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the-fiction-witch · 3 years

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Attention

TV SHOW THE QUEENS GAMBIT COUPLE: BENNY X READER RATING: SMUTTY

Ever since I was a little girl, the world has looked at me strangely. I noticed it as a child but couldn't really put a name to it until I was much older, even if I didn't know the reason why early on. But I knew that I was being looked at, judged, noticed for myself, and for things I couldn't change. So I decided… if the world is watching, I best give them a show.

I pulled up in the usual spot in the parking lot I noticed alot of unusual cars parked up here, then I remembered oh yeah the college is hosting that chess thing this weekend, I climbed off my bike unzipping my jacket as it was far too hot for it pulling off my helmet and fixing my hair checking my lipstick in the mirror touching it up a little, as I did I caught something. Something I was used to feeling eyes on me. I glanced away from my mirror a moment and I noticed a little pastel blue beetle rusted and beaten up it looked like it barely ran, and a man stood there he was tall, a mess of scruffy blonde hair, a youthful face, a speckle of facial hair, a long black leather trench coat, a black silk shirt with an intricate pattern in the fabric that shined silver in the sunlight, a pair of tight blue jeans with a harsh cowboy belt with a knife holster on his hip to boot. A pair of brown dress shoes, an old fraying buffel bag over his shoulder and a brown textured cowboy hat in his hand. He was looking at me but I was used to it, long since learnt to ignore the eyes of horny boys. I hadn't seen him before or the car. He must have been some chess dude here for the thing. I made sure to catch his eyes so he knew I saw him and he nodded to me settling his hat on his head I smirked a little and blew him a kiss before grabbing my keys and my bag holding my helmet giving him a wink and turning around going to walk to my dorm, I could feel his eyes on my arse as I walked away.

I decided to go why no I suppose, I had a shower and got into my little black dress grabbing my thick white belt sitting it in my waist I grabbed the highest black heels I owned and slipped them on with my stockings I did my hair and my blood red lipstick before heading out my room, I walked across campus feeling the eyes of everyone boys checking me out, girls glaring me down, teachers not know what to think I grabbed my sunglasses slipping them on to hide my expression I walked into the auditorium noticing the lack of people it was almost empty a few competitors getting ready, I spotted him the cowboy and at the exact moment he spotted me. A wicked grin growing across his lips, I smirked and slipped my glasses in my bag walking down making sure my heels blacked loudly in the wooden floor echoing in the empty room going all the way down to the row one back from the front sitting myself in the seat just across from where he stood close enough we could see each other and hear each other with only a few steps on the wooden floor and a row of chairs between us. I Crossed a leg over the other and got my pen and paper to make notes he slightly rolled his eyes and stepped closer, closing the gap leaning his arms on the top of the row of chairs between us that evil grin now wide

"Are you flirting with me princess?" He asked

"You tell me?" I shrug

"Yeah? Well I've had my fair share of groopie girls, could say I can read you pretty little things"

"Who are you again?"

"Ooohh.. your mean. What are you writing?"

"Report for class"

"A report? You're a journalism major?"

"Yeah? Why?"

"Wouldn't think something like you'd be eager for a job hidden behind a desk"

"You don't know the kinda reports I do"

"No, I don't. Eager to find out though." He smirked, "you busy after this?"

"Tremendously busy"

"Even for me?"

"And who are you?"

"Funny" he joked "Benny watts, and that's double T in your report. This shouldn't be long after how about I help you fill out your little report?"

"No thanks. I've got plenty to write about"

"Humm I bet you do, princess" he smirked checking my cleavage out as he stood there "don't I get something for good luck?"

"I thought this wouldn't take long?"

"It won't but maybe even faster if I had some extra luck?"

"Well if you think it's gonna be that easy, you don't need lucky from me Mr Watts"

"Checkmate, princess" he smirked "but can't I have some anyway? I had such good luck after your kissy in the car park"

"If it won't take too long, I'll save it. Maybe you can have a little luck while I fill out my report"

"Humm I won't be long princess, Don't get too comfortable" he winked before heading to his game with some other man, I watched him making notes where I needed to on what was going on he was first to finish getting up and smirking at me "you coming?' he smirked

I rolled my eyes and put my notes away getting up and heading out with him, into the warm sun people going back and forth to their various classes

"I did say don't get comfortable, I've plaid him before he gets himself wound up very easy to untangle when you open with an attack" he explained as we walked out

"And you're telling me this because?" I asked leaning against the back of the first bench outside the building

"I thought you were reporting?"

"On the tournament. Not you"

"Really? I'm much more interesting"

"So you keep saying, you've yet to do anything interesting though"

"You are mean" he laughs faking offence "I like it"

"And I care what you like because?"

"Because I am far more interesting than some backwater chess tournament princess" he smirked, "come on there's gotta be something you wanna ask me?"

"What's with the knife?"

"Hu?"

"The knife. What's with it? You're a chess player? What do you sometimes need to grab a chair leg and widdle yourself a new queen? Or are you just really shit at peeling oranges so felt the need to invest?"

"For protection."

"From what? Chess groupies?"

