#strangely close and gentle and *tender* even after all those months of nothing but sharp teeth and searing pain

[angelamajiki]

PARINGS: Brother! Tamaki Amajiki x Female! Sister! Reader

CW: yandere, incest, stealthing, con to noncon, quirk play, riding, manipulation, possessiveness, slight angst, implied kidnapping

AN: thank you to @suzuki-violin-school for beta reading!! @sightoru @bonesoftheimpala come get y’all juice

You always had a strange relationship with your big brother, seeming to be just a touch close for your parent’s liking. But the pair of you never paid too much mind to it. Something about it just felt natural and right. You were thick as thieves, always confiding and comforting each other when no-one else seemed well enough to do the job.

When you ran to your brother’s house the second your first boyfriend broke up with you for a completely arbitrary reason, leaving you to cry on your nii-san’s shoulder to deal with your heartache.

“I told you he was no good for you, bunny. I knew from the start that something was wrong with him. There’s no one that’s good enough for my baby sister.”

Then it happened again. And again. And again, until it seemed like every partner you’ve ever had lost interest after the first few months of your relationship. It was devastating to feel unloved and unwanted, but at least you had your big brother to make everything better. Tamaki always reminded you how much he loved you, how smart and intelligent you were, how anyone would be lucky to have you, and the people who have dumped you were complete fools to not see what a gem you were.

And anyone would be lucky to have your big brother; you reminded him as well. The number seven pro hero who had finally blossomed into a confident, top-tier hero with a heart of gold. He was so strong, not to mention a heartthrob. Maybe it felt wrong to be jealous of the attention he gets from the media for his work along with his looks. Still, maybe it was because you knew better than anyone else that one day, the devotion he showed towards you would be the devotion he showed towards his own partner.

Not that you ever planned to tell him you didn’t want his undivided attention to be cast elsewhere, but just like everything else about your relationship, it flowed out naturally when you were crying about your recent first date that had ghosted you after dinner.

“Tama-nii, I’m never going to find someone! Why does no one want me?”

You sobbed into his chest, clinging to him like you did when you were a child, searching for the lost innocence of your youth in his arms. His strong hands embraced you without question, without judgment, as he kissed the top of your head tenderly while shushing you gently.

“Oh, bunny. That’s not true at all-”

What could he know about your struggle? The media treats him like the very man who hung the stars in the sky, and how could you blame them? He was the moon, the very embodiment of tenderness that waxes and wanes with a gentle, shimmering brilliance that you can’t help but hide in the shadows of.

“Yes, it is! What could you possibly know of not being wanted when you’re just going to end up leaving me like everyone else does?” His silence spoke louder than your own sobbing. “One day, you’ll find someone and leave me to be alone again because no one wants me!”

His hand, that touch you’ve become so familiar with, gently strokes your lower back.

“Who said I don't want you? You're making assumptions, little bunny.”

His words tickled your ear, got your heart racing as he quelled your cries of anguish. “Because I certainly do.”

Nimble fingers tilted your chin up to meet his soft gaze, lust clouding his eye like the calm before the storm.

“B-But not like that-”

“Exactly like that.”

His words lit a fire in your core, but forced ice to run through your veins. Your brother could never have you in the way you wanted him to, the way you needed him to.

“It's not that simple.” You choked out, straining to contain yourself from your fleeting desires. This fleeting feeling of weakness can't let you risk your relationship with your brother, or worse, let him be your everything for just a moment and watch him walk away when he's done. “We can't.”

“And why is that? Isn't it obvious that I'm not going anywhere unless I'm with you?”

His face inched closer to yours, a blush splattering his pale skin up to his ears.

“It’s wrong-”

Your eyes flicked to his lips for a brief moment as you found yourself frozen.

“Not if I love you.”

Plush lips sealed over yours, enveloping you in the tenderness you'd had always envied him for. The love, the obsession he had for you had come crashing down in waves over you as you kissed him back, eager to feed off his affection and attention.

Teeth and tongue clashed together in a messy display of the taboo; hips pushed flush against each other as you whined into his mouth, sobbing in the relief of finally feeling yearned for.

The question of whether or not it was right wasn't plaguing you anymore, not like it did you when you scorned yourself for the infectious desires that coiled in your core late at night. His love cleansed you, cured you of your ailment as his tongue and lips made their way to your neck.

Sweet nothings tickled your ear as he nibbled and kissed along your tender flesh, leaving bright pink spots in his loving wake. The tears from your eyes dripped onto his hair, but neither of you seemed to care.

“Don't cry, my love.”

His words were like a symphony, enthralling you with the melody that he carried in his voice and the song he sung to soothe your overwhelmed state. “Let your big brother take care of you, okay?”

Clothes were discarded in a flurry, tossed somewhere beyond the couch the two of you were grinding on. His hands were so strong, yet so gentle as you were carried like a princess, his princess, to his bed where he no doubt intended to indulge in every one of your desires.

Your knight in shining armor kissed you breathless under the moonlight that trickled through the window, casting his shadow over you. Even now, he stole the limelight but you couldn't find it in yourself to care this time, not when he touched you so lovingly.

Nimble fingers kneaded and pulled at your plump flesh, making their ways down to the wetness between your legs. Shame flushed your face as he throatily chuckled. “Wet for me already, imouto? You're flattering your nii-san.”

The pad of his thumb circled your clit gently, sharp eyes watching as your body jolted and twitched at the sensation. “You’re acting as though you've never been touched before.”

You hear the smile in his voice without even seeing it. It only served to flush your shame even further, avoiding the eyes that were fucking you with everything they had.

“Don’t take those pretty eyes off of me.”

His middle finger prodded gently at your hole, teasing the twitching thing with circles of his forefingers. Shyly, your eyes turned to him, begging, pleading for him to stop teasing already!

And how could he deny such an unspoken request from the love of his life? Tamaki already knew what you wanted before you even did, he always did. He’s been able to read you like a book, already knowing what would be on the next page before it was written.

Still, he liked to tease, or more so needed to. It would fuel him like no other to finally hear you beg for him, beg for the love only he knew how to give you. Not that he would be so selfish to deny you of all that you wanted, he was more than prepared to spoil his lovely princess.

But, the man couldn't deny the inklings of his insecurities coming back to bite him. There was a chance that you could regret this later, that you would run far from his reach the second the realization that you slept with your brother donned on you. Tamaki wouldn't have it, now or ever.

Your moans drew him back to the present as his finger pumped in and out of you, dragging along your spongy, wet walls that gripped him oh so nicely. He could hardly handle the anticipation of getting to feel you around his cock.

“N-Nii-san! I can't wait, want you inside!”

Your broken cry sent a shudder down his spine and a jump to his cock. Such a desperate little thing you were, but you were his desperate little thing.

Maneuvering the both of you, he sat you in his lap while holding your ass flush to his hips.

“You know what to do, pretty girl.”

Swallowing thickly, you pulled his cock out of his boxers and positioned yourself to sink down on it.

“Y-You’ll pull out, right?”

“Of course, imouto.”

That was all you needed. Determined to please him, you pushed just the tip in before sitting all the way down on it. A choked gasp filled the space as you felt the fullness of your brother’s cock inside of you.

“S-So full, nii-san!” He stretched you perfectly, letting any pain fade comfortably into pleasure.

It was then that Tamaki decided he would ruin you, not only for himself but for anyone else who dared to think they would be able to please you.

As you ground your hips down into his, you couldn't help but start to feel him grow inside you. Was this normal for sex?

“Ah! Hold on, it's really starting to hurt nii-san.”

Your hips lifted off of his, only to be slammed back down by those strong hands you've come to love.

“Just relax, princess. I'm doing this because I love you.”

Admittedly, this was his first time to try to manifest this part of his body, but he had to try for you, didn't he? Your future with him depended on it. The kiss he pressed to your temple was to soothe himself more than you, focusing on the horse meat he had eaten early that day just after you called him.

He shushed your struggles, hugging you close and stroking the ever-growing bulge in your stomach as he completed his manifestation.

“There we go.” He kissed your cries of the pain away. “It’s okay, you’re okay, princess.”

You had to understand that he was doing this for both of you. He’d ruin that cunt of yours, make it so no man other than Tamaki and his quirk could ever satisfy you.

“You were made to my cock, and mine alone, princess. I'll make you see that.”

The pain was nearly unbearable as he began to thrust up into you, hitting your cervix with the strange cock head he had produced. His hand stayed flush to the bulge on your stomach, stroking it gently as he pounded into you from below.

Your cries and moans meshed together in a perfect melody, one that was always destined to be sung by the both of you, together as one.

Neither of you were going to last long, not with his quirk in play.

“Oh God, I'm gonna cum, princess!” His thrusts became erratic, pounding into you with a new vigor.

“Y-You promised to pull out!” You cried in frustration, feeling his cum fill you up to the brim and dripping out of even with his cock still inside. Tamaki thumbed at your clit to help push you over the edge as he shrunk his cock back down, feeling you cum around him with a cry and shaky legs.

He pulled out, looking at the bulge his cum inside you left behind as he pushed on it gently, watching it gush out of you.

“Now no one else will ever want you.”

[nervousladytraveler]

The Alibi: Chapter 2

A continuation of the the wee fic inspired by the kiss prompt: A + B are in an argument, then they stop, just stare at each other, and then crash their lips together, because, like i said... fuck this shit Ross and Demelza (Requested by the lovely @veryflowerobservation)

______

Ross woke just a little after 9AM. He’d pulled the thick curtains the night before--it had been dark then so the gesture had been solely for privacy. The morning light was largely blocked, save one stubborn sliver that succeeded in illuminating a patch of carpet in front of the bed.

He looked over at the sleeping woman beside him. Demelza faced the wall and had failed at fully covering her body with the hotel bed sheets, and as a result her glorious back and the very top of her bum remained exposed. She might have been turned away from him but that didn’t mean she had given up on him. He knew he could sidle over and press himself close to her, and that she’d receive him warmly, eagerly. She’d made her feelings quite clear.

It had been a complicated night--and yet so easy. To finally be with her after so many years of constant companionship. Yes, they’d had years of steady loyalty to one another but he could see now that their friendship the last few months had been fraught with unresolved tension, overpowering attraction, and something deeper still. It hadn’t been one sided, only he’d somehow been blind to it all until the truth hit him like a cricket bat to the head as she yelled at him in the dark car park. Then he’d kissed her and it was as if he’d always known.

And as they lay together, in between feverish bouts of love making, they tried to make sense of what had just happened. They didn’t talk about the near-miss with the cops or Trencrom’s betrayal, just the sudden, seismic shift that occurred between them. And what it meant.

He was glad that she’d been able to say what he too felt, since he’d never be articulate enough to find the words or have the presence of mind to speak them.

She knows what I’m thinking before I even speak. No wonder she saved my neck last night, he thought to himself with a soft laugh. Yet somehow he knew not to take that for granted. She was her own person and he’d have to work harder to demonstrate his respect for her. No, respect sounded such a cold and clinical word and hardly sufficient. He revered her, he admired her, he was captivated by her, he desired her…

His thoughts never reached their logical conclusion of what all those separate emotions added up to because she exhaled a long sigh and he could resist touching her no more. He ran the backs of his fingers down her spine, then along the gentle curve of her hip, and up to her breast.

She turned to him with a smile, her eyes struggling to open.

“You tryin’ to wake me, Ross?” she asked. Her voice was sleepy, raspy in an innocently sexy sort of way.

He pulled her closer at once and kissed her eyelids, in a tender attempt to keep them closed. He felt a strange sensation in his stomach, not just butterflies but a whole swarm of wings fluttering up, perhaps to carry off his heart. His hands gripped her upper arms--the same arms that seemed destined to deck him yesterday seemed warm and reassuring now.

“No, stay asleep. It was an exhausting night--you earned a lie-in.” He kissed her lips now. Her eyes remained closed but her mouth opened wide to receive him.

How could he have ever considered himself alive before he knew that kiss?

He realised he’d sighed like a love-drunk school boy but he had no shame.

“Yes, it was exhaustin’,” she laughed, “but are you referrin’ to the events before or after we went to bed?” She put her hand to his rough cheek.

He laughed too, as though he’d caught the urge from her, like a yawn or a sneeze.

Ross had no business being so happy. His world was crumbling around him--he’d most likely lose his business and the police’s interest in him had not yet been resolved. And yet...

Yet those things mattered little. Was that really what his world consisted of? Because being with Demelza, loving her and being loved, that seemed a most significant triumph.

“Demelza, I meant everything I said last night.” He’d grown serious again.

“I seem to recall it was me doin’ all the talkin’ and you said a lot of ‘me too’...” she laughed.

“Okay, I meant everything you said,” he teased back.

“You sure about that Ross? Because I also called you stubborn and stupid…”

“And ‘an absolute arsehole’ don’t forget…” he added and rolled on his back with a chuckle.

“Oh Ross,” she said. “I didn’t mean those things…”

“Yes, you did--because I am. Maybe not ‘absolute’ but I can admit I’m ‘somewhat’ of an arsehole…”

She kissed his chest before resting her head lower on his belly. “Then you are my favourite somewhat arsehole, Ross,” she said.

“And you are the most meaningful person in my life…” he said, reaching out to touch her soft hair.

“Thank you for sayin’ that,” she said softly.

“Those were your words, Demelza. So thank you,” he said and pulled her up again so she was level with his head on the pillow. He stroked her cheek and looked into her eyes. They blazed with an intensity he’d come to know well over the last few hours together.

He wanted nothing more than to spend the day with her bare body wrapped around him, with inspired caresses, endless kisses. Even the ancients knew that nothing succeeded at keeping troubles at bay--or at least out of mind--like the pleasures of physical love.

But just then the telephone rang--a rapid string of jarring bleeps loud enough to be heard in the next room. The only person who knew they were there was Jinny Martin.

Good god, was her night shift not over yet? Shit hours for a single mum with two small children. Hoping he hadn’t made trouble for her, Ross switched on the lamp and picked up at once.

“Sorry, Ross. The police are here and want to ask some questions. I told them to wait and I’d call you down but they’re on their way up.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said and rang off.

“What is it?” Demelza sat up in alarm and watched Ross furiously pull on his trousers “Ross?”

“It’s the police, they’re here. Apparently they want to ask me some questions...” He tried to sound calm.

“But how did they know where you were? What can this mean?” she cried and reached for her knickers.

“I don’t know. It seems so unlikely they’d find me...but stay in bed, Demelza,” he said and switched the lamp off again. “Pretend you’re asleep and don’t get up unless I call to you.” His voice was firm but gentle. He wanted to reassure her, to convince her he had a plan--though he most certainly did not.

He hadn’t fully buttoned his shirt when the knock came. It hadn’t sounded aggressive or urgent--was that a good sign? Or was Ross just reading too much into this?

“Just a minute,” he called gruffly, trying his best to sound as though he’d only just been roused. He put his fingers to lips and at his signal Demelza rolled over on her side facing the wall again. This time she had the covers pulled snugly up to her chin.

Ross ran his hands through his hair so it stood even more on end, then exhaled before he opened the door. He blinked his eyes at the glare of the hall light. It hadn’t been an act but added a convincing touch.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m PC Pendarves, and this is PC Bunt, ” the taller constable said then he looked at his notepad, “Mr. Ross Poldark, is it?” He still had youthful spots on his face that were barely concealed by the sparse beard he was trying to grow.

Ross was confused by the question--surely they knew his name--wasn’t that why they were there? The constable didn’t seem sharp enough to be putting him on. But Ross’s bewilderment worked in his own favour--he didn’t look like a man who, for the past seven hours, had been expecting the police to call.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” Ross asked then glanced over his shoulder at the supposedly sleeping form just visible in the dark room. He pulled the door behind him so it was only open a few inches, and stepped into the hallway. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to wake my...friend.” His hesitation at what to call her publicly was genuine but again fit tidily into his ruse. If Demelza and Ross were to have had a secret rendezvous, he’d hardly have announced it readily to the first person who knocked.

“Right, Mr. Poldark. Erm...the clerk said the other guest in the room is Demelza Crane?” This time it was PC Bunt, the squat bespectacled constable who spoke, trying not so subtly to get a peek at the woman in the bed.

“Carne,” Ross corrected. “Demelza Carne.” Instinctively he shifted his position to fully block any further view. “Do you need me to wake her…?”

“No, no sir. I don’t think so.” The first constable said and cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed for his partner. Perhaps he wasn’t so young after all. “Yes, well, we’re making inquiries about a missing person.”

“A missing person?” Ross asked and hoped the relief wasn’t visible on his face.

“A Miss Rosina Hoblyn. Her father reported her missing day before last.”

“Oh?” Ross wondered why they were talking to him about this. “I’m not sure how I can help you…”

“We’re talking to all the guests with rooms facing the road,” Pendarves said as if reading Ross’s thoughts. “You see, a neighbour ‘cross the way, saw a young woman who fit Miss Hoblyn’s description last night right out in the street. A bit of a disturbance it was--she seemed to be having a row with someone. Then left in the same someone’s car.”

“On Church Road?” Ross twisted his brow as he took this in, an expression of questioning concern, which disguised his renewed panic at the presence of traffic cameras. No, he and Demelza had entered the hotel from the rear and were never even on Church Road.

“Yes, this happened right in front of the yoga studio,” Bunt offered, unable to hide his smirk that such an establishment had recently taken the place of a perfectly useful off-license.

“I’m afraid we heard nothing. We’ve…erm...” Ross paused. His sheepish expression was both genuine and well-played. “We’ve been in all night.”

“So you heard nothing? All night?” Bunt said. “This would have been around 11:30 PM?”

“Yes...I’m not sure what time we checked in. You can check at the front desk or I can wake Miss Carne…she might remember.” Ross took a chance here. It was better to be honest that they hadn’t even arrived until quite late.

“No bother, Mr. Poldark, if you didn’t see or hear anything of note outside the room,” Bunt said and laughed to himself, apparently amused by it all. He seemed to buy that Ross had other things on his mind the night before--perhaps he’d even been imagining the scene in his head.

“And the neighbours?” Ross took another chance here. “Did they observe…?” It would be good to know who was up last night and what they knew.

“Nah, they didn’t hear anything either. Okay, thanks for your time, Mr. Poldark. Here’s our cards if you or Miss Carne think of anything later…” PC Pendarves said and fumbled in his pocket before PC Bunt beat him to the punch and triumphantly handed over his own slightly crumpled business card.

“Of course,” Ross said and nodded politely. He waited until they began their retreat down the hallway before he slipped back into the room.

Even at the sound of the door closing, Demelza remained motionless, as though she was holding her breath. Without switching on the light, Ross snuggled next to her and buried his face in her hair.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “They’re gone.”

She turned to him, and in the dim room he could see her eyes were wide--and wet.

“Demelza,” he said and wrapped her in his strong arms. “Don’t be scared. I’m still here.”

“I know, Ross,” she said bravely. “Tell me everythin’, I only heard bits. Is it true? The police are askin’ after Rosina Hoblyn?”

“You heard most of it then. Seems she’s missing--or so her dad says. I’m surprised he even noticed, the drunken lout that he is,” Ross said.

“Ross, did you tell them that you know Mr. Hoblyn? And you know her?”

“They didn't ask, and to be fair, I don’t really know Rosina—I know of her. I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged a word with her.”

“But Ross, you know she’s datin’ Charlie Kempthorne, don’t you? Or at least she was until recently. I think I just heard she broke it off with him.”

“I’d forgotten that. And it’s a connection I’m not happy to make. Ugh! I wonder what she was doing here in Truro?”

“And whose car she got into…” Demelza added.

“You heard the police say that as well?”

“Yes...Oh Ross, you don’t think Rosina could be in trouble, do you?”

“Well, if she is, at least the police are looking for her.”

“And not for you?”

“So it would seem…for now anyway.”

“Ross, I’m knackered as hell but my heart is racin’...I think we should go home.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree.” He kissed her lips, lingering for as long as he could, and dreading to pull away. “If you’re still tired later, we can take a nap together back at Nampara,” he suggested.

“No, Ross,” she said quickly. ”Remember we can’t be seen together.”

“What? That’s ridiculous,” he laughed. “The police now know we’re together and the whole point of you being my alibi is that people know about it…”

“Only some people--the right people at the right time. And we have to make it look like we want to keep it a secret. Otherwise why would we be out in the cover of night and sneakin’ off to a hotel in another town when we could just shag at your place or mine? Think about it, I mean, we both live alone…”

“I don’t. I have a housekeeper, remember,” he reminded her.

“Hmm...we have to decide if we tell Prudie, don’t we? No, maybe just leave some hints and clues. Better let her think she’s put two and two together on her own. She’ll probably start squawkin’ and she’ll want everyone to know she figured out our secret…”

“I don’t like this, Demelza. You know you’re not just my alibi, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I know you don't really think I’m ridiculous,” she said with a smile, reminding him of one of the insults he’d hurled at her the previous night that he’d repeated just now.

“But it is ridiculous that we’re together now…” he began.

“What?” she laughed and pretended to hit him.

“Let me finish.” He caught her hand in his and kissed her fingers.“We’re finally together, after months of idiocy…”

“Years,” she corrected him.

“Okay, years...and it’s ridiculous that we have to pretend to not be.”

“Not all the time,” she added.

“But to see you, to do this again,” he said, running their joined hands down her naked body, ”has to be secret? Or planned enough to seem secret? In any event I can't be with you freely, when I want, when we want. I think that’s going to destroy me.”

“No, Ross. Don’t you understand? It’s worth it to keep you safe--so we can be together. And it won’t be for long. As soon as this Trencrom business blows over, we can let the cat out of the bag.”

“Just so we’re clear, as much as I love the cat, I hate the bag. I hate it very much,” he said and laid his head on her chest.

“I know, Ross. Believe me, I want the whole world to know I’m yours.” She put her free hand to his head to play with his curls. A small gesture but one that moved him more than he expected.

“Me too,” he sighed, then not unpossessively put his hand on her hip. “And hopefully it will be over soon.”

“And no more Trencrom?”

“No more. We might be homeless and unemployed but…”

“Ross?”

“Never again. I promise you.”

----

DS Vage threw down his bacon sandwich with disgust when he saw PCs Pendarves and Bunt return from their door to door inquiries. He already knew what they’d say: No one saw anything, sir.

Oh, they'd swear they’d been thorough, but if they truly had, would they be back so soon? The door knocking, the questioning of witnesses--some of whom didn't even know yet that they were witnesses--that was real police work. And these idiots...what did they think the job was going to entail? High speed police chases? Suspects coming in willingly?

He glanced up at the photo of Rosina Hoblyn he’d pinned to the wall. She wasn’t a resident of his town but he’d be damned if she’d become a victim on his turf.

“Okay...what did you find?” he asked with a sigh.

“That yoga bird, she’s something, isn’t she?” Bunt laughed then turned serious when he saw his boss’s expression. “No sir, I mean Miss Rebecca Ellery said the same thing to us in person that she’d reported over the phone.” He looked in his notebook to get the exact words. “A young woman, blonde curly hair--dye job but with good low lights, approximately 5’4…”

“Oh come on,” Vage said with a groan. “That’s a bit specific, isn’t it? Did you question her on that? Did she tell you what shade of hair dye was? Icy Platinum or Natural Ash Blonde #004? Could she tell you what salon she’d been to?” he asked sarcastically. “And really...five four exactly?”

Everyone these days thought they knew it all. It came from watching too many police procedurals on the telly.

