#the hearth? the home? a reminder of what they’re fighting for which is like laughter and joy?

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

Sansa is a dancer! It’s mentioned in one of her Alayne POVs in the fourth book.

Yup! And I completely forgot that I read her Winds sample chapters lol Because they are more relevant to the theme of my post which was about singing/dancing but in martial settings. Sansa’s Winds chapters are interesting because she’s dancing with knights - those who will eventually leave and dance to the “music” of swords. And much of her singing is for martial “dancers” as well. So I think she’s connected to all this in some way but I’m not sure how? Right now, I’m thinking of her as more or a “hold down the fort” type of character but kind of blanking beyond that….

[mrs-theirin]

understanding.

so uh this originally started as “hating rebecca hours”, then it was loving nate hours, and then suddenly at the last second it became.......mutually respecting adam hours??? so here we are. @magebastard this one’s for you <3

calliope langford x nate sewell / calliope & adam du mortain, 2585 words. mommy issues paired with getting to know your stuffy leader better (also on ao3 <3)

The apartment is quiet. 

Mind-numbingly quiet, actually.

“Stay home and enjoy yourself,” Tina had said, practically pushing Calliope out the door, a wide smile plastered on her face that said if you don’t go home right now I will end you. Even Verda came out from the lab to say goodbye, his gentle eyes hardened in a way that let her know there was no fighting him. 

She needs something to do. The apartment just isn’t the same without Farah’s laughter, Adam’s groans of distaste, the irritating clouds of Morgan’s smoke—which still lingers on everything she owns. Honestly, she’s going to take Morgan’s cigarettes and shove them somewhere unpleasant—and Nate’s warm, calming presence. She debates sending him a text, maybe asking him for coffee, but the idea leaves as quickly as it came. 

He’s probably busy. She’s sure he has more important things to do than—

Im bad at this texting thing. Coffee

Calliope laughs. Before she can respond, another text from Nate comes in.

That was supposed to be a question. I cant find the apostrophe or question mark. I would like to have coffee with you. 

Another text, separate from the last.

Now, if you can. I heard you were sent home from work and I know how much you like the pastries there.

Her heart races at the thought of Nate frantically typing away at his phone, confused but determined to send her a text. She must admit, it’s a hilarious image, and she laughs as she sends her response.

relax and look for the “123” on the left of the keyboard. you’ll find all your punctuation needs there. and yes, i’d love to go get coffee. meet me there?

Ah! Found it. Thank you. And no, I’m outside your apartment. 

Calliope straightens, deigning to push aside the curtain and peek out at the sidewalk. Sure enough, Nate stands awkwardly outside, staring down at his phone. His gaze flickers up as her hand makes the curtain dance, and he waves politely. She waves back. She mouths “be right there” and pulls away, cursing herself for looking outside in the first place. Did he just run here? Was he just outside her apartment when he sent the original text? Did he just assume she would say yes? 

She rushes to her bedroom, ripping the nicest—and hopefully subtle—thing she owns out of her closet and throws it on, stopping in front of the mirror to undo the messy bun she has her bright orange hair in and tussle it into something appropriate. She glances at the panicked look in her eyes, and tries to calm down. What is she freaking out for? It’s just Nate. 

I would fight through any form of technology if I knew you were on the other end.

Nate, who can make her face flush with just a few words. Nate, who towers over her, his warm brown eyes staring into her soul. Nate, who is patiently standing outside waiting to take her to coffee. She tries not to hold out too much hope that it’s a date.

“Hey!” she says when she finally makes it outside, unconsciously taking too large of a step and standing uncomfortably close to him, which she quickly rectifies by inching backwards. They both laugh nervously. “Did you—”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Nate rushes out, his face flushing. “It’s a beautiful day out.”

She accepts the obvious lie with a face full of heat. “Let’s go then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She loves the way he laughs. 

At Haley’s, he relaxes; his shoulders slouching, his gaze softening. He is no longer scanning every person on the street, trying to gauge if they’re a threat. He is talking and he is joking and he is smiling and he is laughing. And every time he throws his head back to laugh at some stupid sarcastic joke she makes, she melts. 

He sighs dreamily, then faces her with soft, kind eyes. “I really missed you, Calliope.”

Her heart thumps in her chest. “I missed you too. You could’ve called, you know.”

His smile fades. “I wasn’t allowed to. The Agency thought it was better if we just...left you alone for a while.”

“So I could recover?”

Nate turns away, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Before she can ask him to elaborate, she hears a familiar clack of heels behind her. Her body tenses. “Calliope,” her mother’s voice says, clear and professional, though surprised. She wasn’t expecting her daughter to be here. 

Calliope doesn’t even turn. Her hand clenches around her coffee and she clears her throat. “Rebecca.”

Something in her dies when she sees Rebecca take the seat next to her. It is crushed to ash as she turns to Nate, who is smiling kindly at Rebecca, ordering another pastry for her, inviting her to stay longer than Calliope prefers. Her mother hums gently. “Coffee date?” she asks, though there is something else in her voice. Something resentful. Something...cautious.

“And what if it was?” Calliope mumbles into her coffee, as Nate replies, “Oh no, just catching up.”

“You should be careful about how much time you spend in the open, Agent Sewell,” Rebecca offers, and it’s obvious why she’s saying it. Calliope begins to shake, as she always does around her mother, and washes her resentment down with her coffee. The warm liquid contrasts the coldness of her bitterness. 

It wasn’t always this way with Rebecca; there was a time where they laughed and smiled and shot each other with water guns. But eventually laughter dies out, smiles fade away, and water guns change to Glock 22s. Love changes to resentment. Dads die. 

She understands why secrets were kept. She hates that Rebecca doesn’t understand why she would be upset by the secrets that were kept. The way Rebecca’s eye twitches when Nate leans into Calliope is sign enough on its own. Can’t even be happy with the circumstances she has, apparently. 

“Of course,” Nate says, professional as always. “Understood.”

“Let the man...or, vamp, live,” Calliope retorts. “We’re just having coffee.”

Rebecca presses her lips together tightly. “Calliope. Do I need to remind you why you’ve been wearing turtlenecks for months?”

She chokes on her coffee, slamming the cup down on the counter, the paper crunching in her hand. Typical of her mother to remind her of trauma, trauma that deeply affects her, as if it’s just a statement she can throw out at any given moment, like a quick anecdote or conversation starter. How can one look at their daughter having her neck torn out by a killer vampire and think, “This will be good for future scoldings”? And her scoldings, well, of course they aren’t scoldings, they’re concerns. Worries from a concerned mother. A mother who was so concerned about her daughter that she left for years with no contact, leaving the local librarians to raise Calliope. 

Calliope tenses as she feels a hand on her shoulder, but deflates when she realizes what side the hand is on. Nate squeezes her shoulder affectionately, and she cannot thank him enough for being a rock. If Rebecca is the storm—cold, predictable, unrelenting—then Nate is the hearth; warm, welcoming, reassuring. He smiles softly at her. 

“Of course you don’t,” she finally speaks, subconsciously scratching at the scars. “But considering I’ll be working with the Agency again soon, getting coffee won’t matter much, will it? Or are you trying to say that I can only put myself at risk if I’m not having fun?”

Rebecca’s eyebrow twitches as she sighs. “I’m only trying to look out for you—”

“No, you aren’t.” Her voice is stern, but quiet. Don’t want to draw too much attention. That’s the way it’s always been, right?. “You’re looking out for yourself and your reputation as a ‘good mother’, but it’s all crap anyway. If you wanted to preserve that, you wouldn’t be begging me every 5 seconds to tell you you’re doing a good job.” 

“Calliope,” Nate gently warns, and she slowly shrugs his hand off of her shoulder. Now is not the time for another one of those sad, soulful looks he gives her when she argues with Rebecca. She doesn’t have the effort. 

Rebecca’s lips are thinned again, in that disappointed scowl Calliope’s seen so much of since this whole Agency business started. “Sweetheart,” she starts, and Calliope is already cringing away, already preparing herself for whatever pandering crap Rebecca is about to spew. “I want you to be safe.”

“But not happy, clearly.”

“Calliope Langford.” Rebecca’s voice is harsh, but it only manages to enrage Calliope more. Her mother isn’t stern often, usually grabbing for the ‘soft and meek’ route, but on the occasion she does show annoyance, it’s never a pleasant feeling. Not because it upsets Calliope, but because she knows it’s a ruse. If she holds out, her mother will give in, because they both know she can’t stand being the bad guy (despite making herself the bad guy in every single conversation they have). “This is dangerous business. I don’t want to see you hurt. I do love you, whether you believe me or not.”

Calliope stands abruptly, slapping a $20 bill on the counter. “Why don’t you concern yourself less with whether I believe you, and more with whether you believe yourself. Come on, Nate.”

She starts to walk away, but hesitates when Nate doesn’t immediately follow, out of his seat but hunched over, like a kicked, obedient puppy. A twinge of betrayal tugs at Calliope’s chest, but she waves it off, instead holding up her hand, exasperated. She leaves without another word. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings.

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

Calliope sighs in exasperation, about to hit the red ‘end call’ button, when the phone finally clicks, a stern, professional voice coming through as clear as day: “Special Agent Adam du Mortain. Is this something important?”

She rolls her eyes, unable to keep the smile off of her face. “It’s just me, Adam. You don’t have to answer the phone like that.”

“Is this something important,” he repeats, though this time it’s less of a question. 

She gives in. “I was wondering if you wanted to spar. You said you were...less than impressed with my combat skills, so why don’t you teach me?”

The line is silent for a moment, before Adam lets out a small huff. “Where?” 

She blinks. She hadn’t thought of that. “...Here?” she offers, uncertain.

He sighs heavily. “Open the door.” 

The call ends and she is rooted in place for a moment before she springs up from her couch, opening the door and peeking out. Adam is standing on her stairs, looming over her, and he raises a single eyebrow, making the action of entering her apartment. She steps aside and watches him analyze the living room. “Move the table,” he says.

“You’re the one with the super strength,” she jokes, closing the door behind her. “Can’t you do it?”

He glares at her. “Are you serious about training with me?”

She straightens under his gaze, nodding sharply. “Yes,” she responds, though it comes out like a nervous question.

“Then move the table. And slide the couch away too. We need plenty of room.”

She salutes him, tying her hair back into a high ponytail. “Can do!”

He groans. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why didn’t you call one of the others?” Adam asks, crossing his arms and staring down at the panting, sweating Calliope, who is holding onto her knees for dear life.

“Oh, you know—” she says between heavy breaths. “You’re starting to grow on me.”

“Your form is poor.”

“Oh, I know!” she wheezes. “You actually told me that, a bunch of times, like two seconds ago.”

If she didn’t know any better, she can swear she sees a ghost of a smile threatening to appear on Adam’s lips, then it’s gone as quickly as it came. He regards her with complete and utter disappointment. “They would’ve been nicer.”

“Ah, but nice isn’t what I need. I need to learn how to fight.”

This time Adam does actually smile, though it’s still not quite a full smile, more like pride over seeing a lesson learned. He cocks his head to the side. “It could also be that you’re fighting with Nate.”

She hesitates for a moment before scoffing. “I’m not fighting with Nate. Fighting would require words, of which there were none.”

Her two seconds of hesitation were enough for Adam, because he nods his head sharply, and scowls. “Figure it out. I don’t want you two at odds next time we’re all together.”

“Why?” Calliope drags the table back to its original spot, collapsing on the couch with a heave. “I thought I was a distraction.”

He joins her on the couch, his posture as formal as ever, the distance an obvious sign of something. “You are a distraction. But you’re more of a distraction when Nate is running through his mind trying to make up a list of ways he can make it up to you.”

“Make what up to me?”

“You’d have to tell me that.”

The two stare at each other before Calliope sighs, smiling. “Thank you for coming over. You didn’t have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t wish to,” he simply says, and she rolls her eyes.

“Loosen up a little sometime, huh? I think it would do you good.”

“Then you and I will have to have differing opinions.”

A knock sounds at the door, and Calliope starts to stand, but Adam takes the lead instead, gesturing for her to stay put. She doesn’t put up a fight, after all, her body is aching and all she really wants is a nap right now, maybe a 3 day slumber. When the door opens, she strains her ears to hear the soft mumbles of whoever is at the door. Adam’s voice is strong, and overshadows the meeker, much quieter voice of the person—no, woman, that’s a woman’s voice—standing at the door. A few more minutes pass until Calliope finally hears Adam say, “I think you should leave,” and shuts the door. When he returns, she gives him a curious smile. 

“Who was that?” she asks, and he shakes his head. 

“No one important. It’s late, I should leave. Goodnight, Detective Langford.”

She stops him before he can zip out. “Adam, honestly. You can call me Calliope. I promise you won’t implode.”

He hesitates, gears in his head clearly turning, then gives in, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Goodnight, Calliope. You did well.”

“You’re lying to me!” she calls after him, and he says nothing as the door shuts behind him. She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. Well, at least one good thing happened today. 

She heads to the light switch, peeking out of the window just for a second to try to catch a glimpse of the woman Adam had sent away. Her heart drops into her feet as she sees the car she knows too well. Rebecca sits in her car, taking a deep breath, and eventually starts it up and drives away, shaking her head. Calliope is frozen at the window. 

It was Rebecca at the door. Rebecca, who Adam...turned away? Told to leave?

She takes a moment to suck in a deep breath, letting out a loud sigh. Huh, she thinks, turning off the light and heading to her shower, eager to wash off the grime and sweat of training. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.

[granddaughterogg]

The day Death forgot something - part 1

Soo, guys, this was supposed to be a short story. Ya know, an itty bitty one. But it has grown to such a degree that I see no point in putting it here in its entirety. After all no one wants to read my long-ass posts.

This is mostly domestic fluff with a slice of life feel to it. Found family, sibling interactions, Reader being both Death and War’s girlfriend (not yet Strife’s, it’s Complicated) as a background and all that jam. Includes my headcanon that War hates spiders, because I find it hilarious. Perfectly SFW.