"Sometimes" he chuckled

"Still not interesting"

"Well you asked me one, I get to ask you one"

"Fine" I rolled my eyes

"You like attention, Don't you?"

I shrug "I get it, either way, might as well have fun with it"

"Relax princess," he smirked kissing my cheek "I do to" he winked "if you still wanna fill out that report, I'm here all weekend 401"

"I think I've got enough for now Mr Watts," I smirked but grabbing the fabric of his silky shirt pulling his lips to my own, he tasted like coke, like mahogany, like dust and antique shops he smelt like that too but an overwhelming aftershave I couldn't name, his hair poked my skin as I moved my lips against his, he didn't move frozen a moment before he kissed back eagerly and confidently like he hadn't been kissed in a while and was a little overexcited about it

I rested both my hands on his chest feeling the softness of his shirt and the strength of his chest below my hands his hands wrapped around me his arms around my waist and his hands on the small of my back his thumb gently stroking my dress he gently moaned into the kiss pulling me closer to him so there was barely an inch between us our kisses getting deeper and quicker, his hand slipped down and grabbed my butt making him moan into the kiss a little, I slipped my tongue gently across his bottom lip and he happily opened his mouth more his tongue toying with my own battling me as if I was one of his chess matches, the hand that was on my butt moved down slightly just under my butt to grasp my thigh pulling on it sharply so I wrapped my leg around him, his hand instantly returning to my butt taking a grip of me this time rather than just resting his hand there I could feel with his belt pressing against me he was hard for me which only made me smirk more I could feel the burn of many eyes of people watching us and judging everything about us and what they could see us doing I knew the top of my stockings was visible from where he had moved my leg but I didn't care, I pulled back and watched the smile creep across his face

"You sure you don't wanna come back with me princess?"

"I'm sure, I'll get everything else I need" I smirked grabbing his hat taking it off his head and sitting it on my own "at tomorrow's matches" I smirked kissing his cheek and walking away down the path making sure to shake my ass at him as I went "see you around cowboy"

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laurelsofhighever · 3 years

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Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

CW: sleep paralysis in the beginning

Something hunted her. Avarice, perhaps, or Glory. The light in her hand drew them ever closer, blinding them to the glint of the dragonbone Talon she kept unsheathed by her side, the blade that longed to sate itself on their spirit flesh. For one, the rose was a trophy, for the other, the essence of all she hoped to gain. The forest around her hung close, crooked branches girdled by beards of hoary lichen, roots trying to trip her, the light above blocked by the canopy so that only the bobbing green glow of wisps remained to guide her along the path. They drifted towards her and darted away again like shoals of curious fish, and as ever, the demons gained. She would have to turn soon, to stand and fight though exhaustion snapped at her heels. And something else nagged at her too, a weightlessness, a disconnect between her actions and the world around her as if chains dragged at her limbs.

A dream, then. In realising it, she slipped into sunlight as the forest dissolved around her, opening her eyes to rich furnishings and sheets of gold brocade overlaid with soft pelts to keep out the cold, the warm pull of an arm thrown over her stomach. Alistair lay already alert beside her, the details of his face blurred by the haze of first waking but no less dear because of it. As her body rolled and turned into him, he rose above her to bring her close, untangling his arm from the bedclothes to embrace her.

“Bad dreams?” he asked, in a voice that didn’t quite reach her sleep-fogged ears.

She felt no desire to reply, and instead slid her hand into the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down to her mouth. His touch stirred the banked embers in her chest, his weight melding them together, one body, one lick of heat through questing limbs –

But he had no scent. There was no scratch of stubble against her cheek.

Her consciousness erupted into the prone form of her slumbering body, but got no further. She commanded it to move. Her flesh responded like stone, and panic rose like water to freeze her lungs. Avarice might be leaning over her, its claws poised above her to rend life from her bones and claim her skin as its own, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t even feel her sword in her hand. A finger, an eyelid – anything that might bring her back to herself. She fought. She screamed inside her own head, pushing back at the darkness and at the illusion it fed her of her hands moving, the iron of her will useless against the dead weight of her limbs.

It must have been only moments before the paralysis recoiled and broke without warning, but it felt longer. It left her gasping in the dim, moonlit confines of an unfamiliar room, with an unfamiliar shape lumped among the pillows next to her. Despite her sudden start, the figure breathed in deep, even lungfuls of air, and as her eyes grew used to the dark, Rosslyn made out Alistair’s bearded face poking from the covers. His eyes roved under their lids, his lips parted slightly, while his hair – though longer than it had appeared in her dream – stuck out at all the odd angles she remembered. The certainty that she could not have imagined him so calmed the race of her heart and brought her back to where she was, the knotted string that had led her back into his life.

“No, Ambassador, I didn’t say that…”

His mumbles trailed off as he shifted under the covers, and she bit down on a smile. They had been in Highever when she first found out he talked in his sleep. She had teased him about it, and all the salacious things he might have uttered without the filter of his conscious mind to stop him, but even as her hand reached out to smooth his hair away from his face, the sweetness of the memories turned bitter. They had shared so little time together without the world getting in the way, brief weeks after only a year of knowing each other, and since then, she had lived two years in an endless Void, without anything to bar the sound of her own breath from her ears. He, meanwhile, had grown into the grace of his kingship without her. She had known he would, but it didn’t stop the whisperings of the snide voice at the back of her mind that told her he no longer needed her. What if everything, including his image, were just another dream?