“No sir, I mean yes, sir,” Pendarves quickly interrupted. “Miss Ellery explained that she’d been a hairdresser before she opened the yoga business and it was her...erm ‘stock and trade’, she said. And she says she’s five four herself and this other woman was standing next to the lamp post under that rude graffiti so she could get a sense of her height. She also said she’d complained about the graffiti but no one has responded to her…”

“Alright...go on,” Vage said reluctantly.

“Yes, so the young woman was shouting at a man...Miss Ellery thought he was a man but she wasn’t sure how she knew it--she said that herself…”

“So this other person ?”

“Miss Ellery didn’t get a good look so she couldn't even say hair colour but they-him or her-- remained in the driver’s seat of a lime green Vauxhall Astra GTC.” Bunt was apparently very proud of himself for keeping an open mind about the driver.

“She was specific about the make and model of the car?” Vage raised a brow.

“Yes, she was, sir,” Bunt nodded. “And the lime green colour--she said it looked ‘super douchey’.”

Maybe Ellery was a reliable witness after all, Vage thought to himself.

“Okay, then the girl shouted something to the driver that sounded like ‘You’re a dickhead and you deserve what’s coming for you…’ But he--sorry, the person--didn’t say anything back, least not loud enough that Miss Ellery could hear from her window above the studio. But this person must have said something because Rosina...erm I mean the blonde girl, stopped shouting and got into the car...”

“Just got in? Signs of any coercion?”

“No physical force according to Miss Ellery. Do you think she knew the driver?” Pendarves asked.

“It’s possible…” Vage said.

“Then the Astra drove away north on Church Road,” Pendarves added.

“We’re checking the CCTV,” Bunt said quickly.

Bloody idiot. Of course the CCTV would be checked--DS Vage had already put in a request himself.

“And the neighbours?” he asked. He wanted to hear about the rest of their morning’s work.

“Only three residential flats on the east side of the road,” Pendarves explained. “One just above Miss Ellery--and they’re in Spain for the month. Another, number 74--Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Stephens heard some noise around 11:30 but it had stopped by the time they went to the front window--their bedroom is in the rear, you see. They saw nothing, closed the window, and went back to bed. Number 78, was Mister Bart Maddock, who openly admitted he’d been high--he said that--to the police!--and he was painting so he was ‘oblivious’ to what was happening on the street.”

“Painting? Like walls?”

“Naw, he’s an artist,” Pendarves explained. “That place is sorta a loft, big flat for just the one person but mostly taken up by what he called a ‘studio’. Two studios on one street--never knew so many arty types had moved in.”

“Rents will rise as a result,” Vage grumbled. “Okay and the hotel, the Star and Garter?”

“Three guest rooms faced Church Road. Ground floor is the pub, closed at 11 of course…”

“Of course…”

“Proprietor and night desk clerk heard nothing but their offices are in the rear. The rooms are all on the next floor up. Older woman at the end of the hall took her hearing aids out so she heard nothing and the couple next to her put their baby down to sleep just after 8, then fell right asleep themselves after that.”

“Poor sods. That’s family life, isn’t it?” Vague sighed.

“The couple nearest the stairs though…” PC Bunt let out a chuckle.

“Well? Yes?”

“They were busy shagging all night…”

“Aw c’mon, Bunt…” Pendarves groaned.

“What?” Bunt objected to being called out. “The man said as much as said himself! According to him, they were in all night and were ‘otherwise occupied’ so they heard nothing.”

“Nothing? Great…” Vage sighed.

“Lucky bastard, that one. I got a glimpse of the friend waiting in his bed,” Bunt chuckled then he saw his boss was not amused by tales of him leering at sleeping women.

Dance of Life, Vage was thinking. All the stages of love and life on one hallway. First there’s early love and passion, then settling down and starting a family, finally you’re old and alone. And behind which door is my life lived these days?

He really didn’t consider himself old, though he knew his colleagues did, especially the newly minted constables like these two. At least he was still fit and had all his hair--and his hearing. Could he still be considered a family man though? His own children were grown and far from home. He missed them but not the sleepless nights of teething and ear infections, or even the teenage years when they proclaimed how much they hated him right before they asked him for the car keys and 20 quid.

And door #1? He could barely remember the days of needing that sort of urgent and exhausting sex, but he’d certainly been there in his younger days, with his Tina. What a looker, she’d been. Blonde, curvy, with those great legs. His Tina who was no longer his--she’d left him right after their youngest went off to the army. He should have known she was slipping away from him when she’d switched her hair colour from Natural Ash Blonde #004 to Icy Platinum.

“Okay, and you got names and contact information of all these witnesses--or ‘not-witnesses’ as the case may be?”

“Yes, we got names,” Pendarves said quickly. He had not in fact gotten contact information but assumed he could request it from the hotel at a later time if really necessary.

“Deaf bird was…” Bunt began reading from his notepad again.

PC Pendarves coughed and shot him a look.

“Hearing impaired guest,” Bunt started over, “was Elizabeth Triggs from St. Just, the family with the baby were the Tregeagles--Benjamin and Sarah, didn’t catch the baby’s name…”

“Also Ben...Benny they said,” Pendarves added. “From Falmouth.”

“Right,” Bunt said, “and our ‘sex’ couple was Demelza Carne--we didn't talk to her, she was asleep--and Ross Poldark.”

“Wait a minute,” Vage said, a bell ringing somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Sorry sir. Thought it was respectful to let her sleep. Should we have talked to her?” Pendarves asked.

“No, that’s quite alright. But did you say the man was called...Ross Poldark?”

[carolyncaves]

It’s been three days since I posted a ficlet, but that’s because my hand Really slipped this time and I wrote a canon divergence ‘post-Burial Mounds Wei Wuxian actually goes to Gusu’ fic. I’ll call this Day 19: Journey, but it also includes days 17 and 18 Rest and Breath for bonus points. 3680 words, WWX, LXC, LWJ, JC. Alcohol, vague mental illness (it’s post-burial-mounds wwx), strong undercurrent of wangxian (it’s lwj), angst, tenderness, golden core reveal.

also on ao3

“You do not necessarily need to take up the sword at once,” Lan Xichen called after Wei Wuxian, perhaps too desperately, but it mercifully stopped him in his tracks. “You can come to Cloud Recesses and simply consider it further there.”

“So instead of agreeing to take up the sword, Zewu Jun would like me to agree to agree to it in time. A grand distinction.” Wei Wuxian tipped his head back and drained the rest of the jar of baijiu. When he drew it down and looked at it, the rigid arrogance etched into his profile was mixed very briefly with a desperate despondence. Lan Xichen might not have noticed it, were it not for his conversation with Wangji.

Wei Wuxian had been somewhere terrible for three months, and he was not well. Wei Wuxian needed help. Wangji was forbidden to come, so Lan Xichen had to do this in his place, and please, Xiongzhang, you must get him to agree to come to Gusu, whatever it takes.

After what he’d seen so far of Wei Wuxian’s state, Lan Xichen was not sure it would be within his power. But Wangji had placed his trust in him.

“You will not be required to do anything, if only you will come.”

“I do not recall when Zewu Jun gained the authority to require things of me.”

That hostility could bring them to failure. Lan Xichen needed to shift to his reserve approach. He thought, given the circumstances, Wangji would consent. “To speak even more plainly, it would please Wangji very much to see you. You were correct when you said so yourself. He has been anxious since the close of Sunshot, and lonely at Cloud Recesses. I am asking you for this favor, as his closest confidant, for the sake of my brother’s happiness – so I will not be easily discouraged.” Those words were all true; it had become clear Wangji’s happiness depended very much on Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian’s expression softened once again, this time toward affection. Lan Xichen gave his words time to sink in, and then followed them with a wager: “It will be an opportunity for you to rest.” Despite Wei Wuxian’s bright smile and earnest greeting when they’d met on the street, Lan Xichen had sensed underneath it that Wei Wuxian was haggard and worn.

Wei Wuxian finally turned and looked at him again, and his agitation had fully melted back away. Lan Xichen felt the gentle lift of hope.

“I’m a member of the Jiang sect, aren’t I?” Wei Wuxian asked. “My brother has been named Sect Leader, and needs me now more than ever in his life. How can I go to Gusu with you?”

“Please allow me to ask him,” Lan Xichen said immediately. “On my own behalf, please give me your leave to request of him that you come visit us.” He did not mention, and only barely allowed himself to think, that if Wei Wuxian was here in town drinking baijiu in the middle of the day, he was probably not giving his brother the support he needed regardless.

Wei Wuxian stared at the floor for a very long time. He gave a hollow laugh. “All right. If Jiang Cheng gives you his blessing, I’ll go to Gusu with you.”

Lan Xichen had swayed one immovable stone, only to find another in its shadow.

/

Jiang Cheng received him almost immediately in Lotus Pier’s Sword Hall. He sat on the carved lotus seat, looking every inch a Sect Leader despite his youthful face. Wei Wuxian stood slightly to one side, looking carefully at the opposite wall instead of either of them.

“Take Wei Wuxian to Cloud Recesses?” Jiang Cheng kept his voice even and respectful, for now, but his features clearly displayed his incredulous irritation. “And you want to go, I suppose,” he added, much more acidly, to Wei Wuxian. “You’d like to run off and see Hanguang Jun, nevermind Yunmeng Jiang.”

“Zewu Jun has asked it of me,” Wei Wuxian said lowly. “Should I just refuse him out of hand?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed, and Lan Xichen could almost hear his rejoinder – So you make me do it instead? “Have you been drinking? I needed you today. Look at you.”

“Sect Leader Jiang, I am asking this of you as a personal favor,” Zewu Jun said, hoping to coerce Jiang Cheng into discussing it with him instead. “I’m hopeful spending a measure of time together at Cloud Recesses will be beneficial for both my brother and yours.”

“Hanguang Jun is more than welcome to come to Yunmeng,” Jiang Cheng countered.

“Currently Wangji has sect matters he is required to attend to,” Zewu Jun answered, before immediately wincing.

“And Wei Wuxian doesn’t?” Jiang Cheng snapped. He looked incensed with a fire more furious than this one conversation would ignite, implying Wei Wuxian’s truancy today was not an isolated incident; this request was precisely the fuel to grow a smolder into a blaze. “Not that he’s been doing them. Are you planning to stand by my side and help me at any point, Wei Wuxian? Have you no sense of responsibility?”

Lan Xichen saw those words hit Wei Wuxian like a blow, but he was surprised when Jiang Cheng flinched as well. Perhaps he had not intended the second meaning – the implication of blame, as well as duty.

Jiang Cheng took a breath to recover, and apparently that gave him the time he needed to reconsider.

“Forget the thing I just said. You should go with him.”

Wei Wuxian looked right at him, then, for the first time in that conversation, and his face was masked with slow confusion and hurt. “Jiang Cheng …”

“Don’t argue with me! Go cheer up Lan Wangji and yourself, and come back. You’ve been impossible and stubborn since you got back from wherever on earth you were, and I need you to get your head back on straight.” Wei Wuxian’s face had gone blank again during that tirade. Jiang Cheng snorted in exasperation and added, “Don’t forget to take your sword with you, and see if you can come back riding it.”

Wei Wuxian stiffened, and Lan Xichen was briefly terrified the situation would collapse mere inches from success. He stepped forward, clamped a hand down hard on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, and said, “We will bring the sword with us.” He hoped Wei Wuxian would remember the assurances Lan Xichen had given him, so he wouldn’t have to repeat them in front of Jiang Cheng. “Where is it, Wei-gongzi?”

/

Lan Xichen escorted Wei Wuxian to collect the sword and some personal effects from his room – thankfully, Jiang Cheng remained behind. Suibian was tucked behind a chest of drawers, where Wei Wuxian would not see it as he went about his daily life. Wei Wuxian retrieved it and stared at it like it was alien in his own hand, in contrast to the dark flute he held as at his side as an extension of himself in the other.

He thrust his arm toward Lan Xichen.

This disturbed Lan Xichen, the way Wei Wuxian seemed actively averse to the sword’s presence, but he said nothing; he was on the verge of achieving his mission. All this could be discussed in the fullness of time once Wei Wuxian was safely at Cloud Recesses. He took Suibian in his own hand, for the time being. He would bear this person and his sword to Wangji.

Wei Wuxian was slow and lethargic in his movements, some combination of mood and intoxication. It took all of Lan Xichen’s discipline not to rush him. It felt as if every moment that elapsed could bring some unforeseen stimulus that would knock Wei Wuxian off this vital and fragile course. Eventually he was ready, and as soon as they had sky over their heads, Lan Xichen took him on Shuoyue and maneuvered them into the air.

Lan Xichen relaxed, since they were now underway, which seemed a significant milestone in making this more difficult to stop. Wei Wuxian clung to him in strange desperation with the arm that wasn’t holding Chenqing. He stared down and around and out, face wide and wild as they climbed into the dusky sky, and as the minutes passed he began to shake. Did he feel unsafe relying on someone else to maneuver the sword? Had something happened that had instilled in him a fear of heights?

“Hide your eyes, if you would be more at ease,” Lan Xichen told him. “I assure you, Wei-gongzi, I will deliver you safely.”

Wei Wuxian’s fingers tightened ever so slightly in Lan Xichen’s robes, like he was hesitating, fighting a silent battle. Finally, his head collapsed onto Lan Xichen’s shoulder, his face angled into the side of his neck. Otherwise he said nothing, and did nothing. It was so far distant from the buoyant young man who had come to Gusu for lectures and even the sharp, bright, terrible one he’d seen glimpses of during Sunshot. Wangji had been correct. Wei Wuxian was deeply not well. Lan Xichen had been moderately convinced by the end of their conversation at the inn; now he was beyond certain.

The flight was long, but at the end of it, the patch of garden in front of Wangji’s jingshi came up to meet them, and Lan Xichen set them safely down. Wei Wuxian had made the journey.

///

Lan Wangji heard a sound he quickly placed as Xichen maneuvering Shuoyue, and he was out the door of the jingshi as quickly as he could physically manage it. First, because Xichen would not maneuver the sword within Cloud Recesses if he were not on some urgent mission, and second, because Lan Wangji would not have been able to hear him if he were alone and unburdened.

Sure enough, he was met with the sight of Xichen ushering a rigid Wei Ying from the steel onto the grass. A relief so intense it threatened to send him to his knees expanded through Lan Wangji.

“Wei Ying,” he said reflexively, closing the space between them.

Wei Ying turned to him with glazed, hazy eyes.

“He may still be intoxicated,” Xichen said, “and he has been harrowed by the flight.”

Lan Wangji stopped just before he touched Wei Ying, remembering him step away from him at Yiling Supervisory Office, turn away at the cliffs at Nightless City. This time, Wei Ying let him slowly move in and take him by one wrist. It was hope, and forgiveness, and a plea.

“Let’s get him inside,” Xichen said, which meant Lan Wangji had to release him. He followed as Xichen escorted Wei Ying up the walk. By the time they reached the open doorway, Wei Ying had recovered some of his senses, and he pulled himself out of Xichen’s hold.

“You don’t have to … you didn’t have to,” Wei Ying said coldly. “I shouldn’t be here. I should go back.”

Lan Wangji’s stomach sank, but Xichen just said, “Wei-gongzi, surely you aren’t suggesting I fly you back to Lotus Pier by sword this very moment.”

Wei Ying flinched, even as he scowled at himself for it.

“You must at least take dinner with us, and stay the night,” Xichen continued. “We can discuss it further in the morning if you like. You’re no prisoner here, just a welcome guest.” Xichen extended his arm, gesturing for Wei Ying to continue into the jingshi.

At length, he did.

Wei Ying stopped in the center of the room, standing aimlessly as Xichen and Lan Wangji came in around him. “I’ll go have someone prepare us a meal,” Xichen said. He held out Suibian, which for the first time Lan Wangji noticed he was carrying.

Wei Ying stared at him. He made no move to take it.

Xichen smiled sadly and went to set the sword at one of the places at the table.

Lan Wangji said stepped forward and took Suibian from his hand. “Xiongzhang,” he said, bowing formally with Wei Ying’s sword clasped in his hands, “thank you for bringing Wei Ying here. Now I will speak with him.”

Xichen briefly looked taken aback. Then his gaze floated from Lan Wangji to Wei Ying before returning. “I told Wei-gongzi we would not force him to take up his sword if he came here. That we would not require anything of him if he was unwilling.”

Lan Wangji imagined how the conversation must have gone, for Xichen to make that assurance. “Thank you,” he said again, and he hoped Xichen understood him.

Xichen nodded. “I will have the meal sent over for you.” Xichen acknowledged Wei Ying and left, surrendering Wei Ying into Lan Wangji’s custody.

Wei Ying was here. He had come to Gusu, however tensely. Lan Wangji was not helpless any longer. He could do something. He looked at the sword in his hand. Wei Ying’s wild Suibian. “I will play Clarity for you until the dinner comes,” he said.

“Lan Zhan, you can’t help me.”

“You said you would allow me,” Lan Wangji pushed back, pacing around Wei Ying to face him. “You came here.”

“No, Lan Zhan. You can’t help me.” Wei Ying looked up at him, expression gaunt. He was still thin, from wherever he’d been when he was away. If he was intoxicated, it was the morose kind. “You can play Clarity for me until your fingers bleed. I still won’t take up the sword again.”

“Why not?” Lan Wangji bit out, clenching Suibian in his grip. “What happened, Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying’s gaze was heavy on the sword in Lan Wangji’s hand. He thought for a great, long silence. “You have to believe me this time,” he said, swaying a little on his feet. “If I tell you, you have to believe me.”

Lan Wangji had not believed him when he spun a tall tale about a book and a cave with a dark, haughty grin. He had been afraid to believe him when he mentioned the Burial Mounds with a smile. Now, with Wei Ying standing empty in the jingshi, a silent tear rolling down his face, having relented and left his home so Lan Wangji could help him, Lan Wangji was prepared to believe anything he had to say. Lan Wangji nodded.

“It’s a secret,” Wei Ying pressed instantly, and more tears followed the first. “You need to swear to me you’ll keep it a secret. From Zewu Jun, from your uncle, from everyone. I would die rather than have it be known. Do you understand, Lan Zhan? It’s a secret I was going to die to keep.”

That image, the one of Wei Ying dead, frightened Lan Wangji more than anything had previously in his life. A year ago, it would have seemed impossible – his overloud, overfamiliar other, taken by death. Now, it seemed possible. Now, Wei Ying was barely held together by resentful energy and thin wire.

Lan Wangji raised his head, decided. He crossed the room, to the sword stand where his own Bichen stood. He put Suibian to rest alongside it. Then he turned. Wei Ying had turned to watch him.

Lan Wangji held out his hand, palm up. “Then tell me. We will keep it together.”

Wei Ying looked at his hand like a man going to his death. He looked at it like a man who wanted to be saved. He barely took his eyes off it as he took the three steps sideways necessary to walk over and place Chenqing on the corner of the table. Then he took the three steps back – toward Lan Wangji – and Lan Wangji’s hand in his own.

He drew it toward him and pressed it against his lower abdomen.

It took Lan Wangji a second to process this strange action, and another to follow its implication. He controlled his spiritual energy, reached in to touch Wei Ying’s spiritual core.

Nothing.

Lan Wangji’s hand clenched, pulling in a handful of Wei Ying’s clothes. He could feel his own breath begin to accelerate. Wei Ying’s cultivation was a match for Lan Wangji’s own. How could Wei Ying lack a golden core?

Wei Ying had bit his lip so hard he bled. Lan Wangji raised his other hand instinctively, to wipe the blood and tears away.

“Hanguang Jun,” came a voice from outside, and the door slid open.

The junior disciple holding the tray with their dinner froze on the threshold. Fortunately, Wei Ying was facing away from the door, so the tears on his face would not be visible. Lan Wangji could not begin to imagine what his own showed.

The disciple opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Place it quickly and go,” Lan Wangji said, his voice harsh even in his own ears. The disciple leapt forward to obey, practically diving across the room and setting the tray on the table. Her sleeve brushed against Chenqing as she withdrew, sending it clattering to the floor. She winced and reached for it.

“Leave it,” Lan Wangji commanded. The disciple gave the quickest bow he had ever seen and fled the jingshi, banging the door closed behind her.

Wei Ying gave a wet laugh. Lan Wangji’s hand was still on his face. “Lan Zhan, that disciple surely thought you were in the middle of ravishing me. By morning, every junior in the Lan sect will be talking about Hanguang Jun and his secret lover.”

Lan Wangji drew Wei Ying into the circle of his arms and crushed him to his chest.

“Wei Ying,” he said into the side of his head. He clutched at him, dug one hand into his hair. “Wei Ying.”

“It’s all right, Lan Zhan, really,” Wei Ying said, voice hollow. “It’s not so terribly bad. I’m practically used to it at this point. But you see why I can’t take up the sword anymore.” Wei Ying was still babbling. “Do you see, Lan Zhan?”

“Enough talking,” Lan Wangji said. His mind was beginning to seek causes and effects. “Wen Zhuliu?”

“I thought you said enough talking,” Wei Ying deflected.

The Wen soldiers had said things that hadn’t made sense to Lan Wangji. They’d said the heir to the Jiang sect had been burned down into a mediocre person. The pieces rearranged themselves, and Lan Wangji spat, “Jiang Cheng. Wen Zhuliu, and Jiang Cheng.”

“Enough talking,” Wei Ying whispered, but his hands finally came up and wrapped around him. He finally took hold of Lan Wangji. And he began to cry. It was quiet. Listless. Unlike everything Wei Ying was.

Lan Wangji held him until he stopped.

He didn’t realize tears were on his own face until they dampened Wei Ying’s shoulder and he felt the coolness.

When eventually they pulled back, Wei Ying was barely on his feet. Lan Wangji walked him over to the table. He food had gone cold, but he needed to eat. Wei Ying picked up Chenqing and placed it back on the corner of the table with a shaking hand. Lan Wangji sat beside him instead of across from him, an arm still wrapped around his waist. He did not know when he would be willing to let go of Wei Ying again.

When Wei Ying finished eating, he realized he would have to.

“I will play Clarity for you,” Lan Wangji said, though it came out more stifled than he intended.

Wei Ying shook his head ruefully. “I’ve taken you too off-guard, Lan Zhan. I’m sure you could if my life depended on it, but you don’t need to play it tonight.”

Perhaps that was best. Lan Wangji did not feel even remotely clear himself. He shifted so he could draw Wei Ying back against him, back pressed against Lan Wangji’s chest. As if it were possible to hold him close enough to make this all right.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, I didn’t know you were going to be quite so possessive of my spiritual power,” Wei Ying said – joking even now, joking already. He tipped his head back on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, showing his exhaustion. “Ah, well, now you know the truth. You can send me back to Lotus Pier tomorrow with a clear conscience.”

Lan Wangji shook his head. Slowly, several times. How could Wei Ying say such false things, even in jest? Lang Wangji cupped a hand under his chin, angling his face up slightly.

Wei Ying stared up at him. “Lan Zhan …”

Lan Wangji leaned down and kissed him.

It was brief and light. Lan Wangji could taste the whisper of baijiu on his breath. Then it was over.

Wei Ying stared up at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips hanging ever so slightly agape.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said. “You said you would allow me to help you.”

“Oh,” he said, as if he were truly surprised. His chin drifted back down, and he stared across the jingshi unseeing in thought. Then he took one of Lan Wangji’s hands in both of his own and raised the back of it to his lips. “Thank you, Lan Zhan.”

It was barely seven thirty, long before even the Lan sect’s curfew, but soon Wei Ying was starting to drowse in his arms. Lan Wangji wanted to continue to hold him, but he had been exhausted even when he stepped off Shuoyue. He needed to rest.

