconds." Porkus said.

"Thirty seconds longer than we got." Fungus complained.

"Following the protocols would be enough." Rooster finally opined.

"Rooster and his love for the methods and techniques in the book." Hangman fired again.

"No cataloged combat maneuver has ever killed my team."

"Not an enemy, right, Rooster." he played with the toothpick. "Am I the only one to understand here that the enemy does not play fair or use everything that is in the norms? I fly to win."

"And it doesn't matter to you that your wingman dies in the process." Phoenix commented firmly.

"He... must be bold enough to fly with me."

Phoenix narrowed his eyes upon knowing that Hangman hadn't used the word "he" in vain. He made it very clear there that he would never fly with her without being ordered. Hangman announced to everyone that she, like all women, was not daring enough to fly with him or worse, against him.

"Since you think you're so unreachable, tell us which of us you'd fly with, Bagman." Storm insulted and then coughed. "Wow, my throat is terrible. I meant Hangman."

Everyone knew that wasn't true, including the instructors who exchanged glances with one another. Claire held back a smile and Blade rubbed his mouth to keep from laughing. The pilots were not very discreet and let out quick laughs and a few jokes.

Hangman didn't appreciate the teasing attention one bit. He tried to keep the smug smile on to show that it didn't affect him. But deep down, he was shaking with rage. He could put up with ill-mannered comebacks, shaming and judgmental looks, but being made fun of was too much.

Words from his parents ran through his mind, the laughs, the comments when he said he wanted to be a fighter pilot. Everything came back. The hurt, the pain, the contempt. He felt suffocated, immersed in dark waters. His breathing was quickened. It was really getting to him. Fuck!

However, he felt a delicate and warm touch on his right thigh. It was Phoenix's hand that stopped him from frantically moving his leg any further. He knew that act was only meant to stop him from brushing against her leg, but for some reason, the gesture actually calmed him down. Hangman looked up at her, meeting those eyes glittering in the dim light so close to him. Her expression almost spoke to him "Are you okay?" and Hangman managed to put his head on the surface of the sea.

"None of you." He replied returning to the superb smile and still looking at her. "Yet."

He winked at Phoenix, who rolled her eyes and removed her hand from his thigh as quickly as a hummingbird's wings flutter.

"Okay, pilots. That was our last review for today." Claire resumed the leadership of the room. "You are released for training and tomorrow we will analyze your performances again."

The light was turned on again and soon the pilots left the room. In the hall, Hangman spotted the instructor with the goatee and saw him wave at Phoenix and flash a smile. She waved two fingers and kept walking. That was very strange. Did she fuck him? But Hangman was much more personable and talented than that guy. Why did she go to bed with that weirdo and not him?

They took a break in the break room, where there were two couches upholstered in brown leather, a foosball table, and a breakfast nook. Main meals were usually held in the refectory, but a snack could be had there. On the walls were several frames with images of planes in many generations and photos of old Top Gun classes, since 1969.

Phoenix noticed Rooster approach one of the paintings and watch it for long minutes with a pained expression. He held his dog tag between his fingers, now squeezing hard, now guiding it from side to side. She noticed that he did this whenever the group gathered there and hadn't realized that it could be something important. Until that moment.

"In five weeks it will be us in this room." She commented with a smile as she approached him.

"If we can make it to graduation alive." she replied in a somber tone.

"What does that mean?"

Rooster sighed, still staring at a class photo from 1986.

"When I joined the Navy, I wanted to serve my country, be a good pilot, make my..." He paused. " But here, I see that almost nobody thinks like that. The legacy is what matters. The titles, the fame. This can all go to your head and... wreak havoc."

She considered his comment for a moment and her gaze instinctively landed on Hangman, who was roaring in competition on the foosball table. She remembered the small debate that had taken place in the room and would have given Rooster complete reason if she hadn't seen that look in Hangman's eyes. He looked lost, hurt. And she knew it had nothing to do with Storm's comment because they had already made much heavier jokes and he was still impenetrable as a stone. But not that day. Phoenix had seen a gap in the rock called the Hangman.

"Everyone has their own motivations." she said at last.

"Wrong motivations can lead you to death or worse on your team." He squeezed the dog tag tightly. "Guys like Hangman are a shortcut to the grave."

Rooster pulled away from her slowly and she didn't push for more information. He clearly hated the way Hangman flew and treated the team, it was a fact. But, something told her that there was an entire cavern in the emptiness of his gaze.

Phoenix approached the photograph observing a man very similar to Rooster in the center and below read the names of the pilots. Nick "Goose" Bradshaw. She slightly arched her eyebrows. There was actually more history there than she thought.

"One more for the cowboy account. AW!" Hangman celebrated in the game.

She rolled her eyes and headed to the pantry for a cup of coffee. The coffee pot had broken the first day they'd been there, so she'd have to brew it the old-fashioned way. She wasn't usually very good in the kitchen, but she knew how to do the basics excellently. Her father called it the "classic" in the family, the one everyone judged by its cover, but the contents were splendid.

"I want mine Texas style."

She didn't even have to lift her head to know who it was. So, she went back to her task without saying a single word.

"You're still ignoring me. OK. I'll make my own coffee."

Phoenix watched from the side of the eye as Hangman walked around the counter and was soon invading the tiny space in the pantry. She remained preparing her black coffee straight, but it was impossible not to be disturbed by his movements. One hand appeared with the coffee beans, the other with cinnamon sticks, brown sugar and a mug of powder. Was that coffee or an expensive drink?

She finished preparing her coffee and drank it, soon feeling her body relax again. Being in a fighter pilot school was stressful, even more so because of the competition between them. However, what really left her sleepless at times was Hangman, who invaded her thoughts with memories of her arrogance and she thought of countless ways to curse him when she saw him next time.

Her reverie was interrupted by a delicious aroma. She didn't know how he'd prepared it or if it was any good, but the smell made her curious.

"Would you like to taste it? I allow." he offered with that annoying smile that made her want to punch those perfect teeth out.

She let out a weak smile and shook her head, going back to sipping her own coffee. Somehow that traditional flavor was bland next to that aroma. Fuck! She wanted to taste it. But she couldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her asking for something from him. So, she continued to drink her plain black coffee.

Minutes later, Hangman left the pantry with a cup in hand and walked towards the pilots on the couch. However, she noticed that there was a small cup on the counter with Texas coffee in it. Did he leave it there to drink later or for her? Well, he was distracted by the warm talk of a baseball game. If she took a single sip, to savor it, he wouldn't notice when she went to drink. If that cup was really for her, he wouldn't notice she drank it either and Phoenix wouldn't give him the taste. It was a good plan.

Then, Phoenix surreptitiously dragged the cup off the counter and stood with his back to the rest of the pilots. She tasted. Fuck, that was more than good. It was a masterpiece of coffee plantation. The way the coffee soothed her and the cinnamon gave her the shivers was wonderful. She had to congratulate Texas for inventing something so delicious. After the single sip, she returned the cup to its former place and set the cup down. Hangman wouldn't notice anything.

[***]

They floated like gods, above the storm, above the clouds. The weather that afternoon had changed drastically in minutes, but the control center warned that the rain would not fall so quickly. They could carry out the training.

Overhead, two F-18s could be seen flying side by side over the sea. Phoenix was a little further back protecting Hangman's rear. Once again, the choice of duos could not have been more wrong.

"Ok, in case I haven't made it clear, I'm the pilot and you're my wingman." Hangman reported on the communicator and she knew he was smiling superbly.

"I didn't stay here behind you for nothing." Phoenix replied in disdain.

"I'm glad you recognize my leadership power."

"No, we just left you ahead to die first." Storm fired.

"You don't want me to die, do you, Phoenix? After all, who would make that coffee so good for you?"

What a son of a bitch! He got it. But how? She had been very discreet and he was showing off to the other pilots. Well, if he wanted to play, then they would.

"I've tasted better."

"Still very proud." he insulted and she saw him shake his head. "What do I do with you?"

"You can start by being silent. We have a mission to accomplish."

"Now you spoke my language!"

They noticed a gray blob point alongside them at 900 knots speed, then a flash and the nose of the plane appeared 300 feet away. The instructor passed them so fast that they could only see the left wing and then disappeared completely.

Hangman wasted no time and charged towards him, quickly gaining speed. Phoenix followed, though he didn't communicate the plan. She had expected something like this.

"I have a six o'clock strobe." Storm informed Phoenix. "Jesus! I think he's targeting us."

"What? I thought he was ahead."

"Coming in at high speed, very fast. Turn right!"

"Right!"

Phoenix obeyed his navigator's command and had to hold the stick firmly to avoid a greater impact due to his speed. She could only see the lights flashing on the engine. That dogfighting wasn't going to be easy like the first one. Phoenix accelerated the plane and returned to stand beside Hangman.

"He is very fast. We're not going to win if we don't have a plan."

"I have a plan."

"And how is that?"

"You'll see."

Phoenix wanted to curse him in every possible way and fire a missile at his plane, but she couldn't. She was better than that. She knew he wouldn't say anything about the plan, if he actually had one, and she would need to find out on the way. Hangman was terrible at teamwork.

"He won't even tell us the plan?" Storm asked indignantly.

"No. It's me and you here."

"That bitch!"

"I'm still listening..." Hangman warned on the communicator.

"Excellent!"

They heard the alarm on the display indicating the instructor's presence, but they couldn't see where he was. The sky was getting darker and darker. The beep intensified on the screen. Their hearts pounded with tension.

Suddenly, a beak pointed out over the clouds behind them and rapidly picked up speed. It was too close, too fast. They would lose if they didn't move in time. Hangman's F-18 took a direction towards the sun hidden by the overcast clouds and disappeared into the shadows.

"What is he doing?!" Storm asked furiously.

"That son of a bitch!" Phoenix shouted into the communicator. "He abandoned us!"

"Attack at nine o'clock! AT NINE O'CLOCK!"

"Hold on!"

Phoenix decided to use her trademark maneuver to get out of that predicament. She gained positive airspeed and rotated 180°, cutting through a path of dark clouds. The air was freezing. Her fingers were shaking, her head was pressed against the chair and the breath was escaping her lungs. It took all of Phoenix's strength not to pass out. Storm was with her. Storm was with her.

Phoenix took hold of her hands again to direct the F-18 behind the instructor's fighter and breathlessly called out:

"Storm! Aim for it!" she found only silence. - Storm!

Phoenix quickly looked back to find her navigator passed out. The G force had been too strong for her. They had not yet accomplished that at such an altitude or in an overcast sky. Phoenix pressed her lips together tightly and tried not to tremble with fear. She used a trick Storm had taught her to calm down. She inhaled and exhaled deeply several times until she regained control of herself and adjusted the stick to aim at her opponent.