She withdrew her hand without touching him.

Carefully, so Alistair wouldn’t notice, she shimmied out from under the covers and set her feet into the thick silk pile of the rug that guarded the bed like a moat. She counted her fingers, pressing her thumb to the tip of each one in turn, and then along the scar on her wrist that she had received from an accident in the training arena when she was still a beginner. The movements had become habit by now, but experience had taught her habit itself was dangerous, a way for the mind to skip over inconsistencies in favour of familiarity, and so to ground herself she closed her fist around Talon’s blue leather scabbard. Slowly, making sure to feel the difference between cool metal wire and rough drakeskin, she half-drew the blade and winced at the scrape of the dragonbone as it came free.

Here lay the test; she breathed deep relief when her reflection showed her eyes, a slice of the tapestry behind her, and nothing else. It did not warp into any monstrosity, or move while she sat still, and with a roll of her shoulders she eased the sword back into its rest. Not that it stopped her hands from shaking. With a last long glance over her shoulder, she rose and padded across the expanse of gilded carpet, with Talon held tight in her left hand so the buckles wouldn’t jingle.

No expense had been spared in the appointments of the Emperor’s bedchamber. The high ceiling had been painted blue and dusted with silver stars that glinted in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. The largest of them mapped out the constellations visible in the night sky, though as she gazed upwards, Rosslyn noted that they had been arranged according to aesthetics, rather than accuracy to the true heavens her mother had taught her to read as a child. With a rueful twitch of her lips, she turned away and skirted the suite of chaises and spindle-legged sofas that clustered around the fire, their fine silk threads a heady texture under the trail of her fingers.

She found the opulence garish, from the sculpted marble halla framing the hearth to the tapestries on the wall that showed scenes of nobles hunting or riding into battle on horses with faces that seemed almost human, and she imagined the expression Alistair might have let slip when he first opened the door. Only the drift of woodsmoke from the fire brought her any familiarity, the faint, whining hiss of its heart filling the silence as she explored. A bookcase stood in the corner of the room at the edge of the fire’s shaky glow, but close enough to spark against the gold-leafed titles on the spines. Still unsettled, she tilted her head to read them, mouthing their names to herself before she pulled out a likely tome concerning natural science and let the pages fall open on a discussion of dragon anatomy. She forced herself to see the shape of the words as well as their meaning, the first sentence on a page and then the last, and then the first again to make sure it hadn’t changed.

“Rosslyn?”

She dropped the book and turned, Talon already ringing out of the scabbard as she sank into a defensive crouch at the unexpected voice. Blinking groggily, Alistair sat up in the bed, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down. His eyes shifted from her face to the weapon in her hand and the battle-ready stance she was too slow to hide.

“What are you doing over there?” he asked as she turned towards the window and tried to calm the race of her pulse. She heard him kick the covers away, the grumbled command to the glowstone, and the pad of his bare feet across the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Even though she heard him coming, she flinched when he touched her arm.

He edged closer. “Bad dreams?”

She clenched her jaw against the chill of déjà vu down her spine. “Something like that.”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

A sigh tumbled from her lips as she ducked her head, as she leaned into the hand sliding into the small of her back and fought against the part of her that wanted to make light of what he must have seen. And yet, hadn’t she been trying for months to find him again? His lack at her side had been a physical ache beyond even the scars the Fade had left on her; to shut him out now when he was reaching out seemed too much like madness, like being bested by the fear she had pushed back for so long.

“When I was in the Fade, it was difficult sometimes to tell what was real,” she admitted, drawing her hands around herself. “When I had to sleep I’d wander through the dreams of others, and when I woke up I could never really be sure that I really was awake or if it was just some trap set by a demon. It’s been… hard to adjust back.” She kept her gaze on the carpet, but then she didn’t need to look to feel the cautious sympathy radiating from every line in Alistair’s body.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I…” The heat of his palm was a distraction, a reminder of all the times she had opened her eyes on his image and wondered whether the illusion might be worth succumbing to it. She had been alone too long, and left too many pieces of herself behind with the corpse of the Nightmare. But he was too clever, reading her silence and the fear behind it as if the words were scrawled across her face, and he moved close so that his bulk and his scent might fold her away from the world, cupping her jaw to lay a kiss at her temple.

“What will help?” he asked.

Rosslyn let herself wrap around him; her body acted on its own initiative and buried into his shoulder as her mind drifted back to the bad episodes of the first few days, when Merrill had led her through reality and shown her all the ways to rely on her senses again.

“Details,” she said, content to lose herself in the rhythm his fingers made against the back of her neck. “Things to ground me, that my mind can’t make up.”

“Such as?”

“Words on a page, smells…” She allowed herself a smirk. “That damned beard.”

