#so. shes more stable i think. but this bit i drew was very vivid

[miscellaneous--bones]

divinity has died, and you are still here.

[hunflowers]

Femme Fatale

Word Count: 7.3k

Requested? Nope, but you always can here :)

Mood Board

A/N: I hope you enjoy my rendition of mafia!Harry bc I lowkey do not. Enjoy the smut and maybe leave some feedback when you’re done! *nose boops*

part 2 :)

The rivalry went back decades.

Growing up, they had no choice but to hate each other. It was practically in their blood because that’s how their ancestors were towards one another.

Besides, they tried the whole friendship thing when they were children, and it didn’t even work out then. Simply at first because their families forbade it. But they soon realized how annoying the other was as the years went on. And how badly they wish they could just strangle one another because that would be easier than ever becoming friendly.

It all started with their great-grandfathers, as most old rivalry stories do. They once worked in unison, in harmony as coworkers, cofounders, and friends. Once poor, they rose to the top as a team. But, when money started to become more prevalent, so did the truth of their relationship. They both wanted seniority, to run the business as a King rather than as a team. So, when heads were clashing and neither of them could bring themselves to kill the other, they did the only thing left, and split the business.

And from that point on, peace no longer existed.

Not only did the two men hate each other, but all of their workers started to hate the opposing side. No one thought there could be two leading imports in the city, because the city just wasn’t big enough for both egos. But even though chaos ensued ever since the split, people could say peace was also created. Because everyone was afraid to start a war they couldn’t finish. So, even though there were the casual breakouts and fights, nothing too major ever happened to the point where the city would practically cave in.

Except for now that is. Because Harry and Y/N hated each other that much. Everyone was afraid the other would snap soon and that could only lead to destruction.

Of course, the pair like to think they have it under control, but in reality, one wrong word spoken and the other is as good as dead.

People wondered who the Hell left them in charge because they were some of the most hot headed people to have ever walked this planet. But, in reality they really weren’t left a choice but to run the companies.

Harry’s father was never too into the whole business. Yeah, he got the job done but it wasn’t his first choice career wise. And seeing as he was an only child, he was left no choice but to stay in charge until Harry was ready. And the second he saw that Harry was mature enough for this responsibility, he immediately passed the throne down to him, thankful to have that weight off his shoulders.

As for Y/N, her father wanted her to have nothing to do with the business because it wasn’t a woman’s responsibility. He was thinking of handing the leadership down to his nephew, because he had always looked up to Y/N’s dad and had dreamed of being in charge one day. Of course, she found the whole ordeal ridiculous because the job was meant for her, and no one else.

Y/N was the eldest of her siblings, neither of them being boys. So, when the time would come the company had no choice but to fall in her hands. And even though the time came a lot quicker than she anticipated, she was beyond ready to take on the responsibility. Just a few days past her twenty-first birthday, Y/N’s father had died of a heart attack that was completely unwarranted. He took excellent care of his health, so to say it was a surprise was an understatement. But, even though the company sprung up on her, she prepared most of her life to be in charge and she wasn’t going to let her father down.

Despite Harry’s many attempts to prove her wrong and that she’d be a failure at running things, she would actually prove him wrong time and time again because products exported smoothly and income imported even smoother. And what she makes in a week is generally what he makes every month.

So, she’s doing pretty good she thinks.

But they did try to be friends once. When they were eleven, they shared a few of the same friends so their paths always crossed. So they decided they wouldn't be hostile towards one another because that was the rest of their family, not them. Fast forward to the age of twelve, and Harry and Y/N nearly get in a fist fight due to Harry hurting Y/N’s best friend, and Y/N doing the same to his.

Clearly, history would repeat itself and thus the two joined their families in hating the other.

That led them to where they are now, thirteen years later, and still a lot of hatred in the air.

Albeit, there was the rare occurrence of sexual tension in the air too but they choose not to dwell on that.

It was a one night thing. They were both completely plastered, and they hardly even remember it happening. Of course they tell different stories of that night, and it actually drew them farther apart, but again, they choose to not think about it at all.

It was only a one time thing.

But today. . . today really solidified their ongoing rivalry. Y/N was awoken this morning by the loud shrill of her ringtone blasting in her dark bedroom. She was tempted to not answer it because everyone knew not to call her so early in the morning, but then again, everyone knew not to call her so early in the morning so it must only be an emergency.

And it was the news on the other line that broke her heart and had Y/N flying out of her bed faster than light travelled. Earlier that morning, her youngest sister, Serena, was found in the bathroom of the local club, knocked unconscious whilst her clothes were nearly ripped to shreds. She had been drugged, raped, and stripped of her dignity and Y/N felt responsible. This ache in her chest was prominent because she felt it was her fault for some reason.

After their father’s passing, Serena had gone off the rails for a little while. She took it especially hard because even though all three of his daughters were his babies, Serena being the youngest was his special baby, and she found it very difficult to cope with the loss. So, when Serena did a little too much of experimenting with drugs or drinking, Y/N knew taking care of her baby sister was her main priority.

Hearing the news that her sister had been violated, Y/N couldn’t help but take it to heart. She hardly cared about the outfit she was wearing or what state her hair was in when she arrived at the hospital, all she wanted was to get to her sister.

When she entered her room, she was greeted by her mother and her other sister, Francesca, or Franny for short, already by her bed.

“How is she?” Y/N spoke quickly, taking in the look of her sister sleeping on the hospital bed.

Franny stood up so frantic Y/N could sit down and catch her breath after she practically ran through the hospital halls to find the room.

“She hasn’t woken up yet, but the doctor says she’s in stable condition,” her mother spoke, a shaky breath leaving her lips as she squeezes her daughter's hand.

Y/N bit her bottom lip to stop the urge to burst into tears, keeping her stone cold face in tact. “I swear, I am going to kill whoever did this. I’ll kill them myself, with my own two bare hands.”

“Y/N, please, not now,” Mom hissed. She hated that her daughter had gotten so involved in the business, and she most certainly hated that Y/N got her father’s temper. Her daughter hurting people is the last thing she wants to think about, especially while her other daughter is currently on a hospital bed.

“What, you don’t want whoever did this to pay?”

“Of course I do! By going to prison, not by my daughter’s two hands,” she glared at her eldest.

Y/N huffed, sifting back in her chair and trying to tie back her knotty hair in some sort of bun to get it out of her face before she screams. “Well, my way is a whole lot easier, and I can then guarantee whoever did gets justice served. Who knows what the legal system will do. Give ‘em three months maybe.”

“How about both of you shut your mouths, she’s waking up,” Franny spoke up, gaining the two’s attention immediately. Y/N sat forward, grabbing Serena’s right hand in her own.

The blinding light from the lamp above her head made Serena squint her eyes shut at the vivid brightness, her face distorting into in an uncomfortable grimace before she was able to open her eyes without the light hurting. She looked around at her family, confusion striking her features as she realized where she was.

“Wha– what happened?” She spoke hoarsely, her voice scratchy from probably being excessively dry.

When it was explained what had happened to her, she immediately broke down into tears, which then caused Y/N to let out her own tears. Again, that ping of guilt hitting her right in the heart.

“I know the police are going to ask you questions once they see you’re awake, but do you have any idea who did this to you? Anyone being suspicious towards you last night?” Y/N asked, keeping her voice in a hushed tone to try not to startle her sister in this fragile state.

Maybe it wasn’t the best timing for this but police would be here soon and this was Y/N’s job to find the person who did this, who hurt her family, her blood.

Serena swallowed, closing her eyes to try and remember anything from the night before. She started to shake her head because most of the night was a blur in her head but then she did remember one specific detail that was probably the most important.

Her eyes snapped open as she looked at Y/N, the realization of how important the detail is dawning on her. “He had a uh– tattoo on his arm. It was the. . . Styles emblem.”

Y/N practically shot out of her seat, fuming at just the name of Styles. She hardly left with a goodbye before she was storming out of the building and into her car. Of course it was someone from his side that had the audacity to do something like this. To step onto her side of the city, to do this to her sister.

If you know Y/N, you know her family, so whoever it was knew exactly what they were getting themselves into, and that just made Y/N even angrier. Her hands were practically itching to grab ahold of this guys neck and twist it like a rope.

She zipped her way in and out of traffic, trying to make it to her destination without any fatalities but still getting there as fast as possible. And when she did get there she hardly remembered to put the car in park and to shut it off before she was running inside and to the elevator.

She got a lot of nasty looks from everyone that saw her figure running across the lobby, and she knew why but she didn’t give the time of day to care. Because the boss herself was stepping onto the wrong territory.

When she made it to the right floor, and to the right door, she pounded her fist rapidly on the wood, urging anyone inside to open the fucking door.

And when the door finally did swing open, she was face to face with the one face she was hoping to not see anytime soon but yet at this time she couldn’t avoid him any longer.

“You better have a good reason to be knocking on my door this fucking early in the morning,” Harry spat down at the girl in front of him.

Y/N looked over his shoulder to see two people, a random guy and a girl on the couch in his office, both nearly naked. Then she looked at Harry and saw that his own clothes were disheveled as he probably haphazardly tossed them on his body to open the door.

“Really, in your office?” Y/N droned, pushing past him and into the large space and giving the two a nasty look to state get out.

“I don’t really need your fucking comments so how about you just leave?”

“No, they have to though,” she gestured to the two who were looking around the room quite uncomfortably, not exactly sure what to do with themselves in this moment.

“You don’t boss me around.”

Y/N sighed at his frustrating attitude, trying to keep her cool in front of bystanders, but it was pretty difficult when she was dealing with the most difficult man on the planet. “Harry. . .” she began, looking at him with these pleading eyes that meant something was wrong. Y/N hated looking weak, especially in front of him, but if it got him to cooperate for once, then so be it.

“It’s important business, that they have no part in.”

He looked at Y/N with a hard look, really not wanting to let his fun night come to a close all because she said so. But, he could tell from the way her eyes were the slightest shade of red and how she was still dressed in her pajamas in front of him that whatever this was must have some sort of emergent reasoning.

He looked to Dave and Michelle, the pair who were still so confused about what was happening, a sorrowful look on his face. A look Y/N never thought she would see. They got the idea, quickly scrambling for their clothes before leaving his office. Harry closed the door behind them, licking at his bottom lip before biting it and turning back around to Y/N with that stone cold face she’s grown used to.

“Well, you better get to explaining what the fuck this is all about before I lose my mind.”

Y/N took a shallow breath, running her hand through her very messy hair and speaking up, “Someone on your side hurt my sister, and I need you to find out who.”

