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snippychicke · 7 months

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Cats & Ships Chapter Four

Title: Cats & Ships

Overall Rating: Teen for now, will go into mature at a future date

Trigger warnings: Nothing beyond what's in the live-action series. I mean, Kuro's still manipulative and paranoid. It gets better tho? Slowly?

Pairings: Captain Kuro (Klahadore)/Reader; hints of Kaya/Usopp

Summary: It started out as a means to get information as Khaladore. Who would be better to provide information regarding the high seas than Syrup Village’s Harbormaster? Except, for the first time in a very long time, Kuro found himself trusting, and even liking, the young woman he shared tea with every week.

And then the Straw Hat Pirates arrived and ruined his plans. Except fate decided his story wasn’t done there.

Nor was yours.

Masterlist here! | Read on Ao3!

Kaya was silent on the other end of the transponder snail after you relayed your ‘adventure on the high-sea’. You couldn’t blame her; you were still trying to believe it wasn’t some kind of dream, especially now that you had made it safely to shore. (What island you had landed on, you weren’t sure considering your mind still a confused mess after everything.)

“...So, essentially," Kaya finally spoke, slowly as if she was still trying to grapple the whole situation. "Klahadore--Captain Kuro of the Black Cat Pirates-- took you in his cabin… to make sure your cat was okay, clean your wounds and catch up?”

“Yep,” you sighed, leaning back in the small booth of the local tavern; the only place in the small port that had public-use transponder snails. You mindlessly ripped up a piece of lettuce to feed the snail as you thought. “I-I know that the news of him still being alive is not what you wanted to hear, I just… I need to talk with somebody who understands.”

Or at least somewhat. Because hell, you were still trying to understand the emotional whirlwind. Being captured by pirates. Seeing them kick the-cat-still-unfortunately-named-Kuro so hard you were sure he was deadnor at least injured. Then the pirate was dead and you were at the feet of a man you thought you'd never see again.

He was cold. Yet kind. How were you supposed to look at him and see Captain Kuro and not Klahadore? Especially as he took such care to look over his namesake? Or when he carefully cleaned your wounds?

Then it was like a light had switched and the pirate captain had you by the throat. Faint bruises had already appeared on your neck where his fingers had dug in. You had been so sure you were going to die…

Only for that same grip to soften. Almost like a lover's as his hand trailed downward slowly.

“It's okay," Kaya's voice broke through your thought, whipping you back to reality. "I understand. And I would want to know anyway. I’m just…having a hard time processing everything.”

You chuckled dryly. “You and me both," you sighed, rubbing your face as you noticed the time

This call was probably going to cost a pretty berry, but… "Anyways, how’s school? How’s city life treating you? Tell me everything.”

The snail did it's best impression of Kaya's smile. “It’s good. Being in a class with so many other people can be overwhelming at times, but it’s still nice. I have a few friends now, we help each other in class, and hang out afterwards. I still miss Usopp, and… how things used to be. But I’m becoming stronger.”

“You’re going to be an amazing woman,” you assured her, a faint smile on your own face. “After everything you have gone through, the world will be your oyster. And I’m sure we’ll hear from Usopp sooner or later; after all, it was impossible not to back home.”

***

As it turned out, Maple Town was the name of the port you had found yourself in. It was a bit larger than Syrup Village, but not by much. Deciding you were done with being a harbormaster and wanted to try something not associated with ships and the sea, you found work at the very same tavern from where you had called Kaya weeks earlier.

Being a barmaid paid well, or at least enough for you to live off of, and wasn’t nearly as stressful as your old job. You got to hear so many stories from the sailors that visited the sea-side tavern, and it wasn’t long until The Straw-Hat Pirates started to be mentioned in some of them.

And then fate decided to make life odd for you once more. A slow afternoon became tense as the doors of the tavern opened up, revealing a small band of familiar looking pirates, their captain trailing in slowly with a long black coat slung over his shoulders.

To be fair, you had been working at the tavern long enough to see more than a few bands of pirates stop in for a drink and a bite, many of them rowdy but not causing enough trouble that you worried for your life. Some would pay, others wouldn’t. Some were womanizers, others weren’t. It was just roulette, really.

But the Black Cats? Your first instinct was to rip off your apron and toss it at the cook as you stormed out. Except the cook that afternoon was Jiro-- a kid that could barely speak to you, let alone anyone else. You could hardly leave them to the mercy of the pirates.

“A round of ale!” one of the pirates called as the group claimed one of the central tables, “And a glass of your finest red for our captain!”

You disappeared into the back before you could catch said-captain’s eyes, still cursing to yourself and your luck as you readied the drinks. Still, it wouldn’t be absolutely correct to say your heart was beating quickly out of fear or anger. Anxiety, yes.

Because while you remembered seeing that one pirate fall from the five blades of Captain Kuro’s claws, you could also remember him checking over Kuro-the-cat then allowing a relieved smile to grace his lips briefly. Or when he cleaned your injuries tenderly, looking so much like the Klahodore you thought you had known.

His hand skimming down the length of your neck, brushing the collar of your shirt gently as if he wanted to go lower.

You poured the wine last, deciding to go with a decent bottle instead of the cheapest like you had briefly thought about. (Though it would serve him right to take a swig of wine-vinegar instead.) Hefting the heavy tray was a challenge you were used to, and thankfully Jiro opened the kitchen door wide for you to pass through.

“Just forewarning, my cook is an apprentice. The master chef won’t be on duty for another hour or so,” you explained as you started setting down the lagers. “They can make our specialty fried calamari, however, if you gentlemen want to start with that.”

There were a few grunts of agreement as the pirates gulped down their drinks, though your attention was more on Captain Kuro as you set the glass of red before him. Judging by his narrowed eyes, he was about as happy to see you as you were to see him.

(Except, you kinda were. But you pushed that errant thought and emotion away to the darkest part of your soul. This wasn’t your old friend. This was a pirate captain who lied and tricked you for three years.)

His eyes glanced down to the wine, then up to you. “Take a drink.”

You frowned, looking at the glass briefly before looking back at him. “...take a drink of your wine?” you repeated, unsure if you heard him right.

His lips twitched in a humorless smile, “To be sure it isn’t poisoned.”

You rolled your eyes despite yourself. You? Poison him? Oh that was rich. “I’m not in the business of poisoning others, unlike someone I know.” You ignored his quickly-darkening look and picked up the goblet and all but chugged half of it before setting it down hard, making a face as you did so. “It’s a bit dry for my tastes, but I figured that would be right up your alley.”

Captain Kuro picked up the goblet and sipped at it, holding your gaze. You tried to ignore his damned full lips and his tongue briefly ghosting over them. "Decent, but hardly the best."

"This is a tavern, not the manor," you answered dryly. "Let me go get another round for your crew, and I'll see what else we have."

***

Hours passed, the crew of the Black Cat Pirates were barely intelligible after several rounds as well as several servings of the fried calamari. By the time the chef came in, no one seemed to want an actual meal. Many were now spread around the tavern, and a few had taken up the rooms you had offered.

Meanwhile, Captain Kuro was nowhere near the state of his crew, just merely relaxed as he sat in his chair, watching the rest of the tavern as a few brave regulars intermixed with his crew.

Unfortunately, considering he had chosen you to be his personal poison taster for every drink he had, you were more than a little tipsy yourself. You honestly had lost count of how many glasses of wine you had shared with the pirate, but enough that even the dry red was starting to taste pretty good.

And also enough that when someone accidentally hip-checked you while you were tasting yet another glass for him, you end up sitting in his lap somehow. By the time you realize what happened, Kuro was glaring daggers at the poor soul and his arms wrapped around you tight enough you had no fear of falling.

Yet when you tried to move, he pulled you closer still. Your head ended up resting against his shoulder as you sat sideways in his lap. It felt… it felt far too good. Far too comfortable of a position. He was warm, smelling like sea air and musk, one of his hands mindlessly petting your arm.

"Klahadore…" you muttered after a moment, hoping it would break him of whatever thoughts he was lost in and free you. (Before you grew too comfortable and gave in to the warmth trying to overcome the cold disdain for the captain.)

"Hmmm?" He hummed slightly, his hand still slowly stroking up and down your arm.

"I think… I think we've had a bit too much," you replied honestly refusing to let your eyes close. This was a pirate, a very heinous and evil man. You should not feel comfortable or safe in his arms.

To your dismay, his petting stopped. "Perhaps you're right." Yet… he didn't let you go. Instead he pressed his face against the crown of your hair, taking in a deep breath. "But it provides such a nice alibi. We both can blame this on the alcohol in the morning."

The quiet purr of his voice didn't help matters any. Mother Sea, you had never heard him talk like that, and it made your body react in ways you'd rather not admit. "Was that your plan then? To get me tipsy in hopes I'd fall in bed with you?"

You could feel as well as hear his chuckle. "Hardly. This is merely a… beneficial accident. I'm not like those other pirates who take captives to their bed unwillingly anyways. I find no pleasure in such acts."

You were not debating how unwilling you would be. You were not thinking about what it would be like to have his hands on you, or that sinful mouth. To see that little smirk of his as he lorded over you, teasing you to oblivion.

"Then why?" You asked as you forced your mind away from the thoughts you refused to acknowledge. "Why have me test every drink of yours?"

"I told you, my dear," he whispered virtually directly into your ear. "I can't trust anyone."

Goosebumps appeared in a wave across your body, warmth only growing in your loins. But you stubbornly ignored it all as you shifted with a frown to meet his gaze. "Do you honestly think I would poison you?"

"I've known people swear revenge for less," he answered as if it was an obvious fact. "You lost your family's legacy because of me. Exiled to being a barmaid. Of course you'd want revenge, and poison is almost too poetic in our case."

"Sounds like too much effort to me," You replied, leaning your head against him once more, finding that dark gaze to be too intense. As if it was a keg of pure black gun powder, just waiting for a spark. "Besides, it’s not half bad. I never thought I would leave Syrup Village, or do anything else with my life, yet here I am. And I kinda like it."

"You were a harbormaster, second only to that idiot mayor," he argued, his grip tightening. "You had power. Authority. Frankly, I doubt that town will survive without you."

The fact he was quite possibly right--about the town, at least-- made your stomach twist with guilt. But like all the other things you didn't want to acknowledge, you shoved it aside with pure stubbornness. Yet at the same time, you leaned into him a little more. "They made their bed, now they have to lay in it."

"As did I. And expecting others to poison my food or drink is one such instance. A pirate has no friends, merely enemies holding an uneasy truce."

Despite everything, the sentiment did not settle well with you, and you couldn't shove that away. Even with your mind numbly reminding you of all the horrors he committed. "Not here. Not me." You looked back up to him again shifting so you could cup his face. You had definitely had too much, unable to stop yourself from acting so intimately. You avoided his gaze as instead watched your thumb brush his high cheek bone, grazing the lower rim of his glasses. Yet you could virtually feel his gaze on you, hot and intense like the noon-day sun. "Even after everything, I don't think I have it in me to do something like that."

He licked his lips, and your mouth suddenly felt dry. "Would you bring me some tea then?" He asked after a long moment, breaking the spell.

You were finally brave enough to meet his gaze, as heavy as it still was. "Cream, no sugar? I have some butter cookies as well."

There was that smile you had missed, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "That sounds lovely."

#opla #khaladore #captain kuro #opla kuro #opla Khaladore #black cat pirates #Khaladore/Reader #kuro/reader

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portcadorpg · 1 year

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WELCOME BACK, Poppy!! We are delighted to welcome Theodore Alistair to Port Cado. Please complete our after acceptance checklist. We are looking forward to seeing you develop him.

Out of Character

Alias: Poppy Preferred

Pronouns: she/her

Age: Poppy > Earth itself. Just shy of ancient.

Timezone: EST

Anything Else: I have a vacation to California scheduled in mid February. Just for 2 weeks. Should still be able to do some replies while down there.

Character

Name: Theodore "Teddy" Alistair

Birthdate: October 10thAge: 34

Preferred Pronouns: he/him

Faceclaim: Daniel Sharman

Profession: Librarian

Loyalty: Government

Designation: Dominant

Claim: No claim

Children: None.

Neighbourhood: Midtown Harbour (because he walks to work)

Sexuality: Pansexual

Kinks: Service Play, Discipline Play, Light bondage, Light pain play, Body Worship (giving and receiving), Oral sex, mild Exhibitionism (he's not looking to go to jail), Reading to his lover (only with very special people)Anti-Kinks: Humiliation, Extreme anything, Degradation, Watersports, Scat, Vore, Gore, ABDL, Age Play

Biography:

Teddy was born with a very shiny, very large silver spoon in his mouth. He was spoiled by parents who liked him way more than they should have to be honest. He was a pretentious, thoughtless jerk. At a certain point in a trust fund baby's life there is a moment or a series of such moments where they could go one way or the other - where they could turn it around and actually be a person worth knowing and not just some useless, pretentious prat.

Teddy missed every road flare along the way. His parents continued to bail him out over and over again when he and his pitiful cadre of likeminded fools got in over their heads. For idiots they weren't too far down the dusty lanes. They were rude, self-absorbed, dismissive of anyone who grew up without all the privileges they were so thoughtlessly burning through day after day, year after year.

However, in his first year of university, shortly after his 19th birthday, Teddy had his wake-up call. He and his friends were partying and bought some recreational drugs from one of the OS dealers that always seemed to frequent the edges of their parties - overcharging rich idiots for a little fun. Except this dealer was stretching his profit by mixing his drugs with a little something extra. Teddy woke up three days after the party, hospitalized, in agony, and engulfed in grief - for himself and for his friends. He still has nightmares, almost twenty years later about the events of that night.

It was a wakeup call to say the least. It was two years before they found the right cocktail of medications to allow him to go a day without a seizure. He still isn't allowed to drive but other elements of his life have significantly improved. It was another decade before he finished university - first his undergrad and then getting his Masters in Library Science. With his degree and a new job at the City Library, Teddy was ready to begin his life anew. He is no longer the useless person he once was, taking pride in the literacy programs he works with and the people who gave him a second chance at life after he almost threw it all away. Some of his friends were not so fortunate. He is determined to make his second chance mean something.

#accepted #city rp #crime rp #mafia rp

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qqueenofhades · 3 years

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Your majesty, may I humbly inquire if/how you would imagine a reunion of Ivan and Fedyor after the events of season 1?

Also on AO3.

Ivan wakes up on the far side of the Shadow Fold with very little memory of how he arrived there. He lies flat on his back beneath the cold white sun, which drills into his head like a blade, and at last, after a great effort, he vaguely recalls sunlight of another sort, wild and fey, bursting from Alina Starkov’s hands on the deck of the skiff as everything else went to hell. He remembers the Zemeni brat getting a lucky jump on him and shoving him over the rail, and then falling. Swirling, hungry shadows, shrieking volcra, running with his arms flung over his head, knowing only that he wasn’t dying like this, that he had to survive. In that, at least, he has succeeded. His kefta is torn and filthy, his lips are cracked and bloody, his face is striped with an ugly wound that might scar, he reeks of monstrous ichor, and he may or may not have just witnessed the entire city of Novokribirsk being scoured clean off the map, but Ivan Kaminsky is alive.

After a while he sits up, retching and forcing down the reel of dizziness. He squats on his haunches and tries to focus enough to heal his own wounds. Healers and Heartrenders can learn each other’s craft, but Ivan got complacent with Fedyor always around to do it for him, safe in the luxurious privacy of their bedroom at the Little Palace after another hard campaign. As the general’s right-hand man, he is more often on the front lines, and it became an enjoyably erotic exercise for Fedyor to tenderly patch him up, even if the Second Army Healers had already seen to most of it. I do not mend things, Ivan thinks, looking at the rough results of his efforts. I break them.

With a groan, Ivan forces himself all the way to his feet, looks down at his hand, and discovers that his amplifier is still there, the bear claw that was a valued gift from General Kirigan. No, not Kirigan – there was something else about who Aleksander really is, something Ivan needs to remember, but he can’t. But the bear claw was how he took down all those diplomats at once, something that doesn’t bother him, exactly, but what he still needs to reckon with. So, in his usual tidy, methodical fashion, he does so. They were representatives of cruel, greedy, incompetent governments who all want the Grisha dead or exploited, and while they might have been unarmed civilians, how many unarmed Ravkan children have died cowering in the dark because of their soldiers? As for Novokribirsk –

Ivan closes his eyes hard. He knows that one is harder to explain away, but at the end, he still can see the cold, merciless logic of it. West Ravka was a nest of traitors, and General Zlatan wanted every single person on that skiff dead. There is a certain sordid sense, there always has been, in inflicting one strategically planned atrocity to ensure the compliance of the rest. He knows that Fedyor will be upset. He has a soft heart, and having grown up near Kribirsk, he will have heard stories of its Western Ravkan counterpart and the separated families who lived there, dreamed of visiting when the Fold was banished. That –

Fedyor. Ivan freezes.

He doesn’t know where Fedyor is.

He doesn’t know if Fedyor is alive.

Frantically, he searches out through the network of the world, the meshed echo of heartbeats and living creatures that has always been a Heartrender’s particular soundscape, the extra dimension of humanity that he learned to experience as a child long before he had a name for it. Of course he can’t find Fedyor if he isn’t relatively nearby, but Ivan has always believed that no distance, no matter how great, could truly separate them for long. He just needs to start in one direction and work it down. He can’t stop. In all likelihood, Kirigan is dead now. Someone needs to muster the Grisha and rally them against the Fjerdans, the Shu Han, the Kerch, everyone else who will be swooping in to take advantage of Ravka’s stunning weakness. No more Black General. No one to keep them all safe.

Cold panic twists into Ivan’s heart like a railroad nail. It’s not that he didn’t know that Aleksander has – had – that deep ruthless streak, but he understood it. He just wanted to keep safe what he loved, even if it has twisted and calcified into something else, something still darker. Ivan Kaminsky loves two things: Ravka and Fedyor. He doesn’t need anything else. And he too will burn the world down if it means keeping them safe. If that makes him the new Black General, though he would not presume, so be it. Someone needs to do the dirty work.

Ivan grits his teeth, and ventures into the unknown.

It takes a few weeks, searching painfully and slowly down the coast, pelted with wild rumors of Novokribirsk’s horrifying fate and what awaits them now, trying to shut his ears to all of it, until he finally makes it to Os Kervo, on the shores of the True Sea. There is a ship with the Grisha banner in port, and as he gets closer, Ivan knows with a searing jolt that this is it, Fedyor is here somewhere, he is here. He follows heartbeats, stumbling through the streets and pushing people aside, ignoring their dirty looks and their curses. Some of them halt when they catch sight of the black embroidery still faintly visible on his filthy kefta, but others don’t look twice. Until he staggers down to the dock, and –

There he is. It drives the scanty breath out of Ivan’s lungs at a blow. He could stand here forever, looking and looking. But eventually, in a whisper, he has to speak.

“Fedya?”

Fedyor whirls around and stares. He looks like a man who can’t believe his own eyes, who has not even allowed himself to think about the worst, has shut himself down to avoid the prospect. He looks older and colder and harder than Ivan’s sweet Fedya, the man he left behind not the same as the one that greets him now, but it is still him. He doesn’t bother with words. He closes the distance between them in three strides, throws his arms around Ivan’s neck, and kisses him savagely.

Ivan doesn’t give a shit that they’re in public, that everyone can see them, that he himself is weak in the knees and can feel tears running down his unshaven cheeks, the taste of the salt mingling in their kiss. They sway on the spot, unwilling to let go of each other in case they evaporate, until Fedyor finally whispers, “Below. Now.”

They stumble onto the ship and into one of the tiny berths, barely large enough for Ivan to stand upright, but he doesn’t care. Fedyor strips him out of the tattered remains of his kefta and sets to work, as Ivan closes his battered eyes and lets himself sink into the sheer, unbelievable joy of his lover’s familiar touch, the restored wholeness of their two halves. But of course, the illusion that nothing has changed cannot last forever. As he smooths his fingers over the deepest of the volcra gashes, Fedyor says, “Vanya, what happened?”