“More baseless attacks against facial hair?” He tutted, shaking his head and deliberately mussing her hair with the accused beard in the process. “You’re still as cruel as ever, dear lady.”

Her heart fluttered. “I’m still ‘dear lady’?”

“Always.”

When she could stand to lean away, she looked up at him, gazing at her with the same oak-bronze eyes she remembered, the same flecks of gold, the calm and the rapture and the certainty that had steadied her soul from the beginning. Unable to bear the weight of his expression, she turned her focus to the slight bow-curve of his mouth, and the growth of hair that accentuated the strong line of his jaw. It was several shades darker than that on the rest of his head, though as she gently raked her fingers through it, strands of copper and gold caught in the glowstone’s light. His eyes slipped closed at the touch and she smirked wider.

“You like that,” she murmured.

He hummed. “I never thought it would feel so nice.”

If they had been together, they would have discovered such sensitivity long ago.

“Rosslyn?”

She bolstered her crumbling smile. “I just thought of a use for these bristles of yours.”

“Mm?”

Instead of answering, she closed her fingers and drew him down with the lightest pressure until they met in a soft brush of lips. “That’s a much easier way of getting you to kiss me.”

“Easier than just being in the same room as me?” he teased. “Easier than being brave and beautiful and everything I’ve ever wanted?”

She let go. His smile was earnest but she couldn’t look at it, blinding and stealing her breath as if she were stepping out into the sun on a winter’s day. And still, his sigh cleaved her like a butcher’s knife as his hand skimmed the length of her arm to where Talon still rested in a white-knuckled fist.

“I have guards outside,” he told her. “You’re safe. Whatever hunted you before, I won’t let it get you here.”

She remembered another night, after an attempt on her life, when he had sworn himself to her defence. “So Orlais has run out of assassins, then?” asked lightly.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured, raising her knuckles to his lips. “Or – we could read one of the books, if…”

“If I don’t think this is real? You don’t need to worry about that, I’m convinced.”

The tension knitted tight through his shoulders unspooled. “I’m glad.”

“You don’t have to stay up on my account.” A smile ghosted across her mouth, brief and unconvincing. “This is hardly my first night without sleep, and from what I overheard earlier, you have negotiations to attend in the morning.”

“And rob you of the company? Perish the thought. Besides,” he added, bending past her to pick up the book she had been skimming, “Une étude de draconides du sud sounds fascinating.”

“It’s rather dry, actually.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then maybe it’ll send us back to sleep faster. Come on, those chaises look comfortable, even if they’re gaudier than any furniture has a right to be.”

Defeated, Rosslyn sighed and let herself be tugged along, unable to entirely fend off the infectious grin sent her way, or the squeeze in her chest as she sat and Alistair knelt before her on the floor to wrap a heavy blanket around her shoulders.

“Will you read to me?” she asked.

His smile softened. “Of course. Now budge up.”

Negotiating the chaise took more effort than the bed. Despite being wide enough for the voluminous panniers favoured by Orlesian fashion, the springy, overstuffed cushions had not been designed to accommodate even one person lying down, much less two who had become unused to coordinating their limbs. After a lot of awkward folding and a brief interlude where she made him sit up again to take one half of the blanket, Rosslyn settled on her side with her back against the chaise and her cheek resting on Alistair’s shoulder in order to see the pages as he read them. Talon, still within reach, had been propped against the armrest.

“Now, let’s see, where shall we start…”

Heaving a contented sigh as he flicked through the pages, she snuggled closer and wrapped her free arm more fully around his waist. The movement pushed up the loose hem of his nightshirt, and without thinking she followed the feel of warm skin and slipped her hand beneath the fabric, pleased with the small hum elicited by the movement. After a moment, however, she paused, frowning. Instead of the smooth expanse of muscle she had once known almost as well as her own body, her fingertips tracked along a line of hard, raised tissue that curved across the point of Alistair’s hip.

“What…”

“Rosslyn?”

She levered herself upright and lifted the fabric to get a better look at the scar. “I don’t remember this.” Three long, uneven stripes stood out pale against the richer tone of his skin, faded enough that the initial blow must have been healed by magic, but still livid pink beneath where the new flesh didn’t quite meld with the old.

“Oh, that. It’s nothing, really.” He pulled the shirt down again to cover it, and dragged her hand to his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It looks like it hurt,” she pressed.

He smiled, too wide. “Barely felt it, actually. This looks like a promising page –”

“What happened?”

“Just leave it alone!”

Stunned, she flinched away to better look at him, at the immediate regret in his eyes and the wariness that still lurked behind it.

“Rosslyn –”

“It happened at Ostagar, didn’t it?” she said, and felt her stomach lurch as he sat up and hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

“It… It was while they were still clearing the rubble. There was still hope, but not much, and every rock they lifted where they didn’t find you…” He bit his lip. “It all got too much in the end, so I took a party out to hunt down the demons that escaped the rift’s collapse. One got a lucky swipe.”

All because of her. She shut her eyes and dropped her forehead to his shoulder to banish the image of him, wounded and grieving and hating her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured “You’re the one who was always telling me not to drop my guard.”