“Hurt your sister?” He looked at her with a bored face, going to his big chair behind his desk and plopping down on it, propping his feet onto his desk and leaning back with his arms resting behind his head.

“She was drugged and raped and she says she saw your emblem on him, so, chop chop boss man and find out who the fuck was out last night.”

Shock laced his features at the r word but he soon went back to his bored look, and scoffing at the idea that one of his men would do something so vile. Serena was known to exaggerate and to lie about things ever since she first got her hands on drugs and Harry had no choice but to disbelieve the claims.

“I highly doubt it was one of my guys. Your sister has a tendency to. . . lie. Plus, if she was drugged there’s a low chance she’ll remember something as specific as my emblem but, I assume, nothing else,” he pointed out, raising his eyebrows at Y/N as if to say I win*.

Steam could practically be seen escaping Y/N’s ears as her face set into an angry frown and becoming increasingly red by the moment. Why did she think he would be considerate once? It was her mistake to think he had any ounce of a heart in his body, but even though she knew he would be difficult to work with, she was still beyond pissed at his response.

She stomped forward to the front of the desk, standing opposite him as she leaned forward and grabbed his white button-down shirt in her fist and yanking him forward so his body was in an awkward position and so his face was inches from her own. His smirk settled deeper on his face as his eyes trailed up and down her own face and her figure that was leaning over the desk. Because she never gave herself the time to change out of her pajamas, her silk camisole top revealed a lot of what was underneath to Harry; especially the lack of a bra.

Y/N could practically see the hormones flowing around in his head as he looked like he couldn’t give two shits about the way she was practically ripping his shirt off his body. She brought her other hand up and hooked it under his jaw, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to only look at her eyes.

“I figured I would ask nicely before I kill the prick myself. But there is no playing nice with you, is there Styles?” Y/N seethed, gritting out her words, pushing his body back harshly into his chair.

He laughed, genuinely laughed at the prospect of her being. . . nice. He ran his fingers through his hair, getting up from his position in his chair and walking around to meet her at the front of her desk. His slim fingers took the strap of her camisole, gently rolling it in his fingers before bringing it up and snapping it back down on her skin. “Not when you’re dressed like this, love.” Y/N pushed his hand off her body, standing up straighter in her spot and giving him the nastiest glare she could muster.

“Fine, but don’t be alarmed when you get the news someone died,” she stated, walking back over to the direction of his office door.

“You won’t be killing anyone, Y/N. And if you do, you leave me no choice but to kill one of yours,” he called out as she began to walk down the hall.

She stopped in her tracks, turning around to face him, to see that he was leaning against the doorway of the room, arms crossed in front of his chest. Y/N laughed at his proposition, looking down at her feet, stepping back in his direction with the tiniest foot forward.

“I think whoever raping my sister and then me killing them justifies this whole, eye for an eye thing, don’t ya think?” She hummed, giving him her final deadpan glare before, again, walking away from him and beginning her business for the day.

❊ ❊

A few days went by.

Y/N was closer to finding the guy, but it seems finding someone with a specific emblem tattooed on them proves to be quite difficult when a lot of guys have that same emblem tattooed on them in the exact same spot.

Cameras in the club did little to nothing to help her in the case, seeing as the place is dark, and that it’s sort of illegal to have surveillance in the bathroom. But her team was working hard and the more she didn’t have the guy in her hands, the more angry she became, and the more determined she was to freaking find him.

“All I’m saying is if you drop to your knees, he’ll be more willing to help you,” Y/N’s best friend Flo shrugged, taking a sip from her water as she leaned back in the chair.

“And I don’t need his help, he’s proven to be useless countless times.”

“Then why ask in the first place? Remind me again, because I’m a little lost.”

Y/N turned her head away from her laptop screen, looking at Flo with a bored look, sighing as she closed her laptop to give her friend her undivided attention. “Is there something you wanna talk about?”

“Yeah, like how I think this whole ‘Oh, I hate Harry,’ thing is bullshit. Why go to him if you know he won’t help?” Flo questioned, leaning forward with her arms resting on the mahogany desk.

“Maybe he grew some human decency since the last time I saw him?”

Flo squinted her eyes at her best friend, not exactly accepting that as an answer. It was for one pretty vague, and Flo knew her friend a bit better than that. There was something she wasn’t telling her, and she’d be damned if she left this room not knowing.

“Hm,” Flo hummed, sitting back against the leather chair, then taking another dramatic sip of her water. Y/N gave her a look of distaste as if to ask, is there a problem?

“And, when was the last time you saw him?”

Two weeks ago.

For that. . . thing they don’t talk about.

From what Flo knows, last time Y/N saw Harry was to discuss business settlements six months prior. So, if there’s no business that needs to be handled, there would be no reason for Y/N to see Harry, right? That’s a secret Y/N so desperately wants to keep. She’s ashamed of the night. Beyond words she’s ashamed and it’s only because she gave into temptation.

For a long time, she had Flo telling her that she should let go of this family feud because how could Y/N miss out on an opportunity to be with someone as handsome as Harry? As powerful as Harry? If they were together, there would be absolutely nothing stopping them, because not only were they good at what they do, but so many people respected them that the city would have no choice but to accept that they’re a couple.

But, that went against decades upon decades of family rivalry. The two would be damned if they were the reason this, basically family tradition, came to an end.

So, Y/N had no choice but to lie to her best friend, to avoid life as she knows it spiralling out of control.

She pondered in fake wonder for a moment before answering, “I think a little over six months ago.”

Flo nodded her head in understandment, taking in Y/N’s words but not exactly believing them. There’s a reason Y/N and Flo are best friends, and it’s because the two are very much alike. They’re sarcastic, they’re funny, they’re smart, they take their job seriously, and so many more reasons beyond that. But one defining reason is that they both understand the other so well. They can see right through each other. So for Y/N to think Flo doesn’t know she’s lying, is quite offensive to Flo.

Y/N tried to not break eye contact when she was talking, but she did, and that was the main giveaway that she was lying, even if she only looked away for a brief second. Flo had her down pat, much to Y/N’s demise.

And Flo wasn’t going to sit here and not call her out on it.

“Okay, and now I want the truth.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up, and she pursed her lips whilst shaking her head, “I don’t know what-”

“The. Truth. Y/N.”

“That was-”

“Now.”

Y/N huffed, looking down to her hands that she now placed in her lap. Under her friend’s hard gaze, Y/N’s face began to heat up with the embarrassment running through her veins. There really shouldn’t be any reason to be embarrassed about this, but she is. She hates that it happened, but more importantly she hates how she caved to him.

Glancing back up for a moment, Y/N bit her lip softly, feeling exceptionally small as her friend continued to wait for an answer. Taking a deep breath, Y/N sat up straighter in her chair, finally speaking the truth, “Two weeks ago.”

And now it was Flo’s turn to raise her eyebrows, jaw dropping practically down to the floor.

Then Y/N got to explaining.

❊ ❊

It was a Thursday night. Not even the weekend. Y/N had found herself in Central City, which is basically what everyone within the two groups calls the place on the border that separates the sides. She was just outside of Central City, dealing with a few of her loyal dealers all day, and in Central City is one of her favorite bars, so after a long day of working, she wanted to treat herself to a few casual drinks. Plus, she has a small crush on one of the bartenders there, so she figured that night she just may get lucky.

Little did she know, Harry had been just outside of Central City all day too, dealing with a group of rogues who thought they could steal from him and get away with it. They didn’t. So, after an exhausting day of interrogation and torture, Harry needed a drink. And what better place than his favorite bar in Central City?

She was there first, chatting up with Ben the bartender. She was laughing, drinking, listening to the horrible singer up at karaoke; just having an amazing time. Everyone knew who she was but they were all too drunk to worry about anything so they went on about their nights as if the Queen of half their city wasn’t in their presence.

But then everyone went silent, and the only thing that could be heard was Y/N’s laugh as Ben says something ridiculously funny. When she noticed everyone had gone quiet, she looked around the room to look for why no one was talking. It was quite eerie that one second everyone was having the time of their life to now everyone looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Then her eyes met his, and she nearly dropped the glass in her hand.

But she wasn’t going to leave just because he showed up. It was her favorite bar. And he felt exactly the same way because it was his favorite bar.

About fifteen seconds of awkward silence and intense staring went down before the two got fed up with all of the eyes focused on them.

“What’re you all looking at?” They snapped in unison. Quickly everyone went back to what they were doing, trying not to worry about a fight breaking out or a screaming match going down. And their worry soon started to dissolve as all the women began to fantasize about Harry and all the men wish they were worthy of being with Y/N.

Unfortunately for the two, the only seat left available in the place was the one on the right of Y/N at the bar. And when Harry sauntered over, going to sit down on the stool, Y/N was quick to stop him claiming she was saving the seat. He looked at her blankly, knowing fully well no one was going to sit there. He swatted her hand away, sitting down on the wood with a plush seat, quickly ordering himself a drink.

They tried not to converse throughout the night no matter how badly they wanted to snap at one another. But the more they thought about yelling, the more they drank, and the more they drank, the more willing they were to talk to each other.

That’s how their night progressed. By the end of it, they somehow came across the topic of sex. And how neither of them had gotten any in what felt like forever. In reality it actually hadn’t been long at all for either of them, but they tended to be dramatic, plus they were teetering on the tipsy-drunk mindset.

“Worst part is, he left his socks on! Fucking socks! It’s one thing to last thirty seconds, but to leave your socks on? Nearly killed the guy,” Y/N grimaced, recalling the event from last week.

Harry was having a hard time keeping in his laughs and judgements, but Y/N was okay with it because that was the whole point of telling the story in the first place. “Okay, you win this time, that is worse.”

“This time? I always win, Styles.” Y/N was practically gloating as she finished off the rest of her martini. He rolled his eyes at her words, shaking his head in response.

And no one could really predict the future events unfolding. It was quite out of the ordinary, and Y/N hardly knew what she was doing until after she had done it.

This thought dawned her hazy mind, and then she was placing her hand on his shoulder and looking at him with this lust and admiration she never thought she had inside of her. The moment he felt her hand on his shoulder, he looked at her quickly and nearly crumbled at the way she was looking at him.

If no one were in this bar with them, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her right then and there, but alas people were all around them. So, he had to keep it in his pants for just a little longer.

He leaned closer to her, taking in the scent of her heavenly perfume as she breathed in his ravishing cologne. They were so close, their lips barely grazed over each other’s, the tips of their noses brushing together softly as if it never really happened.