She heard the beeping sound of the lead fighter, but she hadn't been the one to shoot it down. It was Hangman.

“And the cowboy wins again.” He celebrated bringing the plane closer to hers.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

Phoenix banked her fighter to the left and headed for base. Upon landing, she opened the canopy and rose, soon approaching Storm. She patted her cheeks and her friend started mumbling. Phoenix gave a relieved smile and hugged her navigator tightly.

“Woah! You...are... too strong for...a skinny one.” Storm complained opening her eyes.

“And you are ungrateful.”

“What there was?” She settled on the bench, feeling drops wet her face. It started to rain. “Did we win?”

“That's the least important thing.” Phoenix caressed her friend's face. “You're safe.”

“Do we win or not? I don't want to pass out for nothing.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and laughed. Storm was sometimes more competitive than she was.

“Yeah, we won.”

“YEY!” She cheered with both arms in the air.

Phoenix helped her friend out of the fighter despite her protests that she was fine. The other pilots were running along the flight path towards the hangar, as the rain was already beginning to weigh. They followed their lead.

“Hey, Phoenix!” She heard that voice that heated her whole being with rage. “I can't believe you used the Hammerhead turn. It was daring!”

“Go find someone else to piss off, idiot.” she returned with the tone loaded with hate.

“Wow. What a mood, huh? It doesn't even look like we won.”

“No thanks to you.” she clenched her fists. If he spoke one more word he would explode.

“If I remember correctly, I hit him.”

“Yes, after using us as bait!”

Phoenix roared, parking in place and finally looking up at that smug face. The rain didn't let up, it fell harder and harder. She panted, unable to control her anger. He had the power to always get her out of control.

When Phoenix found himself, she had advanced towards him and started a sequence of shoves and slaps on his chest. And she got angrier every time it didn't seem to hit him a bit.

“You son of a bitch! You left us there to die!’ She shouted feeling her voice falter.

“I won't always be there to protect you, my angel.” He informed with that smile and it served to intensify Phoenix's anger. She pushed him mercilessly and he just pulled away a little.

“I know! I don't need your protection! But if we are cast as a team we must look out for each other!”

“New to you or not, but I already said that I don't work in a team. I'm forced here.”

“You forced me to do a risky maneuver. My navigator passed out!”

“It's not my fault if she's not fit for this profession. If she can't take it, she walks out.”

The words fanned Phoenix's anger and she pushed him even further. They were already in the middle of the flight line, under a torrential rain and everyone had already entered the hangar, including Storm who was taken by force to the infirmary by the instructor.

“That's selfish! You're a cocky, cocky motherfucker who thinks you don't need anybody!”

“Yes I am!” He shouted back.”I do NOT need anyone. I'm enough for myself!”

Phoenix chuckled humorlessly, still not quite believing what she was hearing. The rain was already so heavy that they could barely see each other. The sun had completely hidden.

“That's the biggest lie I've ever heard!”

“I don't care if you don't believe it. But I am my greatest love!”

“Oh my God. This is so sad!” She approached him. “And yes, you're lying.”

“Why?”

“Earlier today in class. You were alone against everybody. You were a nervous wreck, it looked like you were going to be sick. And you needed me to calm down!”

She noticed that his smile faded and the cocky expression disappeared. He was pure shame and sadness. She almost felt sorry for him, but she pulled herself together. He had abandoned her. He was a real executioner. He didn't deserve compassion.

“If you want to get back at me for not having sex with you, fine! I can handle it! But not in the sky, not when I have someone to protect!”

“I don't give a shit about it! You already have plenty of other idiots around here to sleep with, don't you?”

"You're a piece of shit!"

Phoenix gave him one last push and walked away, plodding down the flight path. Her chest was heaving, her heart was beating like a drum, her entire body was trembling. And she really wanted to say it was from the cold, but no. She was possessed with rage.

"I thought that's what you wanted!"

She answered him with a middle finger and continued walking without stopping until she reached the locker room. Phoenix yanked her flight suit off, throwing it to the floor, and stepped into the shower, where she was finally able to shed the tears she'd been holding back. She'd been so scared, never seen her faint, never been this close to losing her. He had no right to mess with other lives.

After putting on her beige uniform and fixing her hair in a bun, Phoenix opened the locker room door and was dizzy with what she found. There he was, standing like a statue, dripping wet, still in his flight suit and the pained expression on his face. He was the opposite of Hangman. He was heartbroken.

She didn't say anything. He didn't say anything either. Both remained there looking at each other in a mixture of anger and sadness for a long time. Phoenix could feel her anger fading as it sank deeper into those sad, tender eyes. He was more than a selfish cocky. He was a lonely and hurt man.

Understanding this, it wasn't difficult to understand when he approached her and hugged her. A tight hug, like a helpless child. She should push him away, feel revulsion or contempt for what he's done, but she doesn't.

She was slow to reciprocate due to the sheer awkwardness of that act, but when she did, she felt there was nothing more right to do.

Hangman snuggled closer to her, and even though he was much taller, he buried his head in the crook of her neck. His arms surrounded her waist tightly, almost crushing her and the water soaked her uniform entirely. She didn't care. Her fingers stroked the hair on the back of his neck and down his back, breathing in the scent of coconut mixed with rain.

It was not known how long they remained there in that position, but neither of them seemed to want to separate. It was strange and right at the same time. That didn't replace the fact that he'd put her in danger, if only in simulation. But it served to show that he was lying when he said he didn't need anyone.

Hangman was lacking in affection.

[fictionfromafar]

Back From The Dead by Heidi Amsinck

Back From The Dead

Heidi Amsinck

Muswell Press

Publication Date: 18 April 2024

It was shortly after the Covid Lockdown when I first picked up My Name is Jensen, the first of Heidi Amsinck's novels that would become the first in the Jensen Thriller series. While many of the Nordic Noir novels that I read are written by authors living in their respective countries which are then translated into English, this novel stood out as Amsinck is a Dane living in London and writing her novel in English. The story was a standout in other ways too, portraying the difficulties encountered by journalist Jensen (she has forbidden use of her first name) as she investigates the death of several homeless men on the return to her home city of Copenhagen. Creating not simply a complex main protagonist, but also a supporting cast including Jensen's on - off married lover Detective Inspector Henrik Jungersen, the novel was primed to become a series. Pleasingly Heidi Amsinck's debut became a success not just in the UK, but also in Denmark and since in several other European countries.

Somehow I appeared to miss the follow up story, 2022's The Girl in the Photo yet I do feel that this offers me a chance to opine on the strength of Back From The Dead as a standalone novel as well as part of a series. Although the story does recall events and reintroduce characters from the earlier books gradually from outset, I do believe that many readers would soon adapt to Jensen without further background information. As we encounter Jensen in Back From The Dead she appears to be reasonably settled by her own standards, in a new relationship and while there are cost cutting measures occurring at her newspaper, Jensen appears to be in favour. By contrast Jungersen's marriage is on shaky ground and while a planned trip to Italy offers the chance to spend some well earned time with his family, the discovery of a headless corpse in Copenhagen's harbour could potentially put that at risk - but equally might the detective's own reoccurring thoughts of Jensen.

In contrast to the snowy conditions of her debut, Copenhagen is experiencing a June heatwave when Jensen hears some concerning news about a friend of her's who has apparently disappeared. When her initial investigations reach a dead end she reluctantly contacts Henrik Jungersen for help. It soon appears more than likely that his body could well be that of her friend. Yet far more is at play than either of them realise and the repercussions of their involvement will deeply impact each of the main characters' professional and personal lives.

With short chapters often alternating between the two key characters, the book compels you to continue reading and there are some twists along the way, some of which I found more surprising than others. Back From The Dead will certainly find appeal with many crime fiction readers and also features some traits of Scandinavian crime fiction which many will feel comfortable with - successful capitalists are rarely good people, to name a familiar one. I found this a strong addition to the Jensen Thriller series, although the one aspect I might have liked more of would have been a greater flavour of the city of Copenhagen; which I did feel was more strongly felt in the debut. I do have to concede though that this is may well not be so much a factor for other crime readers. The ending leaves little doubt that the series will continue and I look forward to future developments in Jensen's story.

Many thanks to Muswell Press for an advance copy of Back From The Dead and to Anne Cater of Random Things Tours for inclusion on the blog tour. Look out for other reviews of this novel on the blog tour poster as shown below:

A Missing person … a headless corpse … Jensen is on the case. June, and as Copenhagen swelters under record temperatures, a headless corpse surfaces in the murky harbour, landing a new case on the desk of DI Henrik Jungersen, just as his holiday is about to start. Elsewhere in the city, Syrian refugee Aziz Almasi, driver to Esben Nørregaard MP has vanished. Fearing a link to shady contacts from his past, Nørregaard appeals to crime reporter Jensen to investigate. Could the body in the harbour be Aziz? Jensen turns to former lover Henrik for help. As events spiral dangerously out of control, they are thrown together once more in the pursuit of evil, in a case more twisted and, more dangerous than they could ever have imagined.

Heidi Amsinck won the Danish Criminal Academy's Debut Award for My Name is Jensen (2021), the first book in a new series featuring Copenhagen reporter sleuth Jensen and her motley crew of helpers. She published her second Jensen novel, The Girl in Photo, in July 2022, with the third due out in February 2024. A journalist by background, Heidi spent many years covering Britain for the Danish press, including a spell as London Correspondent for the broadsheet daily Jyllands-Posten. She has written numerous short stories for BBC Radio 4, such as the three-story sets Danish Noir, Copenhagen Confidential and Copenhagen Curios, all produced by Sweet Talk and featuring in her collection Last Train to Helsingør (2018). Heidi's work has been translated from the original English into Danish, German and Czech.

[landwriter]

hahahaha WHAT. your HORRIFYING HORRIFYING PROCESS IS indeed the most horrifying thing i’ve heard in a while! how long does that doc even take to load???

anyway tell me about need to write this when i’ve done physical labour and am sweaty 😂 please!

over-explanation of my desire to be sweaty for a WIP is here. Totally sensible I swear!

As far as my Horrifying Horrifying Process goes - (as a tagging organization queen you will be pleased to know you can search by that tag and find me defending myself) amidst all the horrors (i.e. my 20K WIP Lighthouses is between chapters three and four of Oaths) loading is not one of them! I do not use Google Docs because I like to live on the edge and also because I (ir)rationally HATE it. As far as I know it's the only word processor that lags at those lengths. I use an offline word processor called FocusWriter. My background is clouds.

