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baubabble · 4 years ago

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“Subtle Differences” Final Part - Hotch x F!Reader

PART I PART II

Summary: You and the rest of the team head to take down the Unsub as the search for the killer and Allison Wilson comes to a close. You and Hotch team up to take the loft, having each other’s backs. With all the unresolved tension between the two of you, will you finally make the first move? Or will he? Final Part of Subtle Differences.

Word Count: 4064

Warning: CM Violence, Blood

Song I Wrote To: “Next To Me” by Imagine Dragons

Note: Thank you all for sticking with me on this one! I was only planning on making this a one-shot, but I had too much to say! My next CM work is going to be Reid x Reader and will be just one part, but I have other ideas too. REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

-------

Standing in the locker room of the SPD, you struggled with your bulletproof vest.

Frustrated, you tore it off and started again. ��Let me.” Hotch’s soft voice reached your ears as he walked up behind you. You let go of the straps and he tightened the vest around your torso. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he fastened the velcro straps, his hands pressing along your stomach and shoulders.

Hotch trailed his hand down your spine and you let your eyes close at his touch. He then rested his forehead against the back of your head, closing his eyes as he took a moment to be calm. Slowly, you reached your hand towards him and after hesitating for a second, you grabbed his hand in yours and intertwined your fingers with his.

This was the most physical contact you had had with him. You stayed like that and something felt so intimate of just being in each other’s space. You could hear his breathing and feel the way he leaned into your back. This was much more than just a few gazes or smiles on the odd occasion.

Aaron was touching you as if he had been waiting to do it for a while. Maybe it was because you were about to put yourself into the line of fire or because he was finally willing to take a step in your direction. Whatever it was, you were drinking it in.

Moving your hair off your neck, he flattened the last strap, letting his hands linger on your shoulders for a moment as he pressed his nose into your hair. Delicate fingers traced the skin at the top of your spine and you shuddered beneath his touch.

Neither of you said anything as you stilled in your small moment.

Eventually, Aaron released your hand and leaned back. “Are you okay?” he asked and at the worry in his voice, you turned around to face him.

He was already outfitted in his vest, his earpiece hanging around his neck while his sidearm sat on his hip as always. He looked down at you with concern in those beautiful eyes of his. In that silent locker room, all you wanted to do was hold his face between your hands, but you had a job to do.

“I’m fine,” you assured him.

“Are you sure? If you need more time, I can have you run communications from here,” he said. You gave him a small smile, fighting to keep your hands at your sides.

“Aaron,” you breathed and his eyes locked onto yours, nearly taking your breath away entirely, “I’m okay. I promise.” Hotch nodded and then handed you an earpiece.

“Alright,” he said, smoothing his hands down your arms before stepping away. “Let’s go. You’re riding with me.”

————

Following Aaron out to the SUVs you placed your earpiece into your ear and double-checked your weapon. Morgan, Emily, JJ, and Perotta were taking one SUV, while you, Rossi, Reid, and Hotch took the other. Sliding in next to Spencer, you pushed up your sleeves and caught a glimpse of the scar that now permanently marked your arm. Spencer was watching you, but you ignored him as Hotch started the engine and began driving towards Belltown.

On the way there, Garcia called the entire team. “Okay, superheroes,” she said in greeting, “I have the 411 on our guy. Alan Rhett, thirty-two-years-old, born in Spokane and moved to the big city only a couple years ago. He’s worked for Ground Express for the past six months and before that never really held a steady job.”

“What else?” JJ asked.

“Well, this guy is smart and by smart, I mean crazy smart! He holds two degrees, one in art history and the other in structural engineering. I wouldn’t put it past him to have his place enforced with some kind of fancy doodads,” said Garcia.

“I hate when they’re smart,” Rossi said and you smirked.

“Garcia, is there any history with a woman in his life?” Reid asked.

“Definitely, my tall friend,” Penelope said. “When Alan was seven, his mother went missing for almost two weeks. It turned out that she had fallen into a vat of chemicals at the factory that she worked at. It ended up preserving her body until the foreman found her a week and half after she died. Yikes, it says she drowned in the stuff.”

“Well, there’s the stressor,” you said. “But what was the trigger? It couldn’t have just been that one painting.”

“From the medical reports I am seeing, it looks like after his mother died, dad just shoved him onto his grandmother who wasn’t the nicest of people. She blamed Alan for his mother’s death and even abused him at times. Oh god, she used to burn him with hot candle wax,” Garcia said.

“Garcia, what happened to the grandmother?” Hotch asked.

“One second,” Penelope said, “oh, she died one week before Mason Walker was killed.”

“There’s the trigger,” Spencer said.

“When we get on scene,” Hotch began, “Dave and Prentiss, I want you to take the Westside while Morgan and Perotta take the East. JJ and Reid take the back. (Y/L/N) and I are going to go through the front. Our priority is finding Allison. There is a good chance she is still alive.”

“One more thing,” Garcia said. “It seems there is a firearm registered in the unsub’s name and according to his bank records, he bought ammo for it just before Mason’s abduction.”

“He won’t hesitate to shoot his way out,” Morgan reminded everyone.

“Which makes him that much more dangerous,” said Hotch. “Everyone needs to be vigilant and remember this usub is smart and is unhinged.”

“Stay safe and come home,” Garcia said.

“Always,” Rossi said and then you arrived at the loft.

————

The team split up into the designated teams and after speaking with SWAT and Perotta’s men, you entered the building.

The loft was a solitary unit on an abandoned street. Everything else around it was either torn down or foreclosed. You kept close to Hotch as you two entered the front of the building. SWAT officers took the side corridors as you and Aaron moved into the main building.

Keeping your guns up, you had his back, keeping the both of you safe as you cleared each room. At the end of the main hallway, a pair of double doors stood ajar. You ran ahead, bracing your hand on the door handle. You waited for Hotch’s signal. He kept his gun balanced and then nodded to you.

With a swift pull, the door opened and Hotch rushed in. You followed close by, ready to cover him at all costs. However, when you both entered the secondary hallway, it was empty of threat. Though, something else had made you both pause. “What the hell…” you whispered as you slowly lowered your gun.

The dark corridor was speckled with electric torches that created an eerie glow. The walls were painted a dark charcoal color and dripping down every inch of them was thick, red wax. The same wax that Rhett had covered his victims in.

“Do you think he considers this art?” You asked Hotch as you began walking again.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Aaron said, keeping away from the wax. The entire scene looked like something out of a horror movie. You suddenly felt very closed in as if the walls were moving toward you. Swallowing thickly, you tried to stay focused as you followed him.

At the end of the hallway, there was another door. Light was coming from the crack at the bottom and you could smell something...putrid. You and Hotch moved towards it. Aaron’s face was full of determination as he scanned your surroundings. The rest of your team were speaking in your ears, explaining that they were clearing rooms.

The two of you had stayed silent since entering the wax-filled hallway. Pressing your ear against the door, you tried to hear anything that would indicate what was on the other side, but nothing was reading through the thick wood. You shook your head at Hotch. You then tried the doorknob and it didn’t budge. Stepping back, you gave Aaron some room. He braced himself and then with a sharp kick of his right leg, the door gave way and Aaron rushed forward.

The next moment moved in slow motion. As soon as the door flew open, you had a split second to react. Reaching out, you grabbed Hotch before he even realized why you were doing it. Dropping your weapon, you took hold of his arm and pulled him backwards into you. He stumbled but held onto you as you steadied him.

You were flush against him as you gripped him tight. He was breathing heavily, as were you, as you stared at one another. Your breath mingled with his as you tried to keep your heart rate under control. You failed miserably. His eyes were on yours as if he was drinking you in and for a fraction of a second, his gaze turned to your lips that were slightly parted.

You wanted to enjoy the moment, but the air hit your nose and it was near acidic. Breaking the gaze, you looked to your left and your mouth fell open. “Hotch…” you whispered. You reached up and took hold of his chin, turning his face towards the open doorway.

Confused, he fully turned and saw what had you shocked. On the other side of the door, the ground was nonexistent. The floor was dug out significantly and now resembled a very deep Olympic-sized swimming pool. The red wax-filled this room as well and at the bottom of the pit were four skeletons and two other bodies that were well beyond recognition. All six sets of remains had been coated in the unsub’s signature blend of wax and clay.

“Morgan and I were right,” you whispered in horror, “he’s been doing this for a while.” Hotch shook his head in disgust as he looked around the hallway behind you when he spotted something the two of you had missed.

“There,” he said, gesturing to another door that was ajar just to the right of the mass grave you now stood above. Hotch leaned down and grabbed your gun, placing it in your hand. “Are you with me?”

“Always,” you said without hesitation, and then the two of you disappeared through the door as the smell of death and decay followed after you into the darkness.

———

The rest of the hallways were void of the horror show from the first.

Whatever the building had been before Rhett had taken it as his home, it definitely wasn’t usually inhabited by people. Rats scurried at your feet and you fought the urge to shoot every single one. Pushing through the final set of doors, you met up with Rossi and Prentiss who had entered from the other side.

“Anything?” Prentiss asked.

“We have more bodies,” Hotch explained. “He’s been doing this for longer than we thought.” Prentiss grimaced and then a muffled cry drew your attention followed by a crash. All four of you ran towards the sound that came from behind a partition at the far side of the room. Rossi and Hotch tossed it aside and there, lying on a surgical table, was Allison Wilson. A funnel was placed into her mouth as she was strapped down and fighting her restraints.

You ran to her side, pulling the contraption out of her throat as Emily released her bonds. Allison was crying as you held onto her. “It’s okay, Allison, we’re the FBI,” you told her, helping her sit up.

“Thank you, thank you,” she sobbed.

“Where is he?” Hotch asked. Allison pointed to a stairwell.

“Roof,” she croaked out. “He has a gun.” Prentiss took hold of Allison, calling for medics while Rossi urged you and Hotch to go after the unsub while he secured the scene. You and Aaron raced for the stairwell.

“Rhett is heading to the roof,” Hotch said to the others over the coms.

“On our way,” JJ said back. You took the stairs two at a time as you prepared yourselves for what you were running into. Breaking through the roof access door, you were immediately met with gunfire. You and Aaron dove for cover behind the air conditioning unit, hitting the ground hard.

“You okay?” Aaron asked, checking you over. You nodded and then rolled to the other side, ready to fire back as needed. You took calming breaths as the phantom shots were now very much real. Aaron gestured for you to flank Rhett from the left and you move silently along the roof.

“Alan Rhett!” Hotch yelled. “It’s over! We found your other victims and we have Allison!”

“You have nothing!” Rhett yelled back.

“We also have Terry Owens!” you said. “Remember him? The man you tortured?”

“He was a coward. They all are!”

“Who is ‘they’, Alan?” you asked.

“Everyone!” he shouted and you peeked around the corner and saw Rhett was waving his gun back and forth, trying to target you and Hotch. His hands were covered in the wax and his eyes were wild.

“How did you get the women to cooperate, Alan?” Hotch asked. “Did you threaten them?”

“It was easy,” Rhett said with a laugh. “I knew where they lived with their precious families.” You cringed at his words. His ruse was simple, threaten the victims’ family and you’ll get them to do anything. It was textbook. “Doesn’t matter. They were going to leave their families anyways!”

“Like your mother left you?” Hotch asked, getting to his feet and moving to be in Rhett’s line of sight. You followed his movements on the other side of the unsub.

“Shut up!” Rhett yelled. “Don’t talk about her!”

“It was an accident, Alan,” you said as he looked wildly at you. “She didn’t leave you on purpose.”

“She did! They all do!”

“Is that why you kill the women the way you do? To preserve them as art?” you asked, taking a couple of steps closer to him.

“(Y/N),” Hotch warned, but you ignored him.

“You wanted them to be beautiful and for them to be eternal like paintings. Right?” Rhett was nodding. “I saw your work downstairs. It was very nice,” you said, trying to find a thread to pull on.

“You think so?” he asked, his gaze falling on you as if he wasn’t quite looking at you.

“Yes, Alan,” you said. “You are a true artist. Why don’t you put the gun down and you can show me more?” Rhett was smiling at you now, but his gun never wavered.

“They were my best work,” he said. “I worked so hard on them, but I never did seem to be able to get them just right.” Hotch moved in closer as you faced down the killer. “You know what? You would be so perfect,” Rhett said before turning his gun on you. You didn’t have time to react as a gunshot echoed around you.

However, when it was over and you checked yourself, there wasn’t a scratch on you. Instead, Rhett lay on the ground with a single bullet hole in his forehead as Hotch stood with his gun raised, breathing hard. “Hotch!” Morgan’s voice came as he, JJ, Perotta, and Reid came running across the roof from the Southside.

“We’re okay!” Hotch yelled back. Morgan reached you first, grabbing your arm.

“I’m okay,” you promised him. He then went to check on Hotch as Reid and JJ went to you. “Son of a bitch was gonna shoot me,” you said.

“You seem to be making that a habit,” Spencer said, giving you a hug. “Let’s try to break that, okay?”

“Yeah, Doc,” you said, squeezing him back. “I like that idea a lot.”

------

Once you were back on the street, you went to find Allison.

You got there just as the medics were loading her into the ambulance. Emily was with her, holding her hand the whole time. The ringing of the gunshot was still fresh in your mind, but you were slowly calming down as everything was coming to a close. The killer was dead, Allison was safe, and now you had the opportunity to give closure to even more families from the victims you found on the first floor.

“Not a bad first case back,” Rossi said as he joined you.

“If you say so,” you said with a shrug. Rossi pulled you into his side and you rested your head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For being you,” you said simply. Rossi squeezed you tighter.

“Any time, kid.”

Spotting Perotta, you excused yourself and headed over to the detective.

“Detective Perotta,” you greeted. He turned to you with a smile.

“Good work, Agent (Y/L/N),” he said. “I can’t thank you and your team enough. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if he had continued.”

“You would have caught him eventually,” you assured him.

“More people would have died without the BAU and for that, I am grateful for your help,” he said and then offered his hand. You took it, shaking it twice.

“Good luck with everything, Perotta,” you said and then turned to go. As you headed to the SUVs, you caught sight of Aaron as he spoke with the police chief. Your eyes met his and you smiled at him. He gave you his signature smirk and nodded. Ducking your head, you got in the car and let all the tension in your body sink into the leather seats. You were ready to go home.

-------

You were the first one on the jet.

You sat in your seat, leaning back as you waited for the rest of the team. When the door opened, you expected to see Emily or Spencer, but instead, it Aaron and he was alone. “Hey,” you greeted, sitting up straighter. Hotch placed his bag down and then joined you, sitting next to you in the plush chairs. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re on their way,” he said, peeling off his jacket and laying it over the back of his seat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just needed a moment alone, you know? Collect my thoughts,” you said and he nodded.

“How are you really?” he asked with a knowing look. You sighed, unable to resist him, especially when he looked at you with those wonderful eyes of his.

“I’m still a bit shaken,” you admit.

“I figured,” Aaron said softly. The two of you just sat there for a moment, listening to the pilot doing his pre-checks and you were reminded of the moment in the locker room. It now seemed like a lifetime ago rather than just this afternoon. Aaron had never been so...open with you. You longed for his touch now. Even if it was something as subtle as tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The thought alone made your skin feel as if it was on fire. “You did well today,” he complimented, taking you out of your thoughts.

“So did you,” you said.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and then his fingers trailed along the scar that spanned along your arm. His touch felt like electricity as he moved back and forth.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you said softly. “Thank you for having my back today.” His fingers stilled on your arm and then they moved towards your hand. His movements were methodical and he was taking his time just as he had earlier at the precinct.

“We make a good team, don’t we?” he asked, looking at you from under his lashes. Just as you had before, you rotated your hand and laced your fingers with his.

“Yeah, we do,” you said and then swallowed thickly. Aaron’s thumb began rubbing circles along the back of your hand and then he slowly lifted his other hand to your cheek. You didn’t breathe as he moved in closer. Aaron pressed his nose against yours, tilting your head up so he could get a better angle, and then, he kissed you.

It was as if fireworks were going off inside your head, replacing the barrage of gunfire with bright colors. Aaron kissed you with a tenderness you didn’t even know he was capable of. His hand left yours and came up to cup the other side of your face. Instead of fire, all you felt was warmth as Aaron Hotchner held you. You kissed him back with as much emotion as you could muster at that moment.

Eventually, he pulled back and his warm breath cascaded over your lips. Leaning his forehead against yours, he smiled. “It’s about time that happened,” you said with a smile of your own. Aaron chuckled, leaning back slightly, but keeping his hands on the sides of your neck.

“I’d have done it sooner if I had picked up on your...subtleties,” he said, his thumbs rubbing against your skin. You tilted your head to the side slightly, looking up at him.

“And I thought you were a profiler,” you teased. Aaron raised a brow, leaning in again.

“Funny,” he said, “I thought the same thing about you.” His lips met yours again and this kiss was anything but tender. Hotch gripped you tighter as he kissed you with a fierceness only he had. You gripped him by the shoulders, pulling him even closer to you. Aaron nudged your lips apart as he explored your mouth further, savoring the way the two of you just fit perfectly together. Your hands crawled up his neck, fingers cascading through his dark hair.

You had imagined many times what it would feel like to be kissed by Aaron Hotchner, but nothing had prepared you for the real thing. He was gentle and passionate and every move he made had you sinking into him further. It was the best kind of high you had ever experienced.

When you both had to breathe, you pulled back, and with kiss-swollen lips, you pecked him once more. “So, does this mean that I pass my eval?” you asked with a smirk. Aaron rolled his eyes.

“It was never in question, (Y/N),” he admitted, “I just needed an excuse to be close to you.”

“Weren’t very subtle about it, Aaron,” you teased.

“I knew you’d catch on eventually,” he said with a smile. Aaron kissed you again until he heard the team approaching and then he pulled back with a sigh. “How long do you think we have before they all figure it out?” he asked.

“Rossi already knows,” you said, leaning away from him.

“Does he?” Aaron asked, amused.

“Apparently, I am a lot easier to read than I first thought,” you said with a shrug. Aaron reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his touch linger before pulling away.

“On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read.”

“Is that so?” you asked, intrigued. He nodded.

“However, I am very much looking forward to learning how.” You smiled at his words just as the team boarded, talking animatedly. The two of you smoothed your shirts and hair before anyone noticed anything, but Dave had caught you immediately. Rossi winked at the both of you and you thought you would die of embarrassment right there, but then, you felt a warm hand on your leg. Hotch gripped your thigh, rubbing it soothingly and you felt calmer already.

The rest of the team followed Rossi onto the jet, completely oblivious to what had just transpired onboard. Rossi sat across from you and Hotch so you could be close to one another just in case another member of the team caught something. You would have liked at least the next six hours to be just about you and Hotch and hopefully, they would be.

Leaning back in your seat, Hotch kept his hand on you at all times and as you flew across the country, light began to shine through the small breaks in the window shudders and at that moment, you had never felt more at peace.

“Sunrise is the reminder that we can start new beginning all over again." - Rupal Asodaria

#Criminal Minds #Cm #cm imagines #CM Season 7 #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #Hotch imagine #hotch #hotch x reader #bau reader #baubabble #BAU #reader insert #profiler reader

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twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years ago

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Starcrossed Losers 2.IV (Josh Wheeler xF!Reader)

A/N: I’m sorry it took me so long omg I’m the worst. Let me know if I forgot to tag you or if you wanna be tagged -Danny

Words: 2,022

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Listen to me!

I guess you're all expecting me to say something about what happened. I should, after all, I hid this piece of information from you, not that I owe it to you, but I guess it's confusing...

'More than just a dream...'

Josh and I are still holding hands while we start the tour, and I wish I could say I was feeling bad about it but to be honest I'm still way too drunk on the bliss to be ashamed. I felt bad though, I did promise Nathan a date before everything went to hell. As a matter of fact, he was going to be my homecoming date.

Where to start? Perhaps you'd like to know who Nathan was in my group of friends? Easy.

*Throwback time*

Nathan was the 'popular' of our group. Do you know how there's always that one friend that seems to know everyone for really strange reasons? The one that 'knows a guy, that knows a guy, that has a cousin'... that's Nathan.

He was also the good looking guy of our group. I know I said Alex was attractive, but man, Nathan was the real deal, he had charisma and a great smile, try to beat that when you're sixteen and have zero social skills.

I didn't have a crush on him though, but it was a very well thought decision like I said before, I wasn't going to let someone close to me break my heart, and both Nathan and Alex were too close, so I buried those thoughts about him before I could even consider it.

I never had a thing for him until... well, until he asked me to homecoming. I never knew why he asked me, I mean sure we were good friends but he never tried to make a move (and this is not me being oblivious this is me saying Nathan never even commented on my looks not even once). While I do remember having said to him something along the lines of "you're so pretty you annoy me" one night while I was completely shitfaced.

He laughed it off then, not bringing it up to tease me the next morning. He knew he was attractive and I certainly used to dream about dashing men like him coming to take me out for a ride or a movie, but I never thought that it'd be him the one who would ask me out.

'All the days I waited for you You know the ones who said I'd never find someone like you'

Then the end of the world happened and we never went to homecoming, yet we remained on the same group until one day he just vanished. No notes, no nothing. He left. He was also the first one to go, followed by Aria, then Phillip, then Lily, until we were just Maya, Alex and I, you know the rest.

We heard about Nathan a few weeks later though, the first loner on Glendale (Josh was very good at keeping a low profile, we didn't know he was by himself) and I thought it was a great idea to do the same, you know, follow the loner's path until I had Katie back... and you know how that turned out.

My point is, how was I supposed to know he was going to come back and still ask me for a date? What kind of person does that?

"Here we have the Cheeramazon division," Josh pointed to the sports section of the mall. "We teach sign language for those who are interested in learning, it's also handy for communicating while we're outside on a Ghoulie area..."

"Why're they here?" Nathan asked in a voice that was completely unlike him. "I mean, I know their old place got trashed but why haven't they looked for a new place?"

"They don't have enough people or resources," I replied. "They'll wait here until enough girls decide to join them or until they get enough food to survive on their own."

"And you guys are okay with that?"

"Good relationships with old tribes are everything," I shrugged. "We want to keep it friendly with everyone, we don't want to start another war."

"Really? Because you seemed ready to go out and set houses on fire five minutes ago," Josh replied sternly.

"That's different!" I scoff. "Those kids need our help and you know it!"

