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ddullahan · 4 years ago

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hadestown au 1

HI SO My anxiety has been through the fuckin roof for the past few weeks and in a fit of stress I deleted the first look of the bees hadestown au that I posted a few weeks ago. I’m feeling much better now and I wanted to repost it because I really am super excited about it >< Anyway, second verse, maybe same as the first, here we go! ---------------- it’s an old song As all tales begin, there comes a moment of question. The precipice we all stand at, toes hanging over the edge, eager to take the plunge. The question, different for every eye and ear turned to the story, starts as a feeling. It buoys us through the long swathes of paragraphs ahead. It seeps into our minds, and pushes us off the edge. We have that moment of freefall. Of realisation. We have to trust in something to catch us. Like most fairy tales, it begins with once upon a time. There laid a railroad track. If you've ever heard the rails sing on a good, windy day, you'd know the sound sticks to the back of your mind. There to stay until the dark of night, when it creeps up to whisper wanderlust into your bones. The song of the rails is a low and resonant thing, humming into the willows scattered along the railroad sides. They used to say the rails were the Fates groaning in your ears. Urging you along. Waiting in anticipation for the train to come to call. Waiting for the story to start its freefall. The metal likes to wail beneath blackened wheels on hot, summer days. Days much like the one in which our story begins. Once upon a time - Metal chatters under the weight of an ancient, scorch-marked train. Decorated with blacked out windows. Panes of glass soot-stained, like they’d been brushed with fire one too many times. Coal smoke bursts from its chimney with a grudge, flooding the gray skies in the type of black smog that you can taste in the back of your mouth, long after the train’s disappeared. It was painted white once, a long, long time ago. A gift from the boss man down below for his flowering wife; but it’s one of those gifts you shove in the back of your drawer. One of those things that you spend your nights lying awake in bed, thinking in guilty chords. The train still runs, but the old white sides are now black and cold. Like the panting of dogs on the skin of your heels, the wind still blows hot behind it. The only thing it tows are souls to their final destination, but it won't take you if you ain't got the gold to board. It’s a fact almost everyone knows. ‘Cause the old legends say the road to hell could lead you out of poverty, but you gotta pay the toll to get that good money. The wind cracks and snaps after the train; sends the short ribbons of inky black hair whipping. Snapping into the brown-skinned face of a hungry young woman. Blake Belladonna’s eyes glint like knives with a debt to pay, and her steps are sure footed against the rolling rocks under her boots. She wears a weathered bag slung over her shoulder, and a once-warm leather duster now worn to shit and hole-y. She seems small among the billowing willows and smoggy skies. She doesn't know where she's going or how she got to the railroad at all - but she knows how to turn her collar against the wind. And she knows how to run. Metal shrieks, pulling her eyes up like a hand to the chin. She’s left to watch as the ruined, black omen of a train screams past a small, dilapidated station. It’s the only structure for miles. The cicadas are screaming along to the wailing of the tracks in a symphony, until the locomotive vanishes over the curve of a distant hill. The station's dry, mud-caked windows send silt drifting to cracked, rotting floorboards. The coke-bottle thick panes rattle angrily in their fragile frames, and then come to find their peace once more. Damn this is a dump, the young woman thinks, approaching the station. But it'll have to do. The sun's rays sink into her skull and turn her warm brown skin hot to the touch. It's far too hot for April. Stepping into the shade is an immediate relief, until the hot wind kicks up again. It blasts in her face as if to remind her it's there. As if she could ever forget. She's used to the way it whispers starvation in her ears. She throws the door open and escapes from the wind; stumbles her way into the empty station. Small and dusty like it’d been forgotten, filled with only two benches facing each other and a single door hiding behind them in the gloom. There's a sign on the door that reads "End o th line Caf ". Faintly, she can hear music behind it. Blake doesn't hesitate, and heads for the door. The knob breaks off in her hand, but it feels familiar and solid so she pockets it and heads inside. Follows the hallway and the pull of her feet to the music. The walls grow darker and thicker with polished wood. Her steps don't seem to echo and the music has since paused. The quiet starts to make her anxious. She doesn't like dark hallways. She's dreamt of them enough for a lifetime. The further she goes, the more her unease starts to grow and the more she starts to wonder if she's been here before. It's ridiculous, really. This is the farthest south she'd ever gone. Or was she in the east? Her anxious heart speeds up for a reason she can't see, and it's like her feet already know where to go. The hallway turns suddenly and she finds herself standing at the rim of an amphitheater of sorts. The music fades back in. There's a band jamming to soft jazz in the stands, people crowded and conversing at tiny tables scattered about the flat floor at the bottom. There's a man at a piano playing a diddy, there's a flicker of gold in the kitchen beyond. It's alive in a way that she hadn't seen in a long time, and she finds her feet eager to join the dancing 'round the tables below. She takes a step and nearly runs into another woman, decked out in a crisp white and red suit. She’s older, maybe late thirties or mid forties - has this eternally kind, yet melancholy smile. Her features are fair, but tired. Her black hair is pulled back like Blake’s, but tipped with red like the ends had been dipped in paint. Blake apologises immediately - "E-excuse me, sorry," and starts picking her way down to the tables. "No worries dear," She hears faintly behind her, the older woman's face already blurred from her memory. She blinks and suddenly she’s on the bottom floor, with the movers and shakers rattling cups with their stomping jive. She wants to move with them, but she's already reaching for an empty chair, like her hand was following its own storyline. The flash of gold catches her attention again. Her feet slip into a shallow groove in the floor, and she is rooted. Something crashes, and her eyes follow the clattering sharp shards of porcelain. One piece with purple trim bounces off a brown boot. She notices a hole near the big toe. Blake looks up, and her heart decides to freefall. All the way across the floor stands a young woman in an apron. A bucket of newly broken dishes lay at her feet. Her eyes are so pale and pretty they have their own orbit amidst the aging lights above. Her blonde hair ripples into liquid gold, twisted messily into a bun. Broad shoulders are cinched into position with suspenders and there's an off-white shirt rolled up to her elbows, the hem tucked into a pair of trousers. The skin of her strong forearms are tanned and riddled with freckles, spreading constellations all the way up her neck and across the gradual slope of her nose. Oh, there's something familiar about all of this. Blake feels it in her bones. There’s something familiar in the ‘o’ of her startled mouth. Something about the empty hands she hovers, still holding an imaginary bucket of plates. She's got those sharp lilac eyes pinned on something in front of her. It's a jolt to realise she's staring right at Blake. Though suddenly, that older woman in the white and red suit sweeps by that freckled face, and it's with a smile and a wave that their staring contest ends. No one claims the victory as the spell breaks. The older woman asks something that Blake can't hear, but she knows her voice is soft and sweet. Her feet move like she’s skating on air, and Blake decides to focus on that. She focuses on that instead of the heartbeat in her chest. She doesn’t think about how her pulse no longer feels like it belongs to herself. The golden woman nods stiffly and turns. Follows the gliding woman to the back of the house, and Blake is left with a heart migrating into her throat. The hungry young woman quickly tears her gaze away, uproots her feet from the grooves in the floor, and sits at the table she'd claimed. Her skin feels clammy. Her body is buzzing. She shrugs off her bag and coat, then pulls her bag into her lap. As if there was anything in there worth protecting. It could be minutes, it could be hours. She's really not sure, when a shadow falls over her table, and the sight aches like an old friend. A bottle of some fizzy drink is set gently before her, the bottle cap rattling towards her side of the table. Sunflower Pop, it reads. She looks up. The poor young woman, with her liquid gold locks wrapped in a messy topknot, stares right back. They're both struck speechless. If there was ever a moment where destiny fills the lungs, it was then. Anticipation strings itself between their ribs, the cords like telephone wires humming their universal tune. I found you. I found you. I found you. But neither of them say a word to each other. The anticipation feels closer to a noose than a cup-and-string, the longer they spend breathing in the other's presence. The hungry young woman with hair black as night, just couldn't look away. Couldn't make her voice work right. The gold haired woman's jaw seems to work, but there was still no sound to be heard. Eventually the woman just turns around and walks away, toddling and tripping like her knees were unsteady. Blake sits where she left her, feeling much more than sympathy. She feels like her chair would collapse with her if she tried to follow. And again, there are voices whispering in the back of her mind. The wind already found her inside this place, its voices groaning and hollow. It always finds her, and she knows. She knows it always will. But as her slender fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle left on her table, Blake tastes the fizz and hums. Feels the crackle of carbonation all across her skin as she tracks the tall blonde with her eyes. The wind doesn’t feel like a whip in this vibrant, lively place. That has to count for something. Maybe she should stick around, just for one day. Maybe she would stick around and wait for the band to play.

#rwby hadestown au #rwby fanfiction #bumbleby #bumbleby hadestown au #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #i'm still waiting to finish the whole thing before posting it on ao3 #but the more i reread it #the more excited i am #i fucking love this au #thank y'all for your patience T.T #and thank you yangsbandana #for encouraging me to post it again i appreciate you v much T.T #rwby

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years ago

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The Crane Team (End)

This is also the final end of the MC from the ReWritten series. I won’t feature her in any future work. I feel like this is a fitting and canon compliant end for where our character would naturally end up given her origins. I tried to tie everything together here in a nice little bow.

Black Swan Bay, Herzog, Caesar... all of it.

Thank you for reading.

Late afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy of green leaves, peeking through, flashing like shattered bits of sunlight. The breeze sent them dancing, the smell of a waning summer wafting through the air, the rattling cries of cicadas buzzing through it. This plus the cigarette smoke calmed Crow’s heart to the point that he felt that maybe he could go back to the Bliss Hall Memorial Garden. The Bliss Hall was surrounded by forest on all sides but a few grassy trails were cut into the forest to allow people to escape the heat of summer and observe the deer that made the woods their home. Even now, two does were standing in the shadows, ears out, watching him. He looked back at him, suddenly struck by the beauty amid so much sorrow.

He felt it was a little cowardly to run away, leaving Yoko Uesugi there with her bouquet of white roses and shame followed on the heels of his calm heart. It caught him off guard to see Sakura Yabuki enshrined in the memorial statue. Her face was so beautiful. The memories came flooding back. Meeting her, getting to know her, hoping for her happiness with Chisei Gen. But now that was all gone, nothing was left but her smile in bronze. He tapped the grey ashes from the cigarette and quietly cursed to himself. “Are you just going to stand there, Yoko?”

Yoko Uesugi was beautiful in that lavender colored kimono, her black hair tied up in a bun and adorned with a spray of white flowers. She was still holding the white roses in her hand. He knew she was shadowing him for a good distance. Now, she reached out to him. Her hand was ungloved and sparkled with clear scales on her knuckles. The two of them faced each other, a distance between them that seemed insurmountable a few weeks ago. Now they never felt closer.

“Come on, Crow. I want to go lay the flowers with you. I want to. We don’t have to stay,” she said.

Crow pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “You’re a stubborn lady.”

“That’s for a reason.” She smiled. “A lot of reasons. I didn’t used to be like this. Once upon a time, I had completely given up on life. It was understandable, given my situation. I’d lost everyone I’d ever known, everyone I ever loved. I was surrounded by strangers. It wasn’t until a brash young man from Cassell College inspired me that I could even look ahead to the future again and not see anything more than darkness. He was my light. He still is. He taught me to live, taught me to hope, and taught me how to inspire that hope in others. To invest in the future of others, even on my darkest day. He assigned me to inspire hope in the Japan Branch. That is my mission here.”

“I’m stubborn because of him. I know the future isn’t as bright as he promised. I’m aware of the gathering clouds and shadows. That’s why after today, I will leave Tokyo. The threats to my life have become too great.”

Crow was stunned. “Too great even for Hydra?”

“Yes.” Yoko lowered her voice. “Herzog did not work alone. Some people who worked with him are now hunting me, and they are now behind the Sons of Amaterasu. I am their special target for assassination. Me and Miss Erii. It has nothing to do with my blood. They are cleaning up after themselves.”

Crow let out the breath he’d been holding. “More goodbyes huh?” He looked into her eyes, their golden light shrouded by colored contacts. “Don’t be mad but, you left a hair in my car. I had it tested. It showed that you and the Young Chief were distantly related. I had a feeling just looking at you. You reminded me of him. That’s what I meant.”

Yoko’s eyes widened slightly, then she laughed. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after all. Turning families against one another… is what Herzog did best.” She shook her head, smiling, a thin strand of hair drifted across her nose.

“So what are you going to do?” Crow asked.

“Now? I’m going to walk with you to the statue and lay the flowers. And then I will leave.”

“Who will take care of the job then?” Crow blinked.

“You, if you’re willing. You get along well with everyone I’ve introduced to you. You’re a man of heart and feeling. You’re sincere. I have no better candidate. I’ve already told the High Matriarch. She will support you.”

Crow nodded. “Mrs. Nanami and I have also been talking. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about this either.”

“Then. Shall we?”

Crow crossed the space between himself and the Devil Girl, Yoko Uesugi and took her hand. Her hand was cool and dry despite the heat. He ran his fingers over the scales there. They weren’t hard, but they were smooth and slightly bumpy. She looked into his eyes and smiled. He smiled back.

Yoko and Crow stepped out of the forest together. The sky opened up from under the dark shadowed forest, a clear blue with wispy clouds. The breeze tossed a few strands of her hair. The heat was much milder now but he could observe the slight sheen of sweat on her face. She was young, beautiful, and carried a heavy burden with effortless grace. They returned to the statue, standing side by side.

“Who are the kids at the bottom of the statue?” Crow asked, looking at the happy faces of children enshrined in bronze. There were three children, two girls and a boy, laughing and sharing a hug.

“They are children I knew from an unnamed port in the arctic. Herzog’s first victims, where I was born. I’m not the only one who knows they ever existed now. It’s a comforting thought.”

“Your friends who died from before…” Crow said. The three children looked exquisitely happy, without a care in the world.

Crow watched Yoko look down and then they bowed in unison, heads lowered solemnly. They stayed that way for several seconds. Crow’s mind returned to the last time he saw the Young Chief, at the ruins of Tokyo Tower, with Sakura Yabuki as he received his swords. Gen Chisei wasn’t part of this memorial. Why not? He glanced at Yoko who was still bowing. A smile traced her cherry red lips. But before he could ask why Chisei wasn’t part of the memorial, the girl suddenly grimaced and moaned. A dark red splatter of blood suddenly painted the memorial statue and she fell forward before he could catch her.

“Yoko!” He picked her up off the ground, his suit stained red.

People were starting to fall all over the garden. The peaceful mournful scene turned into screams of panic.

“Snipers! We’ve got snipers!” He yelled.

A steady throb of rotors made him look up. Three black helicopters were heading in, firing on the memorial from a distance. Crow picked up the wounded Yoko and ran for the trees. Crow laid her on the soft grass and stuffed his jacket into her wound, breathing hard in panic. “Hold on! Hold on!”

“Go!” Blood streaked a grotesque smile out of the corners of her jaw and painted her teeth. “Save the others! I’ll be fine!”

Pain like a fire scorched Crow’s entire body! While he was at heart a kind person, he was the quintessential gangster, the son of a gangster, and that kindness withered under the hot desire to kill every one of these sons of bitches.

He raced towards the black vans parked outside and slammed open the doors to an arsenal of weapons. He picked the heavy antiaircraft gun that came standard with every van of the Executive Board. After they’d been caught flat footed at the Tokyo Tower, it was made sure that there would never be a convoy without heavy artillery ever again. He walked out, stood against the first helicopter and fired. The white smoke trail followed the missile and took out the first gun on the aircraft.