“What’s on your mind?” He wondered, his right hand coming down on her thigh, awfully close to her now aching center.

They were positive people were most likely watching them like hawks and that news of this just might spread around very fast by tomorrow morning. But, they just didn’t care. Y/N placed her hand on top of his, slowly dragging it even further up her thigh, so his fingertips just reached her dampening underwear.

His lips parted at the feeling, his eyes widening in awe as he stretched his fingers to again barely touch her where she really wanted him. She almost moaned at the feeling but kept the noises inside, not wanting to bring anymore attention towards them.

He laced her hand that was on his shoulder in his hair, softly tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck. She brought her wet lips up to his ear, whispering, “To see what it’s like for you. . . to win.”

He looked at her with an open-mouthed smirk, tongue poking the inside of his cheek before he hastily stood up and placed a few bills down on the bar to pay for their drinks. Y/N grabbed her purse, making her way to the door, Harry following behind her.

When they finally arrived to his place, stepping in the threshold of the foyer, all barriers fell down and all morals left their minds. Their lips were locked in a feverish kiss as he had her pinned up against the cool wooden surface of his door. Her legs were hiked up to wrap around his hips, high heels abandoned on the floor as she pressed the heels of her foot onto his ass, pushing his front harder on her core, creating some sort of friction between them.

He broke apart their lips, tangling his fingers in her hair as he tugged her head to one side to open up the view of her neck that he wanted so desperately to mark up. The second he bit down on her skin and licked the area, and peppered kisses up and down her throat, Y/N let out a moan she couldn’t suppress anymore. And then Harry smirked against her skin.

“It’s so ironic,” he started, grinding his hips harder into her as he brought his head up to look her in the eyes. “Out there, you’ve got people at your feet, looking up to you like an actual queen, not afraid to kill me at any given moment. But in here. . . I’ve got you writhing beneath my touch, just itching to be touched down here.”

And then he cupped her cunt, fingers petting her damp thong, having her mewl at the small but impactful contact. She wished he would just shut up and just fuck her already, but she could tell he was having fun with this; her being so complacent and not fighting him and instead agreeing that she was in fact desperate for him to touch her.

He pushed her skirt up her hips, getting better access to her pretty pussy, pushing aside her thong, gathering up her slickness onto his fingers. He brought his fingers up to his face, admiring the shine before wrapping his lips around them. If Y/N was standing, her knees surely would’ve gave out from under her at the sight. And she couldn’t help but get ever wetter as he sucked the digits, pulling them out with a pop.

“Sweet. . . like honey,” he grinned before reattaching their lips quickly. He brought his hands down onto her ass, gripping tightly before removing them from the door. Although they didn’t get very far and ended up on the comfy living room couch. There was no way they could handle stairs in their state, so the couch was good enough.

Really classy.

As soon as her back touched the soft surface, Harry was ripping her skirt and panty down her legs, and harshly tugged open her shirt that a few bottoms came right out of the seams. And if Y/N wasn’t drunk on alcohol and lust, she’d be beyond pissed.

But she really wasn’t one to talk, because she also ripped open his shirt, albeit not as rough but she’s pretty sure she ripped off one of his buttons too. Within a matter of seconds, the two were completely naked and beyond excited for what was to come. Literally.

Harry littered kisses up and down her body, mouth lingering longer on her aroused nipples, whilst he sank one then two fingers into her dripping hole. Y/N let out a breathy moan, lifting her lips up off the couch to push his fingers deeper inside of her.

“You’re so tight, Darling, and it’s just my fingers.”

He locked their lips in another passionate kiss as he pumped his fingers faster into her heat, gaining a few more moans out of that precious little mouth of hers. He hovered his lips over hers, speaking his next works huskily and softly that sent shivers down her spine, and made her pussy throb.

“Imagine me burying my cock into you. You squeezing me as I thrust into you, over and over again. Your warm walls holding onto me as I pound into you, absolutely wrecking you. Can you imagine it?”

Before she could say a single word, his thumb began working fast circles on her clit just as he continuously started to hit that special spot inside of her that had her seeing stars. The string of moans she let out could really put a pornstar to shame, and he didn’t even have his dick in her yet.

Was it embarrassing for her to be this much of a mess just from a simple fingering? Yes. But, just like the rest of the night, she lost the will to care.

“H-. . . Harry, please,” she whined as he switched the pace of his fingers to a slower rate, trying to prolong her orgasm for as long as he could.

He simply shook his head, denying her any satisfaction. Because as much as she was in charge out there, he was in charge here and he wouldn’t let her get what she wants so quickly.

Instead, he wanted to rile her up even more. With his free hand he brought it up to her breast, groping it roughly and then pinching her nipple between his thumb and first finger. And then he got an idea as he looked at the hickey that was starting to form on the side of her neck. He slowly trailed his fingers further up her chest, her collarbones, and eventually landing on the soft skin of her throat. He gently wrapped his hand around her throat to see what kind of reaction he could get out of her, and much to his surprise, her small hand wrapped around his wrist to, instead of pushing his hand away, push harder on her throat.

And if he wasn’t turned on then, he for fucking sure is now.

She loved the way his big hand was wrapped around her throat easily as if it had the smallest circumference. She loved the way it made it just the tiniest bit more difficult to breathe while he continued to ram her pussy with his fingers. And he loved just how much she loved it. “You naughty fucking girl. You like my hand around your neck don’t you? Does it turn you on?”

Y/N didn’t want to say anything, because as much as she was this confident woman, this moment was far too embarrassing, even for her. But, frustrated with no response, Harry pressed down more, using a deeper voice to elicit a response out of her.

“Answer me, Princess. I won’t continue if you don’t use your words,” he tsked, again slowing down his rhythm. Y/N groaned as his fingers practically came to a halt, bucking her hips up to continue the euphoric feeling inside of her.

“Plea–”

“Not until I get an answer.”

Y/N huffed, opening her eyes to look into his boring down on her. She bit her lip softly before nodding her head gently to respond to his previous questions.

“Uh-uh, I want words, Y/N. You love to talk, so c’mon, tell me.”

Groaning again, Y/N turned her head to the side to break eye contact. All she wanted was an orgasm, and she knew that within the next minute she was bound to burst and she hated that he was stopping her from reaching it. She took a breath and mustered up the courage to finally agree with his words, that yes it turned her on immensely.

“Y-yes. . . it turns me on,” she whispered. With that he smirked and removed his hand from her heat, making Y/N whimper at the loss of contact. But he couldn’t take it anymore, his erection becoming too unbearable that he had to ease his pain sooner rather than later.

Reaching down to his wallet to pull the condom out that he had stuffed in there a few nights ago, because he couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs to get his stash, he hastily ripped open the foil, careful not to rip the condom itself, and quickly rolled it onto his throbbing length.

He first pushed the tip in, giving her a few moments to adjust to his girth. Y/N completely lost it as he pushed further and further inside of her, back arching off the plush cushion as she cursed at the feeling of him stretching her. She widened the space of her legs, absolutely losing her mind as Harry’s face buried into her neck, the vibrations of his moans and groans shaking her body.

When he finally stopped, Y/N was quick to look down to see his cock was gone and deep inside of her body. She never felt so full in her life and she didn’t know how she was going to take him moving. The stretch came with a subtle burn that brought tears to her eyes. All good, of course.

“Harry, please move,” she begged, scraping her nails down toned back.

“Are you sure?”

“Fucking move.”

Then he slowly inched his length out before snapping his hips back against hers.

It was crazy that they were doing this.

Never in a million years did they think they would be having sex, each other’s names flowing out of their mouths so easily as their moans filled the air. The thought was always taboo for them but just this once they accepted their fates, and God, did it feel good.

It felt so good.

❊ ❊

When Y/N was finished explaining what had happened that one night two weeks ago – of course without the intense details – Flo sat with a smirk adorning her features.

Her eyes glowed, knowing she was right. She just knew this sort of thing was bound to happen. Next step, they were going to admit their undying love for each other and Flo couldn’t wait to get that news.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/N scolded.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she shrugged. “. . So when’s the wedding?”

“Florence James!”

“Hey, I’m just dealing with the cards I’ve been dealt,” she raised her hands in defense.

“Can we just forget about him and get back to more important matters, like who assaulted my sister?”

Before Flo could respond, a knock sounded on the door to Y/N’s office. Yelling a quick come in, Y/N was quick to flip off her friend before whoever walked into the room.

Looking over her shoulder, Flo let out a laugh before getting up from her chair and then returning the hand gesture to Y/N. “Speak of the Devil,” she called as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Harry stepped into Y/N’s office, that annoying smirk ever so permanent on his features.

“Speaking about me, Princess?”

“You have two seconds to explain why you’re here before I stab you in the throat.”

“Relax,” he dragged out, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of the chair Flo was just sitting on before sitting himself down on it. “I come with good news.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows, interested in what he could be talking about. She didn’t bother asking what good news, instead just waited for him to continue with whatever it was he had to say.

“You don’t have to worry about Jack anymore – Uh, the guy who. . . y’know, with Serena.”

To say Y/N was taken aback would be an understatement. She was so shocked that she had him repeat himself and explain what the fuck that was supposed to even mean.

“Look, I know I was harsh the other day. But when you left I got to thinking and. . . I know I would do anything I could if somebody hurt someone in my family. So, I got to asking around, turns out it was this guy Jack I had just fired and now you don’t have to worry about him,” he elaborated, clasping his hands together on his lap.

Y/N’s mind was in a whirlwind at this information, trying to process everything he just told her. It wasn’t a lot to take in but, it’s because he willingly helped her that had her in such a confused state. He had never done anything like this before and she was sure he wouldn’t do anything like it ever again.

But then she smiled. Genuinely smiled. Because he helped her. There’s no way she was going to let this one go. However, before she could gloat, she asked one very important question, “Is he alive?”

Harry gave her a knowing look, as if to say she should know him better than that.

Then she smiled again, even bigger than before. Because he killed someone for her and that – in their world – was the biggest sign of affection someone could give, because it meant that that someone meant something special.

“Fuck off with that smile,” he grumbled.

Y/N then stood up from her chair and walked over to him, standing in front of his seated figure, bringing her hand up to caress his jaw. “However could I repay you, Mr. Styles?”

It was then his turn to smile at her as he placed his hands on the back of her thighs and brought her to sit down on his lap.

“I can think of a few ways.”

And they were kissing like they never had before. This time they were so sober, it felt too real.

But they didn’t mind too much, because this moment felt like the start of something new.