"What kids?" Nathan asked in curiosity.

"Are you familiar with the AV club?" I ask him.

"The kids with the podcast?"

"Exactly! They've been kidnapped and I've been trying to convince my tribe to go out and look for them but they refuse–"

"Because we're barely recovering from Triumph," Josh interrupted. "Listen Y/N, we can't be heroes fighting against some kids in suits..."

"Here we have the gamer's layer," I continue, forcing them to leave the subject. "But you don't have to write that down, they're leaving in a few days to their old cave. Been here to help us with some tech stuff..."

"Those over there are the X-jocks," Josh points over a couple of kids playing and exercising at the other side of the mall, "they followed Turbo after he was kicked out. They're no longer Jocks, but they don't want to be called Daybreakers either."

"They don't wanna mingle with all the weirdos, apparently," I roll my eyes.

"We have a healers division, which is coordinated by Y/N," Josh puts a hand on my shoulder and smiles. "She's great... a training division that Wesley and Turbo handle... Am I missing something?"

"The Daybreakers, which are lead by this loser," I look at Josh with a smirk. "He schedules our vigilance system, the hunts– Oh, and the weekly competitions."

"What are those about?"

"We organize tournaments and the awards are free days from working or having to go outside, stuff like that."

"Okay," Nathan nods, writing everything down. "I think that's all..."

"Cool," Someone calls Josh and he looks back at us. "Can you finish the tour on your own?"

"I– Yeah, okay," I reply anxiously. "See you in a while..."

Josh gives me a quick kiss and leaves to where he's needed, leaving me alone with Mister 'U-owe-me-a-date'.

"So..." I awkwardly start.

"I think I owe you an apology," He replies immediately.

"What?"

"I didn't know you and Josh... what I said was completely out of place anyway, who asks that kind of stuff to someone they haven't seen in months? I–"

"Nathan," I stop him, "It's okay, really, you didn't know, it's alright."

"I'm sorry," He repeats, this time calmer. "I ditch you and the group, I just... I don't know, I felt stuck..."

"I get that, we left too, eventually," I shrug. "Went to look for my sister, but... she died."

"Oh," He frowns. "I'm so sorry... was she–?"

"A Ghoulie, yeah," I sigh. "It's okay, I'm better now, I have this place and I have..."

"Josh..."

"I was going to say I have a sledgehammer, but sure," I joke.

He smiles and suddenly I remember why I used to like his smile so much. It really is quite dreamy.

'And you were out of my league All the things I believed You were just the right kind Yeah, you were more than just a dream'

"Those kids..." He mentions. "The AV club?"

"Yeah?" My heart jumps at the mention. "Do you know anything about them? Anything that could help?"

"No, but Josh mentioned kids in suits? I think I've seen them–"

"Y/N!" Josh runs back to us in a hurry. "They found them!"

"What? Who?"

"The AV Club!" He replies.

I try to walk over to the gamer's layer but Josh stops me.

"Wait," He holds me in place. "It's an X-Pug zone."

"That, or the kids in suits want us to believe it is," I point out, "Josh let me go! I want to know where it is!"

"We're not taking anyone there! You know we can't, Y/N! We don't have enough people, who knows how many of those are out there..."

I want to argue back but I know that Josh is right.

"Fine," I let go of his arms and he does the same with me. "Can I at least take a look? Maybe one day we'll go and... and just take a look..."

Josh doesn't need me to end the sentence though, he understands.

"Okay," He starts walking when Nathan speaks up.

"Can I see?"

We turn to see him, both wearing the same confused expression.

"It's just..." He moves his weight from one foot to the other. "I was telling Y/N that I've seen those kids before and maybe... I could talk to Sam, maybe she'd like to help?"

I look at Josh with my best puppy eyes and he sighs in defeat, nodding along.

"Fine..."

Nathan catches up with us and grins at me. What I shame I lost my chance with this guy, he looks like straight out of a fantasy, who knows, maybe he was the one meant to be with me if all this apocalypse stuff never happened in the first place...

'You were out of my league Got my heartbeat racing If I die, don't wake me 'Cause you are more than just a dream'

When we arrive Aria takes me directly to her laptop and points to the image in it. I hear her talk to Nathan for a moment while I see the streets and the directions and since I know the whole city by heart it takes me a minute to memorize the whole thing. I don't tell this to Josh, of course.

"Are you going to leave us alone now?" She asks irritatedly.

"Sure thing, you can leave during the night and I wouldn't even bat an eye at it," I reply, still looking at the screen. "Let me just..."

I pull out my phone and take a picture of the screen, is not perfect but it's quick and it's just in case. Josh gives me a warning look but I smile.

"Thank you for doing this," I step closer to him and put my arms around his neck. "See? It didn't kill us to find out, right?"

If I've learned anything in my short stupid life, is that flattery can take you places... and it distracts a boy's brain faster than anything else.

Josh smiles at me and I know I have his whole attention, so I quickly put my phone away.

"Anyway!" I break the spell and look at the gamers. "You guys did a good job, I'll leave you now. Nathan, let me walk you to the door..."

Halfway to the entrance, Nathan speaks.

"You're so not going to listen to what Josh told you to do. I know it, I can see it in your face."

"How long till I can hear from you and Sam?" I ask him in a business-like voice.

"A day, maybe two?"

"You think she'll help?"

"That if we can push Maya to a side."

"Don't mention my name and you'll have a bigger chance to succeed."

I stop at the door and turn to look at him decidedly.

"You have no idea how much this means to me."

"If you're risking your stay at the mall and your relationship with Josh, I assume a lot," He raises a brow.

"He won't kick me out for this," I roll my eyes.

"He's your leader, Y/N."

I remember that none of our feelings ever stopped Josh from kicking me out the first time. So he's not entirely wrong.

"Don't sweat it," Nathan shakes his head, "I'll do my best to keep everyone happy, just like you've been doing for the last few weeks. Consider this my thank you gift for all the hard work you've been doing, Vinchi."

"Oh," I cringe. "I don't really go by that nickname anymore..."

"Oh, sorry," He pouts. "Just Y/N, then?"

"Unless you have a new nickname for me," I grin.

Nathan tilts his head like he's considering what I'm saying.

"I'll think about it," He smiles.

"I'll see you in two days," I smile back.

'Yeah, you were more than just a dream...'

Taglist.

@letsbe-queer @slythermyg @loving-u-3000 @one-loud-mind

#twoidiots writing #daybreak fanfic #daybreak #josh wheeler #josh wheeler xreader #Starcrossed fic

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elsanna-shenanigans · 4 years ago

Text

December Contest Submission #8: Scintillating

words: ca. 4500 setting: mAU lemon: yes cw: alcohol consumption, nipple play, some swearing, not vegan-friendly decor

Condensation coiled past her lips, fogging her vision and drawing her eyes up to the spattering of stars above them. For a moment, Elsa forgot all about the reason that had brought them here in the first place, stopping in her tracks to gaze up in wonderment. A smile drew itself slowly across her lips as she fell into the beauty of the cold, distant lights cast down on the frozen, snow-shrouded wilderness around them. She tilted her head and the whitish grey faux-fur trim of her midnight blue winter jacket brushed softly against her cheek as she tried recognizing the constellations above her.

“Anna.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it had been so quiet around them but for the shuffling of their boots through snow that Elsa knew her younger sister wouldn’t have had to strain to hear her name. She tore her gaze away from the firmament to find Anna had already cued into the night’s glory overhead, and her heart swelled at the awestruck delight on the freckled face she held so dear. Freckles she couldn’t help but note had the same chaotic harmony as the stars they admired. They were rivalled only by the twinkle of mirth in Anna’s eyes and Elsa’s breath hitched as her eyes ran over the soft, beautiful lines of her cheekbones, her jawline, her throat, her nose, her mouth… Elsa averted her eyes from the delicately pink lips, exhaling shakily. Virtue of habit.

“I hope we get enough clear skies while we’re here, I could be out every night.”

Anna’s eyes went wide with apprehension and it was all Elsa could do to bite back a smirk, thinking of how expressive her sister was. ‘Don’t you dare make me choose between stargazing and standing around in -32°C weather’

“Yeah well, I’m not sure I could be, if it’s as cold as it is now.”

Elsa chuckled, her words having simply confirmed what her eyes had already communicated.

“Aw c’mon,” she teased gently. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“At this rate you’re going to have to light me on fire if you don’t want me to freeze before we make it to the chalet. Besides, you’re going to like the master bedroom.”

She shook her head wordlessly at the hyperbole, considering that while granted, the snow was knee deep, they were only a couple of footfalls away from the front steps. The house loomed darkly, melding into the thicket of pine trees behind it, but for the fairy lights that caused the snow beneath them to scintillate with prismatic pastels, each individual snowflake detaching itself from the rest this way. It was the sort of small wonders that gave Elsa reason to look forward to winter each year.

Readjusting her backpack, Elsa gave one last effort hoisting herself out of the snow to climb up the front porch and immediately began digging for the key that’d sunk to the bottom of her pocket. After a moment of struggling, feeling for it through her gloves, she pulled it out triumphantly and unlocked the front door. She bared her hands and dropped her backpack, blindly feeling for a light switch. When she finally did, her eyes fluttered in adjusting to the brightness. The interior was shockingly well-curated, the very definition of rustic chic between the wood, the stone, the plaid, the sheepskin, furs etc. A touch of charm and magic came by the way of understated yet elegant seasonal decorations. Mistletoe, cedar wreaths, holly, pine garlands accented by silver, red and blue ornaments. Logs and kindling were set up in the fireplace, ready to be set alight.

It was nothing short of a miracle that they’d even been able to book this on such short notice. Honestly, she had no idea where and how Anna had managed to find this rental, but it was proving to blow up her expectations at every turn. Granted, when her sister had announced that they would need to drive roughly 7 and a half hours to get here, Elsa’s excitement had been mitigated, at best. Yet she also knew that its remoteness was likely what made the destination so affordable. And more importantly, now that they were here she understood there was a great deal of comfort in putting that much distance between them and their apartment in Ottawa, along with their roommates and friends. For the first time in years, it was just the two of them.

The thought brought back into focus the main reason they’d even decided to get away for the winter holidays to spend them with each other.

They had a lot to talk about.

Elsa glanced back, checking up on Anna who was pulling the toboggan they’d cleverly brought along to more easily transport all of their things from the car. She noted the unsteady grip and sought to deliver her from the icy wind.

“Why don’t you go get the fire started? I’ll get the rest of the stuff inside.”

The younger woman didn’t need to be asked twice, dropping the toboggan’s cord and hurriedly shuffling through the snow, running up towards the warmth of the house. Elsa half expected her to immediately disappear inside, but that was something Anna had no intentions of doing without first stopping to throw her arms around her older sister. Caught off guard, Elsa did not immediately respond, but after a few moments had passed, she hesitantly brought her hands up to embrace her waist.

“Thank you,” Anna whispered, her lips tickling against her ear.

Elsa shuddered, and it wasn’t from the cold.

✧✧✧

It had taken some time for the chalet to warm up properly after Anna had gotten the fire going, but that had suited them just fine. Elsa had fixed them up some hot chocolate, with a healthy splash of Bailey’s and a hint of peppermint, crowned with marshmallows. She’d glanced down, gaze softened by tender affection as Anna had curled up against her on the couch, strands of red tickling Elsa’s collarbone as their beverages had heated them up from the inside out. The cold outside was soon forgotten as the flames had roared up, hot air cradling their faces in conjunction with the heavy blanket they’d drawn up over themselves.

Elsa’s mind had soon grown restless however, the initial serenity engineered by the enchantment of their new setting dissipating as her thoughts had raced back to the conversation they’d kept on hold for exactly eighteen days (she’d kept count). Shackled by habit she’d wanted to slide her hand down to rest on Anna’s waist, fingertips seeking the hem of her sweater, but she’d taken forever before actually deciding to make a move.

At the time she’d found it easier to simply talk about the future than the present, telling Anna that they would need to set a reminder for the following day to try and witness the Great Conjunction between Saturn and Jupiter, which would this year occur on the Winter Solstice. She’d blushed sheepishly when Anna had pointed out that lack of light pollution was yet another reason she’d wanted to venture so far from what most people would commonly regard as civilization, knowing and understanding how beautifully rare it was to be alive for such a celestial event.

The as of yet unspoken words had continued to tighten her throat, preventing her from bringing up the subject she was so anxious to broach, but was terrifyingly paralyzed by. It hadn’t been until their drinks were close to done (without counting the occasional topping off with more coffee liqueur) that Elsa’s tongue finally decided to cooperate with her brain. Eighteen days had been far too long to chew on their last exchange about the matter at hand, overthinking, overanalyzing, second guessing everything that had been said.

By now, she felt pretty warm and she allowed the blanket to slide off her a little more, unzipping her hoodie, skin gently glowing with the flickering, crackling of the fire.

“Anna, I…”

She felt her sister shift slightly, likely looking up at her. Elsa wetted her lips nervously, knowing she had her full attention.

“We…”

The struggle was real, but she was glad there wasn’t any interjection coming. She made a mental note to thank Anna for her patience later.

“Firstly I’m sorry I cut you off so abruptly when we talked about… this, a few weeks ago.”

Perhaps it was a calculated nonchalance on her part but on the other hand she figured it would just sound strange to actually say ‘eighteen days ago’ out loud.

“And I hope,” she continued. “That you understand what I meant when I said that we needed to talk this out some more, I wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t feel the same way.”

There was a slight loss of body heat as Anna sat up a little straighter. It was brief, however, as she felt a hand gently grasp the side of her face, tilting her head down towards her sister.

“Elsa. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, you deserve clarity, I-“

“Elsa.”

Her lips fell heavy and she stopped talking, looking down at the dark intensity in Anna’s gaze.

“You think too much. And gods, I’m Twenty-five, not Fifteen. I know I’ll always be your ‘baby sis’ - oh yeah, I’ve seen your caller ID listing - but I’m not a naive, innocent little girl anymore. I understand.”

Elsa dared to lean slightly into the touch on her face, her gaze softening. She felt a thumb brush gently against the edge of her cheekbone and managed a smile.

“What do you understand?”

“I understand that you’re scared. Hell, I am fucking terrified. I understand that I want you in ways I shouldn’t, love you in ways beyond my mandate as your little sister. I understood with every kiss, every lingering touch we shared that night that you felt the same way. I also understand why you pulled away after I kissed your neck, because I know you, Elsa. I know you don’t trust yourself, I know you have so carefully crafted an armour and delicately cultivated a self-possessed facade to protect yourself from the world. And I also understand what it would mean for us, for our lives if one of our roommates or friends were to discover the truth. And I know it must have felt like torture for you to be so hyper vigilant about the way you spoke to me, the way you looked at me, the way you touched me and the restraint you exerted. I could feel the fucking fire coming off of you. So I understand why you said what you said - you were buying time, and I understand why you acted the way you did - you were protecting us both.”

Her eyebrows had risen and she stared at Anna, completely bewildered at what she was hearing. Though she was ordinarily loquacious, her sister was seldom ever so brutally to the point. More than that, she realized this meant Anna somehow knew about the feelings Elsa had harboured for her for quite some time. She wondered how long, worried that if Anna had noticed, others might have seen the crack in her tower of ice.

“You knew?”

That’s all she could manage and she felt ridiculous, knowing she was normally well-spoken and articulate, though one might have noted it was only when the situation pertained to matters impersonal, relative to herself. Her mouth felt dry and her gaze wandered briefly away from Anna’s eyes, to the crown of dampness forming at her temples from the heat that now enveloped them both, inside out. As much as Elsa appreciated the crisp, unforgiving sharpness of cold winter air, she knew Anna was likely very happy to be sweating indoors instead.

“I didn’t say anything because I knew being the big gay lesbian you are, you needed some time to process and a safe space to say your piece… but do you really think I begged you to drive 8 hours north into the sticks just so we could talk?”

Elsa’s mind went into overdrive as she tried to comprehend what Anna was saying. It seemed as though her brain was yet again trying to overanalyze, overthink what she was being told.

“What do you mean?”

She tensed up a little as she heard Anna’s exasperated sigh. Any doubts she had previously held however, were dissipated the moment she felt a thumb trace the curve of her lower lip, followed by a soft, delicate mouth pressing against hers in its wake.

Oh.

Her heart was now beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. The kiss electrified her body, lighting it up with a fire she’d never quite felt before and the sparks lingered on her lips. Even if her head had been clear and focused in the moment, she wouldn’t have been able to recall any previous incidence of the single act of kissing, sending heat and lightning in the pit of her lower belly. She’d had chemistry, good chemistry with other people even but nothing like this. There was no way the Bailey’s alone could be blamed for it and that thought both enthralled and terrified her. The hand she’d kept at Anna’s waist slid up the sweater, under her shirt, finding the velvety dew of her skin pleasant to her fingertips. How long had it been since she’d first realized she craved and longed to touch her sister in this way? How long had it been since fear had guided and controlled her every movement, shackling her most human needs and impulses to touch, to hug, to nuzzle the person she held dearest in this world? How long had it been since the guilt began to gnaw at her? How long had it been now since the constant mental self-flagellation, driven by self-loathing had overtaken her identity and so twisted and tainted her self-perception? How long had it been since she’d completely choked out any trace of spontaneity within her, for fear it might one day betray the repulsive, repugnant truth she’d come to believe represented her? How long had she allowed it to take over her life until it tainted every one of her interactions? Too long. Far too long. She didn’t know that the damage would ever be undone. But, here under the cast of the fire’s warm glow, for the first time in forever, her mind flirted with the idea of self-forgiveness.

For the first time in forever, she could allow herself to be free.

On some level it hadn’t fully sunk in yet, and even as she finally allowed this sort of contact, the habit of caution kept her gestures on a tight, controlled reign, not quite ready yet to forget herself. Fear and guilt were, after all, powerful enemies, bridling her every impulse even now as sharp sparks jolted through her nervous system, crackling from her lips combined to Anna’s.

It was a fortunate thing that Anna knew what she wanted though, and was determined to get it. Unbeknownst to Elsa, she too had been sitting on this obsessive craving for a fruit so forbidden she had to plan an entire holiday to finally get a taste. Elsa’s breath was shallow as she watched her lean back to tug her sweater off, discarding it to the floor hurriedly. Her nipples were visible under the fabric of her tank top and Elsa thought she might choke as she noticed them. Desire gnawed at the chains of self control. Sanity was packing its bags, ready to vacate the premises when she felt fingernails lightly scratching at her jaw line, flirting with the tender skin of her throat. Fear and guilt were beginning to lose their grip, inch by inch and by the time Anna was brushing up her thigh against Elsa’s side, they were out of sight and out of mind.

Finally, Elsa left the safe harbour of her mouth, lips kissing up the line of her jaw to her earlobe where she gently nipped, down the curve of her neck - all to the delight of Anna, who’s gentle mewling sent heated flames of need licking at the core of Elsa’s lower belly. Her timidity almost completely vanished, she pushed Anna back down on the couch, shifting so that she was now laying on top of her, and she lapped her tongue softly at the base of her throat. She felt Anna’s body arch beneath her and where the alcohol might have left them fairly tipsy, she was now tasting what it felt like to be drunk on power.

Unfortunately, the couch was fairly narrow and their hips bumped uncomfortably. She even tried to set a foot down on the floor to steady herself as she captured Anna’s lips and ran a hand ravenously along her side, but she quickly realized that the position would only lead to cramping and disappointment.

She looked around, one hand subconsciously pressing down on Anna’s sternum as if to ensure she would not go anywhere (as if Anna had any desire whatsoever to be anywhere else in the world at that precise moment). Her eyes lingered briefly on the fire and the lush reindeer skin rug by it, considering her options briefly. She smirked to herself but decided that they would have more opportunities and occasions for her to claim Anna by the fire.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just- what do you say we take this to the bedroom?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

✧✧✧

They’d had thrown as many more logs as they could possibly fit into the fire place, knowing the chances of either of them getting up in the night to keep it going were slim to inexistent. They’d paused only briefly once more to taste each other, touch each other in ways they’d, prior to that moment, barely dared think of, shamefully hidden in the darkest hours of the night. Hurriedly, they’d ran up the stairs, Anna having playfully lured Elsa into giving chase up to the master room, their clothes discarded erratically along the way, as they paused only to catch one another, fumbling with clasps and zippers, struggling with waistbands, insatiable in their kissing.

Inhibitions had retained a thin veil only long enough for her to notice the glorious, star-gazing window right in perfect view of the bed. Anna had been right about her liking the master bedroom. She did not linger on the thought however, her eyes drawn back to Anna’s features illuminated by the beams of moonlight flooding through the windows, an ethereal halo now wrapping around her features, lending her another worldly beauty. Overwhelmed and overthrown, it was like seeing her for the first time, again and she thought her heart might burst open with Anna pulling her down on top of her, the warmth of her skin immediately radiating towards Elsa.

She found herself hungrily kissing Anna, gaining in confidence with each passing second as she nipped and suckled softly at her lower lip. She smiled against her as she heard the little squeal of surprise this produced. Nails scratched over the nape of her neck, digging into her shoulders, and her sister’s smooth, bare thigh locked around her hip pressing her down against her pelvic bone, which elicited a gasp from the both of them. Elsa slid her tongue just past Anna’s lips whom promptly suckled it in, causing her to moan, and her body subconsciously rocked against hers.

Her hand slid down the side of Anna’s body, the tremor in her fingertips belying the nervous eagerness crackling hotly in every single one of her cells. The sensation of Anna’s warm, dewy skin against her own set her nerves alight with fire and she had to pull away from the kiss momentarily to check whether she were actually still breathing.

Another jolt of arousal shot down from her spine to her loins as Anna looked up at her, skin flushed and feverish, eyes come hither as she felt her hand coming up to tease one of her breasts. Elsa’s body tensed and her breath hitched, realizing just how strained her nipples had gotten, and how sensitive they were as a result. Her lips fell open as her younger sister teased it, sending sparks of pleasure radiating throughout her body, especially between her thighs. She shifted again slightly, her hip and upper thigh now pressing firmly against Anna’s radiating core. The heated dampness she felt against her skin was enough to cause a rush of wetness between Elsa’s own legs and she reached down again, her mouth seeking Anna’s neck. She kissed her at first gently, then intermingled with nips until she couldn’t resist the temptation anymore, following the thrumming of her pulse against her lips, and began to suckle at the skin, growling as she left her mark. It was something a little possessive, a little territorial, and on a primal level Elsa liked the thought of having visibly claimed what she deemed to be hers and if the way Anna mewled and gasped were any indication it seem she enjoyed it too. Given the nature of their relationship, they had to take full advantage now then, before any trace of it lingered and remained visible upon returning to their lives back in Ottawa.