“If I had been there…”

“No. Don’t do that. I’ve spent two years wondering what might have been.” Arms wrapped around her waist, fingers under her jaw coaxing her to look at him. “You’re here, now, and everything’s going to be alright.”

Still unsure, she shook her head. “I thought this would all be so easy. I thought I could just… walk back into my life like none of it happened. But everything’s so different.” Just because she had been stuck in time, she had assumed the same of everything else, that she might return to the moment she first struck the Nightmare and still have her place as the Falcon without politics or resentment to cloud her triumph. The worst of it, the part she could barely admit even to herself, was that everything from her return to Harrowhill to the painted stars above her might not be real at all, and yet she had wearied so much that not even the guilt of surrender could make her care. Perhaps the real Alistair had died along with her at Ostagar, the only thing left of him this illusion, a phantom set of hands around her waist the closest she would ever get to him again.

The pressure of those hands tightened before she could move away, drawn into his lap instead with the blanket forgotten around her knees.

“Not everything is different,” he said. “Not the important things. You’re still my wife.”

Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Unless…” A pause. “Rosslyn, when this is over – when you’ve done what you have to for Flemeth and these trade talks have been hammered out – you will come back with me, won’t you? Ferelden still needs its queen.” He swallowed. “And even if it didn’t, there’s not a moment that’s gone by that I haven’t needed you. It’s been awful, I’ve missed you so much.”

Something sharp constricted in her chest as the firelight caught in his eyes, on the tears he rapidly tried to blink away. “I didn’t know if you’d want me like before,” she confessed.

“Of course I do.” For the second time, the book tumbled to the floor, this time displaced from his lap so he could turn and take her face between both of his hands. “I love you. I never stopped.”

“I’ve caused you so much pain –”

“It’s alright,” he repeated, again, stroking her face with his fingers as he leaned forwards and pressed his brow to hers. “You came back to me. It’s alright.”

Soothed by the patterns he was drawing across the back of her neck, she shifted until her legs pressed on either side of his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m here. Rosslyn, I…”

His hands had wandered again, palms ghosting down her back and over her thighs, pulling her closer while his knees came up behind her to take more of her weight, to tip her forward onto his chest. She cupped his face and kissed him before he could gather himself enough to speak, and then followed the line of his jaw with lighter brushes of her lips to the pulse point in his neck, her concentration only broken when he found the hem of her borrowed shirt and slinked into a tighter embrace against her skin.

His teeth rasped against her shoulder, a chuckle low in his throat. “We’re supposed to be reading, dear lady.”

“You’re the one who started this,” she murmured back, as her fingers inched beneath his collar.

“You’re the one encouraging me,” he retorted. “Maker, I can’t get you close enough – tell me you don’t want to stop.”

“It’s not that…” A worry tugged at the small corner of her mind not yet consumed by the sensation of being touched, growing in presence until it could not be ignored. “I don’t know if I’m – if we’re still, uh, protected.”

“Ah.” To her relief, he didn’t push her away, and instead leaned back against the chaise with his arms around her shoulders. “And you don’t have any of that tea with you?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting to need it.”

For an instant, the shadow of thwarted expectation hung in the air, mingling with her worry about the cost of her hesitation, until with the breath of a low, rumbled laugh, Alistair sent the tension blowing away like errant cobwebs on a breeze.

“I’m sure we’ll dig some up from somewhere eventually,” he allowed, helping her adjust so she lay adjacent rather than astride his lap. “Besides, after two years, I can’t say it would have been my best performance anyway.”

She stretched up, careful not to jab a knee into where it wouldn’t be appreciated, and pecked him on the cheek before tucking herself back against his side. “The performance isn’t what I care about.”

“I love you. Have I said that yet?”

“I could stand to hear it again.”

Their fingers laced, and for a while only the fire made conversation.

“It occurs to me,” he offered eventually, with a sly wiggle of his eyebrows, “there are other things we could do. If you wanted. We could find out why that bed is so ridiculously big.”

“We could,” she replied, careful. “But… I think I want this over first. I’m still bound, and I want to feel like myself when I call you my husband again.”

Another sigh heaved through his body, shuddered with uncertainty. “‘Husband’. I’ve missed hearing that. I’ve missed –” He scrubbed at his eyes. “You know, we never got our honeymoon. We said we’d go to Eastwatch when the war was over, but we never made it.”

“We were going to take picnics to the riverbank.”

They’d had it pictured so clearly before Ostagar, a shining beacon for which to strive, when their responsibilities might fall away just for a little while and allow them the peace that had always at the last eluded them. Her family’s estate, couched in a slow meander of the River Rangett with the sweeping glades and pastures of Marl-land beyond, had seemed the perfect remedy to the demands claimed of them by war.

“I left Teagan in charge in Denerim,” Alistair mused. “There’ll have to be a progress to show you off to the people now that you’re back, but I’m sure we can persuade the guard to lose us on the Imperial Highway – what are you laughing at?”

She drew his knuckles to her lips. “You. Talking like a politician. Plotting. You’ve grown.”

“I hope that’s not a comment on the number of fine cheeses I’ve been sampling of late,” he huffed, shifting beneath her.

