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my-kindred-spirit · 3 years

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Which is your favourite flower, Kaz?

Summary: Two years after the ending of Crooked Kingdom, Kaz and Inej enjoy a well-deserved moment of peace and happiness in Kaz's farm, surrounded by the beauty of nature. They reflect on their past and the healing they've done, as well as on their feelings for each other.

Pairing: Kaz x Inej

Basically, this is just pure FLUFF!!!

INEJ

Inej had always loved looking at the sky. When her mind was still young and naïve, she used to imagine herself walking between the clouds on a white sparkly tightrope, leaving behind her a silver trail decorating the silent sky. She used to dream of her spirit hanging in the air and her soul flying free in the blue infinity of the firmament, with a smile printed on her face and the lightness that is conferred only by liberty sculpted in her heart.

When her mind was trying to survive the horrors that Fate had destined to her, Inej still looked at the sky. Ketterdam’s sky was grey, opaque with the steam of the cities and almost threatening in his abyssal vastness. It wasn’t arid though. It was very much alive, reached day and night by the laughs of the tourists wandering through the narrow streets of the Barrel, by the drunken songs of the men wasting themselves in the taverns and the joyful or frustrated shouts of the ones playing in the gambling halls. But the sky was also the inevitable witness of the desperate pleas of people being defrauded or robbed, of the painful cries of some poor souls abandoned by the Saints and doomed to a fate of violence and sorrows, of the desperate sobs of girls violated in the brothels.

Read it on AO3 here!

The sky had never been reached by the Wraith’s voice though. She liked to contemplate it in silence, sitting on Ghezen’s thumb and savoring all the memories of when the clouds looked softer. She had actually hanged in the air and flied as the most elegant and gracious of the birds, but her stage had been roofs and chimneys, not clouds. Her curtain had been a grey and opaque sky, not a bright and azure one. Still, she had defeated gravity, even if not how she had dreamt as a child.

Now that her mind had known pain and had wandered even through the world’s darkest meanders, Inej still loved looking at the sky. She liked to remember both the acrobatics she had performed on the rope, admired by her proud family, and the brave stunts she had succeeded in as the Wraith, with Ketterdam’sky as her sole witness. She liked to admire the blue intense sky towering on the True Sea and the azure one inundating with light and hope Kaz’s farm.

It was early June and the clouds looked softer than ever. The sun burnt high in the clear azure sky and his shiny rays softly tinged the boundless meadows gold.

Inej let her eyes part from the sky and wander around the immense verdant meadows surrounding her, which stretched as far as eye can see and finally got lost between the vague trembling lines of the horizon, in a pyrotechnic explosion of colours. She admired the flowery fields and the carpet of grass she was sitting on, embroidered with the golden light of the daffodils, the white purity of the daisies, the gentle pink of the roses, the purple of the wild geranium – her mother’s favourite flower- and the strong blue of the irises, which reminded her of the unforgiving waves colliding with her Wraith. On the distance she could see the orchards tinging the landscape pink: she recognized the light-pink petals of cherries, the darker pink and orange flowers of the peaches and then the white and pinkish heart-shaped flowers of the apricots, slowly falling to the ground and leaving place to the orange velvety drupes.

The fresh floral perfume was inebriating and the delicate scent of grass, soft and faintly damp under her touch, graced her nostrils and intoxicated her thoughts. A soft symphony of birds singing reigned in the colourful heaven and lulled her, accompanied by the gentle tune of a light pleasant breeze, the soft murmurings of the creek beyond the orchards and the melody of... of feets approaching her.

“You have picked some flowers.” Inej turned around and watched Kaz nodding to the wooden basket full of flowers, while slowly sitting beside her. This Kaz’s voice, Kaz Rietveld's voice, was not as raspy as Kaz Brekker’s one. He wasn’t even using the cane, which he had come to find unnecessary for walking on the soft grass. This Kaz, her Kaz, had longer hair on the sides and brown highlights, result of almost three weeks spent in the sun. He had even tanned a bit and gotten freckles all over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and the corners of his mouth seemed to be turned up in a smile more often than not. He was wearing simple black breeches and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No coat, no hat. No gloves. His eyes, however, were the same colour of bitter coffee as always.

“Wylan helped me earlier.” Inej observed Kaz eyeing the flowers with a troubled expression and then slowly lifting his head to look at her. “I've never given you flowers.”

KAZ

“You have picked some flowers”. Inej turned around and Kaz swore he had felt his heart stopping. The sun rays caressed her chocolate skin and framed her beautiful face. Oil black lashes fanned over her cheeks and a light breeze ruffled her silky dark hair. Her obsidian eyes resembled the darkest of the abysses and Kaz craved to forget himself and die in his pitch-dark immensity. Her vivid eyes sparkled as the brightest and most vibrant of stars and Kaz ached to live eternally and enshrine that light in a golden casket.

To Kaz, she didn’t look real, not for him. To Kaz, she looked holier that any of the Saints she devotedly believed in, so stunning that he thought he might just break down and cry if he looked at her any longer. Enveloped by the rainbow of flowers and trees, she looked like a picture painted by Purity itself, with the colourful palette of kindness and hope and the silver brush of strength and determination.

Kaz couldn’t thank any God enough that she was real. He jealously cherished every moment in which his eyes were graced with the sight of her elegant figure and kind smile, as he had never seen her before, as he would never see her again. He had learned to welcome and appreciate even the feeling of his breath catching and mouth drying whenever he looked at her, whenever he was a boy again, sure that there was magic in this world.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like dying. It felt like he couldn’t hope nor ask to breathe the same air of a heart so kind, a soul so hopeful, a mind so strong. It felt like being lost in the vastness of the universe, like navigating the tumultuous waves of the True sea, overwhelmed by feelings he never knew his hearth could fell, stunned by a fate he didn’t believe he deserved. It felt like being consumed by her, for her.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like living. It felt like he could hope to walk this land as a better man, like he had managed to pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. It felt like having been hurt and then healed, like the sorrows and ghost of his past wouldn’t persecute him for evermore, like life was worth living. It felt like being whole, like the void in his soul had been filled by her, for her.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like looking at the sun, like being warmed and burned, overwhelmed by a powerful oxymoron of emotions, a powerful oxymoron of life and death. To Kaz, Inej looked like the sun. To Kaz, Inej looked brighter than the sun.

“Wylan helped me earlier.” Kaz looked at the wooden basket full of flowers and a sudden realization striked him : flowers, he had never gifted her with flowers. He had given her a knife, sure, but he had done it for his own personal purposes, for turning her into his Wraith. Now they had been staying in Johannus Rietveld's farm for almost three weeks, literally surrounded by flowers, and he had never given her any. Would she have wanted him to? Would she have liked a gift that would have reminded her of her happy childhood, and not of the violence she had been forced to face? Would she have liked a gift that he would have given her had they met in another life, had they been Inej Ghafa and Kaz Rietveld, instead of the Wraith and the Bastard of the Barrel?

He shifted his eyes back to hers and murmured weakly, “I’ve never given you flowers.” Inej looked taken aback for a moment, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, before quickly recomposing herself and setting her face into a stoic, indecipherable expression. She looked straight into his eyes, pursed lips and brow furrowed, and Kaz knew he was inevitably about to enhance the list of his unforgivable sins. “Kaz”, her voice came out unbearably severe and disappointed and Kaz knew he would have gladly chosen death if it’d mean he would never be the one to bring that tone in her angelic voice again. But then her lips twitched almost imperceptibly, like she was trying with all her might to hold back Kaz’s final death sentence, and her eyes gleamed with… amusement?

A laugh, she was trying to hold back a laugh. How Inej managed to turn Dirtyhands, the brain which had broken into the Ice Court and destroyed one of Ketterdam’s most powerful man, into a lovestruck fool was downright beyond him. “Inej”, he sighed defeated and her whole face lighted up with delight, before she carefreely threw her head back and released the most infectious and crystalline of laughs. Now Kaz was sure he was going to die, mercilessly killed by the most beatific sound which had ever reached his ears, undeniably annihilated by the same laugh he craved for all-day long and graced his dreams every night, by the truest and most profound essence of her.

Her eyes sparkled with sheer love and a warm, affectionate smile enlightened her features: “Kaz, you gave me my Wraith, you found my parents for me, you restored my freedom when I thought there were no hope or salvation left for me”, she cooed fondly and tenderly, “do you honestly believe I would be upset because you never gave me flowers?”. Kaz felt his lips immediately turning up in a sincere smile and, not trusting himself with words, slowly shifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against hers, asking the permission she immediately granted, sliding her smaller hand into his callous one and entwining their fingers. It was always like this between them, a game of continuous asking and giving permissions, of constant gaining and offering trust, a game he genuinely believed they were slowly yet effectively winning.

“Do you want to know what my father used to tell me when I was little?” Inej asked softly, while lovingly drawing little circles with her thumb on Kaz’s bare hand.

“Another Suli wise proverb?” he smirked.

“No, Kaz”, she playfully rolled her eyes, “not another of our useful proverbs. He used to tell me that there would have been many boys to bring me flowers, but that only one would have known my favourite flower, or song or sweet. And that even if he’d have been too poor to give me any, he wouldn’t have mattered, because that boy, and him only, had earnt my heart.”

Kaz’s heart leaped with joy: he knew. He had never given her flowers, but he knew her favourite one, he knew. “Dahlia. Your favourite flower is the Dahlia, the red one. You told me when we saw one in the flower stall in Goedmedbridge, remember? We were following those Dime Lions. You said you liked it because it appeared elegant and graceful, but that the red colour made it look also somewhat powerful and strong.”, he blurted out with the excitement of a child. ”And your favourite sweet are those chocolate biscuits Nina made you try when you visited her in Ravka last summer. The ones she had cooked modifying Matthias's Fjerdian recipe.”

“And my favourite song?”

Hearing Inej’s trembling, touched voice snapped Kaz out of his frantic enthusiasm, his grin softening into a lovely crooked smile and devotion gleaming in his eyes. “You don’t have one. You can’t choose between all the lullabies your mother singed to get you to sleep.”

INEJ

Inej didn’t answer. She tightened her hold on Kaz’s hand, but didn’t answer. She fought the urge to cry – if from happiness or gratitude or emotion she couldn’t say-, but didn’t answer. She looked into his strong tea brown eyes as if he was a miracle of her Saints, but didn’t answer. She couldn’t, for the life of her, find her voice, because this boy, this man, had earned her heart.