It seems that whichever chaotic deity stood behind those incidents, they’ve saved their best for War. 

It all started with a leaky roof.

The Four have bought themselves - and you - a house. They did so with coinage looted in countless different realms. You'd always treasure the facial expression of the bank clerk. Poor guy squirmed in his seat while explaining to four freakishly tall, fiery-eyed, fully armoured individuals that Makers' hacksilver (mere 26 pounds apiece) doesn't register as "money" in those parts. 

Most interesting day in his career, that's for sure.

The house in question was old.

Not dilapidated; just run-down enough to justify the low price. It has soon become obvious that it will have to be torn down and then rebuilt to fit the non-standard sized tenants. Poor War always felt so despondent among tiny human doorframes, their pitifully brittle walls and dainty knickknacks, prone to shattering at the slightest nudge. 

You know, like tables and such.

Strife could navigate among those just fine; despite being the noodle of the pack, he’s got the proprioception of a seasoned ballerina. Still claimed that all this hunching makes his back hurt. 

Death and Fury could fit into a human-sized environ without much problem. 

Yet she bristled at the thought of wearing lower heels, and your beloved would loathe admitting that he’s a short Nephilim. One thing is to know something; another altogether is to put it into words. 

Death has a recurring problem with this sort of thing.

So you didn’t make him. This house needed revamping anyway.

And it has been done. After countless trips to the local Home Depot, after summer weeks full of construction work - while you lived in a tent in the overgrown garden and the Four camped under the stars like they’re accustomed to. After amazing feats of Horseman cooperation and as much squabbling (Strife and Death had opposite opinions on anything), the house has been finally ready to be lived in. 

Under the latter’s lead, your boys displayed adeptness at carpentry, even if they didn’t pay much heed to the decorative side of things. War etched some protective sigils into the walls, the doorstep and the ceiling joist - and that was it. You had no idea what those exactly mean, but they sure glowed pretty in the dark. 

The house turned out to have a raw, pioneer aesthetic. There was a rustic stone hearth and lots of stained wood everywhere. You thought this starkness to be rather fetching.

Fury - who couldn’t be bothered to work with wood, but did care about them comforts and frills - made Death undertake another shopping trip. This time towards IKEA.

You enjoyed your first night spent in a proper bed like nobody’s business. Only partially because this was also Death’s bed.

And then the roof started to leak.

It was a slow leak at first. One morning Strife would drag his long ass down the stairs for breakfast, yawning and scratching, tendril hair pointing every which way, and claimed that he’s woken up to water splashing on his face.

„Maybe a bird relieved itself on you”, said Death flatly.

„In my own bed?!”

„Must have been a dedicated bird”, was the uncharitable response, followed by a swig of coffee. (Black, no sugar.) Fury rolled her eyes to high heavens but said nothing. You on your part couldn’t help but titter; even War’s dour Morning Expression gave way to a snort. Strife shot him a side-eye. 

„Don’t you neigh, my square-shaped brother. Birds don’t poop on your head cuz they can’t find it.”

The Big Guy harrumphed and focused on his cereal. Strife slumped on a chair with an annoyed puff, stuffing his face with two toasts at once.

Next time is was Fury who fell prey to the stealthy leak. One day you dropped by to chat. She was brushing that awe-inducing mane of hers while sitting in front of a large mirror. Fury had a proper vanity installed in her bedroom; a sturdy, antique-looking affair, covered with lots and lots of little bottles. As far as you knew, all of them contained some sort of magic. Fury took this whole beautifying thing to the next level.

So there she was, styling her coif with a self-indulgent smoulder when – PLOP! - something fell from the ceiling and landed precisely on the top of her head.

Fury shrieked.

„WET!” she cried out, eyes bulging, hands frantically pawing the ruined hairdo. „What was that, Little One? WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You suspected that the disgrace of having bird droppings touch her precious hair would cause someone as vain as Fury to shave it all off. And to remain bitterly bald while never, ever disclosing the reasons for doing so.

So it was with relief that you could state what you just saw:

„Oh, it’s just water.”

„Water?” She eyed the ceiling suspiciously, both hands still submerged inside the fluttering blue flame (Ice Hollow was the look du jour). „But...how?...”

Both of you glared upwards like two paranoid magpies. Still, nothing else has happened.

It seems that whichever chaotic deity stood behind those incidents, they’ve saved their best for War. 

It happened during dinnertime, too. You’ve just cooked a new dish – garlic butter shrimp pasta – and proudly displayed it to the Horsemen. The twins were already munching in abandon. Death excused himself politely. He seldom ate at all but would stay at the table nonetheless, sipping his extra bitter coffee or as unforgiving tea. You knew he did this entirely for your sake.

Meanwhile, the established big eater of the bunch seemed to have his reservations.

You watched the Red Guy pin his eyes to the full plate in front of him, fighting to retain his stony expression. The corner of his mouth twitched.

„What is it, baby?” You teased. „The shrimps are well and truly cooked. They ain’t gonna pounce at you.”

War exhaled. „Don’t misunderstand me, Little One...” he said, eyeing the dish with comic seriousness. „I would never dare to question your, eh, cooking abilities. I am just not that fond of food with tiny legs. It reminds me of many a thing I had to slay...”

„War’s afraid of spiders!” Strife chimed in, his mouth full.

The Big Guy sputtered in indignation. 

„I am not afraid of anything”, he stated, accosting his enfant terrible of a brother with a glare. „I just don’t like things that...walk like that.” He made a crawling gesture with his good hand.

„Too bad”, Strife licked his long fingers. „This shit’s delicious!”

War crinkled his wide nose and said nothing.

„So it’s about the visuals, huh?” you said, struck by an idea. „Would it be okay for you to try it just a little bit - if you couldn’t see it ?”

„Huh?” War clearly didn’t follow.

„Please don’t make our brother eat with his eyes closed”, murmured Fury between slurping in more pasta. „He makes a fair mess as it is.”

„Wouldn’t dream of it”, you grinned. „What I mean is: just close your eyes and I’ll hand feed you.”

„...Okay.”

Death cocked an eyebrow - his lip curving upwards - but he said nothing.

„Uh-oh,” said Strife. „Here comes the lovey-dovey stuff. Excuse me while I go and puke.”

„And put all this food to waste?” Fury taunted.

The gunslinger shrugged in defeat and went back to munching.

You picked a decent amount of food on the fork, lifted it and smiled at War, who stared you in the face with that endearingly earnest expression. He must’ve really hated arthropods in any shape or form, you thought. Yet he was willing to overcome his disgust. 

For you.

„Close your eyes.” He did, and suddenly there was much less light at the table. „Open wide!”

That he also did. You placed the shrimp inside his mouth with a jeweller’s precision. Strife sniggered.

„...Well?”

War’s snowy eyelashes fluttered while he pressed his jaws together, focusing on the taste. You saw his Adam’s apple bob a little.

You loved this big lug of a man so much.

„How is it?”

„Mmm. Good.” Those lightning blue eyes were looking at you again, wide and smiling. „This was really good.”

„Well then, ready for another round?”

War nodded, pressed his eyelids together and gaped, willing and trustful in that childlike way of his which always turned your cynical heart into jelly.

PLOP.

Suddenly many things happened at once. 

Strife howled with laughter, while Fury’s face became a picture of slack-jawed bewilderment. Death, always the quickest to react, was already standing up, one hand pushing his chair aside and the other outstretched protectively towards War. Who was clearly choking.

You watched the Big Guy wheeze and gurgle as if glued to your seat, paralyzed, motionless, the shellfish on your fork like some absurd sceptre.

You didn’t do this.

Death kicked War’s chair out of the way and held his brother in some Nephilim rendition of a Heimlich Maneuver, shaking him unceremoniously through the coughs until the latter went slack in his grasp. 

Finally, War stopped wheezing and did a dog shake.

Only then you were finally able to move.

„Oh, fuck. War. Are you all right?”

„I seem to be.” The Big Guy shot you a dizzy half-smile. Flyaway strands of hair covered his reddened face.

Death cautiously let him go and taxed you with a somewhat less-than-tender stare.

„I didn’t do this!” It hit as hard as a spoken accusation. You waggled the fork with the shrimp still on it. „I didn’t do anything!”

„Then what in the Nine Hells was that?” Fury wanted to know.

„Water”, gasped War, pointing upwards. „A lot of water fell into my mouth at once...I think.”

The four of you suspiciously eyed the ceiling.

Except for the lanky one, who was still guffawing.

„Strife. Did you see that happen?” Death’s voice was perfectly level. Focusing on the task at hand. You felt relief washing all over you; the Reaper clearly didn’t think that you just tried to choke his favourite brother.

Which was a good thing...your bond notwithstanding.

And out of the Four D might’ve been the fastest to react, but it was the gunslinger who had the perfect eyesight.

„Y-yeah!” Strife wiped the tears of mirth away. „Like, at least half a litre at once – boom! Hilarious.”

„What is so damn funny?” You could do with less of Strife’s sense of humour right now.

„Aw, come on there, pumpkin pie. It’s not like he could die from that. Or from anything else.”

You rethought this statement. „Right...yet D reacted!”

„Death used to do this all the time when we were kids”, Fury said softly, tilting her head in your direction. „We’d choke on anything, really. And back then, before we were anointed Horsemen we could have actually died, you know.”

„I guess old habits die hard”. Strife put on his shit-eating grin.

War nodded at his eldest and that was it. The whole „thank you for caring” compressed into one curt gesture. 

You smiled at War and then at Death. He caught your kind, appreciative stare, pressed his lips together and looked away.

PLOP!

(to be continued)

[blog-sliverofjade]

Hearth Fires 2: Sneaky Like a Cat

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary:  Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas. Remi Denier doesn’t know what to make of the female Changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it’s from herself. While they’re embroiled in a battle of wills, there’s a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.  

Word count: 2466

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the invaluable pandabearer

Remi entered a familiar code into the comm screen and sprawled out on the large cushions scattered around the main floor of his aerie.  Waiting for the call to connect, he cracked a longneck and took a swig.  Stomach rumbling, he wished he’d at least gotten a cupcake before scaring the piss out of the little baker.

He knew she didn’t intend any harm to the pack.  But sometimes what happened wasn’t what one intended, as he knew very well.  Just like he hadn’t intended to throw out that ultimatum. He’d wanted to get a sense of her and make the offer.  Then she’d turned him down and it was like his brain had switched off and his alpha hindbrain had taken over.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been turned down since he started building RainFire; it was, however, the first time a lone submissive female had said no.  Generally, ones like her didn’t go roaming for as long as she had. The feeling that something was amiss with her hadn’t left him, like an itch that he just couldn’t scratch.

“I’m flattered I’m your drunk dial,” Lucas Hunter said dryly, “but I have a mate.”

“I’d’ve to be drinkin’ bad hooch to be drunk dialin’ your laide tchew,” he snorted.  “And I’d hope it’d make me blind.”

Hunter snorted, then reached down out of view of the screen and picked up a little, black cub by the scruff of her neck.  Naya purred loudly enough that Remi could hear it and butted her forehead against Lucas’ face, even though her body continued to dangle limply in his grasp.

“You know better than that,” her father frowned at her, unfazed by the cute affection, and tapped her nose.  The responding mewl was adorable enough to pierce even the most jaded heart. “No, you can’t have a cookie, but you can say hi to Remi.”  He pointed to the screen and set her on his lap. A fluffy black tail rose high and curled at the end in greeting.

“Quoi se fais du mal, possede?”  His cat stopped its irritated pacing and chuffed in amusement at the pair of bright green eyes that now took up most of the screen as she leaned in to greet him.

“She’s been using my chair as a scratching post.”  Remi coughed to cover a laugh at the other man’s deadpan expression that barely hid his amusement.  At the recount of her misdeed, she flopped onto her back and put one paw over an eye as if to say “oops.”  Hunter had answered in his office at DarkRiver HQ. If he’d been at home, which had cushions instead of traditional furniture much like Remi’s own, his daughter would have sharpened her claws on a tree instead.  “Can you make it quick? I have a meeting in ten.”

Remi laid out the situation to Lucas, who listened without interruption.

“She says she didn’t know ‘bout the expansion.”  He spread his hands wide.

“You posted to Packnet?”  Hunter referred to the network utilized by Changelings all across the world.  Even loners used it, primarily to keep track of claimed territory to avoid accidentally trespassing.  A mistake meant death for a predatory Changeling.

“’Course I did,” Remi snapped in frustration.  Lucas let that one slide. “Damnedest thing is she says she’s never heard of it!”  He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Bullshit,” he snorted, then darted a glance at Naya, who’d climbed up to drape herself across his shoulders.  “You just don’t like your options.”

“Could you run a submissive off your lands?” he snarled.  Lucas gave a low warning growl to remind him that they were both alphas; his cub stopped kneading his shoulders and her ears swivelled forward, looking for the threat.  Remi had to rein his cat in before they got into a pissing match; it had been on edge since he stepped into the bakery. The animal, too, was disturbed with the mystery that was Lorelei Cain Maddox.

“Buy her land, her mortgage, and any other debt out from under her if she doesn’t play ball.  It doesn’t have to come to combat.” A ruthless solution from an alpha who was as accustomed to fighting in the boardroom as he was with teeth and claws.  The merciless alpha stroked his daughter’s back, lulling her back to her sleepy state. He looked like a damn villain when he did that in that chair.

“Mais.”  Blowing out a breath, he took another drink to give himself time to consider the suggestion.  He shouldn’t have made the offer at all if she made his hackles rise, not until he figured out why.  Now he had to deal with the fallout and any leverage would serve to protect the pack, even if he didn’t use it to force her hand.  “Might have to. She looked like she’d rather chew an arm off than listen to me.”

“I can’t blame her if you were your usual charming self.”  Remi flipped him the bird, but there was no heat in his accompanying glare.  Lucas huffed in laughter. “You can’t help those who don’t want to be helped, you need to focus on your own.  If she won’t play ball with you, she might with your enemies.”

