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darlingyanderes · 3 years

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Ok then so would would dragon trainer izuku for if his dragon darling ran away would he take them to a or his sanctuary? I think you should do more of these fantasy settings since you and the readers seem to be enjoying these we can just imagine the surrounding and everything! Also take care don't over do yourself 💚💚💚

Damn anon you just found the way to my heart, thank you for requesting this!! Sorry it took a while to post this, I might have gone wayyy too far with writing and ended up with something much longer than my usual work oopp I really enjoyed working on it and I hope you enjoy reading it too :D

Warnings: kidnapping sort of, manipulation, unhealthy mindset, graphic murder, blood, stalkerish behaviour

Word count: 2614

A safe nest - Yandere!Dragon Trainer!Izuku Midoriya x fem!Dragon shifter!reader

It had been quite a while ever since they ran away from the village. After weeks of traveling on foot almost non-stop, Izuku had brought her to a special place. With a slight blush on his face he’d explained that he saw this place when they were out flying one day and just knew he had to show it to her one day.

When (Y/N) first looked upon it, she almost wanted to laugh in Izuku’s face. They were standing in front of bare field, with harsh mountain peaks sticking out of the ground in front of them. It was cold, dry, and grey; she could hardly imagine that anything would be able to ever live here. Izuku looked at her expectantly with twinkling eyes, hoping that she’d love it as much as he did. To stay polite, (Y/N) simply gave Izuku a forced smile.

Izuku had grabbed her hand and dragged her along the rough path on the mountain, eventually leading her in a series of tunnels hidden inside the rock. It was so dark that (Y/N) could hardly see anything; she could barely keep herself from tripping over the stones in the cave. However, it was almost as if Izuku was raised here with how quickly he managed to maneuver himself in the twists and turns of the bowel of the mountain.

When they finally exited the tunnel again, (Y/N) could only gasp in shock and delight. The cave had led them to a peaceful meadow, filled with flowers and a small pond. A few trees littered the area, with wild flowers and tall grasses surrounding them. A small house was there too, made of wood and seemingly abandoned, but still in good condition. The tall mountain peaks surrounding the area almost seemed to touch the sun.

As (Y/N) was admiring the scenery, Izuku suddenly came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “This will be our sanctuary, our new home. Do you see how tall the mountains are? You can fly here without anyone seeing you!”

At the word ‘fly’, (Y/N) quickly turned to Izuku with an excited smile. She’d been wanting to spread her wings for so long, but Izuku had told her it was too dangerous to reveal her dragon shape when they were still on the road. Walking around so much was so tedious, so slow; she just wanted to fly.

All Izuku had to do was give her a small nod. At his signal, (Y/N) dropped any bags she was carrying and ran out into the meadow, quickly taking on her dragon form. With one strong movement of her wings, she was already soaring through the sky. As she felt the wind lift up her wings and the sun warming her scales, she felt her heart jump with excitement. The simplest things really do give the greatest joy.

Being here in this beautiful meadow with her trainer, being able to fly whenever she wanted again; it was almost like paradise on Earth for (Y/N).

But unfortunately, there’s a price to pay for all good things.

(Y/N) was never allowed to leave the sanctuary. Izuku said that people would recognize her and try to destroy the life they created together; they’d rip her away from him and turn her into a war machine again. When (Y/N) protested, saying that she’s more than capable of defending herself and Izuku, he would get sad and ask if she wasn’t happy with their home. He’d clutch her hands and ask in the most pitiful voice if she hated him so much that she wanted to live with those barbarians again. It broke her heart to see him like this, so she stopped protesting altogether.

Most of her days were spent in close company of Izuku or soaring through the sky. However, sometimes he needed to make a trip to the local town to get them some food. Or well, ‘local’ isn’t exactly the right word; it would always take Izuku at least 2 days to get there and come back, since he only had his feet to transport him.

When he was gone, (Y/N) felt so lonely. She had no one to talk to; it was just her and her thoughts the entire time. Without anyone with her, the days crawled by way too slow. To make it worse, whenever she was alone, she always found herself thinking of the day she eloped with Izuku. The day she burned down what used to be her home, destroying so many innocent lives. Even the mere thought of him leaving her alone with those memories gave her shivers.

However, food always ran out. Today as well, Izuku was preparing himself to leave her alone, again. He checked for the last time if he had everything and turned around to tell (Y/N) goodbye. His expression softened when he saw her standing there, clutching her chest with tearful eyes. Softly, she asked: “Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

Izuku simply ruffled her hair and told her: “It’s okay, I won’t be gone for long.” When he saw that that didn’t help at all, he quickly added: “Hey, see those flowers over there? How about you make the two of us some pretty flower crowns?”

(Y/N) glanced over to look at the flowers. They were pretty and she’d love to make flower crowns, but she just knew the moment Izuku was gone, she’d be reduced to a depressed puddle. Izuku gave her a tight hug, pressed a quick kiss on her cheek and backed away from her with a reassuring smile.

He waved at her as he increased the distance between them, and exclaimed: “I’ll be back as soon as possible, I promise!” To add power to his words, he lightly jogged his way into the caves, to the outside world.

(Y/N) stood there, watching his silhouette move away until it had disappeared completely. Her heart sunk in her shoes. She’s alone again. When she turned to look back at the flowers, she grimaced. She didn’t want a stupid flower crown.

She wanted Izuku.

A thought jumped in her head, one that she had very often lately. It was a foolish one, but (Y/N) was still intrigued by it; what if she decides to follow him into town? She’s pretty sneaky when she has to be, and when he’s on his way back home she could just turn into a dragon and fly back when he’s asleep. He wouldn’t even notice she left the sanctuary. Besides, it would do her good to take a stroll outside and see other people.

(Y/N) looked at the flowers again. Should she really disobey Izuku’s, no, her trainer’s orders? With a spiteful huff, she grabbed her cape and threw it over her shoulders. She’s been stuck here for long enough. Disobeying her trainer is exactly what’s she’s going to do.

---

Following him as he traveled through the forest wasn’t so difficult. There were many rocks and trees to hide behind, and she was still able to trace his tracks. Even though she couldn’t walk leisurely and had to keep an eye on Izuku at all times, she felt relaxed. The air was different here, the ground too. (Y/N) saw plants and flowers she almost had forgotten about. She even saw other people, who kindly nodded at her as they passed each other on the path. A smile made its way on her face. No one treated her like a monster, like the people from her village used to do. It was almost like she was normal, one of them.

It was fun to see what Izuku is doing on his travels, too. (Y/N) saw him searching the forest floor often, collecting twigs which he’d stuff into one of his bags. He’s going to make a fire, (Y/N) thought, if he’d take me on his travels, I could light any piece of wood for him. (Y/N) made a silent mental note to help him out if he’s struggling with lighting his campfire at night.

It was almost dawn when (Y/N) looked at Izuku, who was inspecting the branches on the ground. She ducked away when she heard an unfamiliar voice calling out to him: “Stranger, it’s almost dark and you don’t have a fire yet. How about you join ours?”

Izuku was visibly startled, but walked in the direction of the voice nonetheless. (Y/N) sneakily crawled behind the trees and bushes, until she had a good view of what was going on. Two men were sitting around a campfire, while a woman with her young child were lying down, probably sleeping. The one that had called out to him, an older man with a grey beard, smiled kindly at Izuku and motioned him to sit with them.

The other man, who was a bit younger, said in a boisterous tone: “It’s dangerous to travel alone, kid. You don’t look like the type that can defend himself against robbers, or dragons.”

Both (Y/N) and Izuku jumped at the word ‘dragons’. Izuku asked him with wide eyes: “Dragons? They’re here?”

The older man spoke this time: “Haven’t you heard? Supposedly, some dragon started living on that mountain over there, and start burning down cities and forests. I heard entire villages turned into ashes because of that monster. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it, I thought tales of that beast spread like wildfire.”

“I heard the king even sent an army to kill it, but not a single soldier returned,” said the younger man. “It’s best if you stay the night with us, just to be safe. We’re not strange folk, just a family trying to look for a better home. Our home was burned down by that thing, too.”

Izuku smiled with relief. “Thank you, I’d love to spend the night in your company. I gathered some wood to burn. It’s all I have, but please take it.”

He immediately grabbed a few dry sticks and handed them to the older man, who gratefully accepted them. “Good, we were starting to run out!”

---

Izuku chatted the night away with the two men, seemingly relaxed. (Y/N) on the other hand couldn’t stop thinking about what the men had said. They knew a dragon was living on their mountain? How did they find out? But more importantly, (Y/N) hadn’t left the mountain in so long. What on Earth could’ve caused those severe fires? Moreover, what was that about an army? Are these all just tall tales?

When the noise of chitchat had died down, (Y/N) finally snapped out of her anxious thoughts. The men had lied down to go to sleep. They had even given Izuku one of their spare blankets so he’d be comfortable, too. They all looked so peaceful, huddled around the fire as they slept. It made (Y/N) feel drowsy too. She laid down on the forest floor. Slowly, she felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier, until she couldn’t keep them open anymore.

---

(Y/N) had anticipated a quiet night, but she was rudely awakened by the sounds of screaming and crying. She immediately shot up from the ground and gasped at the spectacle in front of her. The camp that was a peaceful site had turned into a chaos of blankets, household items, and blood. The two men had their throats slit open. Judging from the trail of blood, the old man had tried to crawl away, only to bleed to death a few meters away. The younger man was still alive, clutching his throat with one hand and powerlessly grabbing the ankle of his attacker with the other. The attacker had his back turned to (Y/N) so she couldn’t see him properly, but she was almost certain there would be a blood thirsty grin stuck on his face. The attacker had his blade lifted in the air, right above the woman’s body. The way her dress was soaked with red told (Y/N) that she’d been stabbed numerous times before she finally laid still. The child, completely confused and terrified, was crying loudly, pulling at its mother’s sleeve.

(Y/N) counted the bodies, but couldn’t find Izuku. Where was he? Was he killed, too, while she had just been sleeping here? How could she have been so lazy and cruel, to let him die right in front of her?

Inhaling deeply, (Y/N) tried to push away her guilt. It’s no use standing still now: if she couldn’t save Izuku, she should at least try to save the man and his child.

She jumped up from the bushes. Her claws and teeth were bared as she prepared herself to enter her dragon form and beat the crap out of whoever was in front of her, but she froze when she saw who the attacker was.

It was Izuku.

Izuku, unaware that (Y/N) stood there, had turned around and kicked at the man’s head to get him off of his ankle. It worked; the man fell to his side, let out one last gurgle, and never moved again. (Y/N) could feel the tears streaming down her cheeks when she saw Izuku being so heartless. She looked at the man, and then met eyes with Izuku. The blood drained from his face as he dropped the knife in his hands. He looked down at his clothes, which were covered in red.

(Y/N) backed away one step, confused and scared. How could he do something like this, her kind trainer? Was he really a coldhearted killer? Thinking back of the day they escaped their village, (Y/N) fell to her knees. He was always like this. That day, Izuku had pressured (Y/N) into burning everything down, to kill every last one of the villagers, because they hurt them and tried to rip them apart. As he spoke, his eyes showed no sadness, or reluctance; just excitement.

(Y/N) thought she was mistaken, that her dear trainer had a kind heart after all, but no. She wasn’t a monster; he was.

Izuku raised his arms to show he means no harm. With a soothing voice, he started: “(Y/N), this isn’t what it looks like. I had no choice but to do this, do you understand?”

As he spoke, he approached her shaking form. “I know I shouldn’t have kept this a secret, but I’m doing this for us! I’m the one lighting the fires, but it’s not bad. If I do this, then everyone will stay away from the mountain. We’ll be alone together! Just you and me. Isn’t that like paradise?”

(Y/N) looked at him in disgust. “Why kill people? Why destroy their homes? They would’ve stayed away from the mountain, anyway! You didn’t have to do this.”

Izuku suddenly dove on his knees in front of her and grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin. His eyes were manic. “Otherwise it’s not believable! If an entire village burns down because of a dragon, there can be no survivors. You understand that, right? Right? I’m doing this to keep our home safe. Look, I’m going to burn this camp down, so people think the dragon is expanding its territory. That means even less people will be visiting us! Isn’t that nice? I’m doing a good thing.”

Looking at him in this state, (Y/N) was horrified. How could she have turned a blind eye to this side of him for so long?

Before she knew it, Izuku had wrapped his arms around her in a hug that more resembled the deathly grip of an anaconda than a loving embrace. With his face buried in her shoulder, he whispered: “A dragon should have a safe nest, after all.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere bnha #yandere bnha x reader #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere izuku #yandere izuku x reader #yandere midoriya #yandere midoriya x reader #yandere deku #yandere deku x reader #ask

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themadauthorshatter · 3 years

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... I'm in the mood for angst and shenanigans.

And I want Maven to be happy, and see Elara get her just desserts😈

Thomaven Headcanons FT. The Happy Ending AU.

Elara is LIVID that Thomas is alive, because it distracts Maven more than Mare ever did.

She has him thrown in a dungeon in Silent Stone in it. Maven goes to visit a couple hours later to find Thomas breathing lightly and not moving, cold and eyes fluttering shut.

Maven pulls him out if there and gets him to his room, and Thomas is right as rain, though he is a little annoyed.

Thomas asks if Maven's going to snitch to his mother and try decapitation, and Maven gawks at him, asking why Thomas is being so hostile.

Thomas snaps that Maven's not the same, something that breaks the younger Calore prince, and calls him a monster and a spitting image of what Silvers are, cold, ruthless, and crueler than false hope in Hell. When Maven remains silent, save for a whispered, "How?" Thomas spells it out for him: He killed his father. He ruined his brother's life. He ruined Mare's life. He tried to kill them both, even after all the time he'd spent with them. He tortured and branded Mare. He killed innocent people just for Mare, one of them being a helpless infant. And, to top it off, he has the balls to try running back to Thomas after trying and failing with a girl he'd manipulated and lied to; ran to something new and shiny when the old model didn't satisfy, anymore.

Maven remains absolutely silent, fighting back the urges to scream, to slap Thomas, and to just cry because his head hurts, but only manages, "Get out."

Thomas, still pissed, folds his arms and asks, "Should I ask for an escort or should I show myself the way out?"

They remain silent and Thomas goes to leave.

Maven races to the door and closes it, holding it shut, even when Thomas asks him if he's changing his mind, or if his mother's piloting. Maven asks why he's asking, and how he knows that, and Thomas scoffs that Cal's more observant than Maven and Elara give him credit for.

Thomas tries again to leave, but Maven still holds the door shut and then lunges, wrapping his arms around Thomas, shoulders shaking and breathing ragged.

"I'm so sorry."

Even after everything he did, and with everything he's possibly going to do, Thomas still hugs back, glad to have the boy he fell head over heels for back.

The sentinels find them, but Maven orders them to lock Thomasin in a cell closer to the one Mare was in in King's Cage and that Samos guards be put on watch rather than Arvens.

Maven visits him whenever he's got free time, and Thomas only wants time with him if he stops hunting Newbloods and steps everyone in Corros free, Silvers and Newbloods. Maven tells him it's too much of a political risk, and Thomas replies that he'd better look for a new toy, because this one has a higher price than Mare.

The Scarlet Guard causes so much more headaches for Maven, which are relieved by Thomas, who gets more open when there aren't more Newbloods being captured and killed.

Thomas becomes Maven's anchor, and it's funny to Thomas, in an ironic way, to see a Silver king cry; he's never seen a Silver cry.

Elara sees Thomas as a pure hinderence and wants to kill him.

She ordered an Arven to beat the living daylights out of him, which Maven had no idea of until she had him sit next to her and watch on the cameras.

He kept his composure, but when he met up with a slightly bloodied and bruised Thomas later, he took Thomas in the bathroom and the two broke down, Maven apologizing because he didn't know and Thomas just done with the fact he's like this; he should be dead, but he isn't, Maven's on the throne and not his brother or father, Elara's a bitch with a capital B, and they can't even leave because Elara with kill them both, he's sure of it.

It's here Maven comes up with a plan.

Elara plans and tries locking him in Corros, but no one can find him, not even Maven.

She does look around in his head and finds nothing, but Samson, not convinced, decides to rummage around instead while Maven sleeps; he makes him remember, but forces him to stay asleep.

Turns out he was half lying because Samson finds a memory of Maven leading Thomas through a servant passage and let him run free from there.

And it turns out they kissed, as well.

You would not BELIEVE how angry Elara was when Samson told her.

Maven locked himself in a silent stone cell and held the keys on him so no one could let him out, or get inside his mind and make him kill Thomas.

Samson does order guards to drag Maven out, but Elara tells him to take a hike so she can be alone with her son.

She knealt on the ground by the cell door and watches as Maven lies on his side, his hands over his ears, and his back to her as he's curled up as tightly as he can be.

She asks him to talk to her, and Maven asks her why she did it, why she screwed him up so badly. Tiberias loved Cal as much as Elara loved Maven, but he never scrambled Cal's brain to make him who he was, so why did she do it if she loved him so much? Elara reiterates that she does love him, as he's her only son, thank goodness, and wanted to make him the best person he could be.

Maven snaps and turns to face her on his knees so they're at eye level. Is love hating who your child is so much you have to literally change them from the inside out? Is love taking every chance they had at happiness to better suit your desires? Is love making you hate the few people you were close with so they never leave your side? Maven doesn't know a lot about love, but he knows that NONE of that counts as it.

Elara barks that he's being a child, that he's forgetting everything she did for him to get him where he is now; he's the King of Norta, what greater honor is that?

Maven asks what honor that is for Elara, to know that her son, Maven of House Merandus, is the one on the throne. It could have been anyone in House Merandus, but it was her son that had the throne, so that was something to rub in her family's face, and it must've felt even better to know she got the throne even after cheating and murdering her way through Queenstrial and to Tibe's side.

Elara shouts, "SILENCE!" and the two fall silent, Maven resting against the wall, his side to her, as he murmurs brokenly that she made him a murderer. The infant and boy he killed were children, innocents that never deserved to be hunted for existing. He chuckles that in a way, he's just like Elara. He's killed, he lied his way to the throne, and he destroyed anyone and everyone in his path.

Elara is silent, only staring at him, before reachimg a hand through the bars and asking him to come out so they can talk face to face, and then he can have whatever he wants.

Maven only wants one thing and he's not leaving until she gives it to him:

He wants his memories and feelings back. He wants his love for Cal back, he wants his dreams back, even if it results in his nightmares returning as well, he wants his love for Tibe back, whatever sliver there was so he can feel a fraction of what Cal's feeling, he wants to care about Mare without the urge to keep her locked up and chained to his side, because she loves Cal, and he wants his memories of Thomas back, the ones from before the fire that made him think he killed the first person he ever unconditionally loved, the person he helped run so Elara wouldn't take him away, too.

He wants off the throne, too. He wants to disappear without a trace and not strings attached. He wants to leave, and doesn't want his mother to follow him; she's done enough for and to him.

Elara, trying to stifle a chuckle, asks if he thinks disappearing is possible for him. If he tells the truth, they'll both be executed, and it'll be an arm's race for someone to take the throne. Norta needs a King, and Maven can't leave until there's another worthy successor for the throne, which won't happen anytime soon because Cal's gone and Anabel's not coming within a mile radius of Elara. Maven snarks that Volo Samos can have the throne, seeing as he wants it almost as badly as Elara does(now that I think about it, they'd make a great and terrible couple). Elara raises an eyebrow and gives a bitter laugh and smile, asking Maven if he really wants Volo Samos, the one person who was hell bent on getting Evangeline to be Queen, who is so set in his own Silver beliefs that he's planning on abdicating, if Maven doesn't prove to ne worth backing.

When Maven remains silent, Elara's smile drops and she holds her hands and forehead against the cell bars, practically begging him to think about what he'll do next, so she doesn't lose him; regardless of how Maven feels about her, Elara loves her son to Hell and back. She's not exactly close to her family, so Maven's all she really has. If he dies, she has nothing.

This sentiment is left with silence, even as Elara takes the hint and stands, walking away to leave.

At least until Maven stands up and walks up to the bars, which fills Elara's twisted, fucked up cavity where her heart should be with joy.

It goes away when she sees the glare Maven gives her, colder than ice and more pissed off than Ptolemus protecting Evangeline.

"Stay away from all of them, Mother. Cal, Mare, Thomas, and every Newblood from here to Montfort. If you hurt them, any of them, I'll leave this palace, and Norta. I'll disappear and make sure you will never see me again."

Elara, out of pure parental instinct, calls his bluff; he cares about that Newblood rat he cooked extra crispy too much. Maven pulls out a gun he's been hiding in his coat and shoots at the ceiling before holding it against his temple; "Try me."

There are tears in Maven's eyes, and they roll down his cheeks. Elara may be evil and a bitch, but she's still his mother and he will always live her.

She leaves for real and neither see each other for a few days. At all. Maven's ordered the servants to say he's nowhere to be found, when asked and it drives Samson crazy and further breaks Elara's heart(GOOD!).

She 'finds' Maven at the breakfast table about a week later, and he's so reserved he won't even let her hug him or come near him. He won't let her in his mind either because he's wearing a silent stone manacle on his wrist. They eat, making little small talk, until they're both done and sit in silence for a long time, still affected by the last conversation they had.

Maven concedes to staying on the throne, but only until there's another candidate who can take his place, and as long as Elara puts back the pieces she took from him, even what he asked for her to cut out. Elara hates that, but agrees, noting that Maven is hiding a weapon; he's never been such a loose canon, so she'd best be careful.

Hypothetically speaking, the series plays out with Elara 'fixing' Maven before leaving for Corros and never returning(Mare's fault), Thomas realizing Maven's a goner without his psychopath mother to shield him, and the gang at a pure shock and awe loss for what to do when Maven not only revokes his father's measures, but also bans anyone from harming any Newbloods or Ardents, lest they end up dying instead.

Samson does try ruling through Maven, but Mavey wears a silent stone manacle to keep him out.

Time jump to after everything goes crazy and calms down, and Maven and Thomas meet back up and hug, glad the other is alive.

FLUFF TIME!!!!

They find a place Thomas discovered and that becomes their home.

They share a bed, and thank goodness because Maven cannot sleep alone after what's happened.

Thomas has to teach Maven how to cook and clean.

He often calls Maven a child or a baby, both because he doesn't know how to cook and clean and because he's younger than Thomas.

Maven doesn't wear his flamemakers as much, because he doesn't want to burn Thomas again.

Thomas once found Maven napping on the couch and carefully moved so he could sleep next to him.

Roomates? Don't make either of them laugh. Thomas just knew a place and Maven followed.

Thank goodness Thomas isn't allergic to fur, or can't react to it, because Dagger and Violet fall in love with him so fast.

Violet, being the cat brat she is, loves being on Thomas's shoulders.

For all you that need the juicy details, you can usually find Maven on Thomas's lap; it's Maven's guilty pleasure favorite spot and Thomas's best view of Maven, both in and outside of the bed😉

Maven, after getting fixed by his mother(the ONLY good thing she did), can't fall asleep unless he's either holding something or in Thomas's arms.

Cute, friendly, just for fun wrestling matches, either over who has to get up to do chores or who has the remote, that ends with Thomas on top of Maven and the two kissing, because love.

Dagger breaks it up for Violet's sake.

Maven REFUSES to be carried places.

Thomas often pulls a 'Cal' mlve and holds things over Maven's head, just to see angry puppy Maven. It's so adorable.

Things they NEVER joke about: food that's as burnt as Thomas, things that are as broken as Maven(the pieces are put together, but the cracks are still there), who'd be a better ruler, murder, marriage and betrothal, and just all the negative things that they went through.

They DO talk about those negative things, and try to argue as little as possible; neither can stand the sound of yelling, period.

They can stand recovered reruns of Game of Thrones, surprisingly.

Cal's more than happy to have his brother back and see him happy as can be with Thomas at his side.

Maven's so surprised Cal, Evangeline, and Ptolemus abdicate the throne.

After holding Thomas's hand, he has no regrets or fears.

Super private wedding. Only Cal, Mare, and a handful of people are invited, and that's it.

Maven finds his mother's grave and tells her he's happier than he can remember. He thanks her for helping him, and for helping him be with Thomas, who he can't imagine living without.

He apologizes for everything he said to her and hopes her well enough, wherever she is(we ALL know she ain't doing well😈.).

You know that meme with the dog sitting around a bunch of plants and saying, "This is fine?" Imagine that, but with Maven staring out a window as it rains with Thomas behind him, Dagger next to Maven and getting back pets, Violet snuggled up in Thomas's neck, and Thomas and Maven enjoying some tea; this is not fine, this is perfect.

#red queen #happy ending #maven calore #red queen thomas #new blood!thomas #thomaven #elara merandus #samson merandus #angst #fluff #I'm gonna go die from all this serotonin now

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wexhappyxfew · 3 years

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The Nightingales of Fortune Favors the Brave

A Band of Brothers Fanfic Coming Fall 2021 (or presumably whenever Landslide finishes up!)

HELLO!! If you’re reading this, then as you can see, I’ve finally created a master post with all my Nightingales (well, not really mine THE PUBLIC’S but you’ve all gifted them to me ever so graciously, and it honestly, it means the world to me). Just to see the excitement and reception I’ve gotten from so many people in the fandom involving a female group of Pathfinders - an area of war, I have wanted to cover ever since nearly over 2 years ago I got involved in the fandom. All OC’s will have their creators name listed beside them - I did not create any of these OC’s, all credit goes to the lovely people who crafted and gifted them to me for FFTB!

Viewing where I currently am in my life, I’m going to going to college this year! I got accepted into the school I wanted, the program I wanted, even a scholarship! And I’m beyond excited. I really wanted to have something there for me when college does finally, you know, HAPPEN, and so Fortune Favors the Brave was the only way to go! To have a wonderful group of Nightingales, of female Pathfinders in the Band of Brothers fandom, seemed to be the way to go. Updates and such will definitely be different - I’m picking up more work hours this year, probably even summer classes, night classes, weekend classes - whatever I can do to benefit my degree and myself, I’m taking the opportunity.

And so, updates will presumably be quite different, depending on a variety of things, but...this will be my college story! No matter how many years it takes to complete and update and write, this will be the thing I have with me through it all for when I need a mental break from school! And I am beyond excited for when I do finally get to share this story more than anything!

We have such a great group of OCs here - different backgrounds, different reasons for joining, different creators who gifted them to me, different friendships, relationships and abundances of sisterhood and brotherhood moments. I’m truly beyond excited to showcase the Pathfinders side of the war in the light of 16 female OCs, whose stories will be told through their viewpoints based on different episodes whether whole or split!

So thank you ALL!! These past 2 years have been a joy in the fandom and let’s hope for another few more! I’ve managed 3 fics and 4 books total and I’m excited to bring, presumably, my FINAL Band of Brothers fic in the fandom to you all in the near future. Thank you!! <3

THE NIGHTINGALES

Team C DZ C for 506th PIR, 501st PIR

-> 2/506 PIR (Stick 2/Plane #4)

-- TOCCOA VETERANS --

Team Leader

Captain Eleanor Graham - @basilone

Eleanor Graham had never met a challenge she couldn’t conquer - the eldest of four and a farmer’s daughter, teamwork and diligence were drilled into her mind like clockwork, along with being as much of a leader in the eyes of her family as she could. There was more to life than a farmer’s wife for her future though, no matter how much she adored the farm her family had grown to craft from the ground up. Iowa brought no opportunity except the farm life deemed fit for her, so upon seeing the advertisement “ It’s Your Fight Too “, OCS had never seemed like a better choice in her eyes. Because it was all their fights - man, woman, child, anyone - it was a World War, a fight for all their lives, for human lives. And with the capability to obtain Captain just before leaving for Camp Toccoa, it solidified her position for not only leading in Easy Company, but leading the Nightinagles - the first stick of female Pathfinders.

Assistant Team Leader

Lieutenant Florence Godfrey - @pxpeyewynn

A British lady and an artist at heart, from the little town of Avebury, set inside Wiltshire of Great Britain, her father made it big in New York just as the war that swarmed throughout Europe, erupted into spitfire. And suddenly thrust into the world of an America before war, was unsettling. Her country fought while America remained neutral. Yet, when the advertisement flooded throughout New York City - she couldn’t help but take it as her only way to get into war. OCS was beyond enough challenges, but walking in as a Lieutenant for Easy and for the Pathfinders, she was no longer the little girl who prayed at night to whomever was above to end the people’s suffering, or avoided interaction to instead draw in her notebook. She was a Lieutenant, and she was a woman at war - yet what was she even fighting for?