Recently I have publicy opined that maybe it's time for Scrivener but this was only a lapse in willpower and I will stay strong with my low-tech and chaotic ways <3

WIP asks (via random notes-to-self in them)

[marukyubi]

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG okay for the sake of readers who haven't read I won't add very specific spoilers but I gotta tell you smth SISSY I swear to god, you and my playlist must've made a treaty to make me cry cause -When Hobie laughed at her words, it played line without a hook, especially that "If I could take it all back, I swear that I would pull you from the tide~" PART!!!! AHHHHH (The shock in me so big I gotta stand up and walk around for a moment!!!) -When R and Hobie stares at eo longingly, you know what sound it played? FUCKIN' Apocalypse by Cigarette after sex!!!! (Yeah, I cried at there. I DIDNT EVEN NOTICE MY TEARS UNTIL THEY FELL) -When they finally kiss!!??? THE INTRO OF TELEPATIA BY KALI UCHI!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

On these Metal Tracks I Lay Myself Bare

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, CW guns, TW violence, CW injury, Cowboy AU, wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

The train station is packed with people, all finely dressed, waiting along the tracks, their luggages weighing heavy in their hands. The place smells of iron and steel, sweat soaked wood and rough leather. Your eyes wander around the station, domed ceilings loom above, carvings of horses and birds decorate the chestnut wood. Sunlight filters through the cracks, rays of light acting as a spotlight to the ornate building. It's a busier train station than the town you were in, the city you've stopped in is huge in comparison to the little towns you've passed by. The station is full of ticketing booths, lines stretching a few feet away that are full of impatient passengers. You look across the train tracks, seeing parents chastising their children, hearing hurried murmurs from husbands, holding their wives’ hands even though the luggage in their hand slows them down. You look at Hobie's gloved hand that's resting upon the ticket booth, you stare at it longingly, eyes getting glossy by the minute.

He's taking you home, and just like back home, you have no say in it.

A train whistle echoes, a signal of its metallic arrival. Its steel body creaks as it stops, its copper inlay is slowly turning green, and there's rust around the wheels. Soon, the station fills with smoke, dark tar belching smoke that sticks to your lungs as you cough. You feel a warm hand on your back, in a second you look back, the warmth is gone.

“You alright?” Hobie asks, lighting up a cigarette in-between his lips.

“It's the smoke,” you say, scratching at your throat that he cannot keep looking at for the scar in his neck throbs at the memory from the mundane act.

“Alright,” without a second thought, he takes his freshly lit cigarette from his mouth and then flicks it away from you, embers fly off in the distance just before it lands on the dirt outside.

You feel like the golden light in the summer. “I was talking about the coal smoke from the train. But that works too, thank you.”

He scoffs, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Right, didn't do it for you, I did it for myself. Heard it kills people y'know.” Nudging you, he doesn't expect for you to shuffle away. Blinking, he avoids your eyes, “that's our train, it's an overnight one so we can rest in our cabin.” He tugs you in by the sleeve of your coat that's tucked in between his middle and forefinger, guiding you towards the waiting doors.

“That's good.” You follow, eyes trained on his back lest you get lost.

As much as you don't want to go home, you still don't want to leave him despite your mind telling you to forget about him and just leave on Cherry and wander around the west like a tumbleweed caught in the wind. You'd probably last a week.

Hobie stops by the doors, waiting in line with the other passengers. You flick your eyes downwards, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not taut, just holding you close to him as the crowd grows. So close to your own hands, yet so far from your heart.

“Tickets?” The man clad in a blue uniform asks, Hobie shows the pink papers and the man nods.

You enter the train car, it's a cute little thing filled with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels, and carpeted floors that run towards the end of the car. On your left are filled with little cabins, with clear windows that you can see through inside. It's big enough for at least four people, five if possible, though it would be a tight fit. The hallway is already small enough that only two people could walk side by side, you'd like to walk side by side with him, unlike now that you walk behind him, behind his shadow that gathers around you like dandelions in the spring.

“This is us,” he stops at cabin number three, opening the door with a creak, he leans away to let you enter first. Closing the door behind him, he pulls down all the curtains so that wandering eyes can't watch your every move. It's bad enough that there's a bounty on both of your heads, you don't want gossiping passengers peering inside.

There are four collapsible beds on each wall, all held by golden ropes, bed sheets in rich red cloth, pillows fluffed to perfection and blankets neatly folded. Hobie scooches in between you and the beds to close the top bunks so that there's more space for his tall frame. He has taken his hat off not for politeness but if he wore it inside it'll be squished by the low ceiling. Then there's the large window that sits across the door, before you could take note of the people outside, Hobie shuts the curtains close.

“What do you think?” He asks, taking his jacket off with a flourish. “It's not even close to the ones back home but it'll do for now. We'll be train hopping to get our scents off the lawmen.”

“It's nice— wait, train hopping?” You sit down on one of the beds, the mattress is surprisingly soft under you. “Please don't tell me we'll be jumping from train roof to train roof.”

Hobie chuckles, copying your actions, sitting across from you. Back resting against the wall, comfortably slouching. “Think you can handle it?”

“God, no.” You can't help but rest your tired head upon the goose feather pillow.

“Good, because we're not doin' that, love.” Again, he copies you. Arms tucked under his head, eyes above the ornate ceiling. “We’re not gettin' off at the last station, so we'll be ridin’ with Buck and Cherry for a bit and then to another train station. Confuse the wankers with our brilliant wiles.”

You lift your head off the pillow, and in turn, Hobie turns his head to look at you. “Wait, what about the horses?”

“They'll follow the train.” He smiles.

“Follow? Like they have our scents?” Hobie laughs, not teasingly, no, it's full of endearment, chuckling softly, but it flies over your head.

“Don't laugh. It's a genuine question.” You roll your eyes with slight amusement.

“They're in the back carriage,” he tamps down his laugh but his smile stays.

After that silence prevails in your cabin as the train slowly chugs on, sharp whistles piercing your eardrums, and the hum of machinery bringing you back home. You want to speak to him, to finally tell him of all your concerns about going home, going back to them. But most of all, you want him to speak to you about everything, to tell you how he was faring for the last five years, and how he became such a terrifying figure to outlaws. You want him to just…talk, and make up for lost time. You gather the courage, but just as you were about to speak, he no longer lies across from you. Hobie is sitting on the bed, body facing the door, hands busy with oiling his guns.

“Hobie…I—”

“What is it?” He flicks his eyes briefly to you, his tone was sharp, but he didn't mean it, blaming it for his own worries and fatigue. He'd say something about it but you're already facing away from him. Back turned, blanket shielding you from him.

“Nevermind,” you mumble into the covers, falling into a deep slumber where the conversation happened in your dreams.

This goes on for three days, hopping from train to train, from busy cities to dead empty towns. You barely speak, talking only when Hobie asks you something. It's like you're back at that empty mansion, with only the plants to talk to.

Hobie silently hates it, he doesn't know what to make out any of it. You seem hungry so he gives you a can of strawberries, you look tired so he lets you sleep without him saying a word. When goosebumps appear on your arms he gives you a blanket, when you're nervous, lips bitten until it's bleeding, he leaves you alone to calm yourself down. None of it works, he misses your chatter that has kept him sane the entire journey. The silence gives him time to think though, a situation that he despises since nothing good has come out of all the thinking.

—

The rest of the journey goes without a hitch, except for that one bit where Bucky was stolen by an outlaw while you and Hobie were buying train tickets. You panic while he sits and waits. People look at you like you were a mad woman pacing back and forth, hand petting Cherry, voice whispering your thoughts to the poor hitched horse. And Hobie just…stares. After what seemed like forever, or fifteen minutes, Bucky returns, riderless, still has his saddle on his back, and seemingly chipper. Turns out, Hobie trained Buckeye to throw off would-be thieves, and this time, Bucky found a convenient ledge to throw this particular man off. You and Hobie quickly ushered both horses into the back just in case a sheriff comes looking for a murderous horse.

You've been seeing a few familiar faces in the crowd of travelers, the same children that's tugging at their father's coat, the same old couple that helps each other up on the platforms. Some have taken notice of you too, to which you smile politely at them while they wave kindly at you.

—

It's another warm humid day, another train to ride in. You don't bother to look at the interior this time, only deciding to sit on the cushy seat you were assigned to, sliding inside the booth, eyes already staring longingly at the outside world. Hobie once again tries to speak about something— anything to try to get you to finally speak your mind, but his rapid pulse tells him otherwise. So he clamps his mouth shut, deciding to sit across from you instead of sitting next to you like he wanted to.

He feels eyes on his form as he picks mud off his spurs, raising his head, he comes face to face with a freckled child staring at him curiously with her big blue eyes. Her tiny hands are curled around a teddy bear, her fiery red hair is tied into a neat ponytail. You notice her a second later, smiling softly at the child.

“Hello,” you greet kindly, and the girl scampers back to her family's seat, hiding her blushing face behind her mother's skirt.

“Sorry about that.” Her mother apologizes, round pregnant belly prominent as she tries to coax her daughter out. “This is Clementine, she's a bit shy.”

“That's alright,” you speak on behalf of Hobie. “Hi, Clementine, my name's Y/N, and this is my companion, Hobie.” The second your eyes meet his own, Hobie's breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Say hello, Clem, be polite.” The girl's father playfully pokes her side. Blue eyes hidden behind rounded glasses.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, giggling when she looks back at Hobie.

“I think she has a crush on your husband.” Clementine's mother chuckles, patting her daughter's back for a job well done.

“My husband?” Panic sets in your chest until you see her gesturing towards Hobie. “Oh,” you chuckle shakily, fists bunched around your trousers.

Hobie notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He takes your reaction as something else, so to keep your embarrassment at bay, he tells the couple otherwise. “Not her husband. Just escortin’ her.”

The air becomes awkward. “Oh,” the mother rubs her belly, smiling gently. “Sorry, you two just look like a good pair.”

Her husband taps her shoe with his. “Just like us, eh, sweetheart?” The wife shakes her head with a bashful smile, bringing a grin to the man's lips. You start to think that this is what marriage is supposed to be. Caring, loving, clinging onto each other in the best way that doesn't stifle or choke, just love in its most natural form. It's unlike any marriages you've seen and experienced back home. “So where are you folks off to? I'm guessing south? We've been seeing you two around since Valentine, it's nice to have some company during the journey don't you think?”

Hobie doesn't sense malicious intent from the parents. “Sure, whatever you say, mate.”

“You're not from around here aren't you?” The little girl listens to the conversation, head moving from side to side whenever someone speaks. “That's alright,” she laughs softly, rummaging for something in her bag. Hobie has his thumb pressed along the side of his gun. “I can tell you'll be good neighbors,” she hands you a small jar of honey, it's bright yellow and clear, you wish you had some tea to go with it. Hobie breathes a sigh of relief. “Here you go!”