“Ca me rapelle, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.  I’m forwarding you something.” He set his bottle down and fired off the email as he spoke.  “Several folks in town reported receiving this.”

“’Trinity’s Goal is Human Genocide’,” Lucas read the subject line with a snort.  “’We won’t be replaced, trying to take power, subjugate the human race…’ Yeah, we had something like this awhile back, so did StoneWater.  Do you know where it came from?”

“We got someone working to trace it.  I was wonderin’ if your people have time to look at it, might be tied to the one you mentioned.”  The older pack had resources that RainFire simply didn’t have yet and he wasn’t above asking for help to keep his pack safe.

“It might be the same group, but extremists tend to use the same catchphrases; it’s like they just swap out the nouns.  I recommend keeping your sentinels on alert.” Remi nodded. He’d already briefed those that hadn’t brought the situation to his attention, but if this was a larger threat then they needed to know that, too.

“We’ve got some friends in the city, I’ll ask them to keep their ears to the ground.”

“This might be an individual, but if it’s a cell working to sway public opinion your friends will probably hear of it first.  I’ll have my team see what they can find.” Lucas’ eyes narrowed, but that didn’t hide the teasing glint in his green eyes that looked so much like his cat’s.  “You know, the mentorship was only meant to last the first year.” While that year had passed nearly nine months ago, the two of them had kept in regular contact.

“You don’t have to answer my calls,” he shrugged and tucked a hand behind his head.  “I could always ring up Hawke. Say, you got his number?”  Hunter scowled at the mention of the SnowDancer alpha.

“Are you so hard up you’d ask a wolf for help?”

“I’m asking my Trinity representative for help with somethin’ that might be a bigger problem, but if you’re too busy…”

“Naya, say ‘adieu’ to Oncle Couillon .”  She waved her tail back and forth.

“Bye-bye, cher.”  Remi blew the cub a kiss.  “Donne la belle Sascha un bec pour moi.”  Before hanging up, Lucas gave him one last scowl for telling him to kiss his mate for the other alpha.

He pulled out his organizer and began to plot.  She might be stubborn, but he had an entire pack behind him and he wasn't afraid to use it.

At the sound of the front door opening, Lorel set down the cranberry coloured frosting she was piping onto rows of cupcakes.  She wiped her hands off on a damp white washcloth that was already smeared pink and red with previous uses.

Stopping in the archway that led to the front, she stifled a groan.  The customer who’d entered with her daughter was a changeling: a leopard, to be specific, and one of many who'd managed to wander into her shop over the past week.  Even if she didn’t have a note in her scent that matched an element of Denier’s, she obviously had to be a member of RainFire.  It seemed like she'd already met half the freaking pack, and, in the southern custom that she was rapidly coming to learn, a quick chat was at least half an hour long.

She could hardly refuse to serve the woman; not only was it illegal, but it would be hypocritical.  Besides, changelings were extremely loyal and prolific customers at their favourite restaurants due to their higher caloric requirements.  And not to mention it was probably unhealthy for her if she pissed off RainFire.

Somehow, she was sure the asshole was behind the parade of leopards in her bakery, even if she had no way of proving the suspicion.  She had seen some underhanded tactics in her time, but this latest was the lowest of the low.  Standing up straight, she braced herself.

A little girl in a lavender tutu dress toddled up to the display case like she’d found Nirvana.  Her dark hair was tied up in loose buns that bobbled with every step of her purple, glitter rainboots.  It was impossible not to smile at the sheer joy that lit up her face, which was marked with what looked like slashes from a set of claws, yet they lacked the pigmentation and texture of scars.  They appeared to be birthmarks, albeit pale instead of dark.

“Cookie, pease?”

Seriously, those big, guileless eyes should be registered as lethal weapons.

“What kind would you like?” Lorel asked after glancing at the adult with her to make sure it was ok.

“Dat one!”  A tiny finger pressed to the plas-glas pointed to a set of sugar cookies shaped and frosted to look like various types of leaves: green fading to brown, yellow to red, and whatever other combination had occurred to her at the time.  Lorel picked one of her favourites: a maple leaf with yellow at its centre, surrounded by orange, and turning to red at the edges. For the veins, she’d drawn a knife through the frosting to create lines of colour that bled outward through the gradations.

“Make it a dozen, please, and a dozen each of the caramel apples, the maple pecan cupcakes, and, ooh, pumpkin cheesecake snickerdoodles,” the woman said, her eyes lighting up with the last order.

She nearly did a double-take.  That was her entire stock of each of those items and over half of her seasonal items.  Not that she was about to complain. She wrapped the maple leaf in a napkin and handed it to the girl, experience telling her that it wouldn’t last enough to warrant packaging.

“Thank you!” she chirped and rose on her tiptoes to take the leaf.  The cookie was bigger than both of her hands. Settling back on her heels, she took a bite and exclaimed in delight, eyes going impossibly wide.  Lorel struggled to breathe past the ache in her chest.

Avoiding eye contact with both of them, she quickly boxed up the goodies.  The sooner she got them out of there, the sooner she could breathe easy again.  It didn’t help that her cat was currently clawing at her with a fierce need to play with the cub.   Kid , she mentally reprimanded herself.

“Is something wrong?”  Lorel stared at the other woman for a heartbeat before she realized she’d been shaking her head while silently rebuking herself.

“Oh no.”  She donned a smile like well-worn armour.  “Just talking to myself. Thinking about how many to bake tomorrow, you know?”

The customer nodded and hummed in agreement, but something in her eyes said she wasn’t buying it.  

“It must be hard to move to a town where you don’t know much of anyone and take over your aunt’s business.”

Lorel’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t trust sympathy from a cat, not even one with a child that appeared to be loved and treasured.

“Small towns, everybody knows everybody.”  The other woman shrugged off the suspicion cast her way.  “By the way, I’m Tien and this is JoJo.” JoJo was currently spinning in the sun streaming through the window and watching her skirt flare out.  The glitter in her boots flashed brilliantly in the light. With each bite of her cookie, she hummed a happy little tune.

The pang in her chest was back.

“Lorel,” she flashed her customer service smile, the small one when she wasn’t really feeling like smiling.  Luckily, she was ringing up the sale and therefore had an excuse to avoid anything more than briefly flicking her eyes at Tien.  Then she gave the total and they went through the ritual of the transaction.

“Here’s my number.”  Tien jotted down the code on a slip of paper she’d found in her purse.  “Let me know if you ever want to talk or if you ever want to… I’d say go for coffee, but,” she broke off with a laugh and gestured at the espresso machine.  “Do lunch or something.”

She couldn’t decline without being rude, and being rude in a small southern town would spell disaster for her business.  And the other woman’s smile was so broad and genuine that she smiled back despite herself.

“Thank you.”  Lorel took the scrap and slipped it into her apron; today it was yellow and edged at the bottom with lace.  The lavender flowers on it matched the full-skirted dress she wore.

“Come on, kidlet.”  Tien herded the girl towards the exit.

“Bye!”  JoJo waved and skipped out the door, offering a bite of her cookie to her mom, who accepted with an “mmm!”

Lorel sank back against the counter and thrust her hands into her pockets, idly fingering the contact number.  How could they be so happy and obviously well-adjusted in a pack with an autocratic asshole like Denier? Although, was there really any other kind of alpha?  In her admittedly limited experience, the answer was no.

And yet neither of them had, had the hollow, guarded eyes that were the result of abuse from those in power.  While the rest of the pack seemed friendly enough, no doubt the carrot to Denier’s stick, it wasn’t something she was used to.

She crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the recycler.

No matter how honest she appeared to be, Tien was still Denier’s pawn.

Notes:   Remi isn’t canonically Cajun, it’s left ambiguous (“with a name like that sounds like he should be hunting gators in a swamp somewhere”).  But I like the idea that he can play the dumb swamprat, or the suave southern gentleman, or a shark in the boardroom because he learned how to dominate whatever room he was in and that he had to learn to blend in (*foreshadowing of my personal HC’s).

I'm a bit of a language nerd. The evolution of Louisiana French is interesting because it basically takes Acadian French and drifts it, then splices in some Choctaw.  And it appears to share some quirks and sentence structure with French Creoles. I'm not sure if that's due to sharing a "parent" language (I don't know enough to say) or due to cultural exchange in the region.

The Cajun French in this chapter comes from published dictionaries and articles written by native speakers, then cross-referenced (or simply plugged into google to see if similar results pop up). Then if I need to conjugate something or figure out grammar, I'll run it by my spouse who speaks Quebecois (which evolved from Acadian, too), but isn’t French Canadian.  So if it’s atrocious, my apologies and please let me know.

Laide tchew - ugly ass

Quoi se fais du mal - what trouble have you been getting into?

Possede - literally possessed one, a term for a mischievous child

Mais - Literally French for “but.” According to kenwheatonwrites.com it “means “well then,” and is used to delight, shock, exasperation — any number of things. It’s almost like “dude” or “fuck” in its ability to morph into anything depending on situation, tone, delivery and other factors.”

Ca me rapelle - That reminds me

Oncle - uncle

Couillon - idiot, imbecile, funny person. In standard French, it means dickhead or bastard. I like to think that Lucas knows standard French, which helps him to understand Remi when he's slipping into his native patois. ;)

Donne la belle Sascha un bec pour moi - give the lovely Sascha a kiss for me

Fun fact: "bec" can mean "kiss" and "beak." So I'll tell my pet birds "bec la bec!" I'm easily entertained, what can I say?

[maedarakat]

Until Sunrise

The Clubhouse was dark this time of morning, save for the fire. Winter meant the sun wouldn’t rise for hours, but Astrid was shocked to find she wasn’t the only one awake.

The flames in the hearth were noisy, hungrily consuming pine branches and chunks of dry maple wood almost as swiftly as the figure by the hearth could feed them into the glowing pile.

She stretched and yawned as she walked over to join him, not wanting to sneak up on him. Tuff glanced over at her and greeted her with one of his mellow grins.

He looked exhausted, and he had every right to be.

The attack on the Edge, led by Ryker, had forced both him and Astrid to stay up for nearly two days straight preparing to defend their home and get Ruffnut back to safety. 

They’d gone on Hiccup’s field trip right afterwards - a stupid thing to have done. Not that it wasn’t interesting, it was just that they really should have gone to sleep in their beds - Ruffnut too. 

Astrid had thought maybe she’d feel better and safer flying next to Hiccup, to see whatever he’d been up to while she and Tuff had been defending their lives and the Dragon Eye. 

He’d been too damn cheerful. It had irked her somewhat, listening to him go on about how smart the the pack was, and what an adventure it had all been showing the wild dragons that he was one of the good guys.

This had all been some kind of adventure to him - he hadn’t been here to see Tuff jump off a cliff, to see him staring off in the direction of more approaching hunters while anxiously gripping his pendant.

Hiccup hadn’t heard Tuff’s voice break when he’d said “Okay, Astrid,” or seen his expression freeze and shut down when she’d needlessly reminded him how serious this was, that Ruffnut could die.

Astrid had felt a disconnect on that flight, where she’d wanted to feel safe and reassured and maybe even just a little fussed over. 

The whole thing had been days ago by now, but she was still sort of avoiding Hiccup - not sure how to tell him how upset she was, or whether or not she was overreacting.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced - Hiccup shrugging off her anger at the Twins, quite literally telling her she was crazy. He hadn’t even really been standing up for the Twins - just dispensing his usual brand of snarky humor, though at her expense. 

“Are you being quiet because you’re mad at someone?” Tuff asked, and it startled her to hear him speak, but not that he’d guessed her mood.

Astrid sat next to him on the hearth and grabbed a handful of twigs, joining Tuff in feeding the fire. 

“I am mad at someone,” she confirmed, but didn’t say more.

Tuff was quiet for a moment, nose wrinkled in thought. “Snotlout?” he guessed.

“Surprisingly no, not this time.”

“Hmm. Can’t be Fishlegs. It’s almost offensive how inoffensive that man is.”

Astrid smirked. Fishlegs had been singing her praises all week, apparently thrilled at not losing his topiaries, books, and rock garden. Oh and the Dragon Eye too, yeah that was great.

“What about Ruffnut? Did she prank you like we both agreed not to for a week?”

“Oh? You mean the Edge gets a reprieve from your pranks for an entire week? Nice of you to tell me on Wednesday,” Astrid ribbed gently.

“No not the whole Edge, just you. And of course I didn’t tell you. Nothing is more suspicious than two pranksters saying they’re going to give you - specifically you - a break. You wouldn’t have gotten any sleep, which defeats the entire purpose of said reprieve.”

“. . . That’s a fair point, Tuff.”

He gestured flamboyantly. “You’re welcome, my dear Astrid.”

She let out a puff of soft laughter, remembering with a shake of her head when she would have been annoyed. 

“So . . . I never took you for an early morning person. Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“Subject changer,” Tuff scoffed, though good naturedly. “But actually, yeah. I keep . . . dreaming. Bad dreams. It’s annoying, because they don’t even have completed stories - just glimpses of what could have happened, if . . .”

Tuff trailed off, looking at the flames intently. 

“If?” Astrid prompted, throwing in a couple of pine cones.

She knew what he meant - of course she knew. She had been there.

“If Hiccup hadn’t gotten there in time. If Ryker had . . . chopped my arms off, or whatever he was going to do with those giant swords. I dream of them coming down and as soon as they do, I wake up - and then my arms feel like they’re on fire.”

Tuff rolled a shoulder, popping it back in with a grimace. Astrid winced and reached over without thinking, rubbing the muscles of his neck with a firm circular motion. Tuff leaned into the touch gratefully, looking pained, and Astrid felt a jolt of concern.

“The guy was wearing some crazy thick armor when I jumped him. Honestly, it would have hurt less to fight a boulder. Or maybe a drunk angry Quaken, or a statue made of Gronckle iron.”