Eureka Operators (each equipped with a Eureka Transponder each)

Sergeant (NCO) Marie Reynal - @thoughpoppiesblow

Grandmère Reynal always held her at night, under the dark night sky and sang in her soulful Cajun French, the words flowing from her lips and remaining an ever-present comfort in times where food was hardly ever on the table, or when she had to watch the other girls at school get the latest Mary-Janes and she was stuck with her old ones. Her grandmère taught her to appreciate the small things in life. But when the “It’s Your Fight Too” poster came out in the papers, Marie Reynal knew there were larger things in life than the newest Mary-Janes at school. Packing up what she could, Marie headed out to Camp Toccoa, equipped with nothing but some clothes and her fiddle.

Corporal Edith Lockner - @mercurygray

Remember to look up - her mother would always tell her that. Especially when things on their little farm got hard in Stanford, Illinois where the only thing that occurred there was the wagering price of corn that fluctuated with the ever-changing times. So...she figured that’s why she always tended to look to the stars when her mother would tell her that before bed each night, looking out the wooden window under her quilt as a cold draft blew in. She always imagined herself up there, amongst the stars and for once seeing what the stars saw. But to be up with those stars and to get to study them, she’d need a lot more money than what ever amount the corn tended to bring in. And the Airborne with a fantastic pay grade, along with the Pathfinders and their earnings -- it seemed her ticket out. Maybe there won’t be stars - but anything’s got to be better than here.

Wireman

Corporal Chiyoko ‘Luna’ Omori - @papersergeant-pencilsoldier

Know your place. Eyes down, mouth shut. And most importantly, honor your family. Chiyoko Omori has never been one to step out of line, nor has she been one to speak when otherwise not spoken too. Trained in the art of kendo, the Japanese martial arts that her ancestors trained in, she leads with discipline and integrity amongst the group of Nightingales training as Pathfinders, as the solo wireman of the group. Her intelligence, more than once, has saved her and in war might just save her again and again. Her father’s garage had always been home to a multitude of repairs and many she had learned to do herself. But there she had been Chiyoko. But for war, she must forget who Chiyoko is and embody the only other name besides her family name that she will ever know - Luna.

Lightmen (each equipped with 2 Halophane Lamps each)

Staff-Sergeant (Senior NonCom) Sarah Prowse - @junojelli

For once in her life Sarah Prowse would not have her twin brother by her side. He hadn’t been by her side for years after he went back home to fight with the English and lost his life at Dunkirk. But this was real, this was happening - and the Pathfinders withheld the opportunity to prove to herself that Edmund had died with valor and courage. And he would not have died in vain. The nannies had always said they were inseparable but they weren’t those kids anymore. This was real life. And in real life, there was love and loss and pain. And sometimes the only way to get through it all was to do the thing to distract you most from it all. Some days she wished her family could’ve just stayed in England - maybe Mum would still be here. With her sharp mind, and the ability to read people like an open book, rising to the rank Staff-Sergeant had come easily - reading the field and reading people were pretty similar...right?

Corporal Jean Dawson - @tvserie-s-world

Life in Louisville, Kentucky had always been a sort of cozy-comfort that Jean Doxon had always enjoyed. The weekend fairgrounds filled to the brim with people enjoying the night life it offered, early summers filled with watching her father race horses around the tracks sprinkled throughout the town and nights by her boyfriend, Glenn Hartley, where the sky seemed to stretch forever into the night. That is before the war sent him away to the Pacific. And their only form of communication was reduced to letters, with pressed flowers and the hint of rose perfume. Jean refused to mope about, when she knew this war was hardly far from over. Quick-thinking on her feet, and a town champion for knot-tying in her days in elementary, she packed what she could and left for Georgia the second she was able to take the first train out. The Airborne had much to offer, but more importantly so did the Pathfinders.

Corporal Mercy Codonoa - @whoahersheybars

Mercy Codona always been a traveler, never staying in one place and always on the move to somewhere new that she might've never quite been before. This meant new neighbors, new friends and a new way of life. Something the United States readily offered. Each new town in a new state had a different way of life than the next. She figured that's why she was so quick to adapt to her surroundings - nothing was ever permanent, nor set in stone. Neither was family. Orphaned by 17 and left to fend for herself, left in the care of her mother's estranged sister, Mercy took the liberty by herself to do what she could to support herself. Taking up odd jobs in each town she traveled to and managing what she could to feed herself. But she was proud of her Romani-Croat heritage and what her ancestors had done in their past lives. She intended on continuing what their stories had not finished. If only she could continue to support herself. It was only when the "It's Your Fight Too" showed up newly on the Fort Wayne clipboard by the post office in April 1942 and then and there in that moment did she decided - with the extra money the Airborne offered, along with that of the Pathfinders, she'd be able to support herself in the future as well as possibly find people with the same dreams as herself for their futures, and for once finally belong.

Private Kennedy Rutlidge - MINE

Kennedy Docherty had always had quite a wild and exciting mind, always having a new idea, or a new method on selling the most recent paper that got her a few cents an hour. All through her schooling years and even up to her senior year, she took to the busiest corner on Lake Ave and Lyell Ave, calling out to sell her papers, before heading home for the night and running her normal routine the very next day. She spent summers at Lake Ontario, in her grandmother's home on the lake, where some of her fondest memories of her youth had been born. She always believed that's why she was always fascinated with flying, like one of the birds or hawks that flew out across the lake in the early morning. What she'd give to get that feeling just once in her life, away from school and away from the constant need to make as much money as she could to help with the family. The words "It's Your Fight Too" scrawled across the paper in early April had caught her eye within a second and left her running home just that night to break the news that she was signing up. And almost a week later, she found herself packed on a train towards Camp Toccoa, Georgia, bright eyes and the last bit of innocence fading from sight.

Security Personnel

Sergeant (NCO) Alexandra Calypso - @iilovemusic12us

A Boston girl who grew up with her proud Jewish faith, with a Greek mother, knew hard work and sometimes it was pushing yourself to the very limit beyond what the human body could handle sometimes. So that meant falling, scrapping your knee a few times, sucking up the tears, sending a quick prayer to God and moving on with your life. Life had always been like that - they weren’t the richest, nor the poorest, but there wasn’t ever enough food on the table or enough money to fix the roof, or even to keep the mortgage paid. But her parents never stopped working. And she supposed what drove her to the Airborne and to the Pathfinders was seeing how hard they worked. And they paid well she had heard. She could work with it. And if anything, the Pathfinders were more accepting than any school in Boston she’d been to.

Sergeant Nellie Shaw - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Hailing from a small, coastal town in Maine, the proud Scot wanted more than anything to stay out of war when it finally came knocking on America’s doorstep. But Nellie Shaw, loyal as saint, knew that there was one thing she could do for this country and that was fight. Give her a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of gin, and she’d go in swinging for the war effort, even with her grumpy morning attitude that slowly became infamous in her elementary school days among the school children. She had no purpose on a farm on a mountain side anymore, rather destined to do what part of the fight she could. Taking Greer Riddell under her wing, the fellow Scot befriended the least likely person to enjoy her company and yet Nellie’s easy-going companionship slowly became integral to the entirety of Easy Company and the Nightingales.

Private Greer Riddell - @leighinthesky

Schruz, Nevada was home for 21 years and by the looks of it, home for the rest of her life. A bee farm in a tiny town wasn’t idle for the rest of her life, but if she never got the money for college to get out of the small town, she feared she wouldn’t ever leave. And knowing the military had offered 16 women a stick of a plane to get their shot at becoming Pathfinders for the Army was her ticket straight to Toccoa, Georgia for training. The pay could send her not only to college, but could get her out of that tiny town which had confined her to nothing but her family and a cute little bee farm where hard work always paid off. Don’t be fooled by her subdue and withdrawn nature, the second her hands touched the rifle - the field was hers and yet so was the valley.

Codebreaker [Betchley Park Member]

Sergeant Laverne Robinson - @vintagelavenderskies

For her 23 years of life, Laverne Robinson had known just about every spot in London where you could catch a smoke break and not get caught by one of the older women and get scolded for doing so. She blamed her older brother, he blamed her. It was a mutual thing. But that had been the only thing to fear in London - until war struck, which sent every eligible man off to fight for the effort. Her brother included, leaving her staring out the rain speckled window all alone as the smell of her mother's soup wafted past her nose. Yet, like many women of the time, she wanted to fight too. Fluent in French and German and skilled in mathematics and code-work, Bletchley Park seemed the best fit. Working on codes, both sculpting and breaking them inside the building, keeping her lips shut and going on about her normal day when not inside the institution, life didn't seem as dreary as she had anticipated. Because she knew she was apart of the effort to end this war. That was until, she was called upon in late March 1944 to join up with the 101st Airborne with the first female stick of 12 pathfinders to make the jump into Normandy and assist them in anyway possible. Laverne knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity and if her brother were there, he would've told her to run with it. Becoming a professor of mathematics would have to wait.

REPLACEMENTS

Corporal Alessandra Lisi - @tvserie-s-world

Alessandra Lisi had never known her parents. She was always told that sickness had taken them when she was just a child. Her brothers had been older than her and had tried to protect her from the sight of her parents dying. And so when their Nonna had taken them into her home without hesitation, Alessandra grew to look to her Nonna as the other parental figure she’d ever had. Of course, her brothers were always there for her, protective as they were, they never let her get into any sort of trouble without hearing about it first. Alessandra grew to adore her Italian heritage, cooking with Nonna on Sunday’s, inviting family over to enjoy the meals and even getting to stir the sauce as Nonna dropped in fresh, cut tomatoes. That was life and it had always been life as such. But when war sent her 3 brothers away, she knew she would not go down without a fight either. Upon receiving the paper in November 1943, she noticed the cover page withheld the picture of 12 women, adorned in jump wings as well as military grade goggles and scarves standing with wide smiles and bright eyes in front of a C-47, the title 'The Nightingales', lying just underneath. Female Pathfinders. If her parents were here, they would've been telling her what Nonna would've been telling her now. Fight for what you believe in, because while there's life, there's hope.

Private First Class Bettie Smith - @sgtxliptons86

Brooklyn, New York had it all - the kids in the streets, the shops on the corners where you could get a piece of candy for as little as 5 cents, even the corner stores in the summer where you could get ice cream for a dime. And as Bettie Smith grew older, running the streets of Brooklyn became like a weekend job - checking in on the younger kids of friends, riding bikes past the floral shops and picking up flowers for her sister, getting a bag of charcoal for her father. Even throwing some curses towards the boys who would heckle her for the way she wore her hair or the old shoes laced on her feet. Her older sister wasn’t too pleased with it all, but ever since Ma had passed, she seemed to let it slide - it was an escape for Bettie. So when war came knocking on the Smith’s door, anger, yet pride for their country filled the home, as well as the streets of New York, as more men and women began signing up for the cause. More friends left to join the effort, leaving Bettie there on the concrete doorstep. So when Bettie received the daily paper in November 1943, showcasing the 12 female pathfinders of the 101st Airborne, front and center for all to see, Bettie took it in quite large strides and took the first train of December 1943 to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Annie Laine - @wereinadell

Annie Laine, the daughter of Finnish immigrants, had always dreamed of leaving the quiet countryside her parents had always preferred for their family for the big cities of the Midwest - maybe she’d go to Chicago and study theater, or maybe she’d go and finally attend college in Milwaukee. Anything to get out of the small town she currently resided in. But the countryside had brought alone its perks - orienteering and hunting were big in the Laine family and every child, her 3 brothers, her and her sister, had all been taught the noble art. Swimming the streams, fishing in the lakes, taking hikes through the forests and coming back with a deer for dinner - life had always been quite peaceful Annie felt. But she could always hope that one day it changed. And it seemed war rung those bells quite early on. Annie was tired of structured life and if anything, she knew that the start of structured life in the military would fall quite nearly to shambles once they hit war. The November 1943 issue of the daily newspaper brought upon not only sudden interest in the military, but in that of the female pathfinders who were paving their way in all of military history to be the first stick to jump into continental occupied-Europe. All it took was what cash she had saved for college and a small suitcase to get her on the way to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Marla Hughes - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Lafayette, Louisiana had been home all her life - Baton Rouge just to the East and New Orleans just a little further. It had always been home for as long as she could remember. With the fancy parties her father always allotted for the family to attend, talking with the men in pristine suits, or the women with the big hats, some days Marla Hughes just wished to be able to go outside and enjoy nature instead of suffocating amongst the people who seemed to live in a world that didn’t even seem like real life. She supposed that was when she had hit her breaking point and joined the Airborne in Fort Benning, Georgia. She was tired of the life that did absolutely nothing for her. There was more to this world, so much more and yet she was confined to a party dress and an expensive glass of wine that tasted bitter when it rushed down the throat. There were small bars, where the music played, and you could dance until your feet grew tired, there were beer bottles awaiting to be clinked together with friends and there were people beside the stuck-up society she was forced into. The Airborne accepted anyone far and wide - and maybe she could strip of the posh life given to her and finally be set free.

THESE ARE THE NIGHTINGALES!!!

> if you have any questions, feel free to send them in! if not, it’s all good! these are our 16 nightingales! :) thank you to all of you who sent them in back in early December! It’s been an honor to craft these wonderful OC’s!

#band of brothers #fortune favors the brave #the nightingales #pathfinders #easy company #bob fic #band of brothers fandom #band of brothers oc #master list post

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jjaeong · 3 years

Text

The Heiress, And The Twelve. Act I.

Episode IV: Courage, Is Not The Absence Of Fear.

Series: KPOP Girl Group: 이달의 소녀 (LOONA).

Pairing: OT12 & Mafia Heiress Female Reader.

Summary: The esteemed guests had finally paid the Y/L/N Family a visit, to which the members could have never expected the reason exactly as to why. But along with the confusion that their visitors had brought with them, was at the price of something shifting within Y/N at the situation she had been put up to.

[TRIGGER WARNING: VIOLENCE, INVOLVES MENTION OF BLOOD AND WEAPONRY. READ UNTIL 9’S PHONE CALL IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS.]

“Have you ever heard of the story about felines predicting catastrophes before humans could even detect them?”

Hyunjin stared blankly at the man that walked in front of her with his hands held behind his back, a serene expression set on his features as his eyes gazed over to the blooming flowers that had surrounded his garden. At each exit of the field, several men in black suits had stood to guard them while the young girl with the oversized yellow cardigan tailed behind the tall man whom had graying strands on his hair, to which oddly made him seem much more wise than he was ought to be. But Hyunjin found that idea false, for the man that had stood in with his back turned to her had always spoke with a heavy tone in his voice—as if he had thoroughly picked through each of his sentences with extra thought, it was the exact reason why she’d allowed herself to become a part of their Family, after all.

“I’ve heard of it once, from Yves-unnie.. I think. When she was sitting by the courtyard.” the man hummed in response, stopping in his tracks and turning to face the thin tree that had stood next to him—eyes examining the flowers that had bloomed from them before smiling softly and looking down at Hyunjin.

“When I was around your age, my parents had always kept a few animals in the house—to the point of it looking almost like an animal sanctuary rather than a home to a Mafia Family,” Hyunjin’s eyes stayed locked on the tree as the man resumed his stroll, keeping enough distance to be able to listen to his story before she had rushed to follow after him, “it may sound odd—because what did you expect a house filled with hitmen roaming freely, fully armed at all times to look like—but you’d definitely not expect to find a deer to be standing by one of the ponds, drinking from it’s pool while a family of swans passes by and a butterfly sitting on top of one of it’s antlers..” the young girl tilted her head at the mention of the animals, feeling the weight that the memory had carried from how the man’s tone changed from simple reminiscing to the sudden somberness that had switched after he teased his Family’s lifestyle.

“One of my greatest friends, whom was also the Heir to his Family’s name always had this sparkle in his eyes whenever he’d visit, stating that how our Family had lived was so different compared to his—our home felt more of like a refuge than the active warzone that he had called his own,” Hyunjin’s lips pulled into a small smile just as the man peeked behind him to also smile at the girl, shrugging his shoulders before raising a hand to run his fingers through the flowers as the passed—something that Hyunjin followed as well but only by walking close to them and lifting her finger in an shy manner, “he’d always tell me that one day, he could only hope that he could build such peace with his Family—though he did wish that our Families had never split apart.”

“The separation between the Mun Family and Jin Family.” Hyunjin whispered, peeking over to catch a glimpse at the man as if he would confirm if her answer was correct—to which he did, nodding but pulling his hand back to rest behind him again as they strolled peacefully through the spring air.

“Our Families together ruled thousands of territories, commanded over millions of men—so much strength to which was soon overcome with overpowering ambition, the Jin Family never knew when to stop and so they brought it upon themselves to be left by another family whom had stayed true to their colors to this day.”

“Kim,” Hyunjin answered, more confidently this time. Her brows knitted in concentration as she recalled the notes that she had scattered all over her and Heejin’s bedroom floor, the older girl’s whining ringing in the back of her head as Hyunjin kept repeating keywords to herself as the other girl tried to sleep, “out of the three major Families, they’re the wealthiest when it comes to land and associates.”

“We don’t usually take sides, but if it comes to a war of some sort—they’d learn to lean on us, as we would to them.” the two then stopped in the middle of an empty pond, the only view from the structure was the flowing waterfall and several koi’s that had swam freely through the clear water.

“Before Jin had declared war against our Family—with Mother as the boss at the time—our home was attacked the night before, I was just about to go to bed after studying the entire day when this.. Yellow cat, a Maine Coon,” Hyunjin looked over to the man, finding his arms crossed but Hyunjin’s eyes locked onto the glimmering blue ring that was set in his finger—running a thumb on the gem as he looked at the pond as he recalled that night, “she had always sat on my Mother’s lap, but she’d always seem to have watched over me as I slept. And so on the night of the attack, she had woke me up by biting onto my finger until I had eventually awakened—with our people leading me out of my quarters just before I heard the gun shots start ringing.” the man turned to look down at the younger girl whom met his gaze half-way, the battered aura that the girl with wide eyes had usually carried was almost overshadowed by the amazement and curiosity that the girl had currently beheld.

“The yellow cat passed away just as I became boss, almost a year before my parents had passed due to old age. But those animals had aided me in my survival for my short-lived childhood, they were more of my allies than they were my parents’ pets.” Hyunjin tore her gaze away from the man to eye his ring that rested on his arm yet again, nodding in understanding before facing the pond with the man soon following after her.

“I see her in you, Kim Hyunjin,” the man couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh at how odd it sounded, the personification of the animal and to the child he had just been introduced to within the year—but he knew it to himself that he had to let the younger girl know, “I believe that you have the same gift as she did—though you haven’t entirely shown signs of it yet—you have the same spirit inside of you just waiting to be awakened. You’re a special girl, I hope you don’t ever forget that.”

Hyunjin felt her heart hammering against her chest as her eyes snapped back to what was currently happening in front of her, the voices she managed to tune out after they've entered through the doors, exchanged pleasantries pierced through her bubble of sudden recollection of the conversation between her and the past boss a few years ago. She scanned the men that had stood by the bottom of the steps, surrounded by over a thousand of your people as a man with a prince-like aura to him smiled cunningly at Haseul—almost trying his best to appeal to her for them to carry on with whatever they had wished to plead.

"My name is Joshua, and here standing beside me are my members—Jihoon, Mingyu, Jeonghan, Wonwoo—and our Heir, Lee Chan," Joshua gestured to the suit-clad men that stood behind him before placing a hand on Lee Chan's shoulder, the weight of his hand seemingly heavy as Joshua practically pulled him from where he stood to almost offer him to the Leader—something which Sooyoung visibly winced at and Haseul could only eye the group for, "he had ordered us to search the city, for a particular friend of ours that had been left.. Unhinged."

"Unhinged..? What do you mean?!" Sooyoung's commanding voice made Joshua falter in his position and had the Heir taking a step back, as if he was already cowering in fear when he felt a more gentler hands rest on his shoulders this time—the man with the long hair named Jeonghan smiled up at Sooyoung whom looked furious compared to the different sets of expressions that had been plastered on her members' features.

"We're not looking for any trouble, we're just here for our friend. We've come here to inform you of that."

"And you didn't consult us.. On the first day of your search?" Haseul slowly dragged, eyes moving from one member to another as she now had placed a hand on her hip, to which the tallest of the bunch—Mingyu—let out a nervous laugh that echoed through the tense atmosphere before making eye contact with Joshua who's eye could only twitch at him. He then shut his mouth and inched himself closer to a stone-faced Wonwoo, eyes dead set on Heejin who had refused to meet his gaze since they've entered the courtyard.

"And this friend of yours—you're certain that he's in this city?" Mingyu couldn't seem to keep himself neutral, nodding in an almost child-like manner as Haseul questioned them. Chan lifted his head to look grimly at Haseul's pondering gaze, he swallowed sharply just before pulling himself away from Jeonghan's hands, getting down to his knees and bowing down completely to the Leader, leaving everyone in shock at the pitiful scene.

"Dino—"

"Please help us, Y/L/N Boss! I'm begging you!" he cried, continuing to plead with his forehead against the gravel and his members stunned as they stood behind him. The smile plastered on Joshua's face slowly fell into a contemptuous expression as he stared down at his boss before he got down on his knees to completely face the man, placing his hands on his arms in attempt of getting him back up on his feet but the boss pushed him back with tears falling freely from his eyes.

"No! They'll kill him, Hyung! He's lost his mind but we can't just—he's still my brother!" Chan shouted at his member who slowly fumed at his boss' words, which made Mingyu quickly spring into action and grab ahold of Joshua as the man thrashed in his hold.

"That's what I'm trying to stop—you idiot! You think I want him dead!? He's as much of a brother to me as he was to you—"

"Shut up!" Sooyoung's voice cut through the heated argument before the boss and his member, leaving the two silenced in their positions as they glared harshly at one another. Sooyoung pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to Haseul who could only stare at the commotion in thought before she slowly ascended the steps and got onto Chan's level, the boss almost cowering in fear but the small smile that had graced Haseul's features had offered a slight ease to the man.

"This.. Brother of yours, do you have any idea where he could be right now?"

"Hyunjin!? What—hey! Unnie, help!" Sooyoung rushed to the other side of the entrance to where Heejin had practically held her best friend up on her feet, the men that had surrounded the meeting had pulled out their pistols and had them pointed at the members of the Lee Family. Haseul stood from her spot as Heejin and Sooyoung practically carried Hyunjin back into the Mansion with the Leader motioning for the goons to put their guns down—turning to look back down at the Lee Family with a completely blank expression on her face, asking them to follow her inside and talk to her about it in the lounge.

"Yah! Kim Hyunjin! You're crazy—get a grip!" Heejin's alarmed tone rang through Hyunjin's ears as the two members sat her down in the infirmary, one of the nurses that had been Kahei's pupil quickly excused herself at the sight of the three, knowing well enough that they were all capable of the same practices as she'd learnt from the Fifth girl—but if any of the three would be an exception in the art of medicine, it would be Ha Sooyoung.

"No, no—This isn't normal, Yves-unnie," Sooyoung placed her fingers over the girl's pulse on her throat as her other hand worked on checking her temperature then gently tugging down on the bottom lid of her eye, "Yves-unnie you have to listen to me, something's wrong—" Heejin had placed a bucket right next to Hyunjin just the girl looked just about ready to pass out. Sooyoung then told Heejin to grab the girl some water as she firmly held Hyunjin in place, not wanting to make the girl any dizzier in her already rattled state.

"Hyunjin, you need to breathe."

"I am! But please, call Jinsoul-unnie. Call her right now, this is—they're in danger! Unnie—just listen to me!" Sooyoung's eyes scanned the pleading girl's teary eyes, failing to find a hint of any uncertainty and so once Heejin had returned to the room, Sooyoung quickly instructed the girl to watch over her best friend before leaving the room and taking her phone out to dial Jinsol's number.

"Sol."

"Are you in the school right now?" Jinsol furrowed her brows at the question, pulling her phone away from her ear to stare at the caller ID that had clearly shown the number '9' before she pressed it back against her ear, looking down at the sandwich in hand and then the fast food place that had almost felt as if it was inviting her to buy more. Jinsol couldn't help but shake her head at the thought before sighing to herself, pulling the door open to let herself inside the car and shut the door behind her.

"No? It's my break time."

"Jinsoul—do you even know what the time is!?" the dark haired girl winced at Sooyoung's bitter tone as she started the engine and pairing her phone to the speakers, carelessly tossing it onto the empty passenger seat next to her before leaning back and unwrapping her meal.

"Isn’t it Y/N's third period? She's literally right across the hall from Gowon. She has it covered."

"That was over an hour ago! She's in the middle of fourth period right now!" Jinsol stared down at her meal for a moment before glancing at the clock on the dashboard that clearly said 11:12 instead of what she'd seen as 9:26 a few moments ago. The girl was slightly alarmed for a moment, only to remember that it basically meant you were in the middle of class—surrounded by civilians.

They wouldn’t pick a fight with you there.. Right?

Jinsol quickly wrapped her sandwich before chucking it next to her phone and preparing to exit the driveway when Sooyoung told her that she was also on her way before she dropped the call.

Back in the school, Son Hyejoo was currently thinking about how she completely despised her Math teacher. Not only did the old lady had told her to stand in the back of the class when she asked Yerim if they had the same answers, but she also hated the woman for not letting her slide—not even once—about leaving her book behind when it was time for her class. Hyejoo could only walk down the halls of Blockberry High and make her way over to the lot, in hopes that her book was there—even if she didn't even do the damned assignment—just so she could continue sitting next to Yerim and watch the girl effortlessly solve the given problems, because watching the girl’s eyes light up was more entertaining than standing outside the hall until the class was dismissed.

The book had apparently manage to slide itself under her seat, most likely slipping out of her backpack that had always sat next to Yerim in the backseat—and though Hyejoo wouldn't call herself associated to any religion of some sort, she silently thanked whoever was watching her from up above as she shut the door of her car and started to make her way back to class.

And that's where she heard your voice.

“What do you want!?” you hissed harshly which made Hyejoo quickly duck against one of the cars closest to her, eyes setting on your fuming expression standing by the bench next to the vending machine as a tall figure wearing all black seemed to have took a slight step back, making him release your wrist that he had seemed to be holding as you clutched your arm to your chest, glaring at him. The man tilted his head to himself before looking back at you with an equally confused expression.

“What do.. I want?” he repeated slowly, furrowing his brows to himself as you stood there—not exactly knowing whether you should run or even attempt at a swing at the taller man—but you stood your ground, wanting to make sure he was gone before any of your members had caught up to what was happening and have the man even dare bring harm to any of them.

“I want power, of course. Enough for me and my members—and to command over fifty-thousand people..?”

“You’re stupid if you think killing a boss would mean you get to take over their Family.” you hissed as he looked at you like a kicked puppy, making him glance down—at what seemed to be a ring in his little finger that even Hyejoo can see from her hiding spot—before his expression snapped yet again to glare at you.

“You don’t know that! God, you all sound the same. You, Chan—I was the one that convinced them to let us go independent! Look where we are now!” his aggravated voice boomed through the lot, making you tense on your spot and take a cautious step back. Your eyes scanning the area for your members, finding Jungeun and Hyejoo’s cars that sat parked a few feet ahead of you which brought you an odd sense of comfort.

But it soon dissipated once it dawned into you that the owners were nowhere to be found.

One of them actually were, however.

“Alright then, I’ll take the lead.” your heart dropped the second your eyes followed the man's hand that had pulled a simple black pistol from behind him, his lips downturned as he popped the magazine to check if he had any bullets—giving you enough time to start running for your life—but instead, you stood there glued to your spot as he rolled his shoulders, smiling brightly at you and letting the nozzle rest in the middle of your temple.

“Now, be a good girl and take me to your members—” a blur of dark hair suddenly appeared from behind the unnamed man, the gun that was held against your forehead was quickly released into the air as the towering man flipped in his spot—falling head first onto the concrete behind him and was completely knocked unconscious before the gun slid a few feet away from him, with your eyes moving to settle on a familiar figure in front of you, eyes locked on the unconscious man with her hand gently holding onto your forearm as you stood there in shock.

"Hyejoo..? When did you..?" you barely even locked eyes with the younger girl when she was suddenly tackled onto the ground, the impact staggering you back in the process until you fell on your behind, watching the battle happening in front of you as you sat frozen in your spot. The supposed-to-be unconscious man had seemed to be aiming to grab ahold of Hyejoo by the neck, using his weight to keep the girl on the ground while his hands were being resisted by your member as she writhed under him. Your eyes quickly scanned for anything to help your member with—anything to knock the large figure that could’ve already ended the shorter girl under him if she weren’t trained—but as you did, your eyes kept flitting over to the pistol that had slipped from the man’s hold from earlier, your ears practically blocked out as the only thing you could clearly hear was the thudding of your heart in your chest.