“Take down those choppers now!” He roared. “Get everyone to the safety of the woods!” He knelt down to reload. “They’re not aiming for me. They’re aiming for the civilians.” He snarled to himself.

Crow’s phone suddenly rang and he picked up.

A man’s low voice sounded. “Are you sure you’re on the right side?”

“It’s not my job to decide what’s right. That’ll shake out in the end. Right now, I’m acting with the authority of the High Matriarch and anyone who’s against that is a target!”

He shouldered the missile launcher again and fired. This time he aimed for the rotors. The boom thundered through the air and the smoking helicopter dropped.

Meanwhile, the two others had arrived and men on ladders swung down, firing on everyone that moved. Crow took cover behind the statue and loaded his guns. “All available personnel kill those guys!” He shouted over bullets and shrapnel landing all around. After a pause in the shooting he returned fire with his pistol, aiming at the people on the ladder, they dropped to the ground but still a few of them made it down.

“Sir!”

“Ryuusei!”

The young former Devil Clan member handed him a submachine gun. “For you, my friend.”

“Find Miss Erii and get her to safety.” He said with a solemn nod.

“Yes sir… but … Ms. Uesugi…” Ryuusei still loved Yoko it seemed. But now it was too late.

“She’s fine in the woods! Go!”

Bullets uprooted garden plants, shattered the bark of trees and sent dirt flying as the beautiful garden beds became war trenches to hide behind and fire from. The Sons of Ameterasu were in full body armor and it was only a matter of time before the casualties of the Japan Branch became too much and they were overrun. Three of those maniacs were gunning specifically for Crow. He couldn’t move from behind the statue for fear of getting shot, much less return fire. While they were shooting it seemed they were taking pleasure in destroying the statue. The smiling faces of those children were suddenly full of bullet holes.

He just had to wait for a pause. He listened carefully. He couldn’t die here. He wouldn’t.

Sudden screams made him peer from behind the artwork. A small figure had pounced on those men and fought them like a mongoose in a cobra’s den. He only saw flashes of her pale white skin and golden hair as she dispatched those Amaterasu members with the efficiency of a trained assassin.

Crow’s phone rang again. A cold female voice, the one he had heard before, came over the phone. “There are explosives in the helicopters. I need you to take them out. Let me take care of the men on the ground.”

“Are you from Cassell College?”

The cold voice took on a deadly air. “This has nothing to do with Cassell. Yoko is my sister.”

The phone call ended abruptly. Sister? His eyes turned to the statue of the young children. Was this voice one of those children from the unnamed port in the Arctic? Crow scrambled to get back to the vans. He glanced behind him and saw the girl, lying on the ground, giving him cover fire. He could only peer at her back, but her figure did resemble one of the children on the statue. Crow suddenly realized that this story was full of unknown stories, a history as deep and dark and vast as the Japanese trench. It was one of friendship, sorrow, love and loyalty. It was a story that he wanted to be a part of.

He got back to the van and armed himself as much as he could. Yoko had put her whole heart and soul into the reunification of the Japan Branch and it was up to him to maintain her work. Did she know she was going to die here? He cursed and swore loudly, shoving magazines into his weapons. Why? Why did he always lose the people he was assigned to protect? He lifted up the missile launcher and fired one of the helicopters. A cloud of flames and dark debris rained down on the garden and set it alight in a cruel parody of both Bliss Hall, Black Swan Bay, and the Red Well. The last of the bricks of the house that Herzog built was now under assault and his ghost was still haunting them.

But in a stark contrast to those times, Cassell, Hydra and the Devil Clan fought back and put up a united front to battle the phantom of that man’s murderous and evil intentions.

Crow didn’t know who ran up to him to tell him that a man had run into the woods. He could have been a former devil or Hydra, or from Cassell, He didn’t care. He knew who that man in the woods was after and he had to protect her.

At the edge of the garden, Ryuusei ducked behind a tree just before bullets ate through the bark and into the soft white wood. He ran again and barely escaped the bullets whizzing by his head like angry bees. He was out of ammunition and could only hide. They knew he was out too. As he crouched behind a statue of Buddha, he smiled bitterly. “You warned me, Yoko… people who fall in love with you… tend to end up dead.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, a pair of crimson eyes blinked at him. Before he could shout, a small pale hand covered his mouth. She raised one finger to his lips and then closed her eyes. When she opened them, that crimson had turned to gold.

She opened her mouth and an ugly frog-like snarl rolled out of that pretty throat. Her thin arms wrapped around the buddha statue to hug it from behind. She picked up that stone statue, leaving a square patch of bare dirt exposed, and then threw it like an olympic javelin. This statue weighed a few hundred pounds and immediately crushed the people who were pursuing Ryuusei.

Then she grabbed his hand and together they ran into the forest. Darkness closed around them. Ryuusei could smell the smoke. “Miss Erii… right?” He could scarcely believe what he saw. This girl didn’t need his protection. She should be out there fighting like all the others!

Erii suddenly skidded to a halt. Her eyes widened. She backed up. A man all black, a mask, and body armor blocked their way, holding two dark pieces of wood. He started to tap them in a pattern and Erii grabbed her head and started to whimper and cry, tears falling from her eyes. She collapsed completely thrashing on the ground as if in terrible pain.

“What are you doing to her?!” Ryuusei leaped forward.

The man then drew a pistol and shot Ryuusei in the stomach. Ryuusei fell next to her, unable to inhale, breath frozen, eyes wide. The blue colored sun mark of the Sons of Amaterasu was on his sleeve. Ryuusei couldn’t believe it. Not here. Not now. He could only watch the assassin calmly and silently change one pistol for another. This time, aimed for Erii’s head.

A loud yell from the woods distracted his attention and Crow came from the brush, howling like an angry bear and tackling him in a line drive straight into a tree. The man dropped the gun and the two men fell to the ground, wrestling for it, tumbling over and over. Ryuusei’s hand was wet and sticky with blood and he grunted. “Erii… Ms. Erii… please get up!”

Erii was just whimpering. “Yoko… Yoko! Sister! Help me! Please help me!”

Crow’s fists struck the helmet and then the mask. The man grabbed his head and slammed him hard with a headbutt and leaped to his feet. Then he gave him a savage kick in the side. “You’re no better than that Chisei Gen. Soft. Soft to Devils that will ruin our future!” He stood over Crow and drew his pistol. “This is the last stand of the bloodline. All Devils must die! You used to be one of us. You used to be a Devil Slayer. What poisoned your mind?” He grabbed Crow by the throat. “You know the truth better than anyone.”

Crow snarled, back at him, unafraid of death. “I do know the truth better than anyone… and even better than you!”

Crow still had his gun, a pistol, modified by the Equipment department. It wasn’t meant to be used at such close range but he had no choice. He drew it and blasted the man in the chest. Even the body armor couldn’t save him from this powerful round. The force of it crashed into his ribs, snapping them like dry branches, taking his breath away. Crow swept his legs out from under him and pinned him, yanking his arms behind his back. “You want to know the truth? We Hydra were killing at the orders of a killer. Someone who was creating monsters and then sending us to destroy what he created! The truth isn’t what you know. The truth is what I know. We were pawns. All of us!” Crow roared. “I’m not going back to being a pawn by continuing to follow that bastard’s orders! And anyone who does will be eliminated by the family. These are the orders of Chisei Gen and I always follow his orders!”

The man laughed. “Then look. Look at what your precious orders have led to.”

A movement caught Crow’s eyes and he lifted his gun. Then he lowered it. A woman, naked, white like a wraith, now stood on the path, her long, ragged black hair draping over her golden eyes. She was tall, almost seven feet, long and thin with heavy claws for hands. She was covered in crystalline, mirror-like scales that reflected the shadowy greens of the forest. Bone wings, white as snow, extended from her back. Her legs were willowy, like a cross between a dragon and a mythical elf. Had her dragon evolution progressed further her legs would have fused into a serpent’s tail.

But as monstrous as her form was, he could still recognize the white flowers that dangled from her long hair. His strength left him and his face paled. “Yoko… no…”

“I had to… I had to survive.” Even her voice was different, gone from that deep softness, to something a little more like a rattle. “I have to go. I won’t be able to turn back.”

“Are you really going to let her escape Crow? That woman… She's a ghost. She’s turned fully into a ghost. Like they all will somed-”

Crow’s fist smashed into the man’s head. “Shut up! This is your fault! You! She was fine! She was fine! Until you shot her! You shot her, you bastard!” He battered the guy into unconsciousness, tears streaking down his face. This wasn’t inevitable. None of it was. Everything could have been fine! Then these people…

He finally stopped beating the man and sighed, defeated. “Executive Department policy says I have to kill you. But…”

“That’s right. I raised my blood too high in order to survive the gunshot wound. This is the price I had to pay for my life.” She regarded her crystal claws thoughtfully. “There’s a third option for us. If I can’t live as a human… or a ghost, then I would like to choose my place to die please.”

Crow lifted his head. “Choose?”

“Yes. You’re still in a war against dragons. And I’ve learned that the only thing that can kill a dragon is another dragon. You need me. And when you do. Call.”

Her eyes shifted to behind him. “Ryuusei!”

“I’ll get him a doctor!” Crow staggered to his feet. The pain in his head was starting to finally hit him and he swayed with dizziness.

“Good. I have to go.” She hurried to Erii’s side. She carefully gathered Erii up into her arms as easily as if she were a child. “Thank you… Crow.”

“Don’t thank me.” He stood up and dropped his gun from a limp hand, tears ran down his face. “Don’t thank me.”

“Thank you, Crow.”

“Damn it! I said- Augh!”

Her wings swept upward. The wind created by them was unnatural, dark clouds swirled instantly into the sky, the trees swayed under the gale. The elements were becoming unmoored from their natural order by Yoko, and stirred up by her.

The downbeat of her wings knocked him back and she rocketed upward into the sky with Erii. The dense clouds let loose a sudden downpour that smothered the flames consuming the garden and turned the ground black. She hid her presence behind this gray curtain. Crow’s voice calling out to her was drowned out by peals of thunder, but he ran chasing that retreating form, those dark immense wings, until they disappeared.

Crow stood in the middle of the garden looking helplessly up into the sky.

“What are you doing?” Said a cold female voice. “She’s gone. And she’ll never come back. Don’t just stand there. We have wounded people.”

Crow turned to her. “Who are you?”

“My name is not important.” The doll-like girl with pale white skin and golden hair turned her back on him and walked away alone.

Crow took a breath and clapped his hands together to steady himself. Then he turned and started barking orders at the security team.

Months later, Crow stood in front of a line of young men and women, some from the Devil Clan, some from the cadres of Hydra, new recruits for the Executive Branch of Japan. “You’re a select group. I selected you because you’re the ones who stood side by side and fought for the unification and healing of Japan. The first of its kind. A mixed-blood group. Some of you were Hydra some of you were Devils. But now you’re one.”

“You are now, the Crane Team!”

#Dragon Raja #Crane Team

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jooohoneybee · 4 years ago

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thank you @trashybtsqueen for tagging me!!! this was rlly fun 💕💕💕

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

(soft!)

(dark academia!)

(edgy!)

(seventies!)

(preppy casual!)

(masterninjacow!)

(cinanamon!)

(4-sun!)

(trashybtsqueen!)

(seokjinniesmoon!)

I'm gonna tag @bitoftaewithsugaandkookie , @penicillinjimin , n @kimsoupjin

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kimsoupjin · 4 years ago

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thank you @seokjinniesmoon for tagging me in a thing!!!!! I looked up how to format things for this 😁

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

(soft!)

(dark academia!)

(edgy!)

(seventies!)

(preppy casual!)

(masterninjacow!)

(cinanamon!)

(4-sun!)

(trashybtsqueen!)

(seokjinniesmoon!)

(kimsoupjin!)

Ok this was fun! I'm not gonna tag anyone but if you wanna do it you can say I tagged you

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lokishornns · 6 years ago

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Cicada’s Song

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masterlist

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— send requests!!

pairing: loki x reader (fem)

type: oneshot, this is so much angst i stg what is wrong with me

rating: pg13

word count: 2,650

warnings: death (sort of suicide but not really), blood, guns and violence, implication of sex, cursing probably

notes: this is for @whirlybirbs endgame nostalgia writing contest and uh,,, yeah so :) also it was SO hard to incorporate a mood of nostalgia without actually like mentioning a wishing for the past too much like there are little splotches but my god a mood for nostalgia is so hard

summary: A mission intended for intel is a facade for something much more ruthless.

send requests

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Warmth seeped in through the wooden frames of the windows, escaping the stained and dirty glass that sat delicately. The cicada’s wordless song drifted into the sky, molding into clouds that floated aimlessly among the stars. The salt wafted from the sea, staining everything on the island with a sweet, ocean smell. Moonlight struck through every crevice, curling around every corner, alighting the island in an eerie glow. Sprinkles of houses, created with dried mud, converged and convened in colonies that decorated the shores and heart of the island.

In the swell of the night, caressed by the murky mix of darkness and moonlight, breaths met. Lips ghosted over skin and muscles ached and shuttered. Legs danced around one another, constantly clashing in something dangerous. Hands traveled the length of bodies, grasping for stability and yearning for more. Precise words were whispered next to ears, and low murmurs and groans were spilled into the air.

Your chest heaved as you pulled away, the sticky sheen of sweat encasing your body as you closed your eyes tightly. Your thoughts had been dammed for only a minute, sated by the distraction of passion, the rushing flow of them now crashing into you in the inescapable heat of the night. Your eyes met the ceiling, where cracks danced and tread lightly among the dried mud, as if afraid of crumbling.

Your spine straightened and your muscles clenched as the weight fell back onto the bed, greeting you once more. Your eyes don’t shift, only trained above. You feel his eyes on you, studying the grooves of your face. You pretended to not notice as you closed your eyes once more, your ears straining to hear the crashing waves. A large hand slid to your thigh, rubbing the skin leisurely.

“We have an hour,” he says, and you swallow, your dry throat a sweet reminder of the panting and cries that poured from your mouth just moments ago. You wish to mold into the bed, never to see the sky again.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice hardly above a whisper.

The walk to the restaurant wasn’t any different than the last week or the one before that. The sun had set far too early in this part of the world as children played among the cobblestones and women were still humming songs that drifted from the villas. The town was the same, mainly natives strut around with the occasional splash of a peaceful foreign. You glanced around, walking the same distance to the restaurant.

But the air didn’t feel the same. Something careened and whisked among the stars.

Your heart jolted as you remembered your first days among the Avengers. When the shadow of Thanos had passed and you had risen up the ranks in the training program. Steve had given you one look before nodding, confirming your place among the others. If only he were to see you now, fucking a co-worker.

A hand at the small of your back should have been an anchor. A sense of comfort. Instead, ripples of distress climb and crawl over your skin, begging you to go back to the villa. Go back to some sense of comfort. But you swallow the feeling, pulling up the corners of your lips the best you can.

“Relax, we’re gathering information and leaving.” His breath is hot as it fans against your ears and it rivals the cicadas in their sweet song. You almost shiver as the feeling of his presence clouds over your senses and curls over your frame. You look to him, clearing your thoughts of any hesitations as your eyes meet him.

The thin white dress that flows with every huff of the wind is a blessing against your skin, relieving you of the constant cover of sweat that seems to be some sort of permanent sunscreen. It will be a nice contrast. Your eyes were drawn to the opposite building of the restaurant, glancing to the top. Loki doesn’t make any move to follow your eyes, so you let them linger on the top, hoping to meet the eyes of whoever sits up there, waiting.