“I think it might have more to do with the fact you jumped off a cliff to fight him. Maybe we should have Gothi look at you,” she started but Tuff’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“No way - what happens on the Edge stays on the Edge. If Gothi finds out I almost lost my sister to these guys, our family will. And henceforth, I will be forever shamed in the halls of our ancestors.”

“What, your parents don’t believe Ruffnut can defend herself?”

“Oh, it’s not that. She’s just more valuable than me - you know, worth twelve boars - whereas I’m worth about three. So if she’s ever lost, it would be a huge blow to the family fortune.”

Astrid had to take a minute to try and figure out if he was joking. No teasing grin chased those words; rather Tuff had said them without a fuss, as though it was perfectly normal for parents to calculate a child’s worth against the market value of livestock. 

“I don’t want them to know what happened here, or else they’ll demand that Ruffnut move back home, and my sister really needs this place. She’s so over Berk.” 

“But . . . Berk is your home.”

Astrid had to admit, her counter argument felt weak even to her own ears. She had said that mostly because she couldn’t imagine living in a place that didn’t also have the Twins. Especially not now, but even before the attack - before fighting side by side with Tuff against the enemy, home wasn’t home without them there to cause mischief.

“Nah. Home is just wherever you hang your hat,” Tuff said, shrugging. “We’ll go back to Berk if and when you all do. We can live there if you guys are around, because . . . well, you’re like a second family. A really nice family, that likes us.”

Astrid’s arm slung around him, pulling Tuff closer without thinking. Tuff was only a little taller than she was, about three extra inches with the helmet spikes, but he tilted his head quickly so he didn’t poke her with the horns that she had completely forgotten about.

 It meant that his lips brushed across her nose and she felt a light shiver, unsure what to think of the impulsive thought to kiss him.

She instead reached up with her free hand and took off Tuff’s helmet, setting it on the hearth. 

“It’s still hours until dawn. Aren’t you going to suggest we sleep in? As a team?”

“My place is no good, Ruffnut and Chicken are snoring too loud. I figured I should let them bond.”

“My hut then.”

“What if we go find a hill or Fishlegs’ mounded herb garden? That’s pretty warm to lie on.”

Astrid blinked. Fishlegs had been so excited to find imprints in his thyme where apparently a small dragon had curled up to sleep. He was going to keep checking to see if he could get clues as to what kind of dragon it was; there had been a small pile of multicolored scales near the site.

As long as she’d known him, Tuff was and always had been a collector of things colorful and shiny - including feathers, seashells, bones, and yep - shed dragon scales. Astrid bit back a smile. The thought of Tuff as a small dragon with a hoard of items was endearing somehow. Nevertheless . . .

 “Come on, Tuff, are you saying my hut’s not good enough for you?”

“No, that’s - no, it’s fine. It’s just . . . aren’t you afraid of the gossip?”

“What gossip? I’ll just tell anyone who asks that Ruff and I were having a sleepover,” Astrid smirked, all innocence. 

Tuff pouted at her. “Well. I’m beginning to regret that reprieve.”

She laughed, playfully pushing at him. He grinned, and shoved her back, accidentally knocking her clear off the hearth onto her backside, which she for some reason found utterly hilarious. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Tuffnut snickered, attempting to help her up. Still giggling, Astrid got him into a brief headlock for a moment or two, but then allowed him to help her to stand.

Together, they walked to Astrid’s hut. It was only a few hours until dawn, and this time they would wake side by side, knowing they were safe.

[thebarsondaily]

Nochebuena

for @barsonaddict

Title: Nochebuena Author: canis_m (unicornmagic) Rating: T Summary: The Bensons and the Barbas get ready for Christmas Eve. A/N: Please forgive the partial gift, barsonaddict! This will be part 1 of 2, I think. The rest will be along as soon as I can manage! Happy holidays to you and yours.

Snow starts to fall when they’re on I-87: big, fat flakes that melt on the asphalt and the windshield of the rented Expedition. The wipers sweep over the glass as Olivia flicks them on.

“Here it comes,” says Lucía, finger wagging. “Three to five inches, that’s what the weather said.”

Olivia can practically hear Noah squirming in the back seat. “Is that enough for sledding?”

“Plenty.” She’d wanted to leave sooner, but her “half day” at the precinct had turned into two-thirds of a day, and it was mid-afternoon by the time Noah, Rafael, and Rafael’s mother—and all their luggage, Christmas presents and grocery sacks included—were loaded into the car.

“How much farther?” Noah asks. It’s not a whine, quite. Just an inquiry.

“At least another hour,” says Rafael.

“How come they’re called the Catskills?” Noah sounds both leery and intrigued. “Did people kill cats there?”

“Good question. Let’s investigate, shall we?” In the rearview mirror she sees Rafael frowning over his phone. “Aha. The area is not named for cat murder. In Dutch, ‘catskill’ means ‘cat creek.’”

“Why’d they name it in Dutch?”

Rafael launches into a more exacting (if condensed) history of the state’s early invasive Europeans than Noah had probably banked on. Olivia smiles and keeps her eyes on the road. She’d loaded the iPad with movies, but so far Rafael has kept Noah occupied without resorting to screen time. The back seat contingent’s doing fine.

In the front seat Lucía clutches her purse. “I hope to God I didn’t forget anything.”

“With all those bags?” says Rafael, who’d helped load them. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

“It’s not like there’s a Latino grocery in—what is it, Claryville?”

“If we’re missing something, we’ll improvise,” Olivia says. They won’t go thirsty, if nothing else; at least one whole tote’s devoted to wine (reds and sparkling), scotch, rum, and a bottle of some homemade concoction courtesy of Lucía. “If we get there before the roads turn bad, I’ll drink to that.”

*

They stop at a tree farm just outside Claryville. Pickings are slim on the 23rd, and Noah has to be talked down to a tree that’ll fit in an SUV already crammed to the gills. They settle on a three-foot Douglas fir—a little lopsided, maybe, but still handsome. With effort Olivia gets it wedged between Rafael and Noah in the back seat. The scent of evergreen permeates the interior of the car.

“Just a few more miles,” Rafael tells Noah, and sure enough, as twilight falls they pull onto the narrow dirt drive, one that curves uphill through beckoning trees to the cabin at its end.

A white dust of snow covers the ground. The cabin looks the way it had in online pictures, like a tired city-dweller’s dream of a woodland retreat. Dark logs brace the roof of the porch, where Adirondack chairs and a small table sit. A wreath of freshly cut cedar, ribboned in red, hangs on the door.

The instant Olivia shuts off the car, Noah launches himself toward the porch. “It looks like a gingerbread house!”

The rest of them follow more slowly, shouldering their various burders. Noah dashes onto the porch and peers through the window, his breath fogging the glass.

“I think it’s bigger than the other one.”

“What other one?” asks Lucía, sack of groceries cradled like an infant in her arms.

“The one I went to with Grandma Sheila.”

Olivia tenses, almost fumbling the key in her hand—she can feel Rafael’s gaze on her from behind, feel its weight of concern—but she gets the door open, and reminds Noah to take off his boots before he tracks snow all over the floor. In stocking feet he zooms through the cabin, exclaiming at the size of the stone fireplace in the living room. A cathedral ceiling stretches up to peak over the loft. When Olivia turns on the lights, its warm wooden beams seem to kindle and glow.

Noah skids back into view. “Can we build a fire?”

A supply of firewood waits, neatly stacked, by the stone hearth. There’s more on the porch outside. “We will,” Olivia promises. “After we unload the car.”

*

With some trial and error—and more advice from both Barbas than is strictly necessary—she gets a fire going. Its cheerful crackle brightens the room. They find a spot for the little tree on an end table, and give it a strand of colored lights and a garland of ribbon before piling the unloaded presents underneath. Noah bounces on the plaid sofa, mourning that it’s too dark to go outside.

“Just think,” Olivia says, “when you wake up tomorrow, everything’ll be covered in white, and you can go sledding. We can have a snowball fight. You and me versus Rafa and Tia Lucía.”

“Oh no,” says Lucía. “No snowballs for me. I’m on kitchen duty.”

Olivia raises her eyebrows at Noah, then at Rafael. “I guess Rafa’s a one-man team.”

“Objection,” says Rafael. “Unfair advantage.” He pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, hand on the frame. “Anyone else hungry?”

Noah flails. “Me!”

Dinner is an indoor picnic of sorts: deli sandwiches and soup reheated on the stove, so no one has to worry about cooking tonight. Noah eyes the cranberry relish on his turkey sandwich with suspicion, but after tasting it, he eats without complaint.

Lucía points a finger at him from around her glass of Beaujolais Nouveau. “You better save some appetite for tomorrow, kiddo, ‘cause Tia Lucía’s not messing around.”

“What are you making?”

“Well, it’s a kind of pork roast. If you’ve ever had a pulled pork sandwich—”

“Lechón asado,” says Rafael, with deep relish, as if the word itself is delectable to pronounce. “Steeped in mojo. Slow roasted for hours, until the meat falls off the bone.” He pinches his hand and opens it, a chef’s kiss minus the kiss. “Remember what we had for dinner last year?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Jamon. Y boniatos y judías verdes.”

“Oh yeah!”

The memory startles Olivia. Not the fact that Rafael remembers what they ate, down to the last green bean, but the strangeness of remembering that they’d been together then, last Christmas Eve, without yet being together. His mother had gone to Miami, a case had kept him in New York, and Olivia had offered, hesitant: if you want to have dinner with us….

He’d still been Uncle Rafa to Noah then. Now he’s just Rafa, and his mother is Tía, because it rhymes with Lucía (which pleases Noah), and because Olivia’s wary of attaching the title Grandma to anyone. Maybe Lucía herself isn’t ready to be abuelita to a boy who’s no relation of hers, yet. In the eyes of the law.

Rafael plants both elbows on the table. “Lechón asado will take that ham to the cleaners. It’ll knock that ham out of the park.”

By now Lucía’s laughing. “Heyyy, easy on the hype. It’s been a few years since—”

She trails off. Her laughter wanes, and she presses her lips into one another, the way Rafael sometimes does when he’s withholding some emotion, or trying to, even as it invariably shows in his eyes. Rafael puts a hand on her arm, then turns again to Noah.

“A grand jury would indict that ham for not being lechón asado.”

Noah giggles. Olivia levels a look of mild reproof. “I thought the ham we had was pretty good.”

“No one’s saying it wasn’t. But there’s ham, and then there’s….” He dangles the pause in front of Noah like bait.

“Lechón asado!” Noah yelps, without having tasted it once.

Rafael’s eye catches Olivia’s across the table. She tamps down a smile and gives him the nod he’s looking for, one that says smooth, very smooth. Rafael’s chin moves in a tiny pleased-with-himself waggle, and he sits back with satisfaction in his chair.

Lucía balls up her sandwich wrapper. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint, so I better get started.”

Olivia blinks. “What, tonight?”

“Oh, yes. The meat has to marinate.”

“Can I help?”

“No, no, no. You worked all day and got us here in one piece. Go sit, go put your feet up.”

After clearing the table, Rafael draws Olivia aside. “Best not to argue.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“I know. And I know you’re used to taking the wheel.”

“Believe me, I am more than happy to put my feet up.” By way of proof Olivia refills her wine glass and flops into the easy chair in the living room, slippered feet propped on the ottoman, toes pointing toward the roof. The easy chair’s enormous, big enough for two if you’re feeling cozy, upholstered in plaid to match the generous sofa. Noah clambers into the space beside her, nestling into the crook of her arm.

“What’s Grandma Sheila doing for Christmas?” he asks, as if it’s just now occurred to him to wonder.

Olivia’s last swallow of wine threatens to come back up. “Staying in, I would think,” she says, sounding less perturbed than she feels. “But I’m sure they have…activities…at the place where she’s staying.”

“Do you think she got the card I made?”

“I’m sure she did.”

She’s about ready to reach for the remote, turn on the TV, put on Home Alone or Frosty the Snowman or any other distraction she can find, when Rafael discovers the game cabinet, and calls Noah to come and look. Noah immediately lobbies for a round of Uno.

“Uno,” echoes Rafael. “You sure about that? Sure you didn’t mean to say ‘Scrabble’?”

“Scrabble’s boring. And you always win.”

“All the more reason to practice,” says Rafael. “So you can finally, triumphantly defeat me after years of—”

“Uno!” declares Noah. He snatches the box of cards and shuts the cabinet door.

Olivia makes her way back to the table, glass in hand. On the way she drapes her arm around Rafael’s waist, hugging him to her in silent thanks.

*

In the middle of night she starts awake. There’s no bedside clock, only her phone face-down next to Rafael’s on the bedside table, and she doesn’t look at either of them, only lies there bracing herself against her thudding heart.

Rafael is quiet beside her, a good sleeper when he’s not haunted by future or present or past. Increasingly so, over the months since he’s become a fixture in her bed. His presence goes some way to calm her, but only some. Olivia slides out from the warmth of the covers, wraps a cardigan around her and creeps out of the room.

She makes a round of the main floor of the cabin, reassuring herself with the sight of Noah’s boots, still by the door; his coat, still in the front closet; the Expedition, now shrouded in white, parked and silent in the drive outside. The snow’s stopped, for now, and a muted moon glows faintly through cloud cover. She stops at the foot of the stairs to the loft, one hand on the hewn wood banister. For a long while she stands there, listening, as if even from this distance her straining ears might catch the sound of Noah’s breathing from above.

It’s the chill that finally drives her back to bed. When she crawls under the comforter, Rafael rolls toward her. His whisper is drowsy, and no less concerned for that.

“You okay?”

She wishes she’d at least pretended to use the bathroom. Flushed her paranoia down the toilet. “All good.”

In the thin moonlight from the window she can almost see the soft lines of his face, the wry and gentle skepticism in them.

“Just…having an irrational moment,” she amends.

He sees straight through to her fear. “They wouldn’t get far. My mother hasn’t driven a car in years.”

Chagrined, Olivia rolls to stare at the ceiling. “I know your mom’s not really gonna run off with my kid.”

He reaches for her. She resists for a split second, then lets herself be drawn. His hand strokes her side, up and down, down to the curve of her hip and over it.