“Oh no thank you, we can't possibly take it.”

“Please do.” The husband says, “we used to have a colony of bees, but we had to sell them all before we moved.”

“We have dozens of unsold honey, we're honestly just looking to get rid of it before we get to our destination. They're heavy, y'know.” His wife finishes for him. “Clem, can you give it to sweet Y/N for me?”

“That's so kind of you.” You smile, nodding. “You're moving to the south?”

“Okay.” She happily takes it, walking across the aisle to you and Hobie. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to Hobie instead of you. “Here you go.” She copies her mother.

Hobie takes the jar with trepidation. “Thank you?”

You quiet down a laugh while Clementine’s parents guffaw across you.

“Oh she's in love.” The mother says, arms raised to embrace her daughter who welcomes her touch. You can't help but feel a pang in your heart at her love for her child. “And yes we're going to be living there with my in-laws. Rent has gone too high in the west, y'know.” You nod along, making friendly conversation.

“Wish I had tea,” you hear Hobie mumble. You smile softly at his words.

—

It's been a couple of more trains, and more smoke in your lungs, you start to feel like your hands are starting to smell like the steel that you now know as your temporary home. The scenery outside your window has changed. From grassy dusty plains of tumbleweeds and windmills to rolling mountains that rise up high with large looming trees that shield you from the sun. Soon your view will be full of the southern charm, but you don't look forward to it, being there means that you're closer to getting back to the place you dread.

You've grown quite close to Clementine and her little family, even the other familiar passengers that are heading the same way as you are quite fond of you as well. You eat breakfast with them, have afternoon tea, and have even introduced Cherry and Bucky to the children. They've lovingly named them both ‘horsies,’ to which you'd always giggle at.

Clementine has latched onto you, you teach her about plants and flowers, and have her draw them for you just like you've sweetly described it to her. But when Hobie's near, she opts to be his shadow for the time being, following him everywhere until her mother calls her back. Hobie is half annoyed that he can't find the time to speak to you, but he's glad that there's someone as a mediator between the two of you or he'll start vomiting out words that may or may not make the situation worse.

Your back aches at the lumpy mattress that you've unfortunately landed into. You can't help but give up the assigned cabin for you and Hobie to Clementine and her family since the beds are much more comfortable in that cabin. So you offered to exchange it, citing that the mother, Florence, you've come to know, needs it more because of the growing baby in her. She gratefully gave you another jar of honey for your sacrifice.

Hobie enters the booth, heavy boots thumping against darkened wood, spurs clicking, footsteps rolling along like a thick heavy fog of loneliness.

“Where were you?” He asks even though he's afraid that he'd be overbearing. His worries win over him.

You grip the spine of the borrowed book, knuckles tightening, eyes drawn downwards to the written word that spells out ‘grief.’ “I visited Cherry, I don't want her to be lonely.” You barely look at him.

Hobie flexes his hands not out of anger, no, out of fear of losing you, this time, just like the last time he did, he doesn't know why or how he could even lose you. He sits down across from you, bed creaking from his weight. He tries to play as the nonchalant cowboy like he always had for the past five years.

“Clementine was lookin' for you.” *I was looking for you. “Cherry won't be lonely, she has Bucky with her.”

“Bucky hasn't been much help when all he does is look at her. Not much of a conversationalist.” You flick your eyes over to him, flashes of anger and hopelessness are melted into your irises.

“Maybe Bucky just doesn't have the words.”

“And maybe Cherry just wants to talk to him.”

“That fuckin’ horse,” he laughs, you don't find the humour in his words. But he clearly does. Your anger flies over his head. “that horse is already worth half of your bounty.” His words are a sharp sting in your arteries. “If she actually speaks she'll be worth it.”

“And what if she doesn't? That she's not worth your damned money?” You toss the book aside. Anger seeping out of your pores. “You'll sell her after you bring me in to my aunt?” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. “Am I just that to you? A bounty?” The dam breaks, and everything you've kept to yourself bursts open.

“That's not—” The heart that he has sewn together breaks at the seams.

You abruptly stand up, tears pricking your eyes. Inhaling, you stare down the man you love. The only man you've ever loved. “You are not what I hoped to find when I escaped on that ship.”

Before he could say something, anything, you disappeared into another train car, and amidst the metallic halls.

—

Another grueling day, another steel cage to get into. The train whistles as it comes to a stop, you've grown acclimated to the smell of burning coal, you let it coat your lungs as you enter the train with Hobie silently trailing after you.

Your eyes are glossed over, red and swollen from the sobs you've let out over the course of the last sixteen hours. Hobie hasn't talked to you since then, always looking at your back, face unreadable. You pass by familiar faces, you don't acknowledge them. You're tired, bones aching, muscles twitching from lack of sleep and water. Head thrumming, you enter your designated cabin like a doe who has lost its way.

There's a sinkhole underneath your feet, slowly it eats at you, up to your shins and up your thighs, coating your flesh in mud and dirt. You don't tug at him anymore, the small ember of hope in your chest has diminished, instead, you let the ground swallow you whole— letting it suffocate you, letting it drown your lungs in soil.

Just like he did on the first train ride, there's four beds on each wall, but instead of an empty space in the middle, there's a little foldable table. You close the top bunks and lay down on one of the bottom ones, head heavy against the soft pillow. You feel his presence behind you, and then a cool steel atop your bicep. You flinch away, thinking it was a barrel of a gun.

“I figured you're thirsty.” He says, hand hovering above your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down. The train whistle rings out, and the engine whirrs and starts up as more smoke bellows outside your window.

You take the flask, sitting up to take a drink. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Hobie sees the glow of your ring, he instinctively brings his hand up to his own that has made its home around his neck; hidden behind his clothes, finding comfort in its gilded form, the closest thing he can get to you.

“Why do you still hold on to me? After all these years?” He asks, eyes swirling with unknown emotion.

“Why did you let me go?” You answer, and that was the end of the conversation. Then it hits you, he truly doesn't love you anymore.

—

Night comes, and with it your sadness comes flooding through you, getting in the corners, slithering around every crevice— it has memorized your form and made it its home.

Weirdly enough, Hobie hasn't left the cabin, his lingering presence doesn't stifle you, unlike the man back at home who watches you with piercing glares. Even with your fury, your mind still finds comfort in Hobie.

He hears your almost silent cry, he wants to hold on to you, to brush his palms on your cheeks, to wipe away the tears and press his lips against your own. But he can't, or you'll think that he didn't mean it, that he only did it to make you calm down. It would be a cheap satisfaction for the both of you.

“I didn't let you go, I had to go.” He suddenly says above the quiet cutting of an apple in his hand, leaving pieces of it on your side just in case you want it. His voice doesn't waver, perhaps he has been saying the exact words to you in his mind for the past five years. You still have your back turned facing him as the deep rumble of the train goes on. “I was young and stupid. I was forced—”

You suddenly turn towards him, sitting up on the lumpy mattress. “And I was young and stupid too, yet I knew in my heart that running away with you wasn't foolish. Was it stupid to you? Escaping with me? That you'd rather run away, alone, to another country than be with me?” The memory of a young you waiting for him with your luggage in your grip has you seething.

Hobie matches your anger, hunting knife pausing on the red apple. “Did you hear what I said?” He angrily skins the fruit, slicing and dicing at its flesh. “You have no idea what I've done to survive. I have endured a lot to be where I am now—”

“And what of what I endured?!” You stand up, taking your bag, rummaging through it. “I'm truly sorry for whatever happened to you— but how could I apologize for something that I don't even know?” You toss the letters on the desk after struggling to take it out of the bag. “There! The letters that were sent back to me because I had no idea where you would be! Read them, and you'll know of the things I've endured. Unlike you who would rather look at me with contempt than tell me why I deserve that horrid gaze.” You gasp for air, he lets you speak, his own anger dissipating, fear once again encompasses him. “I thought you were dead, everyone kept telling me you were, but I didn't believe them. It's been years, my hands are raw from— I mourned you.” You pause, watching your golden ring glow in the lampshade. “Do you know how much that hurt? To start to believe their words? To lose hope? I didn't know where you were but you knew where I was and yet, not a single fucking letter went my way.”

Hobie stares at the letters spilled all over the table, apple juice seeping into the yellowed paper. He takes one, the oldest looking one that has its edges burned. Breaking the wax seal, he reads as he listens to your words coated in venom and grief.

“One letter, Hobie, and I would've understood. Then I wouldn't have come after you if you just told me you didn't want to be with me anymore.” You nod, “and now you're bringing me home, to the same people who would rather keep me locked up and tell me lies. I don't know how your letter got in my possession, but now I know that you didn't mean anything you wrote in it.” For five years you've asked yourself, ‘was it me?’ ‘Was I the reason you left?’ you never got the answer to your question, so now you ask him finally. “Was it me?”

Hobie raises his head to look upon your sorrow, his hand shakes at the act they've done to you the second he escaped. He had thought they'd leave you alone, that they'd finally let you go once he was gone and forgotten; but he never thought it would get worse, the hurtful words and slaps on the wrists were nothing compared to what they've done after that night he was almost buried alive— the night you tried to escape with him. His mind draws the scene, blood coating your knees, your pained cry as your aunt jabs your hands with the tip of a fountain pen. And then her words of hollow apologies as she heals your wounds so that it wouldn't scar. You're filled with them, invisible to the eye, but not to you, the only person who has felt every single torturous wound.

‘It's terrible,’ you wrote, ‘not ever seeing you again.’ And he agonizingly read it. No, it wasn't you, it was them, them who would rather commit murder just to mimic what he had. Hobie can't form coherent words at what he just read, anger and sadness piercing his veins like a poisoned arrow of guilt.

You sniff, wiping the tears in your eyes as he just stares back at you. His hands shakes, paper crumpling under his tight grip, he needs to bring you home. But not there, not at the gilded cage he left you in.

The cruelty of memory has plagued you, you try to remember, you reminisce, but did it actually happen? Did all his love for you even happen?

“You don't have to keep reading,” you say solemnly, “it doesn't matter now, we're nearly there.” With a slide of the door, you leave.

—

After the twelfth tear stained letter, with his own tears flowing down and leaving moistened webs on the paper, he has had enough. His eyes always seem to see the same words now, ‘was it me?’ ‘Are you alive?’ and ‘When will you come back?’ Hobie hasn't even made a dent on the letters, barely reading half of the pile of longing you've left. Hobie's mind swirls into different emotions, going through every scenario where he didn't run away, where he came back for you while clutching his still bleeding throat and body covered in moist soil.