She recognised the deflection for what it was but let it go, realising the dark turn of her thoughts must have shown in her voice, the knowledge that so much of the person he had become was a stranger to her. And yet, as he reached down to retrieve the now sadly crumpled Une étude des draconides from where it had fallen, the way their bodies fit together and the logs cracking in the fire brought back all the promise she had felt in those few weeks by his side as they waited out her recovery from the Battle of Highever, the winter nights long and the frozen wind turned aside by the thick walls of her childhood home. He had read to her then, too, taking her away from the pain of her healing wounds to places woven by his voice alone, with his heartbeat under her ear and his fingers idle in her hair.

“Is the book alright?” she asked.

“A bit creased,” he answered. “But intact.”

“Good. Tell me about dragons.”

He read from the book until his voice turned hoarse, the winding prattle of academic language somewhat beyond his grasp of conversational Orlesian, but he tried keep the flow of words in cadence to at least get the general meaning. When he finally laid it aside and pinched his hands over his eyes to refocus his vision, the first rime of daylight could just be seen over the distant trees outside, a faint lilac stain against the ink of night swallowing the stars. Rosslyn didn’t stir even when he touched her shoulder to check her realness, when he gently carded the jet strands of her hair back from the wet patch of drool slowly seeping into his shirt. She had always slept heavily, like a true soldier, deep to dream and grumpy to rise, while he often started at phantom noises or spent hours trying to calm the whirl of his thoughts long enough to let him rest; more than once, he had used the slow, even rhythm of her breath to follow her into slumber.

He had so much to tell her. Without her to share it, his life had turned into one long road of nothing but duty stretching to the horizon, but now the details flooded back into his mind, full of colour. The two mares Fergus had given her as a wedding gift were stabled below as his own personal mounts, and Cuno waited back in Denerim, a pampered sire of many litters who would no doubt prove unbearably smug about being right that his mistress had survived.

The news could wait until they had more time, however, when they no longer had to hide her presence from Celene. For now, he had no wish to move her, but the angle of the chaise was beginning to hurt his back and they would both be in far more comfort on the bed.

“Rosslyn? Love, we need to get up, just for a bit.”

A wordless mumble was the only reply, tilting his mouth in a smile as he gave up and hooked one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. Had she been awake, she would have complained about being carried when she had two perfectly good legs of her own, but as Alistair stood the movement only turned her further into his chest and her hands closed around the folds in his shirt. He tried not to think about how light she had become as he laid her down again a moment later, how much colder.

After pausing only long enough to retrieve Talon, he slipped under the covers beside her and pulled them up until she was tucked in snug up to her chin. Too much did her trusting, easy breathing remind him of their last night together before the battle at Ostagar, the morning when he had unwound his arms from her warm body and left without a word, hoping to keep her safe.

He would not suffer that again.

Careful and quiet, he tore his eyes away and rolled over, reaching for the top drawer of his nightstand where servants had stashed a set of reed pens, paper, and a writing pad. Both of them had duties, he his meetings and she the destruction of Morrigan’s mirror, but as he dipped the nib into the inkpot and sponged off the excess, he breathed deep through his nose, determined not to waste the gift Fate had chosen to grant him. After their trials were over, he would make sure they could both be together again. Forever, this time.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #alistair theirin #king alistair #king alistair theirin #cousland #f!cousland #rosslyn cousland #the falcon and the rose

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hazelenergy · 4 years

Text

@midnight-blue-blood @princeofthe405

A package arrives with no return address. If any mortal tries to open the package, it probably results in a severe paper cut.

When the package is opened by Fina and/or the Prince, they see a small cassette tape and a note. When either touches the paper, Hazel’s handwriting becomes visible and reads:

[alt text: Hi Prince Moineau and Fina, Tommy gave me the great idea of recording my thoughts right after they happen rather than spending eternity writing it down. A warning, this has been warded against mortals, courtesy of Cass’s rampant paranoia. All the best, A very sleepy 2 year old.]

Upon playing the cassette, Hazels voice comes across a little crackly:

“Is it working?”

“Yes it’s working, I assure you. Don’t you remember what Sol said?”

“Ugh. Have a little faith in old technology. You know what else he said?”

“What?”

“Hazel don’t mess around with that Malkavian, that seems like a terrible plan.”

“And it didn’t stop you.”

“Not much does. Now get out of my recording. This ones private, you jerk,”

The sound of Tommy’s footsteps can be heard followed by the sound of a door shutting.

“So. I have had several dreams over the last two nights since the bond was broken. Some are replays of traumatic events and visions, such as the throne of blood once again appearing before me and me refusing to seat myself on it, getting my blood boiled, depictions of myself in Judas Iscariot paintings- things that I have grown used to seeing during daysleep or zoning out at night.

But, I have had two new ones. The first I am still trying to piece together into a coherent story. Long story short, I keep awaking in an abandoned church trying to gather more and more information about my surroundings before red sunlight comes blaring through and shatters the stained glass above me. Each time, I get more details. So I’m recording a little, then I take a nap, then record some more, then take a nap, and this cycle repeats. Once I have put together a bit more information I will tell you about it.