“How much snow’d we get?”

“Three inches?”

“Noah’ll be happy.”

“He will.”

“Hey,” he says, very softly, “It’s okay.”

And it is, then, or nearly so. Rafael presses his mouth to her shoulder, as if to kiss her skin through the cotton of her shirt. His hand lingers on her hip.

“You want some help getting back to dreamland?”

The offer’s not even salacious, just playful, conspiratorial, laced with daring awareness of the sleepers upstairs. Olivia thinks about it, about letting his long fingers work their magic, but right now she wants to hold on more than she wants get off. Wants to clutch some dear thing close.

Uncertainly she lifts her arm. “Maybe just…”

He offers himself to that need, too, scooting in and tucking his head to her breast, rubbing his cheek against her like a cat. After settling he starts to whisper to her, almost singsong, with scarcely any voice.

“A la nanita nana nanita ea, nanita ea. Tu niño tiene sueño, bendito sea, bendito sea.”

Olivia knows the lullabye, has heard him murmur it to Noah, the way his mother and grandmother must’ve murmured it to him. She hears the nightingale in the forest, the clear running of the spring. She wraps her arm around his head and holds him, stroking, pressing her face to his hair, until the last of the restless tension in her eases, and her heart quiets under her ribs.

*

The next time she wakes, there’s a faint, delicious smell in the air, and a conspicuous space beside her. After a minute’s disorientation, she remembers where she is, and why she doesn’t need to lurch out of bed. She stretches her legs legs languorously under the covers. Cracking open one eye, she blinks at the brightness of the light streaming through the little window, and sees Rafael at the foot of the bed.

He’s already dressed, sort of, in sweatpants and sweatshirt, pulling a second pair of thicker socks over the ones on his feet. He hasn’t bothered with his hair beyond running a comb through it, which means it’s destined to go under a hat in short order. When he sees her awake, he crawls up the bed and hunkers into the narrow space beside her. He kisses her good morning, morning breath and all.

“My mom’s in the kitchen.  There’s eggs and toast. Noah’s eager to get started on the snow fort. I promised to help.”

She peers at the time display on her phone. “How’d I sleep so late?”

“Means you needed it.”

“I guess I did.” She stretches her arms, then lets them flop atop the comforter, hands down. “You go ahead. I’ll be out in a bit.”

A portion of eggs is waiting for her, covered on the stove, when she finally makes it to the kitchen. The toast is cinnamon raisin. After eating Olivia puts her plate in the dishwasher, then hovers. Lucía’s at the sink, rinsing a bowlful of black beans.

“Going out with the boys?”

“I am,” Olivia says, “if you’re sure there’s nothing for me to do.”

“All under control. Salad and wine, that’s what you’re in charge of.” Lucía’s crooked smile as she turns is uncannily familiar. “It looks like more of a production than it is. I cheated on dessert. There’s this bakery in Woodside, their rum cake is better than anything I could ever make. I was never a baker, you know? Cooking, sure. Baking, forget about it. My mother, she could do it.”

“If Noah and I bake, it’s cookie dough out of a tube,” Olivia admits.

“Who has time for anything else? When you’re retired, maybe.” Lucía turns back to the beans. “Go on, go make sure they don’t wind up in the creek.”

*

Under Noah’s direction, the snow fort shifts mid-construction into a snow ramp for sled-launching purposes. Rafael survives three madcap downhill plunges in a saucer sled without hitting any trees, and three treks back up the interminable hill without his heart or lungs giving out, though on the uphill slogs he gets winded. Between ski pants and hat and thermal underwear, he hasn’t even frozen any bits off, though his nose is sniveling, and probably florid red.

Noah’s having a blast, that’s the important point—the point of being in the woods instead of the city—and Rafael thinks he’s acquitted himself without shame. Everything’s sugarplums, right up until Olivia sneaks up behind him and stuffs snow down the collar of his coat.

Rafael shrieks. There’s no other word for it. Icy wetness slides down his spine, searing his skin. He scrabbles at his neck with gloved hands.

“You fiend,” he rasps. “Diabolical—”

She scuffles away, grinning like some sort of radiant snow imp, and ducks behind the trunk of a tree.

“Gotcha,” she calls.

“Oh, this won’t stand,” says Rafael. With a swoop of his arm he scoops up snow in a handful, mashing it into a projectile ball. “Noah, are you with me?”

“Yeah!”

Olivia swaggers out from behind the tree. “Sure, I’ll take you both on.” Her parka’s the puffy kind, stuffed with down. The ball on top of her stocking cap flounces pertly. “I’ll take you both out.”

Her aim’s better than his and Noah’s combined. Aim, speed, merciless accuracy—hasn’t she done time on the NYPD softball team? More like hardball, thinks Rafael. She knows how to use cover to her advantage, too. Noah shows no compunction about flinging volley after volley against the only mother he’s ever known, but few of his throws even graze the target. After taking a second snowball to the chin, Rafael raises an arm to wheeze for time out.

“Bathroom break,” he calls weakly, and trudges back toward the cabin.

As he closes the porch door, warmth envelops him, and with it the smell of roast pork and spices: garlic and cumin and oregano. For an instant he’s transported, back to childhood in his grandmother’s cramped apartment, alight with tinsel and bodies swaying, deseando a todos mil felicidades ringing from the record player behind the tree.

The same album’s playing now from his phone, left on the table with a portable speaker so his mother can have music while she cooks. Rafael sheds coat and boots and ski pants with relief—the pants are a relic of ski trips past, too snug now around the middle—and ducks into the bathroom. He emerges to find his mother in the kitchen, ground peanuts and milk and sugar arrayed around her on the counter, a saucepan ready on the stove.

He catches her in his arms and sets his chin on her shoulder. “Turrón,” he croons happily. “You shouldn’t have.”

“'Course I should, it’s your favorite.” His mother pauses. “Noah’s not allergic, is he?”

“To peanuts? No, no. No food allergies that we know of. Other than the allergy to unfamiliar cuisine.” Unhanding her, he steals a stray peanut that survived the grind. “Was I that picky at his age?”

She swats his hand away. “You ate anything anybody put in front of you. He’s a little indulged, that boy.” She waves at the living room. “There’s a whole can of mixed nuts on the table. Quit stealing my ingredients.”

“I’m just here for more coffee,” he says. But Celia Cruz is belting que noche buena para bailar from the other room, so he spins his mother in his arms and dances her around the kitchen, humming tunelessly along, until she bends with laughter and fends him off.

“I saw you getting pummeled out there,” she says knowingly, returning to the turrón-in-progress. “Battle of the sexes.”

He reaches for the coffee pot and his abandoned mug. She must’ve made a fresh pot; the coffee’s still steaming. “Noah and I are doomed.”

“You’re good with him,” she says. “Really good.” She pours the milk into the saucepan, then sets down the measuring cup. “You know, I never expected. You were on your own for so long, and now—”

Her gesture encompasses everything: the two of them in the kitchen, the two outside, the picture-perfect cabin, the freshly fallen snow. All of them together on Nochebuena.

He stirs milk and sugar into his cup. “Too good to be true?”

“I hope not. After Mom died—”

Her eyes shine wetly. He tries to soothe her. “Mami.”

“No, just lemme get this out. After Mom died I swore I was gonna tell you, if there was someone, someone special you weren’t bringing home, because you thought we wouldn’t approve of what they looked like—you should bring them. You know? Life’s too short not to spend it with the people we love.”

For a second Rafael’s mouth hangs slack. He’d thought he didn’t need to hear it, that it didn’t matter anymore, moot since the moment he’d understood to whom his heart was given. Doubly so since the moment he’d understood his love to be returned. But maybe it does matter, after all—that if Olivia had been an Oliver, his mother would’ve opened her arms in welcome still—because the corners of his eyes are blurring, too.

She isn’t done. “Olivia is a remarkable woman. She has a beautiful son. I see the allure, I get it, I just want you to happy.” She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Happy means being honest with yourself.”

He blinks hard, then shakes his head hurriedly. “It isn’t like that that.” He speaks in a rush. “I’m not giving anything up to be with Liv.”

“No?”

His gaze finds no purchase anywhere. He needs her to believe, to understand that he isn’t living a lie, that he wouldn’t do that, not to Olivia—not to himself, either. He grapples with the words of admission, even knowing his mother’s waiting for them, for some form of them, anyway. His hands grip the edge of the counter, not white-knuckled, but red.

“It was never just one or the other,” he manages. “For me.”

“Well.” She eyes him, then covers his nearer hand with hers. “Lucky you.”

He feels dizzied, as if a stifling weight’s been lifted, one he’d almost forgotten was there. “Lucky me.”

“I mean, I thought it must be real, all that time you spent mooning.”

“I did not moon, I never mooned.”

“Sure you didn’t. Big puppy dog eyes.” His mother smiles. “Remember how you used to complain about her? Then all of a sudden you stopped complaining.”

Rafael draws himself up with dignity. He gropes for his coffee and downs it in a final swig. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m needed in snowball court.”

“Hold on, c'mere. Give your progressive mother a hug.”

He obeys her, clinging hard, and pinches his eyes shut before they can blur again. His voice comes out hoarse and small. “I love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, baby.” She pats the back of his head. “You found a good one. Took you long enough.”

“The best things come,” says Rafael.

*

[dragonfics]

Dark Pleasures - Chapter One

On AO3 if you’d like to skip my gushing.

This fic goes to @cheapbourbon - for inspiring me with all of their wonderful Cash art. It’s only going to be 3 chapters long, but holy hell, I really want to write more of Cash after this. I just need to yank myself away from Spicyhoney for a minute, dear god.

This is just a silly little ExpensiveSpicyHoney (SpicyHoneyMoney?) Vampire AU (not, in fact, the vampire AU I promised to write when I did that poll the other week). Chapter one isn’t too heavy on the sexual content, but the next chapter is going to be VERY explicit - just a fair warning.

Also, Warnings for this chapter: non-consensual biting, seduction of an intoxicated person (no actual sex), mild sexual coercion. I would also like to point out that as far as the “non-con” parts of this chapter go, the characters themselves do not perceive it this way. Basically, they’re assholes. Mostly Rus.

This is my contribution to the petition to GiveCashMoreLove2k18. So naturally, he, uh, isn’t exactly in the first chapter??? I’m so sorry, Cash. Don’t worry, he’ll be making an appearance soon.

Anyway, here you go, Bourbon! I hope you enjoy this. The first chapter is almost exclusively Spicyhoney sexual tension.

Chapter 1: Dinner Date

The city, though small, was never quiet. Even now, in the dead of night, young party-goers and labourers returning home late from work swarmed the streets. Music could be heard from within almost every shop, home, or rundown warehouse. The streets smelled of alcohol and something a little fouler, and lights flashed at every turn.

Edge was grateful when he reached the outskirts of the city, the streetlamps growing dimmer, and the people scarcer. Soon, he was passing through a narrow underground pass, and he felt himself relaxing considerably. It was dark, but the shadows had never been a hinderance to him. On the contrary, he was rather fond of them. They gave him a distinct advantage when it came to hunting.

He could see his prey only twenty or so metres ahead. Not so close as to alert him to Edge’s presence, but not so far that Edge might lose sight of him. And Edge could smell him. Stars, he smelled good. Edge could feel his fangs extending of their own volition. Not yet, he urged himself. But he was hungry. He was so hungry, as he often was these days. But he kept his head ducked and remained in the shadows as he followed his target. The last thing he needed was to scare the other monster away. Edge wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his hunger under control if he didn’t feed soon, and experience had taught him that a ravenous vampire often led to more than just one dead monster. This. This was necessary.

Edge trailed the figure for another ten minutes or so. He was thankful that the monster was heading away from the city. It certainly made him an easier target; out of reach of prying eyes and curious ears. Even from this distance, Edge could hear the steady beat of the monster’s soul. It served only to amplify his hunger, and he conceded to leave his fangs extended, no longer able to keep them at bay. The figure turned a corner into an alley wedged between two buildings. Perfect. Perhaps the universe had decided to make this easy for him.

But when Edge rounded the corner, he was met by nothing but an empty street, the alley deserted but for scattered litter and a few rotting crates. Edge crept forward hesitantly. He was in no mood for a trap, but then again, what could a mere mortal do to him?

Perhaps he had turned too soon? Or perhaps the monster had left the alley somehow. Though a quick glance around revealed no exits but for the way Edge had come…

The cold press of steel against Edge’s throat halted him, and he gasped as the metal burned at his vertebrae. Silver. He dared not struggle or fight—one quick slice of the thin blade and Edge would be dust. He felt a hand grip at his shoulder, the blade stinging against his bone as it dug a little deeper. “care to enlighten me as to why you were following me, vampire?” a smooth voice said. Edge couldn’t see the speaker, but he could smell him, and immediately recognised the scent of the monster he’d been trailing. Trust his luck to draw him to a vampire hunter of all people.

“I—” Edge rasped as the knife dug deeper. “Please, I-I won’t—”

“turn around slowly,” the monster said. “any sudden movements and this goes straight in your throat, got it?”

Edge would have nodded if he’d dared move his neck, so he gave a low grunt of understanding instead, slowly shifting to face the other monster. He was stunned upon realising it was another skeleton monster. His features were smooth—almost pretty—and his eye-lights were a deep shade of gold. A scarf was wound around his neck, but Edge could still sense the magic coursing through his bones. Perhaps what startled Edge most though, was the fact that he was smiling. “oh, you poor darling,” the skeleton crooned—sounding somehow sympathetic, despite the burning press of his blade against Edge’s throat. “look at you, you’re starving.”

Edge blinked in bewilderment. Was this some sort of trick? Or perhaps this hunter just had a twisted way of killing his victims. Either way, Edge wasn’t convinced. He bared his fangs, which dripped with salivary magic. “If you don’t let me go, hunter, I’ll—”

“hey, come now, there’s no need for that. i’m not a hunter.” The skeleton smiled sweetly, raising his hands defensively and holstering his knife. “i’ll feed you, if you like.”