Lan Wangji might have carried him to the bed, but he woke and was already pulling himself up before Lan Wangji could arrange it. Instead, he walked at his side, supporting him.

Wei Ying slept the sleep of the bone-weary. Lan Wangji sat beside him and watched. This was worse than anything he’d imagined. But now he understood, and he could stop wasting energy on the false problem and help Wei Ying with the true one.

Wei Ying had dark circles under his eyes and alcohol in his blood and no golden core, but he was safe in Lan Wangji’s bed at Cloud Recesses. As long as that was true, hope was not gone.

part two

[hyper-fixate]

you wouldn’t believe the dream I just had about you and me

[The other night, during a 3 am feed, I saw a post about soulmate prompts (I found it!) and saw this one (paraphrased):

20. They recognize their soulmate because they’ve heard their laughter in their dreams.

And today, those immortal husbands wouldn’t let me leave it be. Title from Some Nights by Fun.]

updated with AO3 version.

------- Yusuf remembered when his older brother, Hamza, had gotten married to a shy dress maker from the village over. She looked beautiful. She had hand stitched a beautiful pattern across the skirt of her simple tunic, with looping branches and leaves. A tree, the joining of two families to make one. Yusuf had been intrigued by it, choosing to sit by his new sister’s knee and gently traced his fingers along it. Something in the soft blue-green thread intrigued him. He knew he would sketch it in the hearth this evening, as he lay watching the fire dwindle to embers. His mother tried to shoo him away, admonishing him for touching the precious dress with his sticky fingers but Karima gently placed her hand on the nape of his neck and smiled at him beneath her veil.

‘Are you happy to be married to my brother?’ Yusuf asked breathlessly. Only seven, but already his mind was filled with the glory of love. The romance he still saw in his parents eyes as they brushed gentle fingers against each other’s cheeks and arms. He knew his parent’s love story and it warmed him to know that they were blessed with so many long, happy years together. He fell asleep with the same fervent prayer on his lips: let me have a soulmate too.

‘Yes, little brother.’ Karima glanced at Hamza in a way that was so tender and loving, Yusuf blushed as though he had intruded on something intimate. ‘From the moment I heard his laugh, it was as if a great weight was lifted from me.’ 

‘Then I heard hers, and she snorts. Like a boar.’ Hamza had come over to them, grasping one of Karima’s hands in his and drawing it to his lips. She swatted at him with her free hand, but she did laugh. And it did end in a small snort, a joyous noise that seemed to escape her against her will. 

‘How did you know, then,’ Yusuf considered his words carefully, ‘that it was dreams of your soulmate and not a boar?’

That drew a great laugh from Hamza. He laughed with his whole body, throwing his head back and even Karima giggled lightly.

‘Little brother, your mind is a treasure.’ Hamza gently ran his thumb over Karima’s knuckles and they exchanged that look again. ‘I must continue to check on our guests? Do you need anything?’

‘No, our little brother is taking good care of me.’ Karima said and Yusuf felt the tops of his ears heat at the easy nature in which she accepted him. Hamza kissed her hand again and, with a whispered endearment, left them. Karima looked down into Yusuf’s shining eyes. 

‘Do you wish to know a secret?’ She looked at him conspiratorially, and he nodded. ‘You must not say anything.’ Yusuf held his finger over his lips, to mime his silence. ‘But a part of me was so glad that my soul was bound to one so handsome and I was instantly ashamed. To be gifted a soulmate so close and so easy to find and to be concerned with his looks?’ She sighed, leaning back into her chair. ‘But what has been the greatest blessing is getting to hear your brother’s laugh at all hours of the day, not just in my dreams.’ 

She had a hazy smile on her lips, one Yusuf knew well from watching his parents. He had tried to capture that smile in drawings. Tried to imagine it on his own face when he caught his reflection in still water. To imagine the contentment of knowing you had found the other half of your soul, that you were finally on the path you had been destined to tread. He swallowed painfully.

For Yusuf had a secret. A dark, terrible secret, that felt so heavy in his young heart.

Yusuf was not certain he had a soulmate. 

He knew how it worked. That when your soulmate laughed, you would hear it that night in your dreams. His father, Ibrahim, had spoken of the joy he had, growing up and hearing his mother’s light laugh every night. How happy he’d been, knowing his future partner was so carefree and easy to laugh. How he’d felt his heart would explode when he’d heard that laugh, outloud, that fateful day in the market. How it had speared him through his heart. And Yusuf had sighed at the romanticism of it.

But Yusuf didn’t hear laughter in his dreams. Not really. Sometimes he thought he heard small huffs, little sighs of sound. But never laughter. Not the type that seemed to ring in his family home at all times of the day. When Ibrahim caught Mariam in his arms and swung her. When Hamza told stories of the men at the docks, trying to haggle for the wares. When Karima brought him sweets from the market.

When Hamza and Karima announced that there would be even more laughter to look forward to, their intertwined hands splayed over her flat stomach.

He was nearly thirteen when Yusuf woke suddenly, spilling the papers he had been sketching on before he’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew what had woken him. A deep noise that sounded warm and joyful, but still so restrained. As he chased the dream, the noise seemed to slip through his memory and he couldn’t hold it. But a small giggle bubbled from his own lips.

It had been a laugh. 

He had a soulmate.

A more painful thought occurred to him, then. His soulmate had had so very little opportunity to laugh that it had taken nearly thirteen years to hear it properly. He did not think discovering he had a soulmate would have made his heart heavier. But the ache in his chest when he realised that there was someone out there for him, but that this person did not have the joy Yusuf had? That cut him deeply. He scrambled out of bed and folded his body into the familiar shape of prayer. He swore, as solemnly as he could, to bring such joy to his partner that he would know that dreamy contentment Karima had shared with him all those years ago, on her wedding day. I will hear your laugh at all hours of the day, to make up for years worth of missed dreams. 

Yusuf, like any good romantic, was also predisposed to fits of melancholy. He was not sure what he had done to upset Allah. He had had a good childhood, his silent existential crisis about not having a soulmate not withstanding. He had enjoyed his work with his father and brother, travelling by land and sea to trade their goods. Some part of him kept his feet moving. He seemed to know, deep down, that his quiet, solemn soulmate would not be found in the next village over. So he had travelled happily, easily charming those he met with a sharp wit and an easy wink. At every new market, new town, new inn, he wondered if this would be the moment he heard it. Heard the laugh that would begin his life anew.

Then that damned Frankish pope had called his holy war and everything had changed.

There was no laughter anywhere, not anymore. Not when Yusuf’s days were spent trudging through endless sands with this damned man. He’s not sure what made him offer his hand in peace after the last time they woke up. Honestly, it was more fatigue than any sort of mercy. He was covered in sand, his own blood, the Frank’s (Nicolo, his mind unhelpfully supplied) blood. There was bone and gore in his hair, caked under his nails and in his mouth. Surely anything would be better than this. Even walking with his once enemy who was trapped in this living hell with him.

It took many weeks for them to realise they shared a common language. It took them months to accept that whatever curse they both suffered had held and that perhaps, they should stop trying to kill one another and at least be civil. 

Nicolo’s Greek was slow and halting, half remembered from when he was a boy and before he had been promised to the church. Yusuf’s years of travelling made languages easier for him and between Greek and exaggerated hand movements, he had begun to pick up bits and pieces of Nicolo’s mother tongue. Nicolo still tripped over Arabic hopelessly, but was a dedicated student. He asked constantly for the names of things and spent hours repeating them to himself, to try and imprint them on his tongue.

Yusuf watched his hopeless companion and decided that perhaps he had not angered Allah that badly. Though their meeting had been so violent, he had seen a kindness under the layers of doctrine and faith, an eagerness to learn and experience this new world. Nicolo was distractedly oiling his long sword whilst clumsily rolling the strange Arabic consonants and vowels around his tongue. He misprounounced every word.

His companion was amusing if nothing else. And a fairly good cook. 

And that’s why you don’t tempt fate. Yusuf thought a moment later, as his musings were cut short by the sharp pain in his neck and he barely had time to see Nicolo jump to his feet as his world tilted sideways and went dark.

Yusuf awoke with a violent gasp. He sat up, his hands scrambling to his neck. His fingers found nothing but tacky blood. Nicolo was watching him, his eyes oddly bright in the dying light.

‘What happened?’ Yusuf asked, his voice rasping. He put his hands on his thighs, trying to ground himself. Nicolo moved back slowly, sitting down in front of Yusuf.

‘Bandits.’ Nicolo jutted his chin towards his right. Yusuf saw two bodies laying in pools of dark blood. ‘They shot you with an arrow.’ A small movement out of the corner of his eye drew Yusuf’s gaze back to Nicolo. He was holding an arrow bolt in his hand. ‘You did not wake up.’ Nicolo said, swallowing hard. ‘Not until I pulled out the arrow. I had thought-’ There was a half strangled sound from the Genoan. ‘I was wondering if your stubborn refusal to die was just at my hand.’ Nicolo said it so quietly, Yusuf’s tired brain took a moment to make sense of it.

It was easier to understand Nicolo’s tone in zeneize, his mother tongue. But Yusuf could hear fear in this man’s voice in any language. Anger and fear had been their first shared language, after all. Yusuf tore his eyes from the arrow, the arrow Nicolo had to tear from his neck, and back at his companion and saw the other man’s tunic was covered in blood. 

‘Are you well?’ Yusuf reached out, his hand poised in the air between him. Nicolo didn’t move away, but stared at Yusuf’s hand as one would a snake about to strike. ‘Did they hurt you?’ Yusuf tried to make the return of his hand seem casual and not stilted, but the tension still hung in the air.

‘This is mostly yours.’ Nicolo said, waving to his chest. ‘It sprouted out of you like a fountain when I pulled this out.’ He rubbed a hand across his cheek, smearing more blood. He grimaced when his hands came away tacky. ‘How bad is it?’ 

‘For you? It’s an improvement.’ Yusuf said in perfect zeneize and in such a deadpan manner that it startled a laugh out of his companion.

Yusuf froze. 

For a full moment, he wondered distantly if his heart had actually stopped and he was in the liminal space between their deaths and their gasping rebirth.

Nicolo laughed. Nicolo laughed.

And Yusuf knew that laugh.

He moved almost as a blur, reaching for Nicolo before the other man could react. Yusuf’s hands caught Nicolo’s face and the force of his movement knocked the paler man back, wedged uncomfortably, half on his knees and half on his pack. Nicolo squawked indignantly, trying to move away, his hands searching for a weapon on instinct. But it was too far away and the manner in which Yusuf had pinned him made it impossible to lever himself off his feet. Yusuf shushed him, softly, gently. Trying to convey that he meant no harm as one hand slid Nicolo’s hair away from his face and Yusuf searched those damned beautiful eyes for something. 

‘What are you doing?’ Nicolo, extremely confused and uncomfortable, stumbled out in slightly mispronounced Arabic, following it with a small huff at the manic look on Yusuf’s face. And it speared Yusuf right through the heart.

He knew that sound too. And his heart flew and broke and started thumping in his chest as if it wished to escape his flesh. Something had to escape, so Yusuf threw his head back and laughed. Nicolo went still under him, his eyes blown wide.

‘Mio Dio.’ Nicolo gasped under him and Yusuf couldn’t help himself. 

He laughed again.

(Prologue, of sorts)

‘And I kept my promise, I have tried every day to make him laugh. If only I’d known as a boy, so unsure of my dreams, how those small noises of joy would make my heart soar. How drawing a full bodied laugh from this quiet, thoughtful priest would make my blood boil in a very different way then when we met-’ Joe says

‘Yes, yes. We get it. You’re still disgustingly sweet.’ Andy sits down, her hands curled around a vodka bottle and offers it to Nile. Nile shakes her head. Andy takes a swig straight from the top.

‘Wait, so you didn’t laugh around each other for months?’ Nile looks slightly dazed. 

Nicky shrugs. ‘We were too busy trying to kill each other.’

Joe laughs.

Nicolo’s point of view here.

[sebbytrash]

Through His Eyes - Part Sixteen

Summary - Bucky arrives at the compound to start afresh but you and him have a somewhat colorful past, colorful being that you met him once before as The Winter Soldier and it did not go well. New beginnings, yeah? If you can learn to forgive.

Pairing - Eventual Bucky x Reader

Warnings -   Unrealistic expectations of best friends

A/N - I’m sorry. Trust me. 

Through His Eyes Masterlist

“Ow. Shit.” Bucky’s voice pierces that blissful sleep bubble you were in with a pop. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s too early for you to be this loud.” You open one and eye and half peer at him, find his face a lot closer than you expect.

“Why is there a gun under your pillow?” He asks, holding it up for you to see like maybe you didn’t know it was there, a stowaway in the night. 

“Put Bob back, he’s been in my bed a lot longer than you have.” You grumble and roll over, pull the covers up over your ears in the hopes you will find sleep again.

“You sleep with a gun under your pillow? Here?” He asks again, incredulous and he has a point, you know this. 

“I have issues, sue me.” You answer carelessly, sleep already beckoning and it’s only when he goes silent beside you that you think about what you just said and turn back to face him, “I had these issues before you came along, believe me.” 

You take the gun from him and place it on your nightstand, slip your fingers around his wrist and tug him back down beside you, distract him from those dark thoughts with your lips and mouth. 

When he leaves, you find the paper bag sitting exactly where he left it. Was it meant for you? Curiosity gets the better of you and so you open it, find your heart beating strangely in your chest when you see your favorite cookie waiting at the bottom. You try and fail to remember when you might have told him, wonder if he plucked the thought directly from your head along with the beats from your chest. 

It goes like that, weeks pass in a blur as you ignore all common sense and take solace in these moments with Bucky. Usually a nightmare or a mission has you at his door, no longer knocking and simply slipping inside like you dared to belong, never longer than a few days in between. 

The days are filled with sidelong glances and lingering touches. If anyone notices, they say nothing, not even Sam who knows exactly what those touches mean. You think of the Soldier even less now, nightmares consisting of everything and nothing, missions and faces but nothing of that time spent behind the green door. You are filled more everyday with cautious hope, the other shoe still waiting to drop but it gets closer to the ground with every minute, the impact of the fall lessening with each full nights sleep.  

You are making yourself breakfast one morning, humming along to the song stuck on repeat in your head as you do when Sam takes a seat.

“Well, good morning, sunshine.” He says, smiles enough to show all his teeth, “Someone’s in a good mood.” 

“Hmm...am I?” You tease, toss him a piece of bacon from the stack, “Or am I always this delightful?”

“Do I have to answer that?” He ducks back out of reach with a laugh when you try to shove him. You turn back to the eggs in the pan, sprinkling in some cajun spices and Sam watches quietly, a small smile on his face as he takes in the relaxed droop of your shoulders and shining eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you eat a real breakfast, you know. That sorry excuse for coffee not included.” 

“Some of us like to taste the caffeine, alright?” You smirk at him, show him your teeth again like it’s normal to feel so happy about eggs and bacon. Maybe it is, you think, as you pop another piece into your mouth and hum. 

“I assume you never ended things with Bucky?” He asks like he already knows, watches your face like he's watching for the answer instead of listening. 

You sign, make a small noise of admission, “It’s not like that, though.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“I don’t know, a distraction?” 

He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, simply sits and watches you avoid his gaze and stir your eggs into a paste in the pan, his face mild like spring sunshine. 

“You know, I wouldn’t have chosen him for you. Not because he’s a bad guy or anything, he’s not, but I wouldn’t have chosen this complicated path for you, not after everything you’ve endured.” You look at him then, find him watching without reproach and instead something else, “But, I like this look for you.” 

“What look?” You ask, curious but also a little afraid.

“Happy.”

Sam words haunt you for the rest of the day, leave you distracted during training with Steve, so much so that you take a particularly nasty hit to the face, one you should have easily avoided. You have to remind him of that several times over as he apologises for the fifth time. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” 

“Don’t be, it’s on me. I wasn’t paying attention.” You say, gingerly touching your cheekbone to assess the damage. It didn’t feel broken, at least, which was good considering it was a super soldier on the other end of it. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, his eyes so full of concern.

“I’m fine, Steve, don’t worry. I’ve taken worse hits.” You smile and then wince at the sharp pain that follows it.

“No, not that. Are you okay? I haven’t seen you distracted like that for a while?” You hate that look in his eyes, the one that he created just for you. 

“Hey.” You say softly, step up close and lay a hand on his arm, “I’m ok. I promise.” 

“It’s just that lately you’ve been…” He trails off like he isn’t sure how to finish that sentence, “uh, you again.” 

“I feel like me again.” You admit, smiling softly, letting the truth of the statement chase away some of that marrow deep doubt. 

Later, in your room, you think about both conversations again. You think about the last few months, and then closer still, the last few weeks. Are you happy? Has it been that long since you truly were, that you can no longer recognise it? Maybe you aren’t there yet, but you consider, for the first time, that perhaps you were on your way. There’s a few more miles to go along the road, but yes, happiness might be for you after all. 

When you find yourself slipping quietly inside Bucky’s room that night, there’s no nightmare to blame or mission to burn off. There’s just you and the miles you’ve already walked, a newness to your steps and your smile. Bucky turns when you enter, even though you know you never made a sound, is pulled towards you by those invisible strings you both seem to carry.

He doesn’t notice the smile or match it with his own, his face is instead several things at once and yet, furious the most.

“What happened?” He asks quietly, fingering cupping your face in that gentle way of his and tipping your head back to get a better look, his actions so entirely at odds with his expression. You are struck by how different the furious face is, how so unafraid of it you are. 

“Oh shit, I forgot. Does it look bad?” You say suddenly, remembering the earlier hit you took and smiling a little at why you forgot. He doesn’t answer and so you add, “It was an accident, during training, my own fault. I’m OK.” 

“Your own fault?” He repeats more than he asks, still unable to take his eyes from your face long enough to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I was distracted.” You explain, and then smile again, catch his eyes with this one and watch him relax in response.

“You seem awfully happy about it.” He smiles back at you now, hand still cupping your face and you turn enough to drag your lips over the inside of his wrist, watch his eyes roll around in the tenderness of it.

“Lets call it cathartic.” He laughs, light enough to float in the air around you, bubbled moments like drifting gold. 

Everything is different and yet nothing is different, he’s still looking at you that way he so often does, his ocean eyes reflecting all the stars within their depths and you feel it, that inexplicable pull, the riptide carrying you away. When you drift off to sleep, it’s not the usual sation and sweaty sheets, no, this time it's softly, held within Bucky’s arms, the TV still on with some forgotten movie playing. 

It’s exactly what you didn’t know you wanted. 

It was fragile, this feeling. 

Breakable. 

The screams wake you.

TAGS:  @manawhaat @theashhole @captainrogerss @higherfurtherfasterbby  @peculiar-persephone  @captain-rogers-beard @chrisevansnco @howlingbarnes @poealsobucky @samingtonwilson @vintagevalentinexx @abovethesmokestacks @imhereforbvcky @avengerofyourheart  @carriefish-er @stormy-thomas @danijimenezv   @angelicthor   @betheboo55 @palaiasaurus64 @raxacoricofallapatoriuspotter @johnmurphys-sass @katbird787    @sexyvixen7 @jobean12-blog  @justreadingfics @justareader @smoothdogsgirl @theliarone @aikibriarrose @timeladylaurel @badassbakers @earinafae @tardis-is-mine​ @httpmcrvel​ @bucky2-0​ @mocking-rain​ @sociallyimpairedme​ @jezzula​ @bless-my-demons​ @ign-is​ @indominusregina​ @-supernatural-coffee-llama​ @alwayshave-faith​ @itsonlysarah​  @shifutheshihtzu​ @mizzzpink​ @yknott81​ @haven-in-writing​ @xtina2191​ @reniescarlett​ @notsoprettykitty​ @wickedwerewolf​ @ayeputita​ @tori-medusa-belongs-to-bucky​  @tatalopes23​ @pineapplebooboo​ @mizzezm​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @memory-of-a-goldfish​ @supernatural-girl97​ @standing-onthe-edge​ @ruinerofcheese​ @mysweetcookie99​

[lady-aescwyn]

Strange, Tender Things

Steve Harrington x fem!OC One Shot

Author’s note:  I was inspired by a prompt I found while perusing the Stanger Things fics tags.  This was originally intended to be a StevexReader fic, but I decided to give the protag a name.  It’s still pretty self-inserty and I encourage you to overwrite her name in your mind with your own if it pleases you.  My writing skills are rather rusty, but please enjoy.

Premise: Steve Harrington and his girlfriend are having a stupid fight, which is brought to an abrupt end.  Concern and gentleness ensues.

***

When it was over, neither of them would remember how it started in the first place.  It had started out as simple, easy conversation.  He hadn’t quite meant the words in the way they’d come out.  She’d had more venom in her tone than she’d intended. They were both little more than teenagers.  Though they were both whole in body, they were both traumatized by a series of recent events in Hawkins, Indiana.

Now, here they stood.  

In Joyce Byers’ small kitchen.  

Fighting.

The house was empty, save for the two of them; Joyce at work, the younger kids out under Jonathan and Nancy’s watchful eyes, reunited for the first time in months.  But here at the house, Steve Harrington’s hands were planted on the top of the kitchen table, his upper body bent forward as he traded barbs with Dawn.  For her part, Dawn was brandishing a dirty glass in one hand as if it were a weapon and giving as good as she got, her lips curled back in an almost feral snarl.  Her time as a street kid coming back full force, manifesting as a bitter, angry fight to make her point.

The small, cheap table creaked with the force of Steve’s anger, though his voice was low, “We can’t keep living in what happened back in Hawkins.  I’m not saying forget it, but we have to move forward.” His face was stony, eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s not over!  It will never be over, Steve!”  The empty glass swinging through the air between them like a saber.  Dawn’s voice was strained with manic desperation, “Hopper is alive.  El saw him! This can’t be over until we bring. Him.  Home.”  As if to punctuate her point, she brought the glass to a stop with a final thunk on the table.  

Unfortunately, that finality was too much for the old cup.

The glass shattered.

There was a beat of silence as they both took a moment to register the cracking sound of glass grinding against itself.

“Fuck!”  Dawn swore, fussing over the remains of the glass.  She began gathering the bits, heedless of the blood that was beginning to seep from between her fingers.

Steve was around the table like lightning, “Stop.  Hey-“

“I broke Joyce’s glass.”  Blood sprinkled the tabletop amidst the shards.

“It’s ok.  Just stop.” His voice was soft, a far cry from the intensity and clenched teeth of only moments ago.

“I need to clean this u-“

“We will clean it up.  After we clean you up.”

Dawn finally deflated, all of her fight burning off like fog on a summer morning.  

She let Steve take her arm and guide her to the kitchen sink. The air was still, humming with the sound of the refrigerator nearby and their breathing in unison as their anger ebbed away.  The quiet was punctuated only by the clink of bloody glass shards hitting the sink, each accompanied by a sharp intake of breath from Dawn as she winced.

As Steve turned on the water to clean the wound, Dawn stopped him, “Hold on, there’s still a piece in there.”  

She bent forward, trying to see in the dim light from the dingy bulb over the sink.  Her lip was clenched between her teeth as she dug into the wound with her other hand. Despite the surety of her voice and action, her breath was hitched with pain as she coaxed the glass from her hand. In his concern, Steve hadn’t realized that his hand had found its place on her lower back, steadying her.

Finally, that last piece of glass fell from her fingers and they both released the breath they’d been holding.  She gently flexed her hand and then nodded, sure that was the last of it.

He said, “Let me.”

And she did, her stance relaxing as she stood aside to let him wash the blood from her hands.