Ivan stares at the low ceiling of the bunk. He doesn’t know if he can put it into words, doesn’t know if he wants Fedyor to know everything, even as he doesn’t think he can justly keep it from him. He does his best to provide a terse, clinical summary of the events on the skiff, and reaches out to grab Fedyor’s hand before confirming the truth about Novokribirsk. “It’ll be all right,” he says urgently. “As long as there’s you and me.”

Fedyor stares at him. His dark eyes look huge and terrified. “You think that’s all right?”

“No. Not exactly, I just – ” Ivan has never been the best with words, and they are once more cruelly failing him. He puts his other hand on Fedyor’s cheek, turning his face back to him. “I need you to understand that we’re at war. War, Fedya, in a way we never have been before. All the others, they hated us, but Kirigan kept them at bay. Now there’s nothing. They’re all coming for us. Novokribirsk is only the start.”

“And whose fault is it,” Fedyor asks flatly, “that that happened? If Kirigan hadn’t gone mad with trying to expand the Fold, with Alina Starkov – things were stable before! Not good, maybe, but predictable! Constant! Now this – ”

“It was a stalemate before!” Ivan crawls out of the bunk and kneels in front of Fedyor, looking up at him imploringly. “They were trying to smoke us out, wait for us to make a mistake, so they could pounce on us and tear Ravka to pieces! Fedya – look at me, Fedya, darling, Fedya, my heart. Look at me. I will keep us safe. I will keep you safe.”

Fedyor looks at him mutely, tears running down his own cheeks, catching on the dimples that Ivan has always found so irresistible (even if he does an excellent job of pretending otherwise). Finally, with no other option, Fedyor nods slowly, his hands still knotted tightly with Ivan’s. He lets Ivan hold him, and Ivan does so ferociously, wrapping him in his arms and resting his head on Fedyor’s mussed hair and swearing in the dark that he will slaughter the Sun Summoner himself if need be, whatever needs to be done to keep Fedyor Kaminsky alive and whole and happy. Nothing else matters now. Not really.

After that, Fedyor lets Ivan tend to him, and opens up a little, and says that he found Nina Zenik in, of all places, a port city in the company of a Fjerdan drüskelle. She wanted to insist, improbably, that this witch hunter had changed for the better in the course of a few weeks, but Fedyor didn’t believe it. Ivan is comforted to hear him say this, that not all of Fedyor’s old certainties have totally dissolved, that he still trusts their enemies are their enemies. The drüskelle has been shipped off to Kerch, after Nina accused him of slaving in what Fedyor thinks was a calculated ploy to keep the big blond bastard out of the hands of the Grisha. “I don’t understand, Vanya,” he says, his head on Ivan’s bare chest as they lie together in the narrow bunk, naked except for the furs piled on top. “He hurt her, he captured her, he would have killed her as soon as he remembered. Why would she defend him?”

We all defend the things we love, even when they hurt us. Ivan doesn’t say this aloud. He doesn’t want to believe any more than Fedyor does that Nina improbably found the one good apple of an otherwise bad lot. It is easier to think of the Fjerdans as a faceless mass of ice-cold holy warriors, especially since they will be licking their chops at the downfall of the Black General, their archenemy and the king of the Grisha demons. “We do stupid things for the people we think we care about,” he says instead. “And Nina is young. Impressionable. She will learn the truth soon enough.”

Fedyor doesn’t answer, his fingers tracing light circles around Ivan’s collarbone. Finally, he shifts on top of him, his mouth finding Ivan’s with something close to desperation. After they pull back from the kiss, he says, “Promise me that we won’t lose each other again, Vanya. Whatever comes next. We have to do it together. Please?”

Ivan looks at the face of this man he loves so much and so well, who needs to hear this sweet lie no matter whether it is true. And with his own heart, closed and guarded as he generally keeps it, he wants to believe it too. He does. He does. He does.

If only it could make it so. If only he could be sure.

“Promise,” he whispers. “Promise.”

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #the answer is i have Many Feelings evidently #many many feelings #anonymous #ask #fivan ff

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

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enemy of my enemy is my lover

summary: you planned on just going to a meeting with an adversary, hoping to gain more territory in the process. you left with something much, much better.

pairing: mobster!bucky barnes x mobster!reader

words: 3,226

trigger warnings: smut (oral - f recieving and vaginal sex), mob dynamics

notes/other: this was inspired by ask received by @bucky-plums-barnes a long, long time ago about a mobster!bucky headcanon that describes the plot to this fic. while i could not find the exact ask (trust me, i tried), i credit the anonymous genius & gen heavily for inspiring this. thank you both!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Each step you make is loud, sharp; the sound of heels clicking against the cold, cracked cement of New York City. It’s something, one of the things, that makes you powerful – sends this thick feeling of invulnerability through your veins, as if you’re some deity returning to her alter.

That feeling – one of untouchable power – has always been…sort of…hard for you to conjure. It’s not like you’re not not powerful in this world absent your fantasies. You run the second most powerful mob in the country! You’ve got a large pull in international trade! You’ve got major influence in congress and almost every state senate! You’ve got money, a smoking hot and super amazing boyfriend, and loyal coworkers. What else do you need?

Regardless of all that, roaming the streets at night never fails to send a special kind of shiver crawling across your skin. It’s a particular type of fear, one that makes you pull your steel grey coat closer to you as you roam the street, makes your hand cling tighter to the .45 in your deep, righthand pocket.

As you reach the alley where the deal you’re brokering is supposed to take place, your phone buzzes a few times in a row. You have an urge to check it, to make sure the man you love is okay, but letting your guard down now wouldn’t be wise. You’ve got to keep a keen mental sharpness about you to make sure no one kidnaps you (or worse) or fucks you over at your own deal, but still, the only person who would be texting you at this godforsaken hour is the man you left at home, and in this business you can never be too careful about the ones you care deeply about…

Your thoughts are interrupted (quite rudely, you might add), by the sound of a thick winter coat shuffling – as if someone were to be rolling their sleeves up. The noise of the fabric gets louder as the person – a man, you soon realize – steps closer. A man with sharp cheekbones and a dark beard and beautiful, pillowy lips.

His gaze, even under the dark baseball cap that lacks insignia, seems hauntingly familiar. You can’t place it, and it seems rude to ask if you’ve met before, given the circumstances. Still…something seems…recognizable about this mystery man.

You don’t realize it, though, until the man opens his mouth and asks about the new baby seal in the San Francisco zoo. It’s the right code, that’s not what throws you. Rather, it’s the gravely voice of the man you’ve been dating for years that stops you in your tracks.

“Bucky!?” you call out, completely confused and abandoning the correct coded response. “Why are you out here?”

Bucky, now meeting your eyes, seems just as bewildered as you are. “I, uh…I’m….what, what are you doing here?”

You have no idea how to respond, mind too baffled to form words. “Wh…what…”

You step closer, carefully – as if he was some rabid cat you found behind your apartment building. His beautiful baby blues are wide, eyes narrowed – you gasp when you get close enough to smell the cologne, his cologne, the exact scent you bought him for Christmas the year previous. “Are…are you…you’re…are you the White Wolf?”

Bucky visibly steps back at the mention of the street name – the street name of the guy who runs the mob that (similar to yours) is based in New York and works in black market goods. He tries to hide his shock, just in case what he thinks is happening definitely isn’t happening. In all honesty, Bucky can’t tell which one would be worse. “And, you’re uh. You’re…um…are you….are you She-Devil?”

If you were disoriented before, you have no word to describe how much your brain is short-circuiting at the thought that this man – the man you love, has secretly been running not only a mob, but a rival mob, this entire time.

“Do…wait,” you shake your head to try and collect your exceptionally scattered thoughts. “Are you the guy who wanted to negotiate territory with me?”

Bucky hesitates for a second, body tense and reluctant to say anything. You’re both still, not daring move a muscle and the both of you stare each other down. It feels like an eternity before he does anything, your surprise only growing as a massive, shit-eating grin spreads across his gorgeous, scruffy face.

It’s a look you know well, one you’ve come to both love and despise. It’s the same look he gave you when he told you he wanted to build (not pay someone else to build, build himself) a deck in a house you moved out of two months later, when he almost got a face tattoo, when he sold your house (you know, the one he wanted to build a deck for) to buy one three streets away. That’s the look he get when some grand idea that will probably turn out to be a disaster – the look that says “this may be a disaster, but the only way to see if it is will be to try it.”

In an instant, Bucky closes the gap between you and presses his lips to yours. As he arms wrap around you, you can feel him rub at the small of your back, just as he always does when he’s trying to keep you calm. “Yeah, babygirl. That’s me. I’m the White Wolf.”

You press your face in the warm embrace of his coat, muffling your speech. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky shrugs as he answers. “Didn’t want you to feel unsafe, I guess. Didn’t want you to worry about me.” He presses a kid to the top of your head. “Better question, why didn’t you tell me?”

You sigh, your small voice becoming even tinier. “I dunno…same reasons as you, I guess. Felt like I’d be dragging you into something you wouldn’t want to deal with.”

Bucky barks a laugh into the night, the sound reverberating off the tall buildings. “Seems reasonable.”

You pull away but refuse to make eye contact as tears well in your eyes and cloud your vision. For a mob leader, you’re very emotional. “Baby, are you sure? Like, are you sure this is okay? I mean, we kept this major part of our lives from each for literal years…like, does that say something about us as a couple? And we’re, like, rivals, we’re supposed to be competing against each other for money and goods and ports and clients and-“

Bucky cuts into your anxious ramblings by pulling you back into a tight bug. “Hey, hey! Baby, listen. This is a good thing! A great one, if you want it to be!”

You wipe at your nose with your hand. “Are you…what do you, are you sure? What do you mean?”

Bucky nods, eyes ablaze with excitement for the future. “Of course, baby, listen. Separate, our mobs are both powerful, right? We can agree on that. But together? With the territory, the influence, us...together, we could rule the fucking world.”

Technically, he isn’t wrong; with your strategy and Bucky’s brutal execution, your combined business could easily become the apex predator of the mob scene within the Western hemisphere. What Bucky had, you lacked, and vice versa. You’d studied his…business…for years (before you knew it was Bucky who ran the Pack, of course) as you climbed the ranks of your own mob. You know they have hands in several international black markets, have relationships with lots of lots of rich people who do lots and lots of bad things and pay lots and lots of money for those bad things.

Oh God, you’d never think being power-hungry and love drunk could feel so good. Your mind fogs over with all the things you could do if you had Bucky and his gang by your side, you could do anything. Simply by territory you’d be outgunning Hydra, let alone the combined wealth and human capital. You’ve never felt this exhilarated before in your life, the freezing night air electrifying your rib cage and-

Bucky and you grin madly. Wordlessly, you clasp hands and walk back to your shared apartment halfway across town. Both of you are silent until you’re safely inside your secured home. As you pull your hair up into a messy ponytail, Bucky began grabbing bowls for dinner.

“You know-” he said as he ladled soup out of the deep red Crock Pot. “Now that we aren’t desperately trying to hide our occupations from each other, we can move into a bigger house?’ Bucky says it like a question, but you know better.

Normally you’d tell him “no, of course we can’t do that, we can’t afford it.” But now that you both know that you’re each hiding hundreds of millions of dollars in offshore accounts, slush funds, and dummy corporations throughout the world…

“Sure,” you shrug. “Why not.”

Bucky grins like a child on Christmas. “If we’re gonna rule, we need the proper palace.”

You forego giving into Bucky’s terrible, awful joke to hang up your studded coat, to take off your business casual navy-blue pants and black button-up in, and change into a pair of workout shorts and some tie-dye hoodie you thrifted about ten years ago. Bucky calls them your “thinking clothes,” attire you wear specifically to center yourself, to clear your mind of everything except the task at hand.

During dinner, you and Bucky begin to plan how you can consolidate assets, personnel, jobs, and everything that comes with heading mobs. It’s a long talk, one that lasts long into the night and ends with hastily-drawn diagrams and maps strewn around your living room.

It takes hours and way too many pots of coffee, but eventually the plan for the merger is laid out in front of you – all the graphs and math and official language handwritten in your neat cursive (along with a few notes scrawled by Bucky) on over twenty sheets of pristine printer paper.

Bucky sighs happily when he sees it all finished. He’s standing, desperate for a bird’s eye view of the entire thing.

You, on the other hand, are much too tired to stand. You settle for, “How does it look, babe?” as you draw two lines for each of your signatures below both of your full names.

When you look up, you see Bucky – eyes twinkling with joy. “It looks…,” he sighs, happily. “Amazing. I love you so much.”

You giggle, drawing lines for a few witnesses (you’ll make a few of your associates sign tomorrow). “I love you, too, babe. Now, you still got that champagne from our visit to France?”

Somewhere between the front room and the wine fridge, Bucky had you pinned against the wall and was cupping your clothed pussy.

“While I think you look great,” Bucky murmurs against the hot skin of your neck. “You’re wearing just a little too much for me.”

In an instant he tears the skimpy shorts from your body, the sound of ripping fabric making you moan;

“Fuck,” you gasp as one digit, then another enters you. “Holy shit that feels good.”

Bucky pulls away enough to look you in the eyes, smiling as he watches your jaw slacken from the pleasure. “Yeah? You like that?”

If you could speak you would, but each word just comes out as a breathy moans. Your first orgasm hits you like a wave, Bucky pulling it from you with crooked fingers and his lips on yours.

When you come down Bucky carries you to the bed, undressing himself as you do the same.

He pulls you to the end of the bed by your ankles, pushing your legs up to your chest. He enters you easily – bottoming out within a few thrusts.

You and Bucky moan into each other’s mouths as he fucks into you.

“Oh God,” he groans, moving to kiss at your neck. “Holy shit!”

He rubs at your clit with the thumb of one hand as he bites bruises in your collarbones, desperate to hear the symphony of sweet sighs and deep moans as you near another peak.

“Come on baby,” Bucky murmurs into your lips. “Come on, cum around my cock for me.”

It doesn’t take much after that – a few more circles around your clit in time with his thrusts and soon you’re scream and nearly tears the sheets from how tight you’re gripping them and your whole body convulses from pleasure.

Bucky finishes himself onto your stomach, head thrown back in pleasure as he does so.

He takes a minute to collect himself, still panting as he grabs a tissue to clean you off.

After water and a snack (two granola bars you had stuffed into your bedside drawer an unknowable amount of months ago), you curl into Bucky’s chest, tracing the litany of tattoos there. “Weren’t we supposed to drink to celebrate?”

Bucky lets out a full belly laugh. “Probably. But the alcohol is all the way downstairs. Plus, I know something else I can drink to celebrate?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Only you? Why don’t I get to get drunk?”

Bucky just smirks, moving you off of him. You’re about to protest but begin to understand once he pushes the covers off the both you to make room for himself between your legs.

“Trust me,” he tells you, leaving kisses on your skin between every few words. “You’ll love this a lot more than any old champagne.”

And, of course, he was right.

The next day, you meet with your closest adversaries. While you two wait in the conference room in the building Bucky took over after it was condemned a couple years back, you can feel your heart ram into your ribcage. It’s less from anxiety and more from anticipation, knowing you might face major backlash from the people you trust the most.

The first to arrive is the woman you trust the most in this world: Natasha. She doesn’t move towards the table, simply stands just inside the doorway while staring you down. She doesn’t recognize Bucky, but doesn’t enjoy being below the eyeline of a man she’s never seen before.

“Natasha,” you say, desperate to remain calm. “This is Bucky. We’ve been together for five years. And he’s the leader of the Pack.”

In a fashion much atypical for Natasha Romanoff, her eyes widen slightly. “Oh…” she says after a long while. “Okay then.”

She promptly sits down with no further questions.

As with many business, heads and second-in-commands of mobs rarely come face to face. They have goons, messengers that do their footwork. Descriptions of the faces belonging those in charge pass around akin to rumors, only whispered quieter.

Which is why, when Steve comes in, he has no idea what to think until Bucky introduces you and Natasha.

By the time Bucky’s finished talking, Steve’s beat red. “Buck, what the fuck is this.”

“Just,” Bucky sighs, worried about his phrasing and angering his best friend on the face of the planet (whether that be Steve, for reasons that feel obvious, or you, for reasons that feel even more obvious). “Sit down. We’ll explain-“

“’We’ll!’” Steve nearly screams.

Bucky is the only one who flinches at the sudden loud noise. You finish his sentence for him. “Yes. Bucky and I will explain.”

Steve doesn’t like it, doesn’t like taking orders from a rival. Still, he sits at the large, oval conference table opposite Natasha.

The last two people to come in are the head of you and Bucky’s legal departments. Wanda gives you a single nod before sitting next to Natasha, a man Bucky addresses as “Tony” sits next to Steve.

You exhale deeply once the metaphorical dust settles, encouraging Bucky to begin the spiel he had prepared last night been orgasms four and five.

“Alright. We have,” he sighs. “We have decided to combine our two…” Bucky struggles to find the right word. He worries for bugs and secret agents and misunderstandings, brain always struggling to remember that this is sacred, secret business. Any crack in any of the numerous protective facades could mean its downfall, along with the loss of billions of dollars and his life.

“Entrepreneurial endeavors,” you finish for him.

You hear Natasha snort, amused by the avoidance of saying gang and mob and illegal distributor of goods. The rest of your cohort are silent, unsure of what to say next.

Each beat of verbal inaction leaves you more fearful than the last, your heart getting louder and louder in your ears.

For what feels like forever, no one says anything.

Though, with the pounding of blood in your ears, they could be screaming obscenities at you and you wouldn’t be able to hear them.

The only thing that seems able to quiet the noise is Bucky’s fingers intertwining with yours.

Only then do you hear Wanda speak, her accent tinging each word. It’s comforting, to hear something so familiar.

“I assume you both have drawn up something that,” she eyes the man across from her with a look dusted with disdain. “Tony and I can look at.”

Bucky slides the thick document, held together in a beat-up binder you found under a bookshelf, across the table. Wanda is the one who stops it and looks into it first.

She says nothing, holding her tongue as she allows Tony to eye the document. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and pushes them to the corner of his nose as thumbs through it, looking bored and tired.

“Yeah, this shit looks good,” Tony says quickly, shoving the dark glasses back over his eyes. “Can we leave now?”

The resounding silence continues until you break it yourself, attempting to detail for Steve and Natasha what it all means. They listen diligently and sign where needed, Natasha being decided on as the most likely to type it up into an official document and send it to the necessary parties.

Once it’s all over, you and Bucky ride down in the big, glass elevator together – excitement electric in the air.

“How’re you feeling?” Bucky asks. It doesn’t seem to be out of concern, even if tears of happiness are pricking at your eyes.

“God,” you tell him, voice breathy and ecstatic. “I don’t even know how to describe it. I just, I don’t know. I’ve been so terrified I’d have to hide this forever – or that you’d find out, or that someone would figure out who you were. And now…I just,” you wipe at your eyes, and Bucky pulls you into his chest. “I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I know you’re protected. And I don’t have to hide this from you. And I’m so fucking happy about it.”

Bucky kisses the top of your head, tucking you under his chin. “Oh, baby. Darling I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”

The two of you stand in silence, holding each other until you have to exit. Neither of you say anything until you’re both in the car, safely on your way back to your shared home.

“We’re in this together right?” you ask, looking at Bucky as he keeps his dark eyes on the road.

Regardless he smiles, moving his right hand from the wheel to rest on your knee. “Always, baby. Always.”

#mobster!bucky barnes #mobster bucky barnes au #winter solider #bucky barnes x reader #mobster bucky barnes x reader #lukis writes things #fun fact this drafts is almost 2 years old #and i kinda hate it but listen its done and its on the internet now

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advena87 · 4 years

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Lambert and Keira Metz after the events of Wild Hunt run a joint business in Lan Exeter. Unexpectedly, a stranger witcher appears on their doorstep with an unusual task.