"No! Y/N—look for Gowon-unnie! Gowon!" Hyejoo cried from her spot—as if the older girl was supposed to just appear out of nowhere once she called—when the man's fist had aggressively pulled back to swing itself onto the girl, aiming to hit her on the face but she managed to move her head the second it was supposed to land. His blood trickled down from his knuckles for them to meet Hyejoo’s cheek as she let out a piercing screech before starting to swing right back at him—landing a few solid strikes straight onto his dumbfounded state. You felt your heart falter at the possibility that the impact of his fist could've landed on the younger girl, making something inside of you snap and clambered to grab the pistol from the ground and stagger closer them, your hands shaking as you point pointed the weapon directly at the assailant with both hands supporting the weapon.

"Let go of her, or I swear—I will shoot." he stopped to look up at you from his position, the punches that Hyejoo had seemed to land on his face was evident at his busted brow and bloodied teeth as smiled ridiculously at you. Hyejoo had attempted another swing just as you had distracted him but he caught her fist without even looking down at her, continuing to maintain eye-contact with you in his bloodied state as he slowly started to laugh at the sight of you standing before him—hands shaking as you aimed his own weapon against him.

"You couldn't even move when I pointed a gun at you earlier—and you're telling me you'll shoot me? Go ahead, child, shoot me!” you swallowed thickly, clenching your jaw to will yourself into keeping the gun aimed at him but you couldn’t seem to ignore the sound of Hyejoo’s aggrieved grunts as she tried to get her hands out of his grip and the sight of her continued attempts at wriggling out of his weight.

“Hyejoo, I’ll get you out of there—”

“Shoot me or I swear—she’ll be unrecognizable by the time I’m done!” the last thing that had crossed your mind before you pulled the trigger was the members in your living room, the image of Sooyoung the first time she had told you that you could trust the members with your life—even though you’ve just met them. You could barely even feel the coldness of the weapon in your hands when several flashes of the members’ reassuring smiles directed to your clueless state when a bloodcurdling scream pierced through your senses, your eyes snapping over to the man you had managed to shoot just between his shoulder and his arm who had scrambled off of your member—panic setting in his features as he continuously muttered “no, no—I can’t die like this!” as he pressed a hand in his wound, shaken up by the sight of his own blood pooling across the sidewalk as he slowly seemed to be losing his consciousness in his spot.

"..Hey." your eyes snapped to the sight of a your bloodied member, the young girl eyeing you careful as you felt slight tug on the weapon you seemed to have kept in a tight grip. You let Hyejoo slip the weapon off your hands before watching the girl walk over to the frightened man—who raised a hand to beg for mercy—when the younger girl held the gun by the barrel to deliver a final blow through his insensible state, supposedly leaving him unconscious but it didn’t seem to be enough as he caught himself before he could fall on his front. Hyejoo then delivered a swift kick to his head that was surely enough knock him out for good just as a familiar blue car had just pulled over by the entrance of the school, the familiar figure of another one of your dark haired members quickly rushing over to the both of you with wide eyes as the pool of blood slowly spreading across the pavement.

"You're both.. Okay." Jinsol breathed in relief, a concerned expression on her face as Hyejoo wiped the drying blood stains on her cheek before turning to you and placing a hand on your forearm—cutting you out of your dazed state to look back at Jinsol’s uneasy gaze. You barely could move your head to nod in response but it seemed that the older girl got the idea, to which she just turned to face the unconscious man and reached over to grab his bloodstained hand— staring down at the ring in his finger with a indecipherable expression on her features before to whispering something under her breath just as several rushed footsteps made their way towards your group. You felt a hand pull you back and a figure quickly blocked you from the body in front of you, the blonde hair was enough for you to recognize that it was Jungeun as Jiwoo had seemed to have followed closely behind, turning to look at Hyejoo who wasn’t even looking at the the members—eyes directly trained on your still figure.

"Who did this!? Was it him!? Give me the gun Son Hyejoo!"

"No, Unnie—we're fine." the older girl moved to reach for Hyejoo’s face before deciding against it and pulling you in a tight embrace instead, the older girl cradling you at your motionless state. Chaewon, Yerim, and Yeojin had soon followed behind—the eldest of the three quickly grabbing ahold of Hyejoo by the shoulders to scan her for any injuries as the younger girl stood there with a pensive look on her face as she continued to stare at you.

"I don't understand—Hyejoo wasn't supposed to be here, if Hyejoo wasn't here.." Chaewon started, a gentle hand remained on Hyejoo's forearm before she turned to look at you with panic slowly settling in her features when Yerim gasped at the image that was set in front of you, her eyes moving to the gun that Hyejoo continued to hold by the barrel and piecing it together. She felt a slight tug on her shirt before turning to a guilt-ridden expression that had been on the youngest member’s state as she looked over to the vacant look that had set on your face as Jiwoo continued to hold you in her arms and tell you that you were alright.

"All of you, get yourselves back in Eden. Yves and I will get him medical attention when she gets here." Jinsol ordered from her spot, eyes moving to scan you and your members just as a familiar burgundy red sports car parked right next to Jinsol's at the front of the building. Sooyoung didn’t even shut her door before she had rushed over to where you stood in Jiwoo’s arms, the red-haired girl quickly taking you into her own as Jiwoo spotted her figure nearing the two of you. The older girl didn’t hesitate in reaching over and pulling Hyejoo in her other arm as well, just when her eyes started to tear up to which the younger girl couldn't help but groan at—slipping out of the older girl’s hold as you continued to be locked in Sooyoung's grip just as she had started to bawl her eyes out.

"Yves, he's bleeding out—we need to go."

"We'll be at Eden, Unnie. We'll be safe there! Please stop crying.." Jiwoo said from behind you, trying to console the older girl as she continued to stain your shoulder with her tears. Your arms gently reached over to pat the girl's back, your eyes finally willing themselves to take in your surroundings again as you watched Hyejoo and Chaewon walk over to Jinsol briefly—speaking to the woman whom had now held a hand against her forehead—before they nodding and making their way over to Hyejoo's car with Yerim and Yeojin. The two who you had just realized had been there the entire time held a disturbed expression in both of their faces, Yeojin looked just about as ready to leave with Hyejoo and the others.

They've most likely never experienced combat in a real setting before, just like you.

"Yeah, yeah—just give me a second," Sooyoung breathed deeply before pulling herself together, sniffling as her hands rested firmly on your shoulders—with you eyeing the distraught girl that looked as if she was going through an inner turmoil about the situation—making you reach over to fix her hair and give her what you could have only hoped was a small smile through your emotionless state, with a reassuring hand placed on her arm in front of you, "we'll settle this, so don't worry about it. Alright, Y/N?" you nodded in reply, not finding it in you to speak at all.

Sooyoung pulled away from you to face Jinsol, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and wiping the tears in attempt to stop the continuous flow down her cheeks, completely turned away from you just as you felt a hand interlace with you—finding the usual bright smile wiped clean from Jiwoo's face, only to be replaced with a careful look as if sensing your delicate state. Your two older members lead you to Jungeun's car, with Jiwoo slipping herself with you in the backseat to just take you in her arms as Jungeun pulled out of the lot—with your eyes stuck on the image of Sooyoung and Jinsol quickly lifting the man by his arms to bring him to Jinsol's car just before they disappeared from your view.

You could barely feel a thing since the man had caught you by surprise, the image of his menacing smile stuck on a loop in your head as he pressed the nozzle against your forehead—the sound of the air being knocked out of Hyejoo's lungs when he tackled her down, the shot ringing through the lot just before Hyejoo pulled the gun away from you. Something has shifted just from the bloodied encounter, something you had somehow knew that you were going to stumble upon since you’ve joined the group—but you didn’t expect it to be so soon, for the situation to put you in such a spot that you could barely process fast enough what was happening in front of you. You didn’t know what came onto you, what made you even dare point a gun at a man just when he threatened a person you barely even knew.

But you’ve seen it, the way the members would lay their own lives in your stead—even Hyejoo whom you’ve never really exchanged a word with—something inside of you just clicked, a subconscious promise to offer your own life in also protecting theirs just as they would do to you.

For now, you’re free to feel the heavy burden of your shattered morals.

For now, you’re allowed to grieve the loss of justified actions and put the safety of your members above all else.

For now, you mourn the death of Ha Y/N and fully embrace who you truly were.

Y/N Y/L/N, The Heiress.

Hi,

Any Carats following along with this series? I was a Carat way back in 2018 and I was juggling between Seventeen and Blackpink at the time. Actually searching up the members’ names was trippy because it’s just something you’d think that would stick with you for years. I think I liked them just when Oh My just came out—I’m sure that they’re my first big member group.

Wonwoo was my bias but before I left my boy-group agenda, I’ve been into DK. I’m proud of where they are now, and I’m honestly contemplating going back but I’m just so into LOONA that I don’t know how I’ll cope if I even miss a single release from them—even news from some TV program Chuu gets invited to lmao (we love a booked and busy queen though).

Anyways, where are the other members of the Lee Family? And how exactly will this play out with this crazed lunatic that tackled Hyejoo once he gets sent back to the Mansion? I have a few ideas already in mind~ And if I finish Act I before this month finishes.. Then what?

It’s getting crazier and crazier~

Oh, and Hyunhye FOTM today—I was writing this so I completely missed it but I read from orrery-nim for translations anyways, but I feel more pumped to write after that, oh boy..

This update was meant for tomorrow, but since Hyunjin breathed today I'll keep writing lmao the grip~

Laters,

JJ.

>ovc: V COOKIE (200213)

https://www.vlive.tv/post/1-18290715

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bisexual-inuyasha · 3 years

Text

Xingese Gold

Prompts: pining/hands/nature. “Please just hate me already.”

Wrap your arms and hold me still

I don't wanna think about what I will

Speak in tones that I can't hear

And tell me how no one knows anything in here

-- Jade Bird “What Am I Here For”

A young boy with black hair and dark eyes sat in his mother’s field. His face was serious, mouth twisted into a frown. He was a very stern child, hair pulled severely back into a bun.

For most kids his age, the object of their concentration would be something colorful and loud. Or maybe even ants crawling along the dirt or the dried out carcass of a worm. For this child, scrawny and tired, it was the flowers. His fingers--nimble, gentle, fleeting like tiny birds--brushed over the golden strands. Petals remained safely caged behind spindly stamen. His pants were soaked at the knees, his bare feet covered in broken grass and mud.

His mother had taught him about these flowers. It couldn’t have been more than a month ago, after a similar heavy bout of rains. The lesson came after the worst news in his young life. She had died only a few days later, protecting him from one of his brothers from another clan. Forty one siblings would be easier to kill than forty two. He’d written the name down in a book, tucked that book into his shirt, and watched his mother be buried in the only silk his clan could muster. It had not been a good season.

She had called these flowers Xingese gold. According to her, they were the only flowers of their kind in all the world. Other places had yellow, red and white. But only the Yao clan from Xing had golden spider lilies. They were proof, she’d said, that he was meant to ascend to the throne. Only the Emperor could wear gold, after all.

He glanced around the field and rocked back on the balls of his feet to get a better look. When he was sure the coast was clear, he plucked a flower and tucked it into the middle pages.

The list of the names in the book grew longer as more and more clans fell to assassination attempts. His mother’s children, his half-siblings, resented and revered him as their downfall and their only possible salvation. For many years, he had no true friends.

And then Lan Fan found him, visiting the now overgrown field, plucking Xingese gold. And she swore, for the price of a single flower, she would protect him. Her hands were clean and her clothes neat when he took him to the humble house she lived in. Her grandfather’s face was hard. His lessons were harder. But his kindness reminded Ling of a childhood wrapped and buried in silk. And with the old man’s guidance, and Lan Fan’s friendship, Ling’s body hardened into a weapon.

His personality sharpened like a knife, quick and cutting and so unassuming.

But it was his instincts that set him apart. He lived with his finger on the pulse, twisting around the existence of others like a hesitant snake. Curious and fleeting, never lingering long, taking only what he needed.

And this is how Ling Yao became a teenager who crossed the desert, determined to find the key to immortality.

**Amestris, before the end of the world.**

Ling lay on hot tiles, tapping his toes against the burning roof. He was waiting for the right time to drop through the open window. This golden haired alchemist was well known around this country for his search for the philosopher’s stone. The philosopher’s stone was well known for being the only alchemical way to achieve immortality. If Ling believed in fate, he’d almost think they were meant to find each other.

That wouldn’t do right now.

Ed had all the cards. Every scrap of information Ling wanted existed behind those golden eyes. Whatever Ed didn’t know about the philosopher’s stone, he knew how to find. Ling sensed that maybe, this stone and Ed’s life, were intrinsically linked. Linked in a way far more certain than fate.

Al left the room. The metal man had taken to leaving when he could tell Ed needed to rest. It was less lonely for him to spend those hours exploring the city. Or at least that was the reason Al gave. But it didn’t take the dragon’s pulse to see that Edward Elric was thinning out.

Not physically. His body was fit as ever, though no taller for having increased his intake. But Edward himself seemed more and more distant. Al may be afraid of disappearing inside his armor, but Ed was disappearing into himself. The golden hair alchemist was becoming lost in a maze of problems and responsibilities that seemed to grow new walls and corridors every day. Ling had his own knots to untangle. He couldn’t help lead Edward out of his.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to talk with you.” Ling slid through the window, grinning.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Ed’s metal arm was over his eyes. Ling had noticed he did this when he was too warm. The metal had to be cool against his skin.

“Do what? You can’t even see me.” Ling sidled down onto the couch. Ed’s bed was clear across the room. He could have sworn the set up was different when the boys had first settled into this room, but he wouldn’t complain. “Lan Fan and Fu want me to stay hidden for a couple of days, until Bradley loses interest.”

“What, did you get bored?” Ed snickered. “Or did they just run out of food?”

Ling patted his tummy forlornly. “Do you mean to say you have food? I do feel a little faint, now that you mention it.” He went limp, feigning unconsciousness. His stomach growled for good effect.

Ed’s footsteps padded on the hardwood floors. The metal clunk of his foot was muffled by the sock he wore over it, but it was still an unusual gait. Distinct, and comforting. It had been a signal to Ling that he was safe, since Gluttony. Since he’d listened for those footsteps in the dark, and the blood. Ling opened his eyes and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Just the thought of Gluttony made him feel slimy. Filled his nose with the scent of blood. Suddenly his appetite was gone.

He still accepted the bowl of scallion chicken soup when Ed handed it to him and took a large spoonful. “Cold.”

“Yeah, well, that is what an icebox does.” Ed pulled his hand through his hair. “Still good though.”

Ling took another large spoonful. His stomach clenched. He put the food down. He tried not to look revolted but Ed was watching him all the same. “Good, but maybe not what I’m hungry for tonight.”

“Hm.” Ed tapped his fingers against his chair. His mouth was tense, body full of restless energy. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Do you ever think about how we’re just… kids?”

Ling waited for the horror to cross Ed’s face at what would usually be a difficult confession, but tonight seemed to be a night of honesty.

“I haven’t been a kid since before I met Lan Fan. I don’t contemplate those kinds of things much any more.” Ling leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. Ed was still in his black tanktop and work pants. He’d taken to sleeping in them more often than not. “What makes your mind so heavy today?”

Ed didn’t answer for a long moment. Outside, Ling could hear the never sleeping cars of Amestris trotting along the cobble streets. Ling followed the line where Ed’s hair met his jawline. It looked so different outside of the braid.

“I saw Al’s body. It’s just. So young.” Ed stood, pacing. Ling listened to the pad-thunk-scrape-pad-thunk of Ed’s steps. “We’re all so young. I can see it in the Colonel’s eyes when he gives me orders. I can feel it when Riza talks to me and there’s all this… this sorrow. Like she’s stealing something from me. Something I’ll never get back. And some part of me knows she’s right.”

Ling could taste the metallic stain of blood on his tongue. His fingernails still had some of Gluttony stuck in the beds. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Envy’s souls calling out to him, begging him to free them. “I’m tired, Ed. Have you been sleeping?”

Ed’s eyes narrowed. His arms crossed. In a small, miffed voice he admitted that no, he hadn’t really been sleeping. “Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re too young to be contemplating loss of youth.” Ling grinned. It was full of too many teeth. “Come on, lighten up Ed. You probably just need a nap.”

“I don’t want to nap. I just. Want to feel like I’m going somewhere.” Ed flopped back into his seat. Ling’s response seemed to have deflated him. “I’m just trying to get back to where I was before I lost Al’s body. But what do I do then? Most people spend this time figuring that out, but I’ve just determined I don’t want to stay a State Alchemist.”

“That’s a good start.” Link chuckled, and despite his best effort, it was not as lighthearted as he usually managed. “Being able to decide you don’t want to do something is a luxury some of us don’t have.”

This was an unusual visit. Since Ling and Ed’s day spent in the belly of Gluttony, Ling had gone to see Ed whenever the sun went down and the smell of blood filled his nose. Usually, Ed gave away his leftovers and they snarked back and forth at each other until Ling fell asleep on the couch. The next morning, Ling would sneak away through the window he snuck in from.

Ling’s chest felt tight. The room was too hot. He didn’t want to think about lost childhood, lost time. He didn’t want to think about fate and choosing his destiny. Ed’s problems weren’t his problems. Ed was upset he hadn’t been utilizing his time choosing what to do after he inevitably succeeded in his goal of finding Al’s body.

If Ling didn’t succeed in becoming emperor, all of his clan's people would die. And whoever became emperor could kill a lot more than that. His success depended on a goal so outlandish that most people dismissed it as a childish fantasy. Success meant a long life of being more responsible for more people than he could count in ten lifetimes.

A heavy touch landed on his shoulder. Ed must have been talking to him, but he hadn’t heard anything at all.

“Are you ok, Ling?” Ed’s earlier anxiety was replaced by worry. Now that Ling had been pulled out from his thoughts, he could feel Ed’s other hand on his knee. Anchors to the present.

Ling smiled. He opened his mouth to assure Ed he was fine and maybe he’d take a nap since Ed wouldn’t, but Ed was already shaking his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” Ed let go of Ling’s shoulder and leaned back against the couch. He laid his head back, staring up at the window Ling came in. “I don’t have anyone I can actually talk to either, you know. Everyone expects something of me.”

“I expect something from you, too.” Ling leaned back beside Ed. Their shoulders bumped into each other on the couch, skin against skin. The smell of blood receded. Ling’s stomach growled again.

“No, you want something from me. That’s not the same as expecting something of me.”

Ling turned to look at the alchemist, surprised. “Explain.”

“Winry expects me to keep her and Al safe, to keep all my promises and then return home. Al, of course, expects me to get his body back. And I will. I want to. He should expect it of me. The Colonel and Hawkeye expect me to be an amazing alchemist, but they also expect me to be ok. Compared to all of that…” Ed sighed. “Compared to that, telling you about the philosopher’s stone is just a conversation. Just me telling you about Alchemy and my research.”

“So you’re saying you would have told me about the philosopher’s stone without me blowing up Gluttony’s head?”

Ed scoffed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel like a badass.”

“I was terrified. I'd like to see you stick your whole arm in that thing’s mouth.” They both laughed. Though truly, Ling was terrified of Gluttony. And Envy. All of the Homunculi who had too many souls. He thought Ed probably was, too.

“Well, you certainly looked confident. And fast, too. You’ll have to teach me some moves. Maybe I'll finally beat Al in a fight.”

They didn’t talk for so long that Ling drifted into sleep. His side pressed against Ed’s. Their legs touched hip to knee. Ling could feel the jutting edge of the automail through Ed’s jeans. To his surprise, Ed’s head leaned into his, stirring him. Ling turned to see if Ed was asleep and was greeted with a face full of golden hair.

Ling moved carefully. Ed was fast asleep. He didn’t even seem to notice Ling’s arm move to circle around his shoulders.

The memory of the dark, and the blood, and the souls crying out dimmed. Quieter, until Ling could almost convince himself those monsters had just been a bad dream. He ran his fingers through Ed’s hair and considered.

They’d grown closer, since their run in with Gluttony and the desperate run from Father’s base below Central. Since his introduction to Ling, both Envy and Wrath had been relentless in hunting him down. And still, he came here. Still, he waited out the nights with an anchor that told him the darkness was safe.

“You know, I’m going to use that stone eventually.” Ling kept his voice low. He didn’t actually want to confess anything to Ed. Not while the shorter man was sleeping so soundly. “No matter how it was made, I can’t let all my people die.”

Ed didn’t stir. Ling hummed. A thought twisted through his chest. “It would probably be better if you hated me now instead of later. But I just can’t bring myself to warn you. I’m a selfish, selfish man.”

Ling drifted off again eventually. It was hard to sleep on the couch without ending up awkwardly wrapped around Ed or falling off onto the hard wood.

When he woke in the morning, he was surprised to find Ed still leaning on his shoulder, fast asleep. The sun flooded the window and suddenly Ling was back in Xing, in his mother’s field. Strands of gold spilled between his fingertips.

“Xingese gold…” Ling murmured.

“What?” Ed yawned and sat up. “God, your breath stinks.”

Ling snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

Ling’s face burned. Every time he’d done this before, Ed had slept in his own bed. They’d come dangerously close to cuddling. With Ling’s increasing dependency on his visits with Ed, he wasn’t sure how to interpret the new developments.

“What’s Xingese gold?” Ed stood and stretched.

Ling smiled, remembering his mother sitting among the flowers. He pulled his book from his pocket. “I’ll show you.”

The flower was faded and fragile. Ling didn’t dare move the flower off the paper. “Only my clan in Xing can grow this specific shade. My mother called it Xingese gold.”

“That’s… random.” Ed shrugged.

“Just a dream, that’s all.” Ling stretched his grin wide again. “Though, your hair is the exact same shade.”

Ed’s cheeks tinged pink. “Hey, about last night…”

“No one has to know Edward Elric thought I looked cool when I fought the homunculus.” Ling patted Ed’s head, a motion he knew the short alchemist would hate. Ed fumed, but didn’t shout like Ling expected.

“Just so you know, Ling. If you accept that stone, I’ll fight it out of you.” Ed turned, picking up a new set of clothes for the day. “And if it kills you, it won’t make it to Xing to rule with your body.”

The anxiety in Ling’s chest burst. Fear, anger, worry splashed around his insides, coating his thoughts with an existential dread. Ed had heard him last night. Had heard him and rejected hating him.

Ling climbed into the window.

Edward didn’t look back to see him leave.

Besides, no matter how Ling felt about what Ed had said, they both knew he’d be back when the darkness came.

#Ed/Ling #EdLing #Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood #m/m #rarepair

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timelordthirteen · 3 years

Text

Desperate Souls 2/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn’t long before they both realize they’ve made a deal they didn’t understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: A deal is made.

Notes: DON'T HATE ME. I'm not sure anyone thought that this was where this is going, but this is where it's going. Gold is a bastard, and he knows it. This is peak S1 Gold and Skin Deep-esque Belle, I hope that comes through. If there are any tags or warnings anyone thinks needs to be added to this, please let me know. I am always trying to be conscious of consent issues.

[AO3]

Alastair Gold sat in the back of his shop, scowling at the ledger on his desk.

His pen trailed along the edge of the paper, the tip guiding his eyes as he mentally added up the numbers. He wrote the total at the bottom of the column, -$450, and then, before he could contemplate what he was going to do about the debt he was owed, the bell over the shop door clanged loudly. Using his cane, he pushed to his feet and moved to the doorway between the backroom he used as an office and extra storage and the front of the shop to find a peculiar sight.

Belle French stood in the middle of the room in her red wool coat, her arms full of what appeared to be clothing. Her purse had fallen and was hanging from her elbow, and her hair was messier than usual. She looked harried and tired, and even at this distance he could see the redness in her eyes. One of his more responsible and courteous tenants, she was always ready with a smile and a kind word, even for someone like him. He didn’t understand why she went out of her way to speak to him whenever they were in the same location, or why she treated him like he wasn’t the complete bastard everyone knew he was, but the fact that she did secretly delighted and tormented him in equal measure. He might even admit to himself that he harbored the smallest bit of affection for her, a tiny crush that he buried down deep and never entertained as anything other than a fantasy.

“Miss French?” he said, folding his hands over the handle of his cane. “How can I help you?”

She took a breath and seemed to square her shoulders before she came up to the counter and dumped the contents of her arms across it. “I want to sell these.” Then she rummaged in her purse for a few seconds, and pulled out a small, black velvet box which she set down on top of the clothes. “And this.”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he surveyed the items. She appeared to have brought in a collection of...undergarments, and he felt a tinge of heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat. “I see.”

He moved behind the counter and leaned his cane against it before picking up the jewelry box. Flipping it open revealed a surprise, and his eyes darted quickly to her left hand and then back to the ring.

“I presume this means you are no longer the future Mrs. Gaston?” he asked, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds.

“Yeah, he, uh, he left,” she replied, looking to the side at the old gramophone that sat at the end of the counter. Then she turned back to Gold, her expression hardening. “And he took our shared bank account with him.”

Gold glanced up in surprise. Though he couldn’t say he was shocked that her engagement to Garrett Gaston had ended, given that the man was an idiot and frequently a chauvinistic jerk, he was taken aback by the fact that Gaston had also stolen money from his fiance in the process. It certainly explained why Miss French had come to his shop, and it also started to form a very shameful idea in his mind that nearly distracted him from the matter at hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he managed.

She gave a short nod. “That’s why I’m here. I, uh, I need money.”

He smiled crookedly. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”

He took the ring out of the box and set it down on a square of padded velvet before retrieving a jeweler’s glass from behind the counter. She watched silently as he took his time examining the ring, which he made a bit of a show about, considering he had assessed the value of it the first time he saw it on her finger. It was a touch too gaudy for his taste, and he suspected it might be so for her as well, based on how she usually dressed. It was big, showy, and fake, not unlike Gaston himself, and Gold knew he would never see a return on it. He had suspected the stones weren’t real the first time he saw it, but he was willing to give Gaston the benefit of the doubt and not say anything. It was the kind of ring that would probably sit in his shop for years, and he considered that he might be better off to remove the stones and set them in something more suitable.

“Three hundred,” he said matter of factly, and set the ring back in its box.

Belle frowned. “For the ring?”

He nodded and her frown deepened.

“What? No!” She shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “That ring cost over three thousand dollars, and you’re going to give me a tenth of its value?”

Gold sighed. “Look, Miss French,” he began, “the value of a thing is only what someone is willing to pay. It’s devoid of the sentimental attachments we may have to the object, or the -”

“I do not,” she snapped, “have any sentimental attachment to anything that asshole gave me. I just want what is fair.”

“And I am telling you that what was originally paid for this ring is nowhere near three thousand dollars.” She continued to regard him with anger and confusion, and he sighed again. “Given the type of gold it’s made of, which of course is an alloy, and the fact that the stones are lab created white sapphires, albeit very high quality, that is the best I can offer you.”

Belle looked like she wanted to cry, and her loud sniffle told Gold she almost had, but she once again squared her shoulders. “So Garrett got me coming and going then.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “It would appear so.”

“What about this stuff?” she asked, lifting what appeared to be some kind of chemise from the stack of undergarments.

Gold stared at her hand and what it was holding for a long moment, and then met her eyes. “Nothing. I don’t want it.”

She dropped the silky nightgown, letting it spill across the counter. “But...it’s all new. Half of it still has the tags on. I haven’t even worn any of it yet!”

He flashed his teeth. “A pity indeed, but clothing rarely sells in my shop, even the cast off designer items from Mayor Mills, and I can hardly put anything like that,” - he nodded towards the puddle of black silk - “on display for the public.”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked, forcing his eyes away from the lingerie and curling his right hand into a fist to keep from touching it.

He wanted to feel the cool softness of it with his fingertips as it slid over his skin. It was a shame no one would see her in it, but since the only option for that had been that lummox Gaston, he considered it only a small loss.

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Gold exhaled and closed the ring box. “You could take the ring to another shop, or go back to the original retailer. Perhaps they would give you a better price, but I would be surprised if he paid more than three hundred for it.”

She let out a humorless laugh and shook her head. “I don’t have the receipt, nor do I have the money for the gas to get me there, and it wouldn’t be worth it anyway. The rent is due next week, I need to buy food, and I promised my father I’d give him some money...” She sniffed again. “You don’t need to hear this, sorry.”

“You’re giving your father money?” he asked, curious, and she nodded.

“Yeah, it’s just for him to buy extra stock for Valentine’s Day. The shop always does well that week, and he’ll pay me back, he always does, but I have literally thirty-seven dollars to my name right now."

She gave him a flat smile and shrugged with her arms out to either side, and then let them slap sadly against her sides as she sighed. Gold regarded her for a moment. Moe French borrowing money from his daughter was not exactly a surprise. The man borrowed from anyone who would lend to him, and in fact the four hundred and fifty dollar debt in the ledger still open on his desk was from Mr. French. Moe had even used the same reason with him, that he needed to purchase more stock for the upcoming Valentine’s Day orders. Gold suspected that the loan Belle would give her father would be used to pay the debt to him. It was robbing from Peter to pay Paul.