He was foolish to try and push you away, to hold you at arm's length, to only look at you like he has let the poisonous words thrown at him by the very same man that gave him the scar curl around him like blackened smoke that stains his clothes. He thought that wanting you back would bring nothing but hurt, especially that he thought that he didn't deserve it. To want is his demise, to have you again in his arms is his folly, but what a wonderful folly it would be.

How could he do all of that to you when his scarred flesh is in the shape of your name.

He pockets the letters, tucking it inside his waist coat, right above his heart just to feel your words through them. The door opens with a click, and he walks towards your direction like a compass built inside him that always points towards you. His fingers glide along the scar on his neck, raised skin felt through his gloves as he walks from carriage to carriage. Where there's open air in between, cool breeze stinging his moistened cheeks. Then he stops at the edge of a crowd, a jaunty tune plays from a traveling musician, playing for a scrap of coins in the corner. People gather around the brightly lit bar, alive and happy, and there you are standing as if you're frozen in time. As if he's seeing you just how he left you.

Amidst the familiar faces within the crowd that gathers in the small bar to converse, he stares at you, and by some miracle, you stare back at him, meeting his jade eyes that are surrounded by a sickened red. There's a soft, ghost of a smile on your lips, even after what you've told him— eyes full of love for the same man who has your heart in the palm of his hands; gentle, caring and yet unknowingly the only person that could truly hurt you the most without the painful slap of a wooden board against your back. It brings him back in time, under the cloudy gas light and the whir of the metal machines whose maw opens and closes to reveal heated metal— His mouth opens and he says the exact same thing that he has been saying every single time his eyes meet yours in secret— ‘meet you back at home.’ He utters, a promise kept under the smell of unlit gunpowder and cheap champagne that your aunt always buys to placate the workers. And you say the same words back without a bated breath— ‘wait for me.’ You almost cry out into the crowd, you'd scream it if it weren't for the forbidden relationship. It has been like that through every cheap congratulatory milestone the factory and your aunt has thrown. You don't speak to him, but your longing eyes do. He doesn't come near you, but his hand would always gravitate towards your velvet clad hand. ‘No one else knows.’ ‘No one else knows,’ those words echo in your mind like a root taking its place. Yet, someone saw, it only takes one good pair of eyes to see the growing love between you— ‘no one knows,’ he mirrors, but one does. It only takes one to set off a domino effect, an effect that would lead to his attempted murder, and to your demise that he isn't fully privy to. ‘No one knows,’ ‘no one knows,’ you whisper to yourself as you pack your bags to escape the life you haven't got a say in. No one knows, and yet, one did, and that one got your love's neck slashed and buried alive in the same soil you once kissed above on, under the same tree that you were supposed to meet in.

He wondered why you didn't show up, but the one that knew did. No one knows, and the one that did lived in your house, ate your food, shared a bed with your aunt— a story told through a letter from a man he once worked with, a man who now has one eye, a man that helped dig him out of the shallow grave they've put him in, waiting to bleed out in the earthbound soil. A dangerous letter that he had burned in the fire from anger. He wanted revenge, but you would be the cost. So he survived and killed, and survived again, always seeing you in the corner of his eye, always hearing your almost forgotten voice when he's on the edge of sleep. He survived and now he's here, meeting with your eyes amidst the crowd once again— with the evidence of his survival curling around him like a heavy rope, and your own hovering above you like a grey cloud that threatens to spill, yet he still utters the same words above the murmuring happier crowd, “meet you back at home.” His throat closes in around the words, almost screaming it to the crowd.

A tear slips from your eyes that are full of woe, and you say the words back, quieter, unsure, yet, the love is still there— “wait for me.”

Hobie breathes for the first time, his feet carrying him around the crowd, weaving through bodies to get to you while you stand still, waiting for him, watching as he desperately trudges to get to you.

You look just like how he remembered, standing by the oak tree, waiting for him even if his hands are stained black from grease— you'd still hold his hand. Now his hands are soiled in crimson that drips onto the floorboards, and yet you still hold your hand out towards him. He would atone for his sins if that's what you'd ask of him, but no one would grant him his penance, he has accepted that fact long ago. Only your touch could mimic it.

Hobie finally makes it to you, now he stands in front of your form, now he notices your hand grasping his own. Featherlight, unsure, if he'd reciprocate, giving him enough time to shake you off. But he doesn't, instead, he holds on to you tighter as he leads you outside of the noisy carriage and away from prying eyes, what he should've done all those years ago.

Hobie tugs you out of the hole that has consumed you.

Silently, you follow him, squeezing his hand twice to let him know that you're right behind him without him looking over his shoulder to inspect. You feel his fingers run along the ring on your finger.

The sound of the metal wheels are loud in your ears, steam rolling off in waves as it warms your back. It's dark out, the moon above guiding his path while he opens the other door leading towards the last carriage that carries horses and baggage.

The moon has always been a comfort to you. You thought in those years without him that he'd be staring at the same moon as you, that at least you've still got a connection with him. Even if you weren't sure he'd be alive to look up at the sky. Arms suddenly envelopes you, hands cradling the back of your head to keep you close to him, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

You're the first one to speak while you tentatively raise your arms to embrace him back. He's warm, warmer than you remember. “Do you mean it?”

Hobie sniffs, diamonds rolling off his cheeks, a promise falling from his lips, “yes, I'll bring you home, my home.” He molds himself to the shape of you once again. An act that you've been trying to attain since the beginning of the journey, now you're both perfectly aligned with each other, heartbeats synching and full. “I'll tell you everything, everything you need to know.”

“Just the ones you're willing to tell, Hobie. I'm so sorry for yelling those words at you.” You hold his head in your hands, gentle, caring, cradling him like you're holding the moon. Guiding it upwards so you could stare at his viridescent eyes that's full of hope for the first time in years. But the gnawing in your mind draws too close to you. “They'll never stop, they will keep hunting us down.” A sob breaks through your throat, “You have to bring me to them.” Tears flow out of you, “or we'll never be at peace. You'll never be at peace.”

The horses neigh behind you, Cherry huffs while Buckeye just stares at the scene. The carriage rattles for a moment before Hobie leans, laying his forehead atop yours, squeezing the soft skin on your nape. He closes his eyes, inhaling you in, you almost crumble in his arms. You've dreamt of this day, dreamt of holding him like this once again.

“You're my peace.” he whispers, “They can try to ruin that peace, but I'll stop them. I'll kill them if I had to.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes, just as he opens his own. “Take me home.”

“‘m sorry,” he kisses your forehead, lips lingering, a heavy kiss that brings you back to life, mending all your doubts. “Let's go home, yeah?” Leaning away, his eyes dart over to a man coming your way, he doesn't find it suspicious, but then the stranger brandishes a gun, raising it over your head. “Y/N—!”

Your body flings off to the side, hip hitting harshly on the corner of a crate. Then a loud cackle of a gun goes off, the sound bouncing off the walls, gunpowder flying over head, hiding Hobie from your vision. You yell his name, but you can't hear your own voice from the ringing in your ears.

Everything happens slowly in your eyes. Smoke spreads as you see Hobie still standing and unscathed, gun raised, barrel aimed at the man's head. Said man runs towards him like a bull, making Hobie miss his shots. Yet the man still shoots at him, slower than Hobie but just as deadly. Hobie leans his head slightly to the side, effectively dodging a bullet. You scamper towards Cherry, lifting yourself up, waiting for the right moment. And then you slap your precious horse, making her kick before he could reach Hobie. Cherry's deadly kick hits the perpetrator right on his back, where a sickening crunch can be heard. The sheer force of the kick has dust flying off his body, and now he lays motionless on the wooden floor.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie gawps at you, smile spreading across his lips. “You alright?” He walks over to you, or tries to while Cherry gives one last kick towards the dead man.

“Yeah,” you nod, patting Cherry, Keeping her calm. “It's okay, girl. I'm so sorry.” You coo at her, Hobie goes around the horse to hold you. “Are you—?”

His arms wrap around your waist, lips smashing on yours. You inhale and it's already over. Even if it was quick, it wasn't a cheap satisfaction, it's everything. He pats your cheek affectionately, beaming at you, holding you close. “You're brilliant.” His thumb rubs softly where you hit your hip on the crate, a silent apology.

You smile, heart thumping loudly like an engine. “It was all Cherry.”

“Should I snog the horse now too?” Hobie says smugly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“No, preferably just me, for now at least.” You tap his chest, bashfulness encompassing you.

“Nah, it's you until the end, love.” He clicks his forehead against yours, making you chuckle.

A scream rings out from the other carriage, hurried footsteps bounding away. “Do you think—?”

Hobie reloads his gun effortlessly, giving the spare one to you. “You're a better shot than me anyway.” He takes one last look at you, as if this is the last time he'd ever set his eyes on you. “Whoever they are, I'll cut through them. Cover my back?”

“Always,” You nod, taking the silver six-shooter, “then we'll go home after this.”

He grins, hope in his eyes. “Home, you'll love it there.”

“Let's cut through all of them then.”

[iviarellereads]

The Eye of the World, Chapter 27 - Shelter from the Storm

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Leaves and vine icon) In which a sexy dance is a fun way to torment the new guy.

Perrin and co spend several more days traveling with the Tuatha'an. The People are always friendly, always making music, and they don't travel in any hurry, keeping the wagons so slow the children and dogs can walk alongside them. But they're also wary, particularly of Elyas, always watching him as if unsure if he'll turn on them with no warning, but they're almost as watchful of the Emond's Fielders.

When Perrin suggests leaving, Elyas tells him it's better to rest now while he can, and not to be so hasty to get back into Aes Sedai hands. Something is telling Elyas to wait a few more days. Perrin is skeptical, and Elyas can't say more, but he trusts this feeling when it comes on him.

The Tuatha'an have many songs from the world over, and some of them Perrin recognizes, though by different names and with different words.(1) They dance almost constantly, and Perrin finds himself drawn into it often. On the second night, the women of the group do a sexy dance, and Elyas opines that Perrin's blushes are the reason they do it every night afterward. Even Egwene starts learning the dance. When Perrin asks her if she still means to go to Tar Valon, she says she just wants to have some fun and relax while they still can.

Perrin has nightmares about the Trollocs and Myrddraal catching up with the People, attacking the camp at night. But still no sign of the Dark One in the dreams, just normal nightmares, until one night Baa finally appears again. When Perrin wakes with a start, Elyas is already standing over him as if to wake him. It's time to go after all, now, and Perrin can feel the anger in the wolves. "Fire. Pain. Hate. Kill!"(2)

Raen says they have to change directions, and asks will they come with them. Elyas says no, they don't even have time for breakfast, they also have to go another way. Raen makes sure they shake hands or hug everyone in the camp before they go, and Aram storms off when, in a quiet word with Egwene, it becomes clear she won't stay with them. Ila looks relieved at knowing that Aram also won't leave with her.