So the translation of the first chapter of my fanfic where it turns out that Aiden is alive after all.

My English is shitty, so please forgive me for mistakes. I will be grateful for feedback, both in terms of language and story. I don't know if I will translate it further, it's really difficult and exhausting for me, at the top you have a link to the Polish version.

I dedicate this translation to @gridelincarver @marbienl13 @all-my-queens If it wasn't for you, this text wouldn’t have been written, so thank you very much for motivation!

______________________________________________________

Granda

granda (polish) - rumpus, ruction, brawl, bunch but also fraud, hoax, humbug

Chapter 1

Lan Exeter was a beautiful port city, full of vivid but narrow houses and canals instead of streets. The winter capital of Kovir and Poviss, like the whole country, was favorable to sorceress and sorcerers who escaped from war-torn Redania from Radowid's witch hunters. Magicians from the Northern Kingdoms found here a safe haven, job and had great freedom in conducting their research and experiments.

Despite these many advantages Keira Metz didn’t like to live here. It was difficult for her to explain it rationally, she really couldn’t complain about anything, especially after what she went through hiding in Velen. But Lan Exeter got on her nerves. She couldn't focus here and felt something hanging in the air.

Lambert on the other hand was very pleased with the new location. Despite the fact that it was Triss Merigold, who arranged for them enter to Kovir, it was the witcher who indicated the winter capital as the right place to start their small project. He had acquaintances here, in the past he has made several large contracts for important officials. Thanks to these acquaintances, they didn’t encounter any major problems to rent a small, but well-kept tenement house not far from the city's main square. At the start they paid for it from what Lambert saved from contracts, Keira's savings went to the apparatus for the laboratory she arranged in the attic of the building. Now the sorceress has already run her own business, from which she had considerable profits and they divided expenses in half.

She couldn't complain here either. Despite his difficult character, Lambert was a resourceful and responsible man when it came to finances. He systematically searched for contracts and efficiently bargained with clients. He wasn't wasteful and basically the only thing he spent money on was weapon. As for the alchemical ingredients and components, Keira made sure he didn't run out of anything. Always taking orders for her business, she took into account the witcher's need for potions. Before they looked back, they worked out a routine for functioning and cooperation on both: private and professional grounds. And that was another thing that had been bothering her for some time.

Her relationship with Lambert was turbulent at times, but it was exemplary. The Witcher didn’t cause problems, except for the fact that he sometimes returned half-dead from work. And that was basically the only thing they could argue about. Both of them had an explosive temperament, arguments could sometimes alarm their neighbors. However, it always found its finale in bed, which didn’t diminish the amount of decibels they generated and Keira finally cast a silencing spell on their building, because tenants from behind the wall intended to report noise to the owner of the house.

Either way, her life under one roof with the witcher slowly and disturbingly began to resemble a marriage. And just thinking about it, Keira shivers. That wasn’t her ambition. She never dreamed of hiding in a charming house at the end of the world with the One. Keira wanted power and fame, constantly thinking back to the time she sat on the royal council of Temeria, she still remembered the conventions of sorcerers and the feast of the elite, where her word was sacred. That Keira Metz wore the most fashionable and provocative outfits, every night she had a different lover, drank the most expensive and exquisite wines on the Continent, and pulling the strings on the political scene of the country was her element. She had a reputation, people knew her name and felt respect for it. She wanted to create history and have fun, she wanted to taste life. Meanwhile, she was sitting in the politically neutral and boring Kovir, where no one knew who she was, she was selling her knowledge to the populace and slept with witcher.

Well, it was always a few steps better than forgotten by gods Velen, a bunch of illiterate peasants paying her with eggs and shareing bed with bugs. Not to mention the threat of burning at the stake still hanging over her then. So she knew it could always be worse. And she really couldn't say she was unhappy here, just ... it wasn't the kind of happiness she wanted. And Lambert himself was a completely unsolvable matter for her. They weren’t officially together, none of them came up with the funny idea of having a serious relationship. Lambert was supposed to help her with her research, and sex was just a nice addition for both of them. They didn’t claim any rights to each other, they didn’t swear allegiance and devotion, they just went with the flow and in some unexplained way they found themselves in this place. In a shared apartment, with shared business and shared life. Keira didn't remember when she had spent so many nights in her own bed with the same man by her side. She was beginning to fear that it had never really happened before.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a bell. In the tenement they rented, ground floor was adapted for Keira's magical business. At the front door, which was constantly open for the public, they hung a bell that signaled the arrival of a potential customer. The sorceress rose from behind the table, closed the book, which she reviewed to make a mixture ordered by one of the townsmen, and headed for the curtain separating the back room from the main part of the store.

She saw the figure next to the bookcase and thought it was Lambert for a short split second. She was fooled by two swords on his back - such characteristic accessories for her witcher. But it wasn't Lambert. The man was slightly taller, but thinner, he was standing back to her, and he had a hood on his head, but the sorceress knew her witcher too well to confuse him with someone else, she had no doubt. However, newcomer wasn’t interested in books, but in other objects based on a bookcase. Kiera shuddered a little, of all the things that were in this room, he had to choose that one.

"How can I help you?” She finally said, hoping that would surprise him and divert his attention from the things he was watching, but nothing like that happened.

The man, unmoved by her question, still with his back to her, reached into one of the hilt of two swords leaning against the bookcase. He grabbed it and pulled the blade out of the scabbard.

"It's not for sale," she said firmly, and finally got a reaction.

The stranger turned slowly toward Keira, looked her up and down, and a pair of amber cat eyes flashed from under his hood.

"Witcher,” she noted with surprise.

The man weighed the sword in his hand, ran his fingers over the carved runes. Keira didn't miss the way he was holding it. To be sure, she looked at his own swords protruding from his left arm. He was left-handed.

Lambert once told her that a left-handed swordsman is a real pain in the ass. A left-handed witcher, on the other hand, is a death sentence. Admittedly, it doesn't matter with monsters, but warriors trained in swordsmanship don't have much chance against someone like that. Regardless of school, master or experience, almost every swordsman has a dominant right hand. Even if he was born left-handed, when he enters the training he is immediately switched to the right one. Those who decide to train on the left have more difficult learning, but the advantage they gain thanks to it is huge. Left-hander is accustomed to right-handed opponents, they are his daily bread, but people relying on their right have a very difficult task fighting a mirror reflection. As a result, it was also established that a left-handed swordsman was a cheater without honor, so there were only a few schools and masters favorable to teaching left-handers on their dominant hand. Unless they want to train the assassin.

“The devil does not sleep,“ witcher read the inscription from the blade, still carefully examining the sword. ”Silver blade, witcher gear. Where did you get it from?”

"It's not for sale," she repeated and walked over to him, emphatically raising her hand, expecting that he would give her the weapon. “It belongs to my business partner, also a witcher”.

"I see...” He smiled at her, which revealed dimples in his cheeks, but it was hard to call that smile cordial. He obediently gave her the sword and finally pulled off the hood.

Keira blinked in surprise. She may not have been an expert, but apart from Lambert, she was also dealing with his brothers from the Wolf School and that assassin of Foltest. The witchers were interesting in their own way, but it was hard to enter them into the standard canon of beauty. And the one in front of her was a little more unusual than the norm she knew.

First of all, he was redhead. She lived among the villagers long enough to know that redhead was for them a synonym of a soulless freak. So the red-headed and left-handed witcher would probably be cursed three times for them. Of course, these were only nonsense superstitions of the illiterate pleb, but someone with such qualities had to have extremely hard on the path. His appearance alone was enough for people not to trust him.

Secondly, he looked young. The Witchers in general grew old very slowly, but she has never met monster slayer who looks as young as this one. It wasn’t about the number of wrinkles, but about the youthful charm of teenage daredevil, and when he smiled, two deep dimples appeared on his cheeks. However, his cold gaze revealed that he was long after his teenage years. These eyes could see enough to look distrustful and insensitive now. Combined with this beautiful but predatory smile, he looked like a hungry shark.

Thirdly, he had no scars on his face except for one, thin as a thread that cut his lips vertically to the right and disappeared just above his chin. It was visible mainly because the witcher had a stubble on his jaw, if it weren't for it, it wouldn’t have been visible at first glance. Keira hasn’t yet met the witcher without the obvious scars that disfigure face. The only noticeable defect was the damaged right ear. The helix was clearly jagged, and although the flaw was completely healed, it seemed to be a fairly recent matter.

"Your partner left without swords?” witcher asked with a sneer, and Keira felt uncomfortable.

The tenement house was storeys, there could have been two dozen partners upstairs, but the newcomer knew she was here alone. The sorceress wasn’t particularly fearful and usually she felt more than at ease with men, but he gave her goosebumps. And not the good one.

In general, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to her that he exactly knew who was and who wasn’t around. She lived with Lambert long enough to learn that he hears from the ground floor a falling pin upstairs, but for some reason she attributed this skill only to him. Meanwhile, superhuman senses were a feature of all witchers.

"These are souvenirs," she explained and invited him to the table where she was hosting clients. Before she joined him she put the sword back into its sheath and laid it on the table. "He doesn't use them, so I wanted to hang them on the wall for decoration, but he didn't agree. And then I forgot to put them back in their place.”

"Why didn't he agree?” He asked in a tone of conversation about the weather and sat down, taking off his fingerless leather gloves.

"Like I said, these are souvenirs," she repeated, shrugging. “These have sentimental value and, as he said: ‘these aren’t ceremonial sabers to hang on the wall’."

"So neither for show nor for use," he said, looking at the weapon in front of him for a moment, then looked up at Keira, clearly stopping his gaze on her décolletage. A short grimace ran over his face, and Keira could have sworn, it was amusement. But it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, and after a moment the witcher was looking straight in her eyes, his face expressing nothing. “So much good steel is wasted. I will gladly buy them, I can offer a good price for them”.

Keira frowned. She had already told him twice that swords weren’t for sale. However, that wasn't what worried her. Not even that he was looking at her decolletage. She noted it with relief, because it was something she could deal with and finally he showed some human impulses, even if this view amused him for some reason. What she didn't like here was how quickly he decided to make a purchase. He didn't even look at the second sword!

She witnessed how Lambert bought new blades. The whole process lasted almost a month. A month of watching and comparing weapons at various craftsmen, a month of whining and fussing, and finally commissioned them to be forged. But he was still dealing with materials, because it was necessary to import a special steel alloy. It cost her witcher a lot of nerves and even more money, but he told her then that his life depends on these blades. They must be an extension of his hand, no compromises.

And this witcher wants to buy swords that he didn't even look at properly.

Maybe he collected them, or maybe he was just stupid, it didn't matter, Keira wasn't going to sell them, even if he had a mountain of gold. These swords were important to Lambert.

"Not for sale," she repeated for the third time, this time in the tone she extinguished the royal advisers in the council, when they began to be a pain in the ass. “Please, better tell me what brings you to me. And to Lan Exeter if I can ask. The witcher in the city is quite an unusual thing.”

"From what I have found out, you live with a witcher,” he raised one eyebrow. “You are one of the last people who should be surprised.”

“That's why it's unusual. Two witchers in the capital are a crowd.“

“I must admit that this is not a coincidence. I’m looking for a partner to fulfill a big and difficult contract. A large and strong imperial manticore come along from the mountains to nearby villages. Kidnap people, slaughter cattle. Three villages funded reward.”

“So you didn't come to talk to me, but to my parner," she said, ready to end the discussion here. She couldn't take contracts on behalf of Lambert.

And it sounded really bad. Maybe the money could be good, but the manticores were extremely dangerous. If the monster flew here from the mountains, then the trip to track it down will be long and exhausting. She didn't like it at all.

“It's not just about the manticore, I also have a request to you. It is very fortunate that I find a sorceress and witcher in one place, although this is an unusual thing.“

“Maybe here in Kovir. Where I come from bards even sing ballads about the union of the witcher and sorceress. A few of my colleagues value such cooperation very much, so I decided to take their advice and enter into ... a partnership with the witcher.“

“I know master Dandelion’s ballads,” he smiled mischievously, and she had to admit that he looked attractive with that grimace on his face, even if it lifted her neck hair. For some reason, his smiles were like a bad omen for her. “And please forgive me boldness, but is your deal just business, or do you also aspire to ballad heroes?”

Keira raised an eyebrow and finally clarified what she didn’t like in this witcher. His cat's eyes were vigilant, just this how he surveyed the room and looked at her... without doubt it was a predator's gaze. A predator who just smelled a prey and was getting ready to jump. The sorceress repaid the same and finally began to analyze more closely what she saw. Neither the weapon nor the armor he wore had any distinctive school features. And most importantly and most disturbing in this all - this witcher didn’t have a medallion around his neck. And a witcher without a medallion can't use signs.

What the hell? She was beginning to conclude that everything was wrong with this stranger. And no wonder that he was looking for a partner to kill the manticore. Lonely expedition for such quarry, when you can’t use signs, is suicide.

"Interesting question," she said finally after a little too long pause. The witcher narrowed his eyes as if he sensed she was uncomfortable. “Are you asking out of professional curiosity?”

"Entirely private,” and that beautiful smile again, but this time it clearly contained a threat. Like an animal that bares its fangs before it attacks. “You're a beautiful woman. I was wondering if you want to replace a witcher.”

Keira frowned threateningly and looked at him with disdain, finally openly letting him know that she didn’t like the direction in which this conversation was going. Far more than once in her life she had to deal with not very subtle advances, and all in all, this witcher hadn't crossed any boundaries yet, but something was very wrong here. Keira never avoided men, even those not very subtle, if she was in a good mood, could count on flirting with her. This one, however, didn’t flirt. Contrary to what he just said, he wasn't interested in her, not in the way he was suggesting. His gaze was cold and calculating, but she saw no desire in it.

“Please forgive me if I sent any wrong signals,” she announced finally icily, although she knew that she didn’t send any, and her exposed breasts, which was often interpreted in this way, mainly amused her interlocutor. “So now let me be clear, to avoid any further misunderstandings: me and my witcher are loyal to each other. Both professionally and privately. I’m flattered by your interest, but let's get back to business. My witcher would be very unhappy if he knew that we raised such a topic.”

She said this to give him a clear warning. What she meant by this was that if he has bad intentions towards her, he must take into account that she has another witcher behind her, who will deal with him if even a hair falls from her head. However, she was surprised to find that the words she said were true. She wouldn’t turn her back on Lambert, she wouldn’t betray him, even if this witcher turned out to be King Tancred himself. And she was sure Lambert wouldn’t turn his back on her either. The awareness of this alerted her more than the bizarre conversation she was having with her annoying visitor. She quickly put those thoughts out of her mind, this wasn’t the time to analyze her relationship with Lambert.

"My apologies if I offended you,” he raised his hands defensively and something changed in his posture. He became less tense and less alert. The predatory gleam from his eyes was gone too, but he didn’t seem in any way contrite or embarrassed. “I'm not looking for trouble. It just seemed to me extremely… exotic that a sorceress, a woman of scholar, of such status, was interested in a witcher. Perhaps I envied my colleague a little. You understand, we don't have a very good reputation.“

You certainly don’t, she thought.

"It depends on the school,” she finally decided to attack, she was getting tired of this game of cat and mouse. “But you don't wear the medallion. What school are you from? It is quite strange, I thought the medallion was sacred to a witcher.”

The man made a gesture as if to reach for his neck, but he immediately reflected and nipped the reflex in the bud. He winced slightly.

"That's what my assignment to you was supposed to be about," he said. “Some time ago I lost my medallion. It's hard to find a good craftsman to make a thing like this. I was hoping that the sorceress help me. I've heard a lot of good things about you, people praise your amulets and potions. In addition, you work with the witcher, which makes you, in my eyes, more qualified than the rest of the wizards in the city.“

"I have never had a similar order, I will have to ask Lambert to show me his medallion,” for the first time she mentioned her witcher's name and noticed how her interlocutor slightly twitched an eyebrow. She had to admit he surprised her with this order. She also noted how carefully he ignored the question about his school. “Also, there is no elemental circle in the area to charge it, although there is a lot of intersection in the city due to the wide network of canals and the water flowing in them ... I'll have to cast the silver, and have to order the mold from a craftsman… Either way, it'll be expensive.“

“As I mentioned, I have an eye on a big contract,” he reminded. “So I should be able to afford it. Please do a valuation, I will be able to confront it with my savings. And here we come back to the heart of my visit. When can I expect your witcher to return? I'm very keen on this cooperation. I can offer a profit split of up to 30% by 70% for the benefit of your witcher, of course, but I hope that I will get a discount on the medallion. If you have time now, we could initially set some amounts.“

The way he said "your witcher" made her think. She had deliberately emphasized this belonging beforehand in order to make him understand some things, but he made this point with scorn, lined with mockery. She couldn't help but get the feeling that what he really meant to say here was: “Where is your pet sorceress? Will you lend it to me?”, and it immediately infuriated her.

“Slow down, witcher,” she barely suppressed a hiss. “Lambert is my partner and I won't be bidding without him. We don't even know if he will be interested in this at all, so for the moment please consider the medallion issue and your manticore contract as two completely separate matters.How you will resolve the issue of splitting payments will be between the two of you. Then I will possibly consult with him if this transaction will be related to the medallion in any way.”

The witcher raised his eyebrows, his face expressive for the first time. He was surprised. And he was probably pleasantly surprised, because his gaze softened. Previously, it had lost its ferocity, now there was a gleam of sympathy in it.

“I guess I've been making a blunder again,” he said, but he didn't seem a bit too concerned about it. He looked like he was starting to have fun. “Since you are a scholarly woman, I assumed that you are the head of this business.”

“Don't you know the meaning of the word ‘partner’?” Keira was getting harder and harder to hide her anger, her service mask slowly started to fall off, she was on the verge of showing him why teasing a sorceress is a bad idea.

“Oh, I know. It even happened to me that I was called a partner,” she found his stupid smile less attractive and more irritating with each passing moment. “But witchers have a hard time in business, and we are rarely treated as equal partners. We're usually just boys for the dirty work. People value our skills but not us. For them, we are no different from rabid dogs that are unleashed in pursuit of prey, and the command is always the same: kill. Do you know what they do with a rabid dog after it does its job?”

"I can imagine," she said coldly. “And I conclude, from what I have just heard, that you don’t know the correct meaning of the word ‘partner’. You know the highly distorted meaning of this term. Generally sorry to hear all this, but I'm not a rabid dog breeder and you won't find any here. However, when it comes to my partner --”

She broke off when the witcher unexpectedly put a finger to his lips, ordering her to be silent in this non-verbal manner. She hadn't expected this, she opened her mouth to protest this blunt silencing, but realized that her interlocutor suddenly became very tense and focused. He tilted his head a little, like an animal that heard a strange noise, listened for a moment, then sighed heavily, closed his eyes and froze as if waiting for something.

Keira was amazed how his attitude completely changed in a split second. A moment earlier he had been nonchalant and self-confident, now he was sitting in front of her hunched over, evidently disturbed and anxious. Was it the same person at all?

The bell at the door rang and Keira looked away from the man in front of her to look toward the entrance. She saw Lambert in a bloody armor on the doorstep, but he moved freely, he didn't seem injured. For some time now, the sight of blood on his clothes had stopped alarming her, because it usually wasn't his.

“Are you all right?“ she asked anyway, immediately abandoning visitor and getting up from the table, heading towards Lambert.

"Yeah," he replied a bit impatiently, he looked annoyed with her concern, but Keira knew better. There was no anger in his gaze, he was glad to see her. “It's just --”

He paused as his eyes finally fell on the witcher's sitting at the table. The stranger sat with his back to the door and didn’t bother to look back and see who had just arrived. Keira understood that his earlier behavior was due to the fact that he heard Lambert approaching. Lambert must also have been aware of the client's presence before he even entered the house, but it seems that only now he noticed that it was a witcher.