“Darling, are you alright?” Loki asks, his eyes on yours now, and you let out a breath, nodding softly. You smile at him, delicately threading your fingers through the stray locks at the back of his neck, pulling him down towards your lips. He meets your lips with a gentleness that promises a pleasant chill in the constant heat. You allow for his lips to stall, letting the kiss hang in the air even as you two break away. You see the dangerous mixture of adoration and lust swirl in his eyes and you wish to sate his desires, but you turn yourself to the building in front of you, your sandals scraping against the stone.

“Let’s go,” you say, stepping into the building.

The nerves in your legs trail up and down your skin, teasing the stray hairs that always seem to evade the razor. No matter the amount of will you put towards keeping your legs still, they seem to fight back with equal force, scraping from the inside, begging to be let out. Luckily, Loki hasn’t noticed the nervous ticks your body seems to be pleading to do, a far cry from the ever-observant god that you had first met.

His eyes had seemed to be scrutinizing every inch of your skin as you trained. You were toying around with the punching bag, hyper-aware of the pair of eyes that had not seemed to move from your form the entire time you had been in the gym. You had finally had enough, turning to chew the god out as a smile only toyed at his lips.

Those same eyes scan over the menu – no matter having read the words countless times – unable to make his mind up. You had already decided a long time ago, not one to stray too far from what had become your new favorite. You’re now only hyper-aware of the occasional brush of Loki’s thumb over your knuckles, restraining your breath every time, as if waiting for some other action to erupt from the simple touch.

You give warm smiles as the waitress takes your orders, watching as Loki’s lips curve and form around every word as he orders, then flushing pink once you��re caught. You ask for extra bread and she nods, announcing that it’ll be right away. Loki and you play the part of a married couple well, almost far too well. You both exude fresh love and sex, and the expressions you wear are more than just acting. They’re perfect to each quirk of the lips and flash of the eyes.

Your attentions are quickly drawn to the rowdy group of men that seem to trample anyone in their path. Your targets were more like blaring billboards in LA, screaming for attention. You were almost tempted to use the weapon that weighed against your thigh whenever you first saw your mission. They were regulars of the restaurant, men who had traveled for business or prostitutes – you didn’t know which– to a small Greek island. You had managed to pick up the most basic of information from their drunken stupors, but the mission called for more. Or at least, you knew that.

You engaged in faux conversation with Loki, a shield for if the men tuned in, they would be disinterested far too quickly. The restaurant was small, leaving the men off to the table behind you, Loki’s eyes occasionally brought to their party. Loki’s thumb brushes over your knuckles again.

You feel your heart thrum loudly against your ribs, practically breaking through your chest. You close your eyes to fight back tears as your hands grapple the glass of wine that sits to your left. You lift the glass to your lips, savoring the taste of the alcohol as it trails down your throat and into your stomach. Your eyes are trained on the glass, no longer caring to focus in on the god in front of you as he stares at the men behind you. You tap your glass with your pointer finger once.

Then twice. And chaos erupts.

The first shot rings loudly, Loki and you both jumping back from the table. Your legs swivel on themselves and you grasp your gun from its holster, pulling the trigger swiftly. You skim through the men, one by one, allowing for some to miss a shot at you before pushing a bullet through their heads. The screams don’t stop, not even as the men fall dead, some with their glasses still in their hands. Loki runs to check the pulses as you stand there, scanning the scene.

The first shot wasn’t shot by you or Loki, nor was it shot by the men behind you as they laughed into their drinks. But it did hit you, straight through the abdomen. And you stand, your fingers still wrapped tightly around the gun as the heat begins to pool in your stomach. It didn’t hurt, not really. Not until after everyone was dead, but even then, it was a burning sensation that didn’t make you cry out in agony. You forget about the blood until you feel it running down your navel, soaking your panties as it continues down your legs.

Your eyes are pulled down to the white dress, that now is pressed against you with your own blood soaking through the fabric. You want to laugh. You had pulled it off. You had succeeded. But as Loki turns and you stare at his face, you feel as if you did anything but success.

His face is gruesome to watch, a sight you wish you could pry your eyes from. The first emotion is alarm, surprised that a shot had hit you. Confusion and anger wash through him quickly before he’s even able to register what had happened. Then all you see is a concoction of fear and agony. The fear that he’s somehow going to lose you. The agony of knowing he’s already lost you.

“No.” It’s barely a whisper, and it barely dances on his tongue, but it’s sung louder than the cicadas. It’s loud enough to reach your ears. Loki’s feet are uncoordinated and unbalanced as he stumbles to your side. His eyes haven’t left your stomach. “No.”

You both know you’re not going to be fine. In about fifteen to thirty minutes, you’ll have bled out. In about five to ten, you won’t be able to stand anymore. You both know how close the nearest trauma hospital is or the extent of what Loki’s healing can do. You both know you can’t be saved. So, you don’t know what drives Loki to say his next words. You can only credit it to desperation.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise,” he breathes as his hands tremble over your wound, kneeling in front of your stomach. Your heart aches at the promise. He’s going to break it. You let out a sad laugh and his eyes finally reach yours, bewildered beyond belief that such a sound could leave you.

“I’m not,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you feel tears spring into your eyes. The wave of emotions that washes over you at the sight of a tear running down Loki’s cheek makes you gasp and sit back in your seat, the wood groaning beneath the limp weight. The regret and sadness are the most prominent among your emotions, poking through every crevice and pore in your body as a tear of your own runs from your eye. “I’m not going to be okay.” You press a hand against Loki’s cheek, cradling his face.

Loki’s actions become much more unhinged. He takes your dress, ripping it from the bottom to open widely to the pulsing wound that plunges deep into your middle. You stare at the imperfection on your skin, swallowing dryly as the warm liquid seems to bubble from it freely. His hands snatch a napkin from the table, balling it up tightly before pushing against the hole. You hiss, the contact being the first thing that truthfully pains you.

“Yes, you are,” his voice cracks. He opens his mouth to yell, screams erupting from his lips as people have begun to calm down, directing them to call for a helicopter – to do something.

But you don’t listen to the sounds, only looking at him. His hair has moved from its normal position, and loose strands stick to his skin. His eyes are pleading and panicked, screeching for help. His brows are furrowed, and veins stick out on the pale skin that’s now starting to turn a bit red. You can’t tell him. You know you can’t tell him this was all your plan. That you knew when you made this mission, you were coming here to die.

“Loki,” you call his name and his eyes glue themselves to yours. You feel your stomach churn – not because of the bullet wound – and you feel your throat tighten. “I love you,” you say, and his mouth drops open.

“Don’t you dare say that,” he begs, his free hand pressing into your thigh. “Don’t you dare tell me that, not now,” he murmurs, and you choke out a sob. “You can’t tell me that before I’m about to fucking lose you. That’s not fair. You can tell me that when we’re back at the compound and-”

“Loki, I’m not going back to the compound alive,” you raise your voice, stopping when his eyes widen. “I’m dying here, and I love you. I love you more than anything. So, please, if you don’t love me back, don’t tell me,” you choke, fully aware that you must look like a mess, but who can blame you?

Loki closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against your legs as a sound of agony rips from his throat, the vibrations making your heart throb. You become aware then that your eyelids are tempted to droop and that your breaths are slower, now only a small murmur in your chest.

You miss the compound. You long to be back at the compound, curled up near a window, humming a song as you read a book. You long to be back in Loki’s arms at a game night, your body thrumming with the force of your laughter as Sam forces out another joke. You wish to spend another night sneaking into the god's room in the depth of the night to avoid the prying ears of the assassins.

“I love you,” he says into your skin, his head still pressed against your legs. Loki’s arm comes to wrap around your back as he begins to straighten up, pulling you from the chair and close to his chest. You almost smile at the motion. His lips press to yours and you savor in the taste, your lips cradling his with the most passion you could muster.

The kiss is searing. It’s gentle and sad and passionate and desperate. It tastes of salt and fire and you wish you had shared more touches like this. You only pull him tighter, biting his bottom lips whenever your wound sends a shot of burning pain through you. You both know this is goodbye.

You’ve had enough experience to know that not every bullet wound brings pain and that you were lucky to fade away with as little as you did. But you wish you could have had more. You wish you could have felt a physical toll just to distract you from the pain that you read on Loki’s face. You wish the bullet was too painful to even speak.

Because as you seeped into nothing, your blood soaking the tiles and pouring onto the street, Loki screamed your name, becoming another song amongst the cicadas.

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taglist: @quenilla @darkprincessloki92 @jessiejunebug

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nadiarizavi · 5 years ago

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a different definition of stars- chapter 1: blue, a color, a feeling

@planceminibang SUMMARY:

Lance McClain was born for the spotlight. But after a surprise scandal, his mom gets worried that the fame’s starting to get to his head-- and Lance gets shipped off to live with his brother Luis and his family in the countryside town of Garrison, in the middle of Altea County, population barely breaching a thousand. In a new place where no one knows his name, Lance should be grateful to have a break from the lights and cameras-- but being a farmhand isn’t the life of glitz and glamour he was used to. And it’s definitely no picnic when the girl next door has blackmail on you.

RATED: T, TAGS: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Injuries, Cows, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Car Accidents, minor kallura

CHAPTER ONE ON AO3!

A/N: huge thank u to the mods !!! huge love to @zoedozy for making SUPER LOVELY ART that’ll be shared soon !! the fic is below the cut or you can read it on ao3! <3

Slap.

Lance withdrew his legs with a hiss, turning to the driver--his sister in law, Lisa-- who by now had turned her eyes back to the road, a satisfied smile on her face.

“The hell was that for?!”

“I told you four times to get your feet off the dash, Lance.”

Lance gestured to the dash, then at her. “It’s--look! I didn’t leave a mark!”

“And you’re adorable if you think that attitude’s gonna fly here.”

“Attitude--?”

“Lance.”

He slumped back into his seat, the dirt road causing the truck to bump and jostle along as it did. His eyes wandered back out the window-- miles and miles of grass and trees, cattle, hazy purple mountains in the far off distance. Not another car for miles. No music played on the radio--white noise. An unrelated buzz--Lisa told him that it was cicadas in the late summer--hummed in the air, and the sun was high in the afternoon sky. Cloudless. An infinite blanket of blue.

“How’s Veronica?”

Lisa was asking him questions again. Lance looked down at his shirt, tugging at a loose string, brows furrowed. How’s Veronica?

Mad at him.

Well, he couldn’t blame V for being mad at him. He was still trying to ice the burn from his parents being mad at him too.

He heard the shutter of a secret camera click in his ear, and Lance planted his forehead against the window.

“She’s fine.”

“Mami told me she didn’t come to send you off.”

“Busy at work. She has a life too, yanno. Outside of being my babysitter,” he grumbled. They drove past one, two cows. He should add on to that. “Sorry you got stuck with babysitting, by the way.”

“You’re family.” A pause. She was thinking of something to add on, too. “We want to take care of you too, Lance.”

The cicadas buzzed on.

Nadia and Sylvio were his next assailants-- running down the porch steps of a wooden, white ranch house at full speed, down the dirt driveway, and into his arms. He only ever saw the kids when the family came to Hollywood for the holidays, for summer vacation. They wore wide smiles, their teeth bright white, Nadia’s dark hair braided down her back, Sylvio’s hands were dried with mud. Lance couldn’t help but laugh.

Despite the circumstances, he could never resent seeing his favorite niece and nephew.

“You guys keep getting bigger. Stop eating your vegetables.” Lance said, bending his knees for Sylvio to wrap his thin arms around his neck, lifting him into a piggyback ride while Nadia skipped alongside them.

“Do actors need to eat their vegetables?” Nadia asked, a curious twinkle in her eye. She wanted to be just like her uncle Lance, she had said at Christmas the last year. Just like him.

For the moment, the reminder made his stomach twist in knots.

“Well, kinda.”

“Then I won’t stop.”

Sylvio wriggled against his spine, chirping directly into Lance’s ear. “Me too! I won’t stop, too!”

That made him laugh, the knot undoing itself for the thirtieth time that day, and he let the boy down as soon as the porch steps came to view. It was a big porch. It was a big house. Stark white, freshly painted. An oasis in the middle of a lifeless world. Lisa whistled for him, back down the driveway.

“Lance, you don’t seriously expect your pregnant aunt to get your bags, do you?”

Lance bolted back down, ignoring the sting in his chest when he reached the truck and looked down to his shoes; once pristine, white, now dusted. Lisa gave him a curious glance as she handed him his duffle.

“What’s wrong?”

“My shoes.”

And then she rolled her eyes, dropping the duffle into his arms. “You’ve got money. Buy new ones. Probably something better suited for the farm.”

He followed her dejectly--her and his rolling suitcase--back up the driveway, feeling perspiration on his forehead, in his hair. The late afternoon was hot, the sun oppressive against his neck. Sunscreen. That was definitely first priority once he’s settled in.

The air inside the house was cool and inviting, a welcome reprieve from the hot summer sun. The kids followed their mother and Lance like ducklings up the stairs, into the spare bedroom, inspecting Lance as if he were a new toy.

In a way he kind of was. All city and no country on him. He was dressed for first class travel, not for the dirt roads and cattle and buzzing cicadas.

The bedsheets were a shade of wet soil and smelled faintly the same. The lacy curtains were open, and he could get another view of miles of grass and purple mountains and an infinite sky. The wallpaper-- blue, white, floral--right out of a homestead decor magazine. There was a desk and a closet, empty save for boxes labeled ‘WINTER COATS’ and ‘XMAS DECOR.’ Lance dropped his duffle on the bed, watching the dust float up and catch in the light. Sylvio and Nadia set to inspecting the room itself, and Lisa let out a content sigh as she looked around. She threw him a smile.

“Nothing like Beverly Hills?”

“Don’t see an infinity pool out there,” Lance said, hoping he sounded funny. Please think I’m being funny, Lis.

She outstretched a hand to him, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt, following his gaze out the window to the sky and the mountains and the grass. “You don’t need a pool to see infinity out here, mijo.”

She started out the door again. “Let’s get the rest of your bags and get you settled in, right? Sylvio, Nadia, can you two go check on the chicken coop?”

The two were glad to oblige, racing down the stairs in fits of laughter, and Lance could only follow Lisa, dumbstruck, hand out to help her if she needed a hand down the steps. “You guys got chickens here too?”

She laughed, throaty and warm. “You’ll get to meet them tomorrow, I hope. I don’t know what Luis wants you to do yet.”

“Probably wrangle a cow.”

“We don’t wrangle anything here. You’re a farmer now, not a bull rider,” Lisa let out a breath, looping her arm through his as they left the cool air of the farmhouse and started back down the driveway, kicking up dirt as they walked. She was quiet, until they were back to the car, back to the luggage Lance toted from sunny California. “Your mama didn’t tell us everything, you know.”

Lance bit his lip, hoisting his luggage out of the truck bed and onto the road. “You can probably just google it.”

“I’d rather hear it from you, Lance. Not the tabloids.”

That was reassuring, considering his parents and Veronica preferred to read the tabloids.

He looked Lisa in the eye, and the knot in his chest twisted itself right back up. Lance wondered if there was a chance he could get an Eagle Scout badge for his impressive knotting skills in the last month, because this was one hell of a situation to be tied up in. And, hell, no sense beating around the bush with her.

“Uh, it was a DUI.”

Her expression fell.