When the People have left, the wolves come back. Perrin hears them talking about fire eyes, pain, death, and "Heartfang", and knows they're telling Elyas what he dreamed.

Perrin did not want to think about his dream. He had thought that the wolves made them safe. Not complete. Accept. Full heart. Full mind. You still struggle. Only complete when you accept. He forced the wolves out of his head, and blinked in surprise. He had not known he could do that. He determined not to let them back in again. Even in dreams? He was not sure if the thought was his or theirs.(3)

Perrin notices that Egwene is still wearing a string of blue beads, given to her by Aram, and a sprig of something red in her hair, a gift from another one of the young Tuatha'an.

Finally he said, “What did you spend so much time talking about with Ila? If you weren’t dancing with that long-legged fellow, you were talking to her like it was some kind of secret.” “Ila was giving me advice on being a woman,” Egwene replied absently. He began laughing, and she gave him a hooded, dangerous look that he failed to see. “Advice! Nobody tells us how to be men. We just are.” “That,” Egwene said, “is probably why you make such a bad job of it.”(4) Up ahead, Elyas cackled loudly.

=====

(1) Consider how many of our children's songs have the same tune, more or less. The ABCs, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Baa Baa Black Sheep. Now, cast a wider net, and consider how someone might hear a tune, and come up with their own words for it, that came out of their own experience and culture. In a world without copyright protections, it's one of the many ways you'd get people creating. (2) They know who that was, in the dream. Elyas did say wolves hate the Dark as much as they can hate anything. (3) Certainly, it seems like he's not going to have any luck keeping them out permanently, if they're so sure he will only be complete when he accepts what he is now. But, we can leave him a convenient fiction for now. (4) I sigh and raise a tired, skeptical eyebrow at a lot of RJ's gender-observations through his characters like this, even though I think a lot of them are intentional and part of one of the themes he was aiming for by lampshading gender relations and divisions. But, you gotta admit, this one's… not as far off the mark even for our world, today, in 2024, as some people might want to believe.

[chainsawcorazon]

2023 AO3 Year in Review!

Here’s my 2023 AO3 Year in Review!

Number of Fanfictions Published: 15 new unique works! 1 continuing work!

Number of Fandoms Written for: 3 unique fandoms!

Top Fandom: DC Comics (14 unique works!)

First Published Fanfiction: This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore, a Hikaru no Go fanfiction, published May 5th, 2023

Last Published Fanfiction:

One-shot: Mashrabiya, a DC Comics fanfiction, published December 10th, 2023

Continuing: This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore, a Hikaru no Go fanfiction, last chapter published December 28th, 2023

Fanfiction with the most Kudos:

Red Bangles, Black Anklets, a Naruto fanfiction (multiyear publication)

This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore, a Hikaru no Go fanfiction

Fanfiction with the most Comments: 

Red Bangles, Black Anklets, a Naruto fanfiction (multiyear publication)

This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore, a Hikaru no Go fanfiction

Top One-Shot (Kudos & Comments): With the Birds I'll Share This Lonely Viewing, a DC Comics fanfiction

Top Multi-Chapter Fic (Kudos & Comments):

Red Bangles, Black Anklets, a Naruto fanfiction (multiyear publication)

This Ship Will Carry Our Bodies Safe to Shore, a Hikaru no Go fanfiction

Fanfiction Most Proud of: Mashrabiya, a DC Comics fanfiction

Most Challenging Fanfiction to Write:  Philistine's Gambit, a DC Comics fanfiction

Fanfiction That I Wish Got More Attention: My 2023 JayJon Week fanfiction

Favorite Quote:

Could you fall in love within moments? Could you know, in a moment, that you didn’t actually want to die, and realize that yes, even the darkest night could give birth to a beautiful day? That everything passed, such was the nature of time? - That Lovely Face, Like a Moon, Where Did He Go?

Favorite Passage:

But what happened when a loss wasn’t truly a loss, but instead a separation worth eons, with millions of miles in between? What happened when Jon heard Superman’s heartbeat racing through his city, charging towards Jon’s apartment building on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-May while Jay was scheduled to pull a double and work through the night? What happened when Jon heard an old friend’s heartbeat while at the grocery store collecting items for dinner? What happened when the dead didn’t remain dead, and the whole world became undone? - The Man Who Returned to Earth

Total Wordcount Published: 161,626!

The first half of the year was focused mostly on getting my Hikago fanfic off the ground and ready for multiyear publication. DC Comics got its hooks back in me during the summer, so I had no choice but to exorcise the demons via one-shots later in the year to fill in the blanks and essentially opine on the comics I'd devoured these last seven months.

In 2024, I plan to go back to my fandom administrator roots and host a few fandom events. Currently have a darkfic week for Superman fans lined up for January 2024, and hope to run a BartKon week later in the summer for the Bartkon girlies (gender neutral).

As for publication goals.... lmao, who knows. I write what my heart desires, and sometimes it only makes sense to three people on the entire planet. And that's valid. This is one of my favorite old lady hobbies, after all.

Onwards, to a beautiful new year! Thank you for reading, as always.

[ailtrahq]

According to a recent report, Ripple’s ongoing dispute with the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) is causing waves. Consequently, the XRP market has observed significant spikes in utility this month. Besides the case’s impact, XRP has experienced a 7-month high on-chain volume and a 3-month peak in circulation. 🧑‍💻 #XRP is seeing major utility spikes to start the month. In addition to today's milestone highs in #onchain transaction volume (4.8B $XRP) and circulation (2.03B $XRP), the development activity for the 5th largest cap asset in #crypto is up big as well. pic.twitter.com/QHQ6U8Q0J5 — Santiment (@santimentfeed) September 1, 2023 Ripple Challenges SEC’s Intentions In July, a defining verdict came forth, partially in Ripple’s favor, regarding the classification of XRP sales. Consequently, the SEC is pushing for an appeal, particularly on Ripple’s programmatic sales. As per Judge Analisa Torres, these sales did not breach securities regulations due to a specific blind bid process. Moreover, Ripple’s direct sales of XRP tokens to institutional players were labeled securities, marking a semi-victory for the SEC. Ripple has, however, made its stance clear. If the SEC proceeds with the appeal, Ripple will cross-appeal against the judgment on institutional sales. Ripple’s legal representatives argued, “The exceptional circumstances required for interlocutory appeal are absent.” Besides, they stressed that the court’s summary judgment did not align with the parameters suitable for such appeals. Additionally, they opined that the SEC’s discord stemmed from the court’s application of the Howey test to most XRP transactions. XRP Market Reactions and Projections Hence, as the legal tussle intensifies, market indicators for XRP offer a mixed picture. Despite hitting an intra-day peak at $0.512, XRP retraced 2.44% to settle at $0.4961. However, this minor setback hasn’t dampened the token’s momentum. Significantly, if XRP breaks the $0.512 barrier, it may establish fresh resistance marks at $0.525 and $0.540. XRP/USD 1-day price trend However, failing to surpass the resistance could lead XRP to lean towards the $0.480 and $0.460 support zones. Moreover, while XRP’s market capitalization dropped by 2.06% to around $26.26 billion, its 24-hour trading volume escalated by 6.63% to approximately $1.11 billion.  The ongoing SEC-Ripple courtroom drama seems to catalyze XRP’s market momentum. As the legal tussles intensify, XRP’s utility showcases signs of thriving amidst the chaos. The cryptocurrency world will be keenly observing the upcoming chapters of this legal saga and its subsequent ripples in the market. Source

[rosethornewrites]

3/6-3/21 T & G reading

The usual

Finished

Teen:

Some Days You're Feeling Good, by sami (4th in a series, 2 chapters)

Jiang Cheng turns and goes to bang his forehead against the wall, but Jiang Zhuliu has moved with him and gently puts his hand in the way.

Matchmakers. In his previous life he'd driven them all away in short order, but the current prestige of the Jiang Sect has made them more persistent.

General:

Darlings, by nirejseki

“Clarity would not work to fix Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji opined.

Nie Huaisang resisted the urge to kick him – Lan Wangji wouldn’t stick his foot in somewhere it wasn’t wanted if he didn’t actually have relevant information – but even Lan Qiren frowned at him.

“You seem remarkably certain about that, Wangji,” he said. “But why not? While it’s not appropriate for every circumstance, it’s an extremely powerful song. I would think that it would be at least worth an attempt.”

Lan Wangji looked distinctly shame-faced, though perhaps only someone who knew him very well would recognize that particular flavor of it.

“I see,” Lan Qiren said. “And what exactly has your brother done that he doesn’t want me to know about?”

Unfinished

Teen:

A drop in the ocean, by ibuttermybagel

“How can you still stand on your legs after all you’ve done?” the voice had his head whip up. Eyes interlocking with those of the man he called his younger brother not too long ago. Angry eyes meeting those filled with nothing but sorry. “How can you still ask to be excused after bringing pain to so many?”

(Or: The ambush on Wei Wuxian is stopped by Jin Zixuan and instead he takes all Wens and WWX back home. Wen Ning has enough and lets everyone know what he learned in drunken talks with Wei Wuxian.)

Instead, by apathyinreverie (locked to ao3 accounts only)

Wei Ying is found by someone other than Wen Chao after the Core transfer.

Or, the one where Wei Ying is never thrown into the Burial Mounds, never invents demonic cultivation. He still manages to become the lynchpin of the Sunshot Campaign anyway.

What has long been concealed, by Gaby007

The Burial Mounds change everything falling in their grasp, Wei Wuxian is well-placed to know it. Lan Wangji is rather nonplussed when he learns his beloved's secret yet seizes the opportunity to finally bring the Yiling Patriarch to Gusu and keep him safe.

Now, he just has to keep Wei Ying hidden from the cultivation world, and maybe he will get to learn some secrets of the Lan sect as he does.

General:

Lies and Truth, by parodismal

What happen if Lan Wangji decided to actually check Qiongqi Path after Wei Wuxian leave?

....

It leads to a domino effect towards a new Chief Cultivator

Is it a better?

Or worse?

Contrapuntal, by WithBroomBefore

In which Wei Wuxian is cast back in time to the school at Cloud Recesses instead of falling to his death. Everyone is very confused and upset. Wen Qing fixes things.

[fayes-fics]

Moments: Chapter 10

Moments masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Teen and up (rating will change in Epilogue 1, can be skipped)

Summary: Slow-burn fic. Read previous chapters of this fic from masterpost linked above. In this chapter, which is a long one, we are witnessing moments during the two-week engagement. These two are really teasing each other now, so it’s getting a little heated as they test if they can stick to their pact. Also readers parents arrive for the wedding.