"We have a visitor?” He looked at Keira, there was a question in that look: Is this a client or a threat? It seems that he sensed the tense atmosphere and the sorceress's nervousness.

"Yes, this is--" She paused mid-word, as she was about to introduce them, but she just realized that the stranger witcher hadn’t deigned to give his name. So she turned to him, this time openly irritated. “What is your name, Mr. Witcher, without school and medallion?”

The man at the table slowly straightened and stood up. He waited for an unbearably long moment to react before he turned to face them. And he looked straight at Lambert.

Everything that happened next took fractions of a second. Lambert inhaled sharply and immediately reached into his belt pouch. He took a silver orion out of there and threw it at the strange witcher, but he seemed to be waiting for it. He put his hand out in a defensive gesture, the star digging into his right hand. If he hadn't, it would have hit him in the chest, but not in any vital place.

Keira absolutely didn’t understand what was going on, but since Lambert attacked she had a defense spell on her lips, ready to stun the second monster slayer. She noticed that as Lambert made his throw, he hissed in pain, which meant he must have been injured. Keira had a firm resolve not to let him fight an opponent who was left-handed and in full strength. Unlike him.

“Easy, sorceress, he was just checking,” the red-haired witcher said, very slowly showing his hand to her with an orion in it. “This toy is silver.” After that, with a firm wave of his arm, he threw the star aside, which dug into the wooden floor at their feet, leaving a bloody streak behind it.

Keira was still holding the active spell in her clenched fist, but after this declaration she lost her vigilance. Her eyes followed the orion, then looked up at Lambert.

Her witcher after this violent reaction stared at the other man. Keira hadn’t seen such an expression on his face before. Lambert was absolutely shocked and furious.

"He's checking to see if I'm a doppler,” the stranger kept both of his hands in plain view, as if he were making a gesture to assure them he was not a threat. “I'm not,” he added softly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have held silver in my hand. I'm bleeding so I'm not a ghost either. I can also tell the story of your commemorative swords to prove that I’m not a fraud. I know what the inscription is on the steel blade, and the sorceress knows I didn't get to see it outside the scabbard when I got here. Anyway, ask me any question yourself to test me.”

So Lambert asked: “Aiden, what actual the fuck?!”

“Aiden?” Keira looked at the stranger no less surprised than her witcher.

She knew the name, Lambert once, being heavily drunk, told her about him. She knows who Aiden is. Or who he was, because from the information she had it was clear that she was dead. Meanwhile, he was standing right in front of them, safe and sound, with puppy eyes. Now she understood why Lambert had attacked him, generally seeing someone who should be dead never bodes well. She tried to understand how this was possible, but suddenly realized something else.

First of all: Aiden knew from the beginning what he was here for. He was aware that the witcher Keira was working with was Lambert. He wanted to buy fucking swords because he knew them well - they had belonged to him before. And he was well aware that if he came at this time, he would find only the sorceress here. He came to take a look at her, test her, tease her, and mock her.

Second: Lambert has been mourning Aiden for a really long time. It could have been avoided. However, he allowed him to suffer and murder in the name of wrongs that probably didn’t take place.

In an instant she went mad and did something that neither of the two witchers apparently expected. She didn't really know when she let out the spell that hit Aiden hard and threw him against the wall. Before he could pick himself up, she caught up with him, casting another spell. The witcher began to choke.

“Did you have fun?” she hissed furiously and raised her clenched fist with the spell upwards, as if she was pulling an invisible cord, thus forcing Aiden to look at her. His pupils were constricted to thin vertical lines, he tried desperately to gasp for air, certainly unable to answer questions. "You miscalculated my dear, you shouldn't mess with someone who might wipe the floor with you!"

"Keira!” Lambert grabbed the sorceress's wrist like a vise, Keira released the spell, and Aiden finally caught his breath. "That's enough!”

“Sorry, I got carried away,” she said weakly, trying to get her balance back. Her heart pounded like a hammer. "But he's been provoking me ever since he got here and he finally got it."

“All this violence is absolutely unnecessary,” Aiden croaked, still kneeling on the floor rubbing his neck. “Can we talk? I'll explain everything.”

"Dead people don't talk, Aiden," Lambert said in a voice that an iceberg wasn't ashamed of. He stared down at him with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

“I've always been special.” Aiden smiled brightly at him. “Come on, give me a chance.”

This smile was completely different from the one he presented Keira for the last half hour. Most of all it was sincere and gentle. He looked at Lambert with trust as if he knew he would agree, regardless of the proposal.

Lambert let out an irritated huff, leaned over, grabbed Aiden by the neck like an unruly kitten and, grimacing in pain, pulled him to his feet.

Something wrong with the right shoulder, Keira noted in her mind. It was the second time he had to use it that he showed signs of discomfort.

“I mourned you, you asshole,” Lambert growled angrily, still holding his collar. “I killed a lot of people to avenge you. You better have a fucking good explanation of this farce.”

“I’m sincerely touched by your devotion.” The smile didn’t leave Aiden's face. "And if it comforts you, you haven't killed anyone who didn't deserve it."

Lambert's eyebrow twitched dangerously. Keira thought that just a moment longer and her witcher would kill someone who definitely deserved it, and then he would regret it very much.

"Okay, that's enough." She interrupted their exchange of glances. “Let's go to the back room, sit down, talk quietly and dress your wounds. Lambert, let go of him and take it off, I want to see your arm.”

They both looked at her in surprise, but neither moved. They irritated her immediately.

“What, did I stutter?“ She huffed and gestured in the direction. “In the back, like, right fucking now. I don't need a client to come and find this scene.”

“You're letting her to boss you around?“ Aiden glanced at Lambert, one eyebrow raised in an act of ironic disbelief.

“Don't piss me off, or I'll let her finish what she started,” the other witcher hissed in response and obediently moved to the back, dragging Aiden with him.

Keira went to the front door and locked it. It was going to be a long and stormy evening, she decided that there would be enough clients for today.

_________________________________

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klakokum · 3 years

Text

TRIBUTE TO HANS

You are that old cop who feels all right

with Mercy all through every night

or day, when her quality unstrained

still means sister Justice is not pained

with that correctness members of the new school

of the unschooled learn from the cruel

left (where they pack their holster).

You are the Kind who remembers the spade

called the spade; today Robert Peels bolster

the transfer of all power to those paid

by Alien. Alienated from the symbiotic

understanding-belonging of town to man

and man to town which the right cop nurses,

the left cop nurtures only the chaotic

pride of rebellion which sent Satan

into his pitted hell of heated curses…

But you understood the spirit to the law

left behind by the left cop’s ascendancies

from his people, and, yes, he will draw

the gun to cuff and shackle as he fancies

while you’d rather charm those orang-utans back

to their cages, compassion your lure.

The left cop will gladly number the arm

of the innocent, but you refused to crack

the trigger even permanently to cure

Red Ryan from bringing further harm.

Kangaroo Poet Karol Hans Jewinski passed away early in 2007 near his home in Jerusalem, at the age of 100. He was still full of vigour, and had the physical appearance of a normal man in his late fifties. Indeed, Karol fully expected to live at least 120 years, and would have, had he not become the innocent victim of a suicide bomber while shopping near his home. Hans, as he preferred to be called, was a follower of Gjrg who, eight centuries ago, lived to the astounding age of 145, repeatedly proclaiming that everybody should expect to live at least 120 years. Gjrg’s Ten Rules for Living a Century have been handed down by word of mouth from generation to generation, and 52 of his descendants have been documented to have lived at least 100 years, with another 40 probably doing so as well, but without proper supporting documentation.

As a young boy in rural Poland, Hans was allowed to adopt an abandoned and sick wolf cub. The Jewinski farm was in the neighbourhood of Yvan Pavlov’s laboratory, and when the young lad consulted Pavlov about care for the wolf, he obtained his first job – cleaning out Pavlov’s dog kennels. Often he did not receive payment for this work, because Pavlov was chronically broke until two decades later when his “science” was adopted by official Communism, and the Reds financed a little empire for him. Hans became a life-long dog lover, and was always accompanied by a German Shepherd.

When Hans’ father died suddenly, the lad was given into custody of an orthodox uncle in St. Petersburg. This uncle, a German Jew, was a rabbi who made Hans fully acquainted with the Jewish faith (not taught to him earlier by his non-practicing father). Hans received his bar mitzvah in the same week as the February Revolution.

In the civil war which followed the second [October] revolution, the tween-ager became a combatant on the White Russian side. Even though Hans had experienced tsarist and White Russian anti-Semitism first hand, he fought on the tsarist side because he believed that all lawful authority was established by God, and obedience to authority was obedience to God. When the royalists lost the civil war due to American intervention on the Communist side (Henry Ford et al), Hans escaped through Afghanistan into India, where he added English to his language repertoire. [Hans was fluent in Polish, German, English, French, Greek and Yiddish.] After being homeless and unemployed for three years, the teen-ager took on a job as an able seaman. But he soon discovered that life on the water was not for him, and he abandoned ship at the first opportunity when in port at Halifax, Nova Scotia. Taking brief jobs as a farmhand, or whatever he could get, he worked his way westwards across Canada. In 1924, at the age of 18, he took on a civilian job caring for dogs in training for police K-9 duty, and started night school in Kingston, Ontario in order to obtain his high school diploma. Upon graduation, he joined the Belleville, Ontario police department and was a cop for 37 years [except for 4 years in the air force during WWII, 13 months of that in a German concentration camp after being shot down], retiring in 1963 on full pension at the age of 57. He moved to Toronto and began his second career as a full-time poet, later becoming a founding member of the Kangaroo City Poets’ Collective. He was about three decades senior to the average age of the poets in the collective, and was frequently consulted by the younger poets for advice on all aspects of life, as well as on questions of poetry.

The Kangaroo City Poets’ Collective is a permanent organization, and when one of the member-poets passes on, his/her place is taken by someone elected from the membership of an auxiliary organization: Kangaroo Poets – The Next Generation. In this particular case, the Karol Hans Jewinski Chair is now occupied by Felll Wood. Felll lives in Kokomo, Indiana. She was introduced to Kangaroo City by Kangaroo Poet Rabin Duff, her high school English teacher in Peru, Indiana. Through him, she was first published in South of Tuk in 2003. Since 2007, she is the official custodian of the Karol Hans Jewinski Collection of the Kangaroo City Archives, and makes the selections in Hans’ name in the Nebiru Crossing bookstore, in keeping with the spirit and interests of Hans.

See also http://kangaroopoets.blogspot.ca/2011/04/hans-biographical-excerpt-from-nebiru.html

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harringroveheart · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren Summary:

Cantonica welcomes Kylo Ren with a storm.

-- Or --

The First Order is broke and Hux forces Kylo to go on a fundraising campaign to Canto Bight. Clone shenanigans ensue.

Chapter One

Cantonica welcomes Kylo Ren with a storm, the wind rising up around him hot and hard, tearing at his hair and cape, urging him with rough intent towards the edge of the flight pad and the sea boiling hungrily some five hundred feet below. Far away, out on the purpling horizon, a spider leg of lightening touches the rind of the world – a smattering of applause and bell-like laughter from the city behind him, one monster waking to greet the other.

Canto Bight.

The city is just now beginning to rouse, her lighted windows cutting inviting shapes against the darkening sky. Distance turns the nascent sounds of celebration melancholy, almost wistful — tinkling glass and sudden bursts of music, amplified and then snatched away by the unfurling storm — and then drowned out entirely by the deafening beat of repuslorlifts as the First Order shuttle drops out of the atmosphere above him.

The transport bobs gracelessly, engine whining as it struggles to land against the surface’s fierce updraughts, scoring the night air with the metallic taste of ozone. The flight pad, like most things Canto Bight, is more decorative than functional and it had been a welcome validation of Kylo’s piloting skill that he had been able to land his fighter without skating off the platform and into the sea. The rest of the port is empty, the yachts and pleasure cruisers of the galaxy’s wealthy elite stowed away for safekeeping. A shame. Kylo would have liked to see them.

He shakes his head slightly, trying to parse the intrusive memory from his own thoughts.

Canto Bight had been a favorite story of Ben Solo’s. He'd asked for it again and again as a boy, enraptured each time, tucked into bed by droids the approximate shape of his mother: a city within an island within a tempest — or so the stories went. Kylo sneers half-heartedly at his own nostalgia, a clammy cast on his skin he can’t seem to shake off. In the stories, the city itself was a fortress of jewels, polished and moulded by the desert planet’s fierce winds during the day, glittering as bright as a new star at night, a beacon to greedy trespassers and hungry-hearted adventurers from all corners of the galaxy. In the droids’ stories, the real treasure was always something insipid — a friendship, forgiveness. Love. Now, looking at the city, Kylo is fairly certain the only real treasure of Canto Bight is to be found in a lucky hand of sabacc.

Credits, Kylo reminds himself fighting his distaste for the place and his purpose here. Billions and billions of credits.

The transport has drawn attention, the city unfolding and preening as obvious as an old dame waiting for an audience before putting on her earrings. The house musicians find cohesion, a warm brassy tune soaring to life, fighting the dull blast of landing gear. The streets flood with light, shifting gold and purple, a string of halo-lanterns springing to life along the perimeter of the race track and all the way down to the landing platform. Some of the casino’s early guests drift out onto balconies and terraces in pursuit of the smallest entertainment, opera glasses and libations in hand. The brutish utilitarian shape of the Order transport is an unexpected delight for them, Kylo gleans, a divertissement during the spell of unfortunate weather.

His hand twitches at his side, the feathering of his nervous system in response to the rising thrum of excitement and expectation of the men assembling at his back. He breathes in their nervous energy and turns his attention to the city, its domed plume-like buildings and broad curving balconies, its stepped amphitheaters illuminated by strings of rosy halo-lanterns, its secretive lovers’ gardens and sparkling fountains. The opulence leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Kylo wants to run through every last topiary with his lightsaber.

The stormtroopers are in awe. They have been conditioned not to dream, but this, they think, this must be what dreaming would look like. This is almost as beautiful as the firing of the superweapon.

Kylo allows them their petty fantasies. Under their boots the galaxy is shrinking, planet after planet, almost subdued, and one day this pretty little casino town will be too — even if it won’t look so much like a jewel when they are done with it. And in any case, their childish excitement tastes better than their confusion and their disquiet — both of which Kylo knows the exact rancid smell of. But the salt flats of Crait are far behind them all now, the hollowing ache of doubt soothed by a dozen more recent successful campaigns and a merciless propaganda drive. They have learned to bury their disappointment and their failures in the dirt, under the salt.

There are no graves deep enough to hold Kylo’s failures. He scrubs brine from his lips and turns to survey his company over one shoulder.

Two squads. A token show of force, unnecessary and inescapable. Behind the stormtroopers is an even larger group of non-militants huddled together against the weather: officers with their caps stuffed under their arms; Kylo’s terrifyingly intuitive attendants; the dozen or so bookkeepers and bodyguards in the employ of Jessamine Sphess of Kuat Entralla Industries; and Sphess himself, still ambling down the transport ramp at a glacial pace, a droid at each elbow to prevent the frail old relic from blowing away.

The sight makes something sour in him. In the stories the droids told him the little force-sensitive hero was always alone, always brave. He always stole into the city by himself.

“Orders, sir,” the squadron leader asks at his back.

“Follow,” Kylo says quietly, not bothering to make himself heard over the blowing wind.

A ripple of excitement goes through the ranks regardless, plastisteel rattling as they snap to attention; ready, loyal, their minds gelling one into the other, an expanding mass, a wave of will surrendering to him louder, deeper than the first roll of thunder on the horizon, except for—

There. A sudden splinter of irritation; a familiar itching annoyance, pinching at Kylo’s awareness: Hux, elbowing his way out of the throng of troopers and crew to stab Kylo in the abdomen with his latest weapon of choice: a triple ring binder full of funding requests.

“Excellent flightmanship, Supreme Leader,” Hux says acidly, his face already ruddy with windburn. “How would you like me to account for the excess fuel spend for the venture? As a scouting detail or a joy trip?”

“It’s just called flying, Hux.”

“Oh,” Hux says, all faux-surprise, “Is it? Is that what we train our pilots to do?” He waves a hand behind him at the two black-clad pilots fussing over Kylo’s idle TIE fighter. “I had no idea.”

The wind hardens, whipping around them in a flurry so that the edges of Hux’s greatcoat slap against Kylo’s boots. Hux keeps one arm banded firmly over his chest to keep it snug across his shoulders, determined to look impressive, but the wind has flattened his hair over his forehead, somewhat mitigating the effect.

Kylo scowls down at the binder Hux had just attempted to disembowel him with and shoves it uncaringly at his hovering ensign. “Find it,” he says. The young man bobs out an awkward curtsy under the weight of the thing. “What’s this one then?” he asks Hux disinterestedly.

Hux sniffs as if he isn’t already pitching a tent over the opportunity to rant about his latest project. As if he hasn’t been staring daggers at the back of Kylo’s head the entire past week, rehearsing.

“An essential initiative, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, falling into step as Kylo takes off over the long spindly walkway towards the city proper. “A non-active asset that will vastly augment our latent military firepower. In layman’s terms—"

Kylo hands over his pilot’s gloves to a valet who has run up alongside them, swapping them for a lighter smoother pair. “I’m not a layman.”

“Of course not,” Hux says slickly. “A pseudo-orbital quantum converter then.”

“What’s that?” Kylo says absently, already intent on not listening – his usual approach to anything Hux says that came with an explanatory memorandum.

“I’m so glad you asked, Supreme Leader—”

The sad thing is, Kylo thinks as Hux launches into one of his characteristic, jaw-droppingly boring speeches, is that he genuinely is. Glad. To have the opportunity to brag about his work, this latest and completely transparent attempt to spend their dwindling reserve of money on an outlandish and improbable feat of technology that will vault his name into the annals of galactic history. Hux has a lack of conversation partners aboard the Finalizer – something which he convinces himself is because of his unmatched intellect, but in truth, Hux just lacks the social skills to recognize that his colleagues don’t enjoy being assaulted with all the glorious minutiae of invention in their rostered lunch break.

His old master, Snoke, pre-bifurcation, had often laughed about it behind Hux’s back – how easy it was to reel the general in with a little flattery, to make him feel singularly intelligent, visionary. Unique. He had only trusted Kylo with that little joke. Only Kylo had been true enough, worthy enough, to share in his master’s contempt…

“—sized reactor that could potentially harness an unprecedented amount of kyber extract—” Hux is saying, working himself into a lather, his pupils turned to pinpoints. Kylo increases the length of his strides so that the man has to skip every fourth step to stay alongside him. Hux has frustratingly long legs, but his commitment to good posture and his uniform typically keeps his steps tight and choppy. Kylo can usually escape him.

“—and with reduced full-power recycle we can achieve pinpoint accuracy, or as I like to call it, pin-planet accuracy.” Hux is chuckling to himself now.

The long crossing from the flight pad to the city has no guardrails and narrows at points. If they continue to walk side by side he can make it look like an accident.

Stars, Hux would just love that. The man has a dozen contingencies in place for his canonization in the event of a wrongful death. He’d probably have to spend the remainder of his leadership staring at a life-sized carbonite statue of the prick.

“What’s the shape?” Kylo asks abruptly, already knowing the answer.

Hux gives a little cough, his rant coming to an abrupt halt. “Spherical,” he says, too neutrally. “A sphere.”

Kylo raises his eyebrows. “Death Star-shaped, would you say?” He holds his hand out without looking back. The ensign passes him two pages of flimsi from the brief.

“Chapter twelve and again in the appendices, sir,” he yells over the wind, grappling with the cumbersome binder and its wildly fluttering pages. “He’s word-replaced Starkiller but there are several truncating inconsistencies, including ‘Untitled Project-Killer Base.’”