It was a deep wound, long and jagged across her palm and all the way to the bone at the base of her thumb.  If it had been anyone else, it would have necessitated a trip to the ER.

“I have a healing factor, you know.”  The words were without bite, her attempt at humor cutting the silence.  He knew very well her ability to knit her wounds together and if pushed, to channel that ability to heal others… at an exponentially greater cost to herself.  

She had used it to save his life only months ago.

“I know.”  His reply was simple, but one corner of his mouth hinted at a smile before his brows furrowed again.  “But I- I don’t like to see you hurt.”

The bleeding had stopped.  

No longer over the sink, he still held her injured hand cradled in both of his.  Dawn didn’t move, searching his face as he watched her flesh knit together.  The rumble of the furnace kicking on joined the sound of the refrigerator.  His warm thumb travelled down the skin of her wrist until it met the number 9 tattooed there.

Leaning closer to him, her voice shook, “I’m sorry-“

He shook his head.

She continued, “I know it’s not healthy to dwell so much-“

“I’m sorry too.  If there’s any chance Hopper’s alive, we have to find him.”  There wasn’t much to go on.  Just El’s dream of a ‘cold place.’  It could be grief, or El could be tapping in with her powers, none of them were sure.  They’d had no more success when they’d tried white noise or another makeshift sensory deprivation tank.

The last bit of tension, melted from Dawn’s body, “It doesn’t do him or us any good to fight.  I’m sorry.”  She reinforced her apology.

Steve’s eyes hadn’t left her wrist.

Moments passed in silence as motes of dust drifted lazily through the yellowed, old home.  Still, his fingers ran tenderly along the sides of her wrist.

The cut was nearly closed now; just a jagged, angry red line. Even the scar would soon fade. This was far from the worst injury she’d ever had and they both knew it.  In the buzzing still of the small kitchen, Steve seemed lost in the memory of before.  

With the fingers of her injured hand, Dawn brushed his forearm. “Hey.  Look at me.”

Steve took a deep breath, but his eyes and hands didn’t leave her arm.

After a moment, he spoke, “You told me once that Hawkins Lab created you.”  There was a pause.  When she didn’t interrupt, he continued, “You are so much more than that.  So much more than them.  You took what those assholes did to you and you did amazing things with it. And you’re gonna do even more.”  

The conviction in his voice was searing and Dawn wasn’t prepared for him to cut right to the core of her worries.  

When his eyes finally met hers, he didn’t expect her to look so stricken. Dawn’s eyes welled with tears as all of the emotion came to a head and spilled over. The uninjured hand went to her mouth, but once the tears had started, they couldn’t really be stifled and she stumbled forward into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I-“  Steve’s voice was mildly panicked; he hadn’t meant to make her cry.  As she fell forward, he held her, which was all she really needed.

These weren’t bad tears; they were a too long delayed emotional release and they would pass almost as quickly as they had come.  However, in that moment her shoulders shook with intense sobs as she clung to him.  And he held her as the waves crashed over them.  Damp fingers curled into the back of her shirt as his grip tightened and he buried his nose into the top of her head.  Steve’s own vision was blurred with tears.  This was the first time they had seen each other since Dawn moved away from Hawkins with El and the Byers’ and they’d almost ruined it with the stupidest fight.

Eventually, the sobs passed and once again the buzz of the kitchen appliances reigned in the soft atmosphere.  But the couple didn’t part.  They stood like that for a while, locked in each other’s arms, rocking gently side to side.  Finding comfort in each other again.

After a while, Dawn’s rough voice came from where her face was buried between his neck and shoulder, “M,sorry.”

“Don’t be.”  His voice returned from where he was still buried in her hair.

Dawn took a deep, cleansing breath and finally brought her head up, looking over his shoulder at the glass shards still on the table, “I have to clean up.”  But she made no move to leave his arms.

Steve didn’t move either, “I’ll help.”  

He was talking about more than the broken glass.

“Thank you.”  her ‘I love you’ wasn’t verbalized, but neither did it go unsaid as she began to pull away with a soft squeeze to his arm.

Before they fully parted, he caught her with a gentle hand at the back of the neck and pressed a kiss to her forehead.  Their breath mingled for a moment between them as they drew away.  It was his own silent, ‘I love you too.’

With that, they stepped apart. Steve turned to the sink and Dawn to the table and together they worked to clean up the mess.  Quick work was made of the blood and glass.  Words were unneeded as they worked around each other and in unison, the same as they had done before in Hawkins; though this was nothing like those battles with the beasts of the Upside Down.  It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time they moved as one.

As the worn dish towel was at last hung back over the handle on the oven door, Steve caught her hand and began to pull her from the room. “I think everyone else has the right idea, let’s get out of here.”  His usual, charming smile dawning on his face like the rising sun.

That smile was infectious and Dawn couldn’t stop from meeting it with one of her own, “You know, I could show you our new mall up here.”

The response was swift and over dramatic, “Oh god no!  No more malls!”

Laughter followed the two of them through the home like light hitting a suncatcher and scattering flashes of rainbow across the yellowed wallpaper.  For now, all was well.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Forget Me Not || Morgan & Vic

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @natusvincere & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: The women gather more than just weeds and thorns when Vic comes to visit. Maybe we should have stayed home. :/

CONTAINS: Brief references to homophobia

Morgan set her basket down in the garden and brushed the frost from Deirdre’s pansies as she made herself comfortable in the earth for weeding. She was here to tend her own patch of witch hazel and tending to her lavender saplings, which were sectioned off only by placement, indistinguishable to everyone but her and Deirdre. She tended the yellow buds and tender stalks with swift, decisive care, until she heard her guest come through the gate.

“Over here!” She called. Strangely, she hadn’t been all that surprised when Vic wanted to do something calm, even gentle, on their friend date. She came off as brusque and dismissive online, but the times Morgan had seen her at the local art gallery, her look was so thoughtful and sad. She didn’t strike Morgan as someone with a thirst for violence so much as someone in pain. Of course, this was exactly why Morgan thought keeping sharp on her training skills with Victoria would be a good idea, but she didn’t have enough drive in the idea to push for it. She would rather heal herself than stay on her toes, expecting violence sooner than later. No, this was better.

When her friend came through the gate, Morgan waved and beckoned her over. “If it’s too cold for you, we can always duck inside. I’ll have you know I am a very good cook.”

Morgan Beck was certainly an anomaly in White Crest.  In a world full of annoying, nosy fools who always seemed to have a sinister endgame, Morgan offered a calm, gentle contrast that Vic wasn’t sure she’d ever been used to.  Though Morgan was still at arm’s length, it wasn’t often that Vic let anyone get so close, not in a genuine way, at least.  There was too much risk- of abandonment, of death, of someone lurking in the shadows, ready to whisk the happiness away in a heartbeat. And then there was the problem of Morgan’s obvious lack of a beating heart, stirring questions deep in Vic of the morality of the situation.  She refused to become friends with a vampire (ignoring the pull for friendship she often felt for Fran, what a ridiculous, weak thought).  Morgan never questioned her request for an evening gardening session, free from the threat of the sun, which was also slightly alarming.

Even as she walked up to the address Morgan provided her, she wasn’t quite sure she’d stay.  But then Morgan’s voice was beckoning her over, and Vic rolled her eyes as if closing the distance between them was an inconvenience.  “I thought you needed help gardening”, she said, glancing toward the small studio behind Morgan and trying to hide her disappointment at the thought of a change of plans.  “I mean, if you’re cold, it’s fine, but I’m okay.”  She blinked, pulling gardening gloves out of her pocket, not giving Morgan a chance to protest.  “What do you like to cook?”, she asked as she slipped them on.

Morgan grinned sheepishly. “I’m pretty sure what I actually said was, I’d really appreciate it if you would garden with me, since you seem to know so much about it.” She didn’t need help so much as she wanted to get to know Vic better. There was something familiar about the woman, a loneliness that seemed, to Morgan, to ache as much as it bristled. Morgan wanted to slip her hand past all the thorns and brambles Vic planted around her and clear just enough room for her to realize this was no way to be. Whatever she feared or grieved, it could be okay. “But you don’t need to sound so disappointed. There’s plenty of work here to keep us occupied for an hour or two.” She gestured to the weeds and the azaleas in need of watering. “But any longer and we probably will have to duck inside so you--we--don’t catch a chill or anything, huh?” As for her cooking, Morgan opted to claim the pride she held in her accomplishments. “Oh, lots of things. I bake a lot of pie and pastry, so I’m starting to get into the savory variety of those. And some traditional Irish dishes, for my girlfriend. But she says everything I make tastes good, so I’m not sure how successful they really are.”

“We don’t need to argue semantics”, Vic said, sending Morgan a stern glance.  She didn’t know how to respond to the compliments or kindness, it was too much to think about.  It was more useful to ignore them all together.  If Morgan was going to continue to be sickeningly sweet, she better get used to that reaction.  She let out a phantom breath at the sight of the weeds, happy to get started clearing them away with expert hands.  There was something peaceful about the act- some sort of silent therapy in cleaning up the weeds of the physical world when the ones that wrapped themselves up inside her heart and stomach sat there so stubbornly.  She furrowed her eyebrows at Morgan’s small slip-up, wondering what she meant.  “If you insist… but I don’t know how long I’ll stay”, she warned.  Truth be told, getting cozy inside of Morgan’s studio with a small bite sounded nice, even if she could live without the eating.  But the risk that came with it was greater than it was worth.  

She had been working rather absent mindedly, only half listening to Morgan’s rambling, when one word stuck out to her like a bell in a storm of silence.  “You have a girlfriend”, she asked, her hands pausing among the weeds.  “I didn’t realize you were… I didn’t realize you weren’t…” she swallowed, clearing her throat awkwardly.  “That’s… nice for you.  Do you...enjoy having a girlfriend?”

Morgan looked sidelong at Vic as she froze and sputtered over the mention of the word ‘girlfriend.’ “Is the phrase you’re looking for, ‘not hetero’? Not all lesbians look like Ellen, Vic. Some of us like wearing skirts sometimes. Some of us even wear lipstick.” Laughing, she smacked her pink painted lips to emphasize her point. She stopped pretending to work and shifted so she could sit and look at Vic straight on. She didn’t know what kind of uncomfortable the woman had fallen into, if it was just embarrassment or latent homophobia or something more tragic.

“I’m in love, Vic,” she said after a while. “I spent most of my adolescence convinced that the sheer magnitude of my gay was a literal curse on my family, and then the next ten or so years being closeted and awkward and afraid and pretty much all the time after that being convinced that even with Don’t Ask Don’t Tell repealed, even with Obergefell v. Hodges, I was just not a person made to share a whole life with someone. And I did everything I was supposed to, I made do, I tried as much as I could be brave enough to try, but I was practically forty without a relationship lasting longer than six months. Dating for all people is hard, but for me, and probably for a lot of queer gals...it’s a different kind of hard. And then I fell in love, and in spite of our mountains of trauma, our fears, we fit in such a way that...it’s like being held. She looks at me, she smiles at me, she touches my hair or squeezes my hand or says something and it’s like being held. It’s a kind of safety I didn’t know I could have.” She shrugged and fished out her phone to show Vic the lock screen: Deirdre laying sprawled on a window seat in their home, all three cats sleeping peacefully on her, as she looked up at the camera with an adoring, sleepy look on her face, in that bright instant when she realized she was being photographed and composed her face. Morgan had been going for a candid shot, but she was still beautiful, still warm, still herself, and that alone made the image worth keeping. “If you’d told me that this would be my life even a year ago, I would’ve thought you were being cruel. But not every surprise life throws at you is a bad one.”

Morgan looked good and hard at Vic, trying to guess if anything had changed, if she suddenly had one foot out the door, if she should let her. “At the end of the day, I feel like everyone deserves to be known, and understood, and loved. Even if it’s just for a little while. Life is so fleeting, and there is so much beyond our control, but nothing else, people should be loved, by whoever they want, however they want, however the magic of attraction or understanding works out.” She held her gaze, still searching. “How do you feel about it? Have you ever been in love, Vic?”

“Ellen is insufferable”, Vic muttered. Her hands returned to busying themselves with the weeds, but Vic’s ears were focused on the rambling falling from Morgan’s heart.  Love.  She was in love, with a woman, so openly and freely without a goddamn care in the world.  Still, her naivety sparked something inside of the woman, and despite her best efforts, she let her eyes land on Morgan’s, taking in every word as if they were the sweetest sounds she’d heard in years. Maybe they were.  She let the rest of the world believe the was aloof about politics and world events, but she could admit, at least to herself, that she had much of the same reaction when the United States seemed to offer more and more rights to LGBT couples in the last 20 years than they had in her near 500 years on this Earth.  It was both exciting and frightening. She hadn’t realized it, but she was nodding at Morgan’s words with a silent expression on her face, one that told Morgan she related more than she was willing to admit. Her features softened even more at the picture she was offered, and it was all she could do not to reach out and snatch the phone from Morgan’s hands.  There was so much hope in her voice- so much warmth and love and happiness.  And then the way she spoke of her girlfriend, as if nothing more in the world mattered, as if everything made sense in her arms, it sounded so much like-

No.  No, no, no, no. She wouldn’t think of her.  She would not think of that time in her life.  It was frivolous, useless, tragic, awful, devastating, painful...

Seemingly suddenly, she stood up, looking away from Morgan with hard, angry features.  Her beat of silence lasted an uncomfortable amount of time.  “Love doesn’t exist, Morgan”, she said finally, her voice devoid of emotion.   “It’s the harsh truth.  Better you realize that now, than to have your heart broken down the road.”  She turned away from her willing the moisture in her eyes to disperse without her bringing attention to it.  “I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you, but that’s how it is.”

Morgan saw the pain and the longing in Vic’s face as she finally met her eyes. So, it wasn’t homophobia. Or if so, not the kind she wanted to send people away over. She followed Vic to her feet, waiting for the admission, as if it wasn’t already telegraphed by the tears shining in her eyes. “Vic...” Morgan whispered.

And then she spoke, stiff and hard as the shears she’d been handling a second ago.

“Of course it exists,” she replied, soft and patient. There was no arguing, just as you wouldn’t get worked up over reminding someone that the sun hung in the sky and flowers needed light and water to grow. She walked around to face Vic again. Whatever pain the woman was running from, she wanted to look at it with her, to understand where it had come from and how deeply it was buried. “Love is as real as air, or flowers fooled by a false spring…” she offered Vic a purple bloom from her hand, a gift, and a point. “I think some part of you knows that, too. Or you did once. What I don’t understand right now is who convinced you of such an awful lie, and what made you choose to say that to me just now.” She tilted her head and leaned in, anything to make the woman look at her. “Can you tell me, Vic?”

Vic scoffed out a laugh at Morgan’s insistence, looking to the side with a cynical shake of her head.  Love- long, everlasting love, was a fantasy, and Morgan was fooling herself.  In a cruel life that lasted forever, everything had an end.  And fate, with her twisted, evil intent, liked to make sure the end of happy things like love were especially tragic.  She let her eyes fall on the flower offered to her, but her hand didn’t budge to reach for it, no matter how much it ached to.  Instead, her eyes finally found Morgan’s, a mix of anger and sorrow gleaming from them.  Why was she doing this?  Morgan didn’t know anything about her, and somehow she sat here, gently demanding the truth- as if talking things out could make centuries of sorrow disappear. “I convinced myself.  Nothing happened, nothing is wrong, this is just something one knows.  You’re living in a fantasy, Morgan.  And nothing will come out of it but pain.”  She blinked, watching Morgan and waiting.  Waiting for her to demand that she leave, to tell her they’d never speak again thanks to her outburst.  When nothing seemed to happen, she let out an annoyed huff.  “I didn’t come here to discuss personal lives.  I came here to garden.  If we’re not going to do that, I suppose I’ll just leave.”

The anguish in Vic’s expression was only too recognizable to Morgan. She inched closer, as if she could read her trauma in her pores if she squinted hard enough. “People don’t convince themselves of anything that awful for no reason,” she said quietly. She flinched back as Vic flexed her cold stiffness, shutting Morgan out.

“You asked me,” she said. “I said one thing about fucking Irish stew, actually less than that! And then you asked me! Why is that? Is it because you’ve shut yourself so much that hearing about other people’s happiness is the only thing you have left? Because there’s nothing stopping you from being happy, Vic. You could have someone, you could at least have hope, if you weren’t spending all your energy into being like this. But why try to crush my happiness, why try to argue with me that everything I have isn’t real? Does it make you feel better when other people are as sad and hurt as you are, or do you actually think that you’re the only person who understands the world? Oh, stars, or better yet, are you actually so naive as to think that suffering makes you wise? Because I have some big news, teenage drama queen!”

She stared at the woman, searching and accusing. Her mouth throbbed with anger. She didn’t know this woman half as well as she thought she did. She hadn’t imagined that she could be cruel. Not to her, not with this much determination. But there was something in Vic that made them similar too, she reminded herself. She could see it in the water glazing her eyes, in the clench of her jaw. It was so much work, it must get exhausting sometimes, even if it had become muscle memory. She softened and breathed slowly. Her body didn’t need it, but it was a good distraction for her mind. She’d been caught off guard, and so she’d been hurt, but she didn’t know this woman. She didn’t have all the pieces she needed to understand any more than Vic had all the pieces to understand her. She had no idea how insulting she’d been, and so Morgan couldn’t hold that against her.

“You aren’t the only person who has suffered, Vic,” she said, her voice calm and even now. “And my decision to be happy, to love someone, doesn’t mean that I’ve been living some kind of gay Nancy Meyers fairy tale. You don’t know a thing about what I’ve lost or what pits scraped myself out of. I know what it feels like to have nothing, to have only your own suffering for company. I know. But I’m not going to play some cynicism game to prove it to you. I want to be your friend, and I don’t need you to see everything like I do…” Not yet, anyway. “But you don’t have to be so cruel. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve that, and I don’t think that’s the person you really are anyway.”

Vic stood there, stoic and unblinking as Morgan unleashed onto her.  Her jaw was clenched and she swallowed hard, but she refused to let emotion show on her face. This was, despite the swirl of emotions dancing deep in her chest, each of Morgan’s accusations stirring a new wave of recognizable dread. Morgan was speaking as if she knew her, as if they were friends, as if they had some deep connection that Vic had just severed by saying how she felt.

She was speaking the truth, and it was all too much to handle. She scoffed out a bitter laugh, shaking her head at the name calling.  Morgan’s grandmother wasn’t even alive when Vic was a teenager.  

There was a moment after Morgan’s calm words, a beat that hung in the air between them, but it was directly followed up with the storm that was Vic. “Are you done?” she asked, her voice coming out with more uneasy gravel than she intended.  “You’re the one being dramatic if you think me offering words of advice is so offensive.”  The words fell out of her mouth like lava, burning and vicious and unstoppable.  Later, when she was alone in the dark of the night, she’d bore over them, wondering why, why, why she didn’t ever stop.  “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.  Everything you think you know is made up in your head to make things seem nicer.  I haven’t suffered, to burst your bubble, I’m just a shitty fucking person.   We’re not friends!”  The silence that followed was deafening, encompassing, suffocating.  They weren’t friends, they never would be, because there was nothing friendly or lovable she could offer.  She wiped at her eyes, finding tears there once more.  Weak. With a flare of her nostrils, she turned on her heels, running out of Morgan’s garden in double the time it’d taken her to arrive.  Going there, thinking something nice would come out of it, was a mistake, and she was sure she’d never be back.

[the-littlest-goblin]

Everyone pretend I posted this on Monday for @shadowgast-week​ day 3: ritual

Also, I’m sorry.

_______________________________________________________________________

Everything about this is wrong.

It’s wrong that they’re doing it here, in the desolate ruins of Molaesmyr, further scorched and destroyed by the battle that took place. 

Essek’s presence is wrong, a lingering shadow at the edge of the Mighty Nein’s united fellowship. What insufficient aid he was able to contribute to the fight, he is even more useless now.

And, of course, the most egregious inaccuracy that the universe has allowed to take place: the limp body lying in the thin dusting of snow, red hair and purple coat as bright as gemstones against the gray-white ground.

Someone has closed his eyes, Essek can see now, even from here. But he still knows what it looked like to see the life leave those eyes, the utter wrongness of dull vacuity where there should be a sharp spark of intelligence. 

He will never be able to forget it.

The weak sunlight glints against the diamond that Jester produces from her haversack, almost the size of her fist. She exchanges a whisper with Caduceus, holding the gem out between them, uncertain. He inclines his head, touches her shoulder with a gust of warm, divine magic. Jester heaves a deep, steadying breath, and kneels next to the body.

“What the fuck are you doing.” The wet, raw voice is not asking a question. Essek didn’t notice Beauregard approach him, too focused on the scene unfolding a few yards away. A fist wraps around his forearm hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t resist as she drags him into the circle they have formed, but a distant part of him is idly curious that she does not understand what he knows so intrinsically: he should not be a part of this. This is a sacred, delicate ritual, and he is a blight on all that is holy and pure.

Still, once there, he can’t find it in him to argue the point, and none of the others protest as he stands among them.

He waits for someone to point out the obvious, because this is his fault, beginning to end. His actions led directly to this. Essek’s treason allowed Ikithon the dunamantic power that he’d wielded to such devastating effect before they could subdue him, and it was Essek’s spell that failed to bring down the mage before he landed the killing blow.

But no one speaks. No one even acknowledges Essek beyond a gentle pat on his shoulder from Caduceus.

Jester raises her hands, about to begin the ritual.

“Wait,” a voice cries. It is his. The others all look at him in shock.

He shuffles over to Jester, reaching into his components pouch for the pearl. Understanding dawns on her face as he holds it up to her forehead and murmurs the incantation. 

She smiles at him weakly in gratitude, tears brimming in her eyes and falling over the well-worn tracks down her face.

Essek has never witnessed a resurrection ritual before. Apparently, this is a first for the group as a whole. While Jester continues the somatic motions, muttering a prayer under her breath, Caduceus explains,

“We can help her. The ritual requires three offerings - words, objects, whatever you can give to the soul to help it return.”

Veth steps forward immediately. She barely needs to lean her halfling body down to press a kiss to Caleb’s pale forehead. She slips the button necklace from over her head and clasps it around Caleb’s neck, then begins to speak. 

Essek barely processes her words. He hears them, listens to them, feels them, but if asked to recall her speech later, he would be unable to quote a single phrase. The same for when Beau steps up, the unrestrained anger in her tone at odds with the tenderness of her words.

She finishes with a watery sniff and a swipe at her bloodshot eyes. The others begin to look across the group, exchanging silent questions of who will go next, who has something to coax Caleb’s soul back to them.

It takes Essek several seconds of dumb blinking to realize that all eyes have turned to him.

He doesn’t move. 

It’s difficult to keep secrets when traveling with a party like this, as Essek quickly discovered. He knows that they all know, to varying degrees, about the unnamed, unspoken thing that has built between him and Caleb over the months. But it still feels wrong, because they are the Mighty Nein, and he will always be an outsider, and Caleb is first and foremost one of them before he is Essek’s... whatever he is.

Jester pauses her spell to smile up at him. “I think he would like it, if it was you,” she whispers.

Essek has never been able to turn Jester down. Even back when he was ingratiating himself with them only for self-preservation, she had opened her arms and gazed at him with doe-eyed expectance, and the notoriously cold and calculating Shadowhand of the Bright Queen had leaned in and let himself be hugged for the first time in decades.

Gazing back at Jester’s encouraging expression, he becomes aware of an idea in the back of his mind, percolating silently through the whole ritual without his conscious acknowledgement. 