“Lance…”

He remembered his luggage, one hand reaching for it, the other gesturing at Lisa. “No, no. I, uh, I don’t want you to say anything. It was my fault.”

She was still looking at him with a furrowed brow. Pity. Worry. Other emotions he wished he couldn’t see, couldn’t understand. “No one was hurt. Just me,” was tacked on quickly, almost too quickly.

She picked up the other luggage, and she squeezed his arm again, but pulled away quicker. “No, yeah, of course. You got lucky.”

There was ice in her words, and Lance could taste bile. His free hand went subconsciously into his hair, eyes back up at the sky, tracing the bumps and grooves of a healing, stitched wound, the sweat on his hands sliding against the sweat in his hair, and the infinity of blue began to break up and crack like a shattered windshield.

Lance closed his eyes.

He got lucky.

His first task was dishes, drying as Lisa washed, and the sound of a car honk outside and the ecstatic shouts of his niece and nephew almost made him screw it up. He sat the plate down on the counter, giving Lisa a wild look. She snorted.

“Luis is home.”

“Where’s he even been all day?”

“Hey, farm work is more than just staying on the farm.” She dried her hands, following the kids outside, and Lance could hear them chatter, hear his name be shouted in excitement by Sylvio. He shuffled along, tail between his legs; the nerves, the anxiety building back up again as he peered through the screen door. There was Luis, and a dog, and the door swung open. Lance stumbled back. The stranger just raised her brows.

“Oh. My bad.”

Lance peered down at her. She wore her hair pulled back under a baseball cap, eyes behind large, round glasses. She was dressed for work, dusty denim jeans and a loose tee covered in suspicious red stains, and in her arms was a crate full of mason jars labeled by fruit (and Lance’s suspicion of the stains dissipated). She looked around his age, maybe younger. Her amber-toned eyes eyed him curiously, and Lance wondered for a moment if she recognized him. They had television here in the middle of nowhere, didn’t they? She had to know who he was. Maybe she’s starstruck.

Her curiosity quickly turned to annoyance.

“Can you… please move?”

Right. He was blocking her path. Lance obliged.

“Sorry. Uh. Hey, I’m Lance.”

He followed her into the kitchen as she set the crate down, setting to unboxing the jars, reading the labels, organizing them by fruit on the counter. Lance watched her for a minute, listening to the sound of glass tinkle. He had about a thousand questions. Many revolving around the stranger in his uncle’s kitchen unboxing fruit preserves like her life depended on it.

“I’m Lance.” He said again, louder, hoping her silence was just because she didn’t hear him. “I’m, uh, Luis’s little brother.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence. She picked up the now-emptied crate, turning around to face him. Nothing. No reaction, not even a little one. Lance blinked at her.

“Lance McClain.”

“Yeah. You’ve told me your name three times already.”

“I… I did.” He did. “And you are…?”

“Not staying.” She brushed past him, and Lance stared after her. No way. There was no way. He knew his brother was disconnected, but even Luis watched TV.

“Wait, you don’t… do you watch TV? Ever?”

She stopped, turning around, holding the crate against her hip as she gave him a bewildered stare. “You’re kind of a weirdo, Lance McClain.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

She shifted her footing.

“I do now. Why’s that matter? You’re special or something?”

“Yes. Wait, no.”

She raised a brow again, and maybe he was imagining the amused twinkle in her eyes. “O-kay. See ya around, Lance.”

Good brother manners told him to follow the girl back out, greet his uncle. But at the moment, Lance was having a reality check.

Out in the middle of farmer country and the first person he thought would recognize him… didn’t. Was this what a blessing was? Or maybe it was just a blow to his ego. Either way, it was devastating. He peered back out through the screen door, watching the stranger laugh and smile with his brother and Lisa, giving Sylvio and Nadia hugs. And he watched her whistle for the dog, and watched them disappear down the dirt road. He turned toe back towards the kitchen, grabbing the next plate they used for lunch and began to scrub it down, listening for the door to open, for anyone’s voice. It was a relief when the laughter finally carried itself through the foyer, through the kitchen, and Lance felt a calloused hand clap down on his neck.

“What, didn’t want to come say hi?” Luis pulled him into a half-hug, and Lance splashed dish water, a laugh escaping him.

“I wanted to finish these, man.”

“Dishes! I thought Mami was making up urban legends when she said you still knew how to do these.”

“Dickhead.”

Luis laughed, setting to drying Lance’s dishes, his eyes wandering to the jars stacked up neatly on the counter. “You met Katie, at least?”

“Was that the girl?”

“Isn’t she great? Smartest girl we know.” He gestured around the house. “Set up the wifi and TV and even fixed the truck last spring with her mechanic buddy. Complete wonder girl.”

“What the hell? She set up your cable and she apparently has no idea who I am.”

Luis slowed his motion with the dish towel, rolling his eyes. “You can’t be serious. You’ve barely been here a day and you have expectations.”

“It’d be like if you didn’t know who Leonardo DiCaprio was.”

“Leo is an international icon and you’re on a daytime drama. Perspective.”

Lance took a step back, eyes on the preserve jars. “It was just… weird.”

Luis glanced at him, smiling. “A good or bad weird?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, get used to it. Mami sent you over here because she knew you’d be out of the spotlight while this whole thing simmers down.”

He winced, involuntary, leaning back against the counter. Simmer down. That’s all this was, right? The press will stop seeking him out and some other celebrity will do something equally or more insane, and Lance and his car wrapped around a pole would be old news. Simmered down. Cooked and salted and chowed down and passed right through and the next meal comes along and the cycle repeats itself in a vicious self-sabotage.

It didn’t sit well with him, suddenly. A headache spiked where his skull had split opened and flowered, however many salted and simmered days ago. The bile came back.

“Yeah, when this all simmers down.” Lance said, a little too loud, and he faked a yawn. “Anyways, I’m beat. Jet lag and shit. When should I set my alarm?”

“I’ll cut you some slack. Seven A.M. sound good?”

“Good god, no.”

Luis threw him a well meaning smile. “Let me or Lisa know if you need anything, okay?”

“How about building a luxury pool and spa in the backyard?”

“Anything but that.”

They laughed together, shoving and shoulder-checking, and Luis followed Lance as far as the stairs, a grin on his face, a crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“Make sure you stay knocked the hell out, because you’re going to need all the sleep you can get. You’re on farm time, now.”

Lance shuddered hard, overdramatic. “That’s scary shit, Lu. Love you. Goodnight.”

He bounded up the stairs a little too fast, sinking down into his four-post bed, onto a blanket of soil and stared up at a dark ceiling. The buzzing of cicadas was replaced by the chirps of crickets, and Lance squeezed his eyes shut, rolling onto his stomach. His fingers itched to check his phone, google himself, see if his co-stars were texting him; but he knew better. Now was not the time.

Simmer, simmer down, Lance.

The jet lag caught up to him, eventually, and he breathed in the scent of earth and sky.

#plance #plance mini bang #planceminibang #amaje fics #a different definition of stars

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sympathyfortheblinderdevil · 6 years ago

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Serious Things: Chapter 4

Chapters 1, 2, 3

While on the road to meet Capone, Arthur meets Mollie and finds that he has a connection with her. Tommy acts like a diva when he finds out that some things are beyond his control.

Arthur doesn’t get enough fic love, and I seek to change that.

Mollie shows Arthur something that makes him wonder if she could be the one to save him from himself.

Mollie had dressed for the path that they would walk on their adventure. Her hair was braided into two plaits and tied up with a dark blue bandanna. She had on a shirt that she hadn’t worn in a couple of years because she didn’t want to wear any of her “good” clothes where they were going. She had gained a little weight since she had last worn it, and her breasts strained at the buttons, but she didn’t think Arthur would mind. Her curves filled out her denim overalls which were tucked into a pair of tattered lace-up work boots.

Arthur had to stifle a laugh when she came out of her bedroom. “I’m sorry, love, but those boots!” he wheezed.

Mollie arched an eyebrow at him and warned, “Well, look at how you’re dressed! You won’t be laughing when you are plumb eat up with chigger bites and I’m checking your balls for ticks.”

“Checking my balls for what?” he sputtered and looked down at his attire: a plain cotton shirt with no collar, his usual brown trousers, and a pair of oxford shoes. He became more serious as the meaning of her words settled on him. “And what’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Ticks. And you don’t want to leave the bottoms of your pants open. I’ll find a pair of my brother’s boots for you to borrow. You can tuck your pants into them. Where we are going, there are things that crawl and bite and will keep you awake for weeks scratching like a hound dog. It’s best to limit possible points of entry.”

With Arthur properly suited and booted, they set out across the scrubby field behind Mollie’s house. Arthur carried a gunny sack that Mollie had packed with cheese sandwiches, homemade pickles, and jars of icy well water. The field was lush with sage grass and hay up to the waist, and she hastened across it, leading Arthur to the wooded thicket beyond. He could now understand why she was dressed the way she was and why she had insisted on his wearing her brother’s boots.

After they had walked for a while, Arthur asked, “Are there snakes out here, Mollie?”

“Not many,” she answered, with a sideways glance.

Arthur quickened his pace, practically running until they reached the coolness of the woods. Mollie caught up with him, giggling as she collapsed, sitting on the ground beside him. They settled under the canopy of shady trees while they caught their breath, and Mollie took the gunny sack from Arthur. She pulled out a jar of water and took a drink, offering it to Arthur when she was finished. It was still cold from deep in the ground from which it was pulled.

“You’re a hard man, Mr. Shelby. Don’t tell me that you are afraid of snakes.”

“Nah, they’d take one look at these boots and slither off in the other direction.” Arthur took a drink and passed the jar back to Mollie, stealing a sidelong glance at the way her shirt skimmed over her damp skin.

He then looked up into the treetops, and as he took in his new surroundings she studied his face. He had a rough handsomeness that she had never seen the likes of before. His freckle-dusted complexion and deep blue eyes didn’t seem to go with his inky black lashes, but she was glad that they did. The contrast was mesmerizing. She gingerly traced a scar that ran from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, then leaned up to kiss it. His eyes fluttered closed and he took a deep breath.

“I like it here. It’s peaceful,” he exhaled.

“I do too. It reminds me of being on the road when times were good. My ma would take me foraging. We’d find berries, greens, mint for tea, then we’d take it all back to camp. My pa would make a big deal of it all, going on and on about how I had found it with my sight. He really made me feel special.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I miss the way that he used to be. Before everything was about money, and deals, and fighting.”

Arthur got a faraway look in his eyes. “I used to fight…quite a lot. Now I just run the matches.”

“Why’d you stop?”

He looked at her, searching her face for a sign if he should give an honest answer. Something in her eyes told him that she’d understand. “I killed a boy.”

“Oh.”

“Does that scare you?”

“No,” she quietly replied, and took his hand. She ran her thumb over his scarred knuckles. “Honey, we’ve all done things that we’re not proud of, things that we regret. But when I look at you, I see a soul worthy of redemption.”

As she spoke, she moved closer and closer to him until he could feel her breath caress his cheek. Her plush red lips gently kissed his jawline, and his eyelids drifted shut. At that moment, if all the rest of the world fell away it would be alright with him. Still, after a moment of peace, the nagging memory of all of his bad deeds came creeping into his thoughts. He felt that he could never escape the judgment that would surely come for all of the beatings, the cuttings, and the murders he had committed in his short lifetime.

He dropped his head down to his chest and sighed. “Oh, Mollie. If that were the only horrible thing that I had done…” After a moment he cleared his throat and pulled one of her braids. “So. Are you going to tell me where we are going?”

She grinned at his obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “No. You’ll have to wait and see,” she teased while she pushed herself up off the ground and dusted off the seat of her overalls. “But we need to get moving if we are going to be back in time for me to cook supper for Y'all.”

They picked their way through the woods for what seemed like hours, stopping from time to time to rest or just to talk. Mollie kept the conversation light, and Arthur could not remember a time when he had felt so free. He was weightless. All of his worries with his family, with the business, with the noise inside of his head, was gone. All that remained was the soft laughter and tender touch of the girl who was walking beside him.

“Are you hungry yet?” her voice broke into his thoughts.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Good, because we are almost there. It’s a long way to go for a picnic, but I think that you’ll find that it was worth the trek.”

She jogged ahead of him, looking back over her shoulder and shouting, “Come on!” as she bounced toward a break in the tree line.

When they reached the clearing, he was amazed by the sight before him. Majestic granite columns rose skyward into nothingness. Pieces of walls, here and there, seemingly held up by the honeysuckle vines that twirled their way around the crumbling red bricks. Arched windows that once held stained glass were draped with bougainvillea and yellow jessamine. She had brought him to a ruined church.

Cicadas rattled in an unrelenting ebb and flow as Arthur made his way to the crumbling steps where Mollie stood. Strands of her auburn hair had escaped her bandanna and fanned out in wisps around her head, catching the sunlight and glowing. She looked like an angel.

She put her arms around his neck when he reached her. “Do you like it?”

“It’s amazing. I mean, we have these in England, but not like this.”

They stepped inside and he whispered, “What happened here?”

“Your tribe helped us redecorate the first time it was gutted,” she playfully replied as she led him further into the decaying bones of the church, “but it was destroyed for good when Sherman came through on his march to the sea.”

“During your Civil War.”

“Yeah.” She stopped, and Arthur stood beside her, still holding her hand. Mollie stared wistfully into the trees beyond the ruins. Spanish moss cascaded thickly from every branch. Arthur’s eyes followed her own, and when she turned to look at him she couldn’t help but smile at the placid warmth she saw on his face.

She rested her head against his shoulder and quietly spoke, “It’s strange how a place like this, a place that saw so much violence and destruction can become beautiful, even peaceful over time.”

“Like a sort of redemption?” he mused, and he leaned his head over onto hers.

Mollie brought his hand to her lips, tenderly kissed his scarred knuckles, and whispered, “Yes, and I believe that people are the same way.”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fan fiction #arthur shelby #arthur shelby x oc

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francescaswords · 6 years ago

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Chapter One | The Princess and the Dragon and Other Stories About Unlikely Heroes

Prologue / Chapter Two / Chapter Three Read Chapter Four and the rest of the novel on my Patreon!

The Kingdom of Mirrors, the loudest, southernmost and most magical of the Three Kingdoms, filled the bottom third of the crescent moon with olive trees, fishing boats and about ten thousand mirrors. It was ruled by the Durante line of the House of Stars, whose family tree was dotted with the types of people whose exploits are written into ten-minute songs about burning cities and eccentric fashion sense and enormous acts of courage in the face of fire-breathing dragons. Princess Amelia, the youngest of the Durante family, knew from early childhood that she, too, would one day have to defeat a dragon.

Nobody initially expected Amelia to face the dragon in question, partly because she was a girl and partly because she had been born second in line to the throne. Her older brother, Prince Nicholas, was both dashingly handsome and perfectly capable of embarking on such a heroic quest by himself. Unfortunately for Amelia, by the time she reached her teens Prince Nicholas found himself indisposed, so although most people were too polite to mention it, the task of dragon-slaying ultimately fell to her.

Amelia was fourteen, and in happier stories she would be learning how to dance or dabble in magic. In this story, Amelia was in charge of olive oil production. She was also kingdom treasurer, head of the royal family’s public relations department, occasional fisherwoman and part-time carer to her ailing father, the king. For someone born into a centuries-old dynasty, she spent a lot of time with ancient legal documents and recently gutted fish.