Hux scoffs, turning red. “The capabilities of my weapon—”

“You’re not getting funding for Starkiller Two.”

“Of course not. I would never be so on the nose as to call it that,” Hux lies.

The ensign pipes up from behind them, “He’s got Captain Peavey executed again, sir. At page 300 — and again at 313.”

Kylo rolls his eyes. “Remove it.”

“A terrible oversight,” Hux concedes, already holding out a sheaf of replacement pages, paginated and in laminate. “Why kill a man twice.”

“Why kill a man at all,” Kylo mutters.

“Yes, that sounds like sound logic, Supreme Leader,” Hux says snidely.

“Ensign, announce General Hux’s immediate demotion.”

“Very well, but I would like my binder back,” Hux says.

“Ensign, destroy the binder.”

Hux makes a sharp gesture. “Belay that, Ensign—” His words terminate in an uncharacteristic gasp. In making the gesture he has released his grip on the lapels of his coat and it rips off his shoulders in a whirl, shooting out over the churning water like a giant black bird. Kylo catches it without thinking, a reflex, drawing it back into his grip with the force and shoving it at the general’s chest, taking off towards the city once more before the other man can comment on it.

It only takes seconds for Hux to catch up. “You might at least consider allocating a measure of funds to the commission of some more fitting regalia.” He sounds breathless but his disdain is clear, and Kylo doesn’t need to look to know Hux is eyeing his usual dark clothes with distaste.

“Of course, General,” Kylo says, flip. “Yellow robe or gold?”

Hux levels a scowl at him. “I suppose I should be thankful you’re not in combat blacks. These are friendly negotiations you will remember.” He eyes the lightsaber hilt hooked to Kylo’s belt pointedly. “I’d hoped you would represent the Order in something a little more…diplomatic.”

“That’s rich. I seem to remember a suggestion from your direct superior — that would be me, Hux— that you wear your new dress uniform to the negotiations.”

Hux blanches. “It’s ceremonial.”

“I would prefer you wear it,” Kylo says benevolently.

“I would prefer it weren’t orange.”

“It’s not orange,” Kylo says, enjoying the displeased turmoil of Hux’s emotions. The general preaches against vanity and yet is quite preoccupied with the trappings of his own status. Whenever Kylo grows bored or suspicious enough to tune into Hux’s private moments he more often than not finds the general reverently stroking the rank bands on his uniform sleeve or polishing his jackboots with a fervour unique to the deeply sexually repressed. “I’m surprised, General. I thought you would be well pleased to wear the color of your precious order.”

“My order, sir?”

Kylo clenches his jaw – and then consciously unclenches it, wary of the remaining half-life of his adult teeth. He settles instead for the usual fantasy of Hux being slowly trash compacted to death and shouting ow ow ow quite satisfactorily.

“Our order,” Kylo amends. “That I rule over.”

“Oh yes,” Hux says snidely, ignoring Kylo’s dark tone of warning, “I suppose that’s why you took the title of Supreme Ruler.”

“Actually, I like that. Ensign,” Kylo calls over his shoulder. The young man continues hop-skipping awkwardly to keep up with the two taller men, head buried in his work. “Start new dictation: new call sign and rank: Supreme Ruler.”

Hux’s face drops. “Ren, you— Don’t be absurd. We don’t alliterate.”

“Ensign. Further dictation: Head-General Hux.”

“Stop it, please.”

“Admiral Armitage?”

“Is that an official promotion?”

He’s circled in front of Kylo eagerly, walking backwards, completely undeterred by the wind that pushes him to stagger from side to side. Kylo uses the force to keep him from gaining too much momentum and marching himself right over the edge. Hux doesn’t notice this kindness of course, too busy running his mouth and ruining Kylo’s good mood.

“You know, if the negotiations here go well we may be in a bargaining position with our generous investors to ask for an advance on more than another weapon. We may even be looking at enough security for” — he licks his lips — “fleet expansion.”

“We have a fleet.”

“Not a very big one,” Hux says, his voice lowered, so that only Kylo can hear. “I’m just saying, if you could find it within yourself to be civil to our new business partners for the next few days, you may find we catch more flies with honey than with poison.” He punctuates this statement with a completely fraudulent and objectively terrible smile at someone over Kylo’s shoulder — probably Jessamine Sphess, who, incidentally, Hux is poisoning to death.

“Vinegar.”

Hux looks confused. “How do you kill a man with vinegar?”

“No, that’s not—” Kylo sighs. “Remind me how someone with your backwater upbringing made it up the ranks so fast.”

“The same way as you did, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, slippery as an eel. “With hard work and determination.”

“More like nepotism and assassination,” Kylo mutters.

“Yes. As I said, the same as you.”

Kylo shoots him a warning glance in place of a hand on the other man’s throat. “Careful.”

A small congregation of officials from the Barosi trade delegation have come out to meet them and they huddle together under a gazebo, their vestments snapping on the wind like flags. Their clothing is sheer, Kylo realizes as they draw closer, designed to move and flow with the weather.

“Well, great, everyone’s naked.”

“A cultural eccentricity, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, spinning on his heel to face the delegation, falling back into step at Kylo’s side. Kylo can hear the distinct nasality in his tone that means he is suppressing a smile.

“You could have warned me.”

“But I did, Supreme Leader. During the initial brief. If I recall correctly, you were ‘just resting your eyes’.”

“Sire!” one of the sheer-robed attendants yells, breaking away from the group to greet them. He bows prettily, his whole cock and balls exposed by an errant gust of wind.

“I believe it is a Barosi custom to exchange greetings in the form a kiss,” Hux says, as insincere as a junker orphan.

Kylo rolls his eyes. Hux and his counterfeit patrician values, assuming that such small intimacies could possibly embarrass Kylo when he’s spent a whole other lifetime bending to kiss papery-dry hands and powdered cheeks at the behest of his mother, and later, to lick blood with adoration from the boots of his master.

“Don’t embarrass me in there,” Kylo says without looking back. “This isn’t Arkanis. People don’t eat with their hands.”

He doesn’t bother to turn to see if the barb lands, already stepping forward to receive the first kiss. The force beats like a second heart under his ribs, quickening to purpose.

#kylux #armitage hux #kylo ren #my forever love for this pairing #is it still crack if it was hard to write #thoroughbreds #fic

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blackdamed-blog · 5 years

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Obrien ( a land of eight nearly united kingdoms )

Oriens -- The largest and most diverse country, serves as the unofficial capital of Obrien. Is home to human, dwarven and vampire realms. Home of the dwarves of Jorrsgar and the Emerald Mountains, who separated from the Duregbag dwarves long ago to achieve democracy. Noble houses are aplenty in the land, but there also an abundance of commoners living comfortably middle or lower class. Though there is poverty, jobs are fairly easy to come into. The people of Oriens are opened-minded, due to being exposed to many races and cultures, but there are always a select many that stay prejudiced to others unlike themselves.

Sanct Amell -- The capital and home of the royal family, named after one of Obrien’s long deceased saints, Sister Catherine Amell. It used to be a humble and quaint town, full of the middle and lower class among the towering castle, but gentrification has began making changes to the village and it’s quickly becoming a bustling city. Some of the upper class seek to move closer to the castle, prices raising and forcing the middle and lower class out of their homes. Home of Cypress.

Charles -- Named after the late Lord Roywood Charles, ancestor of the current King Heathwood Charles. And, no, no more Charles men have been named after wood. A romantic and lively town, full of creative architecture, art, and music. Home of the upper and middle class. Charles is also the home of the Bard’s College, where many come to learn the trade of song.

Sanct Marie -- Named after the long deceased saint, Lady Marie Flores. A more humble area of Oriens, this is also a town where middle and lower class usually reside. It’s quiet and far from the other cities, ripe with greenery and animals. Farmers and ranchers like to make a living there. A true country town.

Lissa -- Named after a late princess of Oriens, Princess Lissa Ysell, who’s untimely death of illness caused her parents so much grief that they named a town after her. Lissa is a gated settlement where many of the wealthy are located. One must make $$$$$ amount of money to reside there.

Seline -- Named after the late Queen, Seline Del Rio, who was Oriens’ primary ruler once upon a time after her father’s death. Seline is a mountainous region, filled with grassy plains and plenty of rain. Much like Sanct Marie, it’s a country region far from city life.

Lisanct -- A port town and the only predominantly human settlement that’s not named after a person. It is believed that Oriens stemmed from Lisanct and grew from there.

Mudarra -- A forest region, bombarded with trees and and other vegetation. It is said that the moon and stars are most beautiful when seen from a clearing in the Mudarra forest, but it is also home to a vampire clan. However, the vampire clan has sworn not to suck the blood of human -- lest they be purged from Oriens and life all together by the Oriens guard. Such a deal was struck long ago and is upheld by a treaty. To keep the peace, the clan is strict with what vampires come in and out of Oriens. Each member is registered and kept under surveillance by clan prefect. The leaders of the vampire clan are Garnet and Slate. All vampires that come in give up their old lives and names, renamed after stones. Lately though, Slate has been getting tired of living under human rules. He believes that the vampires are losing the power they once held over the world. Why should they fear what humans will do to them?

Emerald Mountains -- A large dwarven region that takes up nearly half of Oriens; separated by a large mountainous region that borders Seline and Lissa. Unlike the dwarves of Jorrsgar, the dwarves of the Emerald Mountains kept their strong caste system that rooted from Duregbag and is ruled by royalty and several noble houses. King Agni is a distant cousin of the current King of Duregbag, King Afolabi, and their family cut ties after Agni’s ancestors left Duregbag to rule elsewhere. Greed was the root, both families simply wanting to have power, and it sprouted a war in the bloodline. What ended the inner war was the split up.

Jorrsgar -- A humble town of dwarves, in between Sanct Marie and Lisanct, that believed Agni’s family truly wanted democracy. When that wasn’t the case, they left and created a settlement of their own, protected by the Oriens royal family. Their current mayor is Hilde Gold Hand.

Sybil -- A primarily human country, but it borders Orc and Shifter territory that are not in Sybil’s protection. Sybil is larger, albeit more old fashioned than Oriens; long ruled by a royal family under the surname Harebell. It’s current ruler is the unmarried Queen Marth-Marie Harebell, inherited from the late King Renald Harebell after his untimely death. Queen Marth is accompanied in ruling by a string of advisers and her hand, Violette de Montsimmard. Though reserved towards outsiders, the people of Sybil are no strangers to mages and magic users. They seek to help control them instead of eradicating or banishing them, therefore establishing the only Mage’s College in all of Obrien. Establishing such has created a large mage population in the country, which they are struggling to control. Each mage must register themselves (or be forced to) and must give blood for a phylactery, which can trace magic back to whoever cast it.

White City -- The capital, where the royal family resides. The streets and large buildings of the town are made with white stone and the city is quite picturesque to look at. The palace, made of beautiful pearly stone and marble itself, towers over the other large structures. The White City is very much a marketplace, houses and living spaces few or right above a store; where the store owners live.

Riverwell -- Right off from the White City, this is where the homes that the White City lacks usually are. Upper and middle class live here.

Brightenwood -- A quaint town, home to the largest library in all of Obrien; the Brightenwood Guild of Education. Despite it’s name, formerly a college for the wealthy, it’s open to all and is mainly used as a public library. True to it’s name, the town is surrounded by woodland and there’s hardly a cloudy day -- save for the colder seasons. There is a Brightenwood Old Town, gentrified by the wealthy, and simply Brightenwood; where the middle and lower class stay. Home of Hamsa.

Marshlands -- Not protected by the Sybil royal family, but apart of the country. This is an orc realm, separated from the Orcs of Azacstan. These are a group of Orcs that found Azacstan’s bloody and aggressive culture too much to live with and sought a better life for themselves. They seek for other races to see them as peace lovers, but the Orcs of Azacstan have terrorized all of Obrien for many years. They are often antagonized by raiders from Azacstan, constantly asking for Sybil’s protection and for the royal family to send more guards to help them. Long has the late King Choi turned a deaf ear to them, perhaps Queen Marth will hear them out.

Black Forest -- Shifter territory, home to several pacts of animal shifters that do not need the protection of Sybil. A forest region, so overrun with greenery that the sun is merely a small peep in the sky. Humans dare not set foot there.

Hidden Forest -- A region, far off from Brightenwood, that is not documented on the map. This is home to a clan of vampires that name themselves after flowers. The clan is primarily for young vampires undergoing their chrysalis (fluctuating emotions that young vampires and dhampyr go through), but word among creatures of the night is that older vampires have also disappeared around this region -- seen again within the clan, memories of life outside of it erased. There seems to be no leader within this clan, except for an unknown master from the Blood Council. It is co-run by prefects. This is the vampire clan that Cypress is a prefect of.

Dawnstar -- A fae realm, in which humans are warned away from. If a non-fae steps foot in Dawnstar, they’ll only be met with an endless forest. In this endless forest, one is prone to being the victim of several types of fae -- good and bad.

Kur Vashox -- A large country in between Oriens and Sybil, ruled by several Jarls. More so than relying on bloodlines, Kur Vashox has a culture of fending for oneself and ‘survival of the fittest’. If a Jarl was uprooted and defeated by another one day, that person who defeated the Jarl would become the new Jarl. If the people of a town collectively decide that their Jarl is unfit and seek to seat another, they have all right to forcefully uproot that Jarl and place the other in the seat. Otherwise, it is the Jarl’s choice for who comes after them. Not determined by birth, but who’s fit for the seat. Kur Vashox is unofficially democratic. The Kurians are a hearty people. The land is nearly surrounded by the sea and, as such, they have become a sea faring folk. Nearly every Kurian has been on a ship in their life and many middle to upper class family have their own small boats; which are kept in the port

Morgal -- Capital of the country and it’s port city. Many merchants make a living there.

Valenguard -- A simple town to the naked eye, nothing much but a few houses, stores, and a tavern. To those who know better, it’s home to the Emerald Eye; a guild of thieves who’s members are spread across Obrien.

Ervisgur

Ysgor

Duregbag -- A dwarven kingdom inside of a large mountain, so it has no cities -- only districts. Duregbag has a strict caste system and is run by the wealthy and nobility. Their King, Afolabi, is a man who listen to those with the deepest pockets and turns away from the poor. In Duregbag, the wealthy can take up harems -- the owner of it can be man or woman. The people in these harems get a monthly salary, so many of the better-looking people in poverty turn to being apart of a wealthy patron’s harem. That or sell themselves into servitude. There are dwarves who live just outside of Duregbag, surface dwarves. These dwarves still fall under the reign of the King, but enjoy a little more freedom outside of the caste system. There is another castle just off from Duregbag, at the very top of the mountain. It is known that this castle belongs to a strange dragon (Hamsa), who appears to be docile. The people of Duregbag dare not bother it.

#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ HEADCANON ⊹ — for the history books.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ OBRIEN ⊹ — the process of unification and peace.#∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ WORLD BUILDING ⊹ — from scratch to beyond.#there's still nimwood azacstan mirai and the sunset isles #but i'm hella tired yet also want you guys to see what i did so far lol #will reblog when it's updated

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xaz-fr · 5 years

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Set in a fantasy world of the semi socialist society Fey Alliance with magic, dick head dragon riders, benevolent necromancer, and even bigger dick head gods of mischief. The Zealous Servant is the story about a guy named Spayar who, basically, has to keep his crown prince of a bff from being murdered by his entire family by murdering them first. Honestly though Spayar just wants to take a nap and find a cute boy to kiss and not have to worry about his corpse potentially being dragged through the street after a war. Better win that shit then.

I will only ping this particular list once and if you want to be pinged for future posts a like or reblog will get you on the next pinglist. Reblogs (especially with a dumb comment but not required) are way more appreciated as it allows other people to see the work

@estevnys @bahamuut-fr @deadpool-scar-bro @barkingjester @flelagela @golden-lionsnake @frxemriss @starry-ampelope

This just in: Spayar is a BIG GAY MOOD

Chapter 4: The Mourning Rose

The city of Nedrag and the surrounding area sat in a low part of the land. The little bay the city sat in was enclosed by two cliffs that rose like they were embracing the sea and sky. Nedrag was set in the lowest part of the cliffs, in the only bit of shore there was, and Spayar was surprised to see that there were also buildings cut into and built onto the northern cliff face. He'd never been to Nedrag so of course he wouldn't know. Ships bobbed in the bay, only the smallest boats able to get close to the port and avoid the perils of shallow water. The city itself were neat plaster white buildings with flat roofs, sitting in neat rows like teeth in increasingly larger semi circles around the bay.

Directly next to Nedrag, separated by a black wall, was the Garden. If Nedrag was monochromatic, with only the blue Shard to contrast it, the Garden made up for it by being every color in the spectrum. The largest building, the Grand Temple, at the center of the Garden was a pure alabaster and a gold gilt roof. Across from it, down a paved walkway, was the chapel, and it was as black as the Grand Temple was white. Where the Temple was full of beautiful sweeping curves designed to look like it was hovering above your head without supports and had large stained glass windows in the front of a silver man with a moon for a halo, the chapel was squat and straddled the pathway like a toad. The air seemed dark around the chapel, which was also an eighth of the size of the Temple, and Spayar was glad he'd never get to go in there.

More paved pathways branched off from the Temple like the spokes of a wheel, that went to white buildings of various sizes. Some were cottages, others looked like dormitories or classrooms, stables, workshops, training grounds, and then up near the cliff it was buffered against was the large graveyard. Each plot was marked with a post with a white circle placed on it's apex; the sign of the full moon. The walls of all the buildings except the chapel and Temple were covered in greenery and flowers. This far north it was warm enough that flowers didn't have a season and bloomed nearly all year round and the ones that didn’t were magically encouraged to do so. The Garden was a riot of color, purple climbing up the side of a house, thick stripes of yellow and red flower beds lined the pathways, rose bushes with flowers as big as your hand were practically everywhere. It was a perpetual springtime paradise in the Garden it seemed.

"I hate this place," Von said from his horse as they looked down on the city and temple complex from the Sea Road, the road that ran directly from Peonia and the Garden. A gift, it was said, from a Peony Governor to a High Priestess. If you listened to the Aldashi version the two were lovers. The Nedalian version said it was a peace offering. For Spayar didn’t know. Probably some petty argument the neighboring provinces had about gymnastics or plant growing.

"You have to admit, it does look pretty," Spayar said. Idly.

Von looked at him with a frown, "You know what they do in there, don't you Spayar?"

"Yes, I am well aware," the teaching tables were legendary in the Garden and you could see them from here. Open air amphitheaters with a small stage where the only object upon it was a heavy wooden table that was said to be black from blood and bent from hate. They regularly held live dissections on criminals who warranted the death punishment; murderers, rapists, pedophiles, partakers in incest, and traitors. If they survived the lesson a healer tended to their wounds, regrew organs if needed, and they were put back in cells until needed again. The necromongers who taught lessons in anatomy were experts at keeping their 'patients' alive for weeks. If a patient survived four months, half a year, on a teaching table without dying all their charges were dropped and they were free to go. Spayar didn't know of one time someone had made it all six months.

That wasn't even the end of the horror that went on there though. Spayar was sure he didn't know half of it, and didn't want it; was glad he didn't know.

"It's sickening really," Von said.

"They aren't all like that," Spayar said. He’d met a few necromancers while serving time and some necromongers. They were just people who were more fanatic about their worship of the god of death than most of the Alliance. That didn’t make them bad.

Von looked at Spayar, "They're a noble house of the Alliance, Spayar," he said seriously, "they're all like that."

"They're just people. People who are useful to us. Stop complaining.”

Von sighed, "Yes, you’re right-

“I tend to be.”

Von gave him an annoyed look but it didn’t stick. “And I suppose they could be worse. I could throw my hand in with the Clan. I heard my sister is doing that. Idiot," and he tapped his horse's side and they headed for the Garden.