[cyoza]

shrike

I was not going to post on here and I tried like 5 times but for some reason the ao3 link isn’t showing up in the tags sand I’m feeling very frustrated so I’m just going to upload the first chapter on here and then the rest of the chapters will be on ao3 because it took me forever last time to get all the chapters together here 

I’m going to post the link to my ao3 at the end and see if it works this time but its literally giving me a headache lol 

- 

In his 3 years as a protective agent of the CIA, Dick Grayson had never once slept past his alarm. However, he’d never felt the urge stronger than he did that morning. Even with the blaring siren of his alarm sounding, he’d lay staring at the ceiling for the few minutes he could spare wishing he could hit the snooze button. 

For the next 6 months. 

Dick had been very lucky in his 5 year career, shadowing various important but interesting diplomats and thus learning a lot more than the average person about the world and often top secret information. But it seemed like his luck had run out. For he was to spend the next 6 months babysitting some spoiled, pampered princess. 

Kory Anders had definitely built up a reputation for herself - and not necessarily a good one. From his research, he had found multiple articles that described her short temper, recklessness and honestly almost careless attitude towards dating; a new man or woman on her arm every month. It didn’t help that she was an actual princess which meant that guarding her was going to be a bigger pain in the ass than usual. When it came to Royals, they would feel more comfortable with their own services as well as CIA protection which made it all the more difficult to get the job done. Safe to say there was no real part of him looking forward to the task. 

But Dick got up anyway, clicking off both his phone alarm and battery back up along the way. He got ready in a daze, cruising on autopilot until he stood in front of the mirror adjacent to his front door. White shirt crisp and immaculate as usual, dark navy tie placed perfectly at the centre, all pulled together with a sharp angled black blazer. 

A picture of a model agent. 

Bruce Wayne would be proud. 

Dick watched as his eyes narrowed automatically at the thought but he forced himself to relax; he didn’t need anymore tension in his body today and thinking about his adoptive father wasn’t going to help.  

So he grabbed his keys and made his way to work, again not really present for the journey but the dread that settled in him as he pulled into the parking lot forcibly ejected him out of his reverie and back to reality. 

He tried to ignore it, doing the best he could to seem like his charismatic but professional self as he made it through security. Saying hello to Joe as he x-rayed his bag and commenting on Max’s new hair do as she scanned through his fingerprints and ID before making his way through the halls to the DS’s office. 

He paused facing the heavy mahogany door, bracing himself before knocking. 

‘Come in,’ was the gruff reply. 

Dick let out a sigh before entering, shutting the door softly behind him and making his way to stand by the double burgundy leather arm chairs opposite the mahogany desk. 

Directorate of Support Officer Charles ‘Chip’ Wenthem looked every bit the stereotypical middle-aged officer was to be expected to look. Thick grey caterpillar moustache with a matching buzzcut and permanently stress induced protruding coronary in the neck. 

‘Ah Grayson, good you’re here. The Royal Family will be here any minute. I know this isn’t the best assignment but I want you to put your best foot forward, alright? We really need this to go well.’ 

‘Of course, sir. Looking forward to doing the best I can for my country as always.’ He lied, giving him a tense but polite smile that neither reassured nor reinforced his statement. Yet neither of them mentioned anything, knowing the job would get done either way to an exemplary standard anyway. 

‘Glad to hear it, son. Now, as explained in the dossier, you’ll be guarding the Princess Kory Anders of Tamaran along with her personal protection services named Faddei Adeliyi. You’ve done this enough times that I don’t need to hold your hand, Grayson, but proceed with caution. The Tamaranians keep to themselves so we don’t know much about them for a background on customs. Follow their lead and watch yourself. You’re one of my best agents and I don’t want you to get kicked off this case for something stupid, alright?’ 

Dick suddenly felt the tension he’d tried very hard to suppress return to his body at full force. Chip was a good DS but it was times like this that he felt his patience with him was paper thin. 10 years of experience in law enforcement with 5 of them in covert operations just to have him speak to him like he was a teenager fresh out the force on his first mission. Dick bit back his frustration and gave him another tight smile but before he could speak again, there was a knock at the door prior to Chip’s mousy assistant poking his head through. 

‘Um, sir, we have the Tamaranean Royal family through security and here to see you.’ Arthur spoke quietly, shifting his eyes rapidly between Chip and the floor. Even after 2 years working here, Arthur was still terrified of every single thing; it was a wonder how he even got the job. 

‘Send them in.’ Chip waved his hand in confirmation sending Arthur’s head back around the door before he came back to swing it wide open again. 

Dick had seen beautiful people in his life as he seemed to always fall into their orbit unintentionally. But they all paled in comparison to the people who walked in the room in those next 5 minutes. The man who walked in after Arthur could only be described as ethereal. Towering taller than any other person Dick had come into contact with, it wasn’t his height that commanded the attention in the room nor was it his transfixing good looks. His shoulder length dark locs framed his face and corresponded with his gruff beard, which were both laced through with grey and emphasised the high slant of his cheekbones. It was his eyes, however, that drew the attention to the face, a gleaming brilliant gold that seemed luminescent even in the poorly lit office. But it was neither of these things that person would be enthralled by. Rather the aura around him was so authoritative and regal that it demanded an attention that you never wanted to withdraw. He seemed to glide as he walked into the room, his mulberry chiffon-like robe swishing around him as if there was a breeze that existed only for him. Dick could only assume he was the King, especially with the thin intricately woven golden crown he wore, pinning back some of his locs. 

Even the guards that trailed behind him were some of the most stunning guards he’d ever seen, despite them dimming in comparison to the King. A man and a woman, again taller than the average person and again dressed in a similar shade of mauve to the King but more combat appropriate. Dick felt his knowledge of gender binary being challenged as he observed them both, the woman’s head shaved with a complex design tattooed across the expanse and the man with equally elaborate braids running across his scalp and trailing down his back. He had never felt more inferior in his life, even with Bruce Wayne as a father. 

Dick’s attention was brought back to Chip as he made his way around the desk to greet them. 

‘Your Majesty King Myand’r, welcome to the US. It is our utmost pleasure to be able to host you on your stay here.’ Chip had never sounded or looked more nervous in his life, this interaction clearly having the same effect on him as it was having on Dick. 

‘Thank you..Charles, is it?’ He questioned, moving forward to extend a hand which ‘Charles’ anxiously but gratefully accepted. ‘And you must be Dick.’ He turned to Dick and stretched out a hand toward him too. 

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ Dick hoped his voice sounded strong and stable but he made sure that his handshake was, uncharacteristically wanting to exert himself, as futile as he felt it was. 

‘So you’re the one protecting my daughter. Then let me introduce, my eldest daughter - Princess Koriand’r.’

King Myand’r stepped aside and it felt like all the breath had been punched out of Dick’s lungs. He had seen pictures, of course, but as beautiful as she was in them, they all felt like insults compared to the real thing. Dick didn’t know where to look first, completely overwhelmed by her presence. She seemed to be a head shorter than her father so she still dwarfed everyone in the room and it didn’t help that the vivid scarlet curls that sat atop her head gave her added inches that she really didn’t need. The crimson coils seemed to halo her face in a heart shape, her cheekbones high and sharp like her father’s and just like her father, her eyes were transfixing. Bright and shimmering, they mimicked his luminosity but hers were an emerald green that paralleled the jewels themselves. They were only emphasised by the glittery gold eyeshadow she wore, her pouty full lips also painted with a dark maroon. 

Dick knew he was being rude but he couldn’t help but look at her. It was difficult to look away, especially when she also wasn’t wearing very much. As relatively warm as it was in Virginia in September, it definitely didn’t warrant the outfit she wore, or lack thereof. Again she wore a varying shade of purple to her counterparts, but this time it covered way less. Clothed in a light cotton skirt he could barely call a skirt, it reached the floor but the two high slits travelling up her legs all the way to her hips left very little to the imagination so her legs seemed to go on forever which were only highlighted by the 5 inch gold gladiator sandals she was wearing. Her midriff was also bare, the top she was wearing covering her breasts and not very much else, wrapping around them with two tiny trivial spaghetti straps holding the fabric up. 

Dick felt like he had been staring at her for a lifetime but it was probably only 10 seconds, so he cleared his throat and stepped forward to greet her. 

‘Princess Koriand’r, hello. My name is Dick Grayson, I’ll be forming part of your protective team while you are here in the US. It is very nice to meet you and it’s an honour to be guarding you.’ Dick stepped forward to extend a hand to her but was taken aback when she merely rolled her eyes to the side and ignored his outreached hand to fold her arms. 

Dick looked frantically between the King and Chip dropping his hand and worried that he’d made a faux pas and offended her within a minute of meeting her. But he had merely taken the cue from her father with a handshake. Maybe it was different for different genders? Perhaps he was supposed to curtsey or bow? 

‘You must excuse my daughter, Mr Grayson, she is proving difficult to convince that she does in fact need your services. She is quite headstrong which is a trait we admire in our country as it shows strength. But in times like this, we could possibly do without it.’ He explained before gesturing to his daughter.

‘You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not here, Father.’

Dick reeled hearing her voice; it was rich and melodic and suited her perfectly. 

‘Well, Koriand’r, start acting like you are here and maybe I won’t have to,’ the King retorted. 

‘I don’t see why we have to be here at all. I am a trained warrior, there is no way that I could benefit from having these feeble h-’ 

‘Koriand’r, that’s enough!’ He cut her off sharply, eyes suddenly blazing. ‘It is time to stop acting like a child and act like you are next in line for the throne, for X’hal’s sake. The CIA were kind enough to extend their services to us while we are here and we were grateful to accept. You shall greet Mr Grayson here appropriately and behave yourself whilst you are under his care.’ 

Dick could see the fury building under her guise as her father admonished her, obviously wanting to argue when her body abruptly relaxed. She swung her head to face Dick, a wide, sultry smile on her face before making her way to stop a few inches in front of him, hips swaying enticingly as she strolled over. He only hoped his swirling mind wasn’t evident and his professional facade was still in place as he inhaled her sweet rosy scent. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he tried to keep control of himself and not let himself be party to whatever game she was trying to play.

‘Hello, Mr Grayson, it’s a pleasure. I can only thank you for your service and I look forward to being under your care.’ She purred, lifting her hand towards him. 

Oh, these 6 months were going to be longer than expected. 

- 

Further chapters: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785914

[imagineclaireandjamie]

It has been a long time since there has been a Vietnam AU update. It would be interesting to see Dougal after many years.

anonymous asked: Hi Gotham.  Your Vietnam au has touched me.  After watching the Ken Burns documentary I am floored by the amount of information that I didn’t know about the war.  Would you consider doing a chapter where Jamie and Claire tell each other of their experiences on their respective battlefields?  Thanks for continuing to give us these gifts!    