Amelia’s path to notoriety began one overwarm Monday evening in early spring when she had finished a day’s work in the kingdom treasury and was heading through the Kingdom of Mirrors’ busy capital city, Lumiere, to evening lessons in the castle. Today she would be learning mathematics with her tutor—which seemed redundant when she ran the entire kingdom’s budget from a piece of parchment and an abacus—so she dragged her feet as she walked through Market Street towards the castle.

Market Street was the epicentre of Lumiere and Amelia’s favourite part of the city. Lumiere looked like a fairytale, or a dream. It was a dream, of sorts: Amelia’s great-great-times-something grandparents designed the city themselves after the previous one was ravaged by one of those wars disguised as a marriage. Wait, no, this one was a war disguised as a war.

Neither grandparent was particularly conventional when it came to architecture, so every corner of Lumiere demanded your attention. White stone buildings rose into spires with forty sides, each one mosaiced with tiny chips of glass or ceramics. Colourful tiles trimmed every window and door, forming intricate patterns that drew the eye in a hundred directions. Only a few windows in each building held clear glass: almost everywhere boasted a stained-glass frieze of pictures or spirals. Even regular stone walls were round and misshapen, like someone plucked all the cobbles from the street and piled them on top of one another until they resembled a building. On every wall in the kingdom, from the tiniest cupboard to the largest battlement, hung a looking glass. No one was sure who had started the tradition, but they all appreciated how easy it was to check if you had food stuck in your teeth. Brightly painted doors, each competing for attention in violent shades of fuchsia or lavender or buttercup, were elegantly latticed with wrought iron. Some buildings were mosaiced entirely in silver, others in turquoise or tangerine. There wasn’t a grey space in the country and according to rumour, every colour in existence had been pressed into use somewhere in the kingdom. A staple of every primary school education in the Kingdom of Mirrors was a day spent naming the colours of each public building.

On some walls Amelia passed, mosaics formed cheery squares like kitchen tiles. On others they made bright, childlike images telling the history of the Kingdom of Mirrors. There were the olive trees, there was a woman brewing a potion, there was a boat next to some fish. The mosaiced fish were consistently bigger than the little people on the boat, which always made Amelia wonder whether the artist had no sense of scale or if they wanted to emphasise how brave the fishermen were, sailing out to face enormous krakens and territorial mermaids and climate change.

As she walked, Amelia gazed across Market Street to the little boats in the harbour, bobbing about on a minuscule breeze. Something moved near the hull of a dinghy, perhaps a school of fish or a merperson. The boat’s owner dozed on deck, oblivious. Up in the hills, lights twinkled from the peaks of each mountain. Lime green parakeets hollered over tiny sparrows, shouting over hulking seagulls.

Amelia stopped at one of Market Street’s twenty food carts to buy a snack before lessons. After a small diplomatic incident in which a local butcher replaced fresh lamb with fresh cat without mentioning it to anyone first, Amelia had lost her taste for kebabs, so she chose a cheese pastry and orange juice, praying that the cheese came from a farmyard animal. ‘You don’t have to pay, Your Majesty,’ the vendor told her as she rummaged through her purse. Although Amelia was dressed exactly like her subjects in a loose cotton dress and had the same umber skin and jet-black hair, the market knew her well. She frequently hid there to avoid going to the castle.

‘Of course I do…’ Amelia searched for the vendor’s name. ‘Sarah. Of course I have to pay, Sarah, I’m not going to go around stealing from my own people!’ Especially when you’re one of the few tradespeople who pays their taxes, she added silently.

‘Well, if you’re sure… can I put some magic in it, on the house?’

‘Oh, go on then.’ Amelia yawned and fanned herself with her sunhat. ‘Something to revive my desire to go to my maths tutorial.’

Sarah smiled and reached under her little counter for a vial labelled enthusiasm: medium strength. She flicked a couple of drops into Amelia’s orange juice. ‘Bad day at the office, Your Majesty?’

Amelia gazed across the square at children her own age. Walking home from school with cloth satchels slung over their shoulders, wearing faded patterned dresses or shorts, they jostled each other along in a way that always struck Amelia as very comradely. She tried to push back a pang of jealousy. Until Amelia’s father suffered a stroke when she was twelve, Amelia attended the same local school, wearing the same faded patterned dresses. Amelia hadn’t especially enjoyed formal education when she was forced to go, but after years of squeezing in private tutoring between royal business and gradually losing touch with her friends, Amelia would have given anything to spend eight hours with other people her own age. Especially since public schools let children take a class in brewing potions, and Amelia’s parents wouldn’t let her near any magical substances since an unfortunate incident with a dog and a growth potion when Amelia was ten.

‘Oh you know…’ Amelia shrugged. ‘Eighty per cent of our teachers and healthcare professionals have gone abroad in the last five years and we can’t afford to train anyone new. There’s also a shortage of sorcerers who know how to bewitch the weather, so we’re in for a long summer.’ She scowled and chomped her pastry. ‘Oh, and the Earl of Star’s Reach spent half an hour telling me how he plans to convert an entire room in his house into a shrine to the gods of gratitude. Gratitude! He’d do better praying to the gods of lost causes.’

Shrines in the Kingdom of Mirrors were like pairs of shoes: everyone owned at least one, but to people who considered themselves fashionable, they were the ultimate status symbol. Each building housed a shrine to one god or another, each made from chips of mirrored glass or colourful tiles. Some were the size of a post box, others the size of a shed. Some people, like the Earl of Star’s Reach, dedicated an entire room in their house to their shrine, replacing all the windows with stained glass and filling the room with candles, incense and tiny prayer scrolls. The Earl fancied himself a priest and a magician, although the rest of the court fancied him a nuisance, especially when his attempts at magic resulted in a castle-wide evacuation.

‘Is he thinking of going for any particular design?’ Sarah asked. Her kiosk’s little shrine to the water gods was the size of a milk jug and made from blue glass chips. It sat on the till, which Sarah had bewitched to open only when she touched it.

‘The Earl wants a plain mirrored mosaic floor in the shape of his family crest to remind him of his respect for the gods of hearth and home,’ Amelia recalled. ‘But his wife doesn’t like to be reminded of her mother-in-law.’

‘Maybe she should pray to the gods for a new husband, then,’ Sarah suggested. ‘Or send him south to Scavenger’s Ruin. The Sapphire Dragon will take care of him.’

Amelia tried to laugh, but something stuck in her throat.

She finished her food at the communal iron tables, soaking up the atmosphere as the evening sun reflected off the mirrors on each building, casting the entire street in strange beams of light and duplicating the market one thousand times over. When she was little, Amelia thought that every mirror contained another world, where another Amelia sat, looking into another mirror.

The temperature was starting to drop, so Lumiere was coming alive. Children scampered around fountains while parents chatted at cafés. Amelia could hear restaurants getting ready for the dinner shift, lighting fires to roast lambs and goats on spits, and she could smell oregano and bougainvillea plants. A cicada chirruped somewhere, almost drowned out by a marching band performing at one end of Market Street. The band appeared to be in direct competition with an orchestra holding a performance at the other end of the street. Babies’ cries mingled with dogs’ barks as street vendors contended with everyone. ‘Salted olives, a jar for a silver coin!’ Amelia could get two jars of olives for a copper coin; there were more olive trees in the Kingdom of Mirrors than there were people. A wasp buzzed near Amelia’s pastry wrappings, close enough to count its legs. She waved it away. Another vendor hollered, ‘Feather pillowcases, plucked from swans this morning!’ Very few swans lived in the Kingdom of Mirrors. Possibly the manufacturer had skinned several pigeons.

It was well past time to go to lessons, so Amelia hauled herself from her seat and brushed her sticky hands on her dress as the loudest voice of all cut through the crowd. ‘Magical gold amulets—guaranteed to keep your marriage healthy! Just five gold pieces for two!’

Amelia stopped at the stall, waving another wasp away from her face. Anything for another two minutes of fresh air. ‘What do those amulets do?��

‘They spice up your marriage, Your Majesty.’ The vendor, a sun-wrinkled old man called Harry, bowed when he recognised her.

‘My marriage?’

‘Or your parents’ marriage!’ Harry seemed to remember who he was talking to. ‘Not that the King and Queen need any help in their marriage! I am sure they’re blissfully happy!’

‘Yes, blissful,’ Amelia agreed. She rubbed her temples. The enthusiasm was taking its time kicking in. ‘Couldn’t the marching band and the orchestra perform at different times?’

‘Course they could,’ Harry grunted. ‘But that would be too easy. The orchestra is starring in a musical.’

‘Remind me never to see it,’ Amelia muttered.

‘You might want to, Your Majesty, it’s about the war with the Sapphire Dragon.’

‘Why on earth would I want to watch a musical about the war?’ Amelia demanded. Why couldn’t people stop bringing it up? First Sarah with her joke, now Harry. For ten whole minutes as she strolled through Market Street, Amelia had forgotten all about the war her people waged against their unfriendly neighbourhood dragon.

Harry shrugged. ‘Search me, Your Majesty, I’ve never been much of a theatre person. Can I interest you in a shell for calming headaches?’

‘No, no, I’ll take a tonic later on.’ Amelia knew that Harry’s ‘magic shells’ came from Lumiere’s beach. Although blood red and very pleasant as a table decoration, they held absolutely no magical properties. Amelia didn’t have the heart to tell him she knew the scam: not everyone in the kingdom was a magic user. Amelia never quite got over the fact that her mother, Queen Hazel, excelled at casting protection spells, while Amelia, Nicholas and their father, King Emmanuel, possessed about as much magical ability as a pair of socks.

She left Harry there as he called into the market once more. ‘Magical shells! Endorsed by the Princess Amelia!’

Miraculously, Amelia arrived earlier than her tutor. Madame Louisa taught every subject on a different day in their little room at the very top of the castle tower. Ten floors up, Amelia could still hear the orchestra and the marching band battling it out. While she waited, she flicked through the pile of newspapers they had used for her current affairs lesson the previous week. There was the war, again, on almost every page.

‘The Sapphire Dragon razes another town!’ screamed one headline. ‘Is he heading north from his cave at Scavenger’s Ruin?’

‘King Richard of the Valley of Dreams sends more troops to the Kingdom of Mirrors’ aid,’ announced another paper. ‘Meanwhile, King Emmanuel has borrowed money from Queen Margaret of Stormhaven to pay for another siege at Scavenger’s Ruin, to force the Sapphire Dragon from his stronghold.’

‘King Richard’s troops are killed in a failed siege of the Sapphire Dragon’s lair,’ bemoaned the most recent. ‘The latest failed attempt to oust the Sapphire Dragon, who has laid waste to the south coast of the Kingdom of Mirrors for 20 years, brought the military death toll up to 32,892 troops, and the civilian death toll to—’ Amelia stopped reading. She knew the numbers already.

What really depressed her was that these newspapers could have been from any year in the past two decades, ever since the Sapphire Dragon blew in from the Western Ocean on a terrible storm. Villagers spotted him curled on the beach at Scavenger’s Ruin, a fishing town at the southernmost tip of the kingdom. According to survivors, his wicked blue scales reflected the sun and his wicked grey claws left welts in the sand. Fire spat from his nostrils as he torched every building in sight, along with most villagers. War was declared immediately, of course. There’s a saying in the Three Kingdoms: sticks and stones might break your bones but they don’t do squat to dragons, so you’d better bring something stronger.

Everyone was hopeful for the first few years. Hundreds of well-trained soldiers marched south each spring, although barely fifty would make it back, and most of those spent months in the Lumiere hospital being treated for horrendous burns. The Valley of Dreams, the Kingdom of Mirrors’ closest neighbour, sent troops and extra weapons. Dragons are creatures of habit and prefer to live in secluded, enclosed spaces, so the Sapphire Dragon existed mostly in the hard-to-reach caves below Scavenger’s Ruin, venturing out occasionally to hunt fish from the once-plentiful sea or to meet the latest contingent of soldiers. Once or twice a year he would fly north, razing more towns and extending his territory just a little bit closer to Lumiere. Within some six years of the dragon’s arrival, half the nation was inhospitable and hundreds of terrified families had fled to Lumiere. Others went further north still, to the Valley of Dreams.

Lumiere soon started to creak under the extra pressure from its new inhabitants. Tensions built up in crowded communities as the war dragged on. After a few more years of state funerals for fallen soldiers and emergency aid relief for refugees, someone cracked and threw a brick into the tent of a refugee family, starting the famous Midsummer Riots. Amelia remembered watching the carnage from her bedroom window as a terrified six-year-old, counting the fires that spread across the city. ‘Dad will sort it out,’ twelve-year-old Nicholas assured her. ‘He has an army.’

‘He doesn’t,’ Amelia argued. ‘They’ve all been eaten by the dragon.’

‘The Sapphire Dragon doesn’t eat people,’ Nicholas assured her. ‘He just sets them on fire.’

Amelia refused to go near a lit candle for weeks after he said that. Emmanuel and Hazel finally bowed to political pressure and began to borrow money from Queen Margaret of Stormhaven to train even more soldiers. They signed an agreement with the Valley of Dreams, allowing thousands of refugees to relocate to safer lands in exchange for access to the Kingdom of Mirrors’ ancient magical scrolls, something no monarch had allowed for centuries. Eight years later, the kingdom’s debts were crippling its economy and all those extra soldiers proved about as effective as a comedian at a funeral.

‘Your Majesty!’ Amelia jolted out of her reverie as Madame Louisa swept into the room. ‘Apologies for my tardiness. Let’s get started with some mathematics!’

Madame Louisa didn’t set particularly difficult exercises today —but then, Amelia recently balanced Louisa’s family’s bank account. Amelia scratched away at algebraic fractions, trying not to think about dragons. She glanced out the tower window. All the way up here she could see the entire city, nestled amongst the mountains and olive groves, temple spires sparkling. People would soon be making their way to evening prayers, if not just stopping for ten minutes to light a candle in the nearest shrine. If she had magical vision, which wasn’t unheard of in the Three Kingdoms, she could see around the coast all the way down to Scavenger’s Ruin. From this distance the road looked like it was scratched into the mountain by a dragon’s claw. Her fist clenched around her pencil. Would she ever go anywhere without being reminded that her kingdom was on its knees?

The pencil snapped. Across the room, Madame Louisa raised her eyebrows and handed Amelia another.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

#The Princess and the Dragon and Other Stories About Unlikely Heroes #fantasy fiction #dragons #YA

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and-beastly · 8 years ago

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The Waterlogged Docter

A Astoria: Fate’s Kiss inspired Fic I blame Leah. Not only was she the start of all this, she helped write some of it too. So sit back, relax, grab a bag of popcorn, and hopefully enjoy this new adventure!

It all started out as just another day. The end of summer was fast approaching but the undulating heat still refused to give way. The sounds of cicadas and a melancholic piano could be heard drifting through the marshy forest. Meanwhile lazy moss balls and fat turtles could be seen bobbing in the cool lake waters. Every so often the wind would shake the leaves in the trees, and animals could be heard rustling all around, a reminder that the forest was full of life.

Yet the serenity of the space was broken by a fast paced young couple making their way along a well-worn stone path. The shadows cast by the towering pines accented the anxiousness and worry in the female’s eyes. She tightly held on to the accompanying male’s hand as they made their way forward. Their footsteps simply faded into the forest around them, as if isolating them from the world. Words of doubt followed by reassuring promises could be heard passing between the two as they continued on.