“She is?”

“Last I heard she was sleeping with one.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Why my siblings use their bodies like that when everyone knows it means nothing will never cease to baffle me,” Von said. Spayar looked away in embarrassment. He knew why they would. He knew because it was useful to him in the same way.

He cleared this throat, “She must be desperate if she’s actually in bed with the Clan. I hear they circumcise themselves. That’s weird.” Von snickered from his saddle and they urged their horses to continue along the road down to the Garden.

There were two entrances into the Garden, the Rose Gate, and the Sea Gate. The Sea Gate connected the Garden to Nedrag and allowed people to move in and out of both places without having to go around to the front Rose Gate. Three necromongers and a single necromancer, a skeleton crew, were manning the Rose Gate, the portcullis down and looked like the vines of some creeping plant. The walls surrounding the gate were covered in spines like a barbed rose and a large, red, piece of stone had been carved into the shape of a rose to hang over the entrance, the black stone that housed the gate and made up the wall looked like leaves. The necromongers looked at the two of them as they approached. "The Rosalia are accepting no visitors now," one said.

Von looked at Spayar to say something clever. "We come in the name of crown prince Vondugard Le'Acard. We're here to see the High Priestess, Lady Helida Rosalia. Now open the gates or the Asuras will hear about how you turned away her son's envoy," Spayar said. He was good at this stuff. Making people scared, not of him really, but the power behind him. He knew how to make people do what he wanted them do. Just a few right placed words and all sorts of doors opened up for him.

Of course it would have just been easier to announce Von himself, but they didn't want people to know they were here. They'd been careful coming to the Garden from Peonia not stopping at towns along the way and using the main road to travel fast to outpace anyone following them from Peonia. To the Asuras her children didn't just visit an important house for no reason, at least not one like the Rosalia. They had plenty of reason to keep their presence unknown. Thankfully it had only taken two days to ride up the coast.

The necromongers looked at one another and then at the necromancer. She pursed her lips and they and spoke amongst each other a moment. Spayar looked over at Von, what were they going to do if they didn't get in? It didn't come to that, "Tell his highness that our doors are always open to him," the necromancer said and the necromongers opened the portcullis. Von and Spayar walked under the Rose Gate and through to the other side. The portcullis thumped down behind them.

They rode to the Temple, and a pair of holsters ambled out curiously. Once it was clear they were guests of Helida they took their horses, helping them down and said they’d send their bags to where the High Priestess was allowing them to stay. After getting their names to add to the stable list they were beckoned off to enter the temple.

"Let’s hope we didn't come at a bad time,” Von said as they headed for the open mouth of the Temple. The entrance was open with a ethereal muslin veil covering the entrance. The bottom was beaded to keep it from flailing in the wind but parted like water when Von lifted the edge to go in.

"Her mother just died, Von," Spayar frowned at Von.

“I meant now,” he heard the eye roll in Von’s voice. “But it was almost five months ago Spayar, surely some of the bite is gone," Von said with a frown, "and her only daughter's naming day is approaching-

"It's in four days," Spayar supplied. He'd been tasked to know the naming days and names of every major noble house growing up, that included the new ones too. Von knew the heads of houses and important others. He didn't have to remember the others; that was what Spayar was for.

"Good. So lets hope she isn't so damn depressing. This place celebrates death after all."

Spayar frowned after Von. He just hard to remind himself that for a prince Von was pretty sheltered. He’d only ever been in the capitals really, or places where they were openly welcoming royalty. He hadn’t been around real people other than the Hillsmans in who knew how long. “That’s unfair to them,” Spayar grabbed him before he could go too far into the Temple.

"I'm the crown prince-

"These people could be one of your best allies. Your mother made herself no friend to Maja when she was alive, siding mostly with the Drake on important house politics when the two were involved. But they aren’t senseless or chaotic. They’re just people who worship Lemp, which is good because not many of us do.”

Von frowned hard at him, "Why do you have to be so damn smart all the time, Spayar?" Spayar didn’t miss the hurt feelings in his voice. Spayar let his arm go. He shouldn’t have felt bad for reminding Von to not be so judgmental but he was.

"You made me that way," Spayar said instead.

There was an uneasy silence between them for a moment. "You're right,” he said, acknowledging he’d done this himself.

“So listen to me when I give advice. Otherwise what is the point of me? A trophy?” D’aelar, an old Fey word meaning zealous servant, the most devoted to their chosen member of royalty. Von's older siblings called Spayar d'alaer to mock him in equal measure of how much they were jealous of their little brother to have someone so devoted to them as Spayar was to Von. There had only been a handful of named d'aelar in the entire existence of the Alliance since the first Asuras and his d'aelar, Masalla. To be named was no casual thing and Spayar didn’t always feel like he deserved it or that he was appreciated enough for actually having it.

Von’s eyes widened. “No,” he was quick to assure. “You’re my friend,” he touched Spayar’s arm. “You’re just… annoying sometimes.”

“So are you, don’t hear me complaining,” Spayar huffed.

“Oh so that whining you did all the way down the Westerlance didn’t happen?” Von grinned, relief spreading across his face that the uncomfortable moment was passed.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Spayar allowed.

“Can we go in now?”

“Yes.”

The muslin pooled against Von’s hand as he gently pulled away the veil barely concealing the entrance of the Temple and they quietly stepped inside. Inside the Temple was as grand inside as it was outside with shiny, multi-colored, marble floors and delicate white pillars. Frescos decorated the walls, most of the scenes involving death and women without faces riding pure white deer. Others involved naked men with stag heads eating the flesh of fallen warriors, and one depicted the three bird-like furies with gleaming swords and dark leather covering their bodies, ready for war, all of the paintings were scenes under moonlight of some form of solar eclipse.

This part of the Temple was totally open and at the back was a large, silver, statue of a man, Lemp; one of the twin head gods, ruler of the moon and the Shadowed Lands. He stood with one foot supporting most of his weight and you could see his ribs and clear line of his pelvis even through his clothes. Silver hair covered his eyes and in one hand he held a glass orb that glowed gently from the inside. A representation of the soul no doubt. In the other hand he held a shepherd's crook.

"Bad timing," Spayar whispered softly to Von as they walked a bit deeper into the side wings. The Temple was filled with people, all kneeling on the floor watching three people standing under the statue of Lemp, one women and two men, singing in a language Spayar didn't know. He had to assume it was the old tongue the necromancers spoke before their country had become part of the Alliance, the one their Red Book was written in. Spayar didn't know they spoke it anywhere else other than at funerals. The woman was a soaring soprano while the two men behind her were basses and it was a pleasant surpise. The singers had lovely voices that the vaulted ceilings of the Temple made resonate down into your bones.

Von tugged Spayar over to a wall and a small alcove where incense were burning gently in an alter of two cupped hands. Spayar looked up at the fresco and grimaced, they stood right under a stag headed man, a jogull, his maw dripped blood, his eyes a wild red color, teeth huge and pointed. He swallowed a bit and looked away, not liking being reminded that the Shadowed Land wasn’t the only place a soul could end up. "What’s this?" Von asked Spayar quietly to not disturb the service.

"No idea," Spayar whispered, "I think it's some sort of service."

"Is it a holy day?"

“Well… It is Lemest? So I guess? I'm not a Rosalia, how should I know?"

“Because you know stuff,” Von hissed.

"I don't know this," Spayar glanced at the Temple and the singing people. It was a very hauntingly beautiful sound he had to admit, also kind of creepy. But what did the Rosalia do that wasn't a bit creepy? "We'll just have to wait it out."

“Annoying,” Von muttered but they had no choice. They stood back, out of sight, waiting for it to end. Spayar's feet started to hurt before the song- songs?- ended. Everyone in the Temple bowed, touching their heads nearly to the floor and then stood up. The sound of hushed talking was nearly instant as they left through the main front entryway. Spayar recognized all of the people as necromancers or necromongers. No general servants or people from Nedrag had been in attendance. He could tell by their eyes and the way the men wore their facial hair. Every necromonger he’d met while serving time complained about having to keep their face shaved for religious reasons. Back home it was easy but on the road you sometimes had to make due with trusting someone with a dagger at your neck. If you were lucky an officer had a shaving knife or there was a lonth around who had the type of killer precision to shave your face without nicking you.

Once the last person had filed out Von stepped out of the alcove, "Okay, lets find the High Priestess," he said and Spayar followed him down the side wing to walk down to where the Temple had doors. Behind the main area of prayer the Temple also contained the rooms of the Governor and their family, the true Rosalia, since every man and woman who served Lemp called themselves Rosalia.

Von knocked on the door to the living area and a servant answered the door, "Can I help you, sirs?" she asked.

"We're here to see the High Priestess," Spayar said.

"She isn't seeing anyone."

"We're envoys of the crown prince Vondugard. Ask her if she'll see us," Spayar put in kindly.

The servant frowned at them, "I will ask," and she closed the door on them.

"What if she doesn't see us?" Spayar asked Von.

"Helida isn't stupid. She'll see us."

"Does she know we're coming?"

"No. But I know Tallalsala came and saw her. Helida nearly invoked my mother's wrath when she quite literally threw my sister out on her ass," Von chuckled.

"But?" Spayar asked, he hadn't heard this. That made him extra nervous. He hated not knowing what the royal heirs had been up to while he was gone. What stupid mess they’d made while he wasn’t around to capitalize on it.

"It was a few weeks after her mother died and, as you said, my mother and hers were not friends. She threatened to create a portal into the sky and see what came out if my mother wanted to 'punish' her for not tolerating Tallasala’s rudeness, which included some very nasty things including stripping of titles and going into the Book of Bloods. Needless to say it didn’t end well and Tallalsala had to apologize. My mother managed to smooth things over after that but we’ve had no correspondence with the Rosalia since.”

"Your mother is an idiot," Spayar said with a snort.

"She is," Von said passionlessly.

"You'll do better than her," he said as the door opened again to the servant girl.

"She's agreed to see you," she said.

"Thank you," Spayar said and they followed after the servant into a hallway. She led them to a room at the back of the Temple complex and knocked. Someone within bid them to enter and the servant opened the door, Spayar and Von went in.

Helida wore a dress down to her knees the color of storm tossed water, gray and blue and cold that made her brown skin look gray. Her long, brown, dreadlocks were piled on the top of her head like a crown and she wore small yellow flowers in her hair, woven into her locks. She had one brown eye, and her right one was the color of a drop of blood. Despite the mourning dress she didn’t seem any less than he expected her. Of course he put on all sorts of brave faces so wasn’t above thinking that of her. The room wasn’t exactly a room but an open air courtyard surrounded by high blooming hedges and enclosed by small gazebo.

When the two of them climbed the two short steps up to the wooden floor of the gazebo she bowed lowly to Von. “Your highness,” she said.

"You knew it was me?" Von said, hands behind his back.

She looked up at him with cool eyes, “I expected someone else to come along eventually after her highness Tallalsala made such a blunder. That and you look like your grandmother, of course I knew it was you.”

Von grimaced. “I see. I am actually not here to speak of politics at all, regardless of my incompetent sister,” Von said.

"Oh?" she asked, raising her brows at him.

"I came for two reasons," he said and stepped over to Helida. He took her hand in both of his, "I'm sorry about your mother," he said sincerely and Spayar actually wondered how sincere he truly was. Von didn't do things like this unless he could benefit from them. And he didn’t know what it was like to want to mourn a family member. "I know our families did not get along as well as they should have while she was High Priestess but she was an amazing woman. The world shall mourn her passing as I'm sure Lemp is glad to have someone like her back with him."

"She was,” Helida swallowed and it was the first time Spayar saw a chip in Helida's armor, and extracted her hand from Von’s "No doubt she's at peace in the Shadowed Lands." Von and Spayar crossed themselves respectfully.

"I also know that your daughter's naming day is coming," Von smiled warmly at her, "I had hoped to be invited," he held up a velvet bag he pulled out of nowhere containing the hair comb he’d bought n Tassa’s approval. Spayar didn't even bother to question where he'd been hiding it.

Helida appraised her prince, looking for lies, deception, or a way to make her look a fool in an attempt to regain his sister's honor. The truth was though Von didn't care about his siblings, much less Tallalsala. He was here for himself and yes to celebrate little Paja's naming day. After a few moments Helida allowed a slight smile to come to her face, "It would be an honor your highness,” she said. "I'll have some rooms for you prepared for you both. I assume you aren't here publicly?"

"No," Von said, "Discretion would be appreciated. My mother doesn't want her children anywhere near the Garden until... oh how did she put it?" he seemed to think a few seconds, holding his chin. "Oh, right, until 'that new red witch has remembered who holds the power'." Helida's eyes narrowed, Von shrugged, "But I am nothing if not a misbehaving son,” he said with a charming grin.

"You may want to be careful your highness," Helida said, "Roses have thorns."

"I'll just wear gardener's gloves then," Von’s smile didn’t falter for a moment.

Helida looked him over a last time, “Hmm, I like you more than your sister," she said.

"My sister is a moron," Von said candidly. "So, those rooms my dear High Priestess? Also maybe something to eat? My vassal and I are starving."

"Of course. And perhaps also a bath," she said mildly, Spayar wrinkled his nose but did agree. "I'll have Nemi air out some of the guest rooms across the court, you may make yourselves comfortable until they're prepared and have your bags brought to them.”

“Thank you, Helida. You are a most gracious and warm host.” He gave a little flourished bow more for the flair and less for the respect. That amused her and she chuckled.

“You are a gracious guest, prince Vondugard,” she said respectfully and stepped down from the gazebo to get the servant.

"Helida," Von said as she opened the door.

"Yes, your highness?"

"I am sorry about your mother. I can only imagine what it must be like," since Helida had no parents. Her father had gone through the Departed ceremony to get himself ritually killed shortly after Maja had suddenly died. Spayar wasn’t quite sure of what still. It was hard to get information from necromongers or necromancers in the Arm about what had killed the late High Priestess.

Helida looked over her shoulder at him, "Something tells me you will, your highness," and then she left the two of them.

When the door closed behind them Von grabbed his chest dramatically. "I have never been more scared of a woman in my entire life." He dropped onto the wooden bench that wrapped around the gazebo,

Spayar chuckled and sat down next to Von, "She is quite something," Spayar agreed with a smile.

"I felt like she was going to snap me in half with just her eyes," Von said, sagging in the chair.

"She is the High Priestess," Spayar reminded him.

"I must be a fool to try and play with the Rosalia. No wonder my mother distanced herself from this house when she could. They're terrifying!"

Spayar laughed, "Weren't you the one who said all the noble houses are this bad?"

"They are!"

"And that you wanted to try for the Drake as well?"

"Uhg, don't remind me. I can wait on the Drake until I feel like I'm not in danger of having my nuts ripped off and stepped on by a necromancer," Spayar laughed louder this time. "Laugh it up Spayar. I'd like to see you talk to her."

"You forget," Spayar said, "everyone you know and associate with is above me and could kill me whenever they wanted, for any reason. I'm used to dealing with people who make me squirm. It's a good lesson for you to find someone who scares you."

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s good for you.”

“And yet I have learned that everything that is ‘good for me’ sucks,” Von cried.

“Well… depends on what’s sucking,” Spayar said mildly and Von just looked at him very confused. At least Spayar knew Von was still innocent like that.

“How do you do it? Deal with those people?”

“I just remind myself you need me.”

“I am an adult, and quite capable,” Von said.

“Yeah. But you still need me,” Spayar said with a little self satisfied grin. “Who else will watch your back but me?”

“I guess you have a point. I do like having you around, even you are completely unreasonable at times.”

Spayar snickered as the door opened. It was another servant woman, this one looking much more everything than the one who'd showed them here. "Sirs, your rooms are ready. If you'd follow me," she said and they both heaved themselves off the bench and followed her. She led them out of the Temple and across the well paved path to a guest house between the Temple and Chapel. “Here you are,” she showed them in. It was several one room apartments with attached bathrooms. “You missed lunch," she said, "but Lady Rosalia is having food brought to your rooms shortly."

"Excellent," Von said, "Thank you," he nodded to the woman who just brushed something invisible off her apron and left them. "Bath and food?" Von asked him.

"I'll come over once I'm out," Spayar said.

"Good," and then Von vanished into the room he'd been given.

Spayar slipped into his own. It was well furnished but nothing horrifically elaborate. His bags were on a low bench at the end of the bed and there was a door to a bathroom on the left. He stripped and went to the bathroom, thankfully it looked the same as the one back home with an above ground tub. He knew inset floor tubs were becoming popular among the wealthy, especially nobility. Spayar just found them difficult to get in and out of.

The water was warm out of the tap and there was over a dozen vials and bottles of every scent he could imagine and a few he couldn't as well as three different soaps. He picked the mildest smelling ones he could find and washed. It felt good to get rid of all the dirt. He heard someone enter his room but leave again without announcing themselves, probably just his lunch. His stomach growled then, reminding him of how hungry he was. Spayar had planned on soaking in the bath a bit but his stomach demanded he do otherwise, so he climbed out of the tub, dripping wet and went into his room without bothering with a towel.

There was a tray on the side table filled with cool and raw foods. He groaned. Shit, he forgot the Rosalia were vegetarian. He'd been looking forward to meat, but no meat was allowed inside the Garden and other than specific sacrifices no animals were allowed to be harmed here either. If you wanted meat you had to go to Nedrag. Spayar looked forlornly at his meal and picked at a baked bun filled with vegetables. It wasn’t that it was bad but in Peonia raw meat was already being sold, despite the very clear law saying that wasn’t allowed, and that made cooked meat for purchase even more expensive. Von hadn’t wanted to contribute to it so they’d only eaten fish in Peonia.

He wandered around his room a bit eating the bun and letting the wind from the open window dry his naked skin. He looked for spy holes and hollow areas where there shouldn’t be. He also checked under the bed and in the closet but found nothing. Either the Rosalia were trusting or they didn’t care. He supposed it was probably the latter. Who was dumb enough to make plots against the house of necromancers in their own home? Satisfied with his room he dressed, grabbed his tray still full of food and went to Von's room. He used a bit of magic to push the door open so he didn't have to take his hands off the tray.

"Von," Spayar called as he entered.

"Still in the bath," Von called back as Spayar closed the door.

"Still?" Spayar sat on Von's bed, putting the tray in his lap and started putting food in his mouth. He didn't care if it was vegetarian, he was starving and it was good. Honestly he didn't even notice the lack of meat as he ate some sort of cool, savory, tart filled with cheese and vegetables.

"It feels wonderful," Von said delightfully from the bathroom and he heard some water sloshing, the door was ajar but Spayar couldn't see inside. "You didn't want to relax?"

"I'm eating," Spayar said, his mouth full. From the bathroom Von laughed.

"I do have to admit," Von said, "This did turn out better than I expected."

"You expected to be ejected?"

"As soon as she saw me honestly," and Spayar heard more water sloshing around. "You remember the Rosalia ruled Nedalia before it became one with the Alliance."

"I remember," Spayar said. Old Nedalia had had two rulers before they became part of the Alliance. A weak king and a much stronger faction of priestesses who served Lemp. Von's ancestor had taken Nedalia nearly fifteen hundred years ago, promising that the Rosalia would rule this province and not the now extinct Rensun.

"Honestly it's like some of these houses still think they rule," Von muttered, just loud enough for Spayar to hear.

"Well that's why it's called the Alliance," Spayar shrugged as he shoved an apple slice covered in honey into his mouth and nearly gagged on how sweet it was, "You only rule through their agreement of an alliance," he went to eat the rest of the food on his tray instead of the honeyed apples. There was cubed and skewered squash, yam, and turtle peppers covered in a thick brown sauce he was into.

"I know," Von sighed.

"Then why do you make me remind you?"

"It'd just be so much easier if the Alliance was smaller, and I didn't have to worry about such high and mighty nobles."

"I don't," Spayar said.