Anna arched her body beneath her, causing friction in between their legs, as she began to subconsciously rock up against her. The hand she had been using to tease her nipple cupped the breast more fully, squeezing and massaging ever so gently. Elsa let out a little growl in response to this, and left a trail of love bites on her way down to a pert, rosy breast. She ghosted feathery kisses around the taut nipple, enjoying the feel of the divinely soft skin against her lips, spurred on by the sweet little mewls her younger sister echoed in answer.

By now, Elsa was humping softly against Anna’s thigh, feeling a blush creep up her neck at the realization of her own arousal. It was further compounded by the feeling of Anna’s wetness against her own thigh, as well as the nails now scratching up her shoulders, leaving scarlet trails on the nape of her neck. She hissed in a mixture of pain and pleasure flexing her thigh and rolling her hips a little more firmly. It was enough to coax her into giving a flick of her tongue over Anna’s nipple who inhaled sharply, and tangled her dainty fingers into the base of Elsa’s messy, platinum braid. Encouraged by this, she glanced up past the trail of darkly, well defined love bites she’d left, to find Anna’s head tossed invitingly to the side, eyes tightly shut in pleasure. It was enough to convince her to capture the aching nipple between her lips giving it an experimental suck.

Again, she shuddered and rolled her hips as she felt Anna arch her back up against her, and grip in her hair tightening further, which in turn provided a swell of confidence for her. Her lower belly clenched and she suckled a little harder, moaning as she felt the hard peak against the flat of her tongue. Hunger raged and she pressed more fully into any in every way she possibly could. Fire coursed through her when Anna briefly glanced back at her, eyes feverish and glassy, dark with desire, panting with her lips parted as she whispered her name.

“Elsa…”

Fuck - how was she so gloriously, ravishingly beautiful? How was this woman here with her, like this, offering the toned, perfect lines and curves of her body and the exquisitely harmonious features of her face? Elsa feasted her eyes, her senses, her fingertips, her skin, her touch. Her ears, her taste and even right down to her scent, as if she were afraid any moment now, this might all slip away. As if, she were afraid Anna would realize her mistake, realize that Elsa weren’t deserving of her. And in turn, it pushed her to be a more attentive, devoted partner in the discovery and exploration of her body, with the sole, fixed goal of bringing Anna to heights yet undiscovered.

Her hand reached down to caress the curve of Anna’s ass, squeezing and massaging it for a moment before lightly scratching up her hip, her waist, the side of her rib cage, then trailing along her arm, seeking out her hand. She laced her fingers into her sister’s gently, yet firmly pinning back down against the mattress, as her mouth switched from suckling, to worrying the nipple between her teeth. Anna’s breathing turned ragged as the hand still entangled in Elsa’s hair gripped tighter, nails digging into her scalp, and her heated, dripping pussy now humped up desperately against Elsa’s tensed, flexed thigh.

“More,” Anna whimpered desperately, which promptly caused Elsa’s free hand to find her other breast, fingers rolling the nipple between them. She felt her buck, which gave a pleasantly firm rub against her own, swollen, eager sex and her thigh twitched involuntarily, and squeezed Anna’s hand even as she kept it pinned against the bed.

They were close, she could feel it as much in Anna’s body as in her own. The buildup was coming to a head, and she gave one last heated lick before kissing and nipping her way back up the trail of love bites, up her throat, to the curve of her neck, to her earlobe which she kissed almost reverently, before nipping as she whispered in a husky, breathless voice. “I love you Anna.”

This seemed to do it for Anna, whom she could feel now desperately humping her leg, likely guided by reflex and instinct more than intent. She moaned loudly and turned her head seeking Elsa’s mouth blindly, wanting to feel all of her, give herself to her entirely, as her orgasm set her whole body alight, like fire raging through her blood, heat blooming from her belly and pooling wetly against her older sister’s skin.

With their breasts now pressed together, nipples brushing against nipples, digging into skin, and the intoxicating sensation of the power she’d just had over Anna, Elsa finally lost the battle with her self-restraint, her inhibitions discarded with no regard for dignity. She squeezed Anna’s thigh between her own, her belly painfully taut as she built up to her own perfect storm. It was her turn to moan in pleasure as Anna whimpered and mewled through her after shocks, looking up at her in earnest adoration.

“I love you too, Elsa so much.”

Light and heat blinded her for a moment as her body went still, her climax thrashing through her with an intensity she never guessed possible. Her heart raced and her pulse deafened her before she finally dropped her face into the nook of Anna’s neck, kissing it tenderly through ragged breaths.

The hand previously at Anna’s breast reached up to stroke her ember-coloured hair tenderly, smiling as she heard her giggle. As she recovered slowly, body still lightly trembling, she finally lifted her head up to share tender, lingering kisses, basking in their afterglow. She could’ve sworn she heard her younger sister purring but perhaps the stars in her head hadn’t cleared yet. Anna’s lips briefly left hers to kiss the corner of her mouth, up to her ear, whispering:

“I can’t wait for you to taste me.”

A surge of heat, and suddenly Elsa knew there was beauty in warmth too.

#elsanna #submission #december 2020 contest #prompt: warmth #lemon #cw: alcohol #cw: alcohol consumption

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calitraditionalism · 3 years ago

Text

Arc Three: Chapter Three

(AO3 counterpart here.)

TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO

Redpaw gazed at her mother.

It wasn’t fair, really, how peaceful they had managed to make her appear in death. Her eyes were closed serenely, her fur neatly groomed, mouth closed and cleaned of froth. She looked as though she was just asleep and having a nice dream. As if this whole ceremony was a joke. As if she would wake up any minute.

It was stupid. She wasn’t coming back. Why taunt everyone like this?

“Roany?”

Redpaw managed to tear her eyes away to meet her stepmother’s. The cream molly, Palefeather, was looking down at her with love and concern.

“How are you doing, honey?” she asked softly.

It was a stupid question, but Redpaw knew she meant well. She took a breath and looked down again.

“You wouldn’t think the white fury was in her blood,” she said. She was grateful that her voice was at the right volume, quiet but audible, because she had no say where it was herself. “She’s… she looks content.”

“She does.” Palefeather stepped in beside Redpaw, and the two stood in silence together.

Cats walked by them, pausing to crouch and whisper their respects to Thornfang – not touching her, as was custom of handling a white fury body – and offering a sympathetic nod to Redpaw and Palefeather before moving on. The Clast were shifting around in groups to swap stories about one of the most well-loved warriors in the community; how she had been unmatched in her battle strategies and hunting skill, how she had been a wonderful friend and a hilarious storyteller, how brave she had been in leading away the rabid dog that had gotten through the Hillock border, sacrificing her own safety to trap it in a currently dry gash in the earth that the dog had broken its neck falling into after it had bitten her. It was a shame she never became deputy, they said. She would have been a legendary leader in time.

Redpaw didn’t want to hear any of it. She pinned her ears against her head and shut her eyes tight, trying to mute out everything, but the conversations dug into her mind and latched on with terrible little claws, forcing her ears to stay open. Her own claws scraped against the stone floor.

Palefeather must have noticed, because she started grooming Redpaw’s head, purring quietly. Redpaw latched onto the sensation and focused as hard as she could on the feeling of a rough tongue and a soothing purr. Gradually, she relaxed.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured eventually. “She shouldn’t be here right now, on the ground.”

Palefeather paused her ministrations to reply. “She isn’t, Roany. She’s in StarClan now. She’s safe and happy. We’ll see her again one day.”

Redpaw opened her eyes halfway, returning her focus to her mother’s body. She wasn’t satisfied with that, but she couldn’t bring herself to argue against her stepmother. She knew that Palefeather needed that comfort as much as she did. She just sighed, shut her eyes again, and leaned into her only living family.

Over the next week, Redpaw hunted alone. The rest of the Clast knew to leave her be – though perhaps Palefeather had a paw in that. Redpaw said nothing to anyone and ate very little of what she brought back. More often than not, she was out in the night while everyone was asleep, just to ensure that promise of solitude.

One evening, as she stalked, sniffing the air, she caught something new. A cold scent, that smelled of the dark and the mist. She frowned and stood straight, opening her mouth to taste it.

Very odd.

Very interesting.

Redpaw looked around in the moonlit hollow, thick with grass and cut through by a stream. She could swear that, under that chill, she had caught the scent of another cat.

“Is someone here?” she asked, calling just loud enough to be heard across the way.

You could say that.

Redpaw flinched. The voice was there, seemingly in her ear, close as a thought, but she couldn’t distinguish who it was or if they were near her. She looked around again, but even with her feline eyes, no one popped up out of the shadows.

Then, there – something thin, dim, a silhouette under a lone tree.

She relaxed and approached a few steps. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

I’m always awake, the silhouette said. Sleep begets nightmares.

Redpaw frowned. Why couldn’t she define how this voice sounded?

“You’re not from the Clast,” she said.

The sensation of eyes regarding her, half-narrowed. I wouldn’t know anymore.

Redpaw didn’t know how to respond to that. She stopped walking and squinted, trying to make out whoever this was. They seemed little more than a shadow.

Who…?

I know about your mother, they said suddenly. I’m sorry.

Redpaw’s head went back a little and she blinked. “No one’s left the Clast this week. Why would you know about-?”

Saw it. Their long, narrow head tilted to the side. Wanted to stop her, but that never works. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer molly.

Redpaw stared. “You saw her and you didn’t come to the vigil?”

I wouldn’t be welcome in most of our society. They gazed at her silently for a moment. I can’t tell you how much I regret her fate.

Redpaw was confused by this riddle-talking… whoever they were. She still couldn’t make out their features, and it was starting to unnerve her.

Still, she could remain polite.

She recited Palefeather’s current mantra. “At least she’s happy in StarClan now.”

The silhouette rippled suddenly, violently. Don’t follow that hollow sentiment, Redpaw. It’s not true.

Redpaw flinched and took a step back, somewhere between offended and alarmed.

StarClan is the last place you want her to go, they said – and their voice did not get louder in her head, but it became more intense, more powerful.

Redpaw didn’t know what she wanted to say, but she managed a, “Why not?”

The rippling ceased and there was a long, low breath… or perhaps it was the breeze. When you go to sleep, call for her. Dream tonight. You’ll see.

Then they were gone.

It took Redpaw a moment to realize that she was alone. She blinked, looking for that silhouette, and then turning this way and that, a little afraid. No one was with her. The scent of cold and dark and damp had vanished.

Redpaw told no one about her encounter – something in her advised against it, and she followed her instincts. She was lucky that most of the cats had retired to their nests by the time she got home. Hardly anyone lifted their head to even greet her. She took her nest that she had pushed to be a little further away from the usual cluster in each house, curled up, and shut her eyes, trying to will herself to become sleepy.

“Mother,” she whispered under her breath, to avoid catching any attention. “If you can hear me…”

Something creaked.

She opened her eyes and startled. All around her was a grassy, beautiful clearing. Flowers in a scattered rainbow of colors caught the sunlight that warmed Redpaw’s pelt. Redpaw recovered from her shock and shook it out of her fur. She inhaled deeply, blessed with the scent of prey and ground just drying from the rain.

She seemed to be alone, but hesitantly, she called, “Mother?” and, after a pause, quieter, “Is this StarClan?”

There was an odd sensation, like Redpaw’s sight shuddered, and something sun-bright was in front of her. She squinted, eyes relaxing slowly as it dimmed, until she recognized her aged spitting-image in front of her.

“Mother,” she breathed. Elation straightened her posture and her fur flared with excitement. She stumbled a step forward.

Then she stopped.

Thornfang’s eyes were wide, darker than they were in life, sunken in. They bulged with terror. Her claws sunk into the grass, her tail bristled like a coyote’s. Why did she look so gaunt?

Redpaw looked at her mother. Thornfang looked at her.

“Run,” she said.

The ground burst open behind her, rocks splitting and jutting out skyward. Redpaw fell to her stomach as the earth shook. All around was a deafening, grinding groan, slow and strained.

Thornfang started forward. Something eye-searingly bright shot up out of the opening in the ground. It wrapped itself around Thornfang’s sides and jerked her up off her feet.

“Run!” Thornfang shouted, voice cracking in animal terror.

Then she was pulled into the hole, and the earth shook again, violent. It crumbled away, closing in on Redpaw until she had nothing under her paws. She half-fell, half-floated in the

in the

She saw it.

She screamed.

Hush.

Redpaw shot up out of her nest, hyperventilating. She pedaled backwards until she hit a stone wall, too terrified to think straight. She was on the verge of passing out, and she knew it, and it scared her, as if she might return to that thing once she lost consciousness.

In front of her was the dark figure, free of the shadows. They stood tall, thin, long, and unnaturally calm.

And shush, they said. Now Redpaw knew their words were in her head – no one so much as flicked an ear in their sleep. For it may be listening.

The very last string of sensibility grabbed at Redpaw’s heart and held on, ordering her to slow her breathing. She was barely able to obey, taking deeper, more elongated breaths, until she was merely trembling and not frozen in place.

The silhouette nodded once. Come.

They turned and walked out of the house. Their tail was like a snake, but it seemed to be fading at the tip.

Redheart looked around to ensure that no one had awoken – they hadn’t – before shakily following the figure out of the silent, night-stained settlement and towards the area they had first met.

You saw it, then, they said at last. You know now.

“I don’t know what I saw!” Redpaw cried. “My mother- something- it got her-“

Yes. They turned to her, an oddly comforting look on their face. It was StarClan. Or the thing pretending to be StarClan.

Redpaw listened in horrified silence as they explained a truth that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

I’ve been trying all my afterlife to warn everyone, they concluded, but it’s done a good job of ensuring everyone flees or tries to kill me or alerts it to my location. I am merely a devil now to most.

Redpaw wanted to weep. She maintained her composure and lowered her head. “Then you’re…”

The Runagate, they said quietly. Yes. You are one of the only ones that know about me. About my truth. About the truth.

Redpaw’s head jerked up immediately. “There are more?”

What little Redpaw could deduce of their face twitched, like it was wryly amused. One, at least. The veil doesn’t touch him. It may do good to find him.

Sudden and slight, there was a spark of anger in Redpaw’s heart. She latched onto it, warmed it, let it begin to turn into a small flame of righteous determination. “I’ll try. I'll find him as soon as I can. I can’t… I can’t shoulder this alone. I don’t know how you did.”

The Runagate’s entire posture relaxed, and the voice in her head had a smile in it. I don’t anymore.

---

“Then that’s how you two met,” Darkpelt said, almost in awe. “All this time, the connection was there, and no one knew.”

“Greyleaf didn’t know her.” Mistface shook his head. “I would’ve heard about it.”

“No,” Greyleaf replied with a sigh. “You wouldn’t have. I never told you.”

Mistface stared at him, eyes wide.

“I never told you about any of this.” Greyleaf had settled down as Redheart’s tale went on, but now his tail tapped the ground in stress. “Nor Mama, nor my mentor. I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know about the whole truth, at first.”

Flyfang cleared her throat, her voice still ragged. “I guess you have your side to tell, then.”

Greyleaf closed his eyes. “I guess I do.”

#warrior cats #steorra #arc three #chapter #chapter three #that is a reference to coraline before you ask yes #greyleaf #redheart #darkpelt #flyfang #mistface #the runagate

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snowdice · 5 years ago

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There Are Things That Are Missing (Part 6 of the Series “Is There Anything Left of Patton?”)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Virgil & Logan, Logan/Patton(?), Virgil & Patton (?)

Characters: Logan, Virgil

Summary:

Virgil and Logan take a trip to the hardware store during the zombie apocalypse. Something’s missing here...

Virgil cursed. “Ugh, I hate this. I shouldn’t have come. The lost hoodie was an omen.”

Notes: Zombie Apocalypse AU, Past major character death(?), It’s a zombie AU and Patton is a Zombie. Angst.

This is the sixth part of a series of one-shots called Is There Anything Left of Patton?

Previous parts:

“Something Left”

“Someone You’ll Never Meet”

“Food You’ll Never Eat”

“Things You’ll Never Do”

“There Are Things That Are Lost”

Logan indulged in a moment to himself after he left the room with the cage but before he went upstairs. It never got any easier. None of it did. Not the cage or the lifelessness in Patton’s eyes or Logan’s existence in a world where Patton never laughed or smiled. Patton used to laugh at everything: things Logan said and the silly movies he liked to watch; he often used to send himself into cascades of tinkling giggles over his own senseless jokes.

And now he didn’t.

Logan shook himself and continued his walk back upstairs where Virgil was waiting for him. He gave him one of those pitying looks that Logan appreciated a lot less today than he did most days.

Logan was irritable. He knew he was irritable. Yet that irritability went beyond the fact that they’d been trapped inside for the past few months or that his house had seemed to spring an elusive leak that was rotting out a corner of his living room. No, those were all mundane irritants that Logan could accept as facts of life. What was causing his emotional distress was what was always causing his emotional distress these days.

Logan had been keeping a secret from Virgil. He tried to justify it to himself by reasoning that the only person who could get hurt from it was Logan himself, but he knew that was a falsehood. Logan knew that if he himself came to harm, not only would it affect Virgil emotionally seeing as Logan was literally his only friend in the world, but it would vastly affect Virgil’s ability to survive as he would be left alone. So really, Logan had no excuse for his recklessness.

A few months ago, they had decided that there was really no point to keeping Patton tied up all of the time. It had been nice, almost. He seemed to like his freedom in whatever way he liked things anymore. Of course, Logan had always been careful to restrain him when they both slept. There was no telling what stumbling over a sleeping prey animal would do to Patton’s instincts. So, he had been diligent… until two weeks ago. It had simply been an unintentional error. He’d had a migraine late in the day and had laid down in his room in the dark. At some point, he’d heard Patton wander in but hadn’t paid it much mind. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep but fall asleep he had. Logan had woken in the morning to Patton in bed with him for the first time in close to 2 years.

It had been an accident.

The first time.

His behavior was absolutely stupid and shameful. Logan was well aware of this, but god were the couple of moments of obliviousness in the morning worth the guilt and self-loathing that would come crashing back to him when the world came back into focus.

“Come on,” Logan said without meeting Virgil’s eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

He and Virgil made their way outside and started towards the Home Depot in town with barely a word between them. One benefit of having Patton upstairs was that both of them were practiced in behavior that was least likely to trigger a zombie’s predatory senses. They were both well versed in silent communication methods and less agitating approaches to movement. The trip was easy, and they only saw three zombies on the way, none of which even noticed them.

They were able to make it through what had once been an employee entrance side door with a surprising lack of effort. Logan could see Virgil growing tense as they transversed the empty building. “This is creepy as hell,” Virgil said, pitching his quiet voice down. Logan had to agree; he didn’t like how their footsteps echoed. Though he had not anticipated the store being full to the brim as it was likely not as occupied by people during the onset of the outbreak as say hospitals, schools, and grocery stores, Logan still expected there to be someone dead here.

“I’m going to check,” he told Virgil.

“Check?” Virgil asked. “What the fuck do you mean ‘check’?”

In answer, Logan hopped up on top of the store’s help desk.

“Oh, fuck, please, no,” Virgil begged even as he scrambled onto the desk next to him and stood with his back to Logan’s. “Can’t we just do this stealthy and run away?”

“It’s better to know what we are dealing with than to be surprised,” Logan reasoned. “Besides, we’re here for timber. Exactly how stealthy do you anticipate that being?”

Virgil cursed. “Ugh, I hate this. I shouldn’t have come. The lost hoodie was an omen.”

“You lose your hoodie weekly,” Logan commented dryly, and then, without giving time for further argument, whistled sharply, similar to how Virgil had drawn Patton to the basement door earlier that day. It echoed loudly through the cement structure.

They both listened in complete silence for anything: movement somewhere, harsh breathing, or moaning. Anything. But nothing came.

“Odd,” Logan mumbled.

“I don’t trust it,” Virgil hissed.

Logan whistled again and they waited, but nothing shambled from the store aisles.

“Oh god,” Virgil said. “I really don’t trust this.”

“Perhaps it was closed during the outbreak and no one was here.”

“Right, because I’m a lucky person.”

“You are still alive,” Logan pointed out. “Luckier than most.”

“Fuck. Thanks. That one helped.”

Logan hopped down from the help desk and Virgil followed after him. “You are rather more anxious without the hoodie,” Logan observed.

“Are you sure it’s not the perfect horror movie set in an empty hardware store post zombie apocalypse?” he asked dryly.

Logan just shook his head. “Come on, let’s go.” Logan could still see Virgil being ever vigilant behind him, turning his head to get a peek down aisles and walking backwards sometimes. Virgil was useful for these types of things. Logan trusted him to notice anything off (including sometimes when there wasn’t anything off, but it was better than the alternative) so Logan was able to focus on the objective.

They made it to a more open location in the middle of the store and they both stopped. “That would explain it,” Logan mumbled.

“Oh fuck,” Virgil said. “it’s a camp. I knew we shouldn’t have gone on this stupid mission without my lucky hoodie.”

Logan studied the little camp. “It doesn’t look like they’re here anymore. They likely buckled down for the winter and moved on now that it’s warmer.”

“But what if they didn’t?” Virgil asked. “What if they’re a bunch of murderers that escaped from a prison and decided since zombies exist that it’s okay for them to be cannibals?”

Logan just gave him a bland look. “Anyway, let’s go get the wood and go home.”

“No, but Logan,” Virgil said following him. “What if they’re like, around?”

“Virgil,” Logan said. “I know that sometimes it may seem that we are the only people alive on the planet, but that is more than likely false. There are going to be living people around sometimes and likely, the majority of them are not murders. You don’t need to freak out.”

“Anyone who survived in this hellscape has to be batshit or a murderer or both.”

“We’re alive.”

“Yeah, and we let your dead boyfriend wander the house, so what’s your point?”

“This is a pointless discussion as they aren’t here. I would be surprised if they are even in the town anymore. Let’s just focus on the objective unless you like living in a home with moldy carpet?”