Breaking past the tree line they quickly shaded their eyes from the sudden increase of sunlight. Once their eyes were adjusted they were momentarily stunned by the sight before them. A small earthen shack with large stain glass windows and a slow moving water wheel, sat nestled between a beautiful lake and a large towering medical garden. A young satyr in a large straw hat, bright green apron, and matching gloves could be seen diligently weaving his way through the garden pulling weeds. As if sensing the new arrivals he quickly stood up and stretched, his deep green eyes zeroing in on the pair before him.

“Yo Doc! Ya got yourself some new patients!” A jarringly strong southern accent left his lips as he yelled towards the house. Brushing the dirt from his gloves he removed them and shoved them into his apron pocket. Easily jumping the garden fence he trotted over to the new arrivals, knocking the dirt from his hooves along the way. From under his hat a pair of droopy silver studded ears and curly auburn hair could be seen. With a knowing smile on his freckle covered face he reached out and happily shook their hands.

“Welcome to Doc Lylin’s magical miracle medicine menagerie! Haha! Try saying that five times fast! I’m his assistant Wallace. Wallace Van Hovet. But y’all can call me Wally. Y'all got an appointment? Or maybe y'all’re here for a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ to spice up your night with? The ol’ Doc’s got things even Miss Aphrodite will swear by-” All of a sudden a green flash flew from the house smacking loudly into the back of Wallace’s head cutting off his growing tangent.

Stunned the couple watched an odd little green ball bounce away quickly towards the lake, as if fleeing the scene. Afterwards they turned their attention towards the shack the ball had been shot from. Past the staggering and grumbling satyr, the soft sound of footsteps could be heard. From the door a petite and frail looking young man was currently making his way towards them. He had on a pair of slacks and a plain white button up that was open slightly, drawing ones eye to a large star shaped scar splashed across his neck and collar bones. Messy silver hair and lingering dark circles under his dull gray eyes made him look like a picture book example of an exhausted college student.

Ignoring the grief filled looks coming from Wallace he lazily stepped before the couple giving them a once over. The guy was aggravatingly tall and had muscles that would even make ‘The Rock’ jealous. With his lightly tanned skin and lively eyes shining from beneath his fluffy brown hair he looked like a walking embodiment of the sun. Resisting the urge to gag, Lylin turned his attention to the girl instead.

She was much smaller and mellower in comparison, making Lylin secretly thankful, he had a hard enough time dealing with Wallace, he didn’t need another sunflower child around. The young lady had long black hair that gracefully framed her face before casually draping over her shoulders. Her dark eyes where brimming with intelligence and seemed to draw in all the light around her.

Coming to a conclusion he snapped his fingers and textbook style words formed from water began to appear between them.

[I’m Dr. Lylin. You must be the ones Hades informed me about. Come on in and let me see if I can do something to help with that problem of yours.]

Not bothering to see if they read everything he turned and made his way back towards the shack the water words vanishing as he left. Having recovered from the earlier attack Wallace glanced between the pair and Lylin while scratching his head apologetically.

“Please excuse the Doc, he’s not a bad fella he just can’t talk ya see. But if it gets to the point where ya have any trouble keeping with his subtitles don’t be afraid to let him know. He’ll slow’em down for ya no problem.” Having said that Wallace smiled and lead them towards the house.

Once inside the strong scents of coffee, lavender, and rosemary wafted over them. Different types of ivies hung all around swaying in rainbow colored sunlight coming through the windows. Glass bottles full of a verity of liquids and the occasional moss ball lined nearly every surface. What wasn’t covered in bottles or aquariums was instead packed down with large leather bound books, or a patchwork quilt or two. Amidst the organized chaos, sitting expressionlessly on a hand carved wooden stool, was Lylin. With a coffee mug in one hand and a clip board in the other he watched as Wallace lead the pair forward. While pointing towards the worn leather couch across from himself, watery words began to form again.

[Take a seat. Wallace, go prepare some tea and a couple of snacks. Preferably the sweets that Persephone dropped off last time. Now then, how about you both introduce yourselves and enlighten me as to why Hades was insistent that I see to you.]

The tall, muscular man spoke up first, a disarming grin on his face. “I’m Cerberus; nice to meet you! Hades said that if anyone could help us, you were the man! I mean, help Leah, that is.”

He gestured at his companion, who had been looking around at the plants, books, and hand-made home décor with obvious admiration. She quickly smiled at Lylin and held out her hand. “Hi, Dr. Lylin; I’m Leah Chung. My issue is, well… It’s kind of a long story.”

She shrugged and gave a short, wry laugh before glancing at Cerberus. He nodded encouragingly and she turned back to Lylin.

“The short version is… Uh, I have an Aura, but I didn’t know it until a few weeks ago. It flared up on accident, and since then I haven’t been able to activate it on my own. Cerberus is trying to help me learn to control it, but the whole unpredictable activation thing is making it kind of hard.”

“Leah’s got a case with H.E.R.A,” Cerberus explained. “Her case worker suggested we look you up, and then Hades heard about it and told us he’d put in a good word. So… do you think you can help?”

The puppy dog eyes he gave the doctor were so insistent it was almost as if he needed the help instead of Leah.

Looking at the puppy dog eyes being beamed his way, Lylin internally blanched. Forcibly ignoring the pleading looks he started jotting things down on his clipboard. While he wrote new watery words began to replace the old ones.

[When Hades said that he was sending me something odd, he wasn’t kidding. So since your problem seems to be a lack of aura control I’m assuming, Zeus have mercy, that you’ve come here looking for a way to fix that?]

Looking up from his clipboard, he glanced at them for conformation. At the moment Wallace finally returned along with a tea and snack covered tray. With a surprising amount of grace he placed the tray on the only clean table close by. With nimble hand he easily poured two cups before passing them off to Cerberus and Leah.

“Here ya go! Two pippin’ hot cups of my own special blend.” With a proud smile on his face he enthusiastically watched the two, hoping to see their reaction. However the aggregated tapping he heard coming from Lylin’s direction rapidly reminded him of the other things he should be doing. Awkwardly nodding his head he quickly excused himself from the shack retreating to the safety of the garden.

While watching Wallace escape, Leah brought the tea cup to her lips. An energizing earthy aroma with hints of raspberries attacked her senses. Taking a sip she couldn’t stop herself from sighing. Living up to its aroma, almost as soon the tea pass down her throat, a burst of invigorating energy seemed to spread through her body. Lost in the feeling she quickly took one sip after another. As if a blazing desert getting its first rain, her body eagerly absorbed the energy that was coming its way.

“Wow, this teas amazing! It’s like I’m overflowing with energy!” Cerberus exclaimed, as if stealing the words from Leah’s mouth.

[Overflowing energy… oh no… Shit- WALLACE I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!]

Horror filled words suddenly started to flash through the air as Lylin franticly jumped from his chair. Sensing the impending disaster he grabbed ahold of Cerberus’ and Leah’s wrist. Completely ignoring the falling teacups and their shocked expressions, he quickly exerted his strength easily pulling them off the couch and towards the door.

As if on que, Leah felt that a dam had broken open inside of her. No sooner was she out the door, did an awe inspiring explosion take place. Having nowhere else to go, the excess energy from the tea, with the help of her already unstable aura, violently burst from her body. Time seemed to come to a screeching halt, as the majestic cry of an unseen bird resonated from the point of origin. Blinding silvery light brightened the surrounding area like a miniature sun. The force of the blast ripped Leah form Lylin’s grasp, before sending both him and Cerberus tumbling into the distance.

Unsteadily pushing himself off the ground, Lylin silently gagged as he coughed up the mud he’d been forced to eat on impact. While taking wheezing breathes he whipped the trace amounts of blood and remaining mud from his mouth. The blast had come so suddenly that he’d been unable to form his own aura in defense. Baring through the pain he surveyed the scene around him. Not too far off he saw Cerberus also struggling to get up looking just as miserable. Turning towards the cause of the blast, what he saw nearly made him black out. As the dust settled a disheveled looking Leah could be seen sitting solely in the middle of a three foot crater. Other than a few rips on her clothing, she appeared to be completely unscathed.

From the garden a fearful Wallace poked his head. Upon seeing the wretched sight before him he started to panic. Darting towards the back of the house he went in search of a first aid kit. Lylin has just managed to get to his feet when Wallace came bolting towards him. An overwhelming urge to strangle the satyr bubbled up in Lylin as he watched the guy approach.

“Lylin are you alright?!” Skidding to a stop by the staggering man, Wallace quickly let his aura loose. A large translucent lavender plant blossomed from behind Wallace, covering Lylin and even the distant Cerberus. Pale purple light cascaded down, slowly soothing and mending the pair’s wounds. Finally regaining he bearings Lylin begrudgingly pushed his was past Wallace, making his way towards Leah.

[Just focus on healing Cerberus.]

Leaving those words in his wake he carefully approached the dazed female. Taking a deep breath he gently released his aura. From the top of his head appeared a fragile waterlily. Yet as it bloomed the tiny bud became shockingly more glorious and ethereal. Its snow white petals slowly grew stretching out towards the horizon. A sweet smelling mist fluttered from the center of the petals pouring down with a strong healing power. Watching the healing mist gently cocoon around Leah he sighed.

[Well, you certainly know how to make an impression don’t you.]

#the waterlogged doctor #i write things #labyrinthofleah #astoria fate's kiss #Cerberus

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neverending2012 · 8 years ago

Text

My Journey to You Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

SUMMARY: Rachel has a birthday party and connects with Finn. LaTonya and Cooper face issues in their relationship.

RATING: Mature. Sexual situations. Mild cursing.

NOTES: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

LUCKY

Sam pushed the shopping cart down the baking and spices aisle in the Super Fresh supermarket; while Jake cried as he sat in the flip-up child seat in the front of the cart because Sam wouldn't let him pull the jars of honey off the shelf. Jake's face turned red and he let out a helter-skelter scream at the injustice of being denied the right to grab jars of honey; he slammed his little fists against the shopping cart handle, shaking his head, while his straight black hair stuck up every which way; his red denim overalls were stained with apple juice due to a mishap during the car ride to the market. Needless to say, it wasn't a great start to their day.

"Jacob Blue Hummel, that's enough," Sam said glaring down at his son, whose brown eyes were exactly like his mother's from their doe shape to that special sparkle in them when he laughed or smiled. He was Mercedes' son all the way, except for his creamy pale skin and straight hair, which Sam figured came from him.

"No!" Jake said, still crying, "Honey!"

Sam sighed. People were starting to look at them. He remembered when he was single and childless, and how he would judge the parents whose kids as Aunt Josephine would say, "act a fool" in the grocery store and throw tantrums. He was the ringleader of the eye-roll and dirty look whenever a child went into brat mode in the middle of a store. Now, as they say, karma is a bitch, because all those disapproving looks and silent judgments he doled out in his single days were now royally biting him in the ass.

A brunette who looked to be in her late 50s with a frumpy figure, and wore a rhinestone studded denim jacket, shook her head at them in disgust as she picked up few boxes of baking soda; and another man, in a baseball cap, with a mountain man beard that reached his stomach, sucked his teeth and said "Shit, that kid's loud," under his breath.

Sam wasn't going to let their remarks take his focus away from his son.

"Jake, do you want a time out?"

Then someone touched his shoulder. It was an old Latina woman, she had a wooden cane, and her dark eyes shined from behind her glasses that were connected to a silver chain around her neck.

She spoke in Spanish to Sam, who had no idea what she was saying; but the sound of her voice was soothing, and Jake stopped crying and stared at her. She then patted Jake on the head, making sweet little sounds with her tongue and smiling; she reached into her purse and handed him a small red rubber ball that you got out of those cheap toy vending machines, and put it in Jake's chubby little hands. Patting him on the head once more, she walked away, waving good-bye. Then Sam called out after her:

"Gracias!"

That was the only Spanish he knew. Whatever the woman said to Jake worked because he calmed down, clutching the box of cookies. Sam took a pack of tissues out of his jacket pocket and wiped Jake's tear stained face. Soon, his son was smiling at him. Whatever storm they were in had passed. He kissed the top of Jake's head.

"We need to finish shopping, so we can meet your Mom and Rosy at the check out line."

Jake opened his arms, gazing up at his father.

"You want a hug?" Sam asked him.

Jake nodded.

Sam picked up his son and hugged him close, then spun around in the middle of the aisle, laughing, and Jake laughed with him.

"Love you!" Jake shouted.

Sam kissed his fat little cheeks.

"Love you, too."

He put him back in the child-seat and began getting the items on his list with new vigor. Jake would point to things, but no longer demanded them. When they were finished getting everything, they went to the check out line where Mercedes was waiting with Rosy. She was talking to their daughter and laughing, her hair was braided in one long braid and she wore sneakers and blue sweats; and Rosy daughter was smiling up at her, clapping her hands, and all Sam could think was: "Damn, I'm lucky."

They were both so beautiful to him. He wheeled up his cart next to hers and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward him, he kissed her wonderfully plump lips that tasted like vanilla lip-gloss and a chai latte, and he could feel her standing on her tiptoes.

"Wow," she said, smiling at him, "What was that for?"

"I love you. I love our kids. I love our life. That's what that is for."

"I feel the same way," she said.

Rosy clapped her hands.

"Da!"

Sam picked her up and hugged and kissed her, smelling the coconut oil on her hair, and rubbing her soft cheek against his.

"Hey, Miss Pretty," he said.

After he put her back in the child seat, they began loading the groceries onto the conveyer belt. When they had checked out, they made their out to the parking lot, unloaded the groceries into the SUV and started their journey home.

During the drive home, Mercedes said to Sam:

"I hope tonight goes well."

"Me too," Sam said, as he changed lanes, "I hope Rachel enjoys it."

"She should. It was all her idea."

"Yeah."

Rachel had asked for a small birthday party even though her birthday wasn't for another six months; nobody questioned why because they knew why, instead they focused on the party. She didn't want any gifts, but everyone had to wear white. It was going to take place late that night because Rachel wanted to watch the Perseids meteor shower that was scheduled to begin at about 11:00 pm. And she made one other request: Nobody could cry. Sam wasn't sure if he could follow through with that, but he would give it his best shot, after all it was her party.

"How are you and Finn doing?" Mercedes asked him.

Sam took a deep breath while getting off the freeway to take the exit home.

"Much better. Finn's opening up to me again. We feel more like brothers."

"I'm glad."

"So am I. I missed him."

"I know, sweetie," she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.

Sam felt a warmth spread through him at her touch.

"Schätzchen?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for being so great about all of this. I mean we just had Rosy and Jake, getting our new house, and all and then this happens and you've been so kind and so amazing through everything. Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done."

"Sam, I love them too. I can't imagine how any of them are feeling. They're not just your family. They're our family and I'm glad we can help them."

Sam picked up her hand and kissed it.

"God blessed me twice over when he sent you to me."

Mercedes got teary-eyed and she squeezed his hand once again.

TODAY I LIVED

Everyone sat around the outdoor fire pit in the back yard, the light from the orange flames, flickering on their faces. Stars sparkled in the black velvet sky. The breeze was cool, carrying the fragrance of the wild evening primroses, their scent reminiscent of springtime with earthy, spicy undertones. Crickets and cicadas chirped, adding to the night sound landscape; their distinct song echoing through the yard. When they bought the house, Mercedes was surprised that Sam wanted to have a fire pit built, but now she was glad that they had.

It was round and made of cathedral gray granite stones, and it was surrounded by a circular stone floor, which they placed their patio chairs around. Rachel was lying on the outdoor recliner, her feet elevated, her toes were painted rose red. She wore a long, white sundress, made of delicate woven lace, her wig was sleek and shiny; teardrop diamond earrings dangled from her ears, twinkling in the firelight; and red lipstick coated her lips. And per Rachel's request, everyone wore white, Mercedes thought that the request was odd, and even joked that she must think that she was Sean Combs throwing his annual Labor Day party, but Rachel never gave her reason; only that she thought it was peaceful and serene. Mercedes admitted that it was calming: seeing the bold white in the glowing firelight.