—–

“You get irritated with Vietnam because it won’t leave you alone.”

- James “Butch” Morris, United States Marine Corps, who served in Vietnam 1969-1970

———-

Vietnam AU

Fraser’s Ridge,North Carolina

May 1975

 The telegram arrived after breakfast.

 Claire tipped the Western Union delivery boy for histrouble – he had driven the windingtwo-mile gravel road to Lallybroch – and frowned at the envelope.

 “Everything all right?” Jenny appeared in the hallway, youngMichael on her hip, gnawing on a zwieback.

 “I don’t know.” Claire held up the envelope to the light.“We weren’t expecting anything.”

 “Well – Ian just left for the stables. Said he wasmeeting Jamie there.”

 Claire pursed her lips all the way up the back path, mindracing in a thousand directions.

 Fortunately Jamie was outside, polishing a saddle.

 “Hey!” he smiled. “I didn’t expect to see you up here!Everything OK?”

 Immediately his hand settled on her three-month pregnantbelly, caressing, cradling.

 She couldn’t help but smile. “We’re fine. But I don’t know what this is…”

 He tore open the envelope – hair so bright in the Maysunlight – and said a very foul word in Gaidhlig.

 --

 “It’s nice of you to host me, Jamie.”

 General Dougal MacKenzie’s eyes darted around the sittingroom – taking in the old furniture, and the antique maps, and the issues ofNational Geographic fanned on the coffee table.

 “Did Ellen paint that one?”

 Claire’s eyes swiveled across the room, toward thewatercolor of the house, nestled in the pines.

 Jamie sipped his whisky. “She did. When I was a boy.”

 Dougal crossed his legs, the dozens of medals on hisuniform swaying slightly. “She did always have a talent for drawing. I’m sorryto say I don’t have anything she made.”

 “She drew portraits of Jamie and me, and our Da. And aself-portrait, too – they’re upstairs, if you’d like to see them.” Jenny lookeddown at her nails, which Maggie had painted a vivid (if messy) pink.

 “That’s all right – I don’t want to impose.”

 “You’re not imposing, Uncle.” Jamie’s free hand grippedClaire’s tighter, his thumb tracing her wedding ring. “Only – it’s a bit oddfor you to drop in on us, out of the clear blue sky. I don’t ever remember youcoming to Lallybroch before. Even when Mam was alive.”

 Ian reached across the coffee table to top up Dougal’stumbler of whisky. The general watched him, then turned his gaze toward Claire.His eyes narrowed.

 “We’ve met before.”

 She nodded. “We have. At the 91st Evacuation Hospital inChu Lai. I was a nurse.”

 Dougal’s thick brows raised in surprise. “That’s right!You worked with a colored doctor.”

 Claire clenched her teeth. “Joe Abernathy. He’s a surgeon– he’s back at his practice, in Boston. And I’m a doctor now, too.”

 “She works with people who have suffered traumatic braininjuries,” Jamie explained. “She helps them heal. Like she helped me heal, afterI was injured.”

 Dougal swirled his whisky, then took a deep gulp. “That’sone of my proudest days, Jamie – when I pinned that Bronze Star and Purple Heartto your chest. It’s a shame you didn’t re-up after that.”

 Jamie bristled. “No it’s not. I was done.”

 The general sighed. “I suppose I’m done, too, in a mannerof speaking. Ever since Saigon fell last month – I still can’t believe DuongVan Minh surrendered – I’ve had nowhere to go. I’m finally stateside, but I don’tfeel at home.”

 Claire cleared her throat. “Get used to it, General.”

 “Dougal, please.”

  “Dougal – with respect,Viet Nam isn’t something you can leave behind.”

 Dougal looked up at her – then down at her and Jamie’sjoined hands – then over at his nephew.

 “Claire’s right. I’ve been back five and a half years –and I think about it every day.” Jamie sat up a bit straighter on the couch. “Sometimeswhen I’m out in the woods, the wind changes direction, and I catch a scent fromthe trees that takes me back to the rice paddies. Sometimes when Mrs. Crookburns the beans for our supper, I remember Elias Pound – he was a private in myplatoon, and he couldn’t cook over a campfire to save his life.”

 “He has nightmares, now and again,” Murtagh added fromacross the room, Suzette at his side. “More so in ’70 and ‘71. Not unlike whatyou and me both experienced, Dougal, those first few years after we stormed thebeaches in France.”

 Dougal nodded. “I understand. I just thought – ”

 “No amount of experience or willpower will make it go away,”Claire interrupted. “You’ll have to deal with it, just like we have. Just likewe’ll continue to.”

  Silence stretched.

 “Are you stationed at Fort Bragg?” Ian pushed the plateof cookies across the table. Dougal took a shortbread.

 “For the time being, yes. I can retire, now that the waris over. But God knows what I’d do – where I’d go.”

 “What about your daughters?” Jenny asked gently.

 “They want nothing to do with me.” Dougal closed his eyes,suddenly looking very tired, very old. “Their mother was right – I never caredto make the time for her, or for them. And here I am, wishing that there wasstill a war for me to go to. So that I don’t feel so empty.”

 Jamie stood, then – and crossed the room – and lay agentle hand on the three stars on his uncle’s shoulder.

 “You’ll always have a home here. And when you’re ready totalk, Claire and I will listen.”

 Claire rubbed her belly, mind full of swaying palm treesand automatic gunfire and the scent of carbolic acid, watching silent, gratefultears track down General Dougal MacKenzie’s cheeks.

[ask-abaddon-the-despoiler]

Please feel no obligation, For scum 🏰- sex in a fantasy setting

It was the best kept secretof the court. The prince and the blind seer were seeing each other. Much to therelief of all involved. He hadn’t intended it to go as far as it had. The wholeordeal had started with prejudice and awkwardness. Ezekyle had known about theseer visiting the court, had sneered at the very idea of his parents evenneeding such a thing. They ruled and their rule was absolute. His father had adistinct way of keeping everyone in line, usually involving bruises.

As brutal as he was, he hasinsisted that the seer come to the castle and reside there, informing him ofportents and sendings when she had them. She had been wise enough to agree.Their first encounter was before they had been introduced. He had smashed rightinto the small woman when he had been bustling around a corner, late for ameeting with his father; something that had earned him several lashes. Of course,he had apologised and helped her up. When he saw her face, everything hadchanged. Gone were the quick witted words and the false smiles. It was asthough his head had been filled with fluff and he could only stammer anapology.

The moment she had touchedhis hand, a shock shot up his arm. He met her sightless eyes, milky whitepools; glassy and knowing. Without a doubt, he knew she had felt it too. Shehad stammered a thank you and then hurried off on her way without so much asanother word.

It was only later that hefound out that she was the seer.

Everything had changed whenthey’d touched. He found that he thought of her all the time. While he wastraining, his thoughts were with her. While his father was teaching him how torule, his thoughts were with her. Even while he slept, he dreamed of her.

The second time they hadmet, Ezekyle had spent the entire evening speaking with her. He knew he wasignoring the other female members of the court, including the elven mistress hewas supposed to be flirting with; he knew his father would be angry but he didn’tcare, she was far more captivating than any willowy she-elf. She was curvy andanimated when she moved. Her words were interesting and she had a way of sayinga great deal without giving anything away.

After that evening, hisfather had some rather choice words for him. None of them polite; allreinforced with a crop. After that, letters were written. Glanced wereexchanged and a few hasty conversations in the corridor was all they couldafford; both of them knew it.

The third time they met wasat midnight.

The stable was not the bestplace for such an encounter; they had to be quick. Both wore heavy grey cloaksand travel gear. Without speaking, Ezekyle led his huge horse from the stall,unable to stop the echo of his hooves on the cobblestones. The moment thecharger was out of the building, he swung the Seer into the saddle beforesettling in behind her. A snap of the reins and they were off. They werethrough the gate and over the drawbridge before anyone could stop them.

They ran. Ezekyle was not surehow long they ran for, but by the time he slowed Falkus to a walk, the lightsof the castle had faded into the background and the gloom of the forest sappedthe dim light of the moon. Only then did he dare speak a word, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” she said. Her voicewas a delicate lilt, soft and airy, like the power she carried with her. “Weshould carry on for another hour, then find somewhere to sleep.”

“Off the road,” he said.

“Yes.”

Silence fell once again andthe rode on. Falkus’ steps gradually became heavy and he dismounted, leavingher up on the horses back. Cutting into the forest, they continued to walk.Ezekyle led Falkus through the forest until the moon had descended towards thehorizon and the cold light of dawn kissed the sky. He felt his eyes growingheavy as they walked, his footfalls staggered and he knew they had to stop.

The forest spread out into asmall clearing and he found a decent place to make a small camp. Gently, helifted Quincy from the saddle and set her down on a log. He then tended toFalkus as best as he could. Ten minutes later, he flopped down beside the womanhe had ran away with. The chill of the predawn cut through the air and henoticed that she was shivering. When his hand touched hers, she flinched. “Sorry,”he muttered, aware then that she was unable to see his subtle movements.

“It’s alright,” she said.There was something off about her tone and he tilted his head, then felt sillyfor she couldn’t see it.

“What is it?”

“They’ll come for us,” therewas a hint of sadness in her voice, “They’ll come for us and when they find us,you’ll go with them.”

He took her small hands inhis and shook his head, “No, I won’t.”

“I have seen it, you will,”she said.

“If I go back, my fatherwill kill me,” he said. There was no sadness in his voice, just a statement offact. She didn’t deny it either, instead wrapped an arm over his shoulder. Heleaned into the touch and a small hand brushed over the top of his head.Silence drew close as she tugged on the band keeping his black hair out hisface. Her fingers then wound their way through the lengths and he sighed. “I’llnot go with them,” he said.

She didn’t respond and heshifted a little closer to her. The cold of the predawn bit through hisclothing as much as it had hers. She was the one shivering though. “Keep mewarm,” she said.

“I’ve a horse blanket andbody warmth,” he said.

“It’s enough,” she said. Henodded and spread the blanket over the ground. He then took her hand and pulledher down onto it. After wrapping his arms around her, he tugged the blanketaround them too. Her shaking stopped as he ran a hand over her head, smoothingher chestnut hair down out his face. Her small hand rested on his chest, herhead against his side and she shuffled until she was as close to him as she hadever been. She smelled delicious. He wasn’t entirely convinced it was a goodidea, but he pressed his lips to the top of her head anyway. They’d ran away togetherand this seemed like a place to begin.