Virgil shifted nervously on his feet.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we should stop by the small clothing section and see if there is anything hoodie like. That way you’ll have two comfort items in case you lose one.”

Virgil shook his head. “It’s a lucky hoodie,” he stressed. “I can’t just replace it.”

Logan scoffed. “If it’s so important, you should keep better track of it.”

“I don’t mean to lose it!” Virgil said hotly.

“Are you certain?” Logan asked. “Because evidence seems to indicate otherwise.”

“Screw your evidence,” Virgil muttered. Logan hid a smile as he continued to walk towards where he knew the supplies he needed should be assuming whoever had made camp here had not moved anything. He was glad the distraction worked to take Virgil’s mind off the “murderer cannibals” in the city. He was still alert at Logan’s back but the lines around his brow had softened a bit.

The stock of timber had been depleted, likely burned for heat. However, Logan was still able to find what he was looking for easily enough. Whoever had been living in the Home Depot had created no problems for them, and Logan predicted they wouldn’t as he and Virgil made their way home.

Thanks for reading!

Just a fair warning, this series is going on a temporary hiatus as I want to have the next three parts completely written before I post the first one. It will be at least one week, probably two weeks, and maybe three weeks. Until then, enjoy wondering why I need to write all three simultaneously. :)

Want to keep reading? The next part of this series is “ And There is a Question”

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #logicality #?#adriana writes #zombie au #past major character death #angst #italop #platonic analogical #platonic moxiety (sorta?)

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dailyaudiobible · 4 years ago

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04/27/2021 DAb Transcript

Judges 7:1-8:17, Luke 23:13-43, Psalms 97:1-98:9, Proverbs 14:7-8

Today is the 27th day of April welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I'm Brian it is great to be here with you today a little later than usual. Now for…most everybody's probably not going to notice that this is a little bit late but those of you in the UK for sure will and those of you early risers on the East Coast will. We’re in the 4 o'clock hour this morning and we've been up all night. We’re late a little bit because…well…China went into labor and she's been in labor all the way around the clock and she has successfully delivered a baby girl that is pretty much as all newborns are, perfect. And once we knew for sure she was in labor and was going to give birth at some point in the night then we’ve been waiting to make this announcement. So, China has had her baby daughter, our granddaughter. I don't know the weight yet or the length yet. She was born at 4:14 this morning. And we’re gonna have this news out within the hour, the hour of her birth. So, we’ve been…we’ve been keeping vigil. Jill has been with China the whole way here as has Ben of course. And they have decided to name this little girl Reagan Brave Brown and she is a brave little daughter of the king. She's our little Reagan the Brave and everybody is safe and sound and exhausted and a full of adrenaline and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet. I think there’s water boiling in the background here. Just trying to be able to make this announcement. So, I'm sure before the days out we’ll have pictures posted and the details given. But there’s a new daily audio baby and her name is Reagan and she's eating and she’s sleeping, and we haven't even…she hasn’t even been weighed yet, but we didn’t want to wait a whole day to tell everybody. So, this is the good news. All is well, the baby has been born, everyone is safe. And, so, let's…let's now do what we have come here to do and read the Scriptures. And today we read in honor of Reagan the Brave who was born April 27, 2021. Okay. So, yesterday we were introduced to a man named Gideon in the Old Testament in the book of Judges. Gideon becomes one of the judges of Israel and we will continue with his story today. We’re reading from the Good News Translation this week. Judges 7:1 through 8:17.

Commentary:

Okay. So, today in the book of Judges the…the battle for which Gideon was called that was waged today. Although Gideon for his part, he had an army of 32,000 people but ended up confronting the enemy with only 300 people as God whittled down the army so that basically so that Gideon's early on question could be answered. Gideon early on in this story was asking the angel of the Lord, “where is this mighty God that did things that we've heard of from our ancestors, the great things of old?” God was inviting Gideon into one of those stories. And, so, a 300-person army confronted essentially three different armies who had banded together to raid and pillage and destroy. And it's interesting to see Gideon's confidence grow. At first, he’s like, “where is the God that did great things”, right? And then it…it went to, “Oh, the God who did great things is right here in front of me and I have borne witness to this. Am I gonna die?” It went from that to, “if you are truly calling me will you just give me confidence through this sign with dew? Can there be dew on this cloth, but not on the ground?” And then he did it the next day. “Can there be due on the ground but not on this cloth?” After that we don't really see Gideon confused anymore about who he’s following so when this 32,000-person army gets whittled down to 300 Gideon remains confident in the Lord. And let's be honest, 32,000 people, that’s a lot of people. If you’re going confront another army that's a lot of people depending on how many people they've got. But if they have an army that’s like covering the ground like locusts and their camels are as many as the sands on the seashore, that's all a lot of people. So, 300 looks more like a suicide mission than a confrontation with an enemy army. But the Lord had come before them and actually did what He said He was going to do, and the Israelites were set free. We’re not done with Gideon's story. There’s actually a dark chapter in the story to come before us, but it gives us a real sense of the times, times of the judges. So, the tribes of Israel have settled. This is a tribal time. They are tribes of Israel. And as we began the book of Judges, we were told that everyone was doing what they…whatever they thought was right in their own eyes. And we’ll get some glimpses of the different things that that can look like as we continue the journey through the book of Judges.

In the book of Luke today for the third time this year we have encountered the story of Jesus death. This, His trial and execution. And today we read of His crucifixion and that He hung there in agony and…and took more and more verbal abuse, even as He was dying. And in the face of that He displayed forgiveness, which…which really is the centerpiece isn’t it, that God would forgive us and welcome us into his family. And I know, we…we…we celebrated Easter just a few weeks ago. So, this is reasonably fresh in our mind. And we might even think, “yeh. We just made a big to do of that just a couple weeks ago when we were moving through holy week and celebrating Easter. There's just never a wrong time to meditate upon this though, to consider what kind of love we’re talking about because that's the kind of love that can change the world, that's the kind of love that conquers all according to the Scriptures. So, it's important that we give some time today to just meditate upon the sacrifice of Jesus. We will…well…I mean we…we’ve read through that story, that part of the story three times now - Matthew Mark and Luke - and these are the synoptic Gospels. We only have one gospel left after this, the gospel of John. We will only encounter this story one more time during this year. And, so, it's always important to just slow things down and become very grateful for what we have because we have been rescued.

Prayer:

Jesus is impossible to use words whether there roughly hewn or whether there just beautifully ornate words. There are no words that actually can add up to the description of what You've done for us. And, so, it would be maybe easier for us to just stay here in silence just in attitude that is grateful from the bottom of our hearts. And we plan to do today, just spend some time thinking this through and being in a space of gratitude and silence before You, thanking You, thanking You, knowing that our words fall short. And, so, we stand before You silent, not because we can’t find words to say but because this is the most honest thing we can do, present ourselves before You without a bunch of explanation. We are here and we are here because You saved us, and we are grateful, and we are expressing that. And, so, come Holy Spirit into this we pray. In the name of Jesus, we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it’s the website, its where you find out what's going on around here.

What’s going on around here right now is Reagan's birth and we will work to get pictures, all…all of that. We’re like really delirious, kind of right now we’re really focused on what we’re doing and one foot in front of the other. That's kinda how it gets when there's a severe lack of sleep going on but we’ll definitely…we’ll deftly get the word out on social media as soon as…as soon as China says we can. And we’ve had a running…how long…how long will this baby be, what will this baby's birthday be, what will the baby weigh…in our family for a long time…so we don't even know who’s going to win that one. We’ll post that stuff too as soon as we…as soon as we know. But we couldn’t wait any longer, wanted to get the news out and literally you’re hearing this within the hour of her birth. So, thank you for your prayers over everything that goes into bringing a new baby into the world over this little family, over her mommy and her healing, over this little girl who has had to trust and be thrust into a whole new existence that she’s never known before. And she's been experiencing it for less than an hour, so she's safe with her mommy and she knows that, and she knows the voice of her father. And this is a good place to start. So, thank you for your prayers.

That's it for today. I’m Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hi this is Jackie from Oregon I called to pray for Honeybee from Louisiana who's had twenty eye surgeries. I feel in my spirit the need to pray for you. Just talking on this podcast, I know God has a way of healing. I know it's come to a place where that's your only option and I really pray very hard for you in the name of Jesus that this eye be completely healed and restored. I know Jesus can do it. I know it's up to him. And I pray for that to happen. Thank you.

Hey, this call is for honeybee from Louisiana. Your call played today Thursday April 22nd and right away you caught my attention honeybee because my name is Melissa and that means honeybee. And, so, I have another friend who is also named Melissa and we call each other honeybee. So, right away you had my attention. But just listening to your request for your eyes for your site for the multiple surgeries you've endured and just the difficult spot you're at, I just want you to know that I…I’m praying for you now and I will continue to pray for you as the Holy Spirit brings you to my mind. And I'm just praying for God to do a miracle. I just kept thinking of the story of Jesus healing the blind men, how He just did it in different ways. You know, all the stories of the blind men healed in the Bible, they’re done differently. And He heals differently but He does heal. He's got the power to do that. And while you're waiting for that healing, I'm just praying for the peace of the Holy Spirit to surround you and encourage you. Be encouraged and blessed my sister, my fellow honeybee.

Hello Daily Audio Bible family this is Tony the truck driver. I haven't called in in probably two or three years, but I still listen every day and support in partnership with the DAB. And today I just called with a heavy heart. One of my fellow truck drivers at my job was tragically killed today. Just pumping fuel in his truck, a guy came and just shot him for no reason and then took his own life. His name was Raymond Ramirez. He’s from Allentown PA. He leaves behind a wife and three young children. So, I’ve just been in prayer for him and his family…for his family all day. Everybody at the job has a heavy heart. So, I’m just asking you family to pray for his family. Just pray for the peace that Christ can give him…give his family Lord and that they would…He would just be with him, be with their family in this time, that they would have the peace that surpasses all understanding our Lord and saver can give. Thank you, family. Love you. Still listening. I'm definitely gonna try to call more often. Blind Tony I heard you one day still talk…shouting out me and my son AJ. He's doing great. He's actually gonna be 20 in a week or so. So, thank you for all you guys prayers. I'll be talking to you. God bless.

Hi, Olivia this is Dawn Rising in Michigan. I'm so glad you're in our community now and I just wanted to pray for you in your situation. I know it can be very confusing when you love somebody. You wanted to hear from people. So, I took that as an open invitation to give my opinion. I too was in an unequally yoked relationship for three years and I loved the person, but God gave me the foresight to be able to think of ahead of my current situation and how I wanted to raise my children and it didn't match up with the person that I was with. So, you know, if you want to look forward into your life and see how your life goals and how God's will for you could be obtained with the current person. So, just take a look at that and if, you know, and look into his heart and if there's room for change, but don't yoke yourself to somebody, you know, that will not want to change because it will be forever an uphill battle. And, you know, it'll be like the idols in…with the Canaanites. You'll be tempted to sway his way unfortunately. So, anyway, praying for you my friend and it's…it's not easy and I…I don't envy your situation because I've been in it. Anyway, we love you. We’ll pray for you.

Hi guys my name is Kimmy I'm calling in because Olivia from New Mexico, I'm sorry if I did not pronounce that right, your ask for prayer really, really spoke to me as my best friend of two…just broke up with her boyfriend of two years because they were unequally yoked. And, so, your stories were similar, and I just wanted to encourage you to continue to pursue the Lord and just pray, be in constant prayer to know what to do. But I wanted to encourage you with the words that my best friend had spoken to me was that she broke up with her boyfriend not out of a lack of love for him but out of a greater love for the Lord. And, so, whatever the will of the Lord is, I think being open and willing to hear it and to obey it is really important and I'll be praying for you no matter what the Lord…no matter what you decide to do. But I wanted to read to you Philippians 3 versus 7 through 11 which says, “but whatever gain I had I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as lost because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For His sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish in order that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith, that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection and may share His sufferings becoming like Him __ that by any means possible I may obtain the resurrection from the dead. I hope this has been an encouragement. And yeah, just keep pursuing the Lord. Be in constant prayer to know what to do because He's right there with you and He holds your heart in His hands and I’m praying for you.

Hi, I'm Ethan from Indiana and I just wanted to say thank you guys for doing this. And it really helps me because I can listen to the Bible while I'm in the shower or something like that and I can listen to the word of God. Thank you for everything. And I just pray that you guys are…have a blessed life and I pray that you guys have great days while you guys are in...

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iammikedee · 4 years ago

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My town’s Pride week: a recap

For those of you who don’t know I work at a queer-affirming church. Half the staff is queer. We’ve been volunteering at our town’s Pride festival for years. When I took the job almost 2 years ago the nice lesbian couple in charge of Pride were like, “We’re old! You’re young! YOU do Pride!” lol. So I did, and it turned out to be one of my biggest accomplishments.

I established the Pride Ministry to extend our support beyond the downtown festival. Within the last year we sponsored our queer resource center; we sponsored our local university’s queer program’s Queer Prom; we then tabled an event for our university; we hosted Trans Day of Remembrance along with its vigil; and we provided trans education to our own church as to better be equipped for future events like these ones.

Then the fire nation attacked. Sorry, then covid happened.

[Our Town’s] Pride was cancelled in June, and was moved to September to be virtual. Our queer resource center was so incredibly understaffed, and many of our drag stars and performers did not opt to participate this year, so our church and staff members stepped up to the plate.

Firstly, we put on an interfaith service to show our town which congregations our community is safe attending. It went BEAUTIFULLY! 6 churches of different denominations appeared including churches of color and non-Christian faiths. Our worship director, one of my closest friends, was pulling his hair out the entire time he was editing the video (and dude if you ever see this, THANK YOU for your hard work!) but he did a phenomenal job and we’re all so proud of how it turned out.

Speaking of our worship director... Drag Storytime is an annual event here and NONE of our local drag stars volunteered to read children’s books this year. None of them. Well one did and she backed out at the last minute. So me and our worship director went to Goodwill, bought dresses, threw on some makeup and did it our damn selves. It went great. And our youth director led the Zoom call! It was not an [our church] event; we just stepped up and did it.

I also do drag and burlesque with a local queer troupe. We performed with masks, which was filmed, not live. Our bar has been shut down since March and this was the first time any of us set foot in there since (just for filming). It was so good to be back, even if it wasn’t really operating as a bar. Our number was shown during the performer’s showcase and it went great.

Also, our Quilters at church made over 100 rainbow masks to give out to the community!

I am EXHAUSTED after this year’s Pride and I hope to god that next year isn’t virtual. It was totally worth it, but jeez, that was a lot to take on.

If you’re on a Pride-planning committee and want advice on what NOT to do, hit me up! I’ve been doing this for a couple years now and I’m more than willing to share all of my mistakes with you XD

#pride #pride festival #virtual pride #queer #queer support #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lgbtq support #trans #trans support #transgender #transgender support #ftm #female to male #pride planning committee

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foggedgrief · 4 years ago

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okay, hello, this is going to be a part one to a series of introductions ! i have already hit my five character cap because i’m a menace but that means you get more content and honestly that feels like a fair trade off. without my rambling, i give you nicky ( click here to find some quick facts about my boy ) and emi ( click here to find some quick facts about my girl ) ! wanted connections can be found here.

be warned ! before you click that handy dandy little read more, the following triggers will be discussed : death ( multiple deaths due to the fog, not explicit : both nicky and emi ), grief ( parent losing a child : emi ), religion ( turning away from : emi ) !

losing friends and family to the fog and blaming yourself for not being more vigilant, taking guardianship of your little sister and getting a second job to make sure ends meet, trying your hardest and kicking yourself for not doing better, bloodied knuckles aggravated by vodka to clean them and wrapped so tightly you fear your fingers might turn blue, anger replaced by grief replaced by the understanding she needs you and you will tear down the rest of the world to keep her safe.

nicholas adam locklear was born in inverness, scotland, and still has a scottish accent even though he’s been in the country for twenty years.

nicky and his family moved to maine a few months before his seventh birthday. they moved to maine because his mother, a once american ex pat, had a father who wanted his kids to be closer because they all seemed to have scattered to the wind. he walked into the fog a week after the locklears had unpacked their home.

the fog has always been a thing of morbid fascination from nicky and after grandpa took his walk into the woods, nicky was kept particularly far away from the forest line, fog warnings or not. on all saint’s day, the day after he turned eight, nicky found himself in the fog. and then he found himself in his bed with no explanation for either event.

he started drawing that day, intricate sigils that gave themselves meaning but no voice, so he spoke them into existence: protection from sorcery, protection from evil, wards off negative energies, heal the body and the spirit. four symbols that he couldn’t stop drawing on everything he owned. homework, notebooks, on the walls of his home in crayon ( if you look in those spots today, in the locklear family home, they’re painted now. a whole interior room covered in the sigils intended to look like an artsy photo collage wall. ).

some in town say that the locklears are cursed, that their family bears bad blood, that they owed some kind of karmic debt too large for one life. whatever the rumor, they all boil down to one thing: too many locklears have gone missing in the fog. nicky’s paid little mind to them, though there’s a voice too strange to be his but too familiar to dismiss that encourages him to go in ( to go back ).

nicky’s life revolves around his little sister, belle, who was born when he was twenty. a few months later, their mother went into the fog and their father went about an hour later to try and look for her. neither came home. though the courts tried to pass belle off to the next living relative, nicky petitioned for rights to guardianship because he lived in the home and could find a way to make ends meet for him to be belle’s caretaker. enter the diner and blue valley.

nicky’s always been a hard worker, never one to take a short cut and never one to take the easy way out. his focus has always been to take care of belle above board, so no one could have a reason to take away the last of his family. that little babe was his world and is nicky’s driving force in most things. he started working at the bar first and took on a job at the diner when he realized that tips got slow after a certain hour and what better way than to make more money by helping to sober up the people you just got drunk ?

when customers offer to buy nicky drinks, he usually puts together a couple of complimentary mixers ( cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and orange juice ) and pours in water from an old tito’s bottle to make it look like he’s adding tequila. he’ll pocket the cost of a drink as an extra tip. he never drinks on the job.

his jobs aren’t glamorous but they keep the roof over his head and belle’s. he works 14 hour days ( 9 pm to 11 am ; 9 pm - 3 am at blue valley and 3:10 to 11 am at the diner ), 6 days a week ( sundays off ), 84 hours a week and he’s damn good at what he does, and seldom calls out for anything. nicky’s the kind of guy to pound three monsters and call it a day just to keep himself going. he’s used to running on little sleep because of his paternal role with belle and wanting to keep as engaged with her as possible. he usually leaves her with the finnegans so he doesn’t have to pay any babysitting money.

the one time nicky tried, dottie looked at the bills in his hand and just hugged him tightly and said, “no child of mine is going to pay me to watch theirs.” nicky cried that day and spent ten minutes crying into her shoulder and then slept on her couch for a few hours while belle played with the finnegan twins.

nicky is a good person and he’s a really good dad. at 22 he became licensed in the state of maine to be able to foster and has fostered ten kids in the last five years. right now it’s just him and belle in the house that his parents bought that he keeps up as best as he can. the guest bathroom needed a remodel three years ago and the kitchen appliances only work when you knock on them the right way and if the wind’s blowing in the right direction, but some things are just the way that it is.

other important things that i couldn’t work in above but you should know:

nicky gives like ,,, just really comforting hugs that suggest a level of emotional intimacy that is likely to catch you pleasantly off guard.

will help you buy your groceries because he has a better chance of making fifty dollars tonight than you do.

usually sleeps on disney princess sheets because belle insisted they would look best in his room ( she was right ). his other sheets are bubblegum pink and he bought them for himself because that’s the vibe he was feeling and sometimes you just have to do what will put a smile on your face.

his little sister is seven but nicky is the only parent she’s ever known and she usually calls him dad over nicky even though she knows the difference.

nicky calls her his kid a lot. everyone in town pretty much knows the story.

steady hands and steady heart are starting to shake, pleading with officers don’t let me bury an empty casket, the table set for three but you can’t bring yourself to put the plate away, pale yellow front door once made your laugh now just makes you sad because your daughter’s sunshine still lingers, and there’s no place to put your faith, nothing so powerful would take away a little girl.

emi is considerably less fleshed out than nicky but we’re still going to do our best to give her a fair shake at an intro, so here goes !

noemi was born noemi sofia ibarra in pine haven, maine. though she’s always considered pine haven her home, she’s always desired that her upbringing was somewhere warmer.

she’s a third generation doctor at the clinic, following in the footsteps of her grandfather and mother and knew from a young age that she wanted to help people. she bounced from pine haven for a while ( from ages 18 to 28 ) and followed her dreams to go somewhere warmer and graduated from emory university’s medical school in atlanta.

she pushed through medical school immediately after graduating with her undergrad and returned to pine haven as a permanent resident when she was 29. having been home, officially, for ten years, she has found herself in the center of the community. more often than not, residents of town know they can call emi and come sit on her kitchen table if they need urgent care.

life outside of pine haven’t wasn’t all medical school, though, because she also met her the father of her daughters. at 23 emi gave birth to her elder daughter, evangeline. that sweet little girl meant the world to her and emi spent double the amount of time awake those first semesters trying to get used to having a baby and school to balance. she was the center of emi’s universe, this baby and her father.

emi’s second daughter, catalina, was born about eight years ago and is as much emi’s pride and joy as her older sister. the pair never fail to blow emi away in their creativity, kindness, and love, and she has made that known to them from the time they could open their eyes. though these times were sweet it’s time to fast forward to the current day because this is where emi shifts for the worse for as much as she doesn’t want to.

two weeks ago, during the fog warning, evangeline wasn’t home with the family. emi was at work, locked down with a few patients, and when she didn’t get a phone call from her daughter, like she asks of all her family, she started to worry. panic didn’t settle in until after the fog warning and no one had heard from evangeline. frantic, begging, trying to stave off the final moments before the inevitable declaration, emi found herself begging the officers at the station: find me something to bury before absolutely crumbling against the weight of her own fears.

prior to her daughter’s disappearance, emi had put at least some stock into god but spite consumes her whenever she thinks about him. something all loving doesn’t steal child from the arms of their mother’s and something all powerful doesn’t let whatever lives in the forest to exist after taking the first soul. this town suffers because of that fog and venom pools in her mouth waiting to spit at the first person who proclaims that god will watch over her daughter. some people turn to faith for stability. emi has turned away.