Warnings: none really… fluff, fluff. A bit suggestive with some kissing, bed sharing and errr finger sucking.

Word Count: 4.4k (this chapter only, 18.8k total for all chapters to date)

Authors Note: We made it, people! This is the end of the line for the main story. Strangely, a family tragedy spurred me to finally complete this last chapter, having been sitting 80% written for the better part of a month. Please note, there will also be two Epilogues for you to enjoy. The first one, the wedding night, will be explicit but can be skipped (i.e. scant plot, all porn). The second is very short but should not be missed! Thank you as ever to my wonderful beta @makaylan <3 I couldn't have done this without her. I hope you all enjoy this!

Chapter 10: Moments from an engagement 

The first person you see upon return to Aubrey Hall is Violet. She takes one look at you walking arm-in-arm and knows. She bustles over, announcing James is napping and embraces you, kissing you on the cheek.

“Y/n, I am so happy,” she chimes, “I'm so glad my son finally admitted to himself, to you, his true feelings. I will never forget how happy he was all those years ago when he met you and how sad he was after. And, well, anyway, this is the best possible outcome. Welcome to the family, my dear.”

“Thank you, Violet,” you respond a little bashful, “I'm so happy,” you admit freely and squeeze Benedict's arm. He smiles down at you as you look up at him. “So happy,” you repeat, holding his gaze.

“I assume we will need to make that announcement to the family after all,” Benedict chuckles.

“Less than a week later,” you laugh, “they will be confused.”

“No, I think it will make more sense than it did a few days ago,” Violet opines. “We all have eyes; we all knew.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Point made and point taken, mother.”

She smiles enigmatically and swans away with a wink.

You giggle and kiss his cheek. “See you at dinner, my love.”

“Wait, you are leaving me already?” he pouts, pulling you into a loose embrace.

You run your hands up his arms. “Just to freshen up and get ready for dinner,” you breathe, “now if you hadn't made that other rule, you could have come with me, shared a bath, and gotten changed together. But you and your rules…” you tease with a smirk.

“You little…” he growls, his grip on you tightening, and you know he is picturing everything you just outlined. 

“If you think I will give up teasing you now we are getting married, you are sorely mistaken,” you murmur.

He raises an eyebrow and leans in. “No, my love, I think you are the one who is mistaken,” his voice is a deep dusky whisper, lacing your fingers with his and locking your joined hands behind your back. “Do you not remember all the times I teased you? Hmm? I've had six years to think of new ways to drive you to distraction. Can you imagine? Oh, my love, you have no idea what awaits you.” 

It's a delicious, loaded, filthy promise, and you are breathing heavily when he is done talking.

“But please…” he concludes, releasing his hold on you, “go enjoy that bath. Alone...”

“You…” your turn to growl at him as he backs away with the most devastating crooked smile. He winks and turns his heel, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

—

You are sitting at your vanity table, washed and freshly dressed for dinner, when James wanders in from his adjoining bedroom in his pyjamas.

“What's wrong, my darling? Why aren't you ready for dinner?” you bring him into a cuddle on your lap.

“Mummy, I don't want to have any dinner. Can I just go to bed?” he whines, snuggling into your shoulder.

“Aww, my precious child,” you indulge him. “Are you not hungry?”

He looks sheepish. “I might have eaten too many biscuits at afternoon tea. Mrs White, the cook, well, she said that I could have as many biscuits as I wanted because I'm so handsome,” he grins.

“So you made yourself all full up on biscuits?” you laugh.

“Maybe…” he looks contrite.

“James Darby, you are a naughty boy,” you say with mock outrage, hugging him closer as you do.

“But you still love me, right mummy?” he argues back, giving you the full hazy blue-eyed puppy dog look—Benedict’s look.

“Yes, I do,” you admit, kissing his forehead. God help me, you add silently in your head, realising you will soon have a house with two of them pulling this trick on you. Dear god, what are you letting yourself in for?

“There's something I want to tell you, James, before I go to dinner and you go to bed,” you sway him slightly in your lap. “What do you think of Benedict moving in with us? Or us moving in with him?”

“Did you ask him like I wanted mummy?” he answered animatedly. “Did he say yes?”

You huff a laugh. “Actually, Benedict asked me if we would move in with him. So you both had the same lovely idea.”

James smiles proudly at that.

“He also,” you hesitate briefly, “he also asked me a very important question, and I said yes.”

“What question, mummy?”

“He asked me to be his wife.” You are so nervous.

“That’s nice,” he says unphased. “Does that mean Benedict is my new daddy?”

“Well, it means he loves you very much and wants us to be a family - the three of us. Officially he will be your step-father,” you obfuscate, “But you can call him whatever you want to call him, James darling,” you explain. “He will never replace your Papa, but he wants to be the best father he can be to you.” Your heart hurts a little at all the half-truths you have to tell him, but more than anything, you want James to believe he is the rightful Viscount.

James pats your hand as he sits in your arms. “I like Benedict very much, mummy; I will call him daddy for now. Can we live in his cottage with all the paints?”

You laugh, “Yes, James. And we can all live at Darby Hall or our little cottage. And you can set up an art studio together.”

He claps his hands together gleefully, “I'm so excited, mummy!”

There is a knock at your door. “Come in,” you call, not bothering to look up, assuming it is likely to be your lady's maid or James’ nanny.

“Benedict!” James calls out, and your head whips up. He is dressed in a beautiful blue ensemble that steals your breath. James wrestles himself out of your arms and runs across the room to him. Benedict instinctually drops to his knees, and they hug.

“Mummy told me we are going to be a family, and I can call you what I want to call you. I want to call you daddy,” James enthuses.

Benedict looks at you, full of emotion, then back to his son. “Yes, it's true we are going to be a family, James. I would be so happy if you want to call me daddy,” he replies, swallowing thickly.

“And we can set up an art studio together at our cottage AND your cottage,” James peals with excitement.

Benedict scoops him up and stands. “We can do whatever you want, James. My son,” he kisses him on the cheek as he says those momentous words. James smiles at him, and then they both look over at you.

“Mummy, come join our hug,” James gestures. And you do.

Being in the joint embrace of your fiancee and your son is the best feeling in the world. It's like your world is suddenly whole. You will need to reapply your eye makeup.

“I came to bring you both to dinner,” Benedict offers by way of explanation, “but I see someone is ready for bed.”

“James doesn't want dinner,” you explain to Benedict, wiping away a tear as you all hug, “but I'm sure he would be delighted if his mummy and daddy put him to bed together before we go for dinner.”

James nods rapidly, and Benedict's eyes soften to the point of being dewy.

“It would be an honour,” he replies, his voice cracking, looking between you.

You walk hand in hand into James’ room, and he climbs happily into his bed as you both take up a place on either side. You pick up a book and read him a fairy tale, taking turns to make funny voices that delight your little boy. As James’ eyes droop, Benedict grabs your hand and stops reading. 

Your eyes meet, and he whispers, “Thank you for this.”

“We can do this every night if you want, my love,” your voice thick with emotion.

“I can't wait for the rest of our lives together,” he confesses. 

Yes, you definitely need to reapply your eye makeup now.

___

Benedict takes your hand as you descend the main staircase to the dining room and raises it to his lips, kissing the back of it as you approach the door. 

“I know my family can be overwhelming, but don't forget they already adore you,” he whispers against your knuckles.

You smile at him. “I adore them too.”

And two hours later, you have had the dinner of your dreams, being warmly welcomed into his loving, spirited family.

“Benedict,” you whisper as you leave the room a little drunk on wine, “can we sleep together tonight?” you plead.

“We have our agreement,” he reminds, sounding somewhat reluctant about it, as a hand sweeps around your back.

“No, I know; I mean actually sleep. Very chaste. Just,” you sigh, “I want to fall asleep in your arms.”

He pulls you into a tight embrace. “That sounds wonderful, my love. Do you promise nothing untoward?” he smiles against your cheek.

“Your honour is safe with me, Mr Bridgerton,” you giggle, “at least for tonight,” you add.

“Then I accept, soon-to-be Mrs Bridgerton,” he chuckles, and your stomach flips at the idea of that being your name in just a few short days.

A few minutes later, you are lying on your bed, fully clothed, your head on his chest, your bodies entwined—just the embers from the fireplace give the room a faint glow. Your eyes droop from the wine and the warmth of his body seeping into yours. You listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear and trace mindless shapes on his forearm with your fingertips.

“I love you so much,” you hear him whisper as you drift off.

“Love you too,” is your slurred reply as sleep claims you.

__

Waking up in Benedict’s arms is blissful. Somehow during the night, you have ended up as the little spoon in a hug. His embrace is warm and enveloping, a lovely place to be.

It's also not entirely unproblematic. You can feel something hard and insistent against your bum cheek through your joint clothing. The temptation to reach back and squeeze is strong, but he is sleeping so peacefully that you dare not disturb him. Or break your pact. Tempting as it may be to do precisely that. 

So you just lay there quietly and daydream about how things used to be when you woke up together and how things will be once you are married. You are in a unique position to know so much about intimacy with someone before marriage. Most people have no idea what they are getting into. You know this man’s body almost as well as your own and thinking about it makes your hips flex on instinct.

A warm hand grabs your hip bone. “Stop that,” he growls, thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” you reply. 

“No, you’re not,” he grumbles amicably.

“You’re right,” you flip over to face him, “I’m not,” you smile and crowd your head closer to him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Kissing is acceptable, yes?” you whisper against his skin.

You feel his smile more than you see it.

“Yes, but maybe not whilst lying in bed together,” the hand on your clothed hip squeezes, “it’s entirely far too tempting…,” he breathes, ghosting against your lips.

“Mmmm, then get out of my bed, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease, capturing his bottom lip between your own and sucking it gently, enjoying the hitch in his breath and the flex of his fingers.

“You are a menace,” he murmurs when you release his lip, his breath warm against your cheek.

“And so are you. I just said you could leave my bed,” you kiss his lips, “but… here… you… still… are,” you challenge; between each word, you kiss him lightly, holding his face with your hands.

He growls, and suddenly you are pinned under him on the bed. Your senses are alight; hands caged under his against the pillow, his warmth and weight on top of you causing your heart to flutter in your chest and a warm tingle elsewhere. He stares down at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips damp from your kisses, breathing a little ragged, just like your own. 

“Mummy….?” 

You startle and look aside to see James standing in the now-open doorway to his adjoining room, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

“Daddy…?” he adds hesitantly upon recognising Benedict. 

“James!” You both respond in unison. Jumping away from each other as if burned.