“Ezekyle?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“If you’re going to do that,do it properly,” she said.

He did not need to be toldtwice, one of his hands touched her cheek, tilting her head. He took a momentto search her beautiful face before he closed the distance between them. Thecrackle of their lips meeting sent a vivid shock through him and for a moment,all he could do was remain still with their mouths together.

Her tongue pushed againsthis lips, breaking the moment. He parted them and let her inside, tasting heras much as feeling her. The kiss deepened, drew out in length and not for oneminute did he think about breaking it. The rush of her being so near was heady,dizzying and lush. His hand pushed into her hair, loosening at as he held herhead still so he could plunder her mouth.

Her hand slipped down hisside and her hand gripped his bum. Smiling into the kiss, he hummed anapproval. What she did next surprised him completely. She hooked her knee over hisand shoved. He was on his back, she straddled his waist. Looking up at her witha grin, he raised an eyebrow. The tight sensation in his pants didn’t resolveitself under her weight; the look on her face said she’d realised it too. “What?”he asked.

“What’s this?” she hummed,pressing her hips down against him.

Catching her hand, he drewit to his hardening bulge. “This could be a problem,” he said.

“No, I don’t think so.”Ezekyle let go of her hand and cupped her breast instead. She seemed quitecontent to run hers over the swelling at his crotch before she leaned down andkissed him once more. This time, it was full of heat. The flick of her tongue insistentand demanding; he knew his was every bit as needy as hers. He lifted his headinto the kiss, teeth clashed together and she pulled back a fraction, easingoff a touch. Her hand began tugging at the ties of his slacks, his hand liftedher heavy skirts and found her panties. She gasped as his finger brushed upagainst her slick quim. Heat radiated from her and she clamped her thighs over hishand as he rubbed her through the fabric.

Cold air met hot flesh andhe sucked in a breath. Her warm hand pressed and squeezed him and try as hemight, he was unable to keep that distraction from his mind. “Quinsy,” hemewled in a voice that did not sound much like his. She did not stop. Shegrinned at the bead of moisture at the end of his cock. Knowing this would notdo, he slipped his hand into her underwear and pressed into her wet sex. Sheclenched around is finger and he wished it was his prick instead.

“I want you,” she said,voice thick with unspent passion.

“You sure?”

“No Ezekyle, I said that forfun!” He laughed at that and tugged her panties to the side. She rose up on herknees for a moment and took a firm grip on the base of his cock. Next thing heknew, her wet heat was slipping down his length and his world was covered insparks.

“Fuck!” he hissed as shesettled around him. She twitched, he gasped. Hands rested on his chest and shebegan to move, barely giving him chance to register what was happening. Redswamped his vision, his hands fell to her hips and as she found her pace, sodid he. Thrusting into her deepened the red to crimson, his lips parted. Dimly,he was aware that she was panting as she moved. Her hands pushed into the skinof his chest, the fabric rubbing against his sensitive body, alive with sensationas they moved together.

When she leaned down foranother kiss, he swallowed her moans, refusing to relent and kept to the swiftmovements they created together. Crimson turned to purple as their tonguestangled together once more. Her delicate fingers brushed against his balls andhe moaned into her mouth. He was forced to break the kiss when she squeezed.

“I can’t…” he hissed beforebiting his lips. The pressure on his cock, the sweet tingle she sent into hisballs and the heat of her panting in his cheek, it was all too much. He couldfeel himself beginning to spiral away. His prick began to pulse as she clenchedaround him. His tip swelled, her wet heat absolute perfection. Purple turned toviolet and his head fell back. His lips parted and his balls drew up to hisbody.

His world narrowed to theplace they were joined for a brief moment before he was spinning out ofcontrol. Letting out a deep, guttural cry, he released into her. He pulsed intime with her clenching. Her soft cries matched his and for a few, briefmoments, nothing else in the world mattered. It was just the two of them andthe bliss they created together.

It couldn’t last however.When Ezekyle returned to himself, she was trembling in his arms, a happy smileon her face. Looking down at her, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead,knowing that he smiled too. “I won’t go with them,” he said softly. “I promise.”

“I know you won’t,” shereplied, her words breathy, not yet recovered fully.

“But you said-“

“Hush, sleep,” shewhispered, “We need to be gone in an hour or so.”

Her words were strange, hedid not quite understand why she had changed her mind. Had the future changed?Had she seen something new? Had she lied in the first place? He found he didn’tcare. His eyes closed and he found he was going to do as she suggested. Tomorrow,they would deal that problem. Right now, basking in the glow of their unionseemed like the best idea.

[idolizerp]

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON VIVID’S MAIN DANCE MOON MONA…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 23 DEBUT AGE: 16 SKILL POINTS: 15 VOCAL | 15 DANCE | 00 RAP | 10 PERFORMANCE SECONDARY SKILLS: Multi-instrumentalist (guitar, piano)

INTERVIEW

debuting fresh off her sixteenth birthday, moon mona was perhaps an atypical choice for the group. they came onto the scene with an image that began already rather sexually charged, veiled in short bloomer style shorts and pastel colors, as if that were less affronting, less obvious, as if there weren’t suddenly and immediately eyes all over the young girl, surprise that she was a minor, that someone so young could look like that.

in fact, she probably shouldn’t have debuted that young at all. there is something inherently damaging in entering the public eye that early. the scrutiny wears at you, an endless tide beating against crags and cliffs until they wear smooth as sea glass.

many times, this is how mona feels.

a wild child plucked from the streets of jeju, from backroads where sand blows over the asphalt on the breeze that carries with it the scent of the ocean. maybe this is why she so easily melts into the role of summer goddess when it is bequeathed to her. she has the energy and power of the ocean, she thinks fondly, when she watches herself dance. this is what they capitalize on. she has a sensuality beyond her years, a grace that defies age, a presence that commands attention.

it disappears offstage into a flurry of eye smiles and half hidden laughter, tucked behind a hand that trembles just a little bit, nervous still under the direct glare of the camera, the lights. she’s young when she debuts, and foolish, and the image that they have her selling - relatable, girl next door, but impossibly hot - is one that both suits her and stifles her.

she isn’t the strongest at either skill. she doesn’t have the range to sing main, with her voice lending itself to a certain mellow, husky timbre. as she gets older and her voice continues to change and develop, it moves further into this range, and farther from the expected idol falsetto filled soprano. but she manages within her range just fine. her live performances are stable and day by day, more and more, she commands attention. she draws eyes. it covers her shortcomings, the way she can move, the look in her gaze. they chalk it up to a natural sex appeal. mona could wear a potato sack and still look like a million bucks, still have fans knocking at her door, that’s what they say.  

at eighteen, nineteen, even twenty the comments make her uncomfortable. by twenty one she doesn’t really watch her parts in their videos anymore. she knows what they’ll focus on, how the camera will pan over toned thighs or the curve of her ass, or her chest, she knows the look in her eyes because she’s spent hours practicing it in front of the practice room mirrors. it all feels so hollow, but it sells like hotcakes. as their concepts become more sexual, mona shines more and more, despite herself, reluctant to capitalize on something that makes her feel so uncertain, like the weight of eyes sinks beneath her skin to make it crawl.

she can feel herself changing, day by day, under the weight of a thousand eyes, purposefully smoothing out the rough edges of herself, until she is polished and shining and pristine. effortless in her casual charm, in her relatable silliness, in the way she can so naturally shine with a sincerity that doesn’t seem half so manufactured as it is.

maybe it’s not. maybe this is who she is now, changed by the constant weathering of the sea. featureless and shining, polished until she is devoid of anything, a mirror held up to reflect the image men want to see in her. because let’s be honest, she was placed in the group  not for her outstanding talent, but for her visual appeal, even then. curves in the right places, a warmth and charm that drew in the viewer, a gap between on stage and off that compelled fascination. mostly, mona is just glad they can’t see that she’s tired of this. of the same sultry themes, the same lurid movements; suggestive but tasteful, they claim. she’s very well trained, she thinks, because she never rolls her eyes half so hard as she might want too.

and she gets the sort of rumors that the hypersexualized type tend to get, and then some. she takes a hiatus due to a bout of pneumonia contracted from the flu gone untreated, and there are malevolent rumors that she’s gotten an abortion, rumors the company finally, this time, steps up to smack down, to sue those who are propagating them. but even after, the menial ones continue.  is she dating this one or that one, is she posing like that on purpose? did she get her boobs done, are they real, is she showing them off? why does she try so hard, doesn’t she know this is trashy, isn’t this inappropriate? can’t she do anything but dance and make those faces, doesn’t she have anything else to show us? isn’t it always the same?it is, mona wants to tell them. it is always the same, because that’s what you all wanted. that’s what’s selling my albums and my merchandise. that’s why i’ve had a dietician and a trainer since i was sixteen years old, that’s why i spent my childhood smiling at leering middle aged men. and now you want me to do something else?

she’d like too, sure. she dreams of an artsy, lo-fi album. something folk inspired maybe, just her and a guitar and some producers to fill in the gaps. but the company knows no one wants that, they tell her. no one wants that from moon mona of heaven. they want a toned body and a bright smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, they want long hair in artfully done waves that suggest she might just have left the ocean. and she can give that to them, so why risk anything else?

but she does. god, does she want to risk it. hones skills that aren’t hers to advertise, practices her vocals until she could rival the other members, maybe, if anyone would give her some lines. if anyone would let her sing. she works her way relentlessly towards the distant promise of a solo career, towards her desires to produce music she can be proud of. with their contracts arriving at expiration soon the company begins to yield to her desires, but alway sin their own way, always in their own manner. she’ll take it, she thinks, she’ll take whatever she can get.

and so mona is seaglass. weathered and unchanging, polished to a smooth shine. featureless but beautiful, meant to be admired, touched, and then put away again to keep for another summer day.

BIOGRAPHY

MOON MONA is born at the stroke of midnight, which might have meant something magical and mysterious in another story, but in this one, it means only that her mother had a little tidbit of a story to share about her midnight baby. The seaside hospital was perfectly well equipped and her mother faced no difficulties with the delivery, other than the usual. Her father was - and remains - quite typical of his generation.  Fifteen years older than her mother, he was smoking outside when Mona was born, and would remain sort of blandly absent for the remainder of their relationship. Mona holds no ill will here. In a rapidly developing society, he is undoubtedly the product of his time and not of her own. Not even of her mother’s, somehow.