"You're not a Le'Acard," Von said and Spayar heard yet more sloshing, a lot more sloshing. "You don't have to worry about the stuff I worry about."

"Yeah I just have to worry about you. And let me tell you, one Le'Acard is enough to... worry about," Spayar trailed off, the food practically falling out of his mouth, as Von came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and he swallowed thickly. Before he'd left to serve his Von had been a child. He'd been almost fifteen years of age and seeing him shirtless was like seeing a child shirtless. That was two years ago and Von's visits to bother Spayar on his service had come maybe twice a year for a short period of time, this was the longest he'd spent with his prince in two years. In two years Von had grown up and he definitely didn't look like a child now and had some hair on his chest and a defined abdomen he definitely hadn't had when Spayar had left. His arms were muscular and his skin was bronze all over, meaning he'd trained, outside, shirtless, during the summer. Spayar blushed and thanked every god he knew his skin was too dark to show it.

"Yeah but you like it," Von didn't even seem to notice and smirked at him before going to find some clothes. Spayar stared down at his tray. Good gods when had Von become a man? He always sort of knew it but he still thought of Von as that barely fifteen year old kid he'd left in Assarus two years ago. Von definitely wasn't a kid anymore. This just made it worse for Spayar honestly.

"It has its benefits," Spayar said and cleared his throat.

"Well of course. I mean you get to be in my presence," Von teased.

“Yeah, the presence of the most royal pain in my ass," he said but still was staring at his tray as he heard Von pull on his clothes. His knuckles were pale where he was gripping the tray. He wanted to look, but he didn't.

Von laughed, "Food any good?" he asked as he sat next to Spayar and finally he could look, oh thank the gods he was dressed. Von had his own tray of food next to him, between the two of them.

"For nothing but vegetables, yes, its good," Spayar said and pried his hands off his tray so he could eat. The gods were testing him with giving him a hot best friend, one who was also a prince. It was a cruel test.

"I forgot they don't eat meat," Von popped one of the little cheese and vegetable tarts into his mouth thoughtfully. "Honestly I don't know why the Drake and Rosalia don't get along. The wyrms are vegetarians, the necromancers are vegetarians, the Wyrd practically sustains itself on fish and chicken. "

"So they should get along based on their food preferences alone?" Spayar rose his brows at Von.

"Why not? Not like their hatred is any less stupid. Do you even know why they hate each other?"

"No," Spayar said. The reason for the blood feud had been lost centuries ago, and had started when the Rosalia had first started to train necromancers, decades after they joined the Alliance. All anyone knew was that the two factions loathed each other and the feud had nearly led to civil war several times in the past two thousand years. No one even knew why. Anyone Spayar talked to who wasn’t part of the feud also thought it was beyond ridiculous.

"No doubt its over something stupid. Like a girl, or a pig, or some insignificant slight," Von said, unimpressed as always with the petty hatred between the Rosalia and Drake.

"Who can say honestly," Spayar said. "So other than Paja's naming day what is your plan here?"

"Nothing," Von said.

"Nothing?"

"Yes. Nothing," Von had found the apple slices and was polishing those off while he eyed the ones Spayar had left on his own tray. Spayar didn't like sweet things that much, he knew Von did though.

"What do you hope to accomplish with that?"

"That I'm better than my mother," Von said. "I've been planning what to do for a while and honestly Tallalsala's mistake was a great opportunity for me," he smiled slightly, madly. "My family has lost the art of subtlety the last few generations. My mother didn't even kill her own mother, she just found her hurt brother who'd thrown the coup and killed him, taking his place. It's all brute strength and no brawn in my family. Bless my father for being a snake in the grass and slithering into her bed,” he crossed himself like he was thanking a god.

"Which none of your siblings got except you?"

Von shook his head, "Teldin is good. He's overly cautious, but a good match for my brain," he tapped his temple, leaving a slight residue of honey. It took more willpower than Spayar would admit to to not wipe it away with his thumb. "Can I have those?" he pointed to Spayar's honeyed apple slices, the only food left on his tray.

"Yeah," Spayar said and Von took the little plate they were on happily. Spayar smiled slightly, he liked making Von happy, even if it was just small things like honeyed apple slices.

"I have sources," Von said, the apple slices vanishing down his throat quicker than they maybe should have while he was talking, “Not you, I know what a surprise. But they’ve told me Teldin has put his lot in with the White Foot and the Wren-Kal."

Spayar frowned, "Both are powerful," he said. The White Foot were a nomadic people from the north who lived in the foothills of the Spine and within the Spine itself at times. They were a fearsome cavalry and being so close to the Federation border they could shoot an arrow or swing a sword almost before they could talk. The Wren-Kal were a house of powerful warlocks, many of which with the lightning element. Not a great enemy to have.

"Yeah and like I told you, Tallasala is approaching Clan chieftains. She knows Teldin has started to move." The Clan of the Yellow Hills was a collection of tribes who only barely agreed to Alliance laws and abided more by their own tribal laws than not. They were also known ritualistic cannibals. The ritualistic part was usually left out in most people’s minds so they had a fearsome reputation.

"What about Obi and Dellin?"

"They probably also know. Honestly if I know then my mother knows and so do my older siblings," he didn't mention the younger ones. Malora, Cashchil, and Gurrin, were all too young to worry about politics. The next oldest, Cashchil, was only twelve. "Though if I know about the White Foot and Wren-Kal I don't know about others. Military officials, master smiths, lower houses. All important."

"Was the Tallalsala coming here a reaction to her learning about the Wren-Kal?"

"Possibly," Von said licking the last of the honey off his fingers and the natural frown on Spayar's face deepened. "She moved too quickly, pissed off a potential ally, and then went whimpering back to mother." He rolled his eyes.

"Teldin will move soon?"

"I don't think so. You know how he is, everything is methodical. He won’t do anything until he knows he can and will win.”

"How long do you think you have until he makes a move?"

"A year. If I'm lucky," Von said seriously and Spayar swallowed. Von was marking his life at one more year if he didn't stage a coup first. Why couldn't the Le’Acard just wait until the old Asuras died or stepped down like every other kingdom? Why did the death of an Asuras always come accompanied by so much blood shed? Right, because the Alliance was like no other kingdom on Priman'osta. "Once I'm done here I need you to return to back to Assarus before me-

“Why not accompany you?”

“It’s safer for you in Assarus than it is for me. Teldin is there. He won’t hurt you but I don’t trust him not to do something to me.”

“And what are you doing?”

"I'm going to head south-

"Please don't say Peonia."

"No. The Lord Peony loves my mother. She has that… man,” he stopped himself from saying something rude, “in her pocket. I'm going to go to Alderin."

Spayar thought about who lived in Alderin. It was a little city too far inland to have a port and was off the main road that ran the length of the Shard. There was no high noble family there, so lower, probably a military official. He squinted in thought about what was so important about Alderin to have a someone needing to watch it. Trade, of course. "One of your mother's Praetors lives in Alderin," Spayar sad once he remembered but that didn’t help his confusion.

"He does."

Spayar blinked, "You're going to try for a Praetor?" he asked. Though it was a better idea than the Archon since usually when the Asuras died they were either killed or forced to step down. The Archon only obeyed the Asuras and was dangerous to have around when you took the throne. More than one Archon had betrayed a new Asuras after a coup to warrant the tradition.

"X'vazior and my mother have been on the rocks lately. She wants to try and capture land beyond the Mesa Plains, X'vazior publicly refused to lead his Arm across it-

"That happened like five years ago," Spayar's brow creased, "I thought she forgave him."

"Publicly. He still shamed her, and she humiliated him. X'vazior is holding onto that grudge."

"You know for a fact?"

"My mother summoned him to the Summer palace this year. He said he was busy and could not 'tend to her every whim' since they were suffering a bad harvest this year and he had to find a way to get food to his people," Von said.

"He really doesn't like your mother."

"You would be surprised how many people hate my mother," Von sighed and sat back, holding himself up with his arms. "She spends frivolously, she's a coward who hides behind her title, she wants to be a conqueror when every province is trying to find enough food during a bad year for harvests and can't afford a real war. She shuns powerful houses because they frighten her and I heard that the Shade are simply not reporting anything. Any of Aklin’s men who are sent into LoHaJo’in never come back, the Shade kill them no doubt. The Drake are starting to bite a bit too hard on the Rosalia and my mother isn't doing much to stop them. I've heard rumors that people are scared there will be a civil war, a proper one and not a mere Conflict. My mother can't hold the Alliance together and people are angry."

"Does she know this?"

"She must," he sighed and rubbed his head like he had a headache, "Aklin's a good spymaster. He knows things I could never dream of knowing about her, about what's going on. I think she's too scared to do anything. She doesn't know how to be Asuras." Spayar did not agree or disagree. He didn't know much of the Asuras, but his father certainly complained about her plenty, usually in the same breath he complained about Von 'spiriting his son away to be his lap dog'. Spayar was usually too busy focusing on everything else to look too hard as his Asuras and the only thing he truly knew about her was that she did kill her brother during his coup before he could kill him. "She's an idiot with a wooden sword trying to train lions," Von sucked his teeth, "and now they're starting to growl at her and she doesn't know what to do."

"You'll do better," Spayar said.

Von looked at him, his brow low over his eyes in a worried look, "I have to be if I don't want to die," he said. "For my survival I need to be better," and he looked away. Spayar didn't know what to say to that. After a moment of hesitation he reached over and put his hand over Von's, Von twisted a few of fingers to grasp Spayar's.

"We'll be fine," Spayar said softly.

"I hope so," Von said, looking at him again, "I really hope so."

#nanowrimo #original fantasy #zs #thou shalt always queue

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Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. To look for work. "Ideally, there's also a lace or buckle closure to support the foot.". I went to a shop about three km away from the exam centre and bought a new dress for her after getting the shop opened."Those living in the vicinity of the school where the NEET centre was set up came forward to help candidates by giving them suitable clothes to wear."I know of a Muslim family which gave six tops to candidates to wear. Just beat them on the field and don't complain after the goal is scored.Visitation has a good chance against the U. It had, too, the full sanction of Holy Writ; we were there told that “the land cannot be cleansed of the blood shed therein, except by the blood of him that shed it.” He felt assured, then, that they would be swayed only by a firm resolve to act on this occasion in obedience to the dictates of sound judgments and enlightened consciences.

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yourboatholiday · 3 years

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Why is the Castellammare di Stabia Marina the Best Choice if you Desire to Sail and Discover the Gulf of Naples?

Probably still little known internationally, the city of Castellammare di Stabia and its marina are becoming increasingly popular as locations for boaters wishing to navigate the Campania archipelago and/or the Amalfi Coast.

This is due to its strategic geographical position to the Gulf of Naples and also to its proximity to some world-famous tourist sites such as Pompeii.

Where is this marina located? How to reach it?

The city of Castellammare di Stabia and its marina are located south of the city of Naples in southern Italy. It overlooks the Tyrrhenian Sea and is set on the coastal stretch of the Gulf of Naples, between the volcano Vesuvius and the Sorrento peninsula.

This southern Italian town can be easily reached either by car or train or by air. By car, it is necessary to take the highway towards Naples – Reggio Calabria. By train, again from Naples, it takes the Naples – Gragnano line and gets off at the Castellammare di Stabia stop.

However, the most comfortable mode is the plane. It is indeed possible to land at Naples Capodichino International Airport, located a few kilometers from both Naples and Castellammare di Stabia, and then reach the marina by taxi in a few minutes.

What services does Castellammare di Stabia offer to its customers?

Marina di Stabia tourist port is one of the best equipped and organized in the entire Neapolitan archipelago. It boasts 871 berths for boats up to 100 meters in length and depths on the quay up to 6 meters deep.

The quay is equipped with columns for the supply of electricity from 16 to 400 Amps and free Wi-Fi while mooring assistance is guaranteed 24 hours a day.

Among its services, Marina di Stabia is equipped with a restaurant, a launderette, a gym, and a play area for children as well as a convenient secure car park with 1,000 spaces complete with luggage trolleys.

At customers’ request, the marina provides transfers to and from Capodichino airport or to the Naples central railway station.

Why choose Castellammare di Stabia as a starting point?

In our opinion, Marina di Stabia is an ideal port for those boaters who, in addition to enjoying the sea and the famous places that overlook it, do not want to miss the nearby archaeological areas of Pompeii and Herculaneum or the fabulous gulf panorama seen from the top of Vesuvius or Mount Faito, both reachable in a few minutes by means of a suggestive funicular or an organized trip with off-road vehicles.

VIEW ALL THE BOATS BASED IN CASTELLAMMARE DI STABIA

What places and attractions can you visit nearby?

Pompeii

This famous archaeological excavation site is located a short distance from the city of Castellammare di Stabia and can be reached in a few minutes by taxi from the tourist port.

Famous throughout the world, these are the archaeological excavations of two entire cities from the Roman era which in the year 79 AD were completely buried by the eruption of a volcano.

Today it is instead a majestic open-air museum that every year gives new discoveries and that attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors.

Vesuvius

Vesuvius is one of the active Italian and European volcanoes. Due to its proximity to the population that lives and inhabits its slopes, it is also considered one of the volcanoes with the highest risk and therefore is constantly monitored.

The entire area, now part of the Vesuvius National Park, is nevertheless safe enough to be traveled by trekking lovers along its 11 paths for a total length of 54 kilometers.

The most coveted of these trails is certainly the one that leads up to the “Gran Cono”, the summit of the volcano, to experience the unique experience of walking along the crater of an active volcano.

Mount Faito

For all the inhabitants of the Sorrento peninsula, the mountain has only one name, Faito. This mountain, about 1400 meters high, is the highest point of the Lattari Mountains and marks the beginning of the Sorrento peninsula. It is a very popular destination especially in summer when it represents an escape from the hot and sultry days of the Italian summer.

The easiest way to reach the summit is to take the funicular that leaves from the station of Castellammare di Stabia.

What beauties can you reach by sailing from Castellammare di Stabia?

Sorrento

Sorrento is much more than a seaside resort. This town is the beating heart of the peninsula that bears his name and ideally is the gateway to the Amalfi Coast.

In addition to a historic center full of streets teeming with life, between bars, restaurants, and shops, Sorrento is full of historic villas that can be visited such as Villa Comunale, a unique beauty mansion characterized by a 5-star panorama.

The famous “Deep Valley of the Mills” is also worth a visit. It is a bed of a river now disappeared that once reached the sea where a mill was built for grinding wheat. The business continued until the early 1900s and then interrupted. The result is that dense vegetation has taken over the area, almost completely covering the traces of the activities that took place there (there was also a sawmill, a tuff quarry, and several caves used as cisterns for collecting rainwater). All in the historic center of Sorrento.

Capri

Capri has always been associated with glamorous and elite tourism even though it owes its fortunes to cruise tourism and day trips by tourists arriving from Naples and other coastal cities.

As for the things to do, one cannot fail to start with the magnificent Blue cave. An authentic wonder that can be visited with special boats.

Having a stop in its famous square is almost an obligation. You don’t need to stay long, just the time for a coffee is enough to savor the authentic life and the panorama of this beautiful town.

With 589 meters above sea level, Monte Solaro is instead the highest peak on the island. The easiest and most comfortable way to get to the top is the chairlift located in Vittoria square in Anacapri. From here you can enjoy a unique view that embraces the two gulfs of Naples and Salerno, the island of Ischia, and the legendary Faraglioni.

The latter is precisely the icon of Capri in the world. Do not miss the opportunity to circumnavigate them with your boat!

Amalfi Coast

This coast stretch is probably one of the most famous in the world. It is located along that promontory that extends towards the Tyrrhenian Sea and which is characterized by steep cliffs, cobalt blue sea and some world-famous towns.

If you’re wondering what is the reason for such fame, well it’s difficult to put into words. The place’s atmosphere, its landscapes, and its millenary history, combined with exceptional typical cuisine, can only give you an idea of what awaits you.

What better way to visit it than with a boat trip?

Just mentioning the main villages to which a visit is a must such as Sorrento, Amalfi, Positano, Furore, and Vietri Sul Mare. It is then worth climbing to the top of Ravello to enjoy a breathtaking view.

Contact now YBH Charter Brokers:

You can contact us by sending an email at [email protected] or by phone, calling +39 33436 00997, available also on WhatsApp for both calls and texting.

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killiancygnus · 7 years

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Serendipitous Melody 16/?

Summary: Everyone has dreams. You might dream of becoming an astronaut or teacher, or you might want to become a doctor and save as many lives you can. Emma Swan’s childhood dream was being a singer. But with life getting in the way and never finding the courage to overcome her fears, she never had a chance to follow it. That is until a little push from her friends lead her to cash on an opportunity; and, who knows, she might even get more than what she’d wished for.

Rated: HT (aka Hard Teen for some heavy flirting and so mild sexytimes they are basically nonexisting)

Word count: ~5.2k

A/N: It took me a while for this chapter I’m sorry, but I was really struggling writing it. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Thanks to the wonderful @the-reason-to-sail-home for her mad betaing skills and to @mahstatins for being always so lovely and listening to my rants when I freak out.

Tagging some friends: @villains-happy-ending , @stardusted-nymph, @allisonchameron, @kmomof4, @hencethebravery, @katie-dub, @captainwiley , @irishswanff, @thejollypirate, @dassala , @imhookedonaswan, @ofshipsandswans , @legendofthephoenixcs and @londonsbridge

If you want to be tagged too let me know :)

Links: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 / AO3

Well, that was it. She lost.

Months had passed since the finale of Enchanted, but Emma could still vividly remember how she felt that night. The excitement, the adrenaline running in her veins knowing what a good job she and Killian had done, the stupor when those life changing words left Killian’s lips and finally the shock when Belle called her name: they were all impressed in her memory. She didn’t cry, not in front of the cameras, anyway. No, the tears came later, when she was safe in Killian’s arms, away from prying eyes. Tears of disappointment, mostly, that spilled out of her eyes without permission, which then soon turned into something much different and sweeter when she accepted his offer to work with him.

Phillip had won the competition, to her surprise. It’s not that she thought he wasn’t a good singer, because he was. She just had been a bit bitter since, according to her, and to Killian too, even though he wouldn’t voice it at the time, his and Robin’s performance couldn’t hold a candle to theirs. They had sung and interpreted the role perfectly, and the audience response showed that. Well, not that it had been hard for them to get into the character’s mindset. They were lovers and she and Killian had been something already.

Something… She couldn’t say it was love back then. Hell, she wasn’t even certain she could say it was love now, after months being together. Not out loud, anyway. But if this wasn’t love, then Emma didn’t know what to call it.

News flash: Emma Swan had fallen for the swoon worthy, fan (and everyone, really) favourite, Killian Jones. But maybe that wasn’t such a shocking news anymore.

With Killian’s live announcement of a new album and of a possible collaboration with her, finding a way to keep their relationship a secret and their private life private had been a challenge. A few rumors did spread now and then, but they were soon overshadowed by the buzz for the music itself, especially for their single, and eventually forgotten. Not that anyone except Regina had many hints about what they were working on, anyway. Killian had teased something in many interviews regarding his album, but for their single they mostly stayed tight lipped. Only thing they would reply to anyone that asked was “We can tell you this: it’ll be so fun! And a little risque and sexy too. What’s not to love in that?”.

There weren’t many ways in which they could describe it, really. It was indeed going to be a bit racy, but it had been a conscious choice. She and Killian wrote both the lyrics and music together, wanting to base the story on personal experiences, on how they used to be. It was no secret Killian had enjoyed the pleasures of alcohol and one night stands. Emma, with a friend like Ruby and the job she had, followed that path too, more than once, either for fun or business. But honestly, the main thing in their mind the night they came up with the idea was, aside from fetching some more beer from the fridge, the fun they knew they would have filming and recording it.