She had fallen for Dirtyhands under the grey sky of Ketterdam, the man who had freed her from a cage of horrors and humiliations and had given her, if not happiness or safety, a new perspective, a new possibility at life. She had fallen for the man who, as first thing, had refused to call her with that grotesque, demeaning name Tante Heleen had given her, but had asked for her real name, for how she wished to be called. She had fallen for the Bastard of the Barrel, the man who had taught her how to fight and defend herself, how to become powerful and even dangerous, how to make others respect her. She had fallen for the man who had never wanted to own her or annihilate her identity. She had fallen for the man who, even if hadn’t promised her that, had always protected her, whatever the cost.

Then she had slowly came to know Kaz Rietveld and had fallen hard for him too. She had fallen for the boy who looked sincerely ashamed after being scolded by Mr. Fahey, for the boy who fought everyday against his demons and was willing to defeath them to be with her. She had fallen for the boy who smiled light-heartedly and laughed freely, for the boy whose eyes glowed in the sun and gleamed with a nervous yet warm devotion while braiding her hair.

She had fallen for the man who wanted her and wished to dedicate himself to her, without gloves, without armour. She had fallen for the naive, sweet boy Kaz had once been and for the man revenge and greed had shaped, a crow mercilessly remindful or who had wronged him, but also of who had been kind and fair. She had fallen for who he was becoming, a man who had known pain and hatred, but was willing to open the rusty gate of his hearth to love and friendship.

She had fallen for Kaz Brekker, the man who had returned her the liberty which had been violently snatched from her and had found her beloved parents. The man who had encouraged her ambitions and supported her constantly in her fight against the slavers.

She had fallen for Kaz Brekker. She loved Kaz Brekker, and he had earned her heart. He possessed her heart.

“I can braid your hair, if you’d like. I… I could add the flowers.” Hadn’t she just been thinking he owned her heart?

Her voice still failed her, so she resolved to nod. She watched Kaz shifting a bit to sit behind her and heard his breathing deepening. After a few instants, Inej welcomed the cherished feeling of Kaz’s long fingers caressing her inky hair with a gentleness that didn’t surprise her anymore. She felt him dividing the hair into three even parts, before crossing the left section over the middle one and then doing the same with the right section. As always, he worked in silence, section after section, strand after strand, breath by breath, brick by brick. The first times he had braided her hair, Inej had felt Kaz's fingers trembling and his breathing fastening, so she had started to ask him what was on his mind, to distract him, or she would tell him stories from her childhood, to soothe him.

Now, his fingers didn't tremble anymore and he was rather succesful in controlling his breathing, but Inej still whished to hear his concentrated voice. She still wanted to explore the gears of his psyche, to navigate the thunderous stream of his thoughts, to know the forbidden ruminations of his complex mind. “Wha”, she coughed, clearing his throat, “What are you thinking right now, Kaz?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”, he chuckled, and Inej could perfectly figure his mischievous grin.

“Kaz.”

“Darling Inej, treasure of my heart, I'm thinking about how it's taking me forever to braid all this hair. I swear I'll cut it, one day or another.”

“You wouldn't dare!”, she cried out in mock outrage, repressing a laugh.

“Would you slit my throat with Sankta Alina while I sleep, if I cut it?”

“You have to ask?”

“Then no, I wouldn't dare.”, Kaz answered with an exaggeratedly fearful tone that really didn't suit him.

They kept silent for a moment, pursing their lips, before giving in and bursting out laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks with amusement. “I never knew Dityhands was so easily scared", Inej sputtered out between laughs, “he is such a chicken, isn't he?”.

“Stop making me laugh Inej", he sniggered, “or I'll get confused and will have to start the braid from the beginning. I'm doing a delicate operation here while you just sit and laugh, you know?”

“Sorry, sorry", she wiped a tear from her left eye, “but you still have to tell me what you are thinking about.”

They slowly calmed down, quieting their breathing and setting into a comforting silence. Inej, however, had felt Kaz’s fingers slightly tensing up and when his hand shifted to take a geranium into the basket -after having secured the braid-, she asked again. “Kaz, tell me please.”

He took a deep breath. His fingers trembled. “I’m thinking if this is how it would have been. If we hadn’t become Dirtyhands and the Wraith, that is.”

Inej’s heart gave a painful squeeze. “Kaz”, she started soothingly, “we-.

“Would you want us to be only Kaz Rietveld and Inej Ghafa, sitting on the grass and enjoying the sun, while I braid your hair? Would you want me to be able to touch you as every man touches his girlfriend? Would you- ”

“No, Kaz, I wouldn’t.”, she brusquely interrupted him, “I wouldn’t.”. She swiftly turned around, took both his hands in hers without giving much thought to caution and permissions, and looked straight into his eyes with the determination of who allows for no replication. “I wouldn’t, Kaz. I wouldn’t because, if we hadn’t become Dirtyhands and the Wraith, we would have never met. And even if we had met, we wouldn’t have been who we are today, and believe me when I say I’d never change who we are, for anything in the world. It’s not Kaz Rietveld the one I’m in love with, you know. I’m in love with him, with Dirtyhands, with the Bastard of the Barrel.” Inej swore he’d never looked that dumbfounded, but she wasn’t quite finished. “I’m in love with Kaz Brekker. I’m in love with you, Kaz. As you’re in love with the Wraith, with Captain Ghafa, with Inej. Aren’t you, Kaz?”, and this time she didn’t even try to hold back the tears.

“Inej”, he murmured with a devotion who made her feel holier than the Saints she believed in, “Inej”, he repeated, while slowly untangling his right hand from hers and lifting it to her cheeks. With the gentlest touch, he captured her tears with his fingertips and delicately wiped them away, one by one. “Inej”, and if she could have bottled the sound of her name being so tenderly whispered by his lips and gotten drunk on it every night, she would have. ”Inej”, he delicately cupped her right cheek, while his other hand went to softly rest on her neck. “Inej”, he got closer to her and Inej thought her heart might just jump out of her chest, “Inej”, and he slowly lowered his head, lips hovering over her cheek. “Inej”, and his crimson lips brushed the tip of her nose, his hands slightly tremulous. “Inej", and his warm lips captured a tear rolling down her left cheek, and then another and another. “Inej", and his soft lips grazed her forehead, while she lifted her trembly hands and delicately yet eagerly rested them on his wrists. “Inej", and she had barely a moment to register the lonely tear falling from his left eye, before she finally felt the cherished pressure of his moist lips against hers, both familiar and new all at once. And a rainbow of colours and emotions exploded behind her closed eyelids.

In this moment, when Kaz's lips were pressed against hers, Inej knew that she'd never be the same again, that she'd never forget the taste of him, that she’d never give anything for granted, that she'd never stop fighting for what is good and just in this twisted world. In this moment, while she could feel the faintest brushes of tongues and the most sheer connection of hearts and souls, Inej found herself floating away, knowing nothing but Kaz, his smell, his breath, his hands on her skin, his hearth throbbing madly in his chest. In this moment, when he finally met her where she had been waiting for him, Inej thanked all her Saints and treasured the arduous path that, after years of battles and sufferings and anguish, had allowed them to live this precious instant, this precious everything.

When they finally pulled away, hearts gone mad with joy and euphoria, Inej looked into Kaz's blissful eyes and gave him a watery smile: “Which is your favourite flower, Kaz?”

A/N: Hey guys, thank you so much for reading!!! What do you think Kaz's favourite flower would be?? Tell me in the comments!

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ask-demon-princess-astarte · 3 years

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A Introduction to my OCs

So, after thinking it over, I figured I would create this post to help introduce people to the numerous OCs I have. I won't list every single one but here are a few of the main stays that feature on the blog.

Azirina Kharabbi: A Khajiit Dovahkiin from the Elder Scrolls V Skyrim. Initially, she was just a character in the game but has since evolved into so much more. With two storylines currently in the works and several pieces of Artwork done by the amazing @korvanjund she is probably the character who has grown the most out of them all.

Shi Tawakemono: My Persona 4 OC. Serving as a way to express my knowledge of Forensics but also showing how much life can change, Shi is one of my most interesting characters to write about. Her story has some major twists in it that I look forward to sharing with you all.

Astarte: The namesake of the blog and one of my oldest OCs. Astarte is my demon angel hybrid from Ao no exorcist, born when innocence fell in love with pure evil. She is one of the first characters of mine people will have come across I imagine. Without her, I wouldn't have started writing or created this blog. The fact people like her still amazes me to this day. And she has also evolved from her original conception to the character we see today, including leading to the creation of the following three characters.

Evening's Dawn: Astarte's mother, an original angel character. Known also as the blind angel in my works, Evening's Dawn is innocence personified or she was prior to meeting Astarte's father. Her alias comes from the blindfold she wears, a piece of purple silk ribbon, that serves to keep her blind to the sins of man. Following her death, she is bound to her daughter, possessing her should it be necessary.

Nocte: An ancient entity OC. Nocte and Outcast are remnants from the universe before ours. Nocte is darkness personified, being responsible for evil and death but also the night, stars and dreams. They are actually one of my first Gender neutral ocs, only taking on a gender identity when possessing someone, in this case Astarte.

Outcast: The other ancient entity and origin of all. Also the third being possessing Astarte. Like Nocte, Outcast is a remnant of the universe before ours. However, Outcast signifies creation and life. Together with Nocte, they kept the universe in balance. But, with the creation of humans and the rise of their God, Outcast and Nocte were cast out to the abyss between realms until Astarte's birth. Such a paradoxical creature was the only thing strong enough to host the two of them. Their original name has been forgotten, lost to the ages. So they took on the name Outcast. Like Nocte, they are gender neutral.

Teufel: Last but not least is Teufel or Project Teufel 2.0 to use her full designation. She is a more recent creation, essentially being a modern day Frankenstein's monster. Teufel was created as part of a project to create super soldiers. The amalgamation of Flesh and technology that would obey any command, thanks to a specially designed programme. However, prior to the programme being completed, the lab was destroyed, leaving a cybernetically enhanced Teufel with a incomplete computer program in her brain. Her story is something I am very excited to write about.

Patricia "Patches" Byrne: Bioshock OC. So, I got into Bioshock recently. And, despite every effort to not do so, I created an OC. Dr. Patricia Byrne, nicknamed "Patches" as every outfit she owns has patches sewn into them, was brought to Rapture because of her expertise in Biochemical engineering. Although, she also studied Psychology and Genetic engineering. Her main role was to help in the creation of the Protectors of the gatherers, aka the Big Daddies. However, after some really, shockingly poor decisions on her part, she ended up being arrested and used as a test subject for plasmids, after being ripped apart and sewn back together. This gave her the appearance of a splicer without the insanity. Though she knows it is only a matter of time until that takes effect.