He steps forward. Dropping to his knees next to Jester, he opens his component pouch once again and summons his spellbook from its pocket dimension. 

Tether Essence ends when one of the targets fall unconscious. He has never tried casting it on a dead person. Probably no one has, because it is clearly pointless. 

Veth and Beau both said something as part of their offering, so Essek speaks as well, as he gathers the elements of the spell together.

“When I met you, Caleb Widogast,” it feels strange, addressing the lifeless corpse, but he forces himself through the awkwardness, “I thought that I had at last found an equal. Over our early conversations, I saw how smart you were, how capable, how adept with magic. After years of always being the smartest person in any room - as I thought, in my arrogance, that I was - I had finally met someone I could engage with on my level.”

Heat rises in his cheeks, aware of the Mighty Nein all listening raptly.

“Eventually I realized how wrong I was, because we are not equals; you are so far beyond me in every way. Smarter, wiser, kinder. You proved to me by example that intelligence does not have to mean detachment, that one can pursue the kind of knowledge that we do without cutting themselves off from the world. From friends.”

And here, he risks a glance around. Jester smiles at him encouragingly.

“My soul was damned long before you found me, and I thought that that was the end of the story. But you knew better. You took it upon yourself to guide me beyond my own myopic world and showed me that there was still more I could do. That I could balance the scales, if I wanted. And you were willing to show me how, when there was nothing in me that should have merited a second chance.

“I am still a mere student in the study of atonement. I am not ready to lose my teacher. Please. I can’t do it without you.”

He releases the spell at last. He submits to it willingly, feels it latch onto himself. He altered the mechanics slightly - experimental, probably not advisable outside of laboratory conditions, but needs must - so that it spreads not just to his physical body, but deep into the core of his soul.

He feels it fizzle and snuff out on the other end, Caleb’s body no longer capable of receiving that kind of magic. He sighs, dropping his hands in defeat. He knew it would happen, but that doesn’t stop him from being disappointed.

Except...

The spell is still up. It’s not supposed to work unless it holds on both targets. Essek can still feel the magic humming through him, which means that somewhere beyond this plane of existence, his spell has reached Caleb’s departed spirit, linking them across life and death.

He leans back, but stays kneeling, scared of somehow breaking the tenuous connection.

Jester’s voice grows louder as she reaches the culmination of the ritual, beseeching her god with a conviction in her voice that penetrates the very atoms of their surroundings.

They all wait with bated breath, trembling in fear and suspense. Jester brings the diamond down on the center of Caleb’s chest, and it shatters into a millions tiny motes of dust, glittering and joining the snow.

Essek has never witnessed a resurrection ritual before. He doesn’t know how to read this, if the component shattering means success or...

Caleb’s eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. They open slowly, drearily, like he is merely waking up from a deep sleep.

The spark of life in them is blinding. Essek would gladly stare at those sky-blue stars for the rest of his days.

[sserpente]

24 little kinks | Door 17 🎄 (Happy Birthday, Loki!)

“You remember that chocolate advent calendar I got you for December?”

“I do,” he chuckled and pressed a tender kiss to your temple. “You made me display it in the kitchen so I would not eat it all at once.”

Your smile widened. “How about we get another one?”

Loki raised an eyebrow, only now paying proper attention to the sex toy ad. Then, he frowned. It was an odd mixture of disgust, genuine curiosity and even a hint of arousal flashing in his blue eyes.

A/N: Happy Birthday, Trickster! ♥

NSFW warnings: wax play, nipple clamps, blindfold

-

“Happy Birthday to you, happy Birthday to you… happy Birthday, dear Loki, happy Birthday to you!”

It hadn’t been easy, baking a cake without Loki noticing—but you had managed. Loki had gone back to Thor and Banner about an hour after your little adventure with the black feather yesterday, to check if there was any news on the Chitauri or that mysterious artefact. So far, nothing. You sincerely hoped that no one would call you in for an emergency today.

Loki smiled when he opened his eyes, pulling you close for an intimate hug—a silent ‘thank you’ for remembering.

“Blow out the candles, Trickster. 1054 candles didn’t fit on the cake, so ten will have to suffice. Make ten wishes.” The God of Mischief smirked.

“I only have one.” He blew them out effortlessly after propping himself up on his elbows, revealing his naked chest and hence making your mouth water. “It is chocolate cake?” He asked then.

“Yes. Your favourite, with the cream filling.” Loki hummed in approval. You winked at him, then reached under the bed—for that green box with the golden bow Loki had tortured you for yesterday.

“Happy Birthday, Loki. I love you.”

“Thank you, my sweet... I love you too.” The way he said it, both so casually and filled with earnestness, almost as if he were enchanted. Your heart warmed. I love you too.

He eyed the box with a delighted smirk when he took it, carefully lifting off the lid.

The two daggers inside were sharp and deadly, the handles made of real gold and decorated with a green emerald at the base. Whatever blacksmith Shuri had asked to make these, they had outdone themselves.

“Those are… tremendously beautiful.”

“The blades are made of vibranium. I had one of Shuri’s friends make them for you about a month ago already.” Your gift choice had a symbolic meaning, too. Loki had to know you wanted him to be safe but you were also aware he was very capable of taking care of himself. Not even Thor’s Stormbreaker would be able to break those daggers.

“Thank you, (Y/N).” He did not say out loud what he was thinking—that the greatest gift had been finding you—but he voiced them in his mind, secretly. “I shall use them with pride and ferocity.” He paused. “Now… before we eat that cake… do I get to unwrap you?”

-

“I meant to take you out for lunch today, to one of those Running Sushi places but I doubt we’d make it far.” The snow storm had, like you had feared, intensified overnight. Loki did not mind the weather, of course, but it would be dangerous, unnecessary and reckless to go outside now.

“Would you like to order something instead? You choose.”

Loki thought about it for a moment. “I liked that Indian dish we had last month very much. The spicy one.”

“Indian it is then.” Frowning, you attempted to untangle the Christmas lights you were holding up. Loki had helped you get those boxes full of decorations and ornaments from the cellar and you were now almost ready to set up the tree and start decorating. It almost felt a little strange, watching him doing something so simple as hanging baubles and ornaments on a Christmas tree now. Strange but also… sexy.

Loki was a real perfectionist. By the time the two of you were done, you were sure to have never had such a beautiful tree before. The God of Mischief tilted his head as he glanced at it suspiciously.

“What? Is something not right?”

“I want to fuck you under that tree.” He said, almost completely unfazed. Your eyes widened. You swallowed thickly. That was… unexpected.

“S-shouldn’t we have lunch first?”

“My birthday, my rules.” He nodded to the floor, beckoning for you to kneel down. The Christmassy blanket you had put under your tree was soft when your knees touched it.

“Undress for me. Slowly.” He ordered. You obliged with a shaky breath, your innocent eyes never leaving his. Loki watched your every move. Once you were fully naked, he bent down, gently pushing you on the blanket so you came to lie down on it. It was a little odd, looking up at your Christmas tree from this angle. He eyed your body hungrily, licking his lips in the process. Then, his gaze stopped at your breasts, your nipples already hardening solely because of his intimate examination.

“I would like to use the wax candle and those nipple clamps on you today. Will you let me?” His voice was soft, gentle. You nodded shyly, excited about how it would feel.

Unceremoniously, Loki materialised them with magic, along with the blindfold. The world went black as soon as he slipped it over your eyes, your other senses instantly heightened.

Soon, you felt something pinching your nipples. You gasped when Loki tightened the clamps but unlike unbearable pain, all you felt was slight discomfort and growing arousal. The metal was cold.

A mere second after, the sound of a candle being ignited filled the living room Wait… Loki didn’t have a match, or a lighter…

“Did you just light that candle with magic?”

“That I did, my sweet.” Oh God…

For a few moments, it remained absolutely quiet. Then, suddenly, you felt something hot drop onto your stomach.

“Ow!” You screamed out, more in surprise than in actual pain. Oh God of Mischief… this felt… good.

“Are you alright, my sweet?”

“Y-yes.”

“Keep still for me.” As soon as he was sure you were indeed alright, he continued, dribbling more and more hot wax on your skin until you were covered in red dots, sparing only your breasts and your pussy… or so you thought.

He had pried your legs apart to kneel between them; and you could practically feel him hovering above you. You hissed when a drop of hot wax landed directly on your left nipple, making you moan.

“Oh, fuck…”

“My, such a dirty mouth, my sweet…” He teased, chuckling darkly. To underline his words, another drop landed on your right nipple. You began to squirm, trying hard to keep still like he had asked you to—especially when the following drops landed not only on your nipples but your outer pussy lips.

“Loki… Loki, oh God… be careful.”

“Nothing will happen to you, I swear.” He soothed you, his free hand stroking over your inner thigh as he pulled your legs further apart. He could spend hours simply looking at your delightful quim, knowing that he was the only one who got to touch, feel and taste it…

“Fuck!!!” You screamed when he dribbled the wax directly on your clit. He could tell you were endlessly aroused, your entrance glistening with your juices. He wouldn’t be able to play with you like this much longer… he longed to bury his length deep inside of you.

“Do you wish to stop?”

“No… I mean… yes… fuck… no more wax but… oh God… Loki, that feels amazing.”

Loki chuckled once more. “Does it?” He blew out the candle. You never heard him taking off his clothes, only suddenly felt him positioning himself between your legs. His hard cock pressed against your entrance, teasing you for a bit.

The moment he penetrated you was the moment he pulled off those nipple clamps, sending a both sweet and antagonising pain through your nipples which almost made you climax on the spot. Some of the now dry wax came off your skin when he started moving inside you, fucking you with a fast and rhythmic pace.

“Loki… can I take the b-blindfold… off?” You whispered in between his thrusts, wrapping your arms around him. He did it for you instead, your eyes meeting his once you could see your surroundings again. Loki picked up his pace, making you whimper and arch your back underneath him. You were close—already gripping his manhood so tightly it almost hurt a little. You looked so beautiful with all that wax on your body… knowing that he had brought you pleasure like this… he swallowed, growling in an animalistic manner.

“Cum with me…” He whispered against your lips before capturing them in a passionate kiss. “I can feel you tightening around me.”

You nodded, unable to respond with actual words. You dug your fingernails into his bare back when you came undone, milking him for all he was worth. Your orgasm felt like a massage to him. Grunting, Loki stilled, burying himself even deeper inside of you as he filled you with his seed, twitching until there was nothing left.

His forehead rested against yours as you both panted and came down again from those pleasurable highs. When you glanced to your left, you noticed that you had accidentally knocked one of the baubles off the tree and broken it.

Just then, your stomach growled. You giggled.

“So… lunch?”

Loki laughed. “Yes. Lunch.”

-

After devouring the Indian food Loki had asked for and cleaning up the dry wax from yourself and the floor, Loki’s seed on the Christmas blanket as well as that broken Christmas bauble, you found yourself sitting down at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea together.

“What do you want to do in the evening then? Play chess, watch a movie, play one of those video games Thor showed you?” Loki tilted his head. It was one of the reasons he loved you so much. Your opinion mattered to him—and not just on his birthday.

“I want to take a bath with you.” He said confidently. You raised your eyebrows.

“Oh… that is a good idea. I’ll go run it, I should still have a bath bomb from LUSH somewhere… it turns the water green, with golden glitter.” Technically, it was the perfect Loki bath bomb. “I bought some champagne for us to drink, too.”

“Good,” He winked at you, his hand wrapping around your wrists to hold you back for a moment longer. “I have another confession to make. I opened our advent calendar without you this morning.”

You giggled. “I noticed. One of the biggest boxes was missing. I was wondering whether you’d use whatever was inside on me when we had sex under the tree.”

“Well… I would have. But I am afraid you will have to explain to me what a ‘masturbator’ is.”

It was then you burst out in laughter.

-

A/N: Doors 18 and 19 will be opened on December 19th!

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Kinktober 23: Public/Exhibition

Masterlist 

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky (James) Barnes X OFC X Steve (Steven) Rogers

Warnings:  Forced Exhibitionism, hints to non-con, dub-con

Summary: Viking AU Steve AND Bucky! A gift from the god of thunder is more than expected and shown off to the rest of the group but receives special attention from the leader and his second in command.

A/N: Wow, didn't realize how long I went on this one. The Jotunn are not like we know from the MCU. In this story they are a tribe of northern people crazy enough to live in the cold waste and rumored to be demi-gods. The idea is that Thor is still a god and Steve and Bucky are demi-gods. This is forced exhibition being she is stripped bare before the men.

Words: +2,600

————

The weather had begun to turn colder, snow whipped around and past the two hooded figures that ducked into the thankfully warm and well-lit long house. The heavy hand on her cloaked shoulder was the only thing keeping her from shivering and bolting out the door. 

They were surrounded by the great warriors of Steven the Righteous, that was what they called the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Viking leader, but he was nothing but merciless. Trying to dig her heals in the closer she got to the front of the crowd, the man, no the god that had his hand clamped on her shoulder pressured her around the rock fire ring.

Had it not been for the grip on her shoulder, she would had fell to her knees at the base of a large chair. Forced to halt, nervously the hooded woman took a breath that made her chest ache, locking the gaze of the very Viking, Steven. Noting he was watching her close and so was the man next to his chair, a brunet sporting a silver arm. 

“My friend,” Thor boomed next to her, the blond demi-god getting to his feet to step forward. The god moving around her but kept close, so if she tried to bolt he could easily reach her. But like he couldn’t easily strike her down with Mjolnir.

Pleasantries exchanged, Thor, tugged her forward, ripping the cloak from her shoulders to expose thick, bare curves to the entire gathering. The talking and movement going silent as murmured whispers began of the thin, blue lined marks covering her body.

Tall, but not as much as the god and the two demi-gods. Pale skin that attested to life in darkness, such as the northern Jotunn tribes were, but it was littered in beautifully laid out, blue lines, placed by seidr attesting to bloodline and stature. Raven locks fell in waves mid-back and bright orbs shinning like electric green fire glared at them, a trademark of a select few tribes. 

Trying to hide her nakedness with her arms, Thor was quick to grab her hand to force the woman to turn, showing off bare, thick curves. The hand the god held clenching into a fist, digging nails into the calloused flesh enough to split the tough hide while her freehand gripped to Thor’s armored wrist in an attempt to make him release her.

“A gift from the Jotunn,” Thor spoke to the blonde and brunet that had stepped forward.

The thick creature may be Jotunn but that didn't mean the men were permitted to view her bare flesh. Bright emerald orbs searching desperately for the robe to cover her nakedness while Thor continued to show her off. The god released her to stumble slightly before halting before the two Viking men who looked her up and down as her head spun.  

The entire long house made it apparent she was the star of the show, having all came forward to watch the exhibit of a race rarely seen out of their territory, let alone a female. Swallowing hard, she had thoughts of stepping back as the brunet reached to the glittering gold collar around tender throat to pull her close.

The brunet coved in light furs circled her like fresh meat, and she possibly was to him. Stormy blue orbs looked thick curves up and down as she began to feel even more lightheaded. Cautiously the Jotunn reached up to lace fingers under the collar in hopes of keeping it from biting into the flesh and ghosting the metal armed Vikings fingers that burned hot.

Curvaceous body moving ever so slighly as he stepped forward to take a metal hand full of raven black hair and scent of it, taking in the fragrance of fine, expensive oils. 

Immediately she noted the bulge in his pants before stepping back, releasing the collar for Steven to step forward in his place, wanting his own look.  

James kept her gaze as Steven stepped up but didn’t take the collar. Stormy blue following the curve of her breast, down the slope of plump side to pause between the apex of thick thighs. He looked back up to take her gaze, but Steven had it as the blond was sure to keep her hands knocked away and to her sides. 

Eyeing the blue seidr marks over her body, James knew some Jotunn customs, the meaning behind the marks. Keen eyes looked for the origin mark, all Jotunn had them, it specified how important they were in Jotunn society. Instantly sharp sight spotted the mark on her chest, snaking just below the hollow of her neck and stopping between her breast.

Royalty, high ranking royalty and demi-god as well. 

The blond walked around the bare creature, jerking her hand from her body every time she reached to cover herself. He didn't look at her any less salaciously, studying every curve and mark as if committing it to memory but he didn't seem as hungry as the metal armed Viking. 

Holding the blonds gaze, her heart hammered harder as he reached out to touch her long hair, letting fall between his fingers. He noted it's softness, the ebony tress a great contrast to his own pale fingers.

She was a prize, stepping back as an extravagant dressed man in burgundy and gold stepped up to jerk her wrist and twirl her into the crowd. 

The quick tug and sudden spin had her head reeling along with her guts. The crowd parted for the bare creature to have room and everyone got a look as their laughter at her expense echoed in her ears. 

Finally stopping herself, she noted it was all men, no woman in sight, and there appeared to be no servants as she paused between them all. At this point what was the goal of hiding herself, arms slipping to her sides, ready to fight them fang and claw. That was if she could get her bearings.

Turning in the circle of men, she looked for a way out, a way past them all, then found herself looking for the demi-gods. The crowd getting closer, she let out a snarl and flash of fang which only earned her a chuckle from the men who thankfully stopped. It was apparent they knew just how vicious a cornered Jotunn could be, even if it was outnumbered. 

It truly didn’t matter anyway; she was to be had by someone by the end of the night. A finger trailing a mark along curvy side had the Jotunn spinning from the one in burgundy garb. The well-kept man letting out a chuckle as he easily deflected her blow, forcing her to stumble back and never realizing the crowd had guided her back to the god and their leader.

“She’s a credit to her tribe, a very strong creature,” Thor chuckled grabbing a plump hip to make her jolt and turn to fight. But the metal hand wrapping her forearm made her stop as she was drug back and forced to sit next to the large chair. 

“I suggest you stay here if you want out of here without any bruises,” the brunet spoke, latching a chain to the collar as he went to speak with the god. 

Studying the brunet over, she knew the metal limb was a gift from and forged by Thor himself. Looking away from the now gartering crowd, she turned attention to the anchor holding the chain to the chair. Meticulously she dug at it with sharp nails, flaking away the metal that felt to be some sort of hard ore. Flake by minute flake was dug free to get to the brads holding the anchor in place.

Slowly, her fingers began to become sore, running nails under the rounded brads to tug at them. This was no ordinary ore, she was barely doing damage to it as she dug at it, thick body huddled tight against the chair to not draw attention but that was laughable. All Jotunn drew attention due to their larger stature, raven black hair, blue lined skin and bright, almost neon green eyes. 

Nail ripping just as one of the brads began to loosen and carefully she wiggled it with sore digits. It was working out, slowly, that meant only-. Tired emerald orbs scanning the anchor, taking count of over 18 rivets holding the anchor down. She felt a crazy smile begin to take her features.

Gods! She would go mad before she got all those out. This entire situation was maddening, fingers working the one brad, still tugging and tearing a nail into he quick. Heart hammering harder, breath growing quicker. It never registered as a scorching hand wrapped her jaw to tear her gaze from the anchor and her work while another hand took the one worrying the brad, fingers raw and beginning to bleed.

Baring her fangs, she scented who it belonged to and felt tears she thought would never come rim her eyes. “I wouldn’t,” came a calming voice, the hand wrapping her chin lifting emerald orbs to the blue gaze of Steven himself. “You want make it far with my men around. It’s been several months since they have bedded a creature as beautiful as you.”

Easily he allowed her hand from his but continued to hold her jaw. She noted him looking the collar over, reading the runes. “Seeress,” he spoke quietly the moment a heavy fur dropped around her shoulders. 

Relieved Steven released her after another moment of studying her face over and the faint, delicate lines there, knowing he had to know some of her kind to note the marks on her collar. Drawing away, but leaning heavily against the chair, she tried to settle into the massive fur to hide, but it appeared that wasn't going to happen. 

The metal hand of the brunet wrapped her face and strangely it was gentle. A soft tug got her to unsteady feet, turning her so she faced him, and her back was to the crowd. Stormy blues locked her gaze, metal thumb tracing over her lip as his gaze flicked to them then her eyes once more before carefully releasing her. 

A presence at her back made her turn, or more or less stumble to see who they were, leaning heavily into the metal armed Viking who didn't budge. Metal hand settling over her neck and shoulder to keep her in place and flush to him as it snaked around her throat and jaw, so she met Steven's gaze. She noted the blond watch James movements close and hers closer.  

She could smell the mead on them both, instinctually she tried to pull away, gripping tight to the fur and hoping they didn't take it. Holding her ground she braced for it to be taken as Steven reached towards her but was surprised when the chain on her collar fell to the floor. 

Quickly Steven took a step forward to press the woman between he and the other. The blond dipping close, smelling of the oils and soaps, she was clean. Maybe Thor did keep his hands off of her.  

“Take her to the longhouse,” was all Steven uttered as James released her jaw to twist his hand in the fur and tug her back. 

She kept up with James the best she could, breath taken the instant he pulled her out of the back of the long house and into the snow. Bare feet relishing in the feel of the fresh snow, having to almost run to keep up with the Viking as she spotted another long house not far with smoke slowly rising out of the roof.

James looked back to the creature that followed, he was curious of her marks now, having overheard Steven calling her a seeress. He didn't have to tug her along, but he had a feeling due to her smaller Jotunn size she may be slightly more susceptible to the cold as a shiver shook through her.

Pushing the door open, he made sure she entered first, pushing her before him into the warm long house and shutting the door.

Pausing in the entry way, she noted the beds on either side of the fire pit. One appeared larger and well slept in while the other was small and appeared untouched. Meeting the Viking’s gaze, her thought must have shown in her eyes as he spoke.

"No, Steven and I aren't. I don't sleep," his voice gritted, he was irritated as he stepped close, looping a finger in the collar to lead her to the firepit.

The Jotunn noted the room was lit nicely, possibly due to the lanterns littering the tops of the walls. They appeared Asgardian, but then again they had the same color scheme as the man in burgundy and gold who had tugged her into the crowd. 

Meeting his gaze as they stopped next to the fire pit, James kept hold of the collar as he jerked the fur away to fling it onto the untouched pallet. The fire light shimmered in her eyes as hatred flickered across her face, more so as he traced a flesh finger over the mark on her chest, the seidr that resided in the mark tingling.

Eyes going wide, she felt it take her breath before she forced her hands into his chest, but he was quick to grab both wrist in the massive metal hand and grip them bruisingly tight. Easily he forced her to the pristine pallet covered in furs but assured she stayed on her feet. Harshly releasing her, James barked an order for her to turn.

She noted his gaze was studying the marks on her flesh, but still he paused at thick thighs and what laid between them. Taking the opportunity to show herself for the chance to survey the room, quick to note the door they had come through.

No latch that would keep her from bolting out the door. No chain that she could see to latch her collar. A shield, well-worn and metal one propped next to the disheveled bed. Pausing as she was facing the Viking and jolting when his hand reached to a bare hip.

Her muscles were pulled tight, they had to release the energy that bound seidr was causing. Faster than James could follow, she had managed to knock him back. The Viking falling into the fire pit with a hate filled snarl as she didn't hesitate to bolt towards the door.

Wrapping a hand around the metal handle she jerked, and it never budged, never shook in its casing. Had she been focused she would have felt the magic coursing through the handle and the very structure of the door and long house. But unfortunately all she could think to do was escape or fight, and now it appeared it was fight. 

Turning to face the irate Viking, it appeared he had shrugged off the fur he had worn, possibly to keep it from burning him alive. The Jotunn froze as he done the same, noting her looking for an escape and he hated to inform her there were none.

"There’s no way out," James spoke oddly calm, soothingly as if he was trying to keep her calm. "The only way is that door. Only I and a select few can open it."