Edge could only stare, frozen in utter perplexity as he rubbed the still stinging bones of his neck. “You—” His gaze darted unwittingly to the skeleton’s cervical vertebrae, barely concealed by his scarf. He was suddenly reminded of the consuming hunger searing his soul.

The skeleton’s light laughter broke him from his brief daze, and he quickly glanced up. Amusement coloured the other monster’s features, and he shook his head. “not from me, precious. that… might rub my master up the wrong way.”

He grinned at Edge’s bewildered stare. “Your… master?” Edge swallowed, glancing around anxiously.

The skeleton seemed at ease however, and took a step closer, a playful smirk dancing across his face. Edge cringed away as the smell of the other monster flooded his senses and reignited the burning hunger in his soul. But if the skeleton noticed Edge’s discomfort, he gave no sign, instead resting a hand on Edge’s arm. “i’ll take care of you, if that’s what you want, love.” His fingers traced idle patterns over Edge’s bare ulna, and Edge struggled to suppress a shudder. The smile on the skeleton’s face was almost sickly sweet, but Edge found it … inviting. There was no rationality remaining in his mind—he was a slave to his hunger. He nodded, the movement feeling stiff and automatic—but not reluctant by any means. The skeleton intertwined their fingers, a warm pulse running through Edge’s entire body.

“excellent,” the skeleton breathed. He looked nothing short of delighted at the prospect of helping Edge find his next meal. Any amusement Edge felt at the notion however, was immediately snuffed out as the skeleton pressed his teeth against Edge’s cheekbone. “and if you behave, perhaps we can even have a little fun of our own.”

If he’d had any magic left to spare, Edge would have blushed.

 ****

  The skeleton introduced himself as Rus as he guided Edge back towards the city’s centre. He made idle chatter as they walked, speaking of his master, his home, the joys of metropolitan nightlife (and the pleasures). Edge tuned most of it out. In fact, he found himself rather distracted for a large majority of the journey. He couldn’t keep his focus off Rus’s slightly exposed neck and clavicle. His heightened senses allowed him to feel the flow of magic through the other monster’s bones; all he needed was to reach out and—

“here we are.” Edge froze, gaze quickly darting up to Rus’s face. He thought he caught a glimpse of the silver blade again at Rus’s belt, but he couldn’t be certain. “don’t worry, love,” Rus murmured, taking Edge by the hand and guiding him through the swinging doors of the establishment. “there’ll be plenty to eat in here.”

Rus wasn’t joking. As soon as they entered the bar, a thousand different scents hit Edge at once, and for a second, he was stunned into immobility. But as he came to his senses, he felt the fierce urge to feed reawaken tenfold, and he had to bury his claws into his femur to restrain himself.

Thankfully, Edge’s dwindling self-control didn’t escape Rus’s notice this time, and he quickly guided the vampire to a less populated corner of the room. A roaring fire burned in the hearth beside their table, and Edge tried his best to focus on the smell and sound of the crackling logs, and not the tirade of magical scents and soul-beats assaulting every ounce of his conscious. He gripped the edge of the wooden table until he felt something crack beneath his fingertips. Rus observed him—appearing more curious than concerned.

“how long has it been since you last fed?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. Edge found his complete lack of fear extremely uncanny. He seldom came across mortals who weren’t at least a little intimidated by him—much less when they learned what he was.

“I-I don’t know,” Edge admitted, shakily.

Rus cocked a brow bone. “you don’t know?”

“A month, maybe,” Edge muttered, trying to avoid Rus’s gaze. He felt uncomfortably scrutinised beneath the deep gold of those eyes, and he opted instead to stare at the grubby table. The wood had split beneath his fingers.

Vaguely, he registered the sound of Rus releasing a sigh. It wasn’t weary though, or even exasperated. The word that came to mind was ‘empathy’, but such an emotion didn’t seem fitting, directed at a vampire. “alright, look around,” Rus instructed, after a pause.

Edge frowned, but glanced up, gaze wandering the room. “What am I looking for?” he asked in confusion.

“pick someone.” When Edge conveyed his misunderstanding with a tilt of his head, Rus laughed softly. “someone to eat,” he elaborated.

“Oh.” Edge swallowed, though his throat still felt dry. His brow furrowed as he scanned the room, until at last he settled on a squat bunny monster, nursing her drink alone in a far corner. “Her.”

Rus glanced over his shoulder at the monster, and chuckled. “she may appear appetising, but i promise you—try to touch her, and she’ll break your pretty fingers.”

Edge flinched slightly, frowning at Rus. “Oh really?”

“really. i’m good at reading people. and i can tell you with certainty that she’s not the type to sit idly while a vampire sinks his fangs into her.” Rus leaned in, voice dipping as he added, “and i might need those fingers of yours later.”

Edge tried to hide his embarrassment with a scoff, crossing his arms indignantly. “Very well, since you’re so perceptive – why don’t you tell me who would be willing to serve as my food source? I don’t exactly have time to waste on guessing games.” The last part came out sounding a little more desperate than Edge had intended, a ravenous bite creeping into his tone.

Rus seemed unfazed however, his smile widening. “you want my advice, vampire?” He turned, surveying the room for only a few seconds before nodding in the direction of the bar. “him.”

Edge followed Rus’s gaze dubiously. A muscular monster sat at the bar, torn jacket barely concealing his chiselled chest and biceps. A broad grin stretched his long face, white teeth flashing as he flexed, much to the delight of the small crowd of monsters surrounding him. Edge turned back to Rus, ensuring the doubt was plain on his face. “That bravado of scales? Are you serious?”

“over-confidence makes him the perfect target,” Rus countered, shrugging. “don’t go for the quiet ones. they come here anticipating a fight; they’re wary of strangers. those ones—” Rus nodded over his shoulder with a smirk “—the ones with egos larger than their muscles – they’re your ideal targets. they love attention, and if you give it to them, they’ll be eating out of your hand—so to speak.”

Rus’s words were punctuated by a loud bark of laughter from the muscular monster at the bar, who took a long swig of his drink before shamelessly shrugging his shirt off and tossing it over the barstool. Edge grimaced in distaste. “Well, that’s all well and good, but surely it would be easier to simply pick someone off the street?” he contested. “Why go to all this effort?”

“picking someone off the street went well for you tonight, didn’t it?” Rus was grinning at Edge, who dropped his head with a scowl. “besides, fear taints the magic. pleasure your prey first, and the feed will be even sweeter.”

Edge felt Rus’s fingers find his own across the table, and he flinched away abruptly, pushing down the sudden curl of heat in his mouth that couldn’t be entirely attributed to hunger. Lacking the energy to argue, he sighed in resignation. “Fine,” he grunted, rising from his seat. But he was stopped by Rus’s hand on his wrist. He looked down at him with a frown. “I thought—”

“not yet. wait until the bar has emptied—closing is in an hour, so you won’t have to wait long,” Rus added, at the stricken expression that must have crossed Edge’s face. “we don’t want to make a scene if this goes awry.”

“If it goes—” Edge slumped back into his seat with a huff, trying to keep his composure. “I thought this was supposed to be a foolproof plan?”

Rus seemed unconcerned, shrugging and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “no plan is foolproof. it always takes a fool or two to execute a good plan.” Edge had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as Rus chuckled quietly to himself, lighting the cigarette between his teeth. Edge may have tried to argue if he wasn’t feeling quite so unstable, but he didn’t trust himself not to snap.

So, he conceded to wait until the patrons began to scatter, every moment sending fresh waves of agony to his starving soul. Not once did Rus show any sign of agitation however, his smile ever-present as he watched Edge across the table, smoke curling from between his teeth. Edge began to find Rus’s placidity more and more off-putting as the night wore on. What mortal would be so relaxed around a vampire? He certainly hadn’t met any who behaved this way; most would try to run screaming the moment they discovered the true nature of his being.

And the longer they waited around, the more intoxicating Rus’s scent seemed to become. Edge was almost thankful for the slight mask of his cigarette smoke, but more than once, he caught himself transfixed by the other skeleton’s pale bones. He could almost perceive the magic rushing through them, golden as their owner’s eyes.

When Rus finally stubbed his cigarette out against the table’s corner and rose to his feet, Edge was certain he’d left scars on his legs where his fingers had been clinging. Rus nodded in the direction of the bar, his eyes flashing. “ready for supper?”

Edge could only nod in response, too famished to chastise the phrasing. He trailed after Rus as they approached the scaled monster—now sitting alone with his drink at the bar. Edge was thankful that his shirt was back on, at least. As they drew close, Rus turned to murmur, “follow my lead,” before sending one of his sweet smiles in the direction of the muscular monster. As he leaned against the bar, Edge caught a glimpse of his iliac crest, peaking just above the waistband of his pants. Edge had to wonder if it was deliberate. It probably was, but Rus’s languid movements and easy smile betrayed no sense of effort on his part.

Needless to say, the boisterous monster appeared impressed, a lascivious smile crossing his face as he glanced up at Rus. “Can I help you, sweetheart?” he asked, voice marginally slurred.

“oh, i’m certain you can,” Rus said. “what’s your name, love?” Edge may have mistaken the brush of Rus’s fingers over the monster’s arm as affection if he hadn’t known better. There was a twisted glint in Rus’s eye that was almost alarming.

“Aaron,” the monster replied, grinning. He certainly hadn’t missed the deliberate touch of Rus’s fingertips (though undoubtedly, he was missing a lot, or he wouldn’t have been nearly so eager to accept Rus’s affections).

“well, aaron,” Rus purred, leaning close and touching his teeth lightly to Aaron’s ear, “my friend and i are in search of some company for the night, and you seem rather well… equipped for the task.” Edge heard Aaron release a low hiss as Rus’s fingers grazed over his crotch. “are you up for it?”

Edge decided it was worth rolling his eyes at the pun.

Rus’s expression remained painstakingly dispassionate as Aaron gripped his exposed iliac crest, yanking him forward so that he almost toppled into his lap. Rus released a husky laugh, even as Aaron began to trail his hands further down his ilium. “careful there. my friend tends to get a little jealous, don’t you, love?”

Edge could feel himself growing abashed as the other two monsters turned their gazes on him. Aaron’s eyes raked over him lecherously, and he had to push down the urge to cringe. “Aw look, he’s shy,” Aaron mused. “C’mere, sweetheart. I won’t bite. ‘Less you ask.”

Edge almost laughed at the sheer irony of the comment alone. He caught Rus’s gaze, and was thankful when the skeleton turned to Aaron to whisper, “perhaps he’ll find his confidence if we take him upstairs? i warn you though, he tends to get a bit vocal when properly motivated.”

Rus shot an impish look in Edge’s direction, which Edge returned with a scowl. Rus’s words had the intended effect however, because Aaron willingly obliged, sliding off his stool and casting a glance over his shoulder at them as he marched for the stairs. “Never fucked a skeleton b’fore,” he told them, stumbling slightly at the foot of the stairs. “You two’d better have something more than bones underneath all them clothes.” He chuckled, clearly amused by himself.

“we’ll be sure to send apology notes to all your suitors if we disappoint you,” Rus said pleasantly, sweepingly indicating the almost-empty bar with a flick of his hand. The subtle mockery seemed lost on Aaron, who just chortled as he led them up the wooden stairs, clinging to the railing for support. Rus turned his smile on Edge, looping an arm around his waist. “this is the fun part,” he whispered. “for you, at least.”

Edge felt almost queasy with hunger, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to pin Rus against the banister and sink his fangs into him. Soon, he promised himself. Just hold on a little longer.

They came to a corridor at the top of the stairs, and Aaron turned at the first door, extracting a key from his pocket and fumbling slightly with the lock. Clearly, he’d been anticipating company. Edge felt nerves arising as they entered the room, and he frantically looked at Rus for support. In truth, he’d never done this before. All his past meals had been snatched from the streets. No planning or strategizing—simply spontaneous enactment of his urges.

Seeming to sense his anxieties, Rus gave his hand a gentle squeeze, tracing his teeth lightly over Edge’s cheekbone. “i promise you’ll enjoy yourself, love. just relax.”

From across the room, Aaron chuckled, drawing Edge’s gaze. He had already kicked off his shoes and was removing his shirt as he watched them. “You two gonna give me a show?”

Rus’s exceedingly saccharine smile returned as he observed Aaron, and he released Edge’s hand to stride over to the scaled monster. “only if you behave, darling,” he murmured, trailing his fingertips over Aaron’s exposed chest. He circled the monster for a moment, smile still firmly plastered across his face. He caught Edge’s gaze over Aaron’s shoulder deliberately, before stepping close and kissing the monster.

Aaron immediately growled, gripping Rus hard and grinding into him. Edge watched them with uncertainty. He was reminded of the aching lack of magic in his soul when he caught the mingled scents of the other two monsters in the air, and he clutched onto one of the bedposts to keep himself subdued. “don’t be shy, my love,” he heard Rus call. Aaron was latched onto his vertebrae, half-pinning Rus to the wall as he tore the scarf away from his neck. Rus was watching Edge, gaze steady. A small—but deliberate—inclination of his head made his meaning fairly clear.

Gathering his resolve, Edge approached them slowly. His fingers trembled as he moved the monster’s hair away from his neck. A fire seemed to scorch his soul inside his chest, and he grit his teeth, willing himself to hold off for just a few more seconds as he looked to Rus for reassurance. Over Aaron’s shoulder, Rus smiled, whispering, “go for it, precious.”

With no more strength to deliberate, Edge ducked his head, and ran his teeth over Aaron’s neck. His skin was cold, as it was with many aquatic monsters, but Edge could sense the heat of the magic beneath. Aaron groaned against Rus, muttering, “Fuck, someone’s gained his confidence.” With nothing left to hold him back, Edge allowed his fangs to extend to their full length, sinking them into the soft flesh of Aaron’s neck.