Breathing out a sigh, Emma pressed ‘send’ to the email she had been writing while waiting for Killian to finish talking with Regina about work, before stuffing her phone in her bag. She was basically living with him by now: some of her clothes had found their place beside his in the wardrobe upstairs, and there was a toothbrush, her toothbrush, next to his in the ensuite, just like her shampoo and bodywash were resting in the shower. She was spending more days at her boyfriend’s house in a week than she did at her apartment, only staying there when her job as a bail bondsperson required it, and she still hadn’t told him about her son, the child she gave up a decade ago and with whom she had been having an illegal email correspondence with him for over a year. Well, it wasn’t strictly illegal if he was the one that first contacted her and he didn’t know anything about her except that her name was Emma, was it? Anyway, she was going to tell him soon (or soon-ish). Possibly that night (or not).

Emma swallowed a groan.

It wasn’t her fault (well, actually it is your fault). She had tried to tell him. She really did, more than once, but every single time she’d found the words unwilling to leave her mouth. Truth was that she was afraid. Afraid of his reaction, of him seeing her differently, of having fucked up everything.

“Ready to go, love?” Killian’s voice took her away from her thoughts.

Emma stared at his extended hand for a couple of seconds more than normal before taking it with a nod, letting him help her up from the couch. Picking up the bag from the floor, they went outside, where, as Emma locked the front door, Killian loaded the car.

They set off to the harbour soon after. They were going to spend the night on board of his ship after dropping the anchor in what Killian said was the perfect spot to see the Perseids’ meteor shower. He had insisted on bringing her sailing once he found out she had only ever seen a falling star once. And well, how could she say no to a romantic date stargazing on a boat? She couldn’t of course, not when she actually wanted to go. And definitely not when, after she had explained him the reason behind it, he had cradled her face and covered her face with kisses as he whispered how much she mattered to him.

It was a few nights before the Swans gave her away that she saw the first, and only, shooting star of her life, sitting in the backyard to look at the sky before going to bed. She had closed her eyes, like in the stories her father used to tell her, and made a wish. She wished to never go back the horrible place she had vague memories of living in. But of course, that didn’t happen. She had learned how to deal with it now, but as a child, it stung.

It didn’t take long for them to get to the harbour and, in what seemed like no time at all, they were sailing away from port. Killian drew the boat offshore, moving smoothly on the deck and letting Emma steer whenever she wanted to.

She would never forget the first time he brought her on the Jolly (yes, the nerd had called his boat Jolly Roger, which was cute and everything, but Emma was sure that was the reason everyone called him “pirate” or “the captain”). It hadn’t been much time after finishing up working on the show, actually. It was a beautiful sunny day, perfect for sailing according to her boyfriend. She didn’t know much, if anything at all about sailing back then - not that she was an expert now, mind you - but after all, she had never been on a boat in her whole life. And to Killian’s delight, she absolutely loved it. The sound of the waves rippling against the hard wood of the boat, water sloshing quietly, the wind blowing in her hair, sails flapping and hooks tinkling along with it: it had a calming effect her. Or at least, that was until Killian put her hands on the wheel and moved behind her. In that moment, with his hard body flush on hers, his hands on top of hers guiding her movements and head resting on her shoulder, she was sure her heart had skipped a beat or two.

They sailed until sunset, dropping anchor only when the first stars started to shine and the lights of the city were only small bright dots in the distance. As darkness fell around them, they sat on the deck, nudging close to bundle themselves up in a blanket and lifting their chins up at the sky.

“Regina said we can start recording on Monday,” Killian said as they watched the stars appear in the sky one by one.

At hearing that, Emma couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he smiled softly. “Apparently she has already started looking for a director for the video too.”

Emma sighed and lowered her gaze to him. “I can’t wait,” she grinned and looked back up at the sky.

They stayed like that for a while, letting the sound and the gentle rocking of the water lull them. “You know,” Killian started, breaking the comfortable silence that fell upon them, “I realised I’ve never told you why I was such a git when we first met.”

“It doesn’t matter. I forgave you a long time ago,” she muttered softly.

“But it does,” he insisted. “The song you sang at the auditions, Flares, I used to listen to it over and over. It gave me strength after my brother died, after Milah died. When I heard your voice, I could hear the pain and all the emotion you were trying so hard to hide. That’s what most of all made me press that button. But the others didn’t hear any of that, no one of them did. Robin asked me if I was sure I wasn’t just projecting my feelings, when I got back onstage after talking to you. And that was enough to plant doubt in my head. I was just scared that connection I felt when I heard your voice was the product of my imagination, that you had tricked me like Milah did.”

“And what about now?” Emma asked softly, bringing her eyes to meet his once again.

“Now I’m not scared anymore, love. And it’s all thanks to you. You showed me you are not her, that you are just you: Emma Swan. And that’s who I’ll always want you to be.”

Emma took a shaky breath. “And the song? Do you still listen to it often?”

“I do. But the memories attached to it aren’t about grief and sleepless nights anymore,” he said, bringing a hand up to caress her cheek, “They are something much sweeter now.”

Smiling, Emma closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in a sweet kiss. When a few moments later she tried to pull away, Killian laid down, gently pushing Emma with him while leaving small kisses on her lips and down her neck.

“Killian,” she giggled, passing her hand up and down through his hair, “Shouldn’t we be watching the stars?”

Killian growled on her skin, leaving another kiss behind her ear. “Oh, I could make you see stars.”

“Down tiger,” Emma laughed, putting a hand on his stomach to push him down. With a muffled “oof”, Killian fell next to her as she turned on her side to then rest her head on his chest, moving her leg in between his. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later,” she said, mindlessly drawing circles down his stomach, and smiled at hearing Killian’s broken exhale.

“Did you see that?” Emma exclaimed, stopping her hand right above the button of his jeans to point where a meteor had crossed the sky.

“I did,” he nodded, swallowing a groan, his voice deep and a bit short of breath. “Did you make a wish?” Emma nudged closer, humming softly on his chest. “And what did you wish for?”

To have the courage to say those three little words out loud, she thought.

Emma bit her lip to not let that thought slip out. “If I tell you it’d never become true,” she said innocently making him chuckle. “Did you? Make a wish, I mean.”

“No. I have all I could ever wish for.”

Killian left a kiss at the top of her head, as a big smile spread out on Emma’s burning hot face at his words. Then, as a second bright white line of light shoot through the sky, they lifted their noses up at the beautiful spectacle above them.

Considering how these kind of things go, recording was fun and it went smoothly. Choosing a director for the video, however, wasn’t. With all the attention he had drawn on themselves by offering Emma to work with him live on television, Regina had drawn up quite a list of directors. Robin had helped her too, suggesting a few names of friends he had made by being in the business much longer. According to Emma there was something between his friend and his manager, but Killian didn’t believe it. Honestly, he didn’t even want to think of them in that way. It felt just weird. Maybe that’s why it took so long for David to warm up to him. True, he didn’t have a good reputation at the time they met, so that might have made David a little more wary towards him, whereas he didn’t have to worry about that so he wasn’t sure he could really relate. Robin and Regina were like brother and sister to him, but they were good people. Okay, Regina could be scary at times, but that’s what made her a good manager and a good mother. But her and Robin… Nope, Emma must be mistaken. There was no way they could be together.

Anyway, in the end it was one of the directors Robin had suggested that got the job. His name was August Booth, one of the most famous and respected directors in the industry, and he was the only one that had managed to convince both him and Emma right away. They had met every person on that list, listening to their ideas for the story of the video, but only August really did win them over.

His idea was simple, but genius. Killian’s interpretation would play a man, heartbroken after a bad break up and headset into not getting involved with anyone anytime soon. Emma, instead, would be a beautiful but lonely woman, hurt by love over and over but still hopeful she’d find it one day. They would meet at a pub, bumping on each other as he was spending the night with friends. They would hit it off right away and, after dancing for a bit, they’d sneak out and kiss in an alley. She would follow him home, but the only thing left of her the next day would be a post-it with her name and number scribbled on it beside his head. Then, the viewer would follow them during their first date, as they chatted along, took a walk in a park up to when he would accompany her to her house’s door. There, she would kiss him sweetly before shutting the door on his face, only for then opening it again and dragging him inside by the lapels of his shirt. Once the door closed again, we would go back to the night they met, right after bumping into each other where, instead of moving to the dance floor, their lips would meet in a kiss.

It was the perfect story for their song. It contrasted the cheekiness of the lyrics wonderfully, but just enough to not get in conflict with it. It was an happy medium.

When she heard the plot, Ruby was more than happy to offer The Rabbit Hole, the bar her Gran bought years ago and recently left to her to manage, as a location. Luckily for her, Booth liked it and accepted her offer. The girl positively screamed when they told her.

Last time Killian had seen her that excited was when he and Emma decided not to hide their feelings from their friends anymore. That time she literally jumped on Emma, screaming, before groaning in defeat and pass twenty bucks to Mary Margaret who was looking smugly at them. Belle, Ariel, Tink and Robin instead didn’t seem shocked by it, claiming they had suspected there was something between them from even before the show had ended. Whereas they seemed happy and not too hard on Emma when they gave her the “don’t hurt my friend” speech, David didn’t take the news as well as they did. He really did look like he was ready to chop one or both his hands off so that Killian wouldn’t put them anywhere near Emma, no kidding. At least it seemed like it was all water under the bridge now.

It took a few days to start shooting. Emma was bouncing with excitement on the first day, much like everyone else, but he could see in her eyes and posture that she was nervous. Killian had been nervous too, especially because he wasn’t really looking forward to have Emma grinding against him on the dance floor in a room full of people, among which there was David, who just like Ruby and Mary Margaret had asked to play as an extra. But there was more. She wasn’t just nervous, there was something that was bothering her, he could tell. He didn’t even have the time to open his mouth and ask her what was wrong, that August barked at everyone to get ready to shoot.

For the first few hours, the only thing Killian had to do was enter the bar with his friends, sit at a table, and drink shots of disgusting flavoured and coloured water, instead of proper alcohol. Even the beer was not real beer. The beer! As if they would get wasted with a bottle of beer drank in the timeframe of hours. Emma instead, was having a far better time, sitting on a stool and sipping a (Virgin, for sure) Cuba Libre from a straw while chatting with Ruby.

According to the script, that was when he would notice her, but it wasn’t specified how. For the first couple of takes, he initiated it, glancing back at the counter and meeting her eyes. Then Emma grew bolder. She started with smiling seductively at him while sipping her drink as soon as his eyes would find her, but then their roles inverted. Feeling her gaze burning a hole in the back of his neck he turned around, just in time to see her tongue darting out to bring the straw into her mouth before smiling slyly at him.

“CUT!” August shouted when David almost choked on his drink making everyone laugh.

After giving a friendly pat on David’s back, Killian walked up to Emma. “You little minx,” he grinned, absentmindedly licking his lips.

“Me?” Emma asked innocently, tugging at the belt loops of his jeans to bring him closer. She then tilted her head, lifted herself up on the tip of her toes and whispered in his ear, “I’m just lifting up the mood for later.”

Killian hummed in her ear as he pulled her hips against him to make her feel what she was doing to him. Emma let out a breathy whimper and brought her lips down to sneakily leave a kiss on his pulse point.

“Lovebirds!” August called out before her lips could touch Killian’s skin, “Leave that for the dance floor and get back in position. I want you to recreate what you did in the last take once again and if no one interrupts again I want you to move on to the next scene. Be ready in five.”

Reluctantly, Killian walked back to his chair but with the corner of his eyes he noticed Emma checking her phone before putting it away with a frown. It wasn’t the first time she had done that that morning, and he had a hunch it wouldn’t be the last. Whatever it was bothering her earlier, it was connected to her checking her phone so often: he was sure of it.

He didn’t have time to think anything more about it though, that August called action. The scene went well, no one broke character this time (even though Killian noticed that David was keeping his eyes on his drink to avoid looking at Emma teasing him). So they continued shooting, filming the bumping-into-each-other’s meet cute right away, before then shooting it again from different angles.

But it was only after that, that the real fun began.

They put some upbeat music on and Emma guided him to where a bunch of people were already dancing. She trailed her nails down his torso sending a shiver down his spine, and they started moving along with the music. They were so close that her body would brush rhythmically against him, driving him mad with desire. Trying to hold himself back and kiss her senseless in front of everyone, he put his hands on her hips to keep her still. Emma smirked - smirked - and pressed even more against him, creating some delicious friction where his pants had started growing tight once more.

“And cut!” August called and Emma stepped away from Killian, a bit short of breath herself as she let him finally take a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. David was blushing red and avoiding their gaze by looking down at an amused Mary Margaret, whereas Ruby winked at Emma not after glancing at the bulge in his pants and giving him a knowing look. As Killian felt his ears growing red, August continued, “ Great job guys, but for the next take I want a bit more passion. Can you give me that?” He didn’t even wait for neither Emma or Killian to nod, that he turned around to go back to his chair, “Good. Start back again from the dancing.”

Quickly, they went back in position and waited to hear the “action” over the loud music to begin to move. It started like the previous take, with Emma’s hand going all the way down his torso and her swaying against him. This time though, when he put his hands on her hips, he swirled her around, putting her ass right against the hard ridge of his jeans. He slowly dropped open mouthed kisses on her pulse point, enjoying the feeling of her heart racing under his lips. If Emma was having so much fun at teasing him, he might as well torment her a bit by letting her feel what she was doing to him, right?

Emma let out a broken exhale as he sucked lightly on her pulse point and she began grinding slowly against him, enjoying the low moans he made against her skin. After a few moments, she turned around in his arms, putting her hands on his shoulders and looking in his eyes, her pupils dilated and her breath coming out in soft pants. For what felt like hours it was just them, looking in each other’s eyes and pressed so close together only a few inches separated their lips. That is until August voice calling it a cut echoed in the room and, like a violin’s chord drawn too tightly to its breaking point, they snapped apart.

They shot it thrice more from different angles, and both Emma and Killian grew bolder and bolder each time, still managing to make every take look more or less the same. By the last take, they were so far gone that they cared very little of the other people watching them in the room.

Knowing no one would hear him over the loud bassline of the music bursting through the speakers, Killian dared to lean in, bringing his lips by her ear. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” Killian whispered in a low growl as he kissed that spot near her ear he knew Emma loved, “Making me rock hard when surrounded by so many people? Making me want to tell anyone to fuck off and take you up against the counter?”

Emma whimpered softly and started grinding against him in retaliation, a soft blush spreading on her exposed skin. Killian let out a broken exhale, before biting his lower lip to try get some control. They really needed to tone it down, but it was definitely easier said than done.

When Booth called cut one last time the rays of the sun as it set were starting to enter the bar from the windows, and they decided to call it a day.

Killian was in desperate need for a cold shower by then, and that was exactly what he did as soon as he stepped home. Emma, instead, decided to wait for him in his bedroom. That was where he found her ten minutes later: sitting on her side of the bed in just shorts and a tank top, smiling at her phone. An improvement from the rest of the day for sure.

“I’ve noticed you checked your phone more than usual today,” he said tucking the towel safely around his hips with one hand as he tried to dry his hair with the other. “If there is something wrong you can tell me. Whenever you want. I’ll always listen.”

“I know,” she reassured him, putting her phone aside, “I was just waiting for an important email I was supposed to get a couple of days ago.”

“And judging by that small smile on your face you’ve finally got it?”

“Wow. You truly can read me like an open book,” she teased him, getting off the bed and padding closer to him, “Or maybe I’m just enjoying the view, who knows?”

Minx, he thought with a chuckle.

Killian wiggled his eyebrows and tossed the now damp towel he used for his hair back in the ensuite. “Speaking of phones,” he started, reaching for his mobile resting on the dresser next to him, “Regina sent me some pictures that were taken today as we filmed and she wants me to post one on all my social media accounts for publicity.”

Curious, Emma drew closer to him as he flipped through the pictures. “Now, this is quite nice,” he said, stopping for a few seconds on a picture of him and Emma, sitting at a table as they tasted the awful fake shots and pulling up a face. “But this! This is it,” he announced as the image of her, tongue out trying to fish the straw and eyelids half open while giving him a sexy look, appeared on the full screen.

“No.” Emma almost shouted, surging forward to get the phone from his hands, but he stepped back holding it out of her reach. She glared at him giving him her best murdering glance, “Don’t you dare.”

“Why though?” He asked innocently, “You are so cute when you fail at blinking, Swan, I can’t resist.”

When she gave up stealing his phone, he put it back to its place as it uploaded the first picture he showed her online. She was still scowling at him, arms crossed over her chest and cheeks pink. God, she was so beautiful, he loved working her up like this.

“Killian, I love you, but I swear to God if the thing you just put on twitter is that last picture, you’ll get to sleep on the couch for a month.”

Killian was sure his heart had skipped more than a single beat when his brain registered her words. And when it did, he couldn’t believe his ears. She had said it: those three little words he had wanted to say, to scream at the world, for so long but that out of fear of scaring her away he had kept for himself.

He must have gone silent for a while, as the blush on her cheeks was now completely different from before. “What did you say?” He asked, afraid it had been just a dream.

She looked down at her feet sheepishly for a few moments before replying. “Nothing, I -”

He didn’t give her time to finish the sentence before he kissed her, hard, trying to convey everything that in all that time he had feared to say out loud.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips when they came up for air, and this time she was the one to close the gap once again and kiss him passionately.

As her fingers played with his hair, he pushed her towards him, growling. When her lips lift from his, she searched his deep blue eyes before saying, “And I love you.”

Breathing out a deep moan, he surged forward, fingers pulling at the hem of her top as he walked her towards the bed. “Too. Many. Clothes,” he punctuated each word with a kiss down her neck.

Lifting their lips from the other’s skin only when needed, Killian helped Emma undress, while she untucked the towel hanging low on his hips, letting his erection spring free. Finally with no barriers between them, Emma arched her back against him, bringing her lips back to his. As the kiss turned sloppy, Killian lifted Emma up and placed her at the center of the bed.

Giving himself a moment to take her in, he crawled on top of her, ready to kiss every inch of her all night long.

The sound of irregular steps and the ominous clicking of a cane echoed into the corridors of the GOLD’s building.

A secretary shot up as soon as the man passed by, papers flying off her desk at her haste. She stuttered, her words shortly echoed by the other people in the room, “Good morning, Mr Gold.”

Not caring about answering back, or helping her pick up the papers from the floor, Robert Gold just walked past them, headed to his office. Not that his employees were expecting any words to come from his lips anyways. If Mr Gold talked to you, it meant that you didn’t do your job as well as expected by anyone working in the editorial staff: that’s what everyone learned on their first day.

As he took the last few steps down the corridor, Mr Gold unbuttoned the jacket of his suit as he approached his office. As he put the hand on the handle, he opened the door, only to notice there was someone waiting for him, giving their back at the entrance as they looked outside from the large windows behind his desk.

Mr Gold closed the door behind him, but the man didn’t even flinch. “Son. What are you doing here?”

The man took a deep breath and kept his eyes on the road down them. “Father,” he said, his voice sounding flat, almost emotionless if not for the ounce of disappointment radiating from it, ”I was promised we would have brought down Captain Lover Boy and Swan, but it looks like they are on their way to a happily ever after.“

Gold moved to the tea table on the side of the room and poured two tumblers of whiskey in a couple of glasses. “They do seem very happy,” he observed.

“I don’t want her to be happy with him,” he raged, finally turning around to face his father. He clenched his hands in shaky fists and continued, rising his voice as he spoke, “I want her realise that that pretty little dream of hers was just a foolish illusion. I want her back where she belongs: with me. I want my son. I want to see her going down as much as you want to see him do the same.”

Mr Gold sighed, taking the two glasses in hand before walking up to the man.

“Be patient, son,” he replied calmly, offering a glass which the man gladly took. Grinning he added, “The right time for us to strike will come soon enough.”

#captain swan #cs ff au #cs ff #cs mafia #cs au #my fic #my writing #serendipitous melody #otp:we'll always find the sun #fran against words

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