And that's it for now. Please feel free to ask any questions about any of these characters. If you want to read about some of them, you can on my AO3 account here.

#ooc #original characters #Azirina #Astarte #Evening's Dawn #Nocte #Teufel #Outcast #Shi Tawakemono #long post #Patches

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isitgintimeyet · 5 years

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The Ties That Bind

Thanks for all the lovely comments. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thanks again to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta.

AO3

Chapter 6: A First Date

You meet thousands of people, and none of them really touch you. And then you meet one person, and your life is changed forever. - Jamie Randall, Love and Other Drugs

Claire twirled in front of the mirror for the third time. That was the problem with Scotland, four seasons in a day. Although it was a clear evening at the moment, whether it would stay like that was another matter.

It seemed like half of Claire’s small and mostly practical wardrobe lay strewn across the bed as she hesitated between outfit choices. The black pencil skirt and white shirt reminded her too much of a waitress; her go-to little black dress was too dressy for a casual first date. Having finally made her choice, she took a quick selfie in the mirror and forwarded it to Geillis for confirmation.

Geillis’s response was almost instantaneous: “hot momma,” followed by three fire emojis. The black jeans and patterned satin shirt had passed the test.

Geillis quickly sent another text. “Unbutton the shirt a bit.”

Claire ignored it and hunted for some heels in the bottom of her wardrobe.

Another ping, again from Geillis. “I mean it, unbutton a bit. This is potential fling material here. Love ya xx”

Sighing, Claire undid a couple of buttons, letting the black lace of her camisole peep though.

Glancing at the clock, she fastened her high-heeled black sandals. It had been some time since she’d worn anything so high. Whilst Claire herself was not overly tall, Frank had been most particular about her not appearing as tall or even, heaven forbid, taller than him. So her very few pairs of high heels had been relegated to the back of the wardrobe for the duration of their relationship (apart from the odd ‘gentleman’s choice’ bedroom dress-up sessions - they tended to feature quite heavily there). Besides, they weren’t really practical in her day to day life, suitable only for dates and other ‘romantic assignations’. And seeing as this was Claire’s first ‘first date’ for six years, walking in them felt very strange indeed. Although, Claire thought as she executed a final twirl in the mirror, they really did make her legs seem longer.

She collected her black clutch bag and leather jacket, ignored her umbrella and headed for the door.

******

The taxi dropped Claire off at the restaurant ten minutes before the agreed meeting time. Fortunately the evening was still rain-free, so Claire decided to have a quick peek in and, if there was no Jamie, take a ten minute stroll before going in. Somehow it seemed important to her not to be the first one to arrive.

She gazed through the window into the restaurant’s bar area. She immediately saw him sitting at the bar, the broad lines of his back easily recognisable, as were the soft, red curls nestling against the collar of his denim blue shirt.

Claire took a deep breath and gave her reflection in the glass a final inspection before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Through the mirror behind the bar, Jamie had a clear view of the door and kept one eye on it, the other one on his watch as he sipped his whisky. He had arrived early, he knew, but it seemed important that he was there to wait for her as his guest. With ten minutes to spare, he looked up and saw her reflection as she entered the restaurant. Even at this distance, he could see how special she was.

As she approached he turned to face her, smiling. Her dark hair was loose about her face, the wildness somehow tamed slightly into defined curls. From the top of her satin shirt, he caught a glimpse of black lace. The black jeans that she wore accentuated the shape of her legs, and, Jamie was sure even without looking, her arse.

He stood up as she drew closer, ready to greet her.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Claire.”

Jamie leant in to give Claire a small kiss on the cheek, just as Claire extended her right hand, ready to shake his. Quickly, she withdrew her hand, her cheeks reddening as she brushed against his abdomen.

“Shall I see if our table is ready or would ye like a drink at the bar first?” Jamie asked, tactfully ignoring the hand placement issue.

“I don’t mind.” Claire suddenly felt nervous. Her first date since Frank and she’d forgotten how to behave. She felt awkward and her mouth was suddenly very dry. “Actually, could we have a drink here, would that be ok?”

“Aye, that’s fine. We’re a wee bit early anyways. What do ye fancy?”

“Whisky, please, Glenmorangie.” Jamie raised an eyebrow in approval at her choice of drink.

Claire perched herself on a high bar stool next to Jamie as he tried to attract the barman’s attention. She watched him, admiring how his shirt enhanced the blue of his eyes. Eyes she could drown in. His cheeks and chin wore a trace of stubble. She longed to reach out and stroke those tiny bristles. She had forgotten how this felt, this attraction, now a spark in her stomach but ready to ignite with white-hot intensity.

The clink of her whisky glass roused Claire from her reverie. She leant over and added a couple of ice cubes to her drink.

Jamie suppressed a shudder and decided not to comment on her preference, certainly not on a first date.

They engaged in casual chat for a few minutes - the weather (could I be any more English, Claire despaired), the state of Wee Jamie’s health - until they were escorted to their table.

The high-backed semi-circular booth provided an air of intimacy. It also meant that they did not have to sit formally facing each other across the table, so automatically positioned themselves at an angle to each other as they slid into the booth. Close enough to touch… but no, not yet. Jamie watched Claire as she read the menu, biting her bottom lip in indecision as she struggled to make a choice. The waiter hovered expectantly.

“Have ye decided?” Jamie asked.

“Not quite. You go first…” Claire knew how indecisive she was in restaurants. She always preferred to hear everyone else’s choices first and then make her decision.

“I would like the bruschetta con gamberi, followed by the trofiette con agnello, please.” He spoke the Italian phrases with confident pronunciation.

Claire studied his choices. “I’ll have the same, please”

“What wine would ye prefer?”

“I usually drink white - Pinot Grigio.”

“A white would get swamped with the flavours of the lamb, ye ken? How about we try a red, and if ye dinna like it, we can get yer Pinot Grigio?”

Claire nodded as Jamie ran his eyes down the extensive wine list. “A bottle of Pinot Nero Trentino 2015 please. It’s no’ as heavy as some of the reds here.” He explained to Claire as they handed their menus to the waiter.

“So, are you ‘into’ your wines then?”

“Aye, I suppose. I have an uncle in Paris who has a wine export business. I spent a couple o’ summers working wi’ him while I was at university. It gi’es ye a taste for a nice wine.”

“And after uni, did you not fancy working with him in Paris?”

“Nah, I reckon I couldna live anywhere but Scotland. It’s part o’ me… in ma blood. So, why are ye here in Scotland, ye Sassenach?” He teased.

“I do know what that means.” Claire retorted. “I get called ‘bloody sassenach’, and worse, plenty in the Emergency Department on a Saturday night.”

“‘Twas no’ meant as an insult.” Jamie said hurriedly, anxious lest Claire get annoyed or upset. To him it was a term of endearment, the first of many, he hoped, but not one that could scare her off so early with declarations of love and passion. In his mind, and in his contact list, he had been referring to her as his Sassenach since their phone call earlier in the week.

“That’s fine, I know you didn’t invite me here just to insult me!” Claire smiled in reassurance. “To answer your question, I came up to Glasgow for my residency programme after university. Then I sort of, well, stayed…” She tailed off, flustered. She didn’t want to bring Frank into the conversation tonight.

The waiter appeared at the table with the wine, presented label uppermost. He poured a small amount in a glass and passed it to Jamie, who sniffed, then sipped at the wine, letting the liquid roll around his mouth before swallowing. “Aye, that’s grand. Thank ye.” The waiter poured two glasses before departing.

Jamie looked at Claire as he lifted his own glass. “Slainte. Now try that wine… see what ye think.”

Claire sipped tentatively. Surprised, she took a larger mouthful and nodded enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry about before. I dinna mean to ask ye questions ye dinna want tae answer. I willna ask ye to tell all yer secrets.”

“No, that’s ok. I stayed up here when I finished my training because of a relationship.”

“With a Scot?”

“No, an Englishman working at the university. Anyway he moved back to England several months ago and I decided to stay here. I have my job and my friends here and, well, I love the city.”

“Do ye no’ have family in England?”

Claire shook her head, her curls swaying with the motion. “No, I’m an only child. My parents died when I was five, and I was adopted by my only other relative, Uncle Lamb. He died about four years ago, so there’s nothing, or no one, to lure me back to England.”

Jamie reached across the table and lightly stroked her fingers, wrapped around the stem of her wine glass.

“Och, lass.” He said softly.

The arrival of the first course lifted the mood at the table and the conversation between Claire and Jamie flowed as easily as the wine. As they consumed the main course and a second bottle of wine, Claire realised that she could not remember the last time she’d had this much fun on a date. Even during the best times with Frank, there had always been an underlying tension: Another glass of wine, Claire? Is that wise? Wouldn’t the salad be a better choice? Is that appropriate for dinner conversation?

Jamie was entranced. The date was progressing better than he could have hoped. This is what had been missing with Geneva, this natural flow of conversation. He felt relaxed, could be himself. God, he was enjoying it.

Finally admitting defeat, Claire leant back, full of good food and wine. “So, you’ve not told me what you do, if you’re not in the wine business.”

Jamie finished his mouthful of lamb and put his fork down. “Well, I’m Chief Finance Officer for a distillery - Broch Tuarach. D’ ye ken it?”

“Ooh, yes. Never tasted it though. Supposed to be one of the best? But don’t you work here in Glasgow? I thought Broch Tuarach was in the Highlands.”

“Aye it is. No’ far from Inverness. That’s the production side of it. The finance, marketing and the like is based here in the city. I go up tae the distillery every couple of weeks. There’s no place quite like it. One of the oldest in Scotland, ye ken?” He added proudly. “I like tae wander round, imagining what it would have been like when it first started in the late eighteenth century. There’s a collection of ledgers and such up there right from the start. Fascinating! Weel, at least I think it is…”

Jamie tailed off, worried that Claire might think him boring or a geek, to get excited about such things.

Claire only saw the brightness in his eyes, heard the passion in his voice. “It sounds really interesting. You must be quite the expert on the whisky’s history.”

“Aye, I’d love for ye tae see it…” He stopped. Dinna get ahead of yerself, one step at a time. “...Sometime, perhaps.”

Claire looked directly into his eyes. “Yes, I’d like that… I’d like that very much.”

#outlander fanfic #outlander fan fiction #the ties that bind #chapter 6 #Jamie Fraser #claire beauchamp #modern AU

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ofwrittenlegacy · 5 years

Text

Another Year Around the Sun

Inspired by a tumblr post I read. Read this Tony birthday fanfic on AO3.