#pine haven intro #‹ ✦ ˚ nicky: headcanon. fickle hearted little boy made man with a silver tongue. ›#‹ ✦ ˚ noemi: headcanon. gone but not forgotten，she holds so many candles. ›#death tw #death mention tw #religion tw #grief tw

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thatonebirbnerd · 5 years ago

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Firewood

Word count: 1481

Trigger warnings: Gender dysphoria, related self-harm (could be considered extreme), burns (to a nonhuman). Images of all three.

Sometimes, even the Pale Tree makes mistakes. For one volatile and distraught sylvari, the results proved catastrophic.

I’ve been made aware during the beta read process that this story could be upsetting to people who have dealt with the emotions I try to capture in it. I drew on the experiences of some of my friends, and I apologize if it hits too close to home as a result.

Thank you to @resonatingfern for the inspiration to do this diary-style - I’ve been loving Nettle’s entries and decided to try a bit of that myself. It... got darker.

AO3 link

---

Day One

My name is… it doesn’t matter. For it is wrong, and I would lie to no one. I don’t know why, but I feel like… perhaps I should not be me. The mender taking care of me said I should start to write, using the skills I learned in the Dream to perhaps try to explain my feelings better. So here I am, writing in this little journal.

I feel this deep anger, and sadness. Perhaps… disgust. I can’t look at myself without having these emotions wash over me. Or perhaps that is an unfitting choice of words, because they burn within me instead. I didn’t feel these in the Dream. I don’t know why I must feel them now.

Day Two

I spent my day learning about the world around me from a mentor of my cycle. They say it is dangerous out there, but so long as I don’t stray beyond the nearby village of Astorea, I should be safe.

That feeling of disgust is still tearing at me. I tried to harden myself to my reflection earlier, and I thought I saw flames creep across my palms. Writing hurts a little, from the burns. Maybe I’ll go talk to Mother, and seek her insight. For now, I must sleep.

Day Three

I did not sleep peacefully. I dreamt of an inferno roaring toward me; I woke up in tears and ran to a mender’s hut. Strangely enough, I am in a bit of pain all over. The mender said I’ve burnt myself in a few places. Was there some truth…? I don’t want to think about it. He also told me I wasn’t supposed to be having nightmares so soon, and that something must be wrong.

After I recovered from my exhaustion, I went to speak to our Blessed Source.

---

“What brings you here so soon, sapling? Is something troubling you?”

“Yes. I don’t know what it is. I feel… wrong.”

“I felt your nightmare, and your hatred of your name. So soon… I’m sorry. But I also feel your fire. There is power within you. You may find what you seek by channeling it.”

“But… I sense something wrong with my body. I don’t know what it is, but maybe you understand how I feel.”

“I have seen saplings like this before, so deeply dissatisfied with their being. Some take action; others merely choose their own names and live their own lives. I only ask that you not do something reckless. You will find who you are in time.”

---

I can’t bear this for so long. Maybe I will try to learn to fight instead, and do something useful instead of despairing so much.

Day Seven

For the last few days, I’ve been training with an elementalist. Mother said I should try to channel my fire, and I’ve tried hard enough that it’s kept me too exhausted to write until now. Perhaps it’s kept the anger at bay, but it’s replaced that anger with the pain of the burns I’ve given myself. I’m only just starting to get used to it.

I’ve realized something new. Though my mentor knows to only refer to me as “sapling,” for lack of a name, every time she treats me as a woman like herself, that awful feeling comes back. I haven’t worked up the courage to tell her how I feel yet, or what the solution may be.

Day Eleven

Mother told me not to do anything reckless, but I fear I’ve already disobeyed her advice. Late last night, I wondered what might happen if I summoned just a little bit of fire, and used the lessons I’ve learned to scorch the parts of my body I don’t like. And thorns… it hurt. It took so much effort to not cry out. I could see sap weeping from my sides for a bit, but my mentor told me that fire could seal a wound, so… I did that. I guess it worked.

My mentor noticed. I was so worried she’d be angry, but somehow she wasn’t.

---

“Sapling, you burned yourself in the night… Another nightmare? Are you okay?”

“Well… I…”

“Oh. Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

“I… I think I know what happened, though this is the first time I’ve seen this in one of my students. You never told anyone your name. Some saplings come out nameless, but I think I’d know by now if you were one of these. You simply… didn’t like yours?”

“Yes. What does it mean, to have a name I hate?”

“It means Mother made… a little mistake, perhaps. It happens, maybe more often than it used to. Some learn to live with it; others choose a new name; still others choose to transition physically. I promise, it is not your fault.”

“A mistake…?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at yourself. I can’t imagine how it must feel. But please, for your sake, don’t do that again. Let yourself grow into who you were meant to be. Now, do you want me to refer to you as a man, or perhaps one in between for now?”

“I don’t know yet. But… not whatever I am now.”

---

Yet I still wonder: why do I have to wait?

Day Nineteen

I remind myself every day that I must keep going. I cannot remain the loathsome way I am - damn the pain.

I’ve… scorched burnt away ...worked on a little bit of myself at a time, night by night, mostly on my hips and whatever’s supposed to be on my chest. I think it’s working. I hope it’s working. It’s so much faster than growth, at least.

I’ve stopped seeing my mentor. I’ve learned what I need to.

Day Twenty-Two

Making progress. More burns. More frequent nightmares. I can’t let them get to me. I have to keep at it.

Day Twenty-Five

I’m so close. I can feel it.

Day Thirty-Four

(The handwriting in this entry is more deliberate, perhaps a bit spidery.)

I write this from a hospital bed.

Six days ago, I tried to finish transforming myself, finish ridding myself of all I hated. The angrier I became, the more the flames threatened the rest of me. Yet I persevered.

Then something snapped, and fire enveloped me. I remember a fleeting moment of ecstasy, and then only searing pain.

I realized too late what the nightmares were supposed to tell me, and what everyone had meant by “reckless.” For just a moment, I despaired. Then I collapsed, exhausted. I don’t remember anything after that.

The menders found me, they say, after following the smell of smoke. They recall that I was glowing like an ember, and that I’m lucky to be alive.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. I remember barely being able to see or hear. When I finally awoke, two days ago, my hearing was still murky. Apparently my ears had scarred over. It was hard to hear my voice, but it seemed raspier.

That didn’t prepare me to survey the rest of the damage.

Many of the things I hated are gone, yes, but… so is so much more. I’m told it will take me weeks to recover, to shed my charred bark so that maybe I can heal. The bark peeled from one side of my face, leaving a tender patch around that eye. Most of my body is still bandaged, but the menders said - with gestures - that I could write today. For now, every part of me is either stinging and raw, or numb.

Day Seventy-One

I’ve been recovering for a long time. It’s been a slow, frustrating process, but most of me has healed enough that the menders finally cleared me to train and learn control over my magic. Some things, however… I’ll have to get used to them. They say I’ve been flaring up again, at night. I can’t hear much anymore. More scars.

I’ve been losing faith lately. The menders are good people, and they try their best, but I feel I can’t trust the Dream anymore. After all, it was Mother who made me this way, with the only true solution to wait and see, trapped in a body I hated.

Day Ninety-Six

I’m finally well enough to leave. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I just don’t think I can stay in the Grove any longer. The Dream is simply suffocating. I managed to communicate in writing with someone at the Vigil posting in the Upper Commons, and they said they’d be able to take me in, though it may take a while before I’m able to see action.

I’ll leave this journal behind. Maybe someone else will find it, and learn from me. But to me, it’s merely a reminder of things I shouldn’t have done.

But the past is the past.

Signed,

Áedh

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 fanfiction #fanfic #tyriaslibrary #sylvari #aedh the blackened #self harm //#dysphoria //#burns //#reader discretion advised #i finally posted it - here goes nothing #kestrel writes

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years ago

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Lasabrjotr Chapter 37: Homeward

Chapters: 37/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Thor, Heimdall, Peter Parker, Tony Stark Natasha Romanoff Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Let’s Hope This Avengers Party Turns Out Better Than The Last, Loki Thinks About Some Things, No Man Is An Island, It’s Good To Be Home Summary: On your way home, Loki faces some introspection. The camps begin to mingle, and Thor plans a party.

“So,” Thor concluded. “Three weeks from now? This is good for everyone?”

“Sounds great!” Peter gushed. “Can't wait to visit Asgard!”

“Seems like we can all be free then.” Natasha stated.

“As long as nothing comes up.” Tony added.

“Still confiscating Chitauri artifacts?” Thor asked.

“We were 'lucky' enough this time that almost all the Chitauri were confined to Wakanda. T'challa's been confiscating the hell out of all Chitauri objects, everything. Still, there was a lot, and of course some of it got out. We've just been picking up the pieces as we go.” Tony sighed. “Probably ought to let you know though, one shipment has gone entirely missing. When we questioned the transporters, they had no memory of it even existing. I don't need to tell you that's shady as hell.”

“We are rather isolated out here.” Thor said. “But we will be vigilant.”

“You'd better. You already know there's people crazy enough to take you on, who might be all too happy to get their hands on Chitauri tech. And with the media frenzy your brother and Rapunzel have been causing, it's got people real whipped up.”

“In my brother's defense...” Thor started, drawing groans from nearly everybody on the call. “Neither he nor _____ intended for that to happen, and both were reasonably upset. They were simply existing in the world. Each of you know full well by now, there is no avoiding the takers of pictures. Especially you Stark. Surely you have not forgotten the Whiskey Incident?”

“I have. If everybody else remembers, that's their problem.”

“Precisely.” Thor pointed out.

“Yeah, well, don't fake surprise when the journalists start hounding you. I love to say I told you so.”

“I know.”

“But...are they dating?” Peter asked. “I mean, they're so cute.”

More groans, and then almost everyone on the call started talking at once, mostly about how that would be a terrible idea.

“Friends, please!” Thor's voice boomed out over everyone else. “I would say this is not our business, but I believe you would disagree. What I can tell you for certain, is that they are friends, and, stars know, he could use more of those. Perhaps if he had had such support structures long ago, things would be different...” He shook his head. “But he has one more now, and she is good for him, and she is becoming healthier and stronger daily. You must continue to look at him from the point of view of Avengers, and there's value in that. I must look at him from the point of view of a brother and a king. And I'm happy for him. I have that hope again.”

The arguing calmed into a dull chorus of sullen acceptance, and Peter apologizing for setting everything off.

“Look, you will be able to see for yourselves when you get here.” Thor said. “We will gather in three weeks time, and you can each make your own observations on how well things are going.”

Thor left the computer room an hour or so later, after a long conversation about Asgard's integration into the rest of the world, eager to take a meal alone in his rooms and take care of some of his paperwork in solitude. You and Loki ought to be back sometime today. He would like to consult with Loki about the upcoming party; his brothers natural aptitude for extravagance was very valuable in plannings celebrations.

One of the numerous aides approached with more paperwork, which he skimmed a little too swiftly in his haste to eat. It seemed to be that troublesome Alarr again, needing something from Loki. He handed the report back to the aide.

“I believe this one is actually for my brother.” He said. That was one issue with having more than one ruler in place; sometimes paperwork got mixed up.

He closed his doors behind him, relieved to see the meal that had been left for him. The upcoming weeks were sure to be busy with the planning and setup of several celebrations. The reunion, the setting of the sun, Buridag. If there was a good reason to be busy, that was it.

*****

Four members of the anti-Loki, pro-you camp had approached and spoken with Sophie and Frodi, each separately. They wanted to know why the faithful were here, why they were faithful. None of them had known that there were people still out there who actually worshiped the old gods, and one of them expressed quite a bit of interest in learning more, and in return for stories told them that the main goal of the protest camp was to secure your freedom and safe return to your home. None of them knew what the other, more unfriendly protest camp planned on doing. They had apparently taken a 'with us or against us' approach, and remained aloof.

One by one, they went back to their camp, bearing Sofie's promise that anyone was welcome at her fire. Then Frodi set out on the several hour walk around the city limits, to bring what little they had learned to Heimdall. The shining god actually thanked him sincerely, and though Frodi prided himself on his cool head, he was still appropriately awestruck by being in Heimdall's holy presence once again.

If Valhalla was not an option, Frodi wondered on his way back to the camp, perhaps living in the city, among the gods, would be a paradise that was more within reach.

There were a few new tents going up on the outskirts of the camp when he returned. There were newcomers several times a week now. Some stayed, many left. Some were only there as a sort of pilgrimage, others grew impatient with the lack of godly appearances, and some simply were not able to handle the rough living of perpetual camping in the extremes of Iceland. Everyone had their reasons.

Frodi greeted the newcomers, a pair of Americans, and offered to help them set up, which they gladly accepted.

“Gotta get these up before sunset.” One said.

“Well, I have some good news for you then.” Frodi said with a smile.

*****

“Your mom was an Alfar?” You exclaimed. “You're part Alfar?”

“No, no.” Loki scoffed inside. If only! If only he could be Alfar, if he could not be Asgardian. Or Vanir, or even hideous but respectable Dvergar! Even Human would be better... “No, mother was Asgardian, born among the colonists of the fifth moon, but raised communally by the council who oversaw the colony, all of whom were Alfar witches. Among the Alfar, children are all raised by everyone, but mother had a special gift of foresight, and so, was raised by a special group.”

“So Alfar are all magical, but some have special magic, even for them?” You asked.

“Yes, that's a very astute guess. Alfar with special magical sight or intuition are known as witches, and are held in very high esteem. They take in and raise all who show signs of special sight.”

You narrowed your eyes as a thought struck you. “Hey, wait a minute...”

Loki smiled. Sometimes you connected the dots very swiftly. “In case you are wondering what I think you are, yes, that is why Heimdall is said to have had nine mothers, and yes, he too was born on Alfheim.”

“So he can't reach his family anymore either.”

“We will get the Bifrost back to it's former power.” Loki stated with confidence. “The urgency is not so great, when you have centuries to work with. Do not worry so much for Heimdall; he can communicate with this family through his special sight.”

The countryside passed by as time and the horses marched on, Loki settling into the companionable silence. It gave him time to think about why he felt so much happier now. He knew he was a lonely man: it was hard not to be aware that he had next to no friends, or that the controversy of his rule, of his very continued existence, was not confined to humanity alone. His own people were deeply divided, and that many of them placed the onus of their new circumstances squarely on his shoulders-for better or worse.

He had almost convinced himself that he could handle it, that it didn't bother him at all, that he was the rock upon which the waves of hatred and suspicion would break.

And then you had come along, and forced him to remember what happens to a rock in the sea, if there was no one there to shore it up. He was rapidly forgetting what he had been like before you, remembering his life as if you had been there the whole time. He didn't even know if it was an effect that you specifically had on him, or if he was simply so starved for companionship, that he had begun pouring all of his friendship and attention upon the first one he happened to get.

But you, with your presence, had shown him that he did not actually want to go it alone. He wanted someone he could greet every morning, someone he could talk to, someone he could clap on the back. Not just someone he was responsible for, but someone he could actually care about.

And now that he knew he wanted that, he burned with want for it, just as he did with anything else he had ever desired.

He should open up more. Be friendlier with the nobles, and maybe the servants too. Perhaps he should answer some of those invitations to meet with their daughters, if only to expand his circle of people known. Even if he did not want to marry any of them, he could at least be friends. Maybe he should go out into the human encampment again, and see which ones actually liked him. It would be getting cold again, over the next few months. Perhaps they would appreciate a delivery of blankets. Or food. Or any attention at all. Perhaps they felt the same way he did; just frantically desiring a little attention. He could spare that.

But making friends with humans wasn't always a good investment. That was another of the reasons he had stopped coming to Midgard. The standard Midgard education course involved repeated visits spread out over a couple of centuries. Loki made friends easily in those days, not perceiving his differences just yet, but every single time he returned, the friends he made had either died, or changed so drastically, he no longer recognized them. He rarely saw the same people twice. Even darling little Sigyn,with her magic, and her fiery nature. His first, childish love, whom he had naively believed could be his forever, who had promised to wait for him. She had been carried off by illness after bearing children for another man, by the time he had returned, and he had carved himself a skin of stone to place between himself and the Earth, that he never have to think of her again.

But perhaps it was time to soften his heart to Midgard once more. Perhaps the fleeting nature of human lives added value to them. Their stories were short, and would only be told once, so they had to fit as much into them as possible.

“So, what will we do tomorrow?” You asked. So human. Always looking for tomorrow.

“Is there anything in particular that you would like to do, my dear?” He asked. You looked at him with a quizzical expression, having noticed the affection that filled his voice.

“Uh, well...” You said. “I figure there's a lot of paperwork to catch up on, since we've been gone a whole week.”

“You'd like to go over paperwork with me?”

“And maybe more magic practice. I don't want to get behind. And maybe I'll make more cinnamon rolls?”

“How delightful. That sounds like a good day.” To greet you every morning, to speak with you and split his work. To pat you on the back and hold your hand. To share your life. It filled him with a warm kind of contentment.

******

Loki had kindly used his magic once again, to float you and Acorn across the river, and back onto Asgardian land. The camps had apparently not been alerted that you were returning today, so the crowd of humans who came to greet you were hastily gathered, and smaller than it otherwise would have been. You saw Sofie in the crowd, and waved to her happily. But Todd was also there, and you greeted him with much less enthusiasm, which was to say, not at all.

Never one to just let something go, he pushed his way up alongside your horse.

“Did it go well, sweetie?” He asked. “Did that guy get what he deserved?”

“Pretty much.” You said shortly. “And I'm gonna stop answering you, if you don't quit it with the pet names.”

“I'm sorry. You've had such a rough time. Are you sure you don't want to come home yet?”

You drew yourself up on Acorn's back trying to hide your tiredness.

“It's out of the question, Todd.” You said coldly. Loki Glared at him even more coldly.

“I'm afraid if you wish to speak more with my seidkona, you will have to make an appointment.” He interjected. “And I'm afraid she will be busy for the foreseeable future.”

“With what?” A voice in the crowd shouted out. “Being your prisoner? Slave to the would-be conqueror?”

“Great Loki protects the seidkona!” Someone from Trolekaerhalla shouted back. “He fights for her!”

“So he can keep her trapped here!”

“Guys!” You yelled. “Hey, it's all right. I'm not a prisoner, I live here now. I've got a job, and I've got citizenship. You don't have to worry about me.”

Instead of soothing the crowd, the shouting just started up again, even more ferocious than before. Why hadn't that worked? The people in town had been willing to listen, but these people were now shouting about you being brainwashed, or threatened into saying things.

Loki pushed forward, with Leynarodd's help, bullying his way through the crowd. Einherjar came to escort you into Asgard once you'd gotten close enough, and then the screaming crowds were left behind. You hoped they wouldn't start fighting each other.

“I don't get it.” You complained, as Asgardians gathered on the streets, waving little gold cloths this time. “Why didn't they listen to me?”

“Because they were never here for you.” Loki said sourly. “They were here for pure hatred of me, with a mask of you painted over it. You're the excuse they use, to seem noble instead of grudging. If you strip away that mask, they have to paint it back with different colors. So, instead of them being wrong, you have to be wrong somehow. Brainwashed, or mind controlled, or threatened, or forced, or seduced, or a traitor. In a way, the camp that openly hates us for being here at all is more open and honest about their intentions. Not more admirable, but more honest. But the gates are behind us, and we needn't think about it any more. Look. The sun sits low, and dusk has returned to us. The people rejoice. You are home.”

His words warmed you. Home. The long journey was over. A hot dinner and your soft bed awaited you. You had books and plants and seeds to unpack. You could take a nice, long bath.

You could finally relax.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#thor (marvel)#peter parker #tony stark #Heimdall (Marvel)#natasha romanoff

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chonacatibog · 5 years ago

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Commitments: Lent 2020

Photo from IG:@chonacatibog: “ When it comes to my small #IndoorGarden, it's always a satisfaction when i see my rescued plants regrowing and doing much better than ever! 🌱🌿 ”

I was in my second, or third year in college when I decided to tear the walls down that kept me from God, the walls that stood boxing Him in--the very same walls that maybe I did build influenced by society, the world, maybe my family and friends, and probably even the Church.

Coming from a family who practiced the Catholic religion quite seriously, I still wouldn’t call myself religious then. (I still prefer not to be called religious today, though!) I went to Church on a weekly basis. I took down notes during religion classes and performed well during exams. I enjoyed whenever my grandparents invited their friends over and did their regular activities as a CFC household. (I genuinely miss those--as of writing!) I enjoyed the mass songs taught to me by my Titos and Titas never fully understanding what the songs meant. And when my parents separated, I was taught that God was not pleased because it’s a violation, a disrespect, or something to that effect, to the Sacrament of Marriage. I went to a semi-Catholic school in high school and was part of quite a prayerful community. I prayed, sure. I prayed with my family. And I was taught at a very young age that whenever two or more are gathered in prayer, Christ is there with them. (Matthew 18:20). So I did pray. I understood then that when I needed help with something, I only had to pray and ask God. I have memorized a lot of Catholic prayers but never truly knowing what they really meant. I have some Bible Verses memorized as well, and sometimes used them--for the benefit of none other than me--but mostly, I’ve learned, they’re taken out of context.

But it wasn’t actually until God surrounded me with people who are actually qualified to be called His disciples that I truly, truly, truly understood: I know nothing about who the Lord really is!

Looking back, I still thank Him for placing these people in my life. Some I’ve already lost in touch with; some remained and are still actually my good friends!

I think I just also have to mention that not all these people are from the same religion as mine yet they illuminate the light of God, no doubt. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from all those years of seeking and getting to know Him, it’s that He shouldn’t be caged in a religion, in a practice. I understood He’s far greater than that. He is in every person I meet and encounter who practices love, especially when it’s just so hard to love. Just as Christ did. And just as He still always does up until this very time, this very moment.

Love. God is Love.

And for this year’s lent, my commitment would be to learn more about love by practicing love, always. To everyone. At any given time.

I know myself and I know it’s not going to be an easy task.

Ever since I began my commitment and my declaration (to self) that I am a child of God and that I love Him above anything else in this world, I became more conscious of the things I’m doing, and feeling, and thinking. Is it right to feel this way? Is this the right thing to do? It is not an easy task and getting an answer isn’t always one plus one equals two. I have learned that the world is not black and white and there’s actually a blurry line between right and wrong.