“Good morning, my love,” you add, smoothing down the dress you slept in and rounding the bed to kneel and hug him. 

“Why are you and daddy in the same bed?” he asks.

“Remember how I used to share a bed with your papa? Well, your daddy and I will be married soon, so we will share a bed too. Does that make sense?” You try to explain as best you can, feeling Benedict’s eyes on you.

“Yes, but does that mean I can’t sleep in your bed anymore, mummy, like when I am scared?”

“No, no, James,” Benedict interjects and walks over, dropping to his knees next to you. “If you are scared, you can always share a bed with your mummy and me. We will give you hugs and help you sleep, my son, always.” He ruffles James' hair, and James crowds into him, seeking a hug.

“Thank you,” James replies.

“Now, shall we get ready for breakfast? Your mummy has a busy day today, James; that means we can paint together,” Benedict explains.

“Hurrah, I’ll go get dressed,” James chimes happily, extracting himself and running away to his room.

“I do?” You look at Benedict, puzzled, as you both stand up.

“Mother said last night she is taking you into Canterbury for a first fitting with the local modiste there, remember?” He teases.

“That’s today?!” You go wide-eyed.

He chuckles. “Two weeks is not much time to make a wedding dress, especially one that needs to be as special as you,” he adds, his voice soft but with an undercurrent of heat.

You close your eyes briefly and sigh. “I love you, but please get out of my bedroom Mr Bridgerton. You cannot say such things and expect me to keep the terms of our pact,” you finish, staring him down.

His eyes flash something sinful, but he bows respectfully. “Fair enough. I shall take my leave, fair lady.”

He opens and disappears out of your door. Then he swings back in on one arm suddenly, his face smirking. “If it helps, I like you in ivory; it looks so wonderful against your flushed skin when you’re about to come apart in my arms,” he whispers dangerously with a conspiratorial wink.

He has to duck, laughing, to avoid the pillow you lob at him—total menace.

__

“Oh, that looks wonderful on you, my dear,” Violet assures as you stand on the raised platform at the modiste. You stare at the mirror, nonplussed; all you can see is some raw silk (in ivory, for him) and many pins.

“Violet, you flatter me; this is just a first fitting,” you shake your head affectionately.

“You will make a beautiful bride,” she assures.

“Thank you,” you demure. 

“Have you yet written to your parents to inform them of the happy news?” 

“Yes, I did. It’s such short notice, but hopefully, they will be able to attend. I’m sure they will be surprised. I think they expected me to stay a widow for life,” you chuckle.

“Did they not know of your history with my son?” She seems curious.

“I was matched from birth to my previous husband; they would not have taken kindly to the news that I was with someone else. On my part, at least, it was a secret—it had to be. Much as I would have preferred it otherwise,” you sigh, smoothing down the front of the silk, suddenly rueful for all the lost time without your true love.

“You loved him then,” it’s not a question as much as a statement:

“I loved Benedict from the moment we met,” you admit quietly. “And I hated my life after. I tried to make the best of the situation, and John was never a bad man. It would have been easier if he were the villain of the piece. He was a good man and a good father. But… he wasn’t my heart.” You shrug.

She reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I knew Benedict was in love from the moment he came home one evening. He just looked so at peace. Like he had met someone who made his future clear. He told me about you not long after. And then, when you had to be married, it broke his heart. He has loved you for as long as you’ve loved him; I can assure you of that, my dear” she draws you into a hug as she sees your misty eyes.

You are grateful she does not mention James in this semi-public setting. And as she pulls away, she gently touches your cheek. 

“If your parents cannot make it, I am certain the Viscount would be honoured to walk you down the aisle to marry his little brother,” she says softly. 

“Thank you, Violet. It truly will be an honour to join your family, and I cannot wait to be a Bridgerton.” You confess.

“You already are, my dear,” she smiles.

—-

The next ten days are a whirlwind of wedding planning, decisions and appointments, managed mainly by Violet, who seems very happy to lead the charge.

Except at dinner, you barely see your intended or even James, who seems ecstatic to be Benedict’s shadow while you are occupied. Every evening he regales you with stories of their adventures together that day - swimming, hiking, painting, horse riding. And every evening, you wish you had been with them instead. 

In the afternoon, three days before your wedding, you finally get some alone time without a wedding-related commitment. James is napping while you take tea on the outdoor terrace, revelling in some quiet time with a book and the sun's warmth. 

You hear footsteps up the stairs to your left, and suddenly there he is. Your fiancée. Looking so handsome in a maroon waistcoat and cravat. He seems surprised to see you.

“No wedding commitments this afternoon, my love?” He teases, leaning over and kissing your cheek. 

“None,” you smile, “I’m enjoying a quiet moment after days of hubbub.” 

“Hmmm I can imagine,” his crooked smile in sympathy causing your stomach to flip as it always does.

You bite your lip, deciding to tease him. “I’m feeling so very… excited to be your wife.”

“Excited, hmm?” He raises an eyebrow and drops to his knee in front of you, the same stance as when he proposed.

“Yes, perhaps you can help me with that,” you whisper, grabbing his hand and using it to gather the layers of your dress in your lap.

“Y/n,” he warns, his voice a low rumble, “we agreed, remember?”

“Benedict, please,” you murmur, “just touch me.” He shakes his head and lowers your dress back down as you pout.

He gently grabs your left hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the betrothal ring. Then with a sinful smirk, he suddenly envelopes that finger with his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, his hot tongue swirling against the jewellery and your flesh. Your breath stutters hard, something hot blooming in your chest.

“Don’t mistake my proposal to be chaste for lack of wanting, darling,” he drawls after sinfully pulling off your finger with a wet pop. “It is, in fact, very much the exact opposite.” His breath is warm over your knuckles as he looks at you through his lashes.

“Are you actively trying to kill me, Mr Bridgerton?” Your voice breathy, leaning your forehead against his.

“Maybe…” his little smile is something dangerous.

There’s a fizzing slide of want down your spine, and you grab his left hand and mimic his actions. Engulfing his ring finger in your mouth, tasting his tangy skin. Sucking insistently and running your tongue into the slightly webbed skin between his fingers, his knuckle trapped against the roof of your mouth. He groans and surges against your leg. You intend to remind him of what you have done to other parts of his body in the past, and the message does not go unnoticed.

“Anything you can do. I can do too,” you challenge with a raised eyebrow keeping his finger there gently with your teeth. 

“This is a dangerous game,” he concedes through gritted teeth. “Three days,” he adds, his voice tight, as his finger slips from your lips.

“Indeed, my love,” you wink. 

__

The morning of your wedding feels momentous. As if your whole life has been leading to this day. The day you wished you could have had six years before. 

You greet your parents as they arrive from their journey, so pleased to see them. They are so very keen to know more about your seeming whirlwind courtship and surprise engagement and you have a few moments with them before your fiancé joins you. 

“Lord and Lady y/l/n,” Benedict greets respectfully as he walks in, “it’s so wonderful to meet you.”

“Mr Bridgerton. I trust you will treat my daughter well,” your father stated, shaking his hand firmly.

“Of course, my lord. Y/n and James are the most important people to me in the world.” Benedict replies solemnly, looking over at you.

Your mother nudges you as the men start to talk. “I see why you like him. He reminds me so much of little James. You seemed to have picked a husband to match your handsome little son.” Her comment is offhand with a chuckle, but your stomach lurches. You may have to tell them the truth someday. “But it seems like such a short courtship. Are you certain about him, my dear?”

You decide to tell a partial truth. “I knew Benedict in the past, mother. He was a friend of a friend. He’s a trustworthy gentleman.”

“Oh of that, I have no doubt,” she nods, “the reputation of the Bridgertons as an illustrious family of excellent pedigree is known everywhere, my dear. It’s more about if you are certain this is a good thing. For you? For James?” Her motherly concern is touching.

“Benedict and James adore each other,” you assure her.

As if wanting to prove your point, James comes running in. He makes a beeline to Benedict, who picks him up instinctively and kisses his cheek.

“Hello, son. Look who came to see us for the wedding. It’s your grandparents,” Benedict tells him softly.

James whips around to look at you and your mother, then your father, who has moved to pour himself a brandy. 

“Did he just call him son?” Your mother whispers, a smile plastered on her face as she watches Benedict put James back on his feet. “Good lord, now I see them together; the resemblance is far too striking. Daughter, I think we need to have a private discussion, do we not?”

“Not now, mother,” you answer through gritted teeth, refusing to meet her questioning gaze.

James walks over and greets his grandfather, the embodiment of manners.

“My dear boy. My, how you’ve grown since we saw you last,” your father chimes, “come sit with me. Tell me all about your latest interests.”

“I like painting, just like my daddy does,” James announces proudly, taking a seat next to your father.

“I don’t recall the Viscount being a painter,” your father muses out loud.

“Not my papa, my daddy,” James corrects with a little frown.

“James means me,” Benedict admits quietly, taking a seat next to you.

The look of surprise on both your parents' faces is a picture.

“When we announced our engagement, we allowed James to call Benedict whatever he wanted,” you offer by way of explanation, “he chose that.”

There is a moment of silence then your father clears his throat.

“So you are a painter Mr Bridgerton?” Your father begins. “What sort of income does that afford for the provision of a family?”

Benedict looks sheepish and goes to answer, but you cut him off.

“Father,” you admonish, “James and I are more than adequately provided for by the Darby estate. It matters not what Benedict can provide financially. I love him with all my heart, and that is all that matters. All that will ever matter. Even if the Darby fortune is taken from us somehow, know that I will still choose this, him, every time. Always.”

You feel Benedict’s eyes on you, his mouth slightly agape, surprised at your impassioned outburst.

“I love my daddy too,” James pipes up, wriggles off the sofa next to your father, and walks over, climbing into Benedict’s lap. You ruffle James' hair affectionately as he twines his arms around Benedict's neck and lays his head on his shoulder. The three of you truly are a little family, and you couldn’t be happier.

Your father looks utterly bewildered, as if the concept is entirely alien to him; he just nods politely and swigs his brandy. You feel a sudden melancholy at the realisation that your parents never had the privilege of a love match. While they have companionship, their marriage was arranged, much like yours with John. It makes you reach out and grab Benedict’s hand. So grateful for him, for what you have had and will share, the journey you’ve had to experience to finally be together, somehow making it even more rewarding and all the sweeter. As your fingers entangle, you share a look - a moment - that tells you everything you will ever need you will find in or with each other.

And a few hours later, as you stand next to your father looking up the petal-strewn church aisle ahead you see your two boys awaiting you - Benedict and ring bearer James, with smiles on both their beautiful faces - and you know this is the moment you will treasure the most. Forever.

— The End —

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