Another year around the sun, he thought, and another year closer to dentures.

Tony stalled as he padded towards the common room in the penthouse.

“Oh my God, I’m old.” Tony muttered to himself, shaking his head. It was his birthday. May 29th, his 49th birthday. He could feel it in his bones, in each crackle and pop wished him another happy birthday. Tony sighed around the lip of his mug, taking a sip of his Americano. He collapsed on the couch, preparing to spend his birthday in well deserved silence. Steve was upstate with Barnes and Sam, Pepper was in meeting all day, Romanov and Barton fucked off to Bolivia earlier that week. Thor was in one of the nine realms and he...he actually couldn’t account for his Spider-baby.

Just as he lifted his phone to check in on the kid, a noise caught his attention. Faintly…

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Tony looked up. Hanging off the side of Stark Tower, the sixth level window to the penthouse hung Peter Parker, clad in a red and blue onesie Spiderman costume. Tony snorted, setting down his mug and his phone. He walked over to the window and slid open the threshold.

Peter webbed himself inside and landed in a crouch. Tony’s jointed groaned in sympathy reminding him that he was old. I’m getting so close to fucking dentures…

“Why can’t you use a door like a regular person? There��s ample ways to get in here that don’t require scaling the side of my residence, Underoos.”

“What’s the fun of having enhanced abilities if I don’t get to use them?” Peter replied, peeling the mask off of his face. His chestnut locks stood wildly askew all over his head as if it had recently been washed and was air drying beneath the mask.

Tony huffed, amusedly.

“So,” Peter continued, tugging at the arms of his Spiderman suit. Tony watched as he struggled and tugged and finally stripped down to the jeans and tshirt he wore beneath the suit. That...couldn’t possibly be comfortable, Tony decided. “It’s your birthday.”

“Is that a speculation or do you know that for a fact?”

Peter blinked up at him with caramel eyes, the size of moons. “It’s your birthday, Mr. Stark. I’ve had it on my calendar for like...years.”

Tony’s mouth twitched and the corner of his eyes crinkled as he placed a hand on the small of Peter’s back and ushered him to the couch. “I don’t know if you want me to be endeared or a little scared…”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groaned.

Tony gesticulated, silencing Peter’s whines. Peter’s forehead creased and Tony snickered.

“Okay, yeah. It’s my birthday kid. Why’s that got you hanging off the side of my building at…” Tony checked his watch. “10:27 in the morning.”

“Because,” Peter exclaimed, jerked up, spreading his arms wide. “We have to celebrate! I have presents!”

Tony paled. He would never get used to people dedicating a whole day to celebrate his existence, something he didn’t ask for. His mouth set into a hard line and he made a steeple out of his hands. “Pete,” he started. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Beaming with a lopsided grin that made Tony feel warm inside, Peter gave him a dismissive wave. “See, I knew you’d say that. So I didn’t. May did.” Peter dug around in his pocket and tugged out an envelope. He thrusted it towards Tony who hesitantly took it from his hands.

“Peter, I can’t-”

Peter blew out his cheeks. “Mr. Stark,” he sounded exasperated. “Just open it.”

“Alright, alright.” Damn, the kid looked like he was about to go into a temper tantrum if Tony delayed any longer so he tore the corner of the white paper and ripped the side of the envelope off. He slipped out the card.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR. STARK!

Was written on the front in big round letters, the marker stroke thick and heavy handed as he had seen Peter do before. Beneath the words was a scribbled doodle of Iron Man wearing a birthday hat and holding a cake that read “Birthday Boy”.

Tony’s features lit up. “Oh...Pete…”

“You didn’t even open it, Mr. Stark!”

Tony’s mouth formed a little “oh” and he opened the card. A disk fell out. He bent over, grunting as he picked the CD up.

“What is this?”

“I have no clue. May wouldn’t tell me.”

Tony nodded and walked over to the DVD player and placed the CD inside. Before hitting play, he turned his attention back to the card.

Before there was Spiderman, there was just a little boy with a big heart and a favorite superhero. Thank you for all you do for Peter. You have saved the Parker family countless times, before you even knew our names. Keep saving, keep loving and keep inspiring little kids with Avengers pajamas.

Happy 45th,

May Parker.

Tony grinned down at the yellow construction paper and clutched it to his chest. He silently took a seat next to Peter. “FRI, press play.”

The camera was fuzzy at first. The cameraman was shuffling around what seemed to be a living room.

“Pete!” The camera focused and displayed the disastrous room before them. Christmas paper was strewn across the floor, empty boxes piled in the corner. Trash bags were strategically placed around, filled with tape and paper remnants.

A little boy scrambled into the camera’s frame and the camera unsteadily zoomed out. The grainy image cleared the young boy stood there in red and gold Iron Man pajamas with a red blanket tied around his neck like a cape. The boy had a round face, his cheeks full and rosy. He had huge dimples indenting each cheek, and his jewel like eyes took up a large portion of his little face. His crystal clear hazel eyes twinkled with joy, and he squealed. It was apparent only when he smiled really wide that his two front teeth were missing.

“FRIDAY, turn this off please.” Peter begged beside Tony, his eyes going wide with recognition. Tony scowled.

“FRIDAY do not touch this.”

The video played on.

“What’d you get for Christmas, Pete?”

Peter made explosion noises as he flew the doll into the camera. “It’s Iron Man!” He hugged the figurine close. “I’ve wanted one of these for so long! It even makes noise!” Peter pressed the chest of the doll.

“I am Iron Man.” The doll said.

Tony cringed.

“Do you love Iron Man?”

“I love Iron Man with my whole entire heart. He is the best superhero ever! He keeps everyone safe, and he can fly and he even lives right here! I want to be like Iron Man when I grow up. I want to save people and fight crime and make e-explosions!” The cameraman chuckled at how awfully Peter butchered “explosions”.

“Well, merry Christmas, Pete.”

“Thanks Uncle Ben.” Peter hugged the figurine to his chest. “I love Iron Man. I hope Iron Man has good Christmas presents. He deserves extra presents from Santa. Do you think he was on the nice list this year?”

“I think so,” Uncle Ben agreed.

“Good. I love him.” Peter jutted his hand out and made a swooshing sound. “He’s taking off to save the city.” Peter swung his hand wildly, sending his Iron Man up and around in all different directions. “Hey, Uncle Ben…” Peter toddled over to the camera, his little button nose impossibly close to the lense.

“Mm?”

“Do you think I can be like Mr. Tony Stark one day?”

“You can be whatever you want to be, Peter.”

It grew quiet, until,

“Peter! Ben! Dinner’s ready!” May. The camera grew shaky and the last thing that was seen was Peter sprinting off, his red cape billowing behind him.

Then the video cut out.

There was silence for a while. Tony and Peter sat there and breathed it in. When Tony turned to the younger male, Peter was frozen where he sat. A blush had crept up his face so aggressively, Tony pondered if he was blushing down to his toes. Boy Wonder swallowed hard and Tony grew concerned he might pass out.

“Iron Man doesn’t wear a cape.”

Peter blinked as if coming out of a daze. “I want to curl up and die.”

Awe continued to transform Tony’s face, a joy he had never experienced before burning bright within him. “Hey Pete,” he called. The boy turned to regard him with a grimace. “You are much better than Iron Man. Little Peter would be proud of you.”

Tony didn’t think he could get much redder but somehow he did. Peter hung his hand. “T-Thanks, Mr. Stark. I didn’t know May put that in there. I-- She-- It’s not--...that’s so embarrassing.”

Tony wordlessly tugged the boy into a hug. He didn’t trust himself to speak as his throat seized up with emotion. His eyes burned with fresh tears and he didn’t let Peter go until he got ahold of the wild fluctuation of feelings.

“You don’t know how much that video means to me, Pete.” Tony finally said, pulling away.

Peter turned his innocent gaze on him and Tony thought he might just combust. He still looked like that little boy. More lanky, and a little more freckled but his eyes still glinted with purity. He was just a kid. He was just Tony’s kid.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tony ruffled his hair. Peter laughed.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”

“Thanks kiddo.”

And it was on Tony’s 45th birthday that he realized maybe Iron Man did make a difference. Maybe...just maybe he was making a difference.

#tony stark #iron man #peter parker #spiderman #irondad #spiderson #tony stark birthday #mjwrites #old tin can #sticky boy

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chamberofnectar · 5 years

Text

A void-damned tragedy

Summary

Ticker's not one to provide problems, but solutions. A list embedded of lives that can be saved from menial labor, from organ repossession, from being brain-shelved on some forsaken Corpus vessel. But she can only solve so many problems - not even her own. [ Includes spoilers for 'OLD MATE' rank with Solaris United, and Ticker's Codex Fragments ]

Mature | No Warnings

Content tags: Ticker (Warframe), Modified body, Repaying Debt, Life Debt, Straw purchase, Charity donation, Spoilers, Unrequited love

[ Read on Ao3 ] or continue beneath the read more!

It is the clamor of the elevator lift that pulls her from a daydreaming stupor.

An averted gaze is brought back from the dredge of fragmented thoughts, cast to the mechanical strumming before her – beyond the balcony that overlooks the menial coolant filtration maintenance pool. Ticker’s cerebral casing follows the rising mechanical sighs as the lift crawls back into the oppressing chill above, beyond the transparent ceiling that stares beyond the surface filtration system looming precariously over Fortuna’s operations. Far beyond the neon lights; the cold shiver echoes of hammer falls and gut-shaking thumps.

Leaning forth, a sigh crawls through the audio processors in her chest, elbows resting against her knees as wondering lulls through tired thoughts. Things beyond the physical… her grip goes lax as she stares at the distant exposed Venusian stone.

And snaps back into attention as an object slips against her thigh –

Her datapad!

Fumbling with a grunt, Ticker finds hold of the device once more; holding it half tilted against the shin of her boot. “Damn,” slips. She’s careful to secure it back onto her lap, shuffling to even out the grid hatch lying over her thighs.

Despite contemplating the attention seeking dot in the corner of the datapad’s message system, she huddles her gloved plan over it, hiding it from her sight as she looks back to the elevator lift. Where Eudico’s talking to a small crowd of strangers.

“Close to busy hours, ain’t it,” her thoughts drift… and her grip affirms.

Another plip sings from the device.

One leg over the other, Ticker drops herself from the table sat beside the balcony railing with an exhale, sight turning back to the datapad as she wanders around the table, to overlook the glows of distant activity beyond where she resides. Enclosed warehouse windows bloom in the eve of the morning hours, glinting through the cavernous open center. Strung electronics sway in the shutter of the enigmatic filtration system – overlooking lamps beaming down from overhead. She looks beyond it, far past the tubing that lines the walls, further than around the corner of the hard labor complex.