Although I have always tried to be conscious of the things I do, many many times I still fail to follow Him. I am an impatient person. I judge other people, sometimes way too quickly, whenever I feel like they’re standing on a wrong belief. Sometimes, I find it hard to listen. And most of the time, I let my pride eat me, totally consumed, instead of the other way around. At the end of the day, I am still a disappointing, always-sinning, failure. And although I think I could have had a total control over my actions, it’s a cycle that almost never ends. And it doesn’t help that I keep forgetting that each time I feel frustrated, I beg for forgiveness and pray that He grants me with a heart just like His.

---

Just a few weeks and days ago, the entire Luzon has been placed under an Enhanced Community Quarantine as a safety measure against the COVID-19 virus outbreak. What a time of great uncertainty!

While I am privileged to have a roof above my head and resources that will help us get through these troubling times, I acknowledge the fact that there are brothers and sisters out there who are forced to risk their lives everyday to serve fellow neighbors, countrymen, and their families. I’d like to think there’s a reason why God has placed this burden on our shoulders just in time for Lent. I am not saying that it is a reason to celebrate, but it is a reason to slow down, grow much much much stronger in prayer, remain vigilant and in search for Truth.

Provided the many painful news we receive everyday, I have been in such a crazy emotional roller-coaster ride--the emotions being mostly negative, by the way. I hear news about increase in the number of cases, and I get anxious. I hear news about the government’s incompetence, and I’m angry. I hear news about other people’s indifference, and I’m furious. I hear news about fellow Pinoys abused and just neglected during these times, and I’m just heartbroken.

I notice, once again, that my feelings lead me to becoming a disappointing, always-sinning, failure. I confess that I have spoken against other people. I refused to listen. I refused to put my shoes in their shoes to maybe look around where they’re coming from. Thinking about those things now, I also confess I still have this little voice in my head telling me “those things are straight-up, unadulterated, absolutely wrong and there’s nothing to even consider about it, not worth listening to!” I try to justify how I feel by telling myself “God wouldn’t like it either!”--so it’s just right to be angry at these people, forget about your relationships with them ‘cause they are not worth your time and understanding!

Awful. Just awful. God wouldn’t like that either.

This Lent, I confess I have committed all these mistakes and that these were all made out of the lack of love. I always pray for God to help me become more like Him, less like me. And while I know God always wants to help me with this, I am the one who wanders away. I commit, and then I forget.

So today, I am going back to keeping a journal. Writing, anyway, has always helped me think better. For example, before I created this entry, I didn’t think I’d write this much!

Moving forward--and there’s nowhere else to go but forward, the question to answer is: What is love? How would Christ exhibit love at a situation like this? How do you best practice love?

Let’s see what God has to say.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for reaching out to me the past days. You know how weary my heart is now. And how eager I am to finally change my ways--especially now that, I think, the world needs it more. Forgive me for all the mistakes I have made.

Teach me Lord to see things the way You see them. How do I best practice love at these times, Lord?

#love #christ #jesus christ #catholic #lentenseason

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haledamage · 5 years ago

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Pairing: Female Cousland/Nathaniel Howe

Story Summary: Cathain Cousland had been in love with Nathaniel Howe for as long as she can remember. It doesn’t take long after they reunite in Amaranthine to realize she still is.

Chapter Summary: The space between the politics and sturdy walls of the Vigil and the heavy dark of the Deep Roads - that was freedom.

It was nearly a week’s travel to the Knotwood Hills and this supposed chasm. It was the longest Cait had been on the road in months, and she relished the soreness in her legs and the sun on her skin and the dirt on her boots. She knew what she was probably walking toward, but she didn’t let herself dread it. The space between the politics and sturdy walls of the Vigil and the heavy dark of the Deep Roads - that was freedom. That’s where she felt most alive.

They spent most of the first day teaching Justice the names of different birds and plants and trees as they crossed their paths. Nathaniel was by far the most knowledgeable, being the most well-traveled and spending so much of his life outdoors. Cait knew a decent amount, especially about trees and practical applications for plants, and Anders knew a surprising amount about healing properties of herbs and flowers. Oghren, having been on the surface for less than two years, knew less than the rest of them, but if it could be eaten or fermented into some kind of ale, his knowledge surpassed anyone else’s by miles.

On the second day, Cait cut her hair. They were passing through a heavily wooded stretch of road, and after the third time a low branch tangled in her braid, she cut it off cleanly with her knife. It had been getting too long, anyway, and it was only a matter of time before she’d gotten tired of it. She woman she saw in her mirror that night, with her bright storm-colored eyes and her choppy, dark brown hair only barely falling to her chin, was familiar in a way the tired, long-haired Warden-Commander hadn’t been.

The third day, the Joining finally caught up with Anders. He ate three helpings of breakfast and tried to steal Cait’s coffee. He nearly bounced down the road, full of energy and with no outlet for it.

“Is this what the world always feels like for you?” He asked Cait. “The humming?”

She nodded. “I don’t notice it much anymore. You learn to drown it out.”

“And you can tell the difference between Wardens and darkspawn?”

“I can even tell the difference between different Wardens.” She closed her eyes for a moment. She could still see her friends like afterimages from the sun and Justice shining like a beacon, so much brighter than the rest. “How do you feel besides the humming?”

He thought about it for a few minutes in silence. “Hungry? Like I could eat lunch already even though breakfast was only an hour ago.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really go away.” She threw a pouch of candied almonds his way, one of the snacks she’d picked up in Amaranthine. “You may have trouble sleeping in the next few weeks. Bad dreams. Headaches. It’s different for everyone.”

“At least I have you!” Anders grinned. “Vague expectations are better than none at all. I can’t imagine having to go through this alone.”

“I survived,” Cait said with a shrug. “It’s what I do.”

“That is what I think all of us have in common,” Anders said.

On the fourth day, Cait stopped setting up her tent. The pretense of it was unnecessary. They all knew she was sleeping with Nathaniel, and she was tired of trying to act like it was supposed to be a secret. It felt liberating to acknowledge it publicly, even just among friends.

On the fifth day, Nate tried to teach her how to use a bow.

He had tried in the past, several times. So had Mother. So had Leliana. She understood the mechanics of it, she was theoretically strong enough to hold a full draw, she could throw a dagger so she should be able to sight and fire an arrow.

In practice, she was really bad at it. She was built for speed, not for stamina, and her arms were already shaking after a few failed attempts. On the rare occasion she could get an arrow to go anywhere but directly in the dirt at her feet, it went wildly off mark, sometimes missing the target by yards.

They were camping for the night at the last bit of flat ground before the Knotwood Hills. They had stopped early, not knowing how far they’d have to travel to the gorge they were after, so it was just at sunset when Nathaniel dragged Cait into the woods to help him hunt down something for dinner. She was pretty sure they were going to starve before she ever hit a rabbit. She doubted she could hit a sleeping bronto.

“Here.” He stepped behind her, one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder to adjust her stance into something a little closer to correct. “Draw as you raise it into position. Try and hit that tree over there, with the white flowers.”

“You know, you don't need to make excuses anymore to take me out in the woods and fondle me,” she teased, but she did as he said, sighting down the arrow to the apple tree he'd pointed to.

“It's always about sex with you,” he chuckled. He adjusted her position again, unlocking her elbow and lifting the arrow fletching up to brush the corner of her mouth. “Don't lower the bow until after the arrow hits its mark. Take a deep breath, release on the exhale.”

Deep breath, release on the exhale. The arrow skipped across the bark on the left side of the tree and disappeared deeper into the forest. Cait lowered the bow with a sigh. “I don't get it.”

Nathaniel took his bow back and nocked, drew, and fired in one smooth motion. The arrow hit the center of the trunk with a solid thunk. Cait pulled one of her daggers from her back and threw it; it hit just to the right of the arrow, sending pieces of feather floating to the ground from where it grazed the fletching. She shrugged. “I don't get it.”

She walked to the tree and gently coaxed her blade free. “It's not always about sex, you know. I'm just… better at that part. I speak better with action than with words.” She turned around and he was right there. “I literally have a knife in my hand, why would you sneak up on me like that?”

He covered her hand with his and lowered the dagger away from his sternum. She let it drop to the ground as she stared up at him, at the earnest affection in his pale eyes and the gentle smile on his face. He reached behind her and pulled his arrow from the tree, smoothing the bark over the hole it left; the whole time, his eyes never left hers.

The arrow and his bow joined her dagger on the ground. He touched her face, fingers light and reverent on her cheek. She knew what he was going to ask before he whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

“You don't need to ask, you know,” she said, already reaching for him. “Consider this explicit permission to kiss me whenever you want to.”

“And miss out on the look you give me when I ask? Never. I’ll still ask when we’re old and grey.” His lips met hers before she could think of a proper response to that. His kiss was slow and sweet and achingly tender and Cait started to suspect she wasn’t the only one who found it easier to communicate like this. They had to break apart eventually, but they stayed close, unwilling to leave the serenity around them.

A thought occurred to Cait and she voiced it against her better judgement, “Aren’t we supposed to be hunting right now?”

“I set snares on our way here,” Nathaniel said quietly, forehead pressed to hers. “Your charming and fumbling attempts at archery probably scared dinner right into them.”

She gasped and pushed him away as he started laughing. “Nathaniel Howe! I can’t believe you used me like that!”

On the sixth day, they finally entered the Knotwood Hills. They were steep and rocky and they spent as much time climbing as they did walking. Within hours, their passage had slowed to a crawl. Cathain, being a consummate climber, and Nathaniel, with his light armor and strong shoulders, didn’t face much trouble, but even they'd been spending too much time sitting around the Vigil instead of training, and started to slow after a few slopes.

The others weren't so lucky. Oghren had the strength and skill for climbing, but he also had 60 pounds of additional armor he had to drag uphill, and while Justice did not feel fatigue, Kristoff’s body was still human and subject to human limitations, and in his heavy armor he started to struggle as the ground got steeper below them. Anders didn’t have the burden of armor, but he was not used to this kind of exertion. Byron didn’t have thumbs, but somehow still outpaced them all, barking encouragement down from the top of steep outcroppings.

Luckily, they didn’t have to go far. They scaled the top of an especially tall outcropping and almost fell right in it.

It was a huge chasm, easily sixty feet deep and wider across, a jagged wound across the hills and completely invisible until you were right above it. It looked natural, likely caused by an earthquake or something, but a rickety set of wooden stairs led down into it, and Cait recognized the laid roads and etched stone at the bottom to be decidedly dwarven in make.

Oghren confirmed it, leaning farther over than Cait was comfortable. “Heh heh, would you look at that. Looks like those bastards back in town weren't just conning you out of money. The sodding Deep Roads.” He cuffed her on the shoulder and she had to adjust her footing to keep from tumbling into the hole in the world. “Just like old times, eh, Commander?”

“I fell down a flight of stairs once,” Nathaniel said quietly, “They looked much like this particular set of stairs.”

“I hope stairs will be the worst of our worries,” Cait replied, but she knew she was wrong.

And so, on the sixth day, they climbed down into the Deep Roads.

-------

They didn’t have to go far before they found their first darkspawn. The cavern was still well lit by sunlight and let them clearly see the small group and the body they were dragging. Cait recognized the armor of the Legion of the Dead, and was moving to intercept when the ‘body’ moved suddenly. A twitch, a roll, and the Legionnaire dragged themselves to their feet, stolen darkspawn blade in hand.

The fight was over quickly. The small band of darkspawn may have been enough to overpower one Legionnaire, but they were outnumbered once the Wardens joined.

Cait turned to the Legionnaire before the last darkspawn had even finished slumping to the ground. “Are you all right?”

They ripped off their helmet to reveal a dirty, panting, bright-eyed dwarven woman. Her face was heavily tattooed, a style that seemed to be popular with the members of the Legion Cathain had met before. She grinned up at her. “I might have cracked a rib, but it’s hard to be sure. Everything hurts.”

“Do you need help? My friend’s a healer.” Anders stepped forward at Cait’s words, but she waved them off.

“I’m fine. I just need to catch my breath.” She sat down with a pained huff and Cait sat down next to her after a second. “I’m Sigrun.”

“I’m Cait.” She offered a hand and Sigrun shook it, grip firm and warm even though she was clearly exhausted.

“Why are a bunch of humans here?” She looked at them each in turn, studying, cataloging, filing away whatever she saw. “It isn’t safe to wander around the Deep Roads.”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Cait said. She thought the armor made it obvious.

“Ah. My condolences,” Sigrun said, still smiling.

“And why are you here? This is a long way out, even for the Legion.”

That knocked the smile from Sigrun's face. She looked much older without it. “There’s something going on at the old fortress of Kal’Hirol. I think the darkspawn are breeding an army. We went to investigate but… it was a massacre. I’m the only one left.”

“Not anymore.” Cait bit back an automatic offer of sympathy. She had great respect for the Legion, but they'd been dead when she met them and they neither wanted or needed her commiseration.

“What? Really? Did I mention Kal’Hirol was a death trap?” Sigrun looked her over again, then looked past her. Assessing their capability. Cait tried not to take offense.

Cait considered being vague about their purpose here, but if there was anyone who could help her with the puzzle they'd been dropped into, it was the Legion of the Dead. “Did these darkspawn talk to you?”

“I… yes.” And then Sigrun's smile was back. “How did you know?”

“We’ve run into a few of them too,” Cait said, and Sigrun nodded, unsurprised. “We’re trying to find the source. I think your mission and mine coincide.”

“All right. Then let’s not waste time.” Sigrun struggled to her feet. Anders stepped forward to help, but she waved him off again.

Cait stood up too, brushing the stone dust from her armor. “Lead the way.”

-------

It turned out that Sigrun wasn’t the only remaining member of the Legion, but that didn’t last long. Cait tried to give them a moment, but there weren’t many places to go for privacy. She just stood to the side, eyes down, and tried not to think about her own past or future or all the death in both.

Sigrun walked up to her after some time, eyes dry but distant. She nodded and they set off again. After a few minutes of silence, she asked “What are the Children? Jukka mentioned them before he…”

“They’re a new kind of darkspawn,” Nathaniel answered.

“Creepy grub things,” added Anders.

“New darkspawn? After a Blight?” Sigrun’s gaze turned calculating, grief overcome, at least momentarily, by curiosity. “What could that mean?”

“Nothing good,” said Cait sourly.

The deeper underground they got, the darker Cait’s mood got with it. No matter how tall the ceilings were they felt too close; in areas where the caverns were small enough for the stone to brush the top of her head, Cait had to concentrate on remembering to breathe. There was too much earth between her and the sun. Anders tried to spark conversation, but she wasn’t much in the mood for levity and he gave up after a while.

Behind them, Nathaniel was attempting the same with Sigrun. “The Legion of the Dead must train its people well.”

Sigrun heard the compliment in his words, and shrugged it off. If the darkness of the cavern or the deaths of her comrades weighed on her, she hid it well. “Oh, they taught me a few tricks, but I was fighting long before then.”

“Oh?” He asked. “You fought in Orzammar's army?”

Sigrun sneered, but somehow made it seem friendly. “Fighting for scraps of food. For a place to sleep. For survival.”

“Oh, I... I didn't mean…” Nate sounded so dismayed, and Cait cringed inwardly.

“It's all right,” Sigrun said with a grin and another shrug. “You're a noble.”

“So are you,” Cait couldn’t resist adding. “for the record. The Legion is a noble house now.”

“Huh. You know, I never thought of that.” She looked at Cait as if searching for something, thought she had no idea what. “I heard a Warden was responsible for that. Was that you?”

“It was,” she said plainly.

“You know, most of the Legion were born casteless. I bet that really grinds the gears of those Assembly bastards.” Sigrun’s smile turned wistful.

Cait smirked a little at the thought, too. “Probably. If they’re anything like human nobles, it doesn’t take much to piss them off.”

“Are you noble too?”

She shrugged. “My parents were.”

Sigrun laughed, a pleasant and musical sound. “But you don’t think of yourself as one?”

“I… guess not.” Cait didn’t know when she’d stopped thinking of herself that way. What the dividing line between ‘Lady’ and ‘Warden’ had been. The Landsmeet, maybe? As far back as Ostagar? “Not anymore. I hold a title, but it’s just semantics. I’m a soldier with an honorific, not a noble with a sword.” Maker, she sounded like Loghain. When had she gotten so old?

“Wait a minute,” Anders said, holding up a hand. “So you’re a disgraced noble turned Grey Warden.”

“Yes.”

“And so is Nathaniel.”

“Yes…?”

“And Loghain.”

“Right.”

“And technically, Oghren was too. And the king is a Grey Warden turned noble?”

“Is there a point to this, Anders?”

“How do I become a noble too? I feel left out of the club.”

Cait laughed, and the weight in her chest felt a little lighter. “My brother is single. Recently widowed.”

“Is he as pretty as you?” Anders asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Few are,” Nate whispered fondly.

“Braggart.” Anders rolled his eyes. “Andraste’s flaming tits, you two are awful.”

-------

Kal’Hirol was surprisingly well-preserved, all things considered. Huge and solid and likely still functional. Its traps and golems certainly still worked. Almost every tile on the floor of its entrance hall was a pressure plate or snare of one flavor or another, and Cait, Nathaniel, and Sigrun spent nearly an hour disabling them before they could safely move on.

The next room, of course, contained ghosts.

“Someday,” said Cait, staring at the ghostly dwarves locked in eternal combat. “Someday I’m going to be able to walk into some place that isn’t haunted.”

“Attagirl, Cait,” Anders laughed. “Dream big! Arguably the most powerful woman in Ferelden, you could ask for anything you wanted in the world and all you ask for is ‘less ghosts, please!’”

“The Vigil isn’t haunted,” Nathaniel mused quietly. “Is it?”

“We fought undead and ash wraiths in the basement,” Cait deadpanned.

“Oh. Right.”

These, at least, seemed harmless - or at least not actively trying to do them harm - so they kept moving. Not far past the first room full of ghosts they found an empty, unhaunted, and easily barricaded room to rest in. They had no idea how late it was, but the climb down to and fight through Kal’Hirol had been long, and Sigrun was clearly exhausted and still injured, no matter how much she tried to hide both.

“I hate the Deep Roads,” Cait muttered sourly. She stared out over their campsite. Crumbling ruins and endless dark tunnels, dust and blood and darkspawn taint. She could feel the thousand pounds of dirt and stone above their heads pressing down on her. “When I say ‘I've slept in worse’ this is what I mean.”

“You hate the Fade, you hate the Deep Roads, you hate politics and hate that people consider you a hero,” Anders ticked each point off on his fingers as he spoke. “Is there anything you actually like about being a Grey Warden?”

“The company,” Cait said dryly. “The pay isn't bad either.”

Cait dug through her little bag of keepsakes and found a mabari crunch for Byron. She gave him the treat and he lay down next to her. He hated the Deep Roads too, poor thing.

She also found the betrothal ring from Blackmarsh. She'd almost forgotten about it. It glittered dully even in the lightless cave. She felt that same strange twist in her gut as she stared at it - something like longing, maybe, or envy? - but she didn't let herself dwell on it. She shook her head and shoved it back in the bag.

“Why did you become a Grey Warden?” Anders asked, continuing the thread from before. If he'd noticed her momentary lapse in attention, he didn't comment.

“I wasn’t given a choice. Same as you, I guess. I’m sorry about that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I had a death sentence either way. At least this way there's more time between sentencing and execution. Less solitary confinement too.”

Cait cringed and brought her knees up to her chest. She hated how defeated he sounded. How could the other generations of Wardens stand this? Building a family and knowing that, best case scenario, you'd all go die horrific deaths together and be forgotten in some dark tunnel? Why did they even need the darkspawn taint when it wasn't a Blight?

Maybe there was another way; the thought appeared in her mind as if planted there by someone else. She thought of Avernus, living 200 years in that tower by himself. The Calling had never come for him. If he could use blood magic to control the taint, could he cure it entirely?

Thoughts for another day. Deal with the present first. The future would be there when she had time to think about it - or it wouldn't, and she wouldn't care either way.

Anders was staring at her. She wondered what he'd said that she'd missed. “Sorry,” she muttered, “Deep Roads make me maudlin, I think.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically, “I don't like being trapped. Caged. Neither do you, I imagine.”

He just smirked, a humorless tilting of one corner of his mouth.

Nathaniel sat down next to her and she leaned against him. She saw Anders’ smile become something kinder, fonder, before he hid it behind another bite of dinner. “So what was your last trip to the Deep Roads like?” Anders asked.

“Oghren hasn't told you that story yet? He loves to tell that one.”

They turned as one toward Oghren, but all he had to say on the matter was a loud, rasping snore. “At least one of us will get some sleep tonight,” Nathaniel muttered.

Anders pointed toward Cait's bedroll where Sigrun slept, sprawled on her back and silent in her sleep. “Dwarves.”

Sigrun had offered to take a watch tonight, but Cait had shut her down. She'd been awake for three days, fighting darkspawn almost nonstop, and Cait had still almost had to strap her down to get her to rest.

“She'll be dead within the week if we leave her here,” Nate said, keeping his voice low.

“I know. I'm going to offer her the Joining.” She pried her eyes away from the sleeping Legionnaire. “But I believe you were fishing for a story.”

The next day - assuming it was even day - brought with it more talking darkspawn and a confirmation that their theory was true.

“I’ll be a nug’s uncle,” Oghren muttered. “An actual sodding darkspawn civil war.”

There was nothing else it could be. There were two clear sides fighting against each other. The floor was littered with bodies of darkspawn already slain. There must have been a hundred or more here when the fight started, and now the dozen or so remaining stood on top of their dead while still brutally cutting into the others.

“What do we do?” Sigrun asked, shifting restlessly, itching to jump in.

“Pick off the stragglers. Whichever side wins dies here anyway,” Cait said coldly.

“Yes, Commander,” Sigrun grinned and rushed forward, Oghren at her heels.

-------

They left Kal’Hirol with new information and a lot of injuries. But they were all alive, and a side door out of the lower levels led them to a long, steep path with sunlight at the end of it.

“So. The Architect. Doesn’t sound much like the other darkspawn names,” Anders said. He leaned heavily on Cait as they made their way toward the surface. He was completely spent on mana. Another talking darkspawn - The Lost, possibly? He hadn’t been as forthcoming as previous encounters, but she remembered one of the others calling him that - had pitted them against a giant fire golem, and it had broken four of Cait’s ribs and Oghren’s right arm and leg, as well as grabbing Nathaniel by the shoulder and practically branding the shape of its hand into his flesh. Anders was likely the only reason any of them were alive; he was certainly the reason they were able to keep moving now. Cait would make sure to get him something nice next time she was in the city.