Her hands went to her collar and she pulled out the short necklace she was always wearing. It was gold with a teardrop shaped pearl, a simple but beautifully elegant thing, that he had always thought suited her perfectly.

“How - how much for this?” she asked, her voice shaking as she pulled the pearl up and away from her neck.

His eyes narrowed. The fact that she wore the necklace everyday had to mean it was important to her, and the waver in her voice gave it away. “Are you sure you want to sell it?”

She let the necklace drop and it settled out of sight behind the wide, thick collar of her coat. “No,” she sighed. Then she ran a hand through her hair and blew out a breath as she tried to keep herself calm. “Look, I know you don’t give extensions, but, maybe I could - I could get a loan from you to cover it? I get paid again in two weeks, and I could pay you back half out of that, or - or - shit, I don’t know. Help me out here? Mr. Gold?”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he met her pleading gaze. He knew what it was like to be down to your last dollar, the desperation and anxiety that came with it, and he knew what people might be willing to do in that situation. He had done things he wasn’t proud of, and he had failings as a parent that had left him with a more distant relationship with his son than he wanted, but unlike Moe French he had never lied to borrow money from his own child.

His eyes trailed down to the pile of lingerie still sitting on the counter. It was a shame that it wouldn’t sell in his shop. He might enjoy seeing it everyday, imagining what Belle might have looked like if she’d gotten a chance to wear it, knowing that each piece was something she liked, something she wanted to wear for her lover.

The sensation of the chemise against his palm when he finally touched it was a shock, and he blinked as a terrible idea formed in his mind. “Perhaps...” he started, drawing his gaze from the fabric to settle on her face again, “Perhaps we could come to an...arrangement.”

Belle swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes darting from where his fingers were running back and forth over the black silk to meet his eyes. “What - what do you mean?”

He glanced down at the undergarments again and then up. “You said you’d never worn any of it?” She shook her head. “Would you want to?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you mean?”

Gold licked his lips. Something about the fear in her voice pulled at the darkest parts of him, the spread of silk and lace in front of him like a siren call to his deepest thoughts and desires. He was exactly as beastly and terrible as everyone said, and no amount of Belle French’s sweet conversation could change that. If she agreed to what he was asking then afterwards there would be no more of that, not for him, but for a little while, perhaps, he could indulge his baser notions.

“Would you want to,” he repeated, his lips curving into the slightest of smiles, “for a price?”

She took a step backwards and eyed him. “What? Just like - like modeling?”

He braced both hands on the counter to either side, and leaned towards her. His shaggy hair slipped forward, shadowing his face and darkening his sharp features. “Of a sort, yes.”

Her chest rose and fell steadily, her gaze scrutinizing. “For you?”

His lips twitched. “Yes.”

“For - money?”

He smiled briefly, a flash of teeth in the low light as he spoke that had her hand tightening on the strap of her purse. “Yes.”

Her face seemed to go through several expressions in a matter of seconds, from surprise to confusion to disgust.

“No!” She took another step back and frowned. “Why - what? No. No.”

“I assure you it would be quite worth your while,” he said, finding himself oddly entertained by her reaction. She was seeing the side of him that others saw, the facade she had constructed of him possibly being a good man, the one that allowed her to talk to him so sweetly when they met, falling away. “You could make up everything you’ve lost, and more.”

Belle hesitated at that, and he could see that her mind was warring with itself in spite of her immediate rejection of the idea.

“What would - how would -?” She stopped and pressed her lips together before shaking her head. “No.”

Then, abruptly, she lunged forward and snatched the ring box off the counter, followed by the lingerie, her hands gathering it up without regard for how creased it might get and tucking it into the crook of her arm. Spinning on her heel, she stalked out of the shop, leaving Gold staring after her with a bemused grin.

Belle stalked through the door of the pawn shop, trying to hold her coat closed, her purse on her shoulder, and keep the lingerie against her chest where no one would see what she was carrying.

She had never expected Mr. Gold to proposition her, not like that. His reputation varied by person, but most were in some agreement that he was a bastard through and through, ruthless and hard, inconsiderate and merciless. She had always felt they were exaggerating, that their bad experiences of late rent and unpaid loans clouded their judgement. After all, it wasn’t Gold’s fault if someone couldn’t keep to their contract, was it? She had been prepared for him to protest an extension, to threaten her with a late fee or even eviction if it came to it, and he would have been legally within his rights, even if it made him a little heartless, but to suggest that she - that she would -

Her heels skidded in a patch of slushy snow on the sidewalk, and she reached out to catch herself against the pole of a streetlight. The cold air was making her nose run and she sniffed loudly as she straightened.

She was halfway across the street when she stopped and looked up at the lights from her apartment over the library, glowing through the window in the little galley kitchen. It wouldn’t be her apartment for long at this rate. She’d have to move in with her father again or sleep in her car, neither of which were attractive options.

You could make up everything you’ve lost and more.

Everything and more. It was exactly what she needed, but the thought of parading around for him in her underwear seemed beyond the pale. What had made him even suggest it? Was it out of cruelty or some streak of perverted amusement? She couldn’t begin to understand his motivation, but now that she was standing in the cold, her bare knees battered by the wind and her arms full of what amounted to useless trinkets, she considered that perhaps she didn’t care.

Mr. Gold had always been very exacting in his words, his agreements legally iron clad and always leaning a bit in his favor. He had said he wanted her to wear them, for him, nothing else. She’d asked if he meant modeling, and he’d said ‘of a sort.’ Modeling she could do, she thought, particularly for money, especially since most of the lingerie she was holding was fairly basic catalog stuff, nothing too risque or weird. There were a couple of items that she’d considered special, but those could be easily stowed away somewhere or shoved in the bottom of the trash before she agreed.

Belle closed her eyes and turned around. The shop glowed bright in the darkness as she slowly made her way towards it. She couldn’t believe she was considering this, but her alternatives were few, and consisted almost entirely of being homeless or hawking everything she owned. Unfortunately, what she owned was barely worth anything. Her engagement ring, such as it was, might as well have come out of one of the vending machines at the Dark Star Pharmacy. Garrett could have gotten a cheap ring and a temporary tattoo in a tribal pattern for fifty cents.

The thought, sad as it was, made her laugh, but her smile faded as soon as she came to the door of Gold’s shop. This was it, a moment of truth. She was either going to accept his deal and humiliate herself, or take the two hundred dollars for the ring and starve for the next month. She reached up with her free hand and touched the pearl at her throat, her mother’s necklace which she’d actually considered selling just a few minutes ago, and exhaled.

Do the brave thing, she thought, and pushed open the door.

Gold was still behind the counter, and he looked up as the bell rang out. “Miss French.”

His voice was as smooth and even as it always was, with no tinge of surprise at her return. She regarded him for a moment and then closed the distance, her arms tightening around the undergarments she was still holding.

“How much?” she asked quickly.

His eyes widened, but his expression was otherwise unchanged. “For each time or in total?”

“Each time?”

He smiled slightly. “One item, one night, each week until it’s all been worn.”

She swallowed and took another step forward. “Each time then. In - in case -”

“In case you want to stop?” he asked, and she nodded.

Then he took a pen from inside his suit jacket, tore off one of the pawn tickets from the pad beside the cash register, and wrote something on the back of it before setting it on the counter, facing her.

“I will pay you two hundred for the ring as well,” he added. “If you still wish to sell it.”

She inched closer until she could read it, and gasped when she saw the amount he’d written. It was more than enough to cover all her expenses for a month, and if he intended to pay her for each piece of lingerie, then in all it was definitely everything she’d lost and much more.

“Is that sufficient?”

She looked up and met his eyes, his mouth curving gently as he smirked, and for a second the sickening dip in her stomach made her feel as though she was about to sell her soul. “W-where? When?”

Gold pulled the scrap of paper back and took the time to fold it neatly before tucking it away in his pocket along with the pen. “My house, say, next Thursday evening?”

Belle pressed her lips together and then nodded. “Okay, um, do I need to sign something or -?”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not necessary. Unlike some people in this town, I know I can take you at your word.”

She frowned at that and took another step forward, holding out her hand towards him. He glanced down at it, and then extended his as well. They shook hands briefly, and then she turned to leave, wanting to hurry home before she got sick or started crying again.

“Miss French,” he called out before she’d made it more than two steps. She turned back to face him, and he nodded towards the bundle in her arms. “You can leave those with me.”

“Oh...” She looked down at the now rather mangled and creased underthings as she moved back to the counter. “Uh, sure.”

She relaxed her arms and let the garments fall from her arms, in a messier pile than when she’d first brought them in. Somehow their disarray and the cramping in her arms made her feel even worse. Then she fished the ring box out of her purse again and set it down.

“If you wait a moment,” he said, taking up his cane, “I’ll get the money for the ring from the safe.”

“No no,” she replied. “I, um, I need to get home. Can I - can I get it on Monday?”

Gold inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Belle turned on her heel and hurried out of the shop, her shoes loud on the old wood floor. She heard Gold’s voice bid her a good evening as she pulled the door open, but she didn’t look back or return the sentiment. She had done the brave thing, and now she could only hope that it didn’t backfire.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #lemon fic #my rumbelle fic #fic #desperate souls #also of course i made a banner #i'm the worst

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

For the prompts: Sternay, Centaur, NSFW. Thank you!

Here you go!

Note: I use “races” here in the D&D sense.

Most nights, Barclay works undistracted until the end of dinner. Tonight, looks out the kitchen window so often Moira teases him that she’ll close it to save him from cutting off his own hand by mistake.

He can’t help it. Every time a new party returns from an adventure or demands a table so they can sit and plan their next epic quest, he pokes his head into the dining room of Amnesty Lodge to see if a certain orc is among them.

Technically, Joseph is half-orc, as his father was an elf, but his orcish traits dominate in all but his build and his ears. He’s so handsome, the first time he addressed Barclay by name he blushed for an hour afterwards.

That was the second time they’d met, Joseph having returned from his job as the hired rogue of a party of treasure hunters. He’d been a spy during the last great skirmish, and now put his observation and information gathering skills to good use for a fair price. He, like other adventurers for hire, used Amnesty Lodge as his base, as it welcomed creatures of all kinds and had the best food in all of Kepler.

When Joseph became a regular, it didn’t take long for him to post up in the place where it was easiest for him to talk to Barclay, and more than once he stayed to help the centaur put up chairs and wipe down tables. Four months ago, before he left to help some mages in search of rare artifacts, he knocked on Barclay’s door in the pre-dawn rain and kissed him goodbye, telling him to consider the kiss an offer he could refuse or accept on Josephs’ return.

Barclay kissed him back immediately in reply.

Ever since that morning, Barclay’s orientation towards time changed. He no longer saw his life in weeks and months; instead it was divided into times when Joseph was in town and times when he was gone. It helps that Joseph prefers quests that are about knowledge and have a low chance of death, as he has little taste for violence (in fact, the only orc he knows with less taste for it is Duck, who seems annoyed at the fact the universe thinks it’s his destiny to fight).

When the last diner stumbles upstairs to their room, Moira pats his side, “I can get Jake to help me clean up. You go on home.”

A short walk brings him to his cottage on the edge of Amnestys’ grounds. He gathers his mail, starts a kettle for tea, and contemplates if he should take a bath now or wait for Joseph in the hopes he might join him.

Knockknock

He hurries to the door, throws it open and finds a disheveled but pleased looking Joseph holding a bouquet of branches.

“Hey” his brain offers no further thoughts, too busy drinking in the sight of the boyfriend he’s been missing these last ten days.

“I’m sorry I’m late, we ran into some kind of conflict between two water golems and had to take a longer route. I, um, brought some apple blossoms as an apology.”

“No need to apologize, blue eyes” Barclay takes the flowers, “I’m just glad you’re back in one piece. Uh, do you, uh, wanna come in? I’m making tea and, uh, I was gonna take a bath if you wanna join me.” In spite of the fact Joseph is already through the door and taking off his shoes, Barclay worries he’s moving too fast.

“A bath sounds great, big guy” Joseph cups his face, takes his time kissing every inch of his lips before releasing him, “I’ll go get it started.”

Barclay shuts the door and trots towards the kitchen. He munches two stems of blossoms and then sets the rest in some water on the table.

He joins Joseph just as the orc closes off the sluice that directs the water from the hot springs outside into the massive, rocky tub. It’s designed with multiple wide, stone benches so Barclay can sit comfortably with his legs tucked beneath him. He sets the mugs of tea by the edge of the pool and wades in, settling on his preferred bench as Joseph floats over to him. A grey scar runs up one side of his green chest which, combined with the stylish piercings in his ears and the one stud in his nose, make him look a mixture of tough and debonair that never fails to make Barclay paw the ground with frustrated desire.

The orc is so handsome, has kissed Barclay breathless and given him the honor of tasting his cock several times, but there are things Barclay wants from him that he will never ask for. And so, as the orc drapes his arms around his shoulders, he puts those lurid thoughts from his mind.

“Do you want me to get your back?” Well-trimmed claws scritch the sensitive line where fur meets skin.

“Fuck yeah.”

Joseph splashes to his side, retrieving one of the milky-white bottles lined along the rocky edge. The scent of oatmeal and chamomile fills twines into the steam as the orc guides a generous line of the shampoo down his spine. Barclay would never admit it in public, but he uses this blend in part because it brings a shine to his dark bay fur, the color of which he is immensely proud.

“You have such a handsome coat” Joseph murmurs, fingers creating a path of suds as he rubs them in circles, “then again, the rest of you is handsome too, so it’s only remarkable in that it puts every other centaur I’ve seen to shame.”

Barclay squeezes the loofah he’s using on his shoulders, groans when Joseph digs his fingers into the spot on his back legs that is always sore after a day in the kitchen.

“Look at all that strength buried right here” Joseph pets up his leg and along his flank, “gods, Barclay, maybe I should count myself lucky that you work somewhere you aren’t seen so that I’m not constantly fighting off every centaur who passes through town and sees what a catch you are.”

“Babe please” he dumps water over his head, which does fuck-all to clear it, “please, when you talk like that it’s, I’m-”

The hands switch to soothing circles, “I’m sorry, if it’s making you uncomfortable I can stop.”

“No, no it’s more like, uh, fuck” he takes a deep breath, “talking to me like that while you touch me, while you’re right there all naked and perfect I, it turns me on and I don’t want to make you deal with that.”

Soft splashing as Joseph moves in front of him, “I think now is the time to tell you I’m, um, more than happy to deal with it. In fact, I was kind of hoping we could do that tonight. We can take our time, since neither of us has work tomorrow and I, um, well let’s just say I thought about you a lot while I was gone and wanted the chance to act on some of those thoughts.”

Barclay snorts, softly, “Trust me, babe, even if you think it’s a good idea now, you won’t when it happens. Lots of people love the idea of fucking a centaur right up until the moment and then they bail. And I mean, like, that’s cool, I don’t wanna fuck someone who’s freaked out and they can call it quits whenever but...yeah. I appreciate the thought, blue eyes.” He smiles, trying to show that he means it, because he does, he loves that Joseph thinks of him that way.

Joseph massages some of the shampoo into his hair, the two of them still face to face, “Do you remember that black trunk I left here last time?”

“Uhhuh” He closes his eyes, neck relaxing, “said it was stuff you needed to keep at my place.”

“It is, and now I know you didn’t peek at it. I did a bunch of research into the best way to prepare to get fucked by a centaur, and everything we need is in that box.”

“Aw babe, you did a research project for me.” Barclay hides his face in Joseph’s shoulder.

“It’s my love language.” Joseph kisses his cheek, “Barclay, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. I just wanted you to know that this isn’t some idle fantasy for me, with you filling the role of hot centaur. This is something I want to do with you, my boyfriend who I adore and want to get fucked by.”

“Promise you’ll say something if I’m hurting you?” Barclay mumbles against soap-tinged skin.

A kiss on his head this time, “I promise.”

------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph is conscious of his reputation. He always has been, whether that was how his superiors saw him or how his potential clients see him now. This is why he’s well-aware of the joke that goes as follows:

Did you hear about the undiscovered creature?

No. What is it?

A race Joseph hasn’t fucked.

That’s the translation from orcish, anyway.

It’s not as if he has a checklist of beings he wants to bed. It’s that he’s never seen a creatures race as a deterrent. Not the very charming bugbear who bought him a drink his first time up in Vogel Pass. Not the shy dragonborn who asked him to dance at the Festival of the Two Moons. And certainly not the sweet, gentle centaur who owned his heart from the first time he smiled at him.

Joseph considers himself practical, but Barclay forces him to confront the romantic streak running through his heart. He’d debated how best to show it, considering traditional gestures of orc courtship or a long, long letter, before an exasperated Duck pulled him aside and told him to just tell him, please Joe for fucks sake this is painful to watch.

Over the last few months, he’s learned which flowers to bring his lover, what places to pet and scratch to melt that strong body beneath his hands. He’s also observed that Barclay is sexually pent up yet never asks for release, no matter how many times he swallows or strokes Josephs’ cock. So, while his research and subsequent offering of his ass are far from selfless, he hopes it will show his boyfriend that he will put in the work to bring him pleasure.

He’s busy laying out the four glass cocks of increasing sizes next to the largest bottle of lube they had at fantasy Costco while Barclay arranges a set of cushions, bars, and ropes near the bed. When put together, the items form a rig that allow centaurs to fuck smaller partners. Barclay bought it the last time someone expressed a desire to fuck him; it’s never been used.

Joseph sits on the bed, all his supplies in reach, and pats the large mattress to indicate Barclay can join him.

“Should I help?” The centaur tucks his legs under him, tail twitching once.

“Yes, by holding me while I warm up. You won’t be able to when you’re fucking me, so I need to get my fill.” He rests his back against Barclay’s bare chest, tips his head up so his boyfriend can kiss him, “if you’re good, maybe I’ll let you open me up some of the way.”

Barclay whines, nuzzling his hair as he preps the smallest toy. It slides in easily, Joseph working it back and forth with soft moans. It’s not long before he trades it for the next size, the one he uses most often. The centaur’s arms twine around his waist and his chin rests on his shoulder, jostling in time with Joseph’s thrusts.

The third toy has a flared base and he grunts, spreading his legs wider as he pushes it in. He stops mid-way, needing a moment to relax. Barclay rubs his thighs, asking if there’s anything he needs.

“A little distraction might help.”

“I can manage that.”

“GAHahnnnnm, shit, that works.” Joseph moves the toy incrementally deeper as Barclay nibbles his ears. The playful pain always makes him shiver and submit to whatever’s happening, and soon the toy bottoms out. He fucks himself with it until the idea of taking more feels not only possible, but wonderful.

The fourth toy is, according to his research, to inches shorter and an inch and a half thinner than the average centaur cock. It’s an intense stretch and he groans, falling back in Barclays arms. The centaurs breath is coming in hot puffs on his neck and chest, and the bed is moving more than it was a minute ago.

“Enjoying the show, big guy?”

“Uhhuhnnn, I, fuck babe this is making me so fucking hard but I, I didn’t wanna say anything in case you needed to back out.”

“My sweet, considerate Barclay. Here, I have an idea.” He tips forward, splaying out on his stomach with the toy sticking part way out of his ass, “I want you to finish getting me ready.”

“Okay” He can feel Barclay’s hand shaking through the length of the toy, “fuck, your ass looks good like this.”

“It’ll look even better with yours in itAH gods, that’s a good speed for it, gods that feels so good.”

Barclay growls, pushes the toy all the way in as Joseph arches off the bed with a wall-shaking moan.

“That’s it, ohmylord, see big guy, I can take whatever you give me. You won’t break me, won’t hurt me, just fill me up and make me cum so hard I white out-”

“Who says you’re gonna get to cum, blue eyes? Maybe I’ll just fill that tight orc ass up and leave you there until I’m ready to breed again.”

There’s a smack just as the toy stops moving. Joseph turns to see Barclay with his hands clamped over his mouth.

“‘M ‘orry.”

With some effort and another moan as the toy shifts, he rolls onto his side and holds up two fingers, “First off, I’ve heard way more explicit ‘breeding talk’ including from my own kind. Second of all, if it bothered me, I wouldn’t keep talking about how strong and capable you are when I want to wind you up. I was a spy, Barclay; I’m very good at telling what people want and what they’re hiding.”

“Joe….” it’s a whine. Rarer still is the use of his nickname, something Barclay only does when he’s far gone with desire. Joseph allows himself some internal smugness before smiling at his boyfriend.

“I’m ready for the main event if you are.”

Lube drips down his thighs as Barclay helps him into place. There’s a large, square cushion with very little give shoved up against the wall. It’s waist-height for Joseph, so he bends over it and lets his boyfriend strap his wrists and ankles down against the faux-velvet.

“Is that okay? You don’t need the extra pad under your feet?”

“Assuming we’re at a comfortable angle for you, I’m all set.”

“Right. Cool.” Barclay sounds almost impatient; what an evening of firsts this is turning out to be. “I’m gonna put the last piece on.”

A cool circle of stainless steel sits snugly against Joseph's ass. In his reading, he learned that a common issue was the cock slipping out during the precarious first pushes, leading to frustration for everyone. Since Barclay can’t guide it with his hand from the angle he’ll be at, the ring offers a tactile clue and keep him on course once he pushes in.

The centaur moves so he’s behind him, then steps forward so his front legs are on either side of the block Joseph is strapped to. From here, the heat of his body surrounds the orc and he feels safe instead of smothered. After three mis-judged nudges, his cock threads though the ring, the flat, wide head of it parting Joseph’s ass as they both groan.

“Shit” Joseph hisses. Barclay freezes above him, so he adds, “that was good cursing.”

It remains so as the thick head stretches him open, and he gasps with relief when it’s done breaching his body. The shaft is narrower, so that’s the hard part over with. Better still, his preparation pays off; the cock slides most of the way in with little resistance.

“Can I start moving?” He can’t really see Barclay’s face from this angle, but the centaurs' shy, lustful hope is clear in his voice.

“Yes, big guyFUCK! Ohfuck, yes, holy hells that’s good.” The first thrusts make the purpose of the straps clear; if Joseph weren’t tied down, he’d be bounced this way and that, increasing his chances of injury. Trapped as he is, there’s less chance for accidental harm and no distraction from the massive cock relentlessly thudding into him.

“Fuck, Joseph, you feel so good baby, fuck I never think of you as small but it’s like I can reach the back of your fucking throat like this.”

The comment draws his attention to what he assumes is a lump in the flat surface of the cushion that’s causing his stomach to rock at an angle.

“Holy shit that’s, that’s your cock. Barclay, it’s, it’s literally bulging my stomach out.” He wishes the set up allowed him to see it, he wants to sear the image of Barclay’s cock molded against his flesh into the deepest corners of his memory.

“I can feel it babe, believe me. Fuck, such a tight fit, you’re like a fucking toy, stretching to take me.” More force behind the thrusts, suggesting Barclay is using the bar enchanted into the wall for this exact purpose, “shouldn’t waste a breeding load on a toy, but fuck me if I care.”

“Gods almighty” that fact hadn’t appeared in his research, but makes perfect sense; if a centaur hasn’t fucked in awhile, their biology might generate a greater amount of cum the next time around in hopes of continuing their kind.

“Yeah, you like that, like the idea of taking my cum so deep you’ll be able to taste it. Gonna fill you up babe, fuck, gonna leave you dripping for weeks.”

“That’s right, big guy, you can cum as much as you want.” His comment dies out into a prolonged whimper as his cock ruts against the cushion, pushing him towards orgasm.

Barclay stops, huffing, and rumbles, “It’s cute how you think you get to make that call, instead of taking me for as long as I fucking say like the needy little piece of ass you are.”

“Sweet fucking hell” Is all Joseph gets out before his words give way to desperate, ecstatic sounds. Barclay fucks him so hard and fast it shakes dust from the ceiling and a picture from the wall. The entire lower half of his body is stretched and pounded so mercilessly and with absolutely no pauses, meaning his orgasm only registers when splatters across the floor. His sensitive cock gets no reprieve, bouncing in time with Barclays increasingly sharp thrusts and making Joseph gasp whenever it rubs against the cushion.

His assumption that Barclay is going his fastest goes out the window when the centaur quickens his pace, Josephs wrists and ankles twisting in their bonds as his mind falls silent. All he hears is Barclay grunting as his cock tries to go deeper into his ass.

“C’mon babe, c’mon, take it, take me deep, take the whole godsdamn fucking thingohfuck, Joe.” There’s a deep, broken cry as cum pumps into him, his body aching at the further intrusion. Barclay whimpers and moans above him, hips still jerking as he keeps cumming. By the time he gives a final thrust, cum is escaping back down his shaft, Joseph’s body unable to contain it.

“Do, do you want me to pull out all at once?”

“Yes, best to get the mess over with instead of dragging oOWut.” His body gives up any pretense of supporting itself when the centaur slides out of him. Thank goodness for the cushions. Barclay isn’t faring any better, knees wobbling as he undoes Josephs’ restraints and helps him to the bed. The orc just manages to remember to toss a towel out for him to lay on so he doesn’t stain the bed sheets with the spend still running down his legs.

Barclay nestles protectively around him, guiding his head to rest on the still-shiny fur of his back, “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“For us. I don’t know if you noticed, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“Kinda got that sense, yeah.” Barclay rests their heads together, “Even so just...thanks. Thanks for taking the time and effort it takes to fuck me.”

Joseph toys with Barclay’s hair, tucks it behind his ears, “Barclay, I love you. Part of that means figuring things like this out together. Even if being with you, in any sense of the word, was a hundred times more complicated, that wouldn’t be enough to stop me from trying.”

Barclay doesn’t ask if he means it. Instead, he draws him into a kiss, works his magic with his lips and tongue until Joseph is practically draped over him, content and exhausted. Before the centaur scoops him up for another bath, he kisses his cheek and rumbles, “Thanks, babe. And I love you too.”

#sternclay #reader requests #agent stern/barclay #monster march #centaur boyfriend #monster boyfriends

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years

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Blood in the Rivers: VII

A/N: I apologize for the wait. I hope you guys still like this little story of mine.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: T (Maybe M??) For Blood, allusions to smut, my continued overuse of italics, poorly written, soft confessions of feelings

Word Count: 8.3k (Someone please take my computer away)

Read Chapters I-VI here! Or on Ao3!

Chapter Seven: The Price of Happiness

All of Dorne was a delight to the senses. The food was better, the wine more tart, the air itself smelled sweeter and punctuated with the scent of salt of the ocean and the heat of the sun-warmed walls. It was paradise. Never in her life had she met a family more loving and open with their affections—or their squabbles. The Sand Snakes welcomed her with open arms and quelled most of the fears that turned Y/N’s stomach.

And having the company of Sansa and Arya gave Y/N an immeasurable amount of joy. Simply knowing they were alive and well and within her reach let a small bit of weight lift from her shoulders. All of them melded together into a strange camaraderie that Y/N quickly grew accustomed to. Arya trained with Obara, Elia, and Obella—and little Dorea would sometimes sneak away from her mother and Septa to try to keep up with the older girls. And Arya was insistent that Y/N join them at least three times a week. Sansa would sup with Nymeria and Tyene and would drag Y/N along when she wasn’t occupied with Ellaria and Oberyn. They would read to little Loreza to help her sleep. Sarella was still in Oldtown but had sent a raven with a kind word, welcoming Y/N into the fold.

All of it was…perfect. So perfect that Y/N was waiting for something terrible to happen to knock her from the pedestal of the happy life she’d created at Sunspear.

“You are quiet, My Tully,” Ellaria said as they sat together on the sand of the strip of beach just outside the fortress’ walls. A handful of handmaidens waited to be called, standing in Sunspear’s forgiving shadows, with a half dozen guards. Ellaria had stolen Y/N away from Manfrey Martell’s lessons. Oberyn’s cousin was the current Castellan of Sunspear and had been teaching Y/N the proper way of keeping the household and surrounding city running smoothly, as it had for centuries.

“I am enjoying the view,” Y/N replied as she watched Ellaria tie her skirts a little high around her waist as she wanted to wade into the water. Her four daughters were all laughing and splashing a few paces away, without a care and nearly infectious with their joy.

“We agreed to not lie to each other, My Tully. Nor keep secrets.” When she was finished tying her own, Ellaria pulled Y/N to her feet and made quick work of tying her skirts, too. She grasped her hands and led her out to the lapping water.