Fixing James with a look the Viking knew all too well. It was one he gave frequently, determination to fight or die trying. "Come here so I want have to hurt you," James spoke quietly, hinting she stand before him.

Frozen to the spot, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t tip over if she did take a step forward. Painfully she teetered on the edge of giving into his demands in hopes she wouldn’t be ruined or fight until he had to kill her to make her stop. Finding the nerve, she took a step forward, meeting his gaze.

James seen the spark in her eyes and knew this wasn't going to be simple, a wild beast caged and cornered was a force to be reckoned with.

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[suresha]

sexual tension / attraction prompts || @shacchou​

⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆ atem & priest seto

Today was the first time in weeks that Atem met Seto for some proper training. He chalked it up to being busy which wasn't a lie at all. Between food inventory for the upcoming cooler months and entertaining guests every few days, training was the last thing on the pharaoh's agenda. Shimon didn't much care for the pharaoh's incessant need to train anyway so it wasn't something that the king was pestered to continue in between his other duties. His vizier was under the impression that the king's magic and his high priests were more than enough to keep him safe, but training with Seto was never about his lack of faith in his high priests. 

The training was something fun to do with someone who was always there for him. He enjoyed learning tips and tricks from his cousin even if he wasn't very good at fighting yet. He knew he'd get there in time and well, they were both competitive spirits. Seto pushed him hard, choosing not to baby him in the same manner others within the palace likely would. He was brutally honest in his critiques, but he was also gentle with his demonstrations. It was the right balance for someone who was still building his confidence outside of shadow games. Shimon frowned upon it, but Atem had no intention of giving it up despite avoiding Seto most days.

When the time came to meet, Seto was ready with his instructions for the day. Unfortunately, they would not be enduring this session alone. Shimon wanted to observe; to make certain something was coming out of this training with Seto. While it should have guaranteed that the pharaoh would remain focused, well, that was hardly the case.

Right out of the gate, Atem realized six weeks without a weapon in hand had been too long. His feet work was sloppy and his arm grew tired rather quickly from having to hold up a shield. Fighting with a sword wasn't his forte either, but it was a necessary evil in a world where he was most likely to find one of those in a desperate situation as opposed to the khopesh in Seto's hand. His cousin swung his weapon quickly, hitting the shield hard and wearing the king down. It wasn't long before Seto's weapon managed to lodged the shield out of the king's hands where it fell a short distance from the king. Purple eyes widened as the shield hit the ground with Seto pausing, as if daring the king to go and get it but Atem knew better. Instead, he gave his sword an elegant twirl, ignoring his cousin's smirk as he used the opening to finally go on the attack. 

Seto's feet moved with expert ease, using his own shield to absorb most of the king's attacks. It was a good show for Shimon who seemed rather pleased so far, but it wouldn't last long. Shimon's commentary proved to be distracting enough that Atem let his guard down. Seto used the opportunity to hook the curve sword around Atem's own. He spun him around with the smaller weapon, locking Atem's arm behind his back. Seto's free arm wrapped around the king's waist, pulling him back against his frame. Shimon did not look pleased, but Atem could not be bothered with the old man's tsking right now. He was far too aware of the position he was in and the voice speaking quietly in his ear.

"I have you. Now submit."

Submit. The words were spoken in Seto's usual, taunting tone whenever he had the upper hand in battle. He was used to it, but that hardly made it any less irritating. Plus submitting wasn't something the king did well at all. In fact, it was almost unheard of yet as he continued struggling within Seto's grip, the khopesh lodged the sword out of his hand then moved to his neck where the blade kissed his skin gently. He could feel the sharp metal teasing his flesh. Any closer and it would pierce flawless skin drawing blood. The king's breath hitched as Seto's grip about his waist held him even tighter. He could not move at all now, at least not without piercing his own flesh and pissing Shimon off in the process.

"Submit to me," Seto whispered. "You know you want to."

Well, that wasn't entirely correct, but he wasn't wrong either. He could almost feel the disgusted look upon Shimon's face as he stood there locked in his cousin’s embrace. Even when Seto lowered his weapon, his grip about his waist kept him in place. The blade trailed down his body and over his shendyt, subtly lifting it and dragging along the flesh of his thigh where he nicked it slightly earning a soft sound in response. Seto’s arm loosened just a little after, his arm falling slightly below the king’s waist where he pressed drawing yet another hitched breath from the king. Seto’s body felt so warm against him --- warm enough to make the king very aware --- but the arm... The arm was dangerously low on him. Any lower and...

“That is enough Priest Seto! Rubbing salt on the wound is no way to treat your pharaoh!” he huffed.

Only then would Seto release him, shooting him a most curious look before turning to Shimon, inclining his head respectfully.

"As you can see, he needs more work --- consistently. Training once every six weeks will not make him better.”

Atem remained silent during the exchange, refusing to make eye contact with Seto. He was right of course. If he did not practice more regularly then his arms were always going to tire in the first few minutes, which was mostly his problem today. Furthermore, he knew he was still too slow on his feet. A tiny male like him should move a lot faster on the sands, but... He had his reasons for skipping training, some of them nearly revealing themselves just now.

“I need a bath,” Atem muttered before leaving them both on the sands. A tiny string of blood ran down his thigh, but he couldn’t be bothered with it. There was a lot of confusing things going on with him and his solution, per usual, was to run off.

An hour later in fresh robes of gold, the king could be found alone in his chamber. A chalice was in hand filled with fruit flavored water for a change while he relaxed, trying not to think of his latest exchange with his cousin, but he struggled --- big time. While this training session did not involve an embarrassing tent beneath training garb or a heated kiss that, to this day, he had yet to address, it did involve harmless actions that made him feel... strange. His cousin taunted him all the time. It wasn’t anything new, but for some reason the taunting hit differently today. 

With his eyes closed, he could almost feel the exchange all over again. His back flush against Seto’s chest, he could imagine the rise and fall of his chest again. The heat that radiated between them was nothing really, but if it was truly nothing, then why was it that the feeling lingered still?

Submit...

He hated that word. It was a word that did not go hand in hand with being the God of Egypt. Submitting was simply out of the question but...

Submit to me... You know you want to...

His free hand came to rest upon his neck, finger tracing the area the sword teased earlier. He remembered how it made him feel; how he fought to stave off a hard shiver that  threatened to rip through him. Was it merely adrenaline, or something else? Setting the chalice aside, Atem laid back across the bed, legs dangling over the side as he stared up at the canopy over his bed. From his neck the blade had fallen, down over his waist where it slid along his inner thigh, tearing flesh there, but not nearly deep enough to leave a horrid scar. Atem found his hand moving to part his robe just a little until one of his legs were free from the silken fabric that acted as a shield from prying eyes. His body was not privy to many yet he was not concerned with propriety right now. Fingers traced along the area where the blade had been, rubbing his inner thigh in a manner that could be seen as erotic to anyone watching. The area was wrapped in bandages for now, but his fingers traced the area all the same recalling how it made him feel earlier.

But he was not alone --- not anymore. As he indulged himself in the feeling, his priest soon made his presence known with the soft clearing of his throat. Atem quickly sat up on the bed, cheeks darkening as no one was meant to see this moment. While he hadn’t been doing anything wrong, it still felt like he had been caught stealing extra fruit after dinner.

Yet it would seem ( on the surface anyway ) that he had panicked for naught. His cousin’s expression held nothing but the utmost concern as he knelt before him in a manner reminiscent of another time.

“Does it pain you, my lord?” Seto questioned softly. “I never intended to hurt you. Surely you know this my king?”

Atem could only nod as Seto’s hands peeled the robe apart, revealing the bandaged thigh in all its glory.  As Seto slowly pulled the king’s leg out examining it further, Atem found his voice though it was just as quiet. Like it or not, he still felt as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“I... meant to say that it does not hurt --- not really, my priest. It is a mere dull throb but by morning it will be nonexistent.”

Seto’s fingers pressed lightly against the bandage, gently massaging the wound. The king averted his gaze, saying nothing as his priest worked over the tender flesh there, rubbing out the dull throb as he had once before in the past. But then his hand inched higher upon his thigh. From the area about his knee, slowly his hand moved with Atem being quick to turn his head meeting his cousin’s gaze. Higher and higher would Seto’s hand crawl until fingers were able to sink around the king’s inner thigh massaging the soft skin there. The touch wasn’t bothersome at all, but---

His bottom lip curled, teeth grazing the plump flesh in reaction to the way fingers nearly brushed... something else. It drew a soft sound from him, one that he instantly regretted. He could tell that it did not go unnoticed by his priest so he did the only thing he could do --- force a smile and give yet another excuse.

“Thank you for checking in on me my priest. I think... I will lie down for a while. The opportunities are so rare around here. I would be a fool not to use this time to catch up on some proper rest.”

And he hoped that would be enough to let things be. Everything involving Seto was confusing at best as of late. Best not make things any worse, especially when he didn’t understand his own reactions himself.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 14

Read it on AO3. Part 13 here. Part 15 here.

Summary: Strangers are rarely trustworthy in Gilead. But you think these three seem okay.

Words: 1800

Warnings: Handmaid AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Guys... I have... actual other characters from the source material? And they're named? This has never happened in my life. God, I'm so bad at writing fanfiction.

I'm cranking these out because I feel inspired. For now. Don't worry, Kylo Ren isn't gone forever.

I want to say thank you all for your feedback and input and everything. I love y'all so much! <3

You pulled on your gloves, glancing around the closet you’d lived in for the past few months. Though you weren’t sure what to expect today, the glow in your chest informed you with confidence that you wouldn’t be returning to this space tonight. This space, where you’d first met Commander Ren, the space where he’d kissed you, tender and anxious--you’d miss those moments. Just not where they happened. 

I’ll see you tomorrow, he’d said--but he was already gone by the time you awakened. When you bid goodbye to Emma and Rose that morning, that nag of guilt clung to your heart. How could you escape and leave them here? But to even hint to them you knew you might not return would put their lives in danger--after all, much easier to tell the truth about what you don’t know.

Heat steamed your blood when you stepped into the sun, your chest tight. Ofarmitage said you’d know them, but you had no idea what that might mean, how they might arrive, or when. The anticipation might pull at you until nighttime--maybe they’d whisk you off under the stars, muffled voices and quiet feet. Maybe it would come during dinner, mid-meal, a knock on the door, an unrehearsed ruse. And maybe they wouldn’t come today at all--maybe they’d forget about you, or just get too busy being revolutionary, or whatever.

Or maybe--you realized as you approached the Handmaid at the end of the drive--they’d come first thing in the morning.

Testing her, you began. “Blessed be the fruit.”

“May the Lord open,” she replied. Not an ounce of hesitation.

The woman in front of you was not Ofarmitage--but she was also not anyone you knew. Fair skin and chestnut hair were obscured by her wings, but as you peeked around them, you observed a well-defined jaw, the soft angles of her cheekbones leading up to moss-green eyes. When they met yours, your breath hitched, struck by some mixture of awe and fear, the power contained within her gaze paralyzing.

Ofarmitage had been right. You’d know these people when you met them. And whoever this was, she was here for you.

“I’m--”

“I know.” She was moving, head craned to the ground, voice low and quick. “Listen carefully. When we reach the checkpoint, a van will pull up and an Angel will tell the Guardians that you and I have been identified for possible re-education. Say nothing.”

Your body tensed. “Okay…”

You’d hoped that she’d elaborate on this, or provide more instructions--but she said nothing else. The short warning gave you both far too much and far too little time to panic--with every step, your heart rate ballooned, blood building in your neck, flooding your face. If you’d been hot before, you were frying, now, futilely resisting the urge to glimpse the Guardians, to see if you could spot any hint of suspicion on their faces. The closer you came, the shorter your breath, until you were within only feet, and you were certain that any bit of oxygen in a five-foot radius had combusted from your temperature.

“Your pass,” said one.

It had seemed so silly to you that they asked for your pass despite recognizing and seeing you every day--but then again, here you were, with a Handmaid that was most definitively not Ofarmitage, pretending as if everything was normal. Panic choked you as your hand crawled for your pass, waiting for this fabled van--the other woman stood there, said nothing, head bowed so low the men wouldn’t be able to see her face.

“Pass.” The other one sounded a little more impatient.

Eager to show you could listen, you tugged at your pass and showed it in silence, and the Guardian gave a huff of acknowledgement. The other woman was patting herself, and you swallowed, mouth dry. Why wasn’t she showing her pass? Did she even have a pass?

“Show your pass.” The Guardian stepped forward, and you heard metal clicking as he brandished his rifle. “Now.”

The urge to make an excuse was biting at your tongue, but the fear of betraying your possible escape loomed greater, until the Guardian came a step closer, reached for her wrist--

Before you could speak, the rumble of an engine swept behind you, a rush of air whipping your skirts at your ankles. Embarrassed, the Guardians stepped back, and you glanced over--a black van with white wings plastered on the paneling idled to your left. You stood, frozen, as the door swung and slammed. A man you couldn’t yet look in the face had arrived. So far, this stranger had kept her word.

Briefly, it crossed your mind that this entire situation could be a trap and you were about to be carted off to be tortured, or to the Colonies, or maybe just straight-up strung up by your neck. Within the moment of terror, you accepted this as an outcome--the alternatives were as just as appealing.

“Stand down,” the man said, and the two Guardians stepped back. “Your passes.”

As if by magic, the woman next to you had found her pass, and displayed it to the man--you followed suit, keeping your gaze locked on the ground.

“Get in the van.”

“Sir--”

“The Eyes have identified these individuals as possible subjects for reeducation,” the Angel said, just as you’d been told to expect. “We’ll be taking them for further questioning.”

“Oh,” said one of the Guardians. “Yes… yes, sir.”

Another door opened, and the other woman moved into the van, and you followed, your wings feeling too tight around your head. As you gripped the side of the vehicle to get in, you realized your hands were trembling. No, no--all of you was trembling. You sat down next to your would-be accomplice, eyes trained on your lap, and the door shut, and then another.

“Drive, drive,” the Angel said--and the van lurched, screeching onto the streets.

“Yes!” The woman next to you ripped off her wings, and you watched, cheeks hot, as she high-fived the Angel. “We did it! That was awesome! You nailed it, back there!”

“No, you were great!” It was only now you were getting to look at him--dark hair, dark eyes, and   a huge, gorgeous smile, white teeth contrasted with dark skin. His face was gentle and kind--not at all what you’d pictured when you’d heard the severity of his voice. “I thought for sure you were going to kick that Guardian’s ass.”

“It was close!” she said. “You and Poe arrived at just the right time.”

Poe--you glanced at the driver, a handsome man with a square jaw, black, curly hair, and a confident smirk. “It was always the plan.”

The woman turned to you, a grin splitting her face. You wanted to blush. “You made it! How are you? Are you all right?”

“Uh, yeah.” You nodded. You’d actually done it. The fear of Commander Ren’s reaction loomed in your mind. “I’m--I’m okay.”

She gripped your shoulder. “I know this is strange. But you’re safe now. Thank you for trusting us. Oh, and my name is Rey.” She gestured to the two men in front. “That’s Finn, and that’s Poe.”

“Hello.” It’d only been a couple years, but it was still so strange to greet men by looking them in the eye--you hadn’t expected the hesitation you were feeling now. You wanted to crawl inside your own skin. “Thank you, all of you. Very much.”

“What’s your name?” Rey asked, leaning forward.

“Ofkylo,” you replied automatically--and their faces maintained a look of anticipation. You balked at your own stupidity, face burning. “Oh, God, shit, that’s not my name--”

“No, no, it’s okay--”

“It happens all the time--”

“Don’t worry about it--”

“No,” you said, “no, it’s not okay.”

You stared at your hands as they turned to fists. Forget years, it’d only been a couple of months since you’d become Ofkylo, and it was the first identity out of your mouth. Your intimacy with your Commander--no, Kylo Ren--had seemed almost invigorating in the prison of his home, as if you had some illusion of influence, some pretense of power. But now, in the face of real, unshackled existence, your fantasy shattered, splinters poking into you, mocking you. The humiliation tumbled, sharp shards in your chest, and you growled, burying your head in your hands. God, you hated him. You hated what he’d done to you. More than anything, you hated what you’d become.

“God!” Shouting resonated through your bones. “Fuck! Fuck you, Kylo Ren!”

A hand rested on your back, rubbing circles into the spot between your shoulder blades. Flinching, you thought you might cry--but tears refused to form, as they had done for the past few years--so you screamed, clawing at your face, curling into your lap, willing reality to end, until you collapsed, throat sore, limbs quaking.

Kylo Ren had used you like a toy, or an instrument, something he took out of storage for his entertainment, something to be locked up again when he was done. The fact that even for an instant you’d tricked yourself into feeling special made your skin blaze with embarrassment. His tenderness, his confusion, his damn handwriting--none of it mattered now, and you wanted to blast every recollection to fragments.

Heaving a sigh, you straightened up, looking between Rey and Finn. Rey’s hand hovered over your back, and you nodded, permission for her to take it away.

“It’s really okay,” she said. “You’re not the only Handmaid to do that.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You pulled your gloves off, watching your flesh come alive. “It’s what it means, you know?”

You shook your head, and, holding your breath, tore your wings from your head, tossing them behind you. After that, you plucked the pins from your hair, gasping in relief as pressure evaporated from your skull.

“My name…” Staring at your saviors, you spoke it aloud, and it fluttered off of your tongue with soft, buttery wings. The moment you said it, you cursed the voice in the back of your brain, wondering what it would sound like coming off Kylo Ren’s tongue. Fuck him. “That’s my name.”

“Then that’s what we’ll call you.” Rey smiled. It was a weight off your soul. She turned to the front of the vehicle, peering through the windshield. Outside, you could see a large home--not as large as your Commander’s, but still pretty damn big. “We’re almost there,” “she said. “I can’t wait to show you around.”

[moonlightchess]

On Lesser Ghosts, my perpetually in-progress novel, a cast of current characters:

Brandon Graham: 30 years old, police investigator for the Dorset Police Department of Dorset, Vermont. The sole survivor of serial killer Seth Morgan, active throughout the bulk of the 90s and all the way through 2003, when he was captured shortly after a 15-year-old Brandon escaped his nightmarish year of captivity in the Morgan house. Casually alcoholic, gay, entirely jaded and weary of the world, but stronger than he appears at first glance. Recently assigned to the case of Cora Tycho, a promising young physics student from the Lower Prince area of Vermont who has gone missing.

Dr. Casey Tycho: 30 years old, and Dorset PD’s newest medical examiner. A British expatriate originally hailing from north London, Casey is the antithesis to the human disaster of Brandon. Sharp, extensively educated, responsible and diligent, he wears silk-lined suit vests and ties to work and has been sleeping with Brandon for six months in an arrangement that Brandon refuses to acknowledge as any sort of relationship. He’s quietly accepted this, both out of respect for Brandon’s boundaries and because being black and openly gay in a small Vermont town may not be the most desirable situation. His sister Cora has gone missing, and he hates how little he wants Brandon on the case, but he knows better than anyone how unstable the man can be.

Sara Graham: Brandon’s younger sister at 27 years old, a folk musician and “crafty mess” by her own admission. Bright, curious, extroverted and warm, much of her life has been dedicated to worrying about her brother. She makes beaded jewelry and pottery on the weekends, collects coffee mugs, and is a driving force in Brandon’s life, though he occasionally wonders if she doesn’t resent him at least a little for the way his kidnapping and subsequent fame as Seth Morgan’s sole surviving victim dominated her younger years. The two are very close, and she’s determined to not allow him to lie down and give up on the Cora Tycho case, no matter how much tension and distance it’s created between he and Casey.

Sasha Prescott: Brandon’s boss, police chief of the DPD. Tough as nails, but she harbors a soft spot for Brandon in spite of his sporadic displays of instability and recklessness in the past. Especially protective of Casey, having long since come to the conclusion that Dorset’s black community is small at best and they have to stick together - the disappearance of Cora, a young black woman in her town, has been keeping her up at night. Her hawk’s stare and firm hand keep the entire department in line, but this also means that she has a constant target on her back.

Kris Alden: A mystery. Was with Cora Tycho on the night she went missing during a camping trip in the woods. Claims he went home early, a result of stomach problems. Not much intel on him yet.

Audrey and Stephen: The forensic lab techs, working directly under Casey. Odd, dreamy types, ensconced in their own little world much of the time. May know more than they’re letting on.

Read the first few pages below!

                                                   🔍🔍🔍

09.12.19:

A burning and industrious early-morning sun insisted upon bullying the pleasant warmth of Casey’s skin into something too harsh to ignore as Brandon groaned, rolling over onto his stomach in bed.  Beside him, Casey stretched, languid as an enormous cat, his sleep likely having been far more restful. Still, his smile was tender as he reached for him, and the scent of coffee brewing from the kitchen suggested that he’d already been up once to make it for him. The sweetness of the gesture hurt, and he curled away from his touch. “Too fucking hot.”

“It’s only going to be about seventy today.” Because of course Casey knew the day’s predicted weather already, of course he was as on top of it as he was everything else in his life. Casey, with his autumn-brown skin and gentle, fox-gold eyes like candlelit amber, of course he was ready with coffee brewing and the forecast on his phone. They were the same age, thirty, but Casey was one of those rare people who had been an adult since twelve. He’d probably delighted in collecting school supplies for a new year when none of his friends gave a shit, he was the type of person who always knew where his keys were. He had a set-in-stone laundry day, which had blown Brandon’s mind when he’d first learned of it. Even now, at six AM, he smelled like fresh fucking bread. Literally the worst human, Brandon had long since concluded, but the sex was fantastic.

Wordlessly, he rolled over for his first cigarette of the day, ignoring Casey’s softly disapproving sound behind him. He briefly considered reminding him of his total lack of access into his personal life, that whatever happened between them sexually meant ten kinds of nothing outside the bedroom, but Casey had never pushed or questioned his boundaries. He kept his distance as Brandon rolled naked out of bed, ambling to the window to shove it open before disappearing into the bathroom without further comment. He gave him time to shower before following, tapping his fingertips against the glass shower door with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Want company?”

“Oh, uh. No.”

There was a pause, and then Casey’s silhouette nodding silently, turning to go. He was unique in that Brandon never felt so much as a semblance of guilt about bluntly rejecting the affections of anyone but him, and now it felt sharp. The hot spray of water went needle-harsh against his skin, but he still ignored the coffee Casey had left on the counter for him, as well as the text blinking on his phone. Eat something. Don’t be too late for work, Sasha will have your ass. Even now, he did his best to take care of him as much as Brandon would allow, but he rationalized that he’d never promised the man a damn thing. In fact, he’d made his limitations abundantly clear on the first night they’d tumbled, panting, into bed together, roughly six months ago. The problem was, there was another man. He was persistent and jealous, and he was always around. He was sitting on the edge of his bed right now, in fact. Late forties, moon-pale skin and sleek, ink-black hair, his deceptive youthfulness undercut by the coldness lingering in his dark eyes.

Seth waited, silent, watching Brandon dress. The most attention he ever paid to his honey-blonde mess of hair was a quick tugging of his brush, and the woodsmoke cologne his sister had given him for Christmas last year was left mostly unused on the dresser. His morning routine had long since boiled down to a quick shower, shave, and brushing of teeth and hair before throwing on whatever happened to be clean regardless of its fashionable implications. Today, Seth watched him button up a loose black Oxford over a pair of battered jeans, before embarking upon a ten-minute search for his keys because he wasn’t Casey and never would be.