Beneath her index finger, the pulsating tone of awaiting messages from neighboring outposts, from outposts reaching far beyond the frequent shuttle transports and the tunnel burrows that connect the remote locations. Holding her vision away from the overworked device in her hands, she takes in the requests from the bond-assistant networks. There’s always more that need help… it takes another moment before she browses through the resources being requested, taking herself back to location in front of her personal space.

Her rig makes the ribbed gate shudder as she leans, index and thumb flipping through the pleas for parcel assistances. Thousands of credits, hundred of thousands of credits, a laundry list of resources that are to be used to pay off the weight of the loans. Items found in the vallis above, resources that take weeks to be taxied into the inner system, a seeking for replacements of ‘stolen goods’ that make her reserved features flinch.

Stolen goods to be repaid by whatever poor courier was responsible – not uncommon.

As she scrolls through the wave of collected requests, minor chatter notes in the corner of the datapad. From the east end, from the gravefield outpost to the north; echoing sympathetic apologies. Another accident happened, a truck split and ruined the fresh supply from the vallis storage cores. In diligence her cadence comes through her vocabulary. That things happen out of any of their control, as soon as those items become available, she’ll send the parcel out through the network tunnels for quick repayment.

‘Thank you so much,’ the person on the other end of the channel messages back.

And only a short stint of silence fills the space before another message blips – confirming Ticker had received the bond request through the network. That the previous request that have been fulfilled are on their way. “I’ve seen to it that the items are securely in transport, stardust,” she chirps from her post, taking a glance up as she hears the lift hum to life. Clientele.

Before looking away, she checks on a previous case that still lies open. An overseer in another outpost. Three dependents. An industrial accident, busted a case of argon crystals in a spaceport – threatened with brain shelving.

They personally sent their bond to Ticker the other day cycle…

“Got good people hoping to see another sunrise, Stardust,” she sighs, datapad tapping against the metal surface. The bond requests already transferred to her internal recollection. “Are you here for donations, love; or bond forgiveness? Either are good news.”

Ahead of her, another day of delegating whom is to live another day – until the blasted corpus ask for more money as ‘compensation’ for whichever incident preceded the time-ticking bounties on people’s lives. She rackets through the trove of those unfortunate; a courier strapped for financial security that they made an incidental mistake, the ex-mercantile recently paying off a loan after they paid off their father’s removal from being brain shelved. The new start that got grinded up by machinery and shoved back into their place of work and forced to pay for their new enhancements. The mother with three dependents selling off her organs to keep herself afloat – just another million to defer the bonds passed onto her by her late parents. The absentee that wandered too far off site and got reprimanded – another stack of payments to their own pillar of paternal loans. It’s the third time they’ve shown up on her list…

A guard threatened with brain-shelving after they claim being unwell, not at their post in corpus punctuality. Ones tied to the undercurrent of bond repayment – they weren’t slippery enough and got caught by the tax-men.

With ease Ticker rattles off the bonds left on her list short and sweet – Their position, dependents, relationships and all associated personality markers. The chime of total bodily repossession or the read out of 60 days hard labor are spoken with the same relative ease – an emotional detachment that relies on her casual demeanor. Getting emotionally invested never lead her to pleasant things… as she gives a casual glance back to her storage unit. A disembodied glove left in the open.

It goes dismissed by the front of her consciousness; turning back to the chroma shuffling through their own manifest of resources. Allocating and matching those they can afford to pay off, stumbling through their words. Flustered, Ticker can assume as she waits. They barely have enough to pay of two additional bonds.

“We can only do what we can, darlin’,” Ticker’s cerebral casing tilts in response, transposed sight looking over the short stature frame. A payment of polymers, rubedo, and alloy plates, a barely short change of credits to fulfill another two’s bonds. But its just enough for the mother, paying off the new-start in another outpost. “Life’s a ride; you can only help so much.” Beneath the shutter vent, a weary smile.

“Thanks, ma’am,” the warframe fumbles, passing off the container details to their cephalon. “Just wish I could do more, the items will be on the dock in an hour!” They chirp, flexible features standing at attention in an adoring attentive display.

Ticker laughs, “don’t worry, Stardust, I’m here all day. The transports not going out for another three to the specific outpost, you got time.”

Beyond the warframe’s sight, Ticker watches the countdown for the overseer clicks over to one hour left. For such an occasion? It’s hard for her to avoid biting her lip, lingering against hope. Thankful her cerebral casing’s display doesn’t correspond with the distress.

They’re counting on her to find someone to pay off the argon crystal damage; It’s rare for someone to have that much argon sitting around, nonetheless enough to survive the transport. Even when she first got the message… the outlook was bleak.

“Take care, stardust,” she waves off the chroma as they bound around the corner, their hand held against their strange flexing scalp as their voice chirps.

Ticker might never get used to how… distinctly different they are to her, to anyone she may have once known; and her hand curls into a fist. Different, but not unfamiliar – digitally, she checks the two bonds off from needing funds. Once her contact on the tunnel docks confirms the shipment, then she’ll let the retrieving persons know they have nothing to worry about.

But until then, it’s onto the next potential client, giving hope to more unfortunates.

Slowly the list begins to chisel away, talking thousands of credits she’ll never see; resources she’ll never touch but corresponds to different drop off points for the future shipments. Can’t be too predictable beneath the Corpus stranglehold. “Chek, chek,” beams across her coms unit, “tube glinty gots the goods.”

“Thank you, Ruub,” Ticker recalls back, double crossing the bonds paid off by the earlier chroma.

“Gotsa note, interested?”

“Later, Ruub,” Ticker answers, turning her attention back to the stranger flicking through their resources. In the corner of her vision, she finally dismisses the delayed debt by the overseer – four hours pass the due. Far too late to do anything about it now; she sighs. Not everyone can be saved.

“Are your considerations in order?” She notions over to the cloaked figure hovering at the table.

Their legs, MOA’d up, pad about anxiously, gloved hands tapping against the datapad in either double check or triples. Ticker can’t be certain as they keep it tilted out of either of her views, the clumsy tech held in tight uncertainty. Under her observation, as Ticker makes impatient idle pace, they throw their hood back over the mess of their hair. “Ye-yeah,” they call over, huddling the datapad against their chest.

Novice in the trade, she assumes.

“I’ve got a sum of polymer, plastids… uh, Gallium, and Neurodes. I want to donate them to the fund.”

Suspicion queries. “I work in inventory transportation, Stardust. You have a location and credits?”

The stranger fumbles through a pack buried beneath their cloak, MOA legs pacing to and fro as she digs through the contents for something. “I assure you, I’m not a plant,” she fumbles with a mingling smile on her flushed squared features, voice trembling. “I’ve – got a shipment for you from a tenno, at least all options lead me to that conclusion. Left me this note about a drop a few days ago with this inventory.” And she hustles a folded fabric to Ticker – it’s been forever since she had to hold some form of writing.

Sure enough, written in plain was a line of coordinates from a tenno-tone frequency. A list of resources rattles off beneath an albeit simple commlink combination; just having writing in some form would be enough to put the girl in some trouble. Ticker glances over to her; the code, one she dials privately, checks out.

“How’d you get a hold of this information?” A simple question; but its never exactly simple.

The woman fumbles with her pack, throwing their hood back over the flutter of her hacked hair – an attempt to hide their identity, the Fortuna debt forgiver assumes.

It reminds her so much of herself… trying to escape a previous life.

“A friend of mine; a researcher from the west needed to repay his prosthetics a while a back. He went missing a few months back and – a frame delivered a parcel to me and that was tucked inside it.” Hands fiddling with their covered hood – anxious.

Hidden away from the stranger’s view, Ticker’s free to let her confusion manifest. She’s seen so many lives pass through the debt forgiveness network, she can’t willingly say she can’t really remember… the details are not uncommon, except for being a researcher. Not many higher rank Corpus seek through the network to pay off loans – most are well connected enough to solve that through their work.

But Ticker can tell her silence makes the stranger uncomfortable.

“What’s the name, stardust? Of the researcher friend of yours.” With nowhere to tuck the precarious writing, she tucks it into the crease of her body casing to dispose of later. The coordinates – already given off to another of the ventkids to investigate at the drop off time.

“Kedan; Kedan Laundras was his name,” the woman sighs, “he’s apparently doing well.” And a faint smile on her stubbled face.

With the same ease as delegating the hopeful fortunes of others, Ticker traces through the archive of payments she penned into her memory banks. Over those with too much debt, the ones just running short of repayments, the few that now languish on a brain shelf somewhere on a Corpus vessel. But he’s on her list; Mechanic turned biomechanic researcher, from the southern cap of Venus. Reliable and hard-working.

“Checks out,” Ticker notions with her palm, a confirmation the stranger is legit, “his case went through me – oof!” winds through her as the slightly taller woman pulls her into a hug. She stands stunned, awkward before the other woman pulls herself away – apologizing.

“Sorry, I’m – just glad there’s people like you out here. He, Kedan, managed to find his way off this place, and – I’ve always wondered who was able to pay off my dad’s debts when I was small. The supplies – they come from whomever Kedan’s with now.”

The smile the stranger gives off… reminds Ticker too much of the look she gives the man as she watches him work the coolant filtration system – the man that doesn’t remember their love.

“I was looking for – for how my father’s debt got repaid. And Kedan’s. And everyone else’s that have come and gone. I’m just – they’ve told me how grateful they are for people like you looking out for them.” She digs through her pack, pulling out the datapad once more. “I want to pay forward to someone else’s bond – I don’t have much to my name, but I have credits.” Handing the personal device over to Ticker, she can confirm the amount – 14 thousand credits.

Compared to the total she tended to today? Its nothing, but for someone working under the corpus?

It’s a lot.

“You’re certain you can afford the donation, stardust?”

“Yeah,” the woman smiles. “it’s fine.”

Her expression… the half-tilted smile brimmed by exhausted stubble, the dreary drifting sigh trying to find focus on Ticker’s cerebral casing for familiarity. Her raiments; they call to a higher working position, office worker perhaps. From the southern laboratories; given her friend’s location prior and position.

And its hard to vanish, and it has taken its toll on the woman.

“Give whatever you can, lovely. But don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she sighs, handing back the datapad – the 14 thousand credits exchanged. Always so poignant, deliberate… “Courier? Take good care of yourself out there.”