It was warm and clear—a far cry from the usually-muddy waters of the rivers around Riverrun. Ellaria continued to lead her in until their bundled skirts were in danger of getting wet from the shallow waves but did not release her grip even as they slowed to a stop. She pulled Y/N a little closer and brushed a kiss against her shoulder, exposed in the Dornish style dress Nymeria’s favorite seamstress had tailored especially for her in a pretty sky blue. The ugly scars from the arrow were exposed but very few paid them any mind.

“Tell me what is burdening you.”

“You will think me foolish,” Y/N murmured.

“Never.”

Y/N sighed and squeezed at Ellaria’s hands before wrapping her arms around herself. “Everything here is so…lovely. A paradise.”

“Just as I told you all those moons ago at that wretched wedding; I knew you had the right heart to make Dorne your home.”

It was almost as if Ellaria was trying to banish whatever gloomy thought Y/N had with kisses as she stole one from Y/N’s frowning mouth and then another as she started to smile. “And I am grateful to be here, to have you in my arms now—you and Oberyn both. To be welcomed to happily by your family. But I am worried…the gods have only afforded me this happiness to rip it away from me. Surely I cannot be this happy for the rest of my days.”

“Why do you think that your happiness must have limits? The gods delight in their creations. Why should we not delight in them as well?” Ellaria smiled and looked like a goddess herself in the sunlight and surrounded by clear, sparkling water. “Your happiness does not have a limit because the gods deem it so. Only you can determine how happy you are in this life. I have chosen to take every opportunity to seize happiness, joy, whenever I can. You have brought me such joy, My Tully. I want you to have the same—but you must let yourself.” Ellaria pulled Y/N close again and pressed another kiss to her mouth. “Will you let yourself?” She asked against her lips.

“I will try,” Y/N answered with a laugh.

A sudden splash of water had her sputtering and Ellaria chuckled. “You will,” Ellaria stated, wet fingers trailing against Y/N’s cheek.

Ellaria tasted like saltwater and sunshine when Y/N kissed her again. “I love you,” Y/N said, the words bubbling out of her throat before she could even think to stop them.

“My heart has been shared between you and Oberyn since I saw you at the market. I love you, sweet girl, and I will remind you of that fact every chance you give me.”

“You travelled through the Kingswood during a battle?” Y/N could feel her throat tightening with each passing word. Word had come to Oberyn that the Lannisters knew Sandor had been seen in Dorne. Ellaria’s words about embracing joy—and the fact that Ellaria loved her—had lifted her mood for the past handful of days but the news had quickly soured her disposition. She asked plainly what had happened on the way to Dorne with Sansa and Arya and expected to hear that he had taken the most benign route possible and then be on her way. That was not the case. “I told you to take her to safety-”

“The little bird’s alive, ain’t she?” Sandor griped. “She’s fine.”

“Thank the Seven,” she retorted, face still contorted with rage. “I cannot fathom your reason for endangering her—you know the Stone Crows-”

“Aye, the Stone Crows,” he mimicked, remembering the Mountain Clan men Tyrion had brought to King’s Landing and used as reinforcements around the castle during the Battle of the Blackwater. “Stupid bunch of brats with swords. They bleed just like the rest of the Lannister’s cunt forces.” But he dropped his voice and leaned close, letting the scent of blood orange he had on his tongue waft over her. “You were right to leave her care to me. I would never let any hurt come to her. Do not doubt that again.”

Y/N scowled. “And Arya? You were just letting her run about, killing people?”

“She is a little beast. There is no taming that one. You’re lucky I got her here without gagging her.” His burnt face twisted. “I’m sure you taught her that.”

“The only thing I tried to teach Arya was how to use a bow.” Y/N grumbled and rubbed at her temples. “But, thank you for seeing them here—safely. It means a great deal to me.”

“Did you truly kill Gregor?”

The question surprised her, as did the soft tone (as soft as Sandor could be, anyway). “I did.”

“Was it quick?”

“Not as quick as I would have liked.” Y/N sighed. “I am sorry I took that from you, your revenge.”

“You did what you had to do. He deserved what he got.” He glanced at the door to Sansa’s chambers. He had been assigned, by a smug Oberyn who knew that Sandor wanted to leave, to be Sansa’s sworn sword. “The Little Bird would say the gods were kind or some other stupid shit.”

“Are you certain seeing his rotting head would not quell some of that rage? To see he is truly dead? The Silent Sisters haven’t taken it for cleaning just yet.” It was still sitting in a box in one of the fortress’ undercrofts. (Arya had poked at it with the end of a quill and Sansa had steadfastly refused to look at the decomposing lump of flesh when Y/N had told them about her own ‘adventure’ in King’s Landing.)

“No,” he said, final and direct.

“Very well. But I am sure you will lay your eyes upon it eventually. Oberyn has said he wants it dipped in gold and strung up in chains within the throne room once it is clean.” Y/N looked at Sandor, truly looked at him. “Please, be kind to Sansa. While she is learning the ways of the world at Prince Doran’s behest, she still has a gentle heart. And she is very fond of you even if you and I both know nothing will come of this childish infatuation of hers.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed but he did not say anything.

Y/N took a small step forward, knowing she needed to say this if only to sate the small bit of fear she had in her heart. “But if I ever catch you breaking her heart or using her as your brother intended to use me, I will make sure your skull sits next to his.”

“My lady!” Daisy dashed into the hall and barely cast a glance at Sandor. “Prince Oberyn is waiting for you in his solar.”

Y/N nodded and looked one last time at Sandor and received a half-hearted glare in return before she let Daisy lead her through the gilded, warm halls even though she had traversed this path too many times to count, often in the dark of the night. She tried to shake off the foreboding feeling of the Lannisters knowing Sandor was in Dorne and the annoyance that the swordsman also put Sansa and Arya in harm’s way with minimal success. Daisy left her side with a smile as they reached the opened door and Y/N sighed as she spied him sitting at his desk intensely focused on whatever task was set in front of him. Bits of parchment were scattered about. A well of ink was precariously perched near the edge. The entire room was draped in shades of ruby red and highlights of orange that shimmered in the sunlight that streamed in from the large windows, opened to let in the salted air from the ocean below. Sumptuous cushions were piled beneath the western window and a small table with a cyvasse board was set up across the room near the door that led to his bedchamber. He almost seemed to be a work of art she was fortunate to look upon—a god at rest captured by the finest artist the world had ever known. While she had readily admitted her love to Ellaria, she could never seem to find a time to say it to Oberyn. She knew she loved him, loved him like she loved Ellaria. But it seemed inappropriate to blurt it out over a meal or in the heat of some tryst. (And Ellaria found the entire situation hilarious.)

His head snapped up as he heard her footfalls and his lips pushed up into a smile as he set down his quill and waved her over. “Come here, my moonlight.” He reached out to her with ink-smudged fingers and pulled her into his lap as she laughed.

“What are you working on?” She asked, pulling the bit of parchment he was scratching at off the desk. It looked to be a correspondence to his brother Doran—at least that is what she assumed before Oberyn took it from her grasp and flung it over his shoulder.

“Nothing of importance.” He pressed a kiss just below her ear just to hear her laugh again as his grip squeezed around her waist. “I do have something from home for you though.” He patted at her thigh to have her stand and then he strode over to the single trunk in the corner and opened it. Something blue was clutched in his hand and his smile was contagious as he turned toward her. “Come, my moonlight. Let us see if it will suit you.”

Y/N did as she was bid and walked to his side. Blue velvet unfurled from his grip and she unconsciously reached out for it and let her fingers trace over the delicately embroidered, inky black trout at the center of the cloth. Small, red Pentoshi towers lined the hem in sparkling thread. As she pulled it closer, the faded scent of evergreens and her mother’s perfume met her nose.

Oberyn carefully pulled the cloak from her grasp and then set it upon her shoulders and fastened the aged silver clasps, fashioned to look like fish scales, onto her dress. It fit perfectly. He smiled as he said, “your father said it was the cloak he had made for your mother when they were married. Her bridal cloak—now your maiden’s cloak.”

Y/N flung her arms around his neck and held him tight. “Thank you. Thank you for this.” She knew exactly what it was when he had first pulled it from the trunk. Her mother had always wrapped her in the cloak when the air turned cold within the halls of her father’s keep. It would drag behind Y/N’s little legs to the delight of her mother who would then chase after her and scoop her daughter up into her arms. The cloak would be wrapped around her tightly to escape the chill by her mother’s careful hands. It was like she could hug her mother again in a strange sort of way.

Oberyn laughed as he returned the embrace. He pulled back just enough to press his lips to hers, delving his tongue into her mouth with ease and delighting in the happy sound it coaxed from her throat. His sneaking fingers slid to grab at her ass and smiled against her mouth as he did so.

“But I have a question for you.”

“And I shall answer.”

Oberyn looked at her, dark eyes shining in the sunlight but…the smallest bit of trepidation also seemed to color his face, too.

“What is it, my prince?” Y/N asked, voice soft.

“Is this truly what you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I realize that I have pressed this all upon you like a man half-crazed. I did not even ask if you wanted to be married—or if you would prefer a life like Ellaria—or a life outside of Dorne and free of me when this war is over. I only had the agreement drawn up after you told me of Tywin’s intentions. I could have stolen you away after your betrothal to him was made public but I knew it would cause bloodshed—and you, my moonlight, have a gentle heart.”

Y/N smiled as she looked at him, heart squeezing. Knowing he further delayed his want for vengeance because he cared for her meant more than words could say. Her thumb swept across his cheeks and she savored the warmth he exuded. “You have a gentle heart, my prince. And I am blessed by the gods to know it.”

Oberyn kissed her softly. “My own mind can be a cruel place. And Stark—Robb—had mentioned how you never spoke of marriage when you were young. It was not something you ever wished of.”

“I was blessed by parents who loved each other fiercely. And Uncle Hoster knew he could never bring a match forward that my father would approve of so he did not try. A child loved as much as I was would only demand the same love in a marriage. It was made increasingly apparent that a loveless marriage was what most women had, especially women of my station. I would not marry if I did not love them. If I was not sure that my heart was safe.”

She could almost taste the words bubbling on his tongue as he opened his mouth, “and I know that I have hurt you-”

“I want to marry you, Oberyn.” She said with a smile, feeling silly, happy tears sting her eyes with Ellaria’s words once again ringing in her head. “I want to call you my husband and I want to be your wife.” Her heart was light and singing in her chest. It was true. She knew that with every fiber of her being.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“You love me,” Oberyn breathed. And then he was smiling at her as if she had hung the sun and stars.

“I love you.” And it was so easy to say.

Oberyn’s warm hands cradled her face and he pressed his mouths to hers. This kiss was the softest he had ever given her, almost reverent. “You love me,” he whispered into her panting mouth as he pulled her ever closer. “Tell me. Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.” The words were hummed, happy. “I will love you forever.”

And she believed him.

Y/N woke when she heard a tapping at her door.

“Y/N,” the voice whispered on the other side. “Are you awake?” The door creaked open and a small figure slipped in. Arya climbed into her bed and slipped beneath the silk sheets when Y/N waved her forward.

“What is wrong, Arya?” Y/N asked, pulling the younger girl close and trying to keep her eyes open. Dinner with Oberyn and Ellaria had lasted well into the night and was filled with sweet wine and spiced foods and heated kisses that seemed to eat time. The realization that they all loved each other left them drunk on each other’s presence and the wine certainly did not help. Her throat was sore from overuse and she could still feel phantom fingers between her thighs. She must have only been asleep for an hour before Arya knocked.

“Bad dream.”

Y/N hummed and pushed her fingers through Arya’s hair. If she was being honest, Y/N was almost surprised it took Arya this long to crawl into her bed. Sansa had done it at least a dozen times since Y/N had arrived at Sunspear. But Arya, genuinely, kept her hurt close to her chest so Y/N did not blame her for taking the time she needed.

“I keep seeing the Freys toss Mother’s body into the river.”

Y/N instinctively tightened her hold. She had not realized Arya had witnessed the Red Wedding. Sandor must have taken her to The Twins in hopes of reuniting Arya with Robb and Catelyn—a bloodbath greeted them instead.

“I see it over and over when I close my eyes. I want them dead. All of them. Every single Frey needs to be dead-”

“They will be. I’ll make sure of it.” Y/N pressed a kiss to Arya’s forehead. Despite her exhaustion, she meant her promise. All of them would meet The Stranger for their crimes. The joy Ellaria spoke of, that Y/N was quick adopting, seemed to have stretched to vengeance. There would be joy to see their enemies bleed. There would be joy to see them dead. “Even if I have to do it myself.”

“The Boltons, too,” Arya said, voice starting to tighten with unshed tears.

“Oh, yes. We’ll rip them out. Root and stem.” The traitorous Northern house would see a gruesome end, too. No matter if they were holding Winterfell or not.

Arya let herself cry then, curling farther into Y/N’s hold and Y/N rubbed her back with soft hums, letting the young girl finally express her grief. But, eventually, Arya’s sobs quieted to even breaths. She had fallen asleep on Y/N’s chest just as another knock came at the door. Sansa slipped into her room and Y/N found herself between the Stark sisters as the moonlight shone through the balcony opening. “A bad dream?” Y/N whispered as Sansa snuggled into the overstuffed pillow beside her.

Sansa shook her head. “I am happier than I have been in a long time. And I owe it all to you.” She reached out to grasp one of Y/N’s hands as it still rubbed at Arya’s back.

But Y/N shook her head. “You survived because you are strong, little one.”

“It is because of you that Arya is here, that we are alive. We are safe. Together.”

Y/N squeezed her hand. “You and your sister both have been through great and terrible trials. You must be there for each other.”

Sansa pressed closer and tightened her grip on Y/N’s hand. “Can you sing to us? Like you did when we were children?”

Y/N wanted to say that she and Arya were still children—just grown too quick by the terrors of the world. “What would you like to hear, little one?”

“Jenny’s Song. You sang that the night before you left Winterfell.”

“That is a sad song. Are you certain?”

Sansa nodded.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts…”

Daisy flittered about her chambers, gathering a handful of dresses and chemises and folding them neatly into a pair of saddlebags. Prince Doran had sent Y/N a raven and requested that she, Oberyn, and Ellaria travel to the Water Gardens so he could make her acquaintance. “Truthfully, I have written Oberyn several times inquiring when I would meet you but he has taken it upon himself to hoard your time. If you are agreeable, I would have you visit the Water Gardens and would host a feast in your honor. Lords and ladies are already arriving so I hope to see you soon.” He signed the missive with a flourish.

When Y/N asked Oberyn about ignoring his brother’s requests to visit the Water Gardens he smirked and kissed her. “It is not a crime to want you all to myself.”

Y/N chided him with a smile and said she’d already sent a raven back to Doran stating that they would be there the following night. The palace Doran called home was only three leagues away along a pleasant, coastal road. Oberyn knew it well as he usually visited his brother once every fortnight. (“But I have been preoccupied, my moonlight!”)

“I can pack my own bags, Daisy,” Y/N said, noticing a strange rigidity to her friend’s posture as she went about her unnecessary task. She tugged at Daisy’s skirts like a child, slowing her from her quick pace. “Something is troubling you.” And then poor Daisy nearly collapsed in tears and Y/N hurried to wrap the other woman in her arms, shushing her sobs. When her cries quieted, Y/N held Daisy’s wet face between her hands. “Tell me. Let me help you.”

Daisy sniffled. “Daemon wants to marry me.”

“But that is happy news?” Y/N asked, genuinely confused. Daisy and Daemon seemed more in love than ever since coming to Dorne.

“Father will never allow it.” More tears trickled from Daisy’s eyes.

Seeing her dear friend so distraught pulled a heated type of anger from her chest and Y/N curled her hands tighter around Daisy’s face, making sure she listened. “Your father didn’t say anything when we were trapped during the Battle of Blackwater. He did not send a raven to see how you fared. He did not inquire after you after I moved you to Dorne out of a selfish desire to keep you by my side, to keep you safe. Tell me: do you want to marry Daemon?”

“I do,” she hiccupped. “More than anything. He even sent a raven to his lord father for his approval.”

“And he gave it readily, did he not?” she asked, already knowing the answer and watched as Daisy nodded. “Then you have no barrier. If Lord Allyrion requires a dowry, I will pay it. I will pay for the entire wedding if it means you smile again.” If Y/N was allowed to be happy then surely Daisy was, too. Her good, sweet Daisy.

“But Father-”

“Your father can come to Sunspear and speak to me if he thinks to stand in the way of your happiness.”

Daisy sniffled again and pushed out a shaking breath. “I would never ask you to-”

“You didn’t ask, Daisy. But I am telling you that I will not allow your father to keep you from being happy.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Daisy’s forehead and felt a bit of tension leave her shoulders. “You and Daemon are traveling with us to the Water Gardens. We can celebrate your betrothal alongside mine.”

Daisy’s smile was watery but sincere and she suddenly lunged forward to wrap her arms around Y/N in a tight hug. And Y/N was simply happy to see Daisy relieved of her turmoil—at least for a moment. And she meant what she said; she would fight Daisy’s father for her to marry Daemon. And she knew she would win.

The Stark sisters and the Sand Snakes met them at the gates of Sunspear and wished them a pleasant journey. “Please give Prince Doran my regards,” Sansa said before they departed. Y/N knew she missed Doran’s company and teachings, he had sent her away from the Water Gardens to Sunspear when he’d been given word that Y/N was coming to Dorne. And while Sansa liked not having to sneak through the halls to avoid Myrcella, Y/N knew she adored Doran and everything he taught her.

The ride was enjoyable and short and Y/N took the opportunity to let her mare run through the shallow waters. The horse was a gift from Oberyn, a traditional Dornish betrothal gift. Sand Steeds were a point of pride for the Dornish; could run for a night, a day, and another night without tiring or floundering. Most were treated as dotingly as children. The horse was as dark as night with a burnt orange mane and tail—Y/N had named her Qēlos, the High Valyrian word for star. She was the most beautiful horse that Y/N had ever seen and the smoothest ride she’d ever experienced.

But soon the palace of the Water Gardens crested on the horizon, rising from the sand with white and yellow stone and brining the scent of blood orange groves. Lush greenery spilled over the walls as did the sound of trickling water. The golden gates were opened by a pair of hooded guards who bowed as they passed. Servants lined the courtyard to welcome them and handle their horses and bags, each of them bowing in turn as well. Y/N barely had time to admire the beautiful, arching architecture of the palace before Oberyn and Ellaria both grabbed at her hands and all but pulled her inside. She craned her neck and looked everywhere she could as she was pulled this way and that, down a hall, around a corner, further into the shadowed halls by her eager betrothed and paramour. The entire palace seemed to hum with life. Chambers and apartments were filled with visiting lords and ladies. Servants were slipping by, arms filled with dresses or linens or food. Music whispered from around some other corner.

They eventually slowed in front of a beautiful white door banded with bronze and two guards nodded at Oberyn before pushing it open. The solar was filled with more white marble and fluttering white curtains that overlooked the manicured gardens and a handful of pools and fountains. The furniture was a warm, golden wood and every surface had a bowl of some sort of berry or wine or golden trinket or statue. A man in a wheeled chair was sitting behind the perfectly organized desk and looked up from his work with a smile as he heard the door open. His face was kind and greying black hair was cropped to his shoulders. Robes of orange hugged his thin shoulders and sparkled with golden thread.

“Doran, this is-”

Doran waved a hand and dismissed Oberyn’s introduction. “Lady Tully. We meet at long last.”

Y/N quickly curtseyed and placed her hand in his when he reached for her, smiling when he pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “It is wonderful to meet you, Prince Doran.”

He patted her hand and then wheeled himself around the desk. “You are early. I would have met you at the gates.”

“We never keep your time tables, brother.”

Doran chuckled affectionately. “I know. But you are all here now. I will make the proper introductions at the feast tomorrow. I want you to enjoy my home before the wedding.”

“You will come to Sunspear, won’t you?” Ellaria asked with a smile.

Doran nodded. “I will be there next month for the festivities. I would not miss my only brother’s wedding. I would have preferred to have it earlier,” there was a pointed look at Oberyn who only smiled, unperturbed, “but I understand that Oberyn wanted you to be ‘settled’ in Sunspear before making you a Martell.”

Y/N smiled at Oberyn without thinking. It had been Oberyn’s idea to hold off on the wedding and she was grateful. Having the stretch of time, letting her heart settle, before her life changed again in another way was a quiet kindness that she would always hold dear.

“Did little Loreza enjoy the book I sent for her nameday?” Doran asked.

“She did,” Ellaria answered, “insisted on having Sansa read it every night.”

“Sansa sends her love,” Y/N quickly added.

“She is a fine lady. I was lucky to have her here despite the unfortunate circumstances.” It was said so earnestly that Y/N couldn’t help another smile splitting her face.

A quick knock at the door revealed Daisy, escorted by a beaming Daemon, carrying a familiar wooden box. They both curtseyed or bowed in turn before carefully setting the box on the edge of Doran’s desk and then excusing themselves, Daisy winking as she went and letting Daemon curl his hand around hers right before the door shut in its frame again.

An anticipatory silence stretched through the room as they all looked at the box. It was simple. No embellishments or special cuts of wood. It was just a box. But Doran reached out and dragged a finger across it like it was made of something precious.

“I shall like to speak with Lady Tully for a moment,” he said quietly without taking his eyes off the box.

“Of course,” Oberyn said before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “We shall just be at the pools,” he added, mostly for Y/N’s benefit so she could know where to find them.

Ellaria also kissed her cheek before following Oberyn out, providing some comfort, and soon Y/N was left alone with the ruling Prince of Dorne.

Doran rolled back around his desk and gestured for Y/N to take a seat in the ornately carved chair across from him and she quickly settled onto the white linen cushion. She was equal parts nervous and hopeful as Doran gave her a soft look she couldn’t quite decipher. “I will admit that I had my reservations when your raven first arrived. Fostering your little wolf was not a part of my plan but it was a welcome surprise. Lady Sansa is quite the student. She would have made quite the formidable Princess of Dorne.”

Y/N cocked her head to side at that, wondering what he meant, but he pressed on.

“And now you have brought me a wonderful gift.” He opened the box, sliding the wooden cover off with ease and then reached inside. The oversized skull had been dipped in gold only a few days prior and glittered in the bright sunlight as Doran held it aloft. “To know he is dead has brought my soul a small reprieve of the ache it has felt for decades.” The sound of the skull hitting the desk as he set it down was low and heavy. His fingers spanned over the cap and his nails bit into the gold. “Oberyn has always been the viper in the grass—ready and willing to strike at a moment’s notice. A willful little brother who seemed to outshine the sun whenever he was happy and burn anyone who tempted his wrath.” Doran fixed her with his dark gaze. “But I am sure you have seen that firsthand.”

“I have,” Y/N answered.

Doran nodded and did not move his hand from the dead man’s head. “You are like him, aren’t you? A burning rage just simmering beneath your skin. But you are able to hold your wrath and ruin back to play the game.” He hummed and Y/N tried not to fidget in her chair like a child. Doran was more perceptive than almost everyone she had ever met and she was waffling between being impressed and being innerved. “If you can kill a beast like this and still be gentle, you will be a fine Martell.” His fingers finally lifted from the skull to reach out toward her again and Y/N readily placed her hand in his and smiled as he squeezed her hand. “Whatever you need, simply ask. I will make sure you receive it.”

The feast was a decadent affair. Filled with food and wine and music to delight every sense. And the assembled crowd had roared when Doran introduced her as, “Lady Y/N Tully—Slayer of the Mountain!” Oberyn kept a hand over her leg, dragging his fingers against her thigh and growing more and more bold as the night continued on until he was all but cupping her through the flowing blue silk of her skirts. Ellaria pressed berries against Y/N’s smiling mouth as she laughed, knowing exactly what Oberyn was doing.

The sticky night air had her pulling off the thin cloak she had about her shoulders, letting the golden Myrish lace pool around her waist. A few of the guests let their eyes linger on the scars on her exposed chest and back—or the thin bit of scarring across her cheek and then asked if she’d be willing to tell her story. Stating “I was shot by a fool” was infinitely less riveting than “I was able to evade The Mountain’s blade” but both stories gained her a bit of fanfare regardless. The golden skull was displayed in front of her on the table like a shining beacon of how she, a lady, brought a small bit of vengeance on behalf of the ruling family of Dorne.

“The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children.” It was something Manfrey had told her during her studies, face solemn and sad. And Y/N watched almost every person revere the gold-dipped skull in a sort of wicked appreciation before they were formally introduced.

The only person who seemed unnerved by it was Princess Myrcella, tucked into the arm of Prince Trystane. She was too polite to wrinkle her nose at the display of carnage and vengeance but pointedly did not look at it even as Trystane marveled at how large the skull was.

“Dorne suits you, Princess,” Y/N said to Myrcella knowing the young Princess was just as much out of her element as Y/N had been in King’s Landing.

“You as well it would seem,” Myrcella said with a small smile. “I hope to speak with you about…about your duties here. Prince Doran has said you’re very capable.”

Y/N nodded with a smile of her own. “I shall answer any question you may have, Princess.”

Trystane, heir to the throne of Dorne, was definitely his father’s son but seemed to have inherited a bit of a flirtatious streak from his uncle as he managed to snag a berry from Ellaria’s bowl while getting Y/N to agree to a dance. He winked as he walked away with a furiously blushing Myrcella still on his arm and Oberyn laughing into the night air.

“Careful, my prince, it seems Trystane is trying to steal our Tully,” Ellaria mused with a sly smile.

Oberyn leaned close to press a kiss against Y/N’s throat and smirked when she shivered. “Is it true, my moonlight?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve found me out. It was all a ruse to marry a too-young prince and have the Riverlands invade Dorne.” She gasped as Oberyn pinched at her inner thigh, pleasant ripples shooting up her leg and coiling in her stomach.

“Careful. Careful.”

The mischief that sparkled in his eyes made Y/N smile and she placed her hand over his and squeezed, for herself more than him she supposed, and she grasped Ellaria’s hand, too. “The gods could not take me from you both. I promise you that.”

But then Harmen Uller then swept her into a dance, not necessarily waiting for her to accept his hand before pulling her out of her seat, and drew a hearty laugh from her throat as they nearly bowled over other dancing couples. Ellaria then stole her for a dance of her own and then Trystane proved himself to be a graceful dancer, too.

It was all so…perfect.

Y/N pressed a kiss to Ellaria’s cheek as Oberyn danced with little Lady Coryanne Uller, Ellaria’s niece. She was a girl not but five and already named the heir to Hellholt after her father.

“I just need a moment to catch my breath, my love.”

“Do not be too long. I do believe Lord Allyrion is waiting his turn for a dance,” Ellaria said with a chuckle.

Y/N smiled and promised she would be back soon and then started toward one of the side doors of the grand hall, passing Doran as she did and squeezing his shoulder as she went. A servant opened the door with a soft smile and a small bow, letting her out into one of the halls. She slipped through and heaved a sigh when the door closed behind her. The music was muted and the air cooler against her heated skin.

A soft noise caught her attention in the quiet of the hall and her curiosity led her to peek around the corner to see Daemon and Daisy wrapped around each other. Again. Y/N stifled a laugh and turned away, continuing down the hall in the opposite direction. A handful of guards were stationed along the wall, each of them acknowledging her presence in one way or another as she found her way out onto a portico overlooking the still water pools. The blood orange trees swayed in the cool night breeze and brought the scent of citrus to her nose. She leaned against a carved column with a hum, resting for just a few breaths.

“My lady.”

Y/N stood straight and looked out into the night.

A short figure emerged from the shadows, dressed in a hooded cloak and walking with a limp. They reached up to pull off the hood and-

“Tyrion?” The name was pushed out of her in a rush.

The Lannister cautiously moved closer to her on the pink marble of the pools’ terrace. “My lady, I have come to warn you-”

“Warn me? Your family would be insane to think they could come to Dorne and leave unscathed.” Tyrion pursed his lips—it was then that she noticed how bruised his face had become. Molted purple and blue skin covered half his cheek and arced over his eye. “What did she do to you?”

“Cersei has never been fond of me,” that was all he said. “I am sailing for Essos. But I needed you to understand—they know.”

“Know what? Now is not the time for riddles-”

“They know that Dorne has sided against the Crown.” His bruised face flushed with a vibrant blush she could see even in the dim light. “They are coming. And Cersei and my father are determined to hurt you.”

“They won’t make it through the Bone Way. If the Targaryens and their dragons could not conquer Dorne, a tired army from the Westerlands cannot.”

“My lady, please, listen to me. They are not coming with an army—not yet. I told you—they want to hurt you.”

“Let us help you. Oberyn can-”

“My lady?” Daisy’s voice echoed in the hall and reverberated out into the night air. “My lady?”

Y/N turned. “A moment, Daisy!” But when she turned back, Tyrion was gone.