A light drizzle began to dissolve the heat of the day like sugar in warm coffee once he was on the road, clouds going dense and dark with the sweet threat of a proper rain. Sasha had already texted him - 9:10, Graham. Late again. Casey had tried to warn him, but then he always did, and Brandon never listened. Elgar helped to swallow Sasha’s nearly tangible contempt for his time management skills as he drove, and beside him, Seth settled into the passenger’s seat to stare thoughtfully out at the increasingly heavy rain.

10.4.2003:

This far north into Vermont, where Seth’s house teetered on the border into Canada, winters descended early and lingered long. The ceiling-to-floor steel and rebar support pipe Brandon had been handcuffed to by the wrists for the past two weeks had absorbed the seeping chill, and Seth had only dressed him in a filthy, tattered wifebeater and a pair of old blue flannel pajama pants that smelled suffocatingly of mothballs. He woke every few hours with numb, stinging toes, shivering and dripping. The handcuffs Seth had restrained him with had to have been ordered from somewhere - there was no soft pink fur lining to suggest an intended use of foreplay, and instead they were solid in a deadly way, a way that thunked every time he slid them locked with a firm sense of finality. 

A fever burned through his bones overnight near the middle of October, and finally some part of Seth seemed to awaken to his basic human needs. He was provided a deeply itchy wool blanket that felt woven from canvas and sandpaper, but it did the job of keeping him warm. Every few nights, his worn boots would thud down the basement steps to offer him a plate of cold, congealed noodles that he’d clearly been keeping in the fridge. His wrists went raw and scabbed with the endless scrape of the cuffs, his knees cramping in their bent position. Stretching his legs was possible, but uncomfortable. The days began to melt together, the constant darkness of the basement transforming time into a static thing. He slept when the wave of exhaustion became too much to fight, he woke and watched the shadows when sleep eluded him. He lost all sense of night or day, the passage of hours.

Three weeks deep, the frantic hope that he’d be found began to fade. The basement began to feel like his place, and he began to forget what it felt like to not fall asleep hugging a metal pipe. Seth was strangely reassuring, an exponential effect that seemed to correlate with his slow acceptance of his situation. As time dissolved and desperation waned, Seth’s approval bloomed. Sometimes, now, the noodles were warm and slick from boiling water, fresh. His blanket was replaced with a less abrasive one, albeit filthy. At fourteen years old, Brandon learned that life began and ended here in his cold, dark basement. The memory of the day he’d been taken seemed irrelevant now, the faces of his parents to whom he’d clung so desperately in those early days.

“I know that you don’t understand.” Seth’s voice was soft, gentle more often than not, sedately erudite like a classics professor on vacation in the woods for the holidays. He was quite articulate, expressing himself fairly eloquently whenever he came into the basement to speak to him. “It sounds trite, like something Keats might have written, but believe me when I say that this is your chrysalis phase, Brandon. It’s tight and uncomfortable and emerging will be a painful struggle, but I want you to trust me. I know it’s asking a lot of you right now, but I also know that your eyes are open and you’ll get there. I trust you already.”

He wore a lot of high-collared fleece sweaters in earth tones and he kept his silky hair longish, framing his face in a soft sort of way that left him mild and relaxed to the eye. Brandon learned to crave him, the only human voice, presence, that he’d experienced in a month as the end of October approached. He couldn’t express this yet, but Seth would smile down at him, bending at the knees to wrap him in a new blanket or to offer him the day’s plate of noodles. Sometimes the blankets were splattered with fresh bloodstains and sometimes the noodles were wrapped around bullets of sausage that tasted blandly wrong, but he was there.

Once, shortly before Halloween, the burgeoning bond between them inspired him to blurt, “I wouldn’t say anything, you know. You could just let me go, you wouldn’t even have to drive me home. I’d never tell anyone, I understand your work here--” because Seth had often referenced his cryptic “work” without elaborating. “I won’t try to stop you, you could just--”

Seth’s open hand slammed into the side of his head, smacking his skull into the metal pipe with a gut-churning clang. The world exploded into white fire, his vision briefly going dark as his brain struggled to retain consciousness. A thick, hot ooze of dark blood began to gush from his nostrils, but he was too resigned at that point to so much as scream. Instead, he moaned softly, sagging forward as his head began to throb in time with his heartbeat. The agony was blinding, but he didn’t pass out, which came as something of a disappointment.

A month and a week passed.

09.12.19:

Dorset’s PD’s station was one of the lingering bastions of old-school police architecture, all museum-high ceilings and wooden desks arranged in rows. Brandon wove his way between them on his way to Sasha’s office, set high above the ground floor grunts and their ancient desktop computers. He’d always respected the way she’d left the glass panels that made up the front wall of her office intact, leaving her visible to her officers and techs alike. She was typing on her own laptop when he tapped his fingers against said glass, waving him inside. A still-steaming paper cup of Two Brews sat on her desk, littered with loose papers that themselves were littered with her scribbled notes. My office, whenever you decide to show up, she’d texted him.

Sasha Prescott was forty-four years old with dense, dark curls clipped short and precise. With her high cheekbones, full lips and velvet-dark skin, she could easily have been a model even in her middle age, dominating an industry obsessed with youth. And dominate it she would have - there was a carefully cultivated air of laser focus that she wore like armor wrapped around her, her narrow, jewel-black eyes piercing through lies and alibis like a hot knife through butter. She and Brandon’s mutual respect had led to a highly efficient and successful working relationship over the years, and they both appreciated that neither was in any way interested in developing any sort of personal friendship outside of work.

Now, he dropped into the Quaker chair in front of her desk and considered making an attempt for her coffee, which she didn’t appear to have started drinking yet. Her signature plum lipstick had not yet stained the rim, but she zeroed in on his intent with her standard razor perception and shook her head. “I will literally stab you,” she said casually, and he let his hand fall to his knee instead.

“What’s up?”

“First off, roll in here late again and I’ll write your ass up. Secondly, we have a delicate situation in our laps right now and I want some input on how to deal with it.”

Arching an eyebrow, Brandon kept his tone as nonplussed as possible. Too much visible interest might have convinced Sasha to change her mind, one of her stranger quirks. “I’m listening.”

“Cora Tycho is missing, as of somewhere around midnight last night.”

He nearly rose to his feet despite his resolve, an icy fist punching straight through his ribcage to seize his heart. “Casey’s sister?”

Sasha confirmed this with a short nod, her lips pressed tight. “She was out camping with a friend near the Lower Prince quarry. Her friend, Kris Alden, fell ill shortly after they ate dinner and decided to go home. Cora wanted to drive him, but there was no one available to take her back once he was home and he claims he felt guilty about making her miss some super-moon or whatever the hell it is, told her he could make it home on his own. She never came back from the woods, the Alden kid shared a class with her that she skipped this morning and no one has been able to reach her via call or text. It’s not enough to assume that she’s officially a ten-fifty-seven just yet, but people are starting to worry. She’s never been someone to just bail on everything like this, Kris described her as very thoughtful and responsible.”

“You’ve already sent someone out to talk to him? Does Casey know?”

“Not yet. That’s actually what I wanted your input on - obviously he’s not getting anywhere near this case, but given the personal nature of your relationship with him what are your thoughts on his capability to handle the work environment in general as it’s investigated? Should I just send him on a vacation until this is cleared, or is he frosty enough to stay professional here at the station while his sister is missing? You know him better than any of us.”

Brandon’s brain reeled. “Personal nature? I don’t know what sort of relationship any of you are under the impression that we--not that any of you should have any impression of our relationship, I mean. Shit. We’re not in a relationship! I barely know him!” His voice was raising in pitch while he remained completely unaware, his knuckles going white around the armrests of the Quaker chair. Sasha exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Jesus. Do I need to send you on a vacation too? Get your shit together.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he exhaled. “Casey is one hundred percent able to handle working while this is being solved, but that doesn’t mean he should. I doubt he’ll let you send him on a vacation, but try anyway. He doesn’t deserve to be here all day, trying to focus on other shit while half of Dorset is trying to figure out if his sister’s body is rotting in the woods somewhere. He should be with his family.”

“I’ll do my best. I’m giving this girl until tonight to turn up, and then I’m issuing a gloves-off ten-fifty-seven.” Sasha’s voice went to iron, and it occurred to Brandon that she cared for Casey as much as anyone at the DPD did. He was the lifeblood of the forensics labs, their unflappable new medical examiner whose lingering British accent left over from a youth spent in west London had a way of soothing even the most panicked and horrified relative of one of his corpses. 

“I need you to go into far more detail about the supposed “nature” of my relationship with Casey, up to and including just how the hell you even knew about it at all. Not that it’s anything. At all.”

“Would you kindly climb off my dick, Graham? I’ve got enough shit on my plate right now.”

“Sasha.”

“Settle down. No one else knows anything, even though according to you there’s nothing to know. It’s just that a lifetime of police investigation have left me a highly observant person--”

“A lifetime? You’re in your forties, don’t start writing your memoirs yet you drama queen.”

“...And as such, I’ve noticed you two leaving work together occasionally, showing up around the same time in very deliberately separate cars but sometimes accidentally wearing each other’s shirts, things like that. Things only I would ever notice, I promise. No one else has mentioned anything to me, and you know they would if the rumor mill was running about it.”

“Fine. Whatever. Any more intel on Cora?”

Wordlessly, Sasha slid a manila envelope across her stately desk. Opening it, Brandon was confronted with a glossy photo of a beautiful young woman, all sparkling honey eyes and rich dark skin like a sunset’s sweet glow, thick black hair meticulously oiled and wrapped and beaded into immaculate dreadlocks that she’d pulled back with a sky-blue silk scarf for her senior high school photo, Cora wore her brother’s beauty as elegantly as he did. They shared the same royally rounded nose and high cheekbones, full lips and dimples. His chest ached, and he brushed his fingertips against the photo thoughtfully without realizing he was doing it. Sasha had compiled everything - her academic records, notes on her hobbies and habits, her generally expected whereabouts on any given day. She had no legal record to speak of, her profile speaking to a bright, clean-cut girl with a gleaming future in physics.

“She was a student at NVU,” Sasha supplied. “Is a student. Solid grades, a quiet type, well-liked by her peers but not known to be a partier. Close with her family, especially our Casey. Loved to cook, according to reports. She entered several baking competitions last year, even won a couple. Played the violin all throughout high school, but turned down a suggested spot on NVU’s student orchestra. Said she didn’t want it to interfere with her study time, according to the orchestra leader I called. She seemed laser-focused on her goal of working for NASA someday, had a whole vision board about it on Pinterest.”

“I’ll start with Kris Alden. I’ll head out to his place today.”

“Start with Casey. I don’t want him to hear about this on the news, and my official statement on the case is going live tomorrow morning.”

“Shit. Okay.” Scooping the file up under his arm, he rose to his feet. “I’ll go talk to him, he down in the forensics lab?”

“With Audrey and Stephen. See if you can get him alone, he won’t like his techs seeing him break down in front of them if he reacts poorly.”

“How the hell else do you expect him to react to the news that his sister is missing?”

“I’m just saying, let’s be conscious of how difficult this is going to be for him. You’re not exactly known for your tact, but you have the best shot at holding him together here. You know as well as I do that the longer we go without finding this girl, the less of a chance we have.”

Brandon paused at her office door. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Took me a year to get out of that basement.”

He hated the way her gaze softened, and so he made his way out without a goodbye to make a point, ignoring the irritating hiss of her compressed-air door mechanism that refused to let him leave with a satisfying slam. The forensics lab and department morgue was located in the basement of the station for obvious reasons, a narrow elevator depositing him into the DPD’s underground two minutes later. The temperature dropped by a few degrees once the doors slid open, the stone all around them cooling the air. He couldn’t hear the rain anymore, down here, and he found Audrey and Stephen hunched over a severed hand on a sleek chrome examination tray in the lab.

Audrey was tall and willowy, twenty-six with ice-blonde hair wound into a messy braid that she’d draped over one shoulder, so pale and slim that there was something ghostly about her, especially when taking into consideration her gray eyes so light and translucent they were nearly colorless, like a mirror or a deep-sea creature. She wore a white lab coat over a pair of black jeans and a loose, baggy gray sweater - she wore a lot of gray, black and white, and she always looked like a spectre, an overcast ocean. The selkies would have accepted her as one of theirs upon sight. Stephen was only barely as tall as her, with a much friendlier face, soft freckled cheeks and tanned skin suggesting a childhood spent outdoors working off baby fat. He had peanut-brown curls tumbling over his forehead and round, intelligent hazel eyes, a sharply defined mouth and an easily cheery demeanor. Oddly enough, he and Audrey were quite close.

“Hey guys. Anyone seen Casey?”

“Down in the morgue.” Audrey pointed to her feet, indicating the sub-level beneath them. “He left this hand with us and told us to collect data samples and disappeared. He’s been down there all morning.”

“Do you know whose hand it is?”

“Pretty sure it belongs to that wheat farmer who turned up in the hospital last week missing one. I mean, how many hands could there be unaccounted for in Vermont right now?” Stephen grinned, snapping his gum. He took a kind of morbid glee in his work, something Brandon had always suspected Audrey shared with him.

“Left hands, to boot,” Audrey added, shrugging. “How are you, Brandon?”

“I’m fine. I’d love to stay and um, look at the hand with you guys, but I’ve got to talk to Casey. Have...fun?”

Stephen’s grin widened. “Oh, we will, friend.”

“I hate the way you say things.”

Stephen’s laughter followed him back into the elevator, which delivered him to the bottomost floor of the DPD headquarters. Casey was there, bent over his own work, having forgone his stiff lab coat in favor of his neatly tucked-in dove-gray button-down, black silk tie, charcoal dress vest and matching creased slacks. His leftover British sensibilities were evident in his crisply classic style, always semi-formal and expensive even when he dressed “down” in Burberry cashmere sweaters and custom-tailored jeans. He looked so unflappable that Brandon’s faith in him was stirred anew, and he approached with more tenderness than was normal for him. His aura alerted Casey to something amiss upon impact, and he narrowed his eyes at him before saying a word. “Don’t see you down here often, love.” The last word slipped out before he could stop it, and Brandon watched him flinch minutely, almost imperceptibly.

[shokugeki-secretsanta]

Blooming

Blooming

Soulmates had always been a lovely concept. Everyone dreamed about meeting their destined one whether they admitted it or not. A soft smile would appear on Megumi’s face as she thought about them like fairy tales, beautiful but distant. She had one too, the tattoo on her bicep assured her of that, but with her young age and chaotic school life, it all seemed so far away. A distant future that could be shoved away as she was bombarded with present worries.

  Soulmates were nothing more than a casual topic to giggle about when too much of the rice wine was passed around in the twilight hours of sleepovers at the Polar Star dorms. But the topic rarely went much deeper with all the students focused on honing their skill rather than affairs of the heart. You could ask 10 different people at any given moment the best way to prepare animal hearts, some preferred skewers and others a slow roast, but human hearts were a mystery. Everyone knew you had to tenderize the organ with enzymes and marinades before consumption but barely anyone knew how to soften the heart of the one they loved.

  The only exception was the first reveal of tattoos as it was the only time the topic was explored. The hum of excitement, the small flicker of hope, and the wonder as you fantasize what your future soulmate would be like in the company of friends. When Yuki saw Megumi’s tattoo she squealed with wide eyes, “Woah! A tiger! So intense compared to our sweet Megumi!” Her arm was adorned with a fierce tiger with flames flickering from its paws and piercing amethyst eyes.

  However, with the upcoming Autumn elections and Megumi’s shift from floundering to flourishing, the subject of soulmates was swept underneath the rug. Her transition from grasping and fraying threads to weaving her own path was exciting but consuming. Megumi was beginning to deepen her expertise and her mind was swimming with skills to polish and recipes to try rather than romance.

              Megumi is surprised to see her name on the board to compete for the upcoming Autumn elections but isn’t when she hears the grumbling of her classmates. Whispers of contempt, snide remarks, and nasty insinuations caused Megumi to freeze. A tiny voice in her head says they’re not wrong. She had been on the verge of expulsion twice in one school term and the mere memory made a shiver go down her spine. An audacious declaration of a purple-haired student unexpectedly broke Megumi out of her reprieve. Megumi sputtered words of thanks.

              She is soon overwhelmed with an assault of questions and is quivering under her classmate, who introduced herself as Miyoko, as she is trapped between the taller student’s arms and body. The barrage soon ends when Megumi brought up Souma.

  “Heh, so you just got helped along by a guy? Sorry I bothered you,” Miyoko stated and left almost as quickly as she came. Megumi wondered why Miyoko seemed upset by the fact. What was wrong with relying on her friends? She thinks of Isshiki’s gentle guidance, Yuki’s beaming smile, Ryoko’s assurance, and Souma’s unwavering confidence in her. They all warmed her heart and gave her the strength to face the upcoming challenges. A text from Yuki saying to meet up at the dorms ends Megumi’s trail of thoughts and interest in Miyoko.

  It’s a strange and new feeling when the Autumn Elections start. A couple months ago Megumi would have been in near tears while fumbling left right and centre. She’s not so confident that her nervousness has disappeared but there’s a certain thrum of excitement and clarity. The murmurs of the crowd, the gaze of the judges, they all existed but they’re fuzzy in comparison to her dish at hand. Though accidentally allowing the monkfish to roll away was not exactly her finest work. She thinks of a dear friend for good luck then butchers the monkfish with a flourish that demonstrates the years of practice that went into the skill.

  Megumi was in for two surprises that day. One is making it past the preliminaries despite the tough competition. Of course, it was something Megumi had hoped for, but she was reluctant to let that small sprout overtake her lest disappointment consumed it. Now though, her hope had bloomed into a shy but beautiful bluebell in her heart. The other surprise caught her completely off guard. Miyoko had somehow managed to apologize to her in a sincere yet chic and cool way. With the promise of support and future help, Megumi barely remembered her manners and spewed words of gratitude quickly. The encounter flustered her slightly but brought a grin to her visage. Seeds of carnations are sown in her heart without Megumi noticing. Years pass before they bloom in full force.

  After holding her breath for what felt like an eternity of fighting in both central and blue, Megumi enjoyed getting to simply breathe freely. Her classmates shared a similar sentiment as Megumi discussed with Hisako the benefits of different dried vegetables and herbs over tea and sweets. She had made mochi donuts glazed with basil blueberry sauce to match the soothing tea Hisako had prepared.

  “Erina will be joining us in a bit, she’s held up at a meeting,” Hisako informed her while sitting down. She gracefully lifted the teacup to her lips and allowed the drink to soothe her strained body. However, it wasn’t until Hisako sunk her teeth into the treat and the tension from her shoulder was relieved did Megumi smile.

  “Your food is as comforting as ever,” Hisako complimented but auburn eyes did not meet Megumi’s citrine pair as hers were on Hisako’s soulmate tattoo. Between Hisako’s collar bones was a sophisticated golden crown adorned with diamonds.

  “Thinking about your soulmate?” Hisako guessed.

  “Oh! No, well, I mean a little, I guess. But! Mostly about how you and Erina are such a nice fit,” Megumi sputtered. The vegetable chef was many things but apparently furtive was not one of them. Gathering her courage, Megumi inquired, “How did you know?”

  Hisako mused for a couple moments before answering, “I suppose I always knew but it took a long time for me to admit it. Erina has a regal air, that has always stayed constant, but,” Hisako trailed off reflecting on the past. Megumi silently waited with rapt attention.

              “I had put Erina on a pedestal, constantly insisting on calling her Erina-sama, and, in a way, created a distance between us. But when I finally decided to walk beside her instead of behind her,” a smile crept onto Hisako’s face that she couldn’t fight off even if she wanted to, “I knew we were meant to be. Even without a tattoo, I’d be certain that we were soulmates.”

              A small gasp left Megumi’s lips at the bold proclamation. It soon turned into a cute giggle. Hisako raised her eyebrow, but the smile never left her face. “Oh, that’s so sweet! A soulmate story just like those in a fairy tale,” Megumi commented with an amiable grin which radiated with sincerity.

              “Perhaps,” Hisako reflected, “But I think you also bring out the sweet side in others.” Megumi’s eyes widen and she flushes at the statement. Hisako never minces words to appease others and speaks what she believes to be true. A compliment from her is a treasure to Megumi. The moment passed as Erina arrived, her presence grabbing both girls’ attention.

              “Sorry for being late,” Erina apologized quickly.

              “Don’t be, I already explained it to Tadokoro-san,” Hisako responded.

              “Let us know if there’s any way we can help out,” Megumi added. Erina was always a busy bee but being a third year had only increased her schedule with ample paperwork and meetings.

              “No, no, these people just dragged on the meeting unnecessarily, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” Erina insisted as she sat down, “Forget about that meeting, I heard something about soulmates?” Now that Hisako had happily accepted their soulmate bond, Erina never shied away from the topic. Megumi remembered meeting during first year and being scarred from Erina’s explosion whenever the topic was brought up.

              “Well, I’m curious if Tadokoro-san has any ideas about who her soulmate might be,” Hisako admitted. Immediately a rosy pink flooded her cheeks. Megumi might have heard rumours that a certain chef specializing in Chinese cuisine had a vegetable related tattoo. And maybe, Megumi adored conversing with Miyoko about cooking and how her eyes lit with an intense burning flame as she discussed her passions. Also, Megumi might have a tendency to stare at Miyoko’s face, her heart fluttering without fail when Miyoko’s plum eyes met her own accompanied by a smile. But she held her fledgling wish close to her heart. Many people never met their soulmate, even going as far as to cover their tattoo.

              “Who is the lucky person?” Hisako asked, the corner of her lips tugging higher up when she saw Megumi’s flustered expression.

              “No one!” Megumi squealed, “It … It’s just … I just have a guess, maybe.” Citrine eyes are steadily glued to the tea as knowing smiles are passed between Hisako and Erina.

              “You must find out Tadokoro-san! This is our last year,” Erina insisted. Megumi’s eyes go as wide as the teacup saucers before them.

              “Not at this very moment,” Hisako amended, “But soon.” Megumi meekly nodded and gratitude flooded her heart as Hisako directed the conversation elsewhere.

              A few days later while staring at the doors to the Chinese Cuisine RS, Megumi felt inclined to procrastinate the matter further. A sharp glance from Erina had sent Megumi toward her maybe-soulmate but now she was only a few steps away her mind blanked. How on earth was she supposed to casually bring up the topic? Hey! Can I see your soulmate tattoo because I think we might be soulmates but if not that’s cool too -  Just imagining the scenario was enough to fluster Megumi and send her into a state of disarray.

              “Hey Megumi, are you here for a Shokugeki too?” Souma asked. Megumi yelped, unaware of her best friend’s presence. “I was gonna test out this new Chinese dish I made, and I figured the best way would be a shokugeki!” he explained unfazed by Megumi’s surprise.

              “S-souma-kun! Oh, I guess … well …” Megumi struggled to find words but as the red head’s megawatt smile shone, she got a growing feeling that her emotions were not being conveyed.

              “I’ll let Hojo know right now, save you the trouble of writing one of those letters,” Souma offered. Megumi gulps down an immediate rejection. They were chefs and if words were failing her, as they often did, perhaps a dish would be the best.

              “Thank you Souma-kun! A shokugeki is perfect,” Megumi declared. Souma barreled in though not many blinked as the school had somewhat acclimatized to the chaotic chef. Megumi traced the word person on her hand, challenging her possible soulmate to a Shokugeki was enough to send her heart into overdrive.

              “What theme?” Miyoko’s voice snapped Megumi out of her trance.