But this one I found...concerning. So its the first one you get. Its very vivid and came between two abandoned church dreams.

I am walking aimlessly under a half-full moon in what feels like a desert. I cast no shadow wherever I walk. Sometimes I hear a crunch or a snap under my bare feet. Sometimes, I feel a sharp sting or blistering heat, but I know to not look down. I have to keep walking forward. If I look down, I will not like what I see. I know it.

Hours pass. My feet are sore and numb, but I can feel the texture change between my toes. The sand beneath me becomes soft moss. Ahead of me are blossoms of thousands of moon flowers and lilies and gladiolus and primrose. I can hear the trickle of water from a babbling brook probably hidden among the thousands of stems. I sprint to the garden. There are no strange crunches or stings, though I still cannot shake my one law, do not look down at the ground directly beneath me. But I am so tired. My body aches. My legs burn with each step. I want to rest, but need to make sure I don’t squish any of these flowers. To find a clearing would require me to look down. I scan the valley before me, trying to see a potential spot. Each time I think I found one, I move to get close, but when I arrive, I can feel the flowers and budding stems trying to grow. Sometimes it feels like the flowers don’t want me there and push themselves out of the ground to keep me from rest.

I’m about to give up and just return to the sands and pray nothing stings my face. That’s when a loud crack hits my ears. The sound is wood splitting and leaves rustling as a looming red wisteria tree is before me. There’s something simultaneously very unsettling and comforting about it. I fell before it and shut my eyes. I don’t feel my weight hit the ground. Something cradles me and pulls me upward, but I know I’m still facing towards the ground and keep my eyes shut tight. There’s a soft and familiar lullaby. I wish I could’ve heard more of it, but by the third note I am asleep. But even in my dreams, I don’t get great rest.

I am awoken by something sharp pulling across my stomach. My eyes fly open to see rose thorns wrapping and choking the tree, claiming me and several flowers along with it. I yank the thorns off of me and leap upward. My blood burns inside me as I will myself to stay airborne. Instinctively, I fly back into the entangled barbs to rip them off it. I grab three and ascend upwards, tearing them from their roots. But that was a mistake. I looked down.

The flowers wither and fall to ash. The tree shrivels and bleeds as the thorns pull it apart, limb by limb. Within seconds, the bow of the tree is all that’s left. I rush down again. I have to do something right? But I was too slow. The rose thorns pierce through the tree creating a clean cut, revealing the hundreds of rings within. It had lived for a very long time. It's strange though, the pattern wasn’t circular. The rings almost look like the outline of a mirror and splattered blood perfectly arranged to look like cracked glass. I collide with the ground and am entangled by the thorns and pulled into the ashen soil.

When I fall through the dirt and grime I arrive back in the abandoned church with the growing familiar dust and rubble and the feeling of being watched. Echoing like a choir across the sanctuary I hear Tommy’s voice, “well, aren’t you going to do something about it?” Then the sunlight comes blaring through, the glass shatters, and then I’m awake again.

Obviously something bad is going to happen. Yes, something bad always happens to our kind. But this has the same heavy feeling in my throat as the day I saw Mary sitting on her throne of blood and that vision alluded to her trying to usurp the Prince and mind enslave all of Atlanta. I don’t actually know if she could’ve done it. But I wasn’t going to sit idly and find out. If I still had the whispers in my head i might be able to give you something more than that. I could still brew up premonitions but I am still feeling too weak to really move around the lab too much. Please stay safe and hopefully this is just a bad dream. Know that I’ll be sending the abandoned church one soon. So expect another warded package.”

The recording ends.

#ic #hazel dreams #midnight-blue-blood #princeofthe405

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overwatchworks · 5 years

Text

Unwelcome Meetings:

The gunslinger’s eyes locked on an old picture, worn at the edges, tape barely holding it to the wall.

Winston’s agent completion ceremony with the old gang. Him, Genji, Reinhardt and Ana on one side. Angela, Lena, Torbjörn, and Jack on the other. Gabe facing away from the camera in the far corner. So much had changed.

There was a haze in the air, silence so quiet it was loud. Too loud. Jesse didn’t like it. He glanced at Genji, eyes partially hidden by his hat. The ninja’s lights were dimmed slightly by the dust around them, green casting a visible line through the air. Even through the mask, Jesse felt Genji’s gaze meet his own.

It was all too familiar, this sense of unease, foreboding. Waiting in the shadows.

Overwatch had sent Genji and Jesse to investigate an old Blackwatch hideout. The reasoning was obvious; they were the only two operatives that had specific knowledge on the place, Jesse especially. He had been there many times, the little building tucked into an unassuming corner of California, just inside Death Valley. Was one of the few Reyes trusted enough to take with him to check on things.

Lots of dirty secrets were hidden in files there underground, stored in places Jesse had snuck in to back when he snooped around just a little to much. A file concerning the events in Rialto was what they were after. Sure, Overwatch had a copy, but they didn’t have the Blackwatch commander’s version of it.