Daisy stepped out onto the portico with a frown, lips swollen from her rendezvous with Daemon. She glanced out into the dark, looking for what Y/N had been seeing. “What is it, my lady? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Y/N cast one last glance out into the dark terrace and saw nothing. Tyrion was gone. “It must have been the wine.” She needed to speak to Doran. Now. But she refused to spoil Daisy’s happy night. News of her betrothal to Daemon had been met with joy and cheers just before the feast had begun and Y/N wanted to let her friend have as much happiness as she could.

“Prince Oberyn is looking for you.”

She nodded and let Daisy lead her back to doors of the grand hall before shooing her way. “Go. I know Daemon is waiting for you in the shadows.” The happy and embarrassed blush that bloomed on her cheeks made Y/N laugh before she skittered away, back into the arms of her love.

Y/N sucked in a deep breath and smoothed her skirts. It would do no good to run in screaming that the Lannisters were coming. She had the most tenuous grasp on belonging here, in Dorne.

“Are you well, princess?” One of the servants asked, hand on the door and ready to let her in. He was young, she could tell. Probably no older than Arya.

“Not a princess just yet,” she said with a smile and trying to ignore how her heart was in her throat. “But I thank you, yes. I am still acclimating to the heat, I am afraid.” It was an easy explanation.

“Shall I fetch you some water?”

Her smile grew. “No, no thank you. What is your name?”

“Gyles, princess,” he said with a tip of his head, dark hair shorn short.

She chuckled. He seemed insistent on the honorific. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Gyles.” She turned to the other servant, not wanting to be rude. “And you? What shall I call you?”

“Ilyn, my lady.” There was a sickly sweetness to his tone and his smile a bit too wide for his face.

Something about him turned her stomach within an instant but she smiled regardless, the perfect lady. “Pleased to meet you, Ilyn.” She turned to Gyles and nodded, letting him push open the door. Y/N slipped in and quickly moved to find Doran but was swept up into a familiar embrace.

“You mustn’t slip away without a word, my moonlight. You are the guest of honor.”

She turned in Oberyn’s grasp and felt a small bit of relief at the sight of his smiling face. “My prince, I must speak to you and your brother.”

His smile faded. “What has happened?”

She shook her head, letting her hands slide across the golden brocade of his robes to grab at the leather of his belt as if that would keep her mind from spinning. “I cannot tell you here. Please, my prince, please.”

Oberyn’s lips drew into a thin line and he nodded once before grabbing her hand and leading her toward Doran.

She did not sleep.

Ellaria had to pull Y/N from Doran’s solar and put her to bed like a child when she had started to sway on her feet. But all of them, every single one of them, were so sure that the Lannisters could not touch them.

But Y/N could feel a terrible, creeping sensation engulfing her entire body. She wanted them to be right. She wanted the Lannisters to be too weak or foolhardy to actually hurt the Martells. But something in her stomach told her to be wary.

So, she sat on the edge of her featherbed and looked out the open window and into the night sky. Watched the water lap in the pools while the air smelled of the lush gardens. She hadn’t readied for bed aside from kicking off her golden sandals, staying in the blue silk dress Oberyn and Ellaria had insisted she wear tonight. They liked her in blue. “We will have all the time in the world to dress you in our colors, My Tully. For now, we shall see you in blue.”

The din of the feast eventually faded as guests retired to their chambers or fell asleep in their seats in the grand hall, bellies full of good food and drink. None of them knowing of the threat of the lions. As the dark sky started to turn pink with dawn, she heard it.

Someone was whistling.

And she knew the tune.

And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? Only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth I know.

She slipped off her bed and over to the door, taking care to open it slowly to avoid the creak of the hinges.

In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, and mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours.

She stepped out into the hallway and listened. There was nothing. Nothing except for the whistle.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere, but now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one there to hear.

Y/N followed the sound across the fortress, hearing it grow louder with every step. Her heart roared in her ears. Her knees knocked together like a newborn foal. She was not brave.

She was scared.

Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall, and not a soul to hear.

A figure slipped around the corner and she pumped her shaking legs, willing herself to go faster, to please go faster as she followed and Y/N realized with a terrible sense of dread that the only door in that hallway led to Prince Doran’s personal chambers.

A scream rang out.

Y/N pushed open the door in time to see Ilyn standing over Doran, bloody knife in hand. Trystane was huddled behind his father, sitting in a pool of blood. Doran was clutching at a gushing wound across the top of his chest, eyes hard and defiant.

Before she could even think to do something rational, Y/N ran at Ilyn and tackled him to the ground. The marble was unforgiving to her legs but she barely felt it as she struggled with the man over the knife, climbing over him in an attempt to gain the upper-hand, to keep him subdued. Her hand closed over the blade as he shoved it toward her throat and she felt it cut through her palm, tearing skin and muscle from the bone. She hadn’t even realized she was screaming until Ilyn slammed his other fist into her throat and rendered her silent for just a moment. The blow shoved her backward and off him just enough for the would-be assassin to scramble up to his feet and dart back out into the hall.

Y/N scrambled over to the Dornish princes, trying to see if they needed help but Doran waved her on, pressing a fist against his wound. “Go!” He said through gritted teeth. “Get him.”

And Y/N did as she was told. By now, the halls were filling with people—some wondering why people were screaming and others seeming to know exactly what happened.

“Stop him!” She screamed, pointing her bloody hand at the fleeing Ilyn as she continued to give chase. “Stop him!”

Ilyn heard her scream and sneered at her over his shoulder just as he made it to the entry hall.

She wouldn’t catch him. She knew it. He was too fast but she could run until her legs gave out. “Stop him! Stop him!” She continued to scream, praying someone would.

Just as Ilyn stepped into the growing sunlight, he stumbled. A choking, gurgling sound escaped him and Y/N ran to see what had stopped him. It was Oberyn—the head of his spear buried deep in Ilyn’s stomach.

Oberyn’s mouth was moving, she could see it. He was coaxing something from Ilyn even as blood dripped from his mouth and spattered against the marble floor. But all she could hear was the thump-thump-thump of her heart and the blood pumping through her veins.

Y/N jumped as Daisy grasped at her uninjured hand. The poor girl held up her hands with a shaking smile, like she was trying to help a feral cat. “My lady, I need to tend to your hand.” The words were muffled.

Y/N let Daisy lead her back into the great hall where the remnants of the feast had not yet been cleared away and slumped into the chair deemed hers the night before. She barely winced when Daisy started to clean her angry wound. She barely noticed when the maesters came in to help.

What she did notice, however, was a box placed atop her forgotten dinner plate. Her name was written on a bit of parchment in a familiar scrawl.

Her fingers shook as she reached out for it.

“Don’t, my lady,” Daisy hissed. “You don’t know what’s inside!”

But Y/N unlatched it and pushed open the lid. Her scream choked the air from her lungs.

Sitting inside the box, on a golden cushion, was the head of her father.

A/N: Welp. Please let me know what you think. :)

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @roxypeanut @lostinwonderland314 @fandomreblogsnoshame @arianawills @nyrnerosmartell @5hundreddaysofsummer @honestlystop @huliabitch @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @karmezii @thesadvampire @sarcasmisakindofmagic

#Oberyn Martell x Reader #Oberyn Martell Imagine #Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x Reader #Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand #Game of Thrones Imagine #asoiaf #game of thrones

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nightfrostshadow · 3 years

Text

The Villain’s Deal

Villain had been quietly reading a book when suddenly a frantic knocking at his door brought him back to reality. He groaned as he stood up and went to see who had disturbed his peaceful evening.

He opened the door surprised to see a very bedraggled Sidekick. “Villain, Villain! Please, you have to help me stop Hero,” Sidekick tried to grab Villain’s hand but Villain stepped back swiftly. He grabbed Sidekick roughly and pulled him inside the house before shutting the door.

“Do you wish to have an entire conversation with the door open? Get in.” Villain draped himself leisurely on his couch as he stared at Sidekick who was still standing, with a glint in his eyes. “You want me to stop Hero? Tired of him so soon?”

Sidekick stared at him with wide panicked eyes, “No no I didn’t mean that!” He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down while Villain stared at him slightly amused.

Sidekick, who had calmed down enough by now to speak, properly managed to explain the situation to Villain. “Hero has been fighting three of the new villains since morning and he doesn’t show any signs of stopping. Hero won’t lose but he won’t win either and at the rate at which this is going he -”

Villain raised his hand to stop Sidekick. Villain knew Hero’s power was endurance. It had a slightly different function than what the name suggested. Hero could use this power to improve his performance in battle. It could cut out the feelings of pain, tiredness and so on completely. He would become like a machine that could fight endlessly. But there was a catch. The moment Hero stopped fighting all the pain, tiredness and everything else, would come crashing down on him.

Usually it would be fine but this time Hero had gone too far. Villain smirked. He had presented this opportunity to Villain. It would be rude not to take advantage of it. He looked up at Sidekick as he smiled at him. “What makes you think that I’ll help you?”

Sidekick shivered as he saw the dark look in Villains eyes, but he steeled himself. He hadn’t come this far to fail now. “I’ve heard you help people after you take something from them in return. A deal with the devil if you will.”

Villain smiled at him. “Why yes! I do and what makes you think you can afford the price?”

Sidekick immediately replied, “I can! Absolutely! I’ll give you whatever you want!” Having realised what he just said he added, “A-anything except betraying Hero. I won’t join your side.”

Villain laughed, “Oh my don’t flatter yourself now darling. I don’t need more people by my side. I’m more than sufficient. Besides what makes you think you can set conditions here?” Villain said with a smirk. “I’m the one in charge right now. You have no choice but to agree.”

Sidekick clenched his fists but didn’t say a word as he waited for Villain to get to the point and tell him what he needed from him.

Villain smirked as he stood up, now standing way taller than Sidekick. He walked closer to Sidekick, “You shall steal the crystal sphere that’s placed in your headquarters and hand it over to me.”

Sidekick knew which crystal Villain was taking about. That particular crystal was magical and would show them any scene in the world so long as it was happening at that moment. He clenched his fists harder now as his nails started to make indents on his palm.

He had no choice, did he? He was having to steal for Villain now. Sidekick’s heart sank. “Alright then but how do I trust you’ll help Hero.”

Villain smiled as he walked over to his desk and pulled out a vial from a drawer. “This is a precious liquid. If you make Hero drink it, after he stops fighting it will let him sleep for ten hours and wake up good as new instead of being in agony for hours and with the chances of him actually surviving being almost zero, you could amount it to never waking up.”

Villain swirled the contents of the vial in front of Sidekick’s face. “I’ll even throw in a bonus. I’ll help you knock Hero out for fifteen minutes I can stop him from feeling the pain so you have to hurry and steal that crystal for me within that time.” Villain stood straight and pocketed the vial. “Only after you hand the crystal to me will you get the vial.”

“So do we have ourselves a deal?” Villain smiled as he offered his hand to Sidekick.

Sidekick looked up into Villain’s face as he saw the seemingly kind smile but also saw the danger that was hidden behind it. For some reason the crystal was important to Villain and Sidekick was going to just hand it to him on a silver platter. He felt miserable but then again, he had no other choice because he had to save Hero. He owed him.

He grabbed Villain’s hand and shook it firmly. Now there was no going back.

He quickly led Villain to the place where Hero was still fighting.

Villain tutted as he took in the sight in front of him. Instead of using his brain it seemed Hero only used his brawn. Pathetic. Villain was a deadly fighter. Yet he never fought when there was no reason too. He would plan out things in such a way that he would achieve his goals in the easiest way possible but whenever required, his fighting skill was unmatched.

He gathered a ball of power in his palm and threw it at Hero. Hero fell like a stone, knocked out completely.

Villain glanced at the three villains whom Hero was fighting. They took one look at him and shrank under his gaze as they decided this was not a person to be trifled with and they fled.

Hero was now enveloped in a golden light. Villain turned to Sidekick. “Go your time has started. Tick tock.” Sidekick looked at Hero who was knocked out cold on the floor but he looked as though he was in a peaceful sleep. Sidekick tried not to think about what he was going to do.

Sidekick was back exactly fourteen minutes later. Out of breath he ran up to where Villain had been peacefully looking at the sunset and ignoring Hero who was knocked out on the floor beside him.

Sidekick placed the crystal ball in Villains waiting hands and held out his hand expectantly for the vial. Villain smiled as he pulled out the vial and tossed it to Sidekick.

Sidekick turned over to hurry and give it to Hero when the fifteen minutes were up. Hero started writhing on the ground in great agony while Sidekick watched horrified. Somehow, he managed to make Hero swallow the entire contents of the vial and now he was in a deep sleep. Sidekick looked up at Villain shocked that he had really helped him. A part of Sidekick still hadn’t trusted the Villain to keep his word.

Villain smirked as if he could read his thoughts, “Well then Sidekick, pleasure doing business with you. I’ll be off now,” as he looked down at the crystal ball in glee. He gestured to the setting sun “You might want to figure out how to get Hero home because he certainly won’t be walking himself home and I’m sure you don’t want to spend the night out here do you?”

With that Villain was off.

Villain placed the crystal ball on his study as he finally laughed. How easy it had been! The one thing he had needed now handed so easily to him. Besides he hadn’t lost anything. The vial that he had told Sidekick was very special and rare, was indeed special for ordinary people but for Villain it was a piece of cake to make more of it. So, in the end he had actually gained a lot and lost nothing. Sidekick didn’t have to know that.

Villain was an expert in making all sorts of potions and recognizing ancient magical artifacts. He knew their true worth and purpose. He smiled a dark smile as he placed his hands on the crystal ball and felt the power from it flood into him. He felt powerful. Invincible. The world would be his.

#villain #hero #sidekick #hero and villain #villain and hero #my writing #evil villain #cunning villain #clever villain #dear anon I hope you liked this :)#wrote this extremely late again so ahaha hoping it turned out good #I can't think of tags now haha #I'll add more later

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goonlalagoon · 3 years

Text

We start small || Leagues and Legends

A series rewrite AU for @ink-splotch‘s fantastic Leagues and Legends books.

Spoilers for the whole trilogy below!

Read on Ao3

When George was fifteen, her village left her out for a dragon. The blacksmith slipped a knife up her sleeve as they went, and in the press of bodies she couldn't ask him why. She could only guess at what mercy he was handing her. The villagers would live with shame under their tongues for the rest of their lives, but they would live. The dragon ruled the hillside, great and golden, scales bright against the purple lupins that bloomed there every year, and they pretended it was fear that made them shudder at the sight.

Maybe Jack still survived the bandits who attacked the merchant caravan he was travelling with. Maybe he travelled on with them, bounced from place to place until he found a cause to throw himself into, on some distant shore far from the Forest where he had grown up. Maybe he didn't, one fourteen year old boy with no training and no battlefield experience, just a big heart and a bit of luck on his side.

There was no Dragon Slayer. It would be years before someone earned the old title Giantkiller, and it wouldn't be a red headed forest boy who tried to stand tall under the weight of that history.

Liam Jones powered the towns and villages of the mountains for weeks. The Seeress was almost blind with the burning light that drifted up through the floor, and the afterimage it left behind when it finally winked out was almost worse. There were no tales in the mountains of the Pied Piper.

Beatrice Tanner would never know any of their names.

On the day when in another life she might have opened her door and let a third soul into her shuttered heart, Bea woke as always before the sun to put the bread on to rise, and while the ovens warmed she rolled her dog eared map out over the old wooden table and traced her fingers over hidden paths and scant shelters. She had a network, small but growing, owed petty favours and moments of kindness. She had a list of lives saved, and a list of those she knew were at risk and could possibly be convinced to leave. She had a list of losses, a bitter sting under her tongue and a cold motivator to keep trying.

People still didn't believe her warnings, most of the time. They hushed her for telling children to be careful, to be hidden, and she did it anyway whenever she saw gold glittering in the corner of her eye, when she saw children play with sparks that didn't burn. Maybe they wouldn't believe her, but maybe they'd check over their shoulder anyway. Maybe the children would curl their hands into little fists and ignore the skin of the world pressing in on them, scared by this woman who hissed nightmares at them in the street. She didn't want children to be afraid, but she wanted them to be safe, and when there was a monster on the loose fear was what kept you alive.

She said as much, one day at a market, snapping warnings at children and glaring at the uniformed man who'd asked her what she was scaring children for. She had no patience for coddling, and she had little for the Bureau either. But this one blinked at her, and scratched at his clean shaven chin.

"Stealing mages? Say, d'you mind repeating all this to Sarge? He's the boss of our League, and this sounds like something we should know about." Bea eyed him suspiciously, but the possibility of getting more people to help outweighed her faint distaste for the Leagues.

It was only a few weeks later that May told her that it was really just May, not short for anything despite what the Bureau paperwork said. Bea wasn't quite sure whether this was a sign of trust or of just how much May wanted to get out of her padded armour and into something that didn't chafe quite as much on the healing gash down her side.

Sarge had sent coded reports back to headquarters, and was glaring at the responses. Flash was twisting his fingers, safe with his training and his league, staring sleepless at the ceiling with visions of those who weren’t keeping him awake. They couldn’t give themselves wholly to this cause; the Rangers had a job to do and it was one that badly needed doing - but part of their job was to keep people safe from monsters, so when they left they took some of her gathered information with them, and kept their eyes open.

They sent her news, dropped by the markets they knew she liked to give her the names of people who had helped, people who believed them when they whispered warnings. They sent people to her, frightened or angry or numb, but always desperate, and she sent them on. She didn't ask anyone to be a hero, because heroes were for stories and legends, for Bureau badges and official postings. She just asked people for a little bit of help, and then they offered it again and again.

It was over a year after she met them that they sent her the Giantkiller.

Kay had thick ropes of scarring over his side and arm, the pockmarks of claws pressed deep into his shoulder. He was a child when rocs tried to carry him off, struggling and screaming. He was lucky - the Rangers heard the commotion and brought the beast down, two arrows in its heart, a net of golden fire to catch him as he fell, to pour into gaping wounds and knit flesh back together. When they had to stay camped out for a day while the mage weathered an Elsewhere storm, their Guide showed him how to mix a paste to help the scars heal out of ingredients he could find within an hour’s walk of home.

His father's fury when he said after they left that he wanted to be a Leaguesman too was a burning thing, a bitter thing. He jerked his head down the road the Rangers left by, and listed every time they could have been of use before one lucky day. Kay fiddled with his spoon, because it was true - but that was the point of joining up, wasn't it? To be the person who was there when he was needed. But his father was bitter, furious, so he held his tongue.

When his father was out working in the field and Kay was supposed to be chopping wood, he fenced the air with a stick for a sword the way he'd watched May and Sarge practice in the early morning, as they let Flash sleep late to regain his strength and they kept a wary eye out for any returning rocs. He stumbled over his own feet and knew he was no good.

When he was younger, he'd practiced with his sling until his fingers blistered, and his father smiled over the small game he brought in, the crows he scared away from the crops with a sharp stone to the claws. Kay practiced still, every day, and now he imagined bigger targets.

The rocs came again, as they did every year, and one tried to carry off not a child but the neighbours' sheep. Kay sent it crashing back to the ground. Its neck snapped as it landed and he stood over it, shaking and fierce and frightened. The men arrived at a run from the barn, and Kay's father looked proud and scared and bitter.

"You see?" He said, later, when they’d butchered the carcass and he was watching Kay sort the feathers he'd asked to keep. "Rocs every damn year, and no Leagues here to help."

Kay hummed, non-committal, thinking but I was.

He was too young for the Leagues anyway, he knew. But he wasn't too young to help, so when there were rumours of Things haunting the woods nearby he slipped out his window in the grey dusk and went hunting. He had a handful of mage spelled stones, even if they were spelled for gentle warmth not damage, a gift from Flash to help ease the ache in healing limbs. The Things shrieked like the stones burned, and he was sick behind a bush afterward but the nest was gone, and Things shriek but he'd heard the families who’s homes were closer to the woods than his weeping too, and he knew which he'd choose. His father was pacing when he got home in the soft light of dawn, and he knew without asking where Kay had been. He knew what Kay was making himself into and he was furious and so scared, but Kay couldn't go back to waiting for someone else to save his people.

Kay set out the next morning, when his father was already out in the fields, working off his anger on the weeds. He packed a satchel of food and clothes, his sling and pouches of stones. He slipped the little carved flute his father made for his last birthday into the side of his bag, and set off down the road, refusing to look back.

When he met the Rangers again, it was in the shadow of a giant, the wreckage of a village. They were too late to help bring it down, but they found him digging through the fallen buildings for survivors. Sarge glanced at the sling at his hip first and Kay tensed. They were already whispering about him, the survivors, about the Giantkiller and his sling, and he knew the price of being a vigilante. Sarge said nothing, just gripped the other end of the beam he was trying to lift, hauling it up so Kay could drag the wounded boy underneath into the light.

They had a hushed conference, the Rangers and the Giantkiller, carefully out of sight because they could only shirk this particular duty if no one knew. May shook her head over him but bullied him through a basic staff work drill. Sarge watched, and nodded thoughtfully when Flash muttered "think the Baker could use a field agent?"

His story rolled ahead of him, growing as he went. He cleared a nest of Things in one village and took down another roc in a narrow pass, had a brief run in with bandits that he barely survived. He helped stock a woodpile for a hot meal and repaired a fence for another. There hadn't been a Giantkiller in the memory of anyone younger than his grandmother, and he listened to the old stories that were being dusted off. He hoped no one expected him to live up to all of them.

Bea heard him out, polite but not friendly, and he tried not to shuffle in his seat under her level gaze. She shrugged, eventually, and let him tag along as she smuggled a woman and her sister through the checkpoints in her cart. Kay tucked his sling out of sight and played a sullen teenager for all he was worth so that she could scold him loudly and the guards would shake their heads over the disruption instead of searching through the carefully stacked flour bags.

Someone wrote to her a week later saying they had a wyvern problem - people had long since started writing to the Baker for any help they needed and couldn’t afford from official sources, to see if she knew someone who could help. She sent Kay as a response, and he came back with a burn on his leg and pockets full of scales, scrubbed clean - but he came back. She grew to expect it, became used to keeping his room ready and leaving space at the table for him.

The first time he broke into the Graves' keep, he slipped out of the bakery after she'd gone to bed. They hadn't reached these ones in time, and he'd watched the way her shoulders fell and her lips thinned when he came back too soon, no rescues in his wake and no stories about how he'd helped them escape. He'd looked at her map, and thought but I'm still here.

The keep was easy to break into, because no one else was fool enough to try, and the Seeress was still working her way into her father's toolkit. He'd never held a lock pick but he knew how to remove hinges from a wall so he opened the doors that way, until one of the terrified mages shook off the stupor and started melting through them for him. They fled, and he scrawled the ward diagrams Flash had sent to Bea in the dirt for his rescues to copy with the sparks of power that were left to them. They had suspicions, Bea and the Rangers, dark thoughts about how their foe was finding prey so easily. They had wards that would cloud them from the sight of a seer, briefly, enough to break a trail, and they worked.

Kay led them to the bakery, where Bea fed them and sent them on, and when the house was empty again she wrapped her arms around Kay and hissed don't you dare do that again, don't you dare Kay, you don't disappear on me. He nodded and promised, but they both knew he meant he wouldn't slip away in the night. Kay was young, true, but he wasn't a fool. He could promise not to go without a word, but he couldn't promise he'd come back.

There was no Dragon Slayer, no Piper, a different Giantkiller - but it had never been just about those three friends. They were the ones whose legends were told, but theirs had never been the only hands buried in this war.

In a different village, there was a girl with the Elsewhere pulling gently on her bones. Kay took a warning, because if he and Bea had heard of her then so would the Graves’, and her sister narrowed her eyes at him as she went pale with fear. For all that he was the messenger not the threat, Kay took an instinctive half step back. "If anyone thinks they're taking my sister, they're going to get what's coming to them."

Rosie and Susie had friends, and those friends had already lost people to the machines, vanishing in the night and dropping out of contact. When Kay warned them, told them what he knew, they listened. They planned. When slavers came in the night, Elsewhere cracks tucked in their pockets, they thought this would be easy. The Seeress had seen an orphan girl with magic. If she had seen anything else, it had been shadowy faces with nothing to make them stand out. This is the peril of a Seer; you fall into the habit if thinking that if you don't see something it can't matter.

Slavers came in the night, and never left.

They started calling them Snow White and Rose Red, these sisters with deep roots in the mountain soil who grit their teeth and refused to run, refused to hide. Theirs was a mountain village, no Bureau-sanctioned guard and no walls to defend them, so they built their own. Bea smuggled out every person unwilling to become a civilian soldier, who wanted safety not defiance, and the rest built a fortress.

Kay helped, hands familiar with hammer and nails, the cost of freedom. He made friends, not just with the sisters but with Doc and his sons, the taciturn blacksmith and his two apprentices, the cheerful woman who ran the inn and the cynical one who presided over the fledgling community garden, with a few scattered kids his own age with fire in their veins and fear in their eyes.

(Or was it fear that ran in their blood, twitching at shadows and hearts pounding when they woke at night, and fire in their eyes, a stubborn, worn down fury?)

They named it Challenge, carved it deep over the main gate, a name and a purpose.

Their first siege had been a holding action in the mines, Doc and his sons collapsing tunnels and digging new ones until winter came on and forced the Graves' soldiers back to their own walls. The vigilantes stayed in the mines, huddled together for warmth and comfort, elated and terrified at their own victory. Rosie and Susie roamed the passages, after, speaking to everyone and inviting a selection to a council - Kay was invited too, and sat awkwardly listening to them lay plans for rebuilding, how to build sturdy walls the moment the snows cleared enough. Their second came days after they carved Challenge over the gate, while Kay was still getting all of the sawdust out of his hair.

He went back to the bakery afterward, to pour over maps with Bea and be sent out on missions. They couldn't save everyone. They couldn't save most people, but some was better than none. Kay stared at the ceiling through long, sleepless nights, trying to convince himself that it was okay that he couldn't work miracles. People knew him by sight, now, and some days he didn’t feel he should be looking over his shoulder whenever they called out Giantkiller!

It was a long, slow war, their quiet campaign against the Graves family. Bea’s network grew and grew, despite their heavy losses - mages who escaped and ones who didn’t, the non-magical casualties who weren’t quick enough with a lie or a dodge, or were simply unlucky. Susie and Rosie were a fierce pair, exchanging razor sharp letters with Bea to plan out strategies and contingencies.

(It wasn’t until after his third siege at Challenge that Kay would realise that Bea had never actually met either of the sisters; she had never met Marian, either, but they had never communicated directly so it was easier to recall. The sisters and the Baker sent word back and forth for years, but barely knew anything of each other outside of their shared plans besides what he could pass on - for all that Bea would like to see Challenge, there was bread to bake and travel could be dangerous. Better not to give the Seeress any reason to look again at this sleepy village that she and hers had already gutted for fuel.)

Kay was no natural physician, but he helped to wrap bandages in Doc Frederickson’s infirmary whenever he was in Challenge, between meetings and sentry duty. In the streets and villages people expected him to be a hero; in the infirmary, Doc just expected him to be useful. He cracked bad jokes as distraction, fetched water, and peered over a bewildered man’s shoulder at a neat formula that someone had stumbled through the gates clutching. She didn’t remember where she’d found it, but it had been tucked into the lining of her coat. There was a note on the front in her own handwriting, for all she didn’t recall writing it - My first rabbit was called Snowball, and this is real, not a joke.

Doc’s hand shook so badly that he had to put the unfolded note down before he dropped it. Kay clutched the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt, looking between the message and the woman sat on the edge of an infirmary cot, gold dripping sluggishly from her fingertips to pool on the fabric. It would stain, leaving smudged hand-prints on the sheets and faintly in the mattress below, but they would consider it a miracle not a nuisance. She was sitting, fingertips trembling but no worse this morning than they had been any day of her journey north. She had been dragged from the cells, away from the machines that should have killed her, and rather than dying grateful for a final view of the sky she had found herself weeks to the South, in a town she hadn’t known and a recipe in her pocket in handwriting she didn’t recognise.

It wasn’t a cure, but it was still something no-one had thought to hope for. It was a medicine, true, but it was also a message: somebody, somewhere, was trying to save their mages too. They weren’t the only ones resisting this blight.

This, too: after that first midnight venture of Kay’s they had never been able to rescue anyone from the Graves’ keep. They had fought to prevent people being taken, rescued people from mage warded wagons, hissed warnings to make people hide or flee. They had built a town, walls and watchtowers, a beacon of resistance. But they had never managed to make their way into the keep itself undetected a second time, for all the desperate families who had tried, for all the curses the Seeress and the Mayor hissed when they found the doors open and cells empty. Kay and Bea would exchange long looks over the bakery table, and wonder who on the inside was setting people free and laying the blame at their convenient feet.