              She summoned her courage and responded, “You! Or, um, your personality. A dish that is you.” Miyoko tilted her head ever so slightly, such an abstract theme was quite rare. “If you’re okay with that,” Megumi hastily added.

              “Let’s do it,” Miyoko agreed. Dates and details were decided in a flurry and each chef left in preparation for their upcoming battle.

              Before Megumi left to her room, a firm hand grasped her shoulder. “Good luck Megumi!!” Souma stated before heading off to the kitchen.

              “You too!” Megumi shouted in hopes of him hearing. Did Souma’s smile contain a hint of insight and mischief or was Megumi starting to hallucinate? She quickly brushed off the thought in favour of brainstorming on how to create a dish that conveyed all the emotions brewing in her heart.

              The day of Shokugeki arrives and Megumi’s emotions are on a wild roller coaster. The shokugeki itself brings no fear but Megumi has no idea what to do after. Does she ask to see Miyoko’s soulmate tattoo? Does she let it go? Does she confess regardless? Her mind is spiralling and suddenly just the thought of soulmates is enough to get her heart racing. The endless cycle continued until Megumi arrived on stage where she takes a page from Souma’s book and decided to just let the cooking do the talking and whatever came after would come.

              The crowd watched their every movement with anticipation but somehow Megumi felt freer than ever. The floodgates of her tumultuous emotions opened as she was put her entire heart on this plate. Her wishes, hopes, intentions, all laid out in a bout of courage and vulnerability intertwined together.

              Megumi serves ankimo, an exquisite delicacy Megumi manages to infuse with hospitality, accompanied by a salad of fresh and pickled vegetables. The judges compliment her use of Kogiku pumpkin and Tachikawa burdock root, but her eyes are glued to Miyoko taking a bite of an Akasuji daikon. Miyoko’s subsequent grin has Megumi’s heart soaring and it isn’t until this moment that Megumi how much she has fallen for her confident friend. God, she hoped so much that it was her, that by the end of this her hope would blossom rather than wilt.

              Miyoko serves xiao long bao with the dumplings folded precisely sixteen times and each with a unique filling. Truffle broth, shrimp stuffing, all crafted carefully, leaving Megumi in awe of how Miyoko prepared so much in so little time. The broth bursts in her mouth and encompassed her taste buds in a heavenly sensation. The Laohu Cai, also known as tiger salad, makes her heart skip a beat and fed her hope further.

              By the end Megumi wins 3-0, the judges congratulating both chefs on the spectacular dishes, but Megumi wins them over with the overflowing love that her dish can barely contain.

              “Congratulations, you’ve definitely earned your seat on the elite ten,” Miyoko praised.

              Megumi took a deep breath and declared, “I thought of you while making the dish.”

              “Since we’re not leaving anything barred, I am going show you this too,” Miyoko explained as she removed her shoe. On her ankle was a vegetable yokai surrounded by snowflakes. Megumi was so happy that tears threaten to spill from her eyes. She thinks back to the alumni comparing her to all types of yokai from household gods to koro-pok-guru. Megumi quickly rolls up her sleeve to reveal the purple-eyed tiger on her arm. Miyoko smiled while taking her hand and Megumi feels a garden of forget-me-nots bloom in her heart.

  Flower Meanings:

Bluebells – Grateful

Carnations – Fascination, distinction, love

Forget-me-not – True love

[the-everlasting-dream]

The Way To Love Me (Part 1/2) - Elizabeth

A/N: After careful consultation with Captain of the Drake x Liz ship @ooo-barff-ooo, we have figured out Drake and Elizabeth’s love languages and before the Dralizabeth ship docks for the rest of Jan, I had to get this one request out first. Drake’s part will be posted eventually. I think...  

Word Count: 2150+

Warnings: None, pure fluff ahead

Permatags:  @chantelle-x0x , @choicessa, @meeraaverywalker , @drakewalkerwhipped , @quartzandarrow ,  @mfackenthal , @srawesleyghuewrites , @topsyturvy-dream , @enmchoices , @gardeningourmet @debramcg1106 , @alesana45 , @meladoridarcy, @blackcatkita , @tmarie82 , @annekebbphotography , @lizk77 , @jayjay879 , @tornbetween2loves , @akrenich , @theroyalweisme , @likethetailofacomet , @sleepwalkingelite , @littleblossom-18 , @ooo-barff-ooo TRR only: @speedyoperarascalparty , @carabeth , Drake: @fairydustandsarcasm , @drakewalkerisreal

‘Please welcome Duke Drake and Duchess Elizabeth Walker.’ 

The herald’s announcement from a couple of hours ago still echoed in Elizabeth’s mind as she raised her flute of champagne to her lips. The clear bubbly liquid had long since warmed up from the heat of her skin pressed anxiously against the glass. Not for the first time that night, the drink halted, inches away from her lips before she lowered it back down to the table again. 

All around her the charity ball was in full swing, music playing, couples dancing, drinks flowing, sounds of laughter and enjoyment ringing out around her. It was her and Drake’s first official appearance back at court after their month long honeymoon, their first big event together as husband and wife and yet she found herself alone in a corner, listlessly observing the festivities. Her sharp dark eyes widened for a minute as the subject of her focus disappeared for a moment and she craned her neck to find him amongst the dancing couples. Her brow creased into a tiny frown as she searched the floor only to find him, broad back to her, still locked in conversation with another council member. 

She let out a slight huff at the sight, the older gentlemen had been holding her husband’s attention for most of the night no doubt to talk about the recent developments of their meetings. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge him, it was definitely important work and she should have been glad that Drake had found good people who were willing to work with him for the betterment of Cordonia but she couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of annoyance directed at Lords Jamison and Philip for hogging Drake now. 

 Elizabeth Walker liked to think she wasn’t a jealous woman and right now it wasn’t exactly jealousy rippling through her but a strange sense of…neglect. She shook her head at the thought, perishing it from her mind but it refused to budge and, with eyes still trained on Drake who from his posture seemed very concentrated on what his companions were saying. 

Leaning forward, her eyes narrowed trying to make out the conversation from across the room. 

‘Blah, blah very important council work.’ She imagined Lord Jamison’s voice in her head. 

 ‘Yes yes so important that we need your attention for the whole night Duke Walker.’ That was Lord Philip, his thick moustache bobbing as she pictured him harrumphing and humming. ‘Don’t worry about your wife, the ole ball n chain will be fine in the corner by herself.’ 

Drake was nodding now. ‘Of course please continue. It doesn’t matter that I have barely touched her this whole night, my aim is to completely ignore her so could you please repeat that long winded and unnecessary explanation aga-‘ 

‘Could I clear that Your Grace?’ 

 Elizabeth was pulled out of her reverie when a server carrying a tray of dishes bound for the kitchen appeared in her line of vision, motioning to the untouched champagne glass on the table before her. She blushed at being caught so blatantly bad mouthing her colleagues and husband even if it was in her head and in her embarrassment, gulped down the entire glass before handing it to the server. She winced as the now warm liquid trickled down her throat, further souring her mood as she threw another glance back at Drake who had barely moved from his place next to the two men and giving them one last wistful look, she slipped out the side door onto the adjoining balcony.

-

The night air felt calming against her skin, air from the gentle breeze caressing her cheeks as Elizabeth closed her eyes, leaning back against the cool stone wall. 

 She knew the whole thing was stupid. It really was. Stop making a big deal out of it, she chastised herself. You've just been together for a whole month straight. He's probably enjoying the bit freedom from the ole ball and chain right now..

Deep down she knew it was a big deal, to her at least. The last month had been bliss, pure heaven on earth to have Drake fully to herself, to touch him, to kiss him, to love him so freely and unashamedly. At first she’d surprised him by planning the entire month of travelling and adventuring together, doing all the things and visiting all the placed they’d talked about before but after a week of that neither of their hearts seemed into the fast paced option and eventually together they decided to ditch the plan and return home early to Atlantea and just be together. 

 Those three weeks had been the best of her life, Elizabeth reflected, the memory bringing a smile to her face for the first time all night. She never knew she’d enjoy the simple life so much, that the mundane action of waking up with the person she loved with all her heart would bring her so much joy. With the servants absent and the entire manor to themselves, Drake and her had spent many of those days sans clothing, making it their personal mission to christen every room in the house personally. She herself was a physical touch person, though only to those closest to her and while Elizabeth had always known he was a marshmallow at heart but she’d been pleasantly surprised by how tender and affectionate she’d discovered her husband to be. She’d felt it in the way his arms would accidentally on purpose brush hers as he walked past, how her legs always seems to be tangled with his as they had breakfast at 2pm in the afternoon, in the way he’d make love to her each day, sometimes more than once a day, kissing her with so much passion and devotion that she might have exploded from too much exposure.

But now that they were back at court, it seemed like a switch had been flipped and he suddenly didn’t want to be near her. Other than their official entrance and the obligatory first Cordonian Waltz, she had barely seen Drake all night. She understood that resuming their new titles meant a drop in time spent together and that was okay with her. Throughout the night both of them had been busy catching up with old friends and new fellow court members so it had been tough to find a moment alone but she hadn’t expected a total loss of contact. Elizabeth noted how when she’d walked up beside him earlier to check in, slipping her hand into his just to remind him quietly that she was there but he’d barely retained the contact for few seconds before breaking off to speak to someone else, leaving her confused and a little hurt. Surely he could have taken a moment to hold her hand for a bit right? 

Now Elizabeth wrung her hands, frowning in the face of the breeze as her train of thought spiralled into doubt. Maybe I’m just blowing this out of proportion, she thought to herself, attempting to be rational but some part of her resisted, thinking that terrible thought of What if he wasn’t interested in her anymore? Could he have gotten bored so quickly? Again she chased the thought from her mind, feeling angry at how childish she was being. Drake loved her, they’d just gotten married, this was the beginning of their forever, she shouldn’t be feeling this way. And yet she was.. 

 The swell of the party filtered back to her, reminding her of her obligation to return but Elizabeth couldn’t find it in her to plaster even a fake smile onto her face for the rest of the night. Walking back inside, she grabbed her purse and slipped out the door, fingers already tapping out a text message to Drake as her feet carried her towards the exit. 

 Not feeling too good. I’ll see you at home. Have a good time. 

 She’d scarcely hit send before footsteps sounded out from behind her. 

‘Walker? I got your message. Everything alright?’ 

 Elizabeth winced at the sound of her husband’s voice, she’d been hoping to leave undetected. 

 ‘Yeah, everything’s fine,’ she lied, turning around to face Drake. ‘I’m just a little tired is all.’ 

 He studied her for a moment and she felt her poorly constructed facade start to crumble. 

 ‘I know tired Elizabeth, this isn’t that. What’s wrong?’ He approached her, standing a few feet away but she could still feel the warmth radiating off his figure. 

She knew she should just come clean and tell him but her pride wouldn’t have it. ‘Nothing Drake. I’m fine.’ 

His lips twisted up to the side. ‘I may have only been married to you for a couple of months but I know that’s girl speak for something’s definitely wrong,’ he replied, gently lacing his fingers through hers, the sensation warming her skin. ‘What’s wrong Liz?’ 

 She swallowed at his use of her nickname. Usually he’d call her by her new last name — the name they both shared now — or when his memory lapsed it went back to Richmond while Elizabeth was usually reserved for formal occasions. But Liz was for when it was just the two of them, tender and more intimate than usual, when he really wanted to get her. Elizabeth looked up into his dark eyes, earnest and open only for her, ready to listen to whatever she had to say. 

‘Its nothing, its stupid.. you’re gonna laugh,’ she mumbled, still embarrassed that she’d been so obvious about it, gaze drifting down to where their hands were intertwined.   

‘I promise I won’t.’

His honest tone encouraged her and she laced her fingers tighter into his, still not looking him in the eyes. 

‘I guess I was just feeling a little.. uh… neglected I guess,’ Elizabeth mumbled awkwardly. ‘Last month was amazing and almost too good to be true. It seemed like a dream to be able to touch you and kiss you whenever I wanted but now that we’re back to reality… uh… it feels like the polar opposite now. You didn't even want to hold my hand today when you were talking to Leo and… I just thought you… you didn’t love me as much…' 

A chuckling sound brought her gaze back up and she frowned at his mirth. 

‘You said you wouldn’t laugh.’ 

 ‘Sorry,’ Drake replied, composing himself, though the corner of his lips tweaked up a little. ‘You’re adorable Liz.’ 

She frowned, mouth beginning too open with an annoyed reply when he suddenly stepped forward and planted a deep kiss on her lips. Elizabeth moaned in response, body reacting immediately to his touch as her hands came up to rest on his chest, eyes sliding shut as he wove his unspoken declaration of love across her skin in a way that took her breath away. His own hands circled her waist, pulling her in flush against him before one slid up to cup her jaw, gently guiding her to him. When he finally pulled away for air, her eyes remained fastened shut, heavy under the reinforced weight of his passion and love for her. 

 ‘Better?’ 

 Elizabeth nodded before her eyelids flickered open and she saw Drake smiling tenderly down at her. 

‘Much.’ 

 He kissed her again, slow and sweet this time and she happily responded, having craved this exact thing all night, melting into his touch. His grounding presence had such an effect on her, immediately dispelling her doubts . He’d told her before how she always seemed to stabilise him when things got rough but she’d never really noticed how he was her anchor until now when she was drifting away 

‘You’re right,’ he whispered back, lips brushing against hers as he spoke. ‘I did neglect you tonight. I didn't mean to.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ Elizabeth was already saying, wanting to forget the whole incident ever existed and get back to kissing him some more but he continued on. 

‘I’m still learning Liz. This whole marriage thing, its not something I saw for myself for a long time before you came around. I thought I’d live out the rest of my days sulking in the back of ballrooms and definitely not in a suit and married to the most amazing woman on earth. Its gonna take some practice but I promise I’ll get the hang of this PDA thing. I’ll hug you and kiss you all you want and I’m never gonna neglect you again.’ 

 Elizabeth couldn’t help her face from breaking into a grin. ‘I love you.’ 

‘I love you too.’ He dropped another kiss onto her lips before tugging her hand a little back in the direction of the ballroom. ‘And I’ve got a whole room full of people I need to show it to.’

[mourne]

(( an old story from Burning Crusade- ‘Twain Shall Meet’))

1.

It was evening and the moon hung low in the sky,drifting towards a proud stone edifice. The soft light beamed through tall, narrow windows, spreading diamond shaped patterns on the floor. Paneled in dark wood, swathed in heavy, green velvet curtains, the eastern outer corridor of Baron von Morningfire's summer estate brooded quietly in the moonlight.

Soft footsteps tapped at the silence of that hall. One long shadow crept into the room, stretching as a black streak over diamond patterned floors. As the shadow loomed larger, the edges of the shadows began to blur and tremble, as if pulling towards each soft footfall- though some would call it a mere trick of the moonlight scattered below.

Then the source of the shadow's desires walked into view. Kohl-smudged green eyes glowered in a too-pale face. Delicate, refined features were carved there in flesh, framed in ebony hair. The smooth locks trailed down to matching dark robes. Only the tiniest glints of silver thread and silver bells in the hair gave any light.

At the end of the hall the elf wrapped in black paused. There before him was a heavy, oaken door. One slender hand turned the handle, and the elven shadow slipped inside. Here the tall curtains were closed, and all the lights were extinguished- save the flickering of the fireplace light. Warmly it spread over the two large chairs arranged by the fire.

The only one seated within gazed quietly at the fire, watching the dancing flames. Green eyes more often gleefully impish were subdued. The noble-featured head was bowed low, brilliant scarlet hair unbound and hanging loosely. Lips commonly in a grin were oddly set in a thin line as he turned his head towards the door.

"Lord." The red-haired elf's voice held a hint of subdued amusement.

"Baron." The reply was soft.

"Cirdath, please, have a seat." At a glance from the darker elf, he smiled. "Mourne. Ah, forgive me, I cannot help old habits."

"My thanks, Reowen." The hunter was rewarded with a gentle smile as the priest moved to stand before the fire.

The hunter slowly rose, his movements silken as he moved to the shadow. One arm curled around his waist, and lips moved to whisper lowly in an ear. "Shall we begin?"

And the priest smiled.

2.

"I call thee here in visible shadow- with binding of Names-"

Tapestry hung walls, velvet curtains, gilded furniture of gold warmly glowing under the flares of magical sconces made the most unlikely setting for unhallow rituals of the dead. Yet any who merely dabbled in the dark arts would blanch in recognition at the interlocked circles drawn in arcane fire upon the luxurious rug- symbols among the most foul of necromancy and summoning.

"The Three, the Seven, the ONE beyond..."

The dual circles glow in bright blue fires, sigils of dark portent along the edges. At each cardinal point, save where the two joined, a candle of strangely non-flickering blue flame burned. At the southern circle- the shadows pulled and swirled around a thin, pale elf.

"...  to thee, Unconquered Sun, Lamented Moon..."

Swathed in black, the top portion of his robe was pulled down to hang loosely from his waist, revealing the wide bands of tattoos upon his torso and arms. Matching sigils bordered the bands, and one may swear in the flickering light they wavered as he intoned lowly.

"By the Three Hidden of the Gates ...from the Tomb of the Reborn... By Will of the Seven- pierce the Veil, it shall be torn before me for as long as dust shall eat the days."

A plain, cruel dagger of cold aura was in his hands, and the dark-haired elf idly cut his finger. He started to trace sigils in the air with that bloodied digit, blazing in bright fire as they hung in the air as the blood was consumed. His voice grew louder, and forbidden words echoed along the sumptuous walls.

"By the Grace and the Damnation, the Fourth of the Seven calls. Dark calls to Light, Light calls to Dark, and He Who Seeks bids an Answer."

And then- only then- did a thin mist start to arise in the other circle. The room grew cold, until the breath of the dark elf and his scarlet-haired watcher could be seen. As the mist grew thicker, Mourne bowed low as a welcoming gesture- and the mist shimmered, seeming to bow in return.

"...heeeeeeeere... I coooome to theeeee..." The tone was but a hissing whisper, an audible shiver of frost hanging in the air- of thin, crystalline notes.

"Lord Brightgold. As requested, your heir was cleared and restored- recorded within the Annals of Silvermoon. The Dame is once again in a state of grace befitting her, and the young heir is under the watchful eye of the Baron." Mourne smiled pleasantly, unfazed by the chill. His breath hung in clouds before his lips, a glimmer of frost began to try and form upon him- yet near his sigils of his flesh it melted and steamed away.

He held open his hand, a tarnished sigil ring of House Brightgold resting on his palm. "Thus proof. So- the Lord Whitemorn who ruined you- the papers that are proof of his wrongdoing he wished to have so badly- you will reveal the location now?"

A howl of mist swarmed towards the ring on Mourne's open palm, swirling about his hand. The shadows at his feet rose to meet it, starting to push it aside, but a small gesture from the priest's other hand set the shadows down. For a moment the mist lingered about the ring- then suddenly swirled back to the second circle, taking shape one again.

"...theeee ruins of ouuuur... estaate... west tower. Top floooor... thiiiird beam. The ring is.. the keeey, tuuurn thriiice towards the riiiising suuun....intone the Pale Name...Seeeeeker..." The shrill words carried through the chill air. At this Mourne turned, clutching the ring in his hand, and nodded towards the red-haired hunter standing to the side with a questioning look on his face. Reowen nodded in return.

With a gentle smile Mourne spoke, inclining his head to the spirit. "Vengeance then, shall be done. You are free to go."

"...at laaaast..." The words grew thankful, tender- the mist rapidly dissolving. Suddenly- every source of light- the candles, the sigils upon the floor and hanging in the air, the glow of the circles and magical sconces in the wall- all went out. The room dropped into blackness.

The Baron von Morningfire simply strode to the wall of windows facing east, pulled aside heavy velvet curtains, and threw the windows open to the gardens beyond. The cooling evening air rushed inside, and the fading light of the sun both filled the room. Turning, the scarlet haired hunter smiled at the raven haired priest. "We can gather it tomorrow. It shall do nicely."

Mourne glanced around his feet, checking to make sure all the circles and sigils had completely vanished. Catching Reowen's questioning eye, he merely replied with a sardonic grin. "Indeed. And worry not for your rug, Reowen. 'tis well."

The dark priest glided over to the baron as they strode onto the patio, facing the gardens outdoors. Far to the east the sun was slowly being overtaken by a dark, thick storm cloud. In the heat of the summer eve- the far off patter of rain was faint. The rich, earthy smell of rain first hitting earth waved over the two standing there, passing by to purify the newly opened room with the wholesomeness of nature.

"The storm is coming."

Quietly the two nobles stood, slowly watching the wall of rain blow in from the east, the patters growing louder- the hiss threatening to overtake all other sounds save the crackles and rumbles of thunder. Mourne leaned upon Reowen a moment, the weariness growing, and the redhead wrapped a warm arm around him as the rain started to pour upon them.

Mourne smiled as he closed his eyes, tilting his face up to the rain.

"Nay... the storm is here."

  3.

The rain continued to patter loudly against the flagstone patio into the wee hours. Drawn back curtains and open windows let the bright flashes of lightning into the bedroom, shadows sharp in that instant. When they faded from that moment's strike, the soft glow of one lamp resumed, casting gentle light upon the figures entwined below.

"... still nothing of those years?"

A slightly calloused hand traced dark sigils tattoo'd into flesh- gliding over sinewy contours. Scarlet hair fell over skin as the hunter pressed a kiss to the sigil on the priest's shoulder. "You were missing since that day, Cirdath... even I could not find you until you showed up in Silvermoon again as Mourne."

"That day..." Mourne idly wrapped his fingers in the damp, scarlet hair. Wrapped around his fingers, it brought up disturbing echoes of blood on his hands- causing him to frown as he spoke. "Before that day there are glimpses of Cirdath's memories. And my own waking 6 months ago. But 'tis all darkness in between."

"It took a lot to cover it up- and why not? Hundreds, maybe thousands- of living and unliving went missing that day. Gods, you should have seen him." Reowen shuddered in a moment of weakness the memories brought back. "After the Scourge came through... He was found wandering his empty estate. And his eyes were changed..."

"Change enough to do as he did to me... and others. A little recalls him now." Mourne turned the hunter's face towards him, pausing to delicately nibble on the offered lower lip. The priest was rewarded with a muffled, throaty purr wrapped in a deepened kiss.

"Yet you still..."

"Yes, still." Reowen leaned back against the pillows, a wry, apologetic smile flickering over his features. A hint of memory tugged at him, the last time him and A met.

You just won't let go, will you?

The hunter shook his head, confessing softly to the priest. "He won't let me any other way. But sometimes... there is a tiny moment I can pretend."

Mourne quietly smoothed a hand over the hunter's ear, murmuring a quiet mind soothe spell. Reowen turned to him in relief, an oddly gentle look in his eyes. "Reo... he told me I crossed all boundaries. Not a warlock, nor a priest- but something beyond. That I summoned demons, and undead, and elementals- broke all laws in my quest for power."

Mourne chuckled quietly, shaking his head. The small silver bells tinkled merrily. "I do not even know what I sought... truly, I had hoped to place all those dark magics behind me, as Mourne. But when I opened the way to bring back Kiirei- I was caught once more. Those that Cirdath swore himself to- they embrace me gleefully."

"Him - a few times ago when we spoke- he said I am still Cirdath, no matter what name or protests I hide under. And it was Cirdath’s mark that showed upon Mortakai." The raven-haired priest continued softly, eyes downcast. "...it was not mine."

The baron's voice was soft. "... we shall have to wait, then, and see."

Silence hovered, and outside the storm slowly faded away. What was left of the night's darkness crept over the figures, hiding all from view. All was still.