“Yeah,” she smiles back, creasing the striped tattoos across her cheeks. “It’s hell out there but pays well.”

It’s the last Ticker sees of her; passing around the back of the next person offering up credits and resources anew. With ease Ticker moves over to handling what they are willing to give, rattling off those still on her list. Lives like merchandise… shaken from her thoughts.

Another cycle of debt fulfillment, networking the ventkids to assure the drops are where they should be, that everything is paid in full from the transactional fees to covering their tracks. Silent transport always has its price, and its too easy to find one willing to hijack resources for high rollers. Working amongst the scavengers taught her to be resourceful, sharp; the taxmen, how to keep a low profile to provide for those on the repayment network. A single slip up won’t expose her – that she’s sure.

The comslinks, masked. The archive logs? Smeared. Scattering them makes it hard to track, the ventkids reliable in understanding the network above and below. Without them; Ticker would be hard pressed to keep it running – relying on credit transfers.

And it’s the most dangerous measure.

But, she’s good at it.

After handing off a nutrient canister to Smokefinger, she takes herself back to her post at the edge of the filtration pool. Never giving a secondary glance to a man standing on the other side of the pool with a diagnostic tool in hand. It hammers against the port all the same as the others; the ring of metal on metal that embeds itself into Fortuna’s background noise. The inconsistent hums by those she passes by onto the short lift – holding her daily nutrient allowance close at her side.

The gate of her personal storage unit clatters as she yanks it up, snapping the locks into place above her.

Spare log books are seamlessly plucked from the floor, stacked one over the other as a boot shoves over an old busted diagnostics tool. Organized chaos, that’s what it is as she steps up one crate and lands down upon another much larger. Huffing one leg to hike up against the container, forcing it out of the way, the shutters of her rib-mounted head case falls open; giving both of her sights a clear view of the opposing wall.

In one hand, the nutrient canister - an ugly little grey thing with only a tube line connection on the top, a secure valve keeping the contents inside. Never had she investigated the contents, flipping the seal off her retrieval port tucked away in the side of the modifications done to graph tech onto flesh and bone. A hiss squeals through the container as the connection between her body and the package turns tight – the seal broken with a simple pull to the valve’s locking pin and holding it up above her shoulder… and all she has to do is stare at the bleak, empty, dreaded wall.

One hand still empty – and she picks up the lone glove that has been sitting on another crate.

Ticker holds it against her lap, in front of her lower sight-line as a sigh rolls through her systems, through the muscles she bought back, the fingers that only now are hers.

Fingers intertwining with the disembodied hand… too well aware they won’t hold back.

They never will.

The mimicry of the handhold distracts her from the wall, turning to look half at the enclosure of all that remains of her former body, and the commotion of Fortuna’s productions. Shaking out the last of the nutrient canister, she holds the palm close against herself, staring off into that middling distance between sight and thought.

Another shaking of the canister – emptied.

With a drifting exhale, Ticker allows the palm to lie against her thigh as she disconnects the nutrient feed from her entry port and the reusable container. A daily deposit, to keep their enhancements from breaking down, from their joints from ceasing up and making it hard to work. Beneath sight, connected to the electronic body that houses her as a prisoner, it confirms the transfusion of material into blood and piping.

Disinterested, she tosses the canister away to pick up later.

Lying back against the wall of the open storage unit, she holds the back of the gloved palm against her stomach-region forehead, obscuring her physical sight to only electronics – perspective that closes itself off to inner records, allocating and recounting the resources and credits. That nothing has been misplaced between client and the drop off points; that manifests are accurate between her and the tunnel docks that moves the resources from Fortuna to the other outposts.

People counting on her to get it right.

Glove interlace with glove; fingers winding around unfeeling fingers that lie limp against her grip as another hand holds the enclosed forearm against the rim of her head containment. Out she stares to the hustle of activity within Fortuna. The slam of metal on metal, the steam exhaust that whistles in the distance and the mechanical shutters from the transport vessel below them.

Always active, always busy – she lifts herself from the crate, careful to lie the sentimental wrist down where a brush of dust marks its domain.

Picking up her personal datapad, she scrolls through the remaining debts seeking assistance. New ‘merchandise’ all the time. It makes her whince before the shutter of her head casing drops back down, closing her away from the view of Fortuna’s neon lights as she wanders over to the edge of the balcony.

Over on the other side of the filtration pool, Ticker sees him working hard. Conversing among himself with others working the same region.

His body posture looks…. enthusiastic.

Ticker adverts herself from contemplation, from lost love as she involves herself with the datapad held firmly against her rig. Picking through the debts once more, casual as she notices in the corner a notification that more people are logged into the underground system, more seeking assistance.

And she’s all to glad to receive their requests, looking over them as she wanders back to her usual post.

Slamming the gate of the storage area down, she secures the sentimental object out of her sight, out of mind as she resumes the dual duty of inventory cataloger, and of debt deferrer. There are people depending on her, and there are people willing to help out those in need – without a way to find them.

“Hey there, Stardust,” she welcomes another donor, “time’s running out for those on my books. What’ve you got?”

#VueWritten #Warframe #fanfiction #Ticker #solaris united #I will fight anyone for Ticker to be happy #she deserves it

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bazypitchandsimonsnow · 6 years

Text

Part of Your World

Chapter 4: poor unfortunate simon

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 2432

Chapter 4/11 (All chapters)

Summary: Simon makes a life changing decision.

Read on AO3

AN: Well I finished my last exam yesterday, so in celebration, here's the next chapter early! Yay! Tbh I also felt the last chapter was too short/not enough happened so and I wanted to give y'all something new sooner. And from now on I'll be posting every Monday and Thursday! Double yay! Hope you like this :) PS: Creds to @carryonmylovelies for the incredible chapter title. She's a lot smarter than me, obviously.

———————————————-

“Simon? You in here?”

Penny stuck her head through the door, and her heart sank. It was worse than she thought. When she saw David come home alone fuming, she expected something bad. But this was just beyond terrible. Everything Simon had collected over the years, all the things he loved, were destroyed. The merman himself lay at the centre of the wreckage like the eye of the hurricane, face in his arms. Simon’s soft crying was the only sound in the room.

“Oh, Simon,” she sighed as she sat next to him. “I’m so sorry.”

He whimpered, burying his face further into the ground. Penny placed a hand on his upper back and rubbed soothing circles

“Why would he do this?” Simon whispered. “ I-I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was just stuff. Does he really hate humans that much?”

“I guess so.” She picked up a piece of debris next to her, half the prince statue’s face. She traced a finger over the sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and piercing eyes. “Destroyed your new one too, huh?”

His head snapped up and he snatched it from her. Penny backed away defensively. Simon looked at it mournfully, tracing a finger over the features. It was the last reminder he had of Baz. And his father had destroyed it. Out of spite.

“I hate him, Pen,” he muttered. “I really hate him.”

The ground shook slightly under Simon, his magic responding to his anger like usual. Penny was startled. This was the first time Simon had actually said he disliked David. Not an indistinct grunt or groan, but an actual statement against him.

“Yeah, I get it, Si. He did a really horrible thing. You can stay at my place for time being.”

Simon didn’t respond. He looked at the bedrock intensely. The thoughts were tumbling around his head like a hurricane. Sorting and choosing and rationalizing, all in what really was a few seconds. They filtered down to one conclusion. One stupid, reckless, amazing conclusion.

“I want to go to the surface.”

Penelope sighed. “Simon, that’s very risky. I know you want to replace this stuff, but what if a human spots us or-”

“No no no.” He shook his head rapidly. “I want to go there...to stay...”

She kept staring at him confused. He saw the revelation slowly hit her, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

“Oh my stars!” she yelled, jolting up off the rock and floating over Simon. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?!”

“Yes. Transformation spells are a thing, it’s possible”

Penelope rubbed her forehead, trying to smooth out her increasing number of worry lines. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am! Penny, I want to leave, so badly. And I...I want to see, him again.”

“Really, Si?!” She put her hands on her hips. “You want to become human and possibly leave your home forever for some pretty boy prince?!

Simon swam up to her level, throwing his arms skywards. “It’s not just that! I’ve never liked it down here, you know that. I’m a useless merman who can barely throw a spell. A-And Father is the worst. I can’t bear living for his stupid imaginary war anymore! I just-I just need to go there, to get away, and...to get to know Baz better.” His head and arms fell down. “I can’t get him out of my head, Pen. I want- I need to know if there’s a chance.”

Penny swam back and forth, running hands through her hair. “Simon this is totally insane! You’ll be giving up your tail, your magic, your life, just to go be with some human prince you’ve seen once. I mean, how can you not see the problems here?! I know your father’s an arse but that doesn’t mean running away forever! Why can’t you just stay here? Where you’ll be safe and...” Penny finally turned to look at Simon. Her heart sank at his wide eyes, at the way his slightly open mouth was curved in a desperate frown. “And...totally miserable.” She hung her head and groaned. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

Simon gasped, then promptly tackle hugged her, hurling them through the water. “Thank you Penny! Thank you thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, Si. I need to find and do a spell first.”

“You will, I know it. You’re the bestest spell caster ever!”

Penelope rolled her eyes with a smile, shoving him her. “Yeah yeah, no need to butter me up, I’m already helping you.”

Simon tugged her hand. “C’mon c’mon let’s go!”

Penny sighed. She always ended up doing the craziest things with Simon. But this would definitely top the list.

———————————————-

Penelope’s family spell collection was insane. There were hundreds of tablets with hundreds of different spells. That’s where all her family members were now, wandering around the ocean, finding and creating new incantations like the majority of merfolk so. Which gave the younger merfolk free reign of the spell room.

Simon and Penny sat with many pieces of stones surrounding them. Simon tried not to let his eyes glaze over but it was getting very difficult. He scanned over the words looking for a clue, any clue. But soon, his prayers were answered. He stopped at one spell. It was just what he wanted, created for a lovestruck mermaid to be with a human. Perfect.

“Pen! I found it!”

He raced over to her, shoving the tablet in her face. “Jeez Simon, let me actually read it.”

She looked the writing over, chewing on her lip nervously. Simon watched her intently as his heart beat so fast he feared it would burst. “So? Will it work?”

Penelope sighed and nodded slowly. “Yes. But...”

Simon’s face fell. “But what?”

“But it only lasts three days. For it to become permanent, he has to fall in love with you and prove it by kissing you before sunset on the third day. That’s a lot to do in so little time. I’d be surprised if this spell ever worked.” Simon made a sound far too close to a whine. She sighed. Why must he be so pathetic and adorable at the same time?