(In a lab none of them had never seen, Jillit Chu was saving life after life of people who she knew would never remember her name, secrets written in invisible letters on her skin when she went home at night. Thorne was pouring over reports, Jill’s own records, Jeremiah’s much less successful and yet officially far more vital analyses, the dispatches from his spies in the mountains. He wanted the Graves family dealt with, of course - but he wanted their secrets, too. Thorne was a Bureau man, and while Mayor Graves was always careful not to upset the Bureau, he was no more affiliated with them than the vigilantes that plagued his operations. It had never been the means of production that Thorne objected to, or the Graves’ would have been out of a business years before.

Spider didn’t know this; Andrew Molina had given years of his life to bring the machines down, weaving a web to tear it all down. He was trying to find a gap in his plans to let Sandry slip through; he knew where Sam had gone even if she didn’t, thought if he could get her out too then there would be a life for her away from the wreckage of her father’s dreams. If he had to, he knew he would let her fall with it and take the regrets, but he was an excellent Bureau agent - he liked his odds for achieving both. He wasn’t reaching out to Sam just yet - they were working to weaken the system, but it was slow work. The Baker and her resistance were an irritation, but they weren’t yet causing enough of a disruption to have materially disrupted production, to have strained the system, to be convincing the less dedicated that this was a fight they were going to lose.

Thorne had other agents, he knew, and they heard things the Spider didn’t. Reports that when put together said that this was going to be the work of more cold years - he measured them in people lost, and tried when those the Seeress saw were children to make sure he was spotted on the road, that whispers spread before him, warnings. He couldn’t let everyone slip away, not if he wanted to bring it all down, but he tried to save as many as he could - he felt every mage who burned for other people’s light as a weight on his shoulders. He kept walking, the Seeress’ right hand man, and did not stumble under that burden.)

Robin Hood died on an otherwise unremarkable winter’s day, stumbling back to the treeline with them, held up as much as their rescues. Marian’s hands didn’t shake as she lit the pyre, and Kay wondered if she would stay that cold for the rest of her life. She left with a handful of the Merry Men, the ones who’d been thinking of warmer pastures or those like her couldn’t stand to be beneath the trees without Robin. Kay wasn’t sure if she was angry at him or the world - Marian wasn’t, either. She had fought sieges at his side, before he begged Robin’s help for the last time; she knew his history, this mountain born boy who became a legend. She wouldn’t write to him or the Baker, but Little John would drop mentions into his occasional messages, and some days she was glad for the news.

When Kay had first stumbled into the Woods, an injured mage leaning on his shoulder and pursuit on his heels, it had been Marian who coolly shot down the armed guard and guided them beneath the trees. She had helped bandage up his rescue, and Robin had dropped down next to him at the fire. Kay wasn’t sure he had ever felt as safe as he did that night, curled up beneath the towering trees with their cheerful assurances that he didn’t need to worry about any armed followers tracking him here, dozing off in a borrowed bed roll on the hard ground. The Merry Men weren’t all kind to outsiders, but they loved Robin and respected Marian - if they were told he was a friend, he was a friend. Kay watched the smoke rise, the snow melting around them, and wondered if Robin would still be alive, if Kay hadn’t thought of him as a friend.

The remaining Merry Men stayed out of the fight, after that, nursing wounds physical and metaphorical, but Little John made it clear that the paths through the trees were still open to Kay and his rescues. More than one trembling mage and their shaken family were escorted safely south by the Merry Men after a night or two beneath the trees.

It was a long war, and Kay measured it first in months rather than days, then years rather than months; the Seeress was spreading her gaze further afield as the mountain villages became wary, as anyone with sparks at their fingertips fled before they needed warning. Kay gained scars from vicious brawls with guards, with the long limbed Spider, a bullet wound in the shoulder that would ache in the cold for the rest of his life from Spider’s deputy.

Kay was by no means the only person fighting this war, but he had become one of the lynchpins, the one who most often acted directly against the Graves’ network - his was the face the Seeress saw most in the wake of plans dissolving like smoke. She had a bespoke curse tucked in a pocket, and one vindictive day she set it loose. Bea watched the Giantkiller turn pale, shaky on feet that a moment before had been steady, and crumple. She caught him before he could hit the ground, and carried him gently to his room. She sent out frantic messages through her network, looking for healers, looking for anyone who could help. After three nights of fever, Little John crept into the bakery, cradling a pouch in his large, gentle hands. He was no trained healer, but he knew old stories, knew how to walk into the shadowed trees on a full moon night and ask for help for the deserving. He did not know what he had done, to mix this medicine, but when the sun had risen it had been in his hands.

Kay spent another three nights tossing and turning, but he woke with the sun on the seventh day. It would take weeks until he felt fully rested, and Little John warned him that full moons would make him restless for the rest of his days. He spent his time sorting Bea’s correspondence and helping her in the bakery, until she declared him fit for field work again. Even then they were wary, cautious. They had no doubts who had sent a curse to strike him down, for all they sneered at the hypocrisy - they watched for any sign that the Seeress had known where to strike, but found nothing amiss.

One morning, Kay woke to the sound of shattering crockery in the bakery below; he was wary, fresh bruises on his knuckles and sleeping light, recently home and still listening for ambushes. He crept downstairs, and found Bea pinned to the wall of her own kitchen with strings of golden fire, the butter dish broken on the floor. The slingstone he pitched through the door landed, but its target had moved in time and took a glancing bruise to the arm rather than a blow to the head. She held up calloused palms, but he could see the gun at her hip and the gold holding Bea in place: he wasn’t fool enough to think that she was anything other than ready to take him down if he moved. She smiled, a precise and practiced thing. “Hello. Apologies for breaking in, but I needed to speak to the Baker and the Giantkiller, and I believe this is the right address?” Her smile turned feral, a fierce grin that looked more at home on her lips. “I’m an agent from the Bureau quiet branch, and I thought you might want to know we’re planning to bring the Graves’ down in a few weeks’ time.”

Bea made a scoffing sound, the gold fire glittering off her eyes, and the woman flicked her fingers to twist the fire into nothing again. Kay itched to go to Bea, check that she was alright, but he knew better. There were two of them and one armed intruder - better to keep her looking in two directions, for all that she seemed to think she was on their side, for all that he had no doubt which of them would win, if it came to a fight. Kay had years of experience, true, but you didn’t make it to being a field agent with the quiet branch without a fearsome skillset to your name.

She eyed their distrust with amused, approving resignation, and patiently laid out the bones of the web she and Spider had been steadily weaving, the tipping point that was coming. Kay frowned at the hints, puzzling out tactics, and Bea traced her fingertips over her map - the markers of lives saved, the ones of lives lost. There was an empty room upstairs she still couldn’t bear to use, years later. Kay did not and would never know that sometimes when Bea woke from nightmares these days they had been about waking to find the house cold and the curtains in his cosy room billowing in the night air, for all that he was no more a mage that she was. She eyed their guest with as much professional disregard as the woman had shown her, breaking into a house warded over the years by careful, grateful hands as though it was nothing.

“And why now? Why are you and yours only tearing down the Graves’ now? We know who you are, Agent, and for all I’ve heard of you you’re in the Graves’ pocket, the Spider’s precious protege.” She curled a lip, a mountain woman from a village that couldn’t afford walls, that had begged and begged for Bureau protection and been told to come back with gold in their pockets. “Why have the Bureau decided that now they can deign to get involved? Why are you here, breaking into my home, to tell me you’ve finally decided to care enough to stop it?”

"They killed my brother," snapped Laney, an old, bitter hurt - and the Baker looked back at her coldly, as though that didn't explain anything at all.

"They've killed a lot of people." The sharpshooter stiffened, hand twitching as though she might have gone for a gun if she hadn’t needed them alive. Bea didn't flinch from the movement, expression hard and unforgiving. "How many have you helped them kill? I could tell you, I think, because I hear almost everyone's story about the ones they lost, sooner or later. Do you know what we call you, when we whisper warnings? What legend did you think you were building, in your brother's memory?"

The Ballad of Agent Jones

Laney Jones had stumbled at her brother’s beloved heels for years, until he left the desert in search of new horizons. Years later, she had followed in his footsteps once again, Academy papers in her pocket and a handful of hard-won fire clutched close to keep her warm on the journey. She was planning to find her big brother, one day. She was going to show him what she could do, what she had made of herself, and she was going to see the pride in his eyes once again. It was a warm thought, one she had clung to through cold nights of hidden practice and long days of doubting her worth.

In her second year at the Academy, armed men broke into the fish shop where her study group were having their first meeting. When Thorne took her aside in the days after, to have a private chat with such a promising young woman, he glanced over her skin tone and the name in his file, and paused. He asked, carefully, if she had any connection to a Liam Jones, another powerful mage he had heard of. Laney beamed with familial pride, and a certain quiet joy that she had been put on the same level as Liam. "My brother, sir. He whistles up his magic, though I never had the knack for it."

Thorne called her in again a week later, for another chat, but his face was serious and even the glint of his glasses seemed subdued. There was a thin file on his desk, L. Jones scrawled on the outside. Laney's heart froze, because she knew there was no reason for the Bureau to have files on her, not yet.

"I am sorry, miss Jones, but Liam Jones died almost seven years ago, in the mountains." He pushed the file towards her, sympathy but not pity in his voice. "There are people there who - deal in mages. It seems that there was no one to warn him to hide." He pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand and went to fetch water for the kettle. He could have called for someone to bring them tea, but Thorne understood that people sometimes needed a moment alone with their grief.

The contents of the file had been heavily redacted, because the work of the Bureau quiet branch investigating the trade in mages was an ongoing thing, and a sister's grief didn't give you rights to all of the carefully gathered details. But there were a few stark lines that were intact - a description, a date of capture. A short summary of a doomed escape attempt that made her smile with fierce, pained pride. A date of death.

What had she been doing, that day? Where had she been, when her brother's song vanished from the world?

Thorne made her tea and made no comment on her damp eyelashes, told her she could speak to him at any time if she felt she needed someone who was aware of the situation to listen. He asked for her family's contact details, so that he could write to tell them the terrible news personally. He straightened the papers on his desk and promised to tell her when he sent it, in case she wanted to write as well, but he said that it shouldn't be her job to break it to them unless she wanted it to be.

Laney signed the quiet branch's letter of employment before the week was up.

She would never run the backstreets of Rivertown with Rupert; he would perhaps have trusted Sez, Bart and their secret, steady work to fellow Academy students, if a bit warily, but not to someone with Thorne looking over her shoulder from the beginning. Laney spent her spare hours at the Academy in the library or out on the firing range, and felt trapped, burning in her own skin.

When the battle of Driftwood Island came, when she realised that the monsters of fire were slipping in from the Elsewhere, it was Thorne she went to, to say she could help; she stitched the rift closed while the Rangers held their own in the wreckage above. She didn’t tell Thorne how she’d done it, exactly, but she agreed that they shouldn’t tell anyone it had been her - no point in making her a target, after all.

(Laney wouldn’t remember any of this for years; until then, so far as she could recall she’d spent the whole battle helping to shield sections of lower Rivertown from fire damage. If there was a gap in her recollection - well, it was so easy to lose track in your first real battle, for everything to blur together. The Rangers couldn’t recall exactly who had stitched the rift up while they bought time, and it nagged at them for years, too)

On her first day at the Bureau’s quiet branch as a junior agent, Laney made her way to Thorne's office, shoulders carefully square and chin held level, and asked him what she would need to do to become part of the group working on the mage slave trade case.

Thorne had known her brother's name, his description; not just the dates of his disappearance but those of his escape attempt and death, the clinical numbers documenting how much power had been wrested from his bones. Laney had known, even in the midst of grief - these were not things you could learn without someone on the inside. These were not things you knew, the shadowy quiet branch of the governing powers, unless you had plans to do something with the information.

Laney had her own plans; she had always intended to use the Bureau just as much as Thorne had planned to use her.

When the Seeress saw her, Spider’s newest potential recruit, she smiled slightly in recognition, sinister and small. She asked Laney why she was applying to a role with the Graves' network. Laney had looked her dead in the eye, shoulders relaxed and everything gold around her shining true.

"My brother was a mage, a powerful one. I grew tired a long time ago of being a shadow because I don't have gold dripping from my fingers."

Neither Kay or Bea trusted the Agent and her casually mentioned ally - Spider had been a nightmare in the mountains for longer than Kay had known of this fight, and had never slipped into the Baker’s net to whisper secrets to her deputy. In another life, the Baker’s right hand had been a girl who saw nothing but blood and ash on her palms, who had once let a whole village die, unseen, because she wanted to live; in another life, the Spider had been confident that the Dragon Slayer would understand the price he was paying. He would have offered himself as an informant, trusting in her pragmatism to take his information and keep the source to herself. In another life, Bea had years of listening to George talk haltingly about the place she had once called home, the dragon they had given her a legend for, and would have listened to her, taken the information even if reluctantly.

But the Giantkiller had no such weight on his shoulders, and Spider had spent too long working himself into the Graves’ good graces to risk his position on that kind of gamble.

They didn’t trust Agent Jones or the Spider, let alone the Bureau man with twinkling glasses who slipped into Challenge with a promise of information and a cheerful litany of all of Kay’s illegal activities, but they couldn’t afford not to take their warnings. Challenge prepared for another siege, hunkering down to withstand whatever the Graves’ threw at them, and Kay decided when the Rangers arrived to support the defenders that his life was worth the gamble and followed two shadowy spies into the Keep, a decoy captive.

He’d been here just once before; after that, the Mayor had finally listened to Sandry’s murmurings about weak points in their security, and no-one had broken into the keep since. Spider let them in through a side door, and Kay shuddered as it clicked closed behind him. They burned the machines, Agent Jones lighting the mage blasts, but the engineer wasn’t there, the careful blueprints and plans stored somewhere other than this cold office. Kay turned a corner and ran into the Seeress, the first time he had seen her face to face. They stared at one another, frozen; she was frantically figuring out how the Giantkiller had made it into the keep unnoticed - and he had no idea who he just run into, unsure if he should tell her who he was and hesitating to use force on someone he thought might be an innocent.

Spider stepped up behind him, and the Seeress’ cold mask slipped, fractured as she looked between them, Sandry feeling her steady ground shift beneath her feet. Spider’s hand settled warningly over Kay’s shoulder, yanking him back and cuffing him to a stair-rail to keep the boy in place as the recognition dawned, while he frantically whispered at Sandry - telling her to leave, to slip out of the side door and hide, that she could join her brother and start over. The Seeress snapped out sharp retorts, demanding to know what exactly the Bureau knew of her baby brother, and Kay felt an abrupt, unwelcome fellow feeling - he knew what it was, to fear the extent of the Bureau’s files, to want the names of you and yours kept secret. The Seeress was trembling, torn between drawing herself up and in, hurt and terrified of showing it, and wanting to trust, for just a little longer, that the Spider was on her side.

Mayor Graves turned the corner, calling for the Seeress, his useful little monster, because someone had been in his office, burned his papers to ash. He was clutching a weapon that pulsed gold (in the cells below, there was a trembling body, the magic in their blood ripped free and pushed into a new vessel), concerned but not frantic. He spied Kay, and his face broke into a smirk. Spider stood with a relaxed stance, hand on his holstered gun, face a mask while he weighed options. The Seeress straightened her spine. Her father had told her all her life that mages were selfish, hoarding power, that their work was a sad necessity for the wellbeing of the many. He was holding a gun that took that power and put it in his own two hands - Sandry had made Spider teach her to shoot years ago, on the quiet, because she wanted something she could do, to defend herself and her brother, something to hold onto that would give her power that didn’t rely on words. She knew that this was a power he had made for himself to cling to.

The Giantkiller was a child, still, and almost as young as her brother had been when she pressed a bag into his hands and told him to flee. Her father was pointing a gun at a boy barely older than his son, and everything in him was twisting gleeful with it. She murmured, dispassionate, that the boy might have useful information. That Spider should take him downstairs for questioning, to find out about the gaps in their defences - a security breach such as this must be investigated carefully, for all their sakes. Spider could dispose of the pest, after. Mayor Graves had never been in the habit of listening to his daughter, and she wanted to scream it at him as he dismissed her again without even a word.

The Mayor took an experimental shot at the Giantkiller, burning the ground by Kay’s left leg to cinders, and crumpled to the ground. Agent Jones slipped out of the shadows behind him, ash dusting her fingertips, pistol held steady and familiar in her hand. She glanced down at the body, cold, and wondered if she would regret never getting to tell him exactly why she’d taken aim, a sniper’s precise shot under cover of his own.

Spider stepped casually in front of Sandry, and with a glare Agent Jones holstered her gun before striding briskly by both her mentor and the Seeress to release the bindings holding Kay in place.

“C’mon, Giantkiller. Let’s get you back to your friends at Challenge, and the boss in here to sort out everything else.” She slid her eyes sideways towards Spider. “I’ll be sure to tell him that you have the Seeress in your custody, sir.” Spider gave a resigned sigh, but made no other objection. Kay felt he ought to protest, to argue against leaving the Seeress unchained, to snap that it should have been him who took down the Mayor, but this had never been just his fight, for all his was the name the Seeress had hissed in the wake of foiled plans. He let himself be guided out, Agent Jones brisk and efficient, a polite smile pasted on her face.

Thorne was waiting for them outside, cheerfully confident in his Agents and the Giantkiller. He told Kay that Challenge had withstood the final siege, but couldn’t tell him the cost. Kay, seething, bit his tongue at the man’s oily reminders that in the quiet branch’s service, any messy rumours about illegal activities would be swept under the rug. The Giantkiller jerked his head back at the keep. “The mayor is dead, but the Seeress is still alive in there.” Thorne pursed his lips, nodding. “Good, good. The mayor had to be removed, though alive would have been…preferable. Young Cassandra can take over, however, to maintain consistency - with supervision, of course, before you say anything.” Kay scowled. “She fed mages into his machines for years.” Thorne smiled at him, condescendingly, shaking his head like a kindly grandfather.

“We cannot simply remove every political figure we disagree with. She is young. She will be managed. You should be making your way to Challenge, however. I’m sure your friends will want to hear the good news.” Agent Jones watched the boy stalk away, carefully keeping her face neutral. She was an old hat at manipulating people, after years of practice - she could see that Thorne was trying to collect another recruit. She could also see that he was going about it in entirely the wrong fashion, but she didn’t think it was worth pointing that out.

Thorne glanced at her sideways. “The mayor is dead, Agent Jones?” “Yes sir. An unfortunate necessity to avoid further loss of life.” He heaved a sigh, but didn’t question it. “Very well then. Let us go and debrief Spider, and explain the new order of things to Miss Graves.”

Even with the Mayor gone, the keep was still hostile territory; Agent Jones was on high alert, so when she heard a door click softly closed as they walked through the entry way she waved Mr Thorne on ahead of her, waiting until Dadlus thought it was safe to emerge again. She tackled him to the ground, and had him cuffed and cursing by the time Thorne, Spider and the Seeress made their way back down the stairs. Thorne’s face turned gleeful when he saw her captive. He rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! Good work, Agent Jones.” The Seeress’ head snapped toward him, eyes widening fractionally in surprise before he spoke. “I have a Bureau engineer who desperately needs to pick your brains, particularly as it seems the Giantkiller was able to burn all of the blueprints. You're going to be very valuable to us.”

Spider was staring between Thorne and Dadlus, ice slipping down his spine as he put the pieces together, discovered the game Thorne had been playing all along. He had spent years working in this keep, shoulders weighed down by so many lives he had been unable to save, who he had sacrificed to ensure he could bring it all to an end. He took three long steps forward and slid the knife he always carried up his sleeve between the engineer's ribs. "I didn't let children die for years so the Bureau could turn around and do the same thing all over again." Dadlus slumped to the ground, blood pooling under him. Thorne went for his gun, but Agent Jones was quicker - in a different life, it would have been dragon’s fire that killed Gerald Thorne, but in this one it was handfuls of Elsewhere fire that Laney had been carrying around her wrists for years, hidden even from the Seeress.

Cassandra stared at them both over the cooling body, shaken - she had always seen everything, every secret and every weakness, and here she found both: her lieutenants had been hiding secrets upon secrets, tucked carefully away where she hadn’t found them, and so she was weak where she’d thought her back was guarded. She wondered if it would be a bullet or a blaze that came for her, whether Spider would help or if he would pull her out of the way.

Agent Jones didn’t glance her way: she and Spider were eying each other, weighing up their priorities and potentials. Spider wanted Sandry to go free - she had barely been an adult when he arrived at the keep, for all that it had taken him weeks to discover she wasn’t cold years older. He had realised within those first months of working his way into her network just how young she must have been, when the Mayor told her she was a monster and turned her into a tool.

Laney had always wanted revenge for her brother, justice for the other victims. She had burned the machines with glee and felt no guilt for shooting the Mayor down. She felt no guilt for burning Throne, either - she wanted the machines gone as much as Spider. But she knew who it was who had found her brother, who had sent armed thugs with Elsewhere cracks in their pockets after Liam. She had told herself she would feel no guilt for shooting the Seeress, either, even when she saw the date of birth in the briefing files.

But Laney had spent a year now with Sandry and the Spider; she remembered the squeaky sage in her second year study group, the one she still sometimes met in the University library to chatter over Elsewhere theory. She had heard Sandry talk about Sam, but she had heard Grey talk about Sandry, too. She thought she talked about Liam the same way, sometimes.

“Thorne said we would leave you in charge,” she spoke softly, as though the words were of no importance. “So we will. But you do not re-start operations, and Spider and I will make sure of it.” Agent Jones holstered her gun, turned to the Seeress, and raised an eyebrow. “But the people around here will freeze in winter, without help. Your people, now. So, I’ve a challenge for you - I know you’ve studied how the machines work, how to make them more efficiently. But have you ever tried to figure out how you can wrest this power from thin air and turn it into something useful?”

Laney Jones pressed her hand up to the skin of the world and broke it; in the glow of the Elsewhere she was radiant, and Cassandra would have shielded her eyes if she’d been able to bear looking away. All her life, she had been told that what they did was the only way, only fair.

She stared, eyes stinging, and thought I have never seen a mage burn so bright.

Kay spent the weeks after at Challenge helping to shore up the damage; Bea left the bakery to help, bandaging the wounded and scolding him for taking foolish risks. They knelt side by side in the community garden, repairing damaged trellises and trying to see which of the fragile growths could be coaxed back into health and which needed to be turned to compost. One water break, surveying the rows they’d managed to restore, he idly turned a stone over and said, “What are we going to do now? What’s next?” She didn’t pretend he was talking about the garden, though she didn’t reply until they were carting the next load of dug up plants to the compost heap.

“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I didn’t have -” And he put his arms around her and let her cry into his shoulder; Bea had turned herself to stone in so many ways, over the years, since she woke to a cold house and an empty bedroom, and now her war was won. There would be pieces to pick up, rebuilding that would take years. The Seeress was still in the keep, and for all that Agent Jones assured them she wasn’t going to be a problem it still sat bitter under both their tongues. It would take months for the mountain villagers to feel safe, for a child with sparks flicking between fingertips to inspire joy not terror. It would take years, a lifetime - several lifetimes. There was work for Bea to bury herself in still, but for now there was sun on her shoulders and there would be no mages lost in the night. For now, she could realise they were safe, as safe as you could ever be, and weep for all those who hadn’t been.

Later, shoulder to shoulder in the crowded inn, Kay would rest his head on her shoulder, quiet.

“I think I should go back to the farm, for a bit. See my dad, yeah? Make sure he knows I’m okay.” He nudged her with an elbow, gentle. “I’ll come back, though. But I promised I wouldn’t leave without telling you, so I am. I’m going to head back to the farm and get shouted at, so you aren’t even going to be the only one nagging me about taking risks, then I’m gong to come back to the bakery and chop wood for you.” She laughed softly.

“That’s your life plan?” He grinned, and it was a younger face that looked back at her than she’d seen for years. He was still a child, really, for all that he was growing tall and gangly. He shrugged. "For now. I’d like to go a few weeks with no-one trying to kill me, it’d make a nice change. Later - well. Maybe I’ll go get myself a Badge, I'm almost old enough. Sarge told me plenty of times he reckons I could do it, and I’ve daydreamed about it for years, you know? Be a proper Hero, join the Rangers as an intern. Agent Jones told me Thorne is dead - I didn't ask for details, I thought she might shoot me - and that I didn't need to worry about my name being in any paperwork with the Giantkiller, so long as I say Thorne was tragically killed in the fight with the Mayor. I could do it, if I wanted.” They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the crowd. After a while, Bea ruffled his hair gently. “Maybe you should go to the Academy, get yourself a career lined up. But if you’ll take an old baker’s suggestion - I think you’d make a better Guide, all things considered. You've had enough practice at being a hero.”

In the morning, before he set out for the old farm he hadn’t been back to in years, Kay climbed up the flights of stairs to the uppermost platform of the wall that surrounded Challenge. The wooden posts were riddled with marks, from flung weapons and the sooty streaks left by stolen mage fire, idle carved graffiti left by bored sentries - names and old in jokes, defiant records left when they knew they were all inviting battle to their doorstep. He stood looking out at the surrounding peaks as the sun rose, thinking about the Leauges and Bureau policy, about a roc digging claws into his shoulder and long summer sieges, the machines burning and Mayor Graves crumpling lifeless to his plush carpet, and dug out his pocket knife.

We were here.

#my writing #Jack is a Beanstalk #Beanstalk #Echoes of a Giantkiller #Remember the Dust #this one went way more off canon than usual #I was planning to spend more time with more of the background characters #Sorry Susie and Rosie I'll have to give you more screentime another time #because Kay kind of...took over #L&L fic #the mountain vigilantes never become the mountain vigilantes #other people still step up to the fight #Leagues and legends

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suntrastar · 4 years

Text

abstract: chapter 3

chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh. And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

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simsadventures · 4 years

Text

Wreak Havoc

Bucky Barnes x The Atomica (Reader), WInter Soldier x The Atomica

Summary: Bucky remembers you from his time as the Winter Soldier. And he can’t help but miss the times when you two would chase each other.

Warnings: swearing, violence, death (barely mentioned), implied smut, dirty talk

Word Count: 1892

A/N: This little something is for my friend Meg’s writing challenge @sebbbystaaan , with the prompt being the song Wreak Havoc…#sebbbystaaans500writingchallenge I know, I’m so original with the title of this story. Anywho, congrats Megs, I love you loads, and I hope you and all of you who are reading it will enjoy this story. Please, leave feedback :) xx

Bucky Barnes Masterlist __ Masterlist

When Bucky came into the room, he immediately knew what was going on. He could see Steve and Natasha, from the corner of his eye, looking around and observing what was left of his old Hydra base. Bucky could see them picking up debris, and he knew that they were talking, musing over what might have happened or who it was that caused so much damage, but Bucky didn’t listen to them too much.

His mind was clouded by old images of a person he thought he had long forgotten. The Atomica. He knew you from the times of his Winter Soldier years, from the time he wished he could have forgotten. But not you, never you.

Bucky could never really figure out what it was about you that made even the Winter Soldier snap, in his own way. You were a person that was extremely difficult to read for him. Your moral compass was fluid, and nobody could ever say if you were good or bad.

Lucky for Bucky, you never were his mission. He couldn’t muster why, but Hydra never set a price for your head, and Bucky was forever grateful for that.

Whenever the two of you met, it would always end up in one way. And Bucky missed it. He missed your firm but soft body writhing underneath him, trying to overpower him even in bed but eventually giving him the feeling he had the power over you. Bucky knew, in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t actually so, but he was happy you played the charade with him.

Bucky’s mouth turned into a smile, as he recalled all those meetings, fighting either together or against each other. He had to work for his money if he wanted to get you, he knew that much. But he also knew that you weren’t as rough as you wanted people to believe. Bucky didn’t necessarily know your soft side, or if you even had one, but he knew that you had feelings just like everybody else. You just kept them private well enough for all your enemies to think that you were actually a stone-cold bitch.

Steve called at Bucky, and he snapped out of his daydream. He knew it was you from the little things in the room. You never played with your victims, always hitting them so fast they didn’t even know they were attacked. That’s how you got your name. The Atomica. Just like an atomic bomb, you were lethal if launched, and slightly dangerous even if laid aside.

You always preferred to work alone, and you always honoured the people you fought. It was one of the most notable things on the scene, the four soldiers laid outside the base so that the bodies wouldn’t burn to ashes. Their eyes were covered by cloths, their hands crossed over their chests. You wanted the families to at least have bodies to bury. Natasha tried to get some prints off of specific evidence, but Bucky knew better. You never left anything behind you.

“Don’t even bother. She wouldn’t be so stupid to lead us right to her,” Bucky said with a grin. Steve and Natasha shared a quizzical look before they turned back to Bucky, confusion written all over their faces.