Immediately, Aaron went stiff, a gargled scream escaping him. Any further noise was stifled however, and Edge vaguely registered Rus holding him still, hand pressed firmly over his mouth. Hot magic flooded between Edge’s teeth, and he moaned in appreciation as his soul sparked to life. He sunk his teeth deeper, and Aaron writhed weakly. Edge felt euphoria washing over him, and he began to relax, sinking into the feeling.

“good boy, you’re doing so well. that’s it.” It took Edge a moment to register that Rus was speaking to him. Soft words of praise and encouragement spilled from his mouth, and his fingers stroked deftly over Edge’s spine. Edge shivered pleasantly, sighing as his soul began to fill with magic.

Aaron had gone limp, and Edge faintly noticed the flow of magic growing weaker. “alright, love, that’s enough,” Rus whispered, his fingers still resting on Edge’s spine. But Edge was in no mood to stop. His soul demanded he continue. He needed more. He couldn’t bring himself to break the pleasant haze clouding his mind, or the ecstasy of the feed.

A sharp pain suddenly cut across his cheekbone, and Edge pulled away, hissing in surprise. Rus was giving him a bland look, knife balanced between his fingers. “Why did you stop me?” Edge demanded, wincing as he touched his injured cheek.

“we don’t kill monsters that are kind enough to spare their magic for us,” Rus said coldly, heaving Aaron over to the bed and lying him atop the covers.

“We?” Edge stared at Rus, incredulous. “You—you’re not even—I was the one drinking from him!” He couldn’t believe how much audacity this monster possessed. This mortal monster.

Rus seemed unperturbed by Edge’s outrage however, sighing without a word and disappearing into the en-suite bathroom. Edge stared after him, disbelieving. He glanced at Aaron, unconscious on the bed. Magic still trickled from the small bite wounds at his neck, staining the white bed sheets. Rus returned promptly, a damp cloth in hand, and began to dab gently at Aaron’s wound. He looked up at Edge for a moment, but his expression was plain, and he remained silent until all of the spent magic on Aaron’s neck was cleaned away. “well, he’ll probably wake up with a headache, but he’ll be fine. and i doubt he’ll remember anything.”

Edge frowned, observing Rus doubtfully, but held his silence. His cheek still stung, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat. Rus retrieved his scarf from where it had been discarded on the floor. He wrapped it back around his neck, but not before Edge caught a glimpse of two small puncture wounds piercing his vertebrae. He narrowed his eye sockets, but made no comment. Rus’s honeyed smile returned as he approached Edge, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “how do you feel?”

Edge’s soul was abuzz with fresh magic, and he felt considerably less jittery than he had a few minutes ago. He nodded briskly, straightening the crinkles from his pants and wiping away any remaining magic at his mouth. “Good. I feel… better.”

Rus’s smile widened, and his eyes seemed to sparkle as he leaned in, touching his teeth lightly against Edge’s. Edge tensed immediately, but Rus withdrew after only a second. “wonderful,” Rus breathed. They were both quiet for a moment, and Edge swallowed heavily as Rus gazed at him, as if searching for something beneath Edge’s cool demeanour. “i never did ask, love,” Rus said at length, “what’s your name?”

Edge blinked. “Oh, um…”

“or would you prefer that detail be kept confidential?” Rus’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a hint of something considerate beneath the look.

“Not—it’s fine, um… Edge. My name’s Edge.”

For whatever reason, this seemed to spark an excitement in Rus, his eyes flashing a brilliant gold as he regarded Edge with upraised brow bones. “edge?” His tongue danced briefly over his teeth, and Edge could already feel heat rapidly rising to his cheekbones. “well, edge, you did very well tonight. while you lack restraint, that’s easily learned.” He touched Edge’s arm. His fingertips barely brushing the bone, but a shiver ran through Edge nonetheless.

“Th-thank you,” Edge stammered, “for… helping me.”

“of course, love. though i’ll admit, my intentions weren’t entirely pure. i never was good at resisting monsters quite as… delicious as you.” Rus’s teeth were parted, and Edge caught sight of warm golden magic pooling in his mandible. He swallowed against his own magic and quickly looked away. “my master will be very pleased to meet you.”

Edge looked up at this, eyes widening. “Your… m-master?”

Rus cocked a brow bone, releasing a small laugh. “of course. be advised though, he tends to get a little… possessive. so…” Rus leaned close, voice dropping to a murmur, “some details we ought to keep to ourselves.” Without warning, Rus cupped Edge’s jaw, kissing him gently. Edge could only gasp softly in response, melting beneath his touch. This time however, the kiss didn’t remain chaste, Rus’s tongue trailing lightly over Edge’s teeth. Edge opened his mouth without a moment’s pause, holding back a moan as the taste of Rus flooded his mouth. He could feel his soul stirring with excitement, and it took a great deal of willpower to keep his fangs retracted.

All too soon (though perhaps just on time) Rus withdrew, his cheeks glowing softly. He rubbed his thumb over the thin cut on Edge’s cheekbone, the touch light, but still painful. Edge held back a whimper, though he wasn’t sure it was entirely the product of pain. “though, who can say?” Rus mused, gazing at Edge as if entranced by him. “perhaps if my master finds you impressive enough, he’ll decide to share.” Rus leaned in again, and Edge held his breath. “i should warn you though, i taste exquisite.”

[yougottabeblitzenmyhearthstone]

Chase Space: Garden

Ao3

Some requests seem so far out of left field until you dig a little deeper.

   Why Jayelle wants a garden, Hearthstone had no idea. She had presented the idea to him and Blitzen a few weeks earlier, her dark eyes twinkling with excitement as she spoke and signed her request. Both of them had been hesitant to agree. Blitzen couldn’t go out in daylight unless he donned his sunproof clothes and that was entirely too much effort and explanation. Which meant if she needed help with it, it would be up to her to get some of the other residents interested in a garden or get Hearth to help.

   Hearthstone looks up wearily as he catches sight of a hand waving out of his peripheral. Jayelle is trying not to smile, her face shaded under the brim of her straw sunhat. Pablo is busy next to her, delicately planting some sort of tree Hearthstone hadn’t caught the name of. Hearth’s already exhausted, his black clothes practically brown from digging in the dirt.

    Need a break? Jayelle signs, still fighting back a grin. Somehow, her clothes, blue denim overall shorts over a pink t-shirt, are practically spotless. Judging by the slight tremor in her shoulders, she’s fighting back laughter as well.

   The two of them end up lounging the the shade of the back deck. Pablo had offered to go inside to fix snacks and lemonade for them and Hearthstone hadn’t stopped him: If Blitzen was going to chew out someone for tracking dirt inside, it wasn’t going to be him. He looks out at the yard, studying the small changes they’ve managed. He has to admit, it makes the backyard seem friendlier, brighter.

   He looks over at Jayelle, her face hidden in the shadow of her sunhat. He claps to get her attention. Why a garden? He signs once she looks at him.    Jayelle smiles as she pulls off her hat, revealing her short natural coil curls. The sunlight, even in the shade, makes her dark complexion glow. Is it okay if I talk? She signs with a questioning glance. I don’t think I can tell properly in signs. After Hearth nods, her lips started forming her words instead. My mama and I always gardened together when I was growing up. That woman could plant anything and it would flourish. It was unreal. She always said Grandma, her mom, was an even better gardener.

   What happened to her? Hearthstone signs. He meant Jayelle’s mom, but she obviously took it differently. Or maybe she just wanted to interpret it that way.

   I never got to meet her, Jayelle responds. My mom’s dad raised her by himself, but that was completely normal. He always told her that her mom couldn’t stay because of her family, but that was okay, she still loved her. She sent her these gloves on her sixteenth birthday. Jayelle’s eyes drop to the simple gardening gloves sitting on the deck beside her. Hearthstone looks down as well. They’re simple enough: worn from years of use, but somehow still in good shape. The cuffs are decorated with green vines and red roses. He looks up again just in time to catch Jayelle’s next sentence: I made sure I grabbed them before I left.

   Hearthstone hesitates. Blitzen likes to remind him that these kids won’t be here forever, they’re just helping them get stable, get back on their feet or helping them stay on track until they’re legal adults.. Hearthstone knows what it’s like to lose a home though. Why did you have to leave? He signs, his expression cautious.

   Jayelle’s round eyes get misty. We had a nice place. My parents both worked good jobs, she says, staring past Hearth but facing him so he can read her lips. Someone broke in. My parents both woke up because of the alarm. The burglar killed both of them before the police managed to get there. Her thin lips curl in a sneer. Not that they were in a rush. She shakes her head, eyes dropping to her gloves again. Neither of my parents had a will, so the courts decided their possessions would go to the oldest child. Which was my half-brother, Daylon. Dad’s kid from a high school relationship.

   You have a family still? Hearthstone asks, feeling confused. It sounds like Jayelle had a good, loving home life.

   Her chest seems to jolt, a clear sign she just gave off a sharp laugh. If you can call that asshole that. Her swearing doesn’t seem right. She’s only fourteen. Daylon acted all sweet, him, his wife and their kids moved up from Pittsburgh, charming the courts, saying they’d take good care of me. Her eyes flicker with emotions: sadness, anger, bitterness. Those are just the ones Hearthstone can pick up on. I believed them too. Once everything was cleared and everything was in his name, he told me I had thirty minutes to get my shit packed and to get out of his house.

   Everything seems to make so much more sense. It explains why Jayelle has such nice clothes, why she’s so kind to every single soul that comes into the Chase Space, despite why or how long they’re there. It also sheds light on why she had been so wary, so mistrusting of everyone when she had first gotten there. She was expecting it to be too good to be true. Like being able to stay in her childhood home.

   His attention is caught by Jayelle wiping furiously at her eyes. It’s why I wanted a garden. Mama would’ve told me to grow no matter where I ended up. Her lips tremble. I wanted something to remember her by.

   Pablo ends up coming back out, carrying a tray of lemonade and sandwiches to find Jayelle sobbing into Hearthstone’s shoulder, trying to expel all of the misery and grief she hadn’t been able to face yet. Hearth just hugged her tightly, trying not to cry himself. He didn’t need Pablo asking why his tears were green.

   Later that week, he comes back from town with groceries and a black sun hat with matching black gardening gloves. Blitzen just stares at him before launching into a tirade of signs about fashion choices and oh my gods, you stupid elf, you’re going to bake staying out in the sun in all back. Behind Blitzen though, Jayelle is beaming at him. That makes it worth it.

[blog-sliverofjade]

Hearth Fires 15: Conflicted

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary:  Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn’t know what to make of the female changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it’s from herself.

While they’re embroiled in a battle of wills, there’s a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.

Word count: 3685

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the precious @pandabearer​

          The small, green valley was thrown into early twilight by the forested mountains that protected the Arrow settlement.  The children were playing their hearts out, as if trying to eke out that much more life before the day’s end.  Judd Lauren, inarguably a lethal blade of a man, made a mix of cubs, pups, and psy give chase before allowing them to swarm him.  Remi shook his head; he was still amazed that the assassin was capable of laughter, let alone could play with children with such care.

       “I’ve asked around and a couple of other packs around the country are experiencing the same issues, mostly in places where there was already anti-psy sentiment.  Word is they’re running militia training camps,” he said to the man who led some of the most dangerous people in the world.  “Have the psy been having similar problems?” 

      Before Aden could answer, a baby leopard bounded up to bat playfully at Remi’s boots, tail swishing back and forth.  He scooped up the cub for a tap on the nose and a quick cuddle before sending her off to rejoin the game.

       “No,” Aden answered when they were alone again, watching his wife clean up the aftermath of a sugar-fuelled feeding frenzy.  Even though Halloween was still a few weeks off, Zaira had brought candy; the cubs and pups enthusiastically introduced their psy playmates to the concept of Halloween and trick-or-treating.  Remi suspected she didn’t grasp the concept of the holiday and was just using it as an excuse to spoil the children.  Heaven knew the baby Arrows could certainly do with the occasional spoiling, and she knew that better than anyone.

      Envy sank its claws into him.  The Arrow pair weren’t mated in the changeling sense, yet they had an unbreakable bond that was obvious even to the non-telepathic races.  He yearned to know what it was like to be so intimately connected with someone who suited him on every level.  A predatory changeling alpha needed a mate by his side, someone who knew when to bend and when to show their claws, someone who would help their pack grow and thrive.  He wanted someone he could trust enough to let his guard down and just be.  No duties, not dominant, not alpha, just Remi.

      Compared to most alphas, he’d taken some time to wake up to his alpha instincts.  Once that need overrode his reservations, he’d gone about it with the laser-like focus of an apex predator. However, there were some aspects he hadn’t anticipated.  At first, some of the women tried to climb the hierarchy by climbing into his bed.  He’d shut that down right away, making it crystal clear that intimate skin privileges between packmates would in no way impact one’s position either positively or negatively.

      Ever since then, he’d been sure to never pay too much attention to any one partner when his need for intimate skin privileges grew too much.  He’d inherited too many of his father’s traits that had turned dark after his mother passed.  He would be driven to take and possess a lover entirely, demanding complete sexual submission.  Dominant changeling women weren’t exactly known for their surrendering natures, and any paramour he took would have to be dominant.  Any other personality would be crushed by him simply being who he was.  The fragile equilibrium of the new pack couldn’t handle such an imbalanced relationship.

      A submissive couldn’t fight against a dominant, especially against sexual aggression from someone in a position of power; it was against their very nature.  And he would slit his own throat before he shed the blood of any of his people, before he turned into the monster that stalked his darkest nightmares.  He’d simply come to accept that being alone was the price he had to pay in exchange for the family he’d built.

      “On top of that, we’ve had a perimeter breach in the eastern and northern sectors.”  The second occurrence had been reported when Remi’d been arguing with Lorelei; he’d had to see her safely home before going to investigate.  He’d bullied her into shifting to her other form by threatening to throw her over his shoulder and carrying her if she didn’t.  The obstinate ocelot went into the change still wearing his shirt.  His scent, already coating her in a superficial layer from wearing his tee, spread more evenly on her body when the fabric inevitably disintegrated.  That had satisfied something primal, deep below the conscious level.