“I mean,” she said, scratching her chin. “I could push it to five days with some work. Give you more time. But you’d still need to get him to fall for you, and kiss you. That I can’t change. And...extending the days means you’ll have to give a sacrifice.”

“What, like for a power source?”

“Yes. It’s the only way to make it last longer. It needs to be an offering or show of faith. To do something this big you need to be willing to give up something big of your own.”

Simon had vague memories of his Father’s lessons. (He only ever half paid attention). Yeah, that seemed right. Spells that were strong, reality altering magic sometimes needed an extra push. And without aid from an outside power source, like David’s trident, you would have to relinquish a part of yourself. It was a quid pro quo.

“So what do I need to do?” Simon asked, determination in his blue eyes. “Cut off some hair? A finger? Let some blood? Give my soul? I hope it’s not that. I like my soul.”

Penelope rolled her eyes and shook her head, swishing her purple curls. “No, it’s not ever something so physical, Simon. Did you actually listen during your lessons?” Simon frowned, and Penny immediately felt terrible. He didn’t need to be put down any more today, or any more period. Which only reinforced why she had to do this. So she petted his hair, and felt relieved when she saw him smile.

“Well,” she said, “my Mum said a good sacrifice is usually a sense or ability. Like sight or hearing, or a skill you’re proficient at, like spellwork. The willingness to give up stuff that big is strong enough to enhance a spell. I’m not sure what you could do. I think-”

“What about my voice?”

Penny’s eyes went wide. She stared at Simon, looking at him blankly for a long time, before realising he wasn’t kidding. “What?!”

“What if I give up my voice? As the sacrifice?”

“Simon, that’s- I don’t know...”

He shrugged and looked down sheepishly. “I mean, I’m not good with words anyway. And of course I want to see and hear him. But he doesn’t need to hear me speak. I can use my other ways to talk, I guess. And-And it’s not like I’m good enough at spellwork for the sacrifice of it to be enough.”

“Si-”

“C’mon Pen, nothing else will work. We both know that.”

She rubbed her lips together, racking her brain for an alternative. But he was right. Taking anything else would be too much of a hindrance or not powerful enough. Penny sighed, then nodded. “Alright. Help me set up the ingredients.”

———————————————-

Penny tossed the entire glass bottle into David’s cauldron. The smoke within brewed and churned. Another beaker added and it turned green. Simon watched with absolute fascination. Only his father had ever done something like this and it was only once.

Penny held the sea cow tongue, the final ingredient, in her hand, just over the pot. But she was unmoving. Simon furrowed his brow.

“What’re you waiting for? Throw it in!”

“Simon,” Penny said. Her tone was sympathetic, that of a worried true friend. “Before I finish this, are you really sure? Do you remember how transformation spells work? Once it’s cast, I can’t turn you back, nothing can. You’ll be stuck unless the time runs out. You’ll...” She closed her eyes, biting back her more morose emotions. “You’ll lose everything you know, Si, possibly forever. So, are you are really, really sure?”

He took a minute, truly letting Penny’s question roll around in his head. Yes, he did know how transformation spells worked. He knew he’d be stuck as a human for at least five days, and yes, possibly forever if the spell was completed. He could permanently lose his magic and his tail. All for the world he’s wanted to learn more about since he was 11. As well as for a new person he couldn’t get out of his head.

There was only one answer.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Penny tightened her mouth, nodded, and finally, she tossed the last ingredient into the stone pot. It exploded in a mushroom cloud of bright greens and blues and purples. It roared like thunder, swirling like a storm. Simon backed up. He couldn’t help but be frightened.

“You gotta say something, Simon,” Penny yelled over the noise.

“Like what?”

“Anything! Just needs to be continuous.”

One thing popped into Simon’s brain. It was a simple vocalisation constantly stuck in his subconscious. It always sounded like it was sung by a woman. Simon sometimes wondered if it was his mother. And even Simon, with his harpy screech of a voice, could copy it.

He sang.

A smoking green hand reached out from the pot. It was bony looking with long claws, twisting towards him. Simon had to stop himself from running, remembering he wanted this. Getting away from David, going to land, meeting Baz, it was all worth the fear. It had to be.

The hand reached down his throat. It was like he’d inhaled a whirlpool, pulling and sucking within his windpipe. He couldn’t think or breathe or do anything but wait. And then he felt it, when the magic took hold. In one second he was singing the remembered song, and in the next he simply no longer could. His own voice was yanked from him, a piece of himself literally ripped away like it was nothing. As if it was plucking a mere hair from his head. The hand left his throat and held his voice out front of him. It was now a tiny golden ball of light, held between two smokey green fingers. He meant to say “Neptune’s beard”.

But no words came out.

The hand turned fiery orange, charged with the power of Simon’s sacrifice. It pulled back into the smoke soup, leaving the tiny sun floating aimlessly. Penny gently took the the orb and shoved it into her shell necklace. A spell only needed an act of sacrifice. So she could save the voice itself. What could she do with it? Who knew. As far as she knew, no one had ever gotten a sacrificed returned to them. Maybe it couldn’t ever be given back, even if the spell timed out. Simon could be voiceless forever no matter what. But she’d save it, just in case, for her best friend.

The smoke roared louder, becoming nearly deafening. Bright light washed out everything else in the room. The room vanished around Simon. Everything happened too fast. An orange bubble snapped around his whole body. The sensation and texture of it reminded him a jellyfish. The pain came next. It felt like a something sharp slicing right through the middle of his tail, splitting the limb in two. It was beyond agonizing. Simon screamed and screamed, but only released more silence.

And just like that, it was all gone. The room was back to normal, with no zero multi-coloured light or thunder. Simon flapped his arms and kicked his feet. His feet, attached to his long human legs. He kicked them frantically, trying to keep himself afloat with their relatively weak power. And...

He couldn’t breathe.

Water filled his lungs instead of passing through them like usual. He clawed at his throat, his eyes bugging out at his friend. He tried to speak with only a look. “Penny I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe!” Penelope gasped and rushed towards him.

Simon's vision started to fill with black spots, his limbs familiar and new becoming heavy. He could barely feel Penny grab him and swim them up out of a hole at the top of her coral house. She swam faster than she ever had before. The water rushed around them as they rocketed towards the light of land above. And soon they burst through the ocean surface.

Simon took a deep gasping breath and came back to life. He floated in the water, new legs treading weakly, still panting heavily. His head slumped onto Penny. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze, saying “thank you” with the simple gesture.

Penny patted his hand. “You’re welcome, Simon,” she said, her own breathing laboured. “Let’s get you to your prince.”

Simon nodded. Then he promptly passed out.

———————————————-

AN: Simon is human and voiceless! What will happen next? Well, I know what will happen, I wrote it. But all of you will find out next Monday :D

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #penelope bunce #fluff #angst #little mermaid #little mermaid au #part of your world #mysnowbazfic

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lenfaz · 7 years

Text

MissMatched.com, ch. 3 (3/9)

In a world where every dating site swears by their algorithms and databases to find the most accurate match with a high percentage of compatibility, a new site is giving them all a run for their money. Missmatched.com promises no data or algorithm, just a few people that *know* how to find your best match based on their instincts and their vibes.

Emma Swan is hired to investigate if there’s a fraud involved with the site’s claim of not using any type of statistics. That path leads her right into the hands of Missmatched.com founder, Killian Jones, who promises her that he’ll prove he’s worth his salt by finding Emma her perfect match without any data or algorithms involved.

A new story by me, dedicated from the bottom of my heart to the wonderful @businesscasualprincess All the thanks in the world to my beta @sambethe

Ao3 FF.net Tumblr: 1 2

Will & Belle

It was a week before Emma found herself back in the MissMatched offices. The last time, she had left the place with a few files she’d randomly picked from Killian’s file cabinet under his amused stare.

“What?” she’d asked half annoyed when she noticed him standing there with his smug smirk and cocked eyebrow.

“You’re really a distrustful person, aren’t you Miss Swan?”

“I’m thorough,” she’d bit back, perhaps with a little more passion than necessary.

Killian hadn’t seemed fazed by her reaction, instead he just said, “I’ll add tough lass to your description then.” He’d tipped his forehead with his fingers in salute as he’d walked her out of his office.

“I’ll be seeing you soon?” he’d asked as if he had no issue whatsoever with her coming back and snooping some more in his affairs.

“I’ll get in contact with your assistant and let you know which couple I want to interview.”

“Please, have a lovely day, Miss Swan. Looking forward to see you again.”

She spent the week going through his files, reading thorough description after thorough description, trying to make sense of margin notes and what sometimes seemed to be detailed nonsensical ramblings that only made sense as the person was paired up with a match.

There seemed to be no logic, no algorithm, not even a standard set of questions being asked of each client. It almost seemed like magic.

Which could only mean one thing - they were clearly not showing her everything. Emma refused to believe that just a few, seemingly random, questions and a sixth sense were enough to bring people together.

She took one look at the information now spread throughout her living room, strewn between her take-out boxes and empty glasses, and realized she needed to go back to the place where the action was and start talking to some people.

That was how she found herself back at their offices, being greeted warmly by Ariel on her way in.

“Good Morning, Miss Swan. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Please, call me Emma,” she replied, trying in vain to stop her eyes from wandering around looking for Killian.

“He’ll be here shortly.” Ariel bit her lip to hide the hint of a smile. “They are finishing setting up the conference room for you.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t be need -” Emma started only to be interrupted by someone speaking behind her.

“Oh, but it would. We wouldn’t want you to believe you’re not wanted here, after all.”

She turned around to find a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed man with curly brown hair giving her a warm, bright smile.

“Liam Jones, at your service,” he said with a soft nod of his head. “I’m deeply sorry about not being able to meet you the other day. I hope my little brother wasn’t a terrible burden on you.”

“No he wasn’t -” Emma started but was again cut off by yet another person coming into the room.

“Younger brother, LJ is the little brother remember?” Killian gave his brother an exasperated look before his eyes turned to her. There was something in his expression that made Emma’s pulse quicken. “And I assure you, I was nothing but a perfect gentleman to Miss Swan here. I even offered her our services for free, as a way to show her we are the real thing.”

“LJ is our baby brother, Killian,” Liam teased before he looked back at Emma. “I hope Miss Swan finds our services pleasing then.”

Emma marveled at how the brothers could carry on two different lines of teasing between serious business talk all without batting an eyelash, and while keeping an identical smirk on their faces.