“She? What are you talking about, pal? You know who’s behind this? I mean, less work for us, but still,” Steve shrugged and waited for Bucky to begin explaining.

Bucky wasn’t too fond of sharing details of his time as the Soldat, but he knew it was pertinent. And he didn’t have to give them too many details. Just your MO and some general information Bucky could think of.

“Her name is Atomica, you might have heard about her,” Bucky began, and Natasha took in a deep breath.

“I mean, I’ve heard about her, but I thought it was all fables. Nobody is this crazy,” Natasha scoffed, and Bucky laughed at her.

“Oh, but she is. You never know with her, she might be on a mission to help her stop somebody or to kill you. I feel like it depends on her current mood, really. But she is meticulous at her job. She never makes mistakes, she is careful, and she knows what she’s doing.”

“Sounds like you have a crush on her, or something, bud,” Steve said with a smirk, and if he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn Bucky actually blushed a little. But, like a true gentleman, Steve didn’t comment on it. He would ask Bucky when they were alone.

Bucky wanted to tell them a little more about you, but then he heard rustling from somewhere behind him.

The trio tried to find the source of the noise, but couldn’t see anything. They wanted to disregard it as some kind of an animal, but then the rustling sounded again.

They were all in their fight modes, alert and restless. It was coming from the woods, they were sure of that. But even with their super-soldier sight, they couldn’t see anything. Until they saw everything.

You were listening to the conversation unfolding in front of the base, and you had to smile to yourself. So he did remember you. That was a good sign.

When you heard that the Winter Soldier wasn’t the Soldier anymore, you were disappointed. You loved the little cat and mouse chase you two had going on for years. The both of you being enhanced, it gave you so much more time to actually chase each other, unbothered by the ticking clock. You knew the Winter Soldier was only doing his job and that, even the machine-like man needed to let off some steam from time to time.

And that used to be your job. No matter how brutal the fight, the Soldier obviously had a soft spot for you. Not that kind that would keep you alive was he to get a mission to blow your head off. You were fun of yourself, but even you knew that you wouldn’t stand a chance.

But then a piece of information got to you, that even though he wasn’t the Soldier anymore, the person was still alive and fighting. You had a lot of stuff to do, creating chaos was your favourite past time. But then you stumbled upon the Hydra base, and based on the information you gathered throughout the years, you knew that these assholes didn’t deserve to have a fucking base. So you simply destroyed it.

And then you waited. You hoped they would come. No, scratch that. You hoped he would come. And true to your intuition, here he was, in the flesh.

He looked different but good different. He looked much healthier like he was actually getting enough sleep compared to last time you saw him. Well, last time you saw him was almost 15 years ago, so it was no surprise that he looked a bit different. You didn’t know if he would remember you, but from the conversation, he had with his friends, and the little smirk on his kissable lips, you knew he remembered just alright.

You couldn’t wait anymore, and so you made your presence known. You rustled the leafs a few times just to give yourself a big enough entrée.

When you finally emerged from behind the trees, everybody’s eyes were on you. But you didn’t care about the big bulk of muscles next to the Soldier nor about the pretty redhead. Your sole attention was on James Buchanan Barnes. You didn’t have an agenda or a plan as to what you actually wanted to do with him, all you knew was that you missed him. In your own particular way.

You could see Bucky’s eyes going a little wide before realisation set in as to who you were. He looked as if though he couldn’t believe his own eyes that you stood right in front of him.

“Long time, no see, Soldier. Heard you’ve been keeping busy, new brain and stuff,” you smirked at him as you crossed your arms on your chest.

He scoffed at you, but before he could speak up, Steve did it for him.

“Who are you, lady? Are you the one who caused the chaos here in this building?”

You eyed him up and down but chose to ignore him. He wasn’t your type, and therefore you had no wish to engage in anything with him.

“I must say, I kinda missed you, Soldier. We used to have so much fun together,” you winked at him playfully, and he snorted a laugh.

“If that’s what you call fun, doll-“ Bucky started saying, but Steve interrupted him once again.

“We’re here on a mission not to flirt. So unless you wanna tell me what the hell is going on here-“

It was your time to interrupt him. He paid no respect to you, and you weren’t too big of a fan of that. He was too full of himself, so you decided to show him who he was talking to.

You took a swift step towards him, grabbing him by the collar of his gear, and before he could react, you threw him out of your way. He landed with a thud good 10 meters away from you, staring at you with confusion written all over his face.

You could see the little redhead attacking you from the right, and it was no problem at all to duck and catch her ankle, throwing her the same way you sent Captain America.

You ostentatiously wiped your hands and turned back to Bucky.

It was his turn to smirk.

“You didn’t change one bit, did you, Y/N? And to go back to our conversation, yeah, I missed you too, you little spitfire.”

“Who’s little, you old sack of bones, huh? Don’t try and rile me up, pretty boy, I’m riled up alright from the little warm-up the taking down the base was for me, and to be honest, your friends here pissed me as well. So if you wanna get lucky, I advise you not to taunt me,” you playfully nudged his shoulder.

“Nobody was able to satisfy you, were they, Atomica? No matter how many men you’ve been with, nobody makes you quiver the way I do, am I right?” Bucky breathed into your ear as he stepped closer to you, holding you flush against his chest.

You would never admit it out loud, but he was right. You tried getting Bucky out of your system, but nobody was able to make you feel things or reach places Bucky reached within the first few minutes of your very first encounter.

Fire burst in your veins suddenly, and if you weren’t aware that you had an audience, you would’ve jumped his bones then and there.

“Oh, but this is not about me, old man. I just wanted to give you the ride of your new life, as a welcome, if you will,” you seductively whispered to him, and his grip on your hips as suddenly iron-clad.

You both knew that what was coming would be the sex of your lives. And you both rushed inside the woods to find your plane to do the one thing you have both been thinking about for what felt like ages.

Forever Tag:

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@this-kitten-is-smitten @paradisiacalsparks @crazybutconfidentaf @owlyannah @lassini @s-trawberryv-eins @reniescarlett @bxrnsfeyson @the-soulofdevil @haru-ririchiyo @winterboobear11

Marvel Taglist

@voltage-my2dlove @kneel-begyourpardon @lumar014 @ptrs-prkrs

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

Text

Beauty Chooses II-Chapter 17

A special thanks to @statell for all your help

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter 17 1776

The man hunched over, under a blanket, and headed up the mountain road. He was desperately tired and almost starved after hiding from people who would take him into custody. He narrowly escaped the first attempt to take him, but his papers had convinced the ruffians to move on. After that he took no chances and stayed hidden from sight, only moving under the cover of darkness. He could easily hide in the vegetation of the mountain road if someone was coming, so he felt safe walking in the daylight. He looked up the mountain and wondered how far it was and if she would still be there. He kept walking.

I looked up from my garden to see Brain walk out of the woods with a deer slumped dead on his shoulder. He was happy and tossed the thing onto our processing table to butcher it. It filled me with relief when he brought more meat to store away because I expected it could be a very unstable winter. Jamie has been gone for a week, meeting with the governor who is calling in his debt. This beautiful land, the Ridge, that allowed our community to prosper all these years had a price and Jamie would be the one to pay it. I wanted Jamie back home, to hear the news, and to hold him for as long as I could. I’m feeling powerless and scared, like the final days at Lallybroch before the blue stone saved us all.

Every man, young or old, that resided on the Ridge, was aligned with the rebels against the king's army. Many would fight against the loyalists when they were called. This secret was carefully kept. When the government came sniffing, they were told strong loyalists were present to stand at the hand of their leader, Jamie Fraser. It made my stomach turn to think of the dangerous game they were playing. I tried to concentrate on harvesting the last of the garden before it rested for the winter.

I stood up, stretching my back to ease the stiffness and thought, not for the first time, that fifty-four years of age was too young to suffer from constant back pain. When the ache passed, I walked to the gardening shed to put up my tools for the day. It was time to start the evening meal, my duty since Misses Crook was called home to heaven. It had been three years and I still looked for her from time to time and missed her always. As close to a mother I would ever know, a part of me felt empty without her. I walked toward Brian to admire his deer, but his love interest came out of nowhere and hugged his neck. He looked so happy, beaming a smile at her. I decided not to intrude and headed to the house.

Glavia was already adding chunks of vegetables to the pot in the kitchen. Since Daniel was away for his father’s funeral, we decided to feed everybody at one home, mine was far larger. It was so nice to have her here for the past week and I hugged her when I entered the kitchen. Glavia’s oldest son accompanied his father to the funeral, but the other two were there in the kitchen, getting in the way, regaling us with funny stories of their trip to town. I hugged them both and let them know that Brian shot a deer to add to our winter stores. Glavia looked at me with relief. We had seen our share of near starvation over the years when fate and the weather worked against us. It taught us to double our garden space and sell less of the harvest each year.

Jamie has provided for us quite well, however those lean years were terrifying. We all shared what little we had, and the men hunted ten hours a day with little to show for it. Jamie decided to do something about that and used every penny we had to purchase animals, wherever and whenever he found them. It started with three chickens and we feasted on the fresh eggs the first year. The next year he brought home a rooster and soon there were fluffy baby chickens all over the yard, sticking close to their mothers as they pecked the dirt. The chicken coup was enlarged twice to facilitate their numbers and we invited all families on the Ridge to take part in their upkeep, feeding, cleaning, and protecting. I dubbed it the Ridge Cooperative and it grew as we added pig breeding, then sheep, then a few goats. Through this effort, we added pork, eggs, chicken, goat cheese. milk, and wool to our daily existence. It took many years to build up a strong breeding and selling program and we made a lot of mistakes. I remember Misses Crook running across the front yard with a pan of chicken feed in her hand, screaming bloody murder, and a huge male pig chasing her. The giggle bubbled up when the kitchen was quiet, and I realized everyone was looking at me.

I turned around and shrugged my shoulders, “just remembering the pig chasing Misses Crook across the yard.”

Everyone seemed keen on sharing a funny story about Misses Crook, we laughed and held our stomachs until she was there with us again through our memories. I could feel her presence and my eyes stung from tears that were held back. Glavia yelled at her boys to bring the chairs in from the parlor and gave me a knowing smile.

Two years ago, Jamie returned from his spring run to town for seed and supplies with a skinny cow tied to the back of the wagon and I nearly fainted. A cow! I was thrilled to have milk again, real milk, after so many years. The poor cow was malnourished and half dead after the trek up the mountain, but I was determined to bring her to the peak of health and have fresh milk every day. I named her Bluebell, after my favorite ice cream in my century. Now she is three times that size and free-range, coming home each day to be milked and have a scoop of grain and fresh grass hay. I focused on getting stew into bowls and wondered where my daughter was.

Faith snapped out of her daydreaming and stretched at her desk in the schoolroom. She stayed late to prepare the lessons for the next day and got lost in her mind where she constructed her perfect life filled with friends and love, children, and a home. Whenever she allowed herself to think of such things it always left her emotional because she would never have such things. She was busy with learning to teach, helping the community with childbirth, and medicating cuts, burns, and headaches, when she should have been socializing and flirting with the growing number of eligible bachelors in the community. She couldn’t be bothered at that time and somehow the years pushed her over the proper age of marriage and to her horror sealed her fate as a spinster. She shook her head and yawned, reaching for her cloak to go home.

It was already dark when Faith closed the door to the schoolroom and the cold breeze seemed to go right through her. Hunkering into her cloak she hurried home until she saw movement in the trees. She stopped and set her eyes on one tree, the way she was taught, and stared straight at it. There it was, a figure, man or beast, moving slowly up the road to the ridge. She watched it struggle to put one foot in front of the other and finally collapse. She started running, realizing it was a human and called out she was coming.

“Sir, are you well? Do you need food or water?”

She struggled to pull the man to his feet and looked at his handsome face. “Who do you come to see?”

“Claire.”

“Come with me, I will take you to her.”

“Thank God.”

Claire heard Faith calling from the front door, and with her mother’s-hearing, knew something was not right. She wiped her hands on her apron and came quickly.

“Who is this Faith?”

“I don’t know, I saw him fall on the road and ran to help him. He asked…for you.”

“Come and sit down sir, I am Claire Fraser, you look like you could use some food and drink.”

Before I could walk away the man’s hand shot out and seized my arm.

“Pet.”

I felt paralyzed, stunned into silence. That name, Pet, was from a long time ago, and it once meant so much to me. The years of separation made my memory foggy as I tried to remember…

“Dear God, is it you, Joe?”

I fell to my knees and pushed the blanket off his head so I could see his face. It was all I could do not to faint when his incredible eyes found mine. I jumped up and hugged him for all I was worth, sobbing his name over and over. He pulled me to the couch and looked at my face smiling.

“I’ve missed you, Pet.”

I held his hand so tight and sobbed. I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, why did he come, where was Baritone, how long could he stay. But I couldn’t form a single word in my shocked mind, so I just looked at him and cried. Glavia was so happy to see him and hugged him with her own tears rolling down her face.

By now, everyone was standing in the parlor, watching us, wondering who this man was that meant so much to us.

“Joe, may I introduce you to my son, Brian, Glavia’s sons, Matthew and Jacob, and this is Faith, who you held as an infant. Everybody, this is Joe Abernathy, my dearest friend.”

The boys approached respectfully and shook hands in welcome and smiled with warmth. Brian was especially interested and remained close enough to hear every word. Joe spoke to each of them, asking about their lives, their age, their favorite things. He still held my hand and Brian was silently observing. We pulled him into the kitchen and got three bowls of stew in him while we continued to talk about superficial things. As Glavia and I cleaned up the kitchen, Joe continued to talk with the boys. His interest in them made them want to talk, so they did. I could tell Brian wanted to grill him about how he knew me so well, but he politely excused himself to fetch his little love for an evening walk. When Glavia took her boys home she hugged Joe and kissed his cheek, promising to visit every day while he was here.

Faith had not uttered a word since bringing Joe home. It was her nature to sit quietly and observe things she did not understand. Joe looked at her and beamed a smile in her direction.

“I cannot tell you how good it is to see you again, young lady. You have grown into a beautiful woman and I see parts of both parents in your face.”

Joe’s speech and mannerisms were not of this time or place and his statement about her beauty was taboo for a stranger, making her shrink into the corner. I wanted to speak freely with Joe and made a fuss about how tired he looked.

“Let me show you to the guest room, Joe. I will bring hot water for you to wash and then you can rest. We will have loads of time to catch up I hope.”

When we were alone, he asked if I could come to his room later and talk. I nodded yes and smiled, telling him to rest until then. I knew I had to say something to Faith, but what? One thing I was sure of, I wouldn’t lie to her.

“Mama?”

“Yes, darling, I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but I would like to talk when your father is here, the three of us. Do you mind terribly?”

“No, I can wait.”

She kissed me on the cheek and went upstairs to her room, brimming with questions I’m sure. Once in my own room, I tried to read, then paced for a bit, and finally crept downstairs and tapped on Joe’s door. He opened it and hugged me into the room. I was decidedly uncomfortable, in a closed room with a man who was not my husband. I shook my head like I was daft, but it didn’t help. After spending more years in this century than my own, I could not allow such impropriety and suggested we speak quietly in the kitchen. I poured whisky for us both and the strong spirit took his breath away at first, then he slid the glass back toward the bottle and I poured another round.

“We said your name every day, Pet, at least once, Baritone and me. He loved you like a sister. When I went through his things, I found a sonogram picture of Faith that he kept all these years and a picture of you and him in front of the fire talking.”

A tear rolled down Joe’s cheek and I grabbed his hand, “what happened?”

“He died of a brain tumor. Diagnosis to death in six months. Inoperable and no treatment. I sold my practice right away and we traveled, lived the high-life, ate, drank, loved, and talked for hours and hours. We walked the surf of so many countries and talked until he couldn’t anymore. The tumor ravaged his brain in four months, so I brought him home, put him to bed, and kept talking. If there was a single piece of brain tissue left that could interpret my voice, I wanted him to know I was right next to him.”

Joe cried into his shirt, trying to stay quiet. I hugged him and he gripped me like a life saver to a drowning man. I just held him and rocked back and forth, saying how sorry I was that he lost his love. It was quite some time we stayed like that. Until he could speak again, I just rocked him.

“He is buried at Lallybroch. It was his wish, the only place that ever felt like home, he said. Every spring he would collect those hay cubes left from the last harvest and give them to a neighbor for his horse. We would go together when I could get away for a few days. To care for the house, prepare it for winter, drive into town, and visit Fiona.” Joe was quiet for a minute. “ We kept our room in the basement, it was comfortable, and the master bedroom just had too much of you and Jamie in it. After Baritone was laid to rest, I spent three days in that room and your energy seemed to wrap around me in comfort. I swear, Pet, I felt you there.”

“I’m so glad it brought you comfort, Joe.

“I couldn’t cope with losing both of you. I spent a week in the library and online, learning everything I could about this century, I found plenty of bills of sale in the archives, for… slave ownership, and had one forged with Jamie’s name on it. It got me out of being arrested when I first got here, after that, I only traveled at night.”

“I am so honored and overwhelmed that you came to find me. It was quite a risk though, how could you be sure we were still here?” I watched Joe struggle to answer and when he did it broke my heart.

“I am in a dark place, Pet. I wanted to see you and nothing else mattered.”

I could see his hands shaking and knew he was exhausted. “Do you think you can sleep, Joe? We can talk again tomorrow. Jamie should be home tomorrow and he will be so happy to see you.”

“Yes, thank you, Pet. See you in the morning.”

I turned the lamps down as I moved toward the stairs. I felt so sad about Baritone’s passing and Joe’s broken heart. Hopefully, some time on the Ridge will heal his heart and soul, meanwhile I have my best friend back.

I always woke early when Jamie was away. I had started the porridge cooking when I heard the front door close and looked around the corner. Joe was standing rigid, glaring at me, and I felt the hair on my neck stand up.

“What is it Joe, what’s happened?”

He looked at me for a whole minute before he answered making me very uncomfortable.

“You have slaves.”

“Certainly not, don’t be ridiculous.”

“What are all those dark-skinned men doing working your fields, Pet?”

I pulled his hand to the kitchen and pushed him into a chair. “They are not my slaves, they are working their own fields. We do not allow slavery on the Ridge, we never have.”

I put a bowl in front of him and noticed his expression was still concern and maybe some disbelief.

“It hasn’t been easy and we have had to fight for their right to stay here. Jamie has ownership papers on every person of color in our community. It’s against the law to free a slave in this time and we have been forced to prove our right to them. It is nasty business owning a human being but here they are equal to every other person on the Ridge. Maybe it’s not true freedom. They cannot leave here but they can choose to farm their own land or any other profession they fancy, they raise their families and all the children are schooled together.” I took a deep breath and looked at my friend. “It’s the best life they can have now that they are in this country and no one tells them what to do. They are happy here.”

I felt his hand cover mine, “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. You and Jamie have done a remarkable thing for these people. What of Murtagh?”

“He is with Jamie right now but normally spends most of his time in town. He has a blacksmith business there. It was his idea to free the ten slaves that were sent to work here by Jamie’s aunt. It all started with him.”

Faith had been listening from upstairs and meekly entered the kitchen and said hello to her mother and Joe. She ate her breakfast, cleaned the kitchen up, and went outside to collect eggs and wait for her father to get home. She agreed to wait for him before her questions were answered and it was killing her not to blurt them out. Why was her mother so familiar with this man? Why did he talk like an educated man? When and where did he hold her as an infant? Faith was sure Brian would have questions of his own.

I talked with Joe for most of the morning and when I heard the wagon outside, I flew to the door and rushed outside. It took a moment to find him with all the men around but when the sun bounced off those azure eyes, I made a mad dash for him and jumped into his arms. He hugged me to him and whispered endearments into my ear. I was so happy to see him and whispered that Joe was here. Jamie held me at arm's length and looked at me with shock on his face.

“Did ye say Joe, mo chridhe?”

“Yes, he came last night. He is heartsick because Baritone died, and he just had to see us and hopefully feel better. I left him a stone shard in case he ever needed to find me.”

Jamie’s face broke into a smile, “I canna wait to see him Sassenach, where is…”

Joe was walking toward Jamie when he looked up and the men shook hands and hugged both smiling and laughing.

“It’s good to see ye, Joe. I’ll be wantin yer time to talk in a bit but I havena washed in a week… and need to.”

Murtagh was next to shake hands and hug Joe, then the three of them headed for the stream for a chilly bath. I brought towels down for them and stopped in my tracks at the sight of them, laughing and talking, so happy to be in each other’s company again.

I put out the noon meal and we sat around the table and talked, about Baritone, Misses Crook, our children, Joe’s practice, and a million other things. We talked about the night Joe and I jumped to find Jamie in the wagon at Lallybroch and how Joe started his heart again once we were back, only to nearly lose him again from blood loss two days later.

“It was Baritone that found the blood you needed but I never asked him how, and now it’s too late,” I whispered, feeling a tear roll down my cheek.

“He was a good man. Let us toast our good friend.”

Jamie poured whisky all around and asked us to stand and held his glass up, “I swear by my hope in heaven that we’ll meet again my friend. To Baritone.”

“To Baritone,” said in unison, and the whisky was tossed back to fortify us during this heartbreaking memorial.

I watched for Faith to come in all afternoon to stem any talk of jumping and the century in the future. I wasn’t aware she was upstairs listening to every word until I ran up for my cloak and fell over her. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and when I tumbled to the ground, I sat up quickly, eye to eye with her and knew she had heard it all.

“Please Faith, wait for your father and me to have a moment to talk with you about this. I know it sounds impossible and you have questions that I promise to answer but it has to wait sweetheart.”

“Why? You were all there together. Why can’t you all answer them for me? It’s what I want mama, as soon as Glavia gets here.”

I wanted to speak with Jamie about this first, but Faith had heard almost every detail of our living in the future and then jumping back. I surrendered to what I felt was fair at that moment. She is an adult and we should treat her as such.

“Alright, Faith, why don’t you get Glavia back here and we will all fill in the details of an extraordinary experience you had as an infant, and who Joe really is.”

Faith was down the steps and out the door before I could get off the floor. I cursed my old bones and pulled my jacket down before getting my cloak for a meet and greet later with Joe. I walked into the kitchen and the three dearest men in my life looked up at me.

“Faith has been upstairs this whole time. I didn’t know. She has questions about Lallybroch, living in the future, jumping back to this time, and more. I asked her to get Glavia and we would tell her all about it.”

I looked at Jamie and he smiled and nodded, much to my relief.

“Come sit with me Sassenach, I need ye near me lass.”

He held my hand under the table and whispered to me, “have courage in the truth, love.” Not a minute later, Glavia and Faith joined the table and we began. Faith asked for each of us to add to the story and I suggested Joe start with our trip to Scotland and seeing me walk through the stones. Jamie picked up the story and described Master Raymond walking into the stone and just minutes later I shot out. He said prayers that the baby was alive and well after the demons tried to take her from my womb.

“It was difficult, saying goodbye to my pregnant wife the last night before the stones would open and allow passage. We were still on the ship and had no idea when we would see Scotland, the ship was already a week overdue. Murtagh was gravely ill and I feared takin his last breath as we heard the crewman yell land. He made a miraculous recovery after yer mam came out of the stone.”

Jamie wrinkled his brow and stared at his folded hands. “It was a miraculous recovery Murtagh and I never thought about it until now. Suppose ye explain it to us.”

“Ye wilna like my explanation laddie but here’s the truth of it. My last visit to the witch she tricked me, and I paid her to tell me how the lasses’ journey through the stones would go. She agreed and said ye would lose yer mind and die of insanity if I told ye how it would end. She said two hearts will enter the stones but only one would come out and she was mum about which one of them survive. Forgive me lad, I was so scared but couldn’t tell ye. It made me sick and I was tortured with worry. When the lass came out of the stone my misery stopped instantly.”

The silence was deafening and I struggled with Murtagh’s truth, remembering how mean he was to me on the ship and how close he was to death the last day I saw him.

“Murtagh, it was worry, about me and the baby that caused your temper and sickness!” I stood up and rushed to hug and kiss his cheek, leaving his face wet from my tears. I could see Jamie nod to him in understanding. It was a very heavy moment and we all pushed our glasses toward the bottle of whisky and Jamie poured.

Faith held her hand up, “why did you go to France, and where did you disappear to the last night.”

I explained how I would wake up in Jamie’s woods every night and we met and fell in love. We learned I could walk through the stones at Craig Ne Dunn on the summer solstice and stay in Jamie’s century forever, but I needed someone to come from the other side to balance the centuries. That person was Master Raymond who owned an apothecary shop in France. That’s why we went to France and he agreed to be my trade, but his heart stopped in passage. Joe can tell you more.”

We continued in a round-robin fashion, telling her this remarkable story. Glavia told her how she came to Lallybroch for a job and the very first day I went into labor and she delivered Faith with Misses Crook. Well, Glavia likes to talk so there were plenty of details, like looking between my legs and seeing the baby head and Jamie refusing to leave the room. Then she explained the man who tried to rape her during a robbery.

“I was screaming and so scared but your mam came behind and hit him on the head with a pan, and then tied him up until yer da came. I tried to hit his head again because he scared me so bad but yer da wouldn’t let me.”

I had forgotten about that horrible incident and the way Glavia explained trying to hit the man with Jamie chasing the pan to grab it away from her had us in stitches. A bit of comic relief made us all feel better and the whisky was poured again. I wished we could stop there but I knew the rest had to come out.

Brian walked into the kitchen around this time and although we were laughing, he could feel something big was in process. He pulled a chair next to his father and remained silent while every adult he knew and trusted told a story that shocked him.

I explained how Jamie was going to get us on a ship to the new world before the uprising but was kidnapped and press-ganged into service for the Jacobites. I told her about the blue stone and Jamie destroying it by throwing it into the gorge. How we fled the house for the cave, my final trip to the gorge in a rainstorm, and finding the blue stones in time to save them all from execution by the red coats. I was sobbing so Glavia took over describing a tremendous trip we went on clinging to each other and landing at Lallybroch two-hundred and fifty years in the future.

Brian sat up in his chair and Jamie put his hand on his arm to steady him. He needed to hear this. Murtagh took over describing a fantastical world with objects made of metal that took people across land at high speeds, warm water that poured out of the wall like rain to wash in, boxes that stayed cold inside so food didn’t spoil, and lights were bright without lamp oil or fire, instantly whenever you wanted to light a room.

“And no corsets or bum rolls, that’s right, women wore pants and sometimes dresses that were so comfortable. You put dirty clothes in a metal box and they came out clean and you didn’t do nothing! You could watch a play any time of day from a box in the parlor or a lady that told you to exercise, ya, that’s what Baritone and Misses Crook watched while they jumped up and down.”

“Faith, all of this is true, and we can stop here if you have heard enough.”

“How did you and Baritone come to Lallybroch, Joe?”

“Your mother is my best friend and the only family I have. She gave me Lallybroch and four million dollars, then she left and I couldn’t cope.” He looked at me and my eyes were starting to sting. “I knew she would never be back but decided to use some of her money to modernize the house and I put a cell phone in the kitchen just in case. I had a dedicated tune for that number and when I heard it ring, I almost passed out. It was…”

Faith stopped him mid-sentence with her hand up, “what is a cell phone?” She looked at me, “how did you come to own Lallybroch and where did four million dollars come from?”

The talking continued, the whisky flowed, and before I knew it Glavia was starting the evening meal. Fortunately, I was not scheduled for animal duty today so I hadn’t missed any obligations on the Ridge. It was eight o’clock when we all stopped talking. I was feeling numb from reliving so many events and Jamie was getting more insistent with is hand under the table. I suggested we rest and start again tomorrow if there were still questions. Brian went home, and Joe was in his room reading. Jamie made short work of turning down the lamps and banking the fire, then he pulled me upstairs.

He went back down for a basin of warm water and soap and held my hands when I reached for the cloth. He looked at my face for a long minute.

“I take this beautiful face and this loving heart with me when I go away, and they keep me company and calm my loneliness. It doesna compare to seein and touchin ye in the flesh. I’ve missed ye lass.”

He pulled my laces slowly, and then my skirts, and then my shift. He lathered the rag with my rose soap before smoothing it onto my skin. The warm water was delightful as were his kisses on my neck during the process. To be honest, it felt like months since I had seen him, rather than a week. I touched his face and he picked me up and laid me on our bed before pulling his clothes off. He smothered the wick of our lamp, so it was just the flames of the fire throwing shadows on our skin. He kissed his invitation and I accepted.

We made love slowly and Jamie stopped twice and just looked at me before kissing my arousal up again. He wanted to celebrate our love tonight and we made it last with dozens of I love you’s. I knew in my bones there was a truth lurking, like a black cloud to threaten all that I loved. I can wait until tomorrow to hear it because the rest of the night is for Jamie and me.

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