      Coming of age in a brutal pack had irreparably changed him.  He managed the violence that lived in him by directing it at those who would harm his people, but those same drives darkened to a sexual hunger when it came to her.  He was rapidly becoming addicted to her.  Unfortunately, his drug of choice was touch averse, specifically his touch.  He hated the loss of control, feeling like a juvenile fresh from his first kill again.  The pack needed him to keep his head on his shoulders, not lose it sniffing after a female.

      “You’re getting harder,” Tien had said as he’d driven her home.  It wasn’t a criticism: it was concern from one packmate to another.  His touch hunger was already causing friction and there weren’t enough mated pairs at the higher end of the hierarchy to counteract the instability.  And the only person he wanted to sate that need with was dividing his attention.

      “She’s a liability.”  If they thought he wasn’t doing right by the pack, especially if he was focused on an outsider to their detriment, he’d soon be facing challenges, and that would tear them apart when they were already facing outside dangers.  

      “Not everyone’s built for combat, that doesn’t mean they have nothing to contribute.”  She misinterpreted his flat statement and defended the submissive, an arch statement reminding him that neither end of the power hierarchy was worth more or less than the other.   That was what maternals did, protective in their own way.

      He knew that better than most.  Lorelei’s strength shone whenever she was in the same room with him; annoying as it was, he respected the hell out of her for standing up to him.  What his father had forgotten, or perhaps never known, was that strength wasn’t always physical; a person’s value couldn’t be calculated in terms of how much blood they could shed.  He would never understand how his father could have treated their most physically vulnerable as unworthy of respect.  It ultimately led to his downfall.

      “That’s not what I meant, Tien,” he’d growled, hands tightening on the manual controls until the wheel groaned in protest.  “She poses a security risk.  I never should have let her so deep into our territory.”  They had changed the site of the autumn barbecue at the last minute to one more distant from where they made their homes at the heart of their land.  But with several non-predatory changelings disappearing in the area recently, his instincts were driving him to keep his people protected deep within their territory and ban anyone who wasn’t fully allied with RainFire. 

      Changelings of any stripe needed freedom; too many restrictions, even if they were for protection, stifled them.  The proper balance of safety and freedom gave cubs a firm foundation and the safety to develop their strength and personalities.  It was an alpha’s honour to ensure cubs have what they need to flourish, not crush them by keeping them tightly confined without room to grow.

      “She’s a baker, hardly a master spy.  What’s she going to do?  Steal Avery’s cheesecake recipes?” she’d scoffed.  “What she is, is scared.  I don’t think she knows how to stop protecting herself; it’s why she’s short-tempered.”

      Remi had a different interpretation on that.  He’d kept his reservations about her stability to himself, not even warning his sentinels.  That was the true risk she posed: he was already keeping secrets from the soldiers who shed their blood in defense of RainFire because he wanted to protect an outsider when all his energies should be focused on safeguarding his people, not divided between them and a woman he couldn’t have.

      When she went feral, and there was no doubt in his mind that she would if she didn’t learn to balance her two aspects, he would be the one to take her down.  It would be his responsibility because he would have failed both her and his pack, which meant he could not permit that outcome to come to pass.

      “Physical reconnaissance?”  The question wrenched Remi from his musings.

      “Seems like,” he said grimly.  They still hadn’t been able to pinpoint who was behind the incursions and it was maddening.  A stray breeze blew his hair back into his face and he shoved it back with one hand; he needed a haircut otherwise he’d soon need hair ties.

      “I could have the squad monitor for any related activity, although the possibility of finding any evidence is minute.”  A smile lit up Aden’s face as he watched his mate attempting to settle a squabble between a cub and a baby Arrow with cool logic.

      “Don’t waste manpower, but I’d appreciate any intel passed our way.”  The elite military unit protected the heart and conscience of the psy race: the empaths.  Aden would never sacrifice their greater mission for RainFire’s sake; it was an unspoken understanding between the two men.  Despite their differences, they both had an adamantine core of integrity, and both had been forged in crucibles of the cruellest kind.  “I’ll send the info on the missing changelings.”  

      A wolf couple roaming in the area had disappeared sometime over the past week; he’d only known because they’d failed to check in during the window of time they said they would be leaving as arranged when they’d asked for permission to be in his territory.  Two of the most powerful Tk’s he knew, one of them a true teleporter, had already tried to teleport to the two missing, using their faces as a lock and both had failed, which meant that they had either been disfigured or were dead.

      Normally spending time with the cubs soothed even his worst moods, yet today it sat uneasily on him that he was on a playdate instead of searching for the wolves; his overdeveloped drive to protect was punishing him.  Logically, he knew that the children needed to play with their friends before the semi-monthly gatherings would be disrupted by the holiday season.  The pups and cubs were more flexible and would be fine until the new year; it was the psy who needed the foundation of routine, and even though they weren’t his in the strictest sense, it wasn’t in him to hurt a child, no matter how obliquely.  

      Aden Kai, a scary motherfucker who could create an impregnable shield that could deflect bullets back along their trajectories, smiled, hard eyes softening as Zaira climbed the rise towards them.  A faint line between her brows was the only indication of her apparent puzzlement, and held up two identical cups.

      “Tavish and Jasper are in disagreement over who gets the blue cup.  These are both blue.  I’m not familiar with Logan’s medical history, but no visual impairments were noted at Owen’s last physical.”

      Remi’s shoulders shook with laughter as the two lethal Arrows looked to him for advice, perplexed.  If only all of his problems were simply bickering cubs.

 FROM: Zayaan Derici <email redacted>

TO: Lorel Maddox <email redacted>

October 15, 2083  2:30PM

Subject: RE: Fion and Mila Caine, RedRock

       I cannot express my gratitude for your parents saving my life from our rogue member nor can I convey the depth of sorrow I’ve carried with me all these years, yet I know that it’s merely a drop compared to your loss.

       Your parents were fine, courageous people.  If you would like to know the details of what happened, I will gladly provide them, but I didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge before you were ready.

       I’m ashamed that I didn’t look for you; I’d forgotten they had a little girl.  Please forgive me, you would have been “a baby” in my 10-year-old mind.  When I was older, I tried to find their relatives, but RedRock’s records were destroyed in a fire that night.  I was astonished when your alpha reached out to me and elated when I received your email.

       You may wish to move on and not re-visit this tragedy.  I would not fault you for that, but I hope to hear from you again.  I’ve attached a picture of my two cubs, Fiona and Mila; they are named after your parents.

       Gratefully yours,

       Devon Gutierrez

        Two days passed without incident: no ultimatums, earth-shattering maxims, moments of bloodthirsty madness, and definitely no arguments with a certain autocratic leopard.  One would think that would be restful, and yet, no matter how many times she gave herself a firm talking to, Lorel found herself restive.

      The longing she felt for him was stronger than mere lust, which was something she’d more or less dealt with on her own since puberty.  It was like her very skin ached for touch and without it, she felt untethered from the earth, like she didn’t exist without tactile contact to anchor her.  His touch had fanned her ever-present hunger to a voracious need that kept her awake at nights no matter how many times she used her battery-operated boyfriend.

      Lorel was grateful that Irena, who was across the workspace from her, didn’t appear to have the same sense of smell that cat changelings had, otherwise she’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

      “Irena, could you please pass me the passionfruit?”

      “Depends, will you get me that gorgeous cat’s number?” she asked, handing over the bowl with a mischievous grin.

      “I don’t think he’s looking,” she shook her head with a rueful smile and began to cut the purple fruit.

      “Damn.  Wouldn’t mind getting eaten by a cat, if you know what I mean.”  Looking up briefly from the sugar cookies she was cutting out, she waggled perfectly manicured eyebrows.  This week’s designs were ghosts, pumpkins, and witches’ hats.

      “Irena!”  Her knife slipped and juice squirted down her apron.

      The crow laughed gaily at Lorel’s shock, the sound filling the kitchen.  It was still early and they were preparing for the day; they didn’t have to worry about scandalizing customers yet.

      “Can I ask you a personal question?” she asked once she’d recovered from the embarrassment.  “And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I will make sure you get all the early morning shifts during the holiday season.”  She jabbed a warning finger at Irena; SweetCheeks would have to start baking at 3 am, two hours earlier than usual, to meet projected seasonal demand.

      She shuddered and nodded acquiescence, waiting for Lorel to continue. 

      “Do alphas, or wing leaders,” she added, remembering the avian-specific term Irena used, “have certain… expectations of packmates?”

      “Uh, depends on the person and the needs of the flight, or pack.”  Her dark brows drew together when she looked up briefly from the dough.

      “No, I mean single pack members.”

      “What, you mean like one of them cults where the guy in charge sleeps with all the women?  No, that is not normal.  I won’t say it’s never happened, but people can be evil.”  Hazel eyes aghast, she shook her head furiously.  “I haven’t heard anything like that about RainFire, and we’re on good terms with them.”

      Lorel had not only heard of instances of alphas becoming corrupt and taking advantage of those they were meant to care for, she’d also been forced to watch documentaries on them.  Ostensibly, it was to protect her from becoming a victim of the depraved culture of changeling packs.  While she didn’t think that authoritarianism was the default culture of packs, neither had she known exactly how abhorrent such occurrences were considered among changelings.  She could smell Irena’s scent sour at the thought despite the competing aromas coming from the ovens.

      Face warming, Lorel sketched in with broad strokes what had taken place in the woods the week before, never looking up from her work.

      “Kissing between packmates is usually more like kissing a sibling.  That sounds more like he’s looking for intimate skin privileges,” frowned Irena.

      The kiss between them had been the farthest thing from that.  It had been wild and sensual and like nothing she had ever experienced before.  When she woke from fitful dreams in the bits of sleep she did manage to get, she swore that she could still taste him on her lips.

      “And if there was a misunderstanding, like someone thought he was abusing his position as alpha?”  The words he’d used were imprinted in her brain, they’d been so full of restrained fury.  Once the hormones and adrenaline had faded, she’d nearly thrown up she’d been so disgusted with herself.  Conflict of any kind usually left her feeling deeply discomfited, or at least it did whenever her ocelot wasn’t complicating matters with its temper.  And it was always worst when she was in the wrong.

      “You did not,” winced Irena.  “In that case, I’d say it’s a damn good thing you’re not in the pack yet because his pride will not take that well.”  Eyes wide, she shook her head and blew out a breath, golden-brown cheeks puffing up.

      “He said I was ‘touch hungry.’  How was I supposed to know it wasn’t just a line?  Like when doctors used to say, ‘I diagnose you woman, the cure is medically induced orgasms’!” she threw her hands in the air in frustration, sending green bits of pulp flying, even as she pinked at her own words.  In fact, she was pretty sure that was the first time she’d ever uttered the word “orgasms” aloud; Chloe and Irena were definitely bad influences on her.

      Giggling, Irena pressed the back of her forearm to her forehead.  Since her hands were covered in flour and bits of dough, it was the equivalent of clapping a hand over her face.

      “Flights- packs, whatever- are good for that, and no, I am not talking about group sex,” she said once she had breath again, sniffing back tears of mirth.  “Mind you, some of those cats…” she trailed off with a slyly speculative expression.  “Anyhoo, there’s different skin privileges between packmates, family, and lovers.  Any might help alleviate touch hunger, but all the hugs in the world won’t cut it if you’re in dire need of a good dicking.”

      “Do you enjoy making me blush?” Lorel mock glared.

      “Yep,” she chirped unrepentantly.  “One of these days I expect to see blood spurt out of your nose like in anime.”  She waggled a hand near her face to mimic a spray of blood.  Lorel flicked a passionfruit pit at the crow who giggled and batted the airborne seed towards the sink where it landed with a plink.  “If he’s offering as a packmate, there’s no strings attached.  It’s just fulfilling each other’s need.  You set your own boundaries when it comes to skin privileges, all you have to do is say no and they’ll back off entirely.  If he wants a relationship, that’s a whole nother kettle of wax, and I don’t know what big cats are like.  Now if it was a corvid, I could give you a crash course.”

      “How can I tell?”

      “Ask him,” she said, hands spread wide, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

      Lorel stared at her like she was speaking another language. 

      “Communication?  You know, the basis of all healthy relationships?” 

      Unsure how to respond to that, Lorel busied herself with straining the passionfruit pulp.  She’d had few healthy relationships and even fewer romantic relationships, none of which had qualified as healthy.

      “Lorel, are you a virgin?”  Irena tilted her head in a way that was distinctly not human.

      “No!”  Her voice was so high it could have shattered glass.  Then, in a calmer register, but not looking up, “Not technically.  Besides, I don’t think he even wants to look at me; I’m half-surprised he hasn’t given up and banished me entirely.”  Inexplicably, the thought made her chest ache till it felt like she couldn’t breathe.  “I haven’t known him very long, but I feel like he’s mine.”  This last she whispered to herself, confounded by the sudden realization.  She hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even known she was thinking it until the words tumbled out.

      Irena crossed the workspace to enfold Lorel with a hug, face set with lines of sympathy.  Instincts told her to maintain her guard, to hold some part of herself back, but she was so tired that after a moment she released the tension she carried.  Slowly wrapping her arms around the crow, she laid her head on the taller woman’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of friend, allowing herself to relax.

      Lorel made acquaintances easily, but she’d never clicked as deeply as she had with the friends she’d made in the short time she’d been there.  She’d always kept herself apart to protect the people around her from the violent madness she’d seen as an inevitability.

      To hold that at bay, she lived by rigid rules to keep her other half, the one ruled by needs and emotions, under control.  Being good and demure and all the things she was taught to be had gained her nothing, certainly not the approval of her grandparents; if anything, it put her more at risk of going rogue, if Remi was to be believed.

      Now she knew differently because he was trying to show her a different way.  He’d never demand that she silence herself or hide her wildness, on the contrary, he challenged her to embrace it.  Such an attitude was a stark contrast to the people she’d called family for so long.  He didn’t know that she would have to give up everything she’d ever known, including the people who raised her.