“No, it doesn’t,” Cait huffed, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. “Blight and damnation, every time I learn something new all I end up with are more questions. This Architect and The Mother are not going to like what I have to say to them when I finally catch up to them.”

Anders grinned, too tired to laugh. “Not going to invite the darkspawn to tea at the Vigil, then? I was looking forward to it, too. I love those little fancy cakes.”

“I will get you all the fancy cakes you can eat. Straight from Orlais.” She squeezed his shoulder, the closest thing to a hug she could manage with her mangled ribs. “Even some of those tiny sandwiches.”

Sigrun marched up beside them, half-dragging Oghren behind her. "So you’re going to go after this Architect, the one who’s making all the smart darkspawn?”

Cait nodded. “I am. Want to come?”

Sigrun stopped, startled, then jogged to catch up. “Come with you? As in… be a Grey Warden? Is that allowed? Can you be both part of the Legion and a Grey Warden?”

“You’ll still fight darkspawn, and die doing so.” Cait hoped she didn’t sound too bitter when she added, “Disappear into the deep, unmourned and forgotten, as you said.”

Sigrun laughed. “How can I say no when you put it like that? All right. I’ll follow you, Commander.”

When they stepped back out above ground, Cait fought hard to resist the urge to lay in the grass and stare up at the cloudy sky. She did, however, take several deep, grounding gulps of fresh air, ignoring the creak of her newly repaired ribs.

Anders was right next to her doing the same thing. “Maker, that was awful. Not the worst thing I've ever done, but still just terrible.”

“What was the worst?” She leaned against a rock while they waited for the others. “And don't say solitary confinement, because obviously that was worst.”

“I stowed away on a ship headed for somewhere in the Free Marches once. Ostwick, maybe, or Starkhaven. I don't remember.” He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Regardless, I didn’t realize until I was already on board that the cargo was fish. I spent a week up to my eyeballs in dead fish, and the templars were waiting for me when we hit land. They didn't let me bathe until we got back to the tower.” He shuddered at the memory. “Ugh. What's your worst? And don't say ‘two weeks in the Deep Roads’ you've already played that card.”

“I spent a few days imprisoned in Fort Drakon.” She tried to sound casual about it, moreso when Nathaniel emerged from the tunnel, walking under his own power but holding his left arm stiffly at his side.

“Fort Drakon? Are you serious? What did you do to earn that?” Anders asked.

“I murdered Arl Rendon Howe,” Cait said, very carefully not looking at Nate as she did. He would have probably heard this sooner or later, but she didn’t want to see the moment he started hating her again. “Also I became the political enemy of Ferelden's greatest general, but the official reason was that I broke into the arl's estate and killed him in cold blood.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed humorlessly. “I could make a lot of excuses about it. He had kidnapped Queen Anora and I was there on a rescue mission. He attacked me first. But the fact of the matter is, I went to that house to kill him, and I did.”

Nathaniel’s uninjured hand settled between her shoulder blades, a familiar and comforting point of contact, and Cathain released the breath she’d been holding.

“How did you get out of jail?” Anders asked.

“A very, very convoluted break-in by my friends involving impersonating Chantry sisters, if what they say is true. Oghren would know more than I would about that,” she said as the dwarf in question joined them. “I guess it’s important to have perspective.”

“If I didn’t have perspective, I’d still be sitting in a templar dungeon drooling on my smallclothes.” Anders rested his chin on the top of her head and threw an arm around Nate. It was so casual and comfortably familial and Cait was almost too busy musing on that to notice the warm rush of healing magic that coursed through them at the points of contact. She took a deep and barely-painful breath and tried not to be mad at her friend for exhausting himself so much for her sake. It was just another thing she owed him.

"A related question,” Anders said, his pointy chin digging painfully into her head as he spoke, “What do Grey Wardens do when there aren’t darkspawn running amok? I mean, are there parties? Do we travel the world? Take over small kingdoms?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Cait said. She shrugged as much as she could under the combined weight of Anders and Nathaniel. “We can do whatever we want. When we aren’t fighting darkspawn, we’re just… people.”

“That sounds like fun,” he said softly. “I’ve never been just a person before. Neither have you, I bet.”

“We can still have parties, though.” She smiled. “And I’ve always wanted to take up gardening.”

“I think I’ll learn how to knit.”

Now that they were above ground again, Cait felt so tired; it was early afternoon, but she could close her eyes right now and sleep until morning. She groaned and pushed her way out of the pile of exhausted bodies and back onto her feet. “Come on. Let’s try and at least get back to the road before we rest, otherwise we’ll never get home.”

#nathaniel howe #cousland/nathaniel howe #dragon age #dragon age awakening #dragon age fic #cait cousland #cait/nate #rhi writes #something might be found #this may be my favorite so far?#lots of good cait/nate stuff but also cait+anders is a fun combo #I love caitie being really bad at archery when her mom and boyfriend and bff are all archers

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overdrivels · 6 years ago

Text

The Way to a Heart (13)

SHIT THIS WAS TOUGH. OKAY. FINALLY. Next chapter, I am excited because that’s when shit hits the fan.

Thanks as always to dickbutt for enduring my screaming.

<<Chapter 12

「Talon. Five grunts. Have not emerged since 03:40. Civilians potentially involved.」

He marks down their locations on pen and paper and in a shorthand near extinct in the age of handheld devices and advanced recording technology. Despite what some people say, traditional methods have their place in the current world.

(Long ago, he nor Genji had a love for stenography, but their father insisted and their mother encouraged it. He had wanted to please them both and worked hard at it, earning his mother’s gracious praise even though she was so much better: writing without skipping a beat or pause, fluid against paper like breathing. She awed him.

It’s fair to say his mother was proficient at anything resembling the arts or dealt with grace—martial arts, even, was a dance to her and dance, a martial art—overly attentive and focused just so, exceeding deliberate at everything from the tilt of her face to the inch of her step; the very model Yamato Nadeshiko with a gentle and endearing Kyoto accent that disguised a raging river and a passion. Warm and still at times, cold and unstoppable at others. A force to be feared by the clan, and a person to be respected and loved by her family. Distant as her memory is, he remembers the songs she used to sing with their father—he doubts Genji would remember; he was too young, too flippant to sit still and listen to their mother’s rich voice, too young to miss it. Too young to have missed her like Hanzo does.)

With a pensive sigh though his nose and a single rub at his aching eyes, he continues his notes until they are detailed to his satisfaction, briefly interrupted by his raising binoculars to his eyes.

Winston wants to know Talon's movements and who they’re working with, but specifically ordered him to not engage them. Hanzo has seen people who could resemble the dramatic organization around, catching glimpses of them among the sea of people in the narrow streets of Gibraltar, trying too hard to blend in and looking just a bit too dangerous to pass off as innocent. He does not know why they’re here, but it is likely because they know Overwatch plans on returning.

The objective of the mission itself is simple, but it’s difficult to do in such a small community. Gibraltar was miniscule even when compared to his Hanamura. The community here is tight-knit, prone to the same sights and the same people and the same habits. He would, undoubtedly, stand out and be remembered if he were to conduct his observations any more openly. That bodes the same for Talon, however.

So he resigns himself to staying to the shadows as much as possible.

But even that is difficult.

He doesn't know how he did not realize it before, but chalks it up to having been flown into Gibraltar in the dead of night and never truly leaving the base since his arrival to explore, but there are a ton of monkeys around that seem all too aware of his presence, their eyes fixated on him no matter where he goes or how he tries to hide. It’s all the more unnerving when at any moment they may open their mouths and alert Talon—or some unsuspecting local—to his whereabouts.

It's no wonder no one else could do this job.

(He tries not to think of Genji being thrown better candidate—he is, but he wasn't. Perhaps the Genji is is now. Not the Genji he knew.)

A stab of pain, imagined but no less real, wreaks havoc in his chest. And reluctantly, he lets it.

Coward.

Hanzo revels in the sting for just a brief moment. It keeps him awake in a way that the still tepid night cannot.

He shakes his head, bites the inside of his lip hard.

Focus.

Somewhere below him, the bustle of street vendors and a market sluggishly stirs to life like clockwork.

As soon as he can smell bread from the nearby bakery and sees the fisherman come in with their hauls and laying out their catches of the day, it would already be time for the rest of Gibraltar to catch up.

And time for Talon to make their move.

Hanzo brings binoculars to his eyes again to observe the number of trucks leaving the warehouses that line the opposite shore of the Rock of Gibraltar.

Most of them are fairly routine; he's long memorized their routes throughout the week. There are trucks from all over and ships coming in at all times. There's been suspicious movements among them, however, that do not follow any logic: from the docks down a path that's never the same as any of the previous ones to a single warehouse where nothing ever comes out of, but several cars go into. It's certainly possible that this is paranoia, but to him, it looks like the beginnings of a deal or the transactions of one.

He watches the weavings of different trucks for some time and marks down their destinations, ignoring the growing aches in his joints and muscles, and acutely aware of the sun slowly creeping up.

It seems that Talon is not feeling very active this morning, but it does not mean they will not move later.

Vigilance and patience will always yield rewards. It’s as his teachers once told him: “If you wait by the river long enough, eventually the bodies of your enemies will float by.” Yes, it is not efficient, but time claims all and there is a lot to be said about patience and perseverance as long as one does not tire. Though, Talon is being particularly patient, discreet in ways that does not quite suit their normal style.

It’s peculiar in a way that makes him wonder if he’s not misreading the signs.

He leans back a little into the nook he’s hidden himself in, carefully rolling his stiffened shoulders and shuffles away from the sun’s peeping rays and warmth. The last few days have been exhausting in ways he didn’t really think about before he joined Overwatch.

Maybe he’s losing his touch or maybe he’s just gotten too stiff from being cooped up at the base while Winston attempts to navigate the minefield that is Overwatch’s international and local legal status. It’s a little strange to say that there feels like something missing from his missions—or rather, there is no opportunity to say anything: there’s no one to speak to.

Would it really be so shameful to say that he...misses the company?

Even when he spoke to no one at the base, there was at least you. You didn’t judge him—or at least, not that he knew since the last time you were both on ‘good’ terms.

He didn’t need friends, but perhaps there was some benefit to not having any enemies on base. Least of all, the hand that feeds him.

Junkrat’s reminder rings mockingly in his head. “Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!”

The corners of his mouth turns downward sharply and he takes in a slow breath through gritted teeth. The world must be going mad if he’s taking advice from someone who is as likely to drink a molotov cocktail as he is to throw it.

He really couldn’t get out of the base fast enough after that little incident. He doesn’t know how you feel or how you reacted, just that Athena had pestered him about his meals while he doggedly tore into some MRE’s that he had squirreled away when he first arrived at the base, ignoring persistent calls to go down to the cafeteria to eat and the growing darkness inside that threatened to tear him down.

Not for the first time since he’s left for this mission, he wonders if he shouldn’t make up for it somehow.

It’s not as though he had done anything wrong, but he had been a little rude to you. Maybe. You likely didn’t know anything that was going through his mind at the time. It wasn’t your fault that he overreacted to a stupid seat. It wasn’t your fault that he was too cowardly to take the first step toward...whatever the rest of the meddling team was trying to accomplish. (Not that they should've. He would've done it in due time.)

For the upteenth time, he sighs, the growing bustle of the market below drawing his attention. A little unfocused, he watches the few people meandering the stalls. Some of whom have aprons on beneath their light jackets.

And he has to do a double-take, rapidly scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of a familiar face, and once more just in case.

He breathes a small sigh. Luckily (or unluckily), there were none.

This is normally the time when you both held your...meetings? Rendezvous? He doesn’t quite know what those late-night-early-mornings are. Indulgences, maybe. Moments of peace. At the very least, seeing as how you're not down there, he can take some small comfort in knowing that with his absence, you’re probably sleeping instead of staying up to serve him tea or whatever small treat you’ve cooked up.

Hanzo grimaces.

Just how much time has he stolen from you? Would you, if you had the choice, be down here in the morning? If he wasn’t there, would you be freer?

A particularly loud fisherman begin to advertise his catches for the day, his voice garbled at this distance, but has the intended effect and pulls in a tiny crowd. He finds himself watching the processions of haggling and seemingly satisfied customers coming up and leaving with their prizes.

If he goes down there, would he be able to identify something you could cook with? Maybe bring you back something? Not as an apology, of course, but maybe a gesture of good will?

Unlikely.

Even during his life as a vagrant, he’s never had to cook for himself or pick out produce that’s not already pre-packaged and prepared for him. (And even then, he’s not sure he can tell the difference in quality or that he won’t be cheated if he were to ask the shopkeep.) Japan having spoiled him with its conveniences: a discreet oden cart, a 24-hour convenience store, a small ramen shop; food was always readily available to him. When it wasn’t, he just went hungry, accepting it as the whims of life. However, those times were few and far in between.

Even fewer under your care. You always kept him fed until bursting, pacifying his appetite with seconds and thirds and no complaints.

And what did he ever do to deserve such indulgence?

Simple rice would do—it should do for someone like him.

But you insist on flavorful, fatty, fancy (but not too fancy) meals that remind him of a time he thought was long outside his grasp (not that he didn't sometimes dream of it, waking up with a hand grasping at the lingering tail of a more bountiful, powerful—meaningful—past). You insist on treating him like he’s human, like he’s worthy of anyone’s time, like—

Like you cared.

He shakes himself free of the thought. No, you treat everyone the same way. You’re a professional chef in the same manner he’s a professional assassin. It was appreciated before, but your good intentions—your professionalism—does nothing but hinder him nowadays.

Nothing he eats now tastes quite the same.

No matter how much he consumes, it's not enough to fill the void inside, not enough to satisfy a hunger deeper than his appetite, not enough to reach every empty crevice of his being. He would, even on the mission, wake up at the time of your usual meetings, craving something sweet or some warm drink to begin the day, only to realize he has nothing but a past that he didn’t realize he did not want to go back to.

Trained like some pavlovian dog to wake up and hunger for something that he himself thought himself above and willfully rejected.

You’ve infected him with something.

Slowly ruining his good judgment.

On cue, his stomach rumbles quietly, but not quietly enough that his skin does not prickle with the paranoia of being found.

He grinds a curse between his teeth. Fine.

Perhaps just once he can treat himself so he can stop being distracted by the lack of (good) food in his system. The past few days, he has only been subsisting on store bought sandwiches and easily consumable items. His position may be compromised now anyway and he cannot exactly continue if his stomach insists on being a hinderance. Once that’s done, he can return to his work.

Besides, he reasons with himself, today is the last intended day of the mission anyway. He can orientate himself while eating, get the rest of his mission and notes in order.

With that plan in mind, he abandons his perch and makes his way back down toward the more crowded part of town where he meanders, seeking sustenance while keeping an eye and an ear out for Talon.

It takes nearly an hour for him to find any restaurant open at this time of day and by then, he's ready to throw down his forsaken pride and for back to the Watchpoint and bluster his way through and get you to cook for him.

There’s one restaurant that catches his eye. It sits at the end of a winding road, perhaps once a part of some castle, but now remodeled into something more polished and gleaming with bleached brick and wide windows dressed modestly with translucent curtains.

At the arch of the main door sits a logo, one that he swears he’s seen before: a green heart with what seems to be dragon scales, blooming toward the tapered end. But where?

It’s a distinguished establishment with a standing sign in cursive that he could barely make out, the lines thick at the ends with delicate, thin loops in the middle with a brief menu written underneath. He scrunches his nose a bit when he finds that he cannot read it and almost turns around to find someplace else to patronize when his stomach growls. Loudly.

He supposes he might as well and enters begrudgingly through the old-fashioned wooden doors.

The first thing he notices is the smell. Warm with the faint aroma of freshly-baked bread, lightened by something more citrius-y. There is the slightest bit of music playing—slow and jazzy—just enough to fill the silence but not enough to survive against prolonged conversation over a whisper.

At the entrance, an omnic greets him.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Cœur d’Artichaut. I am the manager of this humble restaurant, my name is Argus Twenty.”

She is immaculate. Her posture is straight and well poised with her hands folded and raised at waist level, her dress clothes—a well-fitted suit with bold stitches, the jacket open and revealing a tightly buttoned blouse—are without wrinkles, and her exterior shows little sign of wear. If he were still assuming the role of the Shimada clan’s young master, he would not have dined anywhere less. Now, it just seems like an excessive luxury.

“Is this your first time with us, Mr…”

“Tanaka. Tanaka, Ichirou.”

The omnic takes a moment to digest the information, likely searching her databases for someone of a familiar face. He doesn’t know whether it’ll be the last mistake he’ll ever make on this forsaken peninsula, but it’s far from the first (of which was coming here).

“Welcome, Mr. Tanaka,” she says pleasantly. If the face plate could allow her to smile, he’s sure she would. “Party of one?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way, please.” Seamlessly, she picks up a set of menus as she turns her heel and guides him.

He follows her through the mostly empty restaurant, mapping it out in his mind.

At one of the first few tables sits a much older man—skin even darker than his greying hair, mildly dressed with a stern look, unproportionately thick in the middle compared to his long limbs—looking down his nose at a newspaper, sipping what smells to be thick, bitter coffee.

Hanzo is sure, if something were to happen, he’d be able to defeat him. But then, he slowly uncrosses and recrosses his legs, firm lines of muscle casts shadows on his pants betraying the strength that lies beneath his aged look—it sends a slight thrill through him as he briefly imagines what it might be like to fight the unsuspecting man.

The windows they pass are wide enough to comfortably throw his body through without issue and the space between the tables scattered about would allow him to take someone down without disturbing the rest of the scenery.

She leads him to a table closer to the back, secluded with his own window where the light spills across the upper half of the creamy white sheet on the table. The tablecloth is good quality and, upon touching it, seems like it would not tear if he were to wrap it around someone's neck. It might even survive a knife fight depending on how it's utilized.

He sits down on the chair that Argus pulls out for him. It's very stable, unlikely to break after being slammed over someone's head. Excellent. He barely notices her propping up the menus on the table; he's too occupied thinking of the types of attacks this chair can withstand as he leans into it's cushion. Zarya could throw this and it may still come out with all its limbs intact.

“May I start you off with a beverage this morning, Mr. Tanaka?”

He grabs the menu and rifles through it.

“Hot tea. Green.”

“Is there any specific type you would prefer, sir?”

“Moroccan mint.”

“Would you like any sweeteners to accompany your drink?”

“Yes.”

“Honey, sugar, gum syrup, or—”

“All of them.”

To her credit, she doesn't even react to these unreasonable demands. “Understood. One moment, please.”

She bows briefly and walks away to let him digest the place.

It's, in a word, quaint. Clearly high-class, but in a way that is meant to impress only those who know the true value of money.

The breakfast menu is short—in English and some sort of Spanish and splatterings of French—and he easily reads through it in under a minute, noting the distinct lack of price tags. It’s the usual faire, unexpected but not out of place: a basket selection of breads and small pastries, pancakes or crepes with compote, eggs described in unnecessarily fancy ways, and strangely enough, churros. There are some savory options, but none that can prevent his eye from hovering around the thin cursive of pancakes.

There's no point to think too much of it. He knows what he likes.

The menu closes with a satisfying and heavy clap and he sets it back down only to pick up a small placard on his table just off to the side.

Having little else to do, he finds himself reading the brief history of this establishment.

Cœur d’Artichaut is a for-profit charity-restaurant committed to providing those who have been displaced or in less fortunate circumstances a healthy, hearty meal. Proceeds from each customer and donation is used to support the chefs who volunteer their time, employees, local suppliers, and our mission.

The restaurant’s namesake comes from the French idiom, “cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde,” meaning “the heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone.” The original idiom refers to a person who falls in love easily, handing out their heart to anyone and everyone. At Cœur d’Artichaut, we believe in giving more than just food; we believe in packing it with love. Each packaged meal is prepared—

He almost throws the card away, unable to stomach the rest of the idealistic musings of a restaurant who—for profit—believes in handing out something so vague as love. Instead, he turns it downward and slides it away from him.

What is wrong with the world that they are tossing such a word around so easily?

It must be some bias, he concludes. One of those paradoxical or psychological things where, having heard it once, he’s now seeing it everywhere.

Not even a full minute later, Argus returns with a full platter and sets it down, feather-light, on his table. An assortment of sugars, sweeteners stand at attention behind a tall vessel and a delicate teacup.

“Moroccan mint green tea,” she explains as she begins to pour him a cup, “made from a blend of fresh spearmint, lemon verbena, and pennyroyal with equal parts formosa gunpowder green tea.”

She sits down the tea vessel and begins to gesture at each of the small bottles.

“From right to left, we have honey, gum syrup, agave, granulated white sugar, light brown sugar, dark brown sugar, cane sugar, white sugar cubes, and more traditionally used with moroccan mint tea, pieces of sugar cone. Please enjoy.”

Before she can walk away, he raises a hand to keep her attention. “I also wish to order.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.” The lights of her face plate flicker. “What would you have this morning?”

“The pancakes and...anything else you recommend.”

She pauses and tilts her head. “Do you have any allergies or dislikes you would like us to be aware of?”

He debates it for a moment, but returns with, “None.”

“Understood, Mr. Tanaka. I will have the chef prepare something fitting. I ask for your patience.”

The mere mention of a 'chef’ makes his stomach tighten and simultaneously frightens and excites his appetite; Hanzo clenches the edge of his chair to keep himself from bolting off. Unaware of his predicament, Argus walks away again, picking up the menus from his table.

No. It cannot be you. You're at the Watchpoint, probably preparing breakfast for everyone else. Ludicrous of him to even think that it might be you preparing his food.

Hanzo takes a breath and reaches for the tea, feeling silly for having such a visceral reaction to merely a word. He breaths in the steam as though it’ll cleanse him.

It smells heavenly; the refreshing scent cuts through the sleepy quiet of the restaurant and the heavy feeling in his gut.

He holds the cup tightly yet carefully by its porcelain handle. He sips it gingerly and his mouth is flooded with the cooling sensation of mint and contrary warmth. It's not overpowering or bitter, but light and allows him to taste the green tea lying beneath in earnest.

He adds a dollop of honey from the little porcelain pot the manager provided. Tries it. And adds some cone sugar. Another sip, and he adds a dainty spoonful of sugar.