The one with the full truth. The version Jesse had heard only once from the commander himself, and never repeated to anyone. He wasn’t sure if he ever would.

“Come on, it’s this way.” Jesse murmured, tugging on the brim of his hat and continuing forward. Genji followed without a word.

The ninja had been quieter than usual, contemplative. Jesse could say the same about himself. Blackwatch was a touchy subject for everyone. This mission they had been sent on rubbed Jesse the wrong way. Everything felt out of place.

After a few more minutes of pensive silence, the two paused, sliding down to the lowest dip of a large dune. It went further into a canyon, evening sunlight filtering through the holes above them.

“You search left, I will go right.” Genji offered, cybernetic hands sliding over the sandstone carefully as he moved. The cowboy nodded, following the rock wall and stepping lightly.

A flicker of light caught Jesse’s eye. Something had moved further in the canyon. Jesse set his hand on Peacekeeper in her holster, thumb circling the textured grip.

“Gen...”

“Here!”

Genji made a soft grunt as he twisted something on the ground, a handle popping up. He pulled on it, revealing a staircase that lit up as soon as he stepped down on it carefully.

“Welcome back, Agent Shimada.” A gentle voice greeted, Jesse joining Genji after sweeping the area once more.

“It can still read my biosignature...?” Genji murmured almost to himself, the gunslinger patting his shoulder as he passed and began walking down the staircase.

“Darlin’, our biosignature is in their databases forever. They ain’t forgetting who belongs to them.”

“Agent McCree, welcome.”

“Good to hear from you again, Eris.”

“Likewise.” The voice hummed. It was an AI model made before Athena, but it had almost the same capabilities. Programmed for Blackwatch instead of Overwatch.

Holoscreens lit up the room the staircase led down to once Jesse stepped into it, head tilting at all the displays.

“Not much has changed.”

“I have kept everything in perfect condition as per request of Commander Reyes since the last transmission I received seven and a half years ago.” Eris informed them, Jesse’s jaw tightening.

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can help you find?” Eris continued when the cowboy said nothing else, Genji moving closer behind him.

“We need a physical file. Could you unlock the access panel to the vault for us?” Genji asked. Jesse went to a desk in the corner, sliding a hand through the dust.

“Of course. Give me just a moment.”

“Thank you, Eris.”

The gunslinger’s eyes locked on an old picture, worn at the edges, tape barely holding it to the wall.

Genji set his hands on the desk, leaning his weight into them.

“That was a good day. One of the fonder memories I have of that time.” Genji murmured, Jesse sighing.

“Yeah. It was nice.”

“Jesse...”

“I know. It’s just hard to look at it without thinkin’ of all the people we lost. And the ones we got back...They ain’t quite the same. Hell, we aren’t even the same.”

“Perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps we needed a change.”

“Maybe.” Jesse shrugged noncommittally. Genji set his hand on the gunslinger’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“I have unlocked the vault.” Eris called.

Jesse shook himself out of memories, focusing on the task at hand. He and Genji went to the far side of the room, a door opening for them. File cabinets lined the newly revealed area, smelling somewhat musty.

“Do you know where it could be?” Genji asked, clearly disgruntled at the many lines of cabinets.

“I know they’re sorted by dates, so...Guess we just start checkin’?”

“Ugh...I hate old school files...”

“Some of this stuff can’t be trusted on anythin’ but paper, yanno? It’s the only thing that can’t be hacked.”

“I know, but it makes our lives in this specific scenario we happen to be in a whole lot more difficult.”

“Where’s all that patience you learned up in Nepal?” Jesse teased with a laugh, Genji pulling open a drawer and sifting through it.

“I have plenty, when the work is not boring.” The ninja muttered, Jesse smiling and shaking his head.

His fingers slid over manila tabs with scratchy writing of dates and names, none of which he needed. Another drawer was opened, another set of files giving him nothing. Genji sighed after about ten minutes, the sound of paper shifting accompanying it.

“These are mostly agent files and insignificant mission reports.”

“Then move on to the next ones.”

“I’m trying to find ours!” Genji huffed, tossing the files on top of the cabinet and bending at the waist to scan more.

“There ain’t nothin’ on those we don’t already know about each other.”

“I want to see my unedited medical reports.”

Jesse raised a brow, turning to Genji as the ninja tapped a drawer closed and opened another.

“You’ve never seen those?”

“Have you?”

“Well, no. There’s lots of black lines on all the medical reports, no matter what.”

“On Ziegler’s, yes. She is bound by Overwatch protocol, and I am not about to break into one of their vaults. I want to see if O’Deorain made any files.”

“O’Deorain ain’t one I’d trust.” Jesse grumbled, wrinkling his nose a bit. He’d always thought hiring her was a mistake.

“Maybe not, but I do not doubt her intellect. And, this is the only vault I’ll be seeing for a long time. Who knows what I could find.” Genji shrugged, flipping through some papers. Jesse pressed his lips into a line, going to a new cabinet.

“It’d be nice if we could actually find what we’re here for. All these damn files are startin’ to blend together on me.”

A hum from Genji was the only answer he got, the gunslinger blinking hard to keep his eyes from tiring