And it seemed they were now waiting for her to say something, as they both turned and looked expectantly at her. Emma let her eyes travel from one to the other for a moment, trying to assess them for any hints of mistrust or deceit. She found none, only two fairly attractive men looking back at her with half-smirks and cocked eyebrows. OK, maybe they were laying the charm on a bit thick, but Emma had no problem dealing with that. It wasn’t the first time - and it wouldn’t be the last - one of her subjects tried to distract her from her job. It never worked.

She schooled her features into a teasing smirk of her own, tilting her head and biting her lower lip. She squared her shoulders to enhance her chest and mustered up her best honey-trap voice.

“How about you show me a sample of what you say you’re so good at?”

Liam Jones widened his smile, seeming to call her bluff for exactly what it was, and gave another small nod of his head. Killian, on the other hand, seemed to need a moment to gather himself. His eyes darkened, carrying a hint of something clearly beyond professional admiration in them, and he swallowed hard. But the moment he had, he sauntered over her, crowding into her space. He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching with the threat of a grin.

“I’m willing to give you much more than a sample, Swan.” His grin broke through and he licked at his bottom lip. “I’m sure you’d enjoy the full ride.” He tilted his head to the side, raising one eyebrow in a clear challenge, one she knew she should refuse and suddenly realized she was not going to. “Question is, are you up for it?”

She resisted the urge to put some distance between them by curling her hand around his shoulder and giving a small shove. He was good, really good. “Sure, why not?” she said after a beat, giving a small shrug of her shoulder. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Killian gaped a moment and then shook his head, biting back the response that was clearly on the tip of his tongue. He took a step back and scratched behind his ear, looking away to avoid the scrutiny of his amused older brother. “Right, how about we continue this in our conference room?”

“I’m sure that’s a wise idea,” Emma replied as she followed them down the hall.

“We have everything set up and I’m sure Will and Belle are already waiting there. Would you like to interview them together or separately?”

Will Scarlet and Belle French were listed as one of MissMatched’s success stories, and were their poster couple, considering they both now worked for the agency. Emma knew that as far as honesty went, she probably wouldn't get much from them, but they were a good place to start and were available on short notice. Besides, they were one of the oldest pairs Liam had brought together and she was interested in understanding how it all worked out.

“I’d like to have a few moments with them alone first, then I’d like to talk to all of you.”

“Of course.” Liam smiled and directed her to one of the conference table’s chairs while Killian handed her a coffee mug and a piece of paper. “While you wait, please do me the courtesy of filling out this form so I can start your file.”

Emma looked down at the sheet in front of her. It only had a few basic questions: name, gender, height, and personal contact address.

“This is all?” she blurted out.

“I don’t need anything else for now.”

“What about hobbies, preferences, ideals, politics, you know… everything?”

“I told you, Miss Swan, we don’t work like that. I’ll figure those out from my conversations with you, eventually.” Killian winked at her and Emma heard that voice in the back of her head telling her this was probably not very professional, but his expression soon morphed into a pleasant smile as Belle entered the room.

“We'll leave the two of you alone, then,” Liam said as he and Killian made their exit.

/-/

Belle took a seat next to Emma, hands folded in her lap and ready to answer any questions. She was a petite, sweet woman with huge eyes and a melodic voice. She explained how she had run into Liam one day and he had offered his services. There was a hint of sadness beneath her words as she spoke, but Emma didn’t push. Belle went on about how when she first met Will she was shocked by the match, and five minutes into the date she almost bolted out the door. But she decided to trust Liam and his judgment, reminding herself how well she knew them. After the first cup of tea, she and Will eased into it, and by the third date she knew that, crazy as it was, she and Will were meant to be.

Towards the end of Belle’s story, Will Scarlet sauntered into the room and took a seat opposite Emma, offering her a sarcastic smile. Emma had to hide her grin at the obviousness of his act that was written across his face. And the moment she asked about Belle, Will’s eyes softened and his entire face lit up. His fingers toyed with the edge of a file as he mentioned he knew she was the one from the very first date, from the moment she walked into the place, but he could tell she was wary, that she’d been hurt in the past. So, he followed her lead, let her set the pace. He looked directly at Emma directly as he told her that before Belle, nothing really quite made sense and with her by his side everything did.

From there, they both mentioned how much they loved working together, helping others find what they found in one other. They saw it as a way of helping Liam and Killian do their magic.

There was not one ounce of lie in their words, it made Emma want to hit something. Nothing about this felt staged, and yet she refused to believe these two had been paired up simply on a hunch.

It. Was. Not. Possible.

She was lost in her thoughts when Liam and Killian walked into the room, sporting matching smiles. Emma wanted to groan at the sight of their smug faces.

“Well?” Liam asked eagerly, sitting in front of her while Killian leaned at the edge of the table, his eyes on her.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Emma tried to control the frustration in her voice. “They don't make any sense and yet -”

“I know.” Killian’s tone was almost soothing and Emma turned to look at him. He was giving Emma a soft, understanding smile that shouldn’t bring her any comfort whatsoever and yet she could feel the tension ease from her shoulders. “I felt the same way when Liam first suggested it. I laughed, thought he’d gone mad. But as you can see, he was right.”

“As usual,” Liam quipped and Killian rolled his eyes.

They were almost endearing. She couldn’t deny it and any other investigator would have fallen for their charm, letting things slide. Emma Swan, though, wasn’t any investigator. She turned to Liam and tilted her head.

“Why Belle French?”

“Beg your pardon?” Liam’s brow wrinkled and he seemed confused by her question.

“Out of all the people who might ask for your services, why help her? In fact, she mentioned you volunteered to help her and not the other way around.”

Liam met her stare dead on. “It seems from your tone that you think I shouldn't have helped her.”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair. “Please. Are you honestly trying to tell me that matching up Robert Gold’s ex and then hiring her for your office wasn’t a direct attack on the man’s business and reputation?”

Liam’s eyes widened for a second and Emma wanted to give herself a congratulatory pat on the back. She’d nailed it. But the feeling didn’t last long, as Liam started to chuckle and shook his head. “Oh, that. It was not about Gold, Miss Swan. Belle and I go way back, actually. From before she even met Robert.”

That was interesting. Emma leaned her elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand as she stared at him. She had the pleasure of watching a brief blush warm his face before he pulled himself together.

“Not like that, lass. We went to school together.” He cleared his throat and reached to scratch behind his ear. “I ran into her after she and Gold had parted ways and I wanted to help her. She’s one of the few people in this world who is actually kind to everyone. Everyone. I felt she deserved a bit of happiness for herself.”

His earnestness was clear on his face and Emma had a hard time trying to look at this from a strictly professional point of view. “How did you end up choosing Will?” she asked, her curiosity getting the best of her. “That wasn’t a clear match… at all. They are like oil and water. It makes no sense.”

Liam shrugged. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Her disbelief must have been all over her face because he sighed and leaned back into his chair, taking a moment to exchange a look with Killian.

“Let me try to explain. It doesn’t have to make sense to the brain - it has to make sense to the heart.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Yes, Will and Belle make no sense on the surface. She’s as straight as an arrow and he had one or two encounters with the law when he was young. She’s calm and collected where he’s impulsive and reckless. And yet, the one thing he has never been is a liar. He’s as honest as they come and that is the one thing Belle craved after spending years being lied to.” He paused again and smiled at her. “As for all the rest, they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. They simply complement each other.”

He tilted his head as he let her ponder his words. “A relationship is not about finding perfect compatibility with someone who shares the same interests as you. It’s about finding someone who fills the nooks of your life and makes you whole.”

There was such passion in his speech that Emma was almost breathless by the time he finished. He was clearly a firm believer in what he did.

“That, in a nutshell, is what we do in here: we find the perfect shape for each of them.” His eyes glinted and his tone turned into a playful thing as he stood up. “And we have a lot of fun doing it.”

He winked at her before he excused himself from the room, leaving her to face an amused Killian Jones. He eyed her as he glanced over the form she’d completed earlier.

It was clear these two were no amateurs on matters of the heart, and yet there were no rings on either of their fingers. Emma had done thorough enough research and nothing had come up. Nothing too scandalous at least. It was clear that the brothers Jones were not inept at conquering what they wanted, and their combination of blue eyes, foreign accent, and light scruff clearly could do some serious damage at the bar. And yet, there was something about Liam Jones that seemed to deny that same thing. Something in his eyes that had hinted at a man who had seen it all - and maybe done a few things - and was now on the other side waiting for something to happen.

Unlike his younger brother, whose eyes still carried the look of someone who hadn’t found what he was looking for.

“What are you thinking about, Swan?” Killian’s voice brought her out of her reverie and Emma locked her eyes with his, studying him in detail. He didn’t flinch at her inquisitive stare.

“It seems odd that you claim to be so good at finding the perfect match for your clients, and yet you and your brother are both single.”.

“How do you know that?”

She gave him a smug grin. “I’m good at my job, Mr. Jones.”

“Please, call me Killian.” He pushed himself from the edge of the table where he’d been leaning and made his way towards her. “If you’re going to be snooping around here, we should get better acquainted with one another.” He leaned in, his eyes leveling with hers, his smoldering stare focused on her every feature. “And for the record, my brother knows perfectly well who his perfect match is.”

“Really?” She rested her head in her hand and drummed her fingers against her cheek. “What was the problem then? She didn’t fall for dashing looks and lilting accents?”

Killian laughed, shaking his head to the side to acknowledge the blow and taking the seat closest to her - much too close if Emma were want to admit anything, which she didn’t.

“When you run a dating site and your perfect match is the best divorce lawyer in town with a nickname like The Evil Queen, let’s just say it’s not that easy.”

She hadn’t seen that one coming. “Regina Mills?”

“You know her?”

“I have done some PI work for a few of her cases.” Emma tried to find the perfect description for Regina and she came up at a loss. “She’s - something.”

“Aye.” Killian sighed, and Emma could see that underneath all his bravado, laid someone that cared deeply for his brother’s happiness.

“I can see why it’s not easy,” she offered in a poor attempt at camaraderie.

Killian gave her a soft smile, nodding his head. “He hasn’t given up yet.”

“Regina doesn’t seem the type to fall for a pretty set of eyes.”

She realized her error the moment she saw his expression shift from concerned brother to flirtatious charmer.

“What about you, Swan? Do you fall for a pretty set of eyes?” He rolled the words on his tongue, the tip of it licking his lower lip in a move meant to throw her off base.

But two could play that game. She leaned in and waited for him to mirror her, giving him a sultry look from beneath her eyelashes.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His whispered reply almost took her breath away. “Perhaps I would.”

#cs ff #cs au ff #lenfaz fics #captain swan #missmatched.com #hook x emma #online dating #and liam #liam is here

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