Everyone was enjoying a piece of the three-layer strawberry birthday cake that Sam had baked; it was fluffy and light, and had sweet strawberry filling between each layer, and frosted with strawberry buttercream frosting. They balanced the plates on their laps as they ate, talking and joking with one another.

Finn was beside Rachel, assisting her when needed, as she ate tiny bites of cake, her face more alive than usual. The neuropsychologist had given her memory exercises that helped a lot with her chemo brain, and she took herbal supplements that Sean found for her online. Both tactics improved her memory.

Matt, Lucy, and Abby sat on the other side of Finn. Matt was in a white button down shirt and shorts; while Lucy and Abby wore matching white sundresses and white satin headbands on their hair. Hiram and Sean sat beside Sam and Mercedes, sipping on club soda and taking small bites of cake; their faces solemn, their white linen suits reminded Mercedes of lawn parties where people played croquet and ate watercress sandwiches.

Finally, after everyone was finished eating, Rachel tapped her fork against her wine glass to get everyone's attention. When the chatter quieted down she said:

"Thank you for giving me my party. I have something for all of you. I wrote each of you a letter. I want you to read them in private."

Finn got up from his chair and handed everyone a white sealed envelope with everyone's name written in metallic gold ink across each one. After the letters were handed out, she unfolded a piece of notebook paper and said:

"I want to tell you about how good today was for me, so I wrote every thing down." Then she began to read aloud:

"I'm happy tonight. I ate a wonderful French meal that took me back to my Paris years with Aba and Pop, when I wore plaid skirts and patent leather shoes and each morning I could hear the cathedral bells ring.

This afternoon Lucy painted my toenails red and told me about a dream she had, she flew over mountaintops and I was holding her hand; this made us happy.

Then Matt lay his head on my lap while we watched a documentary about rocket ships and he asked me if he would ever be tall, and I told him to worry about the size of his heart instead; and he smiled up at me and he looked like the baby boy that I once held in my arms.

During nap time, Finn sang me a song when he thought I was asleep; I heard every word and I keep the lyrics in my heart the way I do the first time we kissed and it was raining and my sneakers got muddy and the thunder clapped, and his hands tangled in my hair.

Later on, Abby brought me a bouquet of wild violets and we looked at the petals under her magnifying glass. I saw clear glass dewdrops and thin lines running together on the surface and it was a whole world I've never seen. Abby said that's how she sees people, you just have to be close enough. I agree.

And when I was getting ready for the party, Mercedes combed out my wig; and I was sitting there with my bald head, oxygen tubes in my nostrils and she told me I had beautiful eyes, and then we talked about our kids, our husbands, our lives, and it was wonderful.

Afterwards, I watched Sam bake my birthday cake, he told me a story about how he liked to pick strawberries as a little boy in Tennessee; how the sun felt beating down on them in the strawberry fields, how sweet the berries smelled as they dropped them into the basket; he sang as he worked and then he let me lick the spoon, and wished me a Happy Birthday. I felt joy in that moment.

Then later, Aba and Pop said a beautiful prayer for me; taking me in their arms, they thanked God for giving them such a wonderful daughter to love. It was in the den and the sun was setting and purple light filled the room, and I thanked God for my fathers.

This may not be the day that I was born. But it was certainly a day that I lived.

I love you all."

It was hard for Mercedes not to cry or anyone else for that matter. Never before had she heard such remarkable words of gratitude. Everyone gave Rachel a hug, pretending that tears weren't forming in their eyes, and she received their embraces, telling them again that she loved them.

Then the Perseids meteor shower began, and the meteors resembled tiny points of light that flashed across the sky, leaving bright white streaks of light behind them.

Rachel looked up. Her face breaking into a huge smile.

"Beautiful," she said, pointing to the sky.

Mercedes gazed at the sky too, and Sam put his arm around her.

"It's like a sci-fi movie," he said, "Only better."

"I want to catch one," she said.

He leaned down and kissed her, holding her close. His green eyes shined by the light of the fire, just like emeralds, and Mercedes thought of his kiss in the supermarket; and the tender hug he gave her when she stepped out of the shower that morning, saying he felt like holding her as he wrapped her in a towel. Those were the moments that Rachel talked about, so tiny, but so wonderful that you kept them forever.

Everyone stayed outside a long time. Rachel held Finn's hand as they peered up at the sky together.

"They're like jewels," she said to him.

Matt, Lucy, and Abby tried to capture the event on their phones. Hiram and Sean were nearby with Hiram standing behind Sean, his arms wrapped around his husband's slender waist; and they sort of swayed together, stealing kisses now and then.

After it was over, and the fire died out, everyone went into the house to go to bed. Mercedes and Sam checked on the twins and then crept into their bedroom. As they stood side by side at the double sink in the bathroom, brushing their teeth, Mercedes dropped her toothbrush into the sink, and began crying. Sam stopped brushing his teeth and held her. There was nothing to be said. It was a beautiful night, but it couldn't stop the pain and grief that filled her heart and tore her to pieces.

MY SKIN

Rachel stood still as Finn unzipped her dress, gently pulling it down her thin, fragile body, the white lace pooling at her feet. He kissed her shoulders as she stepped out of the circle and he picked up the dress, hanging it up in their closet. She sat down on the bench in front of the vanity table, her back to the mirror, and Finn removed her lipstick with a tissue, Rachel's breathing was somewhat labored and she sat perfectly still.

Next her wig came off and Finn carefully placed it on the Styrofoam head sitting on the vanity table. Then he removed the beige wig cap, leaving her bare baldhead exposed, with sparse remains of her once long dark hair. She sat there in her bra and panties, looking up at him, staring into his eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He kneeled down before her, holding her face in his big hands.

"Remember what you said about our first kiss?"

"Yes."

He kissed her, pressing his lips against hers, treating her like crystal, careful, gentle, doing his best not to break her and Rachel accepted his kiss, her mind going back to all those years ago, before Matt and Lucy, and engagement rings, and disapproving parents, and betrayal and reconciliation, and cancer; she went back to the beginning, to that moment when she stood in the rain with Finn, and she pulled him closer.

Did he see her that way? Despite how she looked now? Was she still that girl to him? As if hearing her thoughts, he broke the kiss, and caressed her sunken cheeks.

"Your spirit is still there. That's what I see," he said.

"I know how I look."

"Baby, I don't care about that. When I'm holding you, I'm always with that girl, but honestly, you're better than her."

"How?"

"You've grown. And so have I."

They hugged and he kissed her neck.

"May I make love to you tonight?"

"Finn, I want to, but I'm scared."

"Dr. Rhoden said it was safe."

"I know. I don't know what it is. I just, it's been a while, ok? I haven't felt the urge for a long time, but I feel it tonight."

"Blame it on the meteors."

Rachel laughed, kissing his cheek.

"I love you, Finn."

"I love you too."

They kissed some more, and Finn cupped her small breasts covered by the white cotton bra, squeezing them gently. Rachel felt her arousal heighten.

"I'm willing to try," she whispered.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, along with the oxygen tank too. Once he laid her on the bed, he undressed, and joined her. Finn had lost his pudgy stomach and thighs and was more lean and muscular.

"Turn off the lights," she said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I want to see you. I love you. There's no reason for you to hide from me."

For the first time that night, Rachel let herself cry.

He held her as she cried, and she was glad that he didn't offer useless words of comfort, but stayed silent, and let the tears flow down her cheeks; she only wanted to release the agony inside her; and when she was done; she felt some relief and serenity in his arms, and she wanted to connect with him, and they began kissing and touching. He helped her take off her bra and panties, and when she was nude, he stroked every part of her body and she did the same with him. Her nipples grew hard like small pebbles, and when he touched her between her thighs, she gasped at the sensation.

"Was that too much?" he asked, pulling his hand away.

"No, it felt good."

"I'm turning on the ceiling fan."

"Why?"

"Remember, Dr. Rhoden said it was best not to get overheated."

"Thank you for remembering."

"You're welcome."

Once the fan was on, they began touching again. Finn grew hard as Rachel's delicate hands gripped his member, fondling it.

"I need you," he said.

He got behind her and they spooned.

"This is the safest position," he said.

Rachel looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

"I feel like we're making a how-to guide for how to have sex with chronically ill spouses."

Finn chuckled and kissed the back of her baldhead.

"You're the sexiest cancer patient I know."

"Finnegan Hudson, you can't be serious."

"Hey, I'm only telling the truth. Nobody works an oxygen tank quite like you."

"Oh, God," she said and laughed out loud.

Finn put his arm around her tiny waist and held her tight against him.

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in a long time."

"I know."

"Baby, it was nice to hear."

"Thanks, it was nice to feel it."

They went slow, and when he entered her, Rachel forgot how much she loved the feeling of having Finn inside of her, filling her up; it was so sweet, he gyrated his hips with a cautious rhythm, and she enjoyed every pleasurable moment of it, his hands wandered to her breasts, squeezing them and she closed her eyes, touching her clitoris, and he kept pumping his hips, moving within her, giving her so much love and care that tears sprang from her eyes; she wasn't expecting fireworks, in fact that's not what she needed, what she needed was this intimacy with Finn, this vulnerability that let him see her cancer stricken body, and make love to her anyway, even though he had been her caretaker through her treatment, and had seen her naked plenty of times; this was different; this was seeing her illness and finding her beauty and spirit within; she bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out, but Finn said:

"I want to hear you."

"But what if – "

"Forget, what if."

She released a low-pitched cry as she came, her breathing was shallow, and she began to cough as she shook in his arms, feeling his come filling her up. Finn immediately stopped.

"Baby, are you ok? Look at me."

"I'm fine. Just winded. Could you get me some water?"

Finn hopped out of the bed and went into the bathroom, coming back moments later with a glass of water.

He rubbed her back as she drank the water.

"Take it slow, that's my girl," he said.

Her breathing returned to normal, but suddenly she was so tired that she could hardly move. Finn caressed her face.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes, that was great."

Finn kissed her, his eyes were worried.

"I think we should call Dr. Rhoden."

"Finn, I'm fine. Thank you so much for that. It was wonderful. I felt beautiful and alive."

He leaned down and kissed her.

"It was wonderful for me too. I'm checking your tank."

He checked her tank and replaced it, and he got her pink silk scarf that hung on the side of the vanity mirror and tied it on her head, since her head grew cold as she slept. Mercedes taught him how to tie the scarf so it wouldn't fall off. He also turned off the lights and ceiling fan and finally got back into bed. Rachel yawned, snuggling up to him. Finn covered them up with the blanket and they both fell asleep.

MORALS AND CONSEQUENCES

Cooper stood beside the man's bed. The gun pointed to his head. As he was about to pull the trigger, the man woke up and turned around.

"Oh my God!" he said.

He was young. Not much older than 30. His baby girl slept in a crib in the next room. His wife was downstairs in the kitchen drinking hot cocoa because she couldn't sleep, completely unaware that her husband was about to be killed. Cooper remained silent. His face covered with a mask.

"You can have anything. Don't hurt my wife and baby."

Cooper saw the fear in the man's eyes. He probably dreamed one day of becoming somebody important like a fireman or policeman; he went to college, fell in love, got married had a child, but did his future also include child sex trafficking? Were there pictures of missing children amidst his Crayola drawings of a bright future?

Because that's exactly what business this man was in and on an international level.

He was Cooper's hit. And Cooper always followed through.

"Please don't kill me."

Cooper stared at him, saw the tears in his eyes; in the darkness, those tears shined, a car drove past outside, it's headlights shining into the bedroom.

"Please…"

He heard his wife coming up the stairs, walking slowly, each step creaking under her weight. The Grandfather clock in the hall chimed off the hour. It was 2:00 in the morning.

"I can give you anything just let me –"

Cooper pulled the trigger. Once. Then twice.

The gun had a silencer. Nothing could be heard.

The man fell back on the bed, blood spilling from his forehead onto the pristine white pillow. Cooper slipped out the window. His wife came into the bedroom. He heard her scream.

One down. Ten more to go.

ooo

Cooper shot the grandmother in the chest. She headed the operation. No one would ever suspect that a plump, white haired Australian woman who was known for making wonderful Pavlova for church gatherings could ever do something so heinous and profit from it.

It was in Sydney. It was early evening and a heavy rain fell from the sky; she wore a yellow slicker and she carried her famous desert as she walked through the dark parking lot on her way to St. George's Presbyterian Church for the evening service. Her hair was covered with one of those old lady plastic scarves and a big black purse was slung over her shoulder. She had six grandchildren and five children of her own.

He stood in front of her, blocking her path.

"G'day," she said smiling at him, there was a smudge of pink lipstick on her otherwise pearly white teeth.

He didn't give her a chance to say anything. He just shot her. And she stumbled and fell, the white meringue dessert hit the pavement splattering on the dark surface.

ooo

That night he drank vodka in his hotel room. He looked up her six grandchildren and five children and saw their happy, smiling faces on social media: sunny beaches, brick homes, picnics and flying kites.

And then he remembered the victims, and recalled the god- awful pictures he saw of them performing disgusting acts with government officials. Bought, traded, and sold.

It was enough to keep him going.

In Japan, a little boy cried over his father's body, poking him in the chest.

In Bangladesh, a man said a prayer, before he shot him in the back.

On a cold morning in Ireland, he talked to a priest in the park, told him fantastic lies about how he lived a moral life, and the priest listened, smiling, offering him some bread and cheese before leaving; and Cooper wanted to call him back and tell him the truth. That he was a worthless killer, that he believed in justice, that blood was shed, and it couldn't wash away; but he heard the children's voices and he kept going until he had nothing left.

But there were too many bodies, too many screams, and too much pain.

THE UNIVERSE COLLIDES

A bar of Cooper's bath soap was on his pillow, it had a rugged, spicy, herbal fragrance with notes of chamomile and lavender that LaTonya loved smelling on his skin. She kept the soap there whenever he was away; so that for a moment, when she woke up, she could smell his scent and pretend that he was in the room with her. Though it smelled stronger on his skin, the illusion was enough to soothe her.

It had been three months since she saw Cooper, but every day she felt him, and he surrounded her in that house; she heard echoes of his voice, deep and reassuring, telling her that everything would be fine; saw his reflection in the windows, when the sunlight hit the glass at certain angles, and for a brief second, Cooper flashed before her; his blue eyes pensive.

But it wasn't his physical form that she encountered the most, it was his spirit that was even stronger; his essence dwelled in that house. He was on a secret assignment; she believed he was working with government intelligence though she couldn't be certain; and he couldn't tell her anything. He gave her a special, untraceable phone that could pick up reception anywhere in the world from mountaintops to dense, lush forests, and arid deserts, and it also worked in any type of weather.

It was an expensive phone, costing thousands of dollars. He would only communicate with her by calling her on this special phone. She never knew when he would contact her so she kept it with her all the time, and jumped whenever the odd ringtone would play, it sounded like a teakettle's forlorn whistle. They never spoke longer than five minutes. He missed her. He loved her. She knew that. She also knew that she wanted him home. The worst part was that she had to lie to everyone and say he was in London for business. She hated lying. The only one who figured it out was Abby.