Perfection.

It’s almost too easy to enjoy this tea in this quiet atmosphere where the different tracks of jazz seem to meld into another, the only other sound in the restaurant being the turning of a newspaper. It’s almost too easy to forget who he is, what he’s doing here, the danger that lurks somewhere on this peninsula.

The doors to the restaurant opens again, and Hanzo watched as a man and an omnic in suits walk in. Despite the emptiness of the place, their conversation with Argus does not carry. They are led stiffly to another part of the restaurant out of Hanzo’s line of sight. There is the sound of people walking up stairs, a door closing, and little else before Argus reemerges to return to her station.

He sets down the cup with excruciating care.

As he's waiting, he pulls out his notebook and begins to organize his notes from the past few days. It is unlikely anyone here can read his shorthand. Even if they took pictures of it, it would take forever to find anyone familiar with it.

Notes are rewritten and summarized, all the better for him to present to Winston.

By the time his food arrives, he's halfway through with his task and starving.

“Your pancakes, Mr. Tanaka, with a mixed berry compote topped with a sweetened creme fraiche and salted brown sugar butter syrup on the side. Today, we have included, for your pleasure, a savory bread basket. Please enjoy.”

A modest stack of neat pancakes topped with a carefully scooped round of cream overlapping a palette of melting butter. A mint sprig and a small bed of berries tastefully lean against the side, drops of reddish sauce decorate the square plate that seems to be more for aesthetic effect that once upon a time, he would have judged harshly. On the side is a miniature pitcher of dark, brownish sauce.

It looks and smells acceptable. But what of the taste?

The first slice he makes reveals a slow river of dark compote in between each fluffy disk. He takes a skeptical bite and is rewarded with a multitude of flavors. Warm, buttery pancakes with an underlying milky taste by the sweet and almost overwhelming flavor of berries and berry bits with a cool and hearty dollop of cream on top that’s just as sweet as it is pleasantly tart.

The next bite is accompanied by the sugar-butter sauce and he scarfs it down with less finesse than the establishment may have found acceptable. Each time, he finds a new flavor mixed in somewhere that he hadn't noticed before.

The tea proves to be too sweet and he takes the second cup without any sweetener, relishing in the repeated cycle of rich, sweet pancakes and the refreshing drink of mint.

He has to fight to not finish his breakfast too soon.

They remind him of yours. They're not the same, but there's a balance in them that is not unfamiliar to him. Surely even you would find this acceptable.

The bread basket, too, contains some familiar flavors. It's not so much a basket as it is just a small affair of a few small, fat disks surrounding a small ramekin of something mildly spicy. It's delicious and reminds him of something that Satya might enjoy.

Hanzo narrows his eyes. It's unlikely, but too much of a coincidence. He wipes his mouth on the linens and waves Argus over.

“Is there something the matter, sir?”

“I want to meet the chef who made this meal.”

“Certainly.” Without skipping a beat, she turns and leaves. It must be a common request or he still retains that authoritative edge from his old days.

Now that he's asked, he looks back at the demolished remainder of his meal. He truly hasn't had something so filling since he left the Watchpoint.

Dread crawls up his back and makes his stomach clench sharply.

What would he say if it really is you? What would you say? Would you provide a polite explanation or would you tell him to get out?

Suddenly, his hands feels stiff.

Maybe it wasn't wrong to have thought of all the uses of this furniture after all.

Somewhere else in the restaurant, he can briefly hear the creak of a door and from it escapes a bubble of a heated conversation that he can barely catch before it's quiet again, the door having shut.

Argus returns shortly with someone in tow. He squeezes his hands together before turning his head up, holding his breath just in case.

And breathes a sigh when he finds someone he doesn't recognize standing there—the man’s face sports some lingering yellows and purples that almost blends in with his sun kissed skin like he’s been in a fight, his chef's uniform creased this way and that as though it hadn't been ironed in some time.

He bows at the waist briefly, his choppy, wavy locks flopping forward before they’re shoved back.

“I am the Head Chef here, my name is Asim Singh.”

A laugh or the beginnings of a nervous chuckle almost makes its way out of his mouth, rattling somewhere in his stomach. Right. It was unlikely. Impossible, even. The young man extends a hand and Hanzo shakes it, holding a little tighter than cordially necessary if just to ground himself to the reality that this is not you and to make any transactions beyond this a touch easier. To his surprise, Asim gives it right back to him.

Something other than indifference must have shown on his face, because the chef—Asim—asks, withdrawing his hand, “Is something the matter, Mr. Tanaka?”

“No, not at all. I wanted to...compliment you on this meal.”

The man beams and his chest seems to puff out in a way that reminds Hanzo of you. “Yes, our menu was developed with a lot of care and consideration of the local culture and French techniques. The additional dish you’ve requested is not on the menu—”

The man goes on and on, gesturing at the various parts of each dish. Hanzo doesn’t pay such close attention to what he’s saying anymore, relieved and perhaps a little disappointed that it wasn’t you.

“Where did you...find the inspiration for these dish?”

For a second, something strange flickers over the man’s features, but it’s quickly replaced by that fake pleasantry that sends prickles up his ribs and spine. “The idli is a staple in my home country, and the pancakes are a recipe developed by the previous esteemed Head Chef who has now moved onto more managerial duties and is now working as the CEO.”

Again with the previous head chefs. Does every cook on this planet have a head chef that they look up to and seem to be shackled by?

“I see. A pity. I would have liked to meet this Head Chef-turned-CEO,” he says somewhat sarcastically.

“If you’re interested, Mr. Tanaka, we could set up a meeting. Though the CEO is rather busy at the moment.”

Hanzo waves a hand, silently wondering just how terribly he’s lost his edge if his sarcasm is so lost on a stranger. Maybe he's gone soft. Or maybe authority is just lost on this man. “Another time then.”

“My pleasure. If you change your mind about the meeting, you can speak to Argus. She’ll set you up.” He points to the omnic who is too busy attending to the other gentleman in the restaurant to notice. Asim looks like he’s about to take the towel hanging off his apron and throw it at her unsuspecting self, barely restraining a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Asim returns his attention back to Hanzo and smiles pleasantly—an edge of playfulness that wasn't there before just shadowing his lips. “Anytime. Enjoy the remainder of your meal.”

Quiet again, Hanzo takes the time to finish up his notes and his tea, trying out each type of sweetener he’s been provided until he has no more tea to try them with, relishing in the delicate bubble of peace this restaurant, away from troubles or dangers, provides.

It wouldn't hurt to stay here longer or return to this place at a later date. It's not overly stuffy like other high-class restaurants nor is it too casual that anyone would come in here to cause a ruckus. The food was acceptable and could even give you a run for your money.

Speaking of which...

He motions for the manager who is at his table within seconds.

“The bill.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.”

She produces a small holotablet from her inner pocket—he couldn’t help but notice some stippling that presses up against the silk of her dress shirt, like her chassis was heavily damaged—but that’s quickly covered up by her presenting the bill on the screen and placing it on the table along with a mint and card bearing the name of the restaurant.

“Please take your time, and if you have enjoyed your experience, I ask you to consider becoming a donor to our charity which strives to pro—”

“I am aware.” Awkwardly, he adds, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

She leaves him to debate just how much he would like to pay on top of his bill and just how anonymous Winston has made his chip card. Winston would not risk exposing Overwatch before it’s ready, but the gorilla is a scientist, not a financial expert or an accounts expert. Athena, maybe.

(Then again, Athena may as well be the expert on everything, be it finance or fashion.)

In the end, he pays the bill in full and leaves a sizable donation. It’s not as though the money he’s earning from Overwatch is of any use to him anyway.

By the time he leaves, several other customers have come in. Dignitaries, from the looks of their bodyguards who Hanzo is certain he’ll be able to take on no problem.

But he’s not here to cause any issues or take lives for no reason. He leaves it be, but mentally stores their faces in his memory for later.

The meal sits pleasantly heavy in his stomach but it’s missing something. Something Hanzo does not really have the luxury to think about. He has a mission to return to.

The day continues with a little more ground-level observations. Visits to places he knew Talon to have stopped by previously takes up most of his day and he decides to end things when the sun has begun to set.

His return to the base is quiet, weighed down by thoughts and intrusive regrets that grow heavier and heavier with the shortening distance. There’s no one to greet him—not unusual, it’s late at night and no one would take time out of their routine to give him so much as a greeting. Especially not since he left on such uncomfortable terms. If anything, he’s actual grateful for the solitude.

Hanzo pauses briefly as he passes by the cafeteria doors. He should go inside, he knows, but a heavy stone sits inside his stomach and in his limbs, refusing to let him budge. It’s unlikely his company would be appreciated especially after his rudeness. Even worse, what could he say that wouldn’t make himself cringe or want to potentially throw himself out a window?

(There’s tiny—so, so very miniscule that it may as well be non-existent—part of him that hopes your mood would change if he just ate something of yours. You always seem to be in a better mood when others have eaten and—while he’s not seeking your forgiveness—he would not appreciate having the person responsible for his meals to be cross with him.)

Again, his wavering pride makes him a coward and he reasons that he can do it after he gives his report. It’ll be better for the both of you.

Hanzo drops by the briefing room only to catch Soldier hastily clicking his mask back on and Winston looking a little more than frustrated.

“Welcome back, Agent Hanzo,” Winston grounds out, trying his best to wipe away any previous aggressions his stance may have shown, his fur slowly falling from their raised position. Soldier crosses his arms and turns away, but seems unwilling to leave.

“If this is not a good time, I can return later.” Not that he’s eager to do that either since it would mean he’d be running out of excuses to give you space.

“No, no!” Winston waves his large hands. “Never a bad time. Please, come in and relax.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls out the nearest seat for himself, but his eyes fall on something. Familiar brown wrappers, all identical and crumbled, is littered across the table in front of Soldier: 76. It takes Hanzo a moment to realize they’re the mauled remains of those vile rations. Why does he eat those when you’re here? Unless you’re mad at Soldier, too.

The gaze does not seem to go unnoticed by the man. “What’re you looking at?”

Hanzo suppresses the urge to attempt to assert his authority and only answers, “I was only considering if those are recyclable.”

Soldier grumbles something underneath his breath that sounds very much like “punk” and sweeps the scraps of paper off the table and into a waiting wastebasket below his seat.

Winston clears his throat, trying to look more stern and take on the role he clearly was not meant to be in. “Thank you for taking your time to come here, I know you’ve had a long mission. Now then, Agent Hanzo. Your debrief.”

Over the course of the next half-hour, he gives an attentive Winston and a half-listening Soldier a rundown of everything he’s observed in the past few days. The two others prod for details, interjecting with theories and occasional images of maps. But none of them get any closer to the what could be the heart of Talon's objectives.

Winston regards his words seriously, a frown on his features as he listens, occasionally stroking his furry chin. “Thank you, Agent Hanzo. Your report is excellent. They know we are active, but they do not know if this is still our main base of operations. Without coming in here, they cannot confirm such a thing.” Winston shines a grin on him and Soldier. “Not that any of our agents would let them.”

The gorilla’s optimism is nice, even ego-boosting, but the reality of the matter is much grimer.

“We should look into strengthening the defenses on base. We cannot rule out the possibility of Talon returning.”

“Fareeha and Torbjorn are in the midst of conducting a security assessment and security upgrades respectively. Unless there are some blind spots that we are unaware of, I have absolute faith in our defenses.”

Begrudgingly, Hanzo supposes that there’s no one better to do such a thing than a member of Helix Securities. Even in Japan, they’re well-known experts in the field.

“Anyway, Agent Hanzo, it's late and you must be hungry. Sorry for keeping you.”

Hanzo nearly winces, but manages to keep his features neutral. “No, not at all. I’ve already eaten.” In truth, he had only given himself a little bit of food to make up for the most decadent meal he's had in days.

“Shame. We have take-out and hate to let it go to waste.”

Blinking, he looks back down at the table where the scraps of MREs are.

Takeout?

“Different agents and at different restaurants, of course,” Winston quips, ticking them off his fingers. “Yesterday was Indian, the day before was Chinese, then before that was—”

But Hanzo has stopped listening. He's frozen to the spot, staring and feeling as though he’s slipped into some strange universe.

This isn’t right. Why are the members of the organization eating take-out of all things when they have you? You’re here to cook for them, that’s all you’re here for. You’d never stop feeding anyone if you could help it. So why?

Unless...

His mouth is dry and he winces at the crack in his voice when he asks, “Where is the chef?”

Winston doesn’t look at him, but his fur does something strange. His blood runs a touch colder, a touch quicker. Soldier looks at the gorilla-scientist expectantly and if his mask were off, Hanzo was sure the man’s expression would be more than a little smug.

Again, he asks, a little more insistent, “What happened to the chef?”

A few moments of silence pass. Winston’s huge shoulders rise and slump with the force of his sighs. There’s a grimace on his face that looks a little more than just a bit guilty.

“I regret to inform you that...the chef isn’t here. On base, anyway. We’re not quite sure where either, unfortunately. Chef refuses to answer any communications recently and—”

“How long?”

“Since a week ago.”

A week.

That’s how long you’ve abandoned your duties?

A brief moment of faintness passes Hanzo by.

Nothing is more important to you than providing for Overwatch. You’ve never really hid that fact, risking your own health to ensure that. So what in the world could force you away from such a thing? Especially with Talon—as quiet as they are—roaming around, potentially ready to pounce on any unsuspecting agent.

Resolutely, he stands and declares, “I will go to look for the chef.”

“Don’t.” Solider: 76 stands up, rolling his shoulders back. “It's better this way.”

Hanzo whirls around, mouth open and ready to demand what Soldier means by that—you’re a necessary existence at the Watchpoint, you belong here, you work hard and sacrifice sleep and health just so that each and every single one of them may be more ready for the day and Soldier thinks it's better than you're gone?—but he shuts it because he, too, had once thought the same. “Got something to say, Shimada?”

Hanzo realizes his thoughts must be showing on his face and tries to school it into something more neutral.

“What do you mean by that?”

The red of the visor bites into him, makes him squint, but he tries to level it look all the same. Slowly, Soldier rises from his seat and tilts his chin.

“Civilians shouldn’t get involved in our line of work. Chef made the right decision and left, we should keep it that way.”

But why did you leave? What forced you to go? You were happy here—or were you?

Something sinister whispers in his ear that it’s likely his fault and something ugly curls around his insides in response, squeezing out every good sense and reasonable thought from him, replacing it with something darker.

He rejected your goodwill. He’s broken more of your drinkware than he remembers. He pushed you over the edge and forced you to abandon your own principles and left.

Well, if it were so easily broken by a single person, it mustn’t have mattered as much as you always made it sound. Just pretty lip service for a weary customer who keeps you up way past a healthy bedtime (not that he’s had such a wonderful luxury, but what right did he have to rob you of yours?).

“How are you sure that the chef has not been compromised?”

Soldier huffs like it’s ridiculous. “Intel shows that Chef is still alive and kickin’. That’s good enough for us.”

“What intel?”

“Above your paygrade. Any more questions?”

Hanzo gnashes his teeth at that. It’s not as though he was paid very much in the first place. What he has on his chip card is even less now that he’s given a sizable donation to that restaurant he’s already forgotten the name of.

A scowl makes it onto his face and reluctantly, he mutters, “No.”

“Good. Conversation over. Dismissed,” the man says, hand coming up and then down, suspiciously more out of habit than anything else. Hanzo did not dwell on that for long, however. The doors behind him opens and the sound of spurs give away the exact person who walks in.

“Don’t be like that, Soldier,” McCree quips, shoving extra emphasis and dragging out the title. For what reason, Hanzo is unsure, but it seems to get a slight rise out of the old man. Like there’s a secret in the word that he was purposefully left out of the loop from.

Overwatch and its damned secrets.

“Come on, archer. Gon’ show you where the grub is. Got too much t’ finish by my lonesome.”

Without much else, McCree turns his back and attempts to walk Hanzo out of the room. Behind them, Hanzo watches as Soldier: 76 stares, a deep furrow in his balding brow before the old man turns away and goes back to whatever he was doing.

It's not until the doors shut behind them and they're a good distance away does Hanzo begin his uneasy interrogation.

“Where is the chef, McCree?”

“Still on Gibraltar, I reckon. Didn't say a word to nobody,” McCree explains bitterly. “Upped in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. Gave everyone a good scare.”

“And the chef is safe?”

“Guaranteed.” Then, McCree gives him an uncomfortably sly grin. “Why? You worried?”

He bristles but doesn’t dignify that with an appropriate answer and so he just says, “I’m hungry.”

McCree, mercifully latches onto the new change in topics. “In that case, got some grub in the common room. The Junkers got it, so no guarantees it’s legal—”

Hanzo doesn’t know whether to laugh or to shout. The Junkers? Loose in Gibraltar? And how did he not notice? He had been keeping a close eye on the going-ons of Gibraltar.

“—though they came back without any of the cops on their tail. ‘S a good sign. That or Zenyatta’s chucked e’ry witness into that Iris of his.”

A mix of a snort and a noise of disbelief gets caught in his throat and Hanzo has to cough into his fist.

McCree doesn't seem to be perturbed, even smirking at the idea. “He's gettin’ them tamed. Miracle, if y’ask me.”

Silently, Hanzo agrees.

McCree steers them to the common room where the table in the middle of the room contains a heap of takeout bags and utensils. The spurs of McCree’s boots jingle obnoxiously as he flops onto a couch. Hanzo, however, takes a much more careful approprach, sitting himself down on another couch.

“Hope y'like steak,” McCree says as he passes Hanzo a container from one of the bags.

Hanzo takes the package and uncovers it, scrutinizing the contents of steak, vegetables, and potatoes. It does not smell particular bad, but it does little to stimulate an appetite.

“Why do you not use the kitchen?”

McCree gives him a funny look like Hanzo’s said something ridiculous before he starts picking at his own meal.

“We all thought 'bout it and figured it'd best be used when there are more people 'round. S'only Winston, Soldier, the Junkers, Mei, you an’ me here now. Everyone else got sent off.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Lúcio's supposed to be here soon, though. Tracer's gone t’ pick him up.”

“I see.” He wants to press the matter and ask if it isn’t because you will return and get angry at them or if it’s not because they respect you, but he didn’t want to tread that road.

Instead, he saws apart a piece of steak for himself—the insides a bit greyish and barely pink—stabs a few soggy string beans and shoves it into his mouth. He nearly gags.

It’s lukewarm and overcooked. The meat is chewy and dry and he finds himself searching the discarded paper bags for anything that could make it more palatable and fishes out pats of butter which he slatters onto the crappy steak.

McCree asks with a laugh in his voice, “What? Too shitty for ya?”

He tries to swallow down his newly slathered piece of steak and finds it marginally more acceptable. “How can you even eat this?”

McCree shrugs one shoulder, and as if to prove a point, shovels a forkful into his mouth and eats it like it’s actually palatable. Hanzo has to repress a shudder, but not to be outdone, he does the same as McCree speaks.

“Well, when you been on the run, you know how it is.” He waves his fork around, gesturing at some unseen knowledge. “Don’t get much of a choice, an’ it’s better than starvin’. Trust me.”

The archer makes a face of disgust as he chews through another soggy string bean. “I’d rather starve,” he mutters to himself.

“Helps if y’ killed your taste buds years ago.” He pauses and then gives Hanzo an unnecessary wink. “Don’t tell our dear old Chef, though. Don’t want t’ be breakin’ no one’s heart, hear?”

The air goes still, the confession striking a delicate chord inside him.

And out of some childish spite, he almost wants to. He has your contact information, he could easily send a message telling you that McCree’s love of your food, for all the praises he sings and the gusto which he eats it, is a damn lie—

But that would crush you, he’s sure.

The anger surges anew as he strikes another thought. If he did not truly appreciate your cooking, then why would he even want you back? Maybe he doesn't and that's why he's sitting here as though Overwatch isn't missing a valuable asset. Maybe he even wants you gone, too, just like Soldier.

“If you can't taste anything, then why even bother with the chef?”

“Cause,” he drawls, “it ain't gentlemanly t’ turn down someone's kindness. ‘Sides, man’s gotta eat.”

“You never deserved that kindness!” he shouts, slamming a hand onto the table. The plate and fork clatters. McCree only looks up at him, a strangely smug expression on his face that only enrages him even more. Hanzo almost wants to sink his teeth into the bridge of his nose, rip it off, and just make the cowboy regret ever being born.

“And you do?”

Hanzo takes a staggering steps back. The words struck him so hard that the world tilts momentarily, the edges falling away and his vision turns blurry.

No.

No, he never did.

So why is he here, lecturing someone over something like he's any better? McCree lies and pretends like he gives a damn about your food, but because he cares to preserve your feelings.

And he?

Nothing comes to mind except the things he’s never wanted to face, things he thought himself to be above, to be superior to, but are constantly plaguing him and nipping at his heels.

“Excuse me.”

“Hey, wai—”

He ignores McCree and uses up every bit of willpower to not sprint to his room like a child scolded. He returns to bed, orders Athena to a little hungrier than he would've liked, head buzzing with implications and unanswered questions and the irritating knowledge that he has learned absolutely nothing from his previous experience and just keeps repeating his mistakes.

Sleep comes and goes for several hours until it becomes unbearable.

Hanzo throws himself off the bed, ignoring the time that so clearly indicates why he is awake and stalks down the familiar path that leads him to the mess hall. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but the Watchpoint seems quieter and colder somehow. It feels like a stranger.

Again, he pauses before the doors, less restricted but hesitant nonetheless.

You’re not there. You’re most likely not in there. But he wants to—needs to—confirm this with his own eyes to quiet the incessant whispers of ‘what if’. With a deep breath, he steels himself and steps forward, allowing the sliding doors to reveal what he had hoped is not true.

The cafeteria is cold.

Almost unnaturally so.

No milky-silver moon hanging over the large glass windows above, no artificial lights from the service window, no sound, no movement; just himself and a terrifyingly familiar sensation of having, being, knowing nothing.

There's nothing but an all-consuming darkness and strange sense of despair at the empty partition.

Where are you?

Chapter 14>>

#my writing #twtah #i don't know what to say other than IT'S MONDAY SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD #I SAID I'D GET IT DONE BY MONDAY #It's fuckin 12:55AM here but it's still Monday in Cali so I'm safe

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