Her mother is a lecturer at a nearby school - a small affair, nothing notable. She teaches biology to freshmen and an upper level botany course and Mona is surrounded by flowers and the sea from birth. The young girl is tangled in them, in the smell of fresh cut grass and salt spray, flowers braided into her hair during long hours in the fields on the edges of town, only a bus ride away.

She loves the bus, loves to stare out the window as it rattles and lurches through the town. When she gets older, her indomitable will and unstoppable energy demand trips to the nearby city to go to dance classes. She’s grown tired of the basic fare offered her in her smaller town, and so an hour off she rides, thumping along the road and dozing between stops. As she grows older and her interest refuses to wane her mother expresses gentle discouragement and her father nods in distracted agreement in the corner.

Perhaps the most attention either of them pay to her, she thinks later, is when she skips school to attend auditions for the first time. They’re furious of course, at the call from the school, at the fact she hadn’t answered her phone, at the fact she dared run off to audition at all. What a stupid pipe dream, they tell her. Do you think we moved to Busan for this, so you could gallivant off to the capital and do whatever you want?

The move had upset her, honestly. Stealing her home away had been the most intolerable cruelty for a girl of thirteen, had unleashed a rebellious fury only the unbridled ocean and other parents of teenage girls with strong wills and fierce eyes could imagine, or hope to match.

So at thirteen Mona’s willful teenage form of rebellion is to pursue a pointless dream, spurred on by her fondness for the likes of SNSD and the Wonder Girls. She copies choreography, she practices singing, begs her way into continuing vocal lessons. She skips after school classes to put in more hours dancing or singing, she spends her time making faces in the mirror and wielding a hairbrush, as so many do.

The difference is that one day, someone sees something in her.

She’s promising they tell her. She has a look, a vibe, and how old is she right now? They don’t seem deterred by her confident answer of fourteen, just take a step back to examine her, ask if she can sing, or dance maybe, and are pleased when she answers to the affirmative. She should have known then, taking the card, turning up for the audition, that they’d been more sold on her face, her figure than anything else. But she was young, and she was foolish, and she had a silly little dream, as her mother might say.

The second time her family really, really notices her is when she explains she’s thinking of moving in with her aunt while she trains.

Her father is distractedly horrified, perhaps more because he should be than because he’s actually unhappy about it, and her mother has sort of just given up on the idea of an academically inclined daughter, a daughter she could maybe relate too, in some way. There isn’t an attempt to meet Mona at her level, to get to know her, or why she loves dance so much. They dismiss these things as childish whims, tell her to come home when she’s ready.

She debuts instead.

In an instant her life changes. Immediately she becomes frozen in time, it seems. Mentally she feels still as though she never quite left that moment of being a naive sixteen year old, practicing choreography designed to put more than mildly inappropriate thoughts into the heads of viewers, thrilled because this was her big chance, her big break. Foolish, ultimately, but not untrue.

She has made it, after all. At twenty three she’s established a name for herself, a brand. That brand might not be one she wants, nor one she is comfortable with, but it sells. Sex always sells, and until she hits that magical age at which women cease to appeal to men sexually on a general level, and then she’ll retire and do something like mediocre acting or variety or nothing, just get married and fade away. She’s done things that make her sick, has lived experiences that make her ill, producers with wandering hands and comedians and hosts who think it all too acceptable to push advances on her based only on an image portrayed on screen, assigned her by the lustful masses, faceless commenters that feel it acceptable to nitpick her body, her styling, her sexuality, her appeal.

Mona is seaglass. She would like to be a flower, taking root and blooming, growing day by day, flourishing, flowering. But Mona is not life and greenery, she is not reaching and seeking. She is sea glass, polished and glimmering, appealing in the moment and ultimately discarded.

[highqueenofprydain]

Opening Doors

"This sword I forged in the workshop of Hevydd the Smith."

Armed with her bauble's warm, familiar light, untroubled with the moody unpredictability of the torch Gurgi carried, Eilonwy found it first.

Lying askew amidst the heap of weaponry Magg's guards had dumped in Smoit's armory, it glinted dimly, drew her eye. Taran's sword. She picked it up and studied it, ignoring an odd sensation that she was spying on him by doing so, and laid it aside, separating it from the other weapons stripped from the companions. She and Gurgi, tasked with their recovery, left the gear in a neatly organized pile in the chilly sunlit courtyard of Caer Cadarn where their owners might find them. But Taran's sword…she hesitated, weighing doubt against shrewdness, mixed with something that felt uncomfortably manipulative. Finally she tucked it under her arm and went in search of him.

Manipulative or not. At least he couldn't avoid her if he wanted his sword.

Avoid…it wasn't quite the right word, was it? Crossing the courtyard, she kicked savagely at an inoffensive pebble and listened to its satisfying scuttling retreat across the flagstones. Avoiding was something you did, like hiding behind walls, not something you didn't do, like not speaking to someone or…for goodness' sake, not even looking at someone more than you could help it. And not acting like yourself, or even the self you were two years ago if you couldn't manage more. She had spent that two years, after their parting on Mona, expecting…well, much, upon their reunion; certainly not to be standing forlorn before a guarded, locked-up gate where an open door should have been.

She was sure it had not been his intention, either – at least if his eagerness upon their meeting again at Caer Dallben had been any indication. The glow in his face, the joy in his voice…the question bursting behind his eyes. She had even thought, alarmed, that he was going to ask it right there, in the cottage in front of everyone, and had begun a frantic mental hunt for an excuse to pull him outside when the door had burst open.

And with one door flinging wide upon a wounded prince, every other had apparently slammed shut. She hadn't realized it at first – too many other, more urgent predicaments had presented themselves at the time, and it was hardly the moment to lament over lost romantic opportunities. Then again, she thought, twisting her mouth wryly, perhaps the possible impending End of Everything was exactly the right time to mourn certain things left unspoken, undone. Nevertheless, she could not begrudge him his silence in that regard, had it not spilled over into every other. Day by day his distance had dawned on her, distance even in the everyday, practical details that shouldn't have held any significance at all. Finally she could no longer shrug it off as the paranoid product of unfulfilled imaginings, and was forced to admit that since the journey had begun he had scarcely spoken a dozen words to her, and rarely met her eyes. That, Eilonwy decided, her mouth set in a grim, thin line, was something she would no longer stand.

Though what exactly she was going to do about it was taking its time coming to her.

She found him in the stables, currying Melynlas, blessedly alone. The horse whickered a quiet welcome, and Taran turned his head; his smile, when he saw her, hitched and wavered uncertainly. She winced, acutely aware that it was their first moment alone together since reuniting, and smarting that his reaction to it should be so lukewarm.

There was a pregnant moment while he looked at her and said nothing, then with steady deliberation traded his currycomb for a brush and resumed attentions to Melynlas. Because his eyes resolutely followed his hands, she found that hers did as well, sliding along the planes and valleys of the horse's muscular shoulders, curving over haunches, dipping into hollows. Black earth, reminders of Rhun's recent internment, still lined his fingernails. The sound of the brush, softly rough like the stroking of velvet against the nap, whispered a hypnotic rhythm against the silence.

It made her want to scream. She hated his silence. It seemed crammed full of all the things neither of them were saying, beating against her like caged birds flailing their wings against the bars. Moreover she hated how helpless she felt against it; she had never felt so, with him, before, and to flounder about now – now when there were actually things worth saying – Llyr, it was maddening. Like picking up your favorite book, and finding you'd forgotten how to read.

"I found this in the armory," she said, and was immediately irritated at the loudness, the brassiness of her own voice breaking the stillness like an alarm bell. She held up the sheathed weapon. In the dim stable his eyes sparked. "My sword."

Something like jealousy curled in her gut at his use of the possessive, and she impulsively moved the sword away from his outstretched hand. "Ah, it is yours, then. I was almost sure, but I never got a proper look at it." Stepping into a large square patch of light slanting from the open door, she drew the blade in a swift motion, conscious that he had left Melynlas's side to step toward her. "You made it yourself, I think you said?"

"I did," he affirmed quietly, and she prickled at the world behind his words, so alien to her. Tell me. You would have done it, years ago; you'd have talked about making a sword until I wanted to pitch it into the nearest river. Why won't you tell me now? She felt his eyes on her, and cleared her throat, trying to draw the moment out, to come up with something relevant. "It's…ah…well, it's…"

His sudden laugh broke like a burst of sunlight into shadow. "Go ahead, you can say it. It's hideous." A weight, as of a mass of ice, slid from her shoulders at the warmth in his voice, and she looked up to see him wearing the kind of expression he had been wont to wear – before. Humor, affection, and wry self-deprecation, and so utterly him as she remembered that she nearly dropped the sword in a wild impulse to throw her arms around him, to make sure this breach in his invisible wall stayed gaping open.

"I wasn't going to say that at all," she protested, face warming, failing to hold back a smile. "It is, perhaps, not the most elegant weapon ever seen, but…" She held it parallel to the ground, bounced it experimentally on two fingers. "The balance is good. The edge is true. I'm no expert, but it feels like a good blade." She grasped the pommel, and swung the blade in a slow arc, watching the wan light gleam on its edge. "It's a bit odd, when you think of it, that we call any swords beautiful, considering what they're for. But after all, there are plenty of handsome things in the world that turn out to be weak and useless on the inside. Perhaps it's best for a sword to be the other way 'round."

His eyes met hers openly for the first time in days, and his mouth took on a vague, rusty form of the teasing smirk she adored. "Did they teach you that kind of diplomacy on Mona?"

"Pssh." She grinned. "Diplomacy is when you say what you don't mean to appease people you can't defeat, and I'm terrible at it. No, that was truth worthy of Dallben. I shouldn't be surprised if there's a line in the Book of Three about it somewhere." The blade slid back into the scabbard, and she flipped it around and held it out to him, hilt-first. "But I still don't understand why you needed a new one. What happened to your old, the one Dallben gave you?"

The one I girded on you? She did not speak the thought, but his eyes caught hers knowingly, and she remembered his face, glowing and flushed with boyish pride, that day in the scullery. He was so different now, she thought wistfully; so unfathomably more, and she had loved him even then.

Taran took the sword from her, a shadow crossing his face, his posture suddenly stiff. "It was…taken from me," he muttered, "in a forced duel in which I had no wish to participate." He seemed to struggle for a moment before continuing. "The less said about the villain involved the better – to speak his name is more honor than he deserves." She watched his fingers tighten around the pommel, and her own hands twitched in an aching impulse to cover his, caress the tension out of them, even as hot indignation toward the unknown antagonist flamed in her chest. An irrational yet vivid wish to meet him herself and enact some sort of justice crossed fleetingly through her mind.

Taran looked up at her, clear-eyed. "Yet when I met him again, it was this-" he held up his self-made weapon, "that saved my life." She sensed rather than saw the change in his bearing; the strength, the straightness. "He attacked me with my old sword, and it shattered against the new."

Shattered. Eilonwy sucked in a quick, cold breath as the word struck; she felt it in the soles of her feet, in the base of her spine, with such icy clarity that for an instant she saw shards glittering, scattering, arcing away through empty air. Of course, that was the word; that was what she felt; her image of the boy he had been, all his impetuosity and bravado and well-meant blundering - gone, shattered against the stark reality of who he now was. No wonder she floundered; his very familiarity mocked her; it was no more than a memory, a thin veneer over a mystery she could not fathom. It left her hollow, hungry, impatient; the memory had sustained her but it was empty now, now that the man stood before her and would not let her in. She wished suddenly that she hadn't returned his sword; it seemed the one thing about him she had, briefly, possessed.

She felt the child in her wanting to shout, to shake him, to berate and storm and do all the things she would have done years ago in an attempt to provoke a reaction – any reaction, so long as it broke through his reserve. But she had changed, too, and was wise enough to know the futility of that route, yet not enough to know what to do instead, apparently. Here she'd come to press him into speaking with her and she found herself with nothing to say – or perhaps, too much, too brimful of simmering longing and frustration to let words spill over, lest the resultant eruption drive him further away.

Wildly she thought she might be about to burst into tears; Belin, not that, not now, please…better to leave with some shred of dignity. Now it was she who could not meet his eyes, but cleared her throat, said "well, then…" in a hollow voice, and turned to the stable door.

"Eilonwy."

It brought her up short with her hand on the doorpost; when was the last time he'd said her name? She didn't remember…nor did she remember that the sound of it had left her breathless before. Her fingers tapped nervously at the rough wood as she struggled with herself and gave up; fear of what he might see in her face kept her from turning. She willed him silently to continue. Speak. Just keep talking so I can keep breathing.

"There is…" a breath, measured. "There is something that doesn't quite satisfy me about this sword."

Curiosity broke the spell; she faced him, mystified and wary. He was holding the sword in both hands, parallel to the ground, like a sacrifice. His gaze upon it was fond, almost wistful, and he shifted it at slight angles, watching the light play on the scabbard. "You see, I never had it properly girded on." His eyes met hers then, green fire blazing beneath black brows, and a rush of warm comprehension broke upon her.

Here was an open door indeed, and yet, damnable irony, she hesitated to walk through it; why did it feel so much like surrender? Heart pounding, she retreated instinctively, searching for the security of the banter that was familiar territory. "Hmph. Were there no young ladies in the Commots? I seem to recall someone once implying that one was as good as another."

Taran cocked his head at her shrewdly. "I never said that, though I'm sure what I did say was just as foolish. And yes, there were plenty of young ladies in the Commots." At her sudden, involuntary frown he grinned, and she realized she'd just given him a perfect target.

"Taran of Caer-" She swallowed the rest, whirled around on her heel; ostensibly in annoyance but really to give herself a moment to reign in a burst of unbridled happiness so intense it threatened to pulverize her self-possession into dust. He was teasing her; nettling her deliberately in a way he had not done since before Mona, and she wanted to sing with the joy of it.

"It's not done this way, you know," she chided, turning back on him with dancing eyes. "You've already been wearing that sword for months. I learned the ceremony at Dinas Rhydnant, but I also learned all the rules involved. And it wouldn't be proper to do it now."

He quirked an eloquent eyebrow upwards. "Hm. You care about propriety, do you? Mona has changed you more than I thought."

She bristled; this really was annoying, the dare in it less so than the realization that he instinctively knew the right words to disarm her. How dare he be so mysterious himself and then see right through her?

For a long moment she faced him, gaze level, a trifle irritated, until she realized that all trace of jest had disappeared from his face. In its place was an intense expression she had seen once before, and for a moment she smelled salty air, heard the crash of surf, felt the blood rush warm to her face and the breath swell heavy in her chest. It was an expression she had dreamed of often in the intervening years, though there was more in it now: the wisdom of experience, the refinement of suffering, the joy of hope renewed, the frustration of dreams deferred – yet at its core it was still a yearning, waiting question, one that now, as then, everything in her rose up to answer, to assure.

She stepped forward, closed the gap between them, took the sword from his hands. His fingers grazed her wrists in passing; she glanced at the battered battle horn that hung from his waist, remembering.

The blade rang from the scabbard again, and she held its naked edge up before her, stark in the space between them. Focusing on his face glowing behind it, she pulled the words from the recesses of memory.

"A warrior's sword is his constant companion."

She shut her eyes, reliving tapestry-hung halls lit with smoking torches, the smell of stone floors, the bright colors of regal raiment. Opened them upon a stable in various shades of gray, dust motes glittering in the sunlight, Taran's face before her, and thought it more noble than any of the faces of Mona's court.

"With it, he guards his life, his king, his country."

She saw the same face, years previous, grimy from the dirt of Achren's dungeons, white with grief at the supposed death of Gwydion, yet set and determined as he declared his intention to travel to Caer Dathyl and warn the Sons of Don of the coming attack.

"Wielded with valor, it brings honor in battle, justice to the wicked, and vengeance to the traitorous."

His face again, etched with terror as he threw himself between her and a giant, horn-crested shadow; wracked with pained resignation as he agreed to Ellidyr's self-serving demands; blazing with helpless fury as Magg leered from the shadows of Caer Colur.

"Wielded with wisdom, it brings liberation to the oppressed, protection to the weak, and fulfillment in the service of others."

The same face, weeping openly as he cradled the head of the dying Adaon; lingering regretfully over an iron brooch before it disappeared into an old crone's gnarled fingers; glowing radiant in the light of the Peledryn as it woke her from a walking nightmare.

"I charge you to be thus; a warrior worthy of his sword."

It occurred to her, somewhere deep in the back of her mind, that he had already fulfilled most of the charge without using a sword at all, and she thought not many could make such a claim.

The flourish of the blade as she saluted him came at the expense of an hour of Teleria's longsuffering instruction, but the kiss she placed upon the hilt needed no prompting. Deftly she sheathed the blade again, gathered the belt in her hands and looked at him expectantly.

When he did not move she cleared her throat. "Raise your arms."

Taran blinked, as though shaking off a dream, and raised them. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned in, willing her hands not to tremble. He was slim, but it still took the full span of her arms encircling his waist to find the end of the belt, and for a moment she was surrounded by the earth-and-woodsmoke smell of him, his warmth, his solidity. His chin brushed the hair at her temple, and her fingers, abruptly clumsy, fumbled and almost dropped the belt.

"I thought you said all those things didn't apply to Assistant Pig-Keepers," he murmured, his breath feathering on her cheek like the brush of a butterfly wing. She breathed in once, slowly and deliberately, and leaned back from him, with a sensation a little like relief, to fasten the buckle. "I suppose I'm as guilty of speaking foolishness as you, then. But in any case, I think you are more than that now."

Finished, she straightened, looked him in the face. His arms lowered; his hands caught hers and curled them to his chest, and her own pulse throbbed audibly in her ears. "If you believe that," he whispered, "then I will try to become so."

"But you don't have to try," she answered, laying her palms flat against the thick wool of his jacket, as though to push the words into his heart where he would believe them. "You already are; I can feel that much, but I don't…I don't know yet how much. You're like…like that sword, all plain and rough on the outside, but worth more than a thousand more refined underneath." Frustrated at the insufficiency of words, she dropped her forehead to his chest, staring unseeingly at his feet, searching inward for the right thought. Once again the faint scent of woodsmoke rose around her - applewood; they always burned apple at Caer Dallben when they could…

Without warning she pushed herself upright, realizing with regret that the arms he had just begun to curve around her shoulders fell away in the process. That could wait, however; she had to make him understand. "Do you remember what I told you, about climbing the apple trees? How every year they are new, and you have to learn them all over again?"

A fond, reminiscent smile curled the corners of his mouth, drawing her eyes, irresistible; she swallowed hard and continued. "You're like that, all made over and grown new, and I…have to learn you again." She pushed at him slightly for emphasis. "And you haven't been making it easy."

Taran's eyes clouded; she felt the swell of his chest as he sighed, "Eilonwy," and was silent for a long moment, until she thought he was not going to speak again. Then – "I have no wish to cause you pain." He spoke earnestly; his hands gripped her shoulders, compelling her to listen. "If I have been distant, it has been to spare you my own…worries, my uncertainties. I can..." he paused again, took a breath. "I can make you no promises, and it seemed better to speak little than to say that which might bring false hope, or…disappointment. Perhaps I have been mistaken." There was self-doubt in his face; anxiety, but a wan smile broke through it. "You may think me more now, but where you are concerned, I fear I am still a dense and blundering Assistant Pig-Keeper."

She laughed, and pressed a fingertip to that alluring corner of his mouth. "Well, at least that gives me a familiar place to start."

Eyes kindling, he snatched her hand, pulled her into his embrace. She thought swiftly of Mona beach, colliding noses and the salt on his lips, the fluttering awkward sweetness of it, but no…this had changed, too; now it was a mingling, melting away into crimson and gold, blood and fire…and it's about time, she laughed to herself, silently, but he felt it in the changed shape of her mouth, and broke away to look at her, his breath broken against her face. "What is it?"

She sighed, and settled herself more securely within the circle of his arms. "Just…when you do decide to communicate, you're remarkably eloquent. For an Assistant Pig-Keeper."

He threw his head back in a real, honest laugh, the first she had heard from him since the journey had begun. A sounding of the bell from the guard tower interrupted him; she counted the peals and frowned. "Bother! That's a summons for the whole castle. Smoit must have an announcement."

His arms tightened one last time and released her with obvious reluctance; the air felt colder when he stepped away and she wrapped her own arms around herself; but she was warmed within, and her smile was content. Missing her at the stable door, he turned, and she studied his profile, the tall, straight shape of him, dark against the light. He cleared his throat. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yes. I was just thinking," she explained, "how much that sword suits you."

He glanced down at the blade hanging anew at his side, and rested his hand comfortably on the pommel, as on the shoulder of an old friend. "You were right, you know. We are alike, it and I," he observed. "Only now, it lacks nothing, and I…" he raised meaningful eyes to her, worlds behind them. "I am still waiting."

Taran held out his hand; she took it, and stepped with him through the open door.