"Abby, he's still in London," LaTonya said, when the girl called a few weeks before. She was in the kitchen sorting through the mail, drinking tea, pretending to be normal. But what was normal about waiting for a strange phone to ring and hear Cooper's breathless voice saying he's ok, while gunshots were in the background.

"He isn't in London," Abby said.

LaTonya didn't confirm or deny it. Instead she said:

"Have you been using your magnifying glass?"

"Yes. That's how I know."

"Abby?"

"God will help him," Abby said.

LaTonya turned over and looked at the empty space beside her in bed. She picked up the soap and held it, her fingers gliding across the smooth yellow surface.

Suddenly, the bedroom lamp came on, and she heard Cooper's voice:

"That's a poor substitute, don't you think?"

LaTonya sat up, crying out in surprise, and Cooper stood before her, his hair cut so close you could see his red scalp beneath the sparse white-blonde hair, he was dressed all in black, the outline of his gun visible beneath his thin black sweater, he held a silver steel brief case which he sat on the floor.

"Why don't I ever hear you come in? She said gazing up at him, the soft lamplight, shining on him; he appeared unreal, as if he were just another mind trick that made her see him everywhere in quick flashes before disappearing into air.

"Because you've convinced yourself that I'm not coming back."

"That's not true."

He sat beside her on the bed and held her close. He smelled like smoke and death. She pictured him standing in ashes.

"I'm here," he said, rubbing her back.

She pulled away and touched his cheek, her thumb grazing over a tiny jagged scar he got in a schoolyard fight as a boy.

"I still think you're some sort of magician."

Cooper kissed her, his gun pressed against her stomach.

"I love you," he said.

"Were you in a fire?"

"I can't tell you that."

"What can you tell me?"

"That I'll be home for a while this time."

"How long is a while?"

"I don't know. A long time."

LaTonya wasn't sure why but she began crying and he held her in his arms.

"Shhh, sweetheart, it's ok," He said, whispering into her ear, rocking her gently.

She stayed in his arms until he said:

"Let's take a bath."

He pulled her long, lacy nightgown over her shoulders, leaving her nude as he hurriedly undressed, piling his clothes in a black heap on the floor, and putting his gun on the nightstand.

He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. Her prosthesis wasn't attached; she felt like a child and woman all at once; she recalled how her father used to carry her around in the hospital, and sometimes he pretended that he was a plane and would make ridiculous motor sounds and she would laugh until the nurses were annoyed and told them to keep it down. She would be in so much pain but the laughter cut through it all.

Yet Cooper carrying her was a different story, it wasn't paternal, though it was protective, and he hummed a soft, sweet melody that settled into her chest; he knew how to soothe her, make her anxiety dissipate into fragments.

Her large bathroom had a safety shower with a a bench that was wide enough for two people; and it also had a separate rectangular walk-in bathtub with safety bars, and an U-shaped door that was made of tempered glass and stainless steel which opened to get inside the tub which had hyrdojets and built-in heated seats at each end.

He opened the bathtub door and sat her on one of seats and then he got in, closing it behind him. He turned on the faucet and the tub began to fill; he kneeled before her and rested his head on her lap, as the water flowed in around them, she stroked his head, and felt a few of his tears fall onto her bare thighs; it was his turn to cry.

She comforted him as he had done for her, whispering that she loved him so much and how brave he was; he cried into her lap, choked sobs escaped from deep within him; it was only in moments like this that he was a vulnerable little boy again, wanting his parents to love him, wanting the shadows and darkness to go away. As the water rose, he lifted his head and she hugged him to her heart.

When the tub was full, he turned the faucet off, and grabbed a washcloth hanging from one of the safety bars. He squirted blue bath gel that smelled like beaches and oceans onto the washcloth and began washing her body: arms, legs, breasts, shoulders, belly and then he leaned her forward, resting her against his chest, so he could wash her back. Each stroke of the washcloth was gentle and loving, sometimes he kissed her wet skin; his tear filled eyes gazing at her, but try as she might, no matter what she did; she couldn't save him.

The nightmares that left him trembling in the darkness, and made him reach for her in his sleep, and the blood that stained his clothes and the bullets that pierced his flesh… she couldn't stop any of it. And that haunted look in his eyes when he knew he she couldn't save him … it was awful but she faced it anyway; because some roads were walked alone. Even so, she could hold and love him, wait for his call, and listen to his screams, let his tears and blood mix with her own, and that's what she did. Because in the end, he could never tell his whole story.

When he was finished the ritual of washing her body, leaving her clean and warm and feeling loved and broken-hearted all at once, Cooper bathed himself, though she tried to reciprocate, he waved her away and began soaping up the other washcloth with his favorite soap. He carefully washed himself and she noticed the new scars on his body; his back had a healed gash, shiny and raised, like a red serpent living beneath his skin; on his shoulder it looked like someone had burned cigarettes into his flesh, and his torso had a round purple bruise that was beginning to heal; because it's color was faded. When he was done, he drained the tub, picked her up, opened the door and sat her on the closed toilet seat. He grabbed a big, fluffy towel from the shelf behind him, wrapped it around her shoulders and carried her to the bedroom where he gently lay her on the bed, and dried her off.

He rubbed lotion all over her skin, massaging her arms, legs, and the full globes of her buttocks, giving teasing squeezes to each cheek and then turning her over and pinching her plump, sensitive nipples, and ghosting his fingers over the surface of her vagina, but never plunging inside. She bit her lip and moaned and he kissed her before he pulled away and quickly dried his damp skin, returning to the bed, and gathering her in his arms, kissing her again; he was hard, his pale skin was flushed red, and his breathing was shallow.

She touched his face and nodded; he smiled as she opened her legs, and he didn't hesitate before pushing himself inside her, and she clenched her walls around him, as he stroked her. His hand glided over her residual limb, while she lay beneath him, accepting his thrusts; he grew urgent, each stroke became harder and faster until she couldn't hold back and neither could he, and they came within moments of each other, shaking as they held on to one another for support; his heart beat against hers; she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the new scar, trying not to cry, thinking about how it got there, and he kissed her face.

"I'm ok."

Her tears fell; she looked up at him.

"There's scar gel in the bathroom cabinet."

"Thank you," he said kissing her.

LaTonya said nothing; they lay tangled together, resting until they needed each other again, and they made love all night.

ooo

Cooper had to decompress. Sleeping was futile. So he wandered the house at night reliving what happened during his assignment.

He got a lot of money for it. So much in fact that he probably wouldn't have to work for the rest of his life; especially if he invested well. He and LaTonya could spend their time, just living their lives, raising a family, traveling… anything.

But then darkness came.

And it began.

He hated headlights flashing into the window from the street. Hated the sound of car alarms and dogs barking and thumping hip-hop music those stupid teenagers played across the street when their parents weren't home.

Everything was magnified and too close. He always felt someone was behind him, waiting. He looked over his shoulder as he walked down the hall to the living room or as he went up the stairs to the bedroom.

Shadows appeared on the walls, and he felt the breath of his captors on his skin, hot and menacing, taking him back to the sun-drenched desert with visible heat waves that left you feeling as if you were dreaming; and when he did dream; it was of LaTonya, her voice, her smile, her scent, all taking him back to their home in Tennessee with cement steps and a dilapidated gazebo in the backyard.

But now that he was back home, he was also someplace else, back in the secret world he couldn't talk about. He checked on LaTonya more times than he could count; and she would wake up and stare at him with those beautiful, dark eyes of hers, reminding him of black pearls shining in the moonlight, and she would beckon him, holding open her arms and he would go to her and she would hold him, kissing his cheek, whispering her love for him. But it wasn't enough.

Though he finished most of his assignment, one piece remained to be done, and it was tricky.

Now he sat in the kitchen. His untraceable phone by his side. A cup of steaming hot tea and a plate of warmed over Chinese take-out was in front of him but the food turned his stomach and the tea tasted funny. He drummed his fingers on the table and at 2:00 in the morning; he got the call from Paul Dill, his employee now working for him on some operations overseas.

"We got rid of all the bodies. It wasn't easy."

"Ok."

"Is LaTonya ok?"

"She's fine, why?"

"I know it's not my place but…"

"I can't stay on the phone. Be brief."

"She agreed to marry you."

"I'm aware of that."

"Did she agree to this lifestyle?"

"She knows what I do for a living."

"That's not my point. When she was your assistant she only knew about your legit cases. What we're doing now well, it isn't exactly."

"I understand the morally ambiguous nature of certain assignments."

"Cooper, I like LaTonya and she loves you. I don't want to see her life in danger and it could come to that with some of these cases we work on. Intelligence communities are getting stronger in other countries; they could strike back out of revenge and hurt those you love."

"I'm aware of that."

"And are you also aware that you're no spring chicken and can't escape death like you used to?"

"Since you brought all of this up, I need to tell you - "

Suddenly, LaTonya appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Cooper who are you talking to at this hour?"

She glanced at the phone.

"You're going away again, aren't you?"

Cooper wanted to take that hurt from her eyes. He gripped the phone.

"Paul, I'll have to call you back," he said and pressed the end button, placing the phone on the table.

"Sweetheart, come here."

"You've only been back a few days," she said, shaking her head, "I thought –"

Cooper stood up and walked over to her, kissing her forehead. He took her by the hand and sat down again, pulling her onto to his lap.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You're not?"

"No, in fact, I've made a decision."

"And what would that be?"

"That was my last assignment."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not doing that type of work any more; I'm retiring."

"Cooper, are you sleep deprived?"

"I am sleep deprived but my mind is fine. I've made enough money for us to live comfortably."

"But you love your work."

"I do. But I love you more."

"I can't ask you to give up what you love for me. I've seen that happen with other couples; and they end up breaking up."

"We're not other couples. I've thought about this a lot and while I love seeking justice, it's weighing down on me too. The death that I see is finally getting to me more than usual. When I come home, all I want to do is grieve; and it follows me. I don't want to live in two worlds any more; I only want one world with you."

LaTonya kissed him.

"I love you."

"I love you too," he said, caressing her cheek, grateful that he had her.

"You're not one to sit around, so what will you do?"

"I'll do some consulting. Remember that idea you had about running an online business that specializes in security clearances?"

"Yes."

"It's an excellent idea and I figure we can run the business together; I love working with you. Don't worry, we'll be financially sound."

"I'm not worried about that, but will that be enough for you? You like being challenged, what will challenge you now?

"I don't know," he smiled, "I suppose the challenge will be in finding a challenge."

"We'll figure it out together."

"I know we will."

"You know," she said, looping her arms around his neck, "I can defend myself while you're away. I'm a good marksman and I own – "

"You own a Smith and Wesson Shield 9mm, a Ruger LCR, and a Bersa Thunder."

"How did you know?"

"It's difficult to keep secrets from me."

"I wasn't keeping secrets."

"Why are you bringing up your shooting skills?"

"I love that you protect me and I know you worried about my safety while you were away, and I miss you something awful when you're gone, but if your decision is based solely on keeping me safe, then I need you to understand that I do know self defense and I can shoot."

"I know this. And even the most well-trained soldiers couldn't face the things I was up against; I'm not denying your abilities, but the forces I was reckoning with surpassed a lot of what most of us could handle. I don't want those forces hurting you. I love you."

"I understand. Come on, let's go to bed," she said getting up from his lap.

He yawned.

"I'm suddenly sleepy."

"Did Paul give you good news?"

"He gave me news."

LaTonya chuckled as they walked up the stairs with their arms around each other; and Cooper felt a peace that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

ooo

Two weeks later…

"Honey, I need to talk to you," LaTonya said as she walked into the kitchen early on a Sunday morning.

Cooper sat at the kitchen table; he was shirtless and only wore a pair of gray sweatpants that were snug on his muscular legs and sculpted buttocks. The bullet wound scars on his chest and torso did not detract from his masculine beauty. The table was cluttered with stacks of manila file folders containing old cases he worked on; and he was in the process of deciding which files would be scanned into their archival database. A small plate of fried bratwurst links and bröchten rolls with butter was next to his elbow.

He was staring at his laptop and smiling. He looked away from the screen.

"Abby sent me pictures from the Daddy Daughter Ball that she went to with Sam. They look so happy," he said, and turned the computer around so she could see.

The pictures showed Abby in her pretty green ball gown with Sam in a tuxedo in various candid shots: dancing together under a crystal chandelier; standing in front of the museum on a red carpet; sitting inside the limo holding glasses of soda… in all of the pictures, Abby looked radiant and Sam looked like the proudest father in the world, his protective arm was around her small shoulders, signaling to the world that this was his daughter, and that he kept her safe from harm.

"They're beautiful," LaTonya said sitting down beside him, "Sam is a good father. Now I need to tell you that - "

"Yes he is," Cooper said, looking down into his blue speckled coffee mug and frowning a little.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you think I will be a good father too?"

LaTonya placed her hand over his, her soft fingers, stroking his rough, ruddy knuckles.

"Of course."

Cooper sighed.

"I'm not like Blaine. I don't have this sixth sense with kids. He's great with Carrie."

"Thank God, you're not like him."

Cooper raised his white blond eyebrows, his blue eyes widened in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm glad you're not like Blaine. I'm glad you're you. Everything different about you is what makes you so special. I fell in love with your quirks. Who cares if you're not like Blaine? You're an original and I wouldn't have you any other way. So no more brother comparisons, alright?"

He leaned over and hugged her, giving her a kiss.

"Alright."

"And you are good with kids. Look at what you have with Abby. You connected with her at her darkest time. I wish you could see how wonderful you are," LaTonya said, as he held her in a strong embrace, "You're fine, Cooper, just as you are."

As loving as her words were, he still had his doubts, considering how he handled justice, but he didn't want to bring it up, so he said:

"I love you so much," he said, kissing her again.

LaTonya kissed his cheek.

"I love you too. And don't think I can't hear your thoughts. I know your job has you doing things I could never comprehend. But I don't care. I love the man that you are. And if you want to know what kind of father you'll be, you'll find out in nine months."

He leaned back to look at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said you'll find out in nine months."

"Are you saying that you're – "

"Yes, sweetie, I'm pregnant."

Tears formed in Cooper's eyes.

"LaTonya, are you serious… when… when did this happen?"

"My period is late and I just took a pregnancy test . It was positive," she said reaching into the pocket of her robe and taking out the stick.

Cooper looked down at the stick that proudly said pregnant on the LCD display.

"I can't believe this," he whispered.

"Neither can I."

"I'm so happy," he said and pushed his hand under her faded blue t-shirt, rubbing her bare stomach, "I can't wait to see your belly grow."

"That's not the only thing that will grow," LaTonya said.

"What do you mean?"

She pointed to her chest and hips.

"They will take on a life of their own," She said, smiling at him, "So be prepared."

"I think it's beautiful. Your body transforming for the baby. Besides, what's wrong with a fuller bosom and hips? You're gorgeous, LaTonya, nothing changes that for me."

He patted his lap.

"Come here."

She sat on his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Let's get married weekend," she said.

"Ok, we can arrange something. I don't want to put it off any longer either. Even if you weren't pregnant. I'm sure Blaine will be shocked," he said, rubbing her belly again.

She ran her hand over his closely cropped hair.

"Is this going to be a thing with you now?"

"A thing?"

"Yes."

"What are you referring to?"

"Rubbing my belly like I'm Buddha."

Cooper laughed nuzzling her soft neck.

"Yes, I suppose it will be a thing. It's suddenly become my favorite part of you."

She kissed him.

"Mine too."

END NOTES: Thank you for reading and reviewing my story!

#Sam and mercedes #Samcedes fanfiction #sam evans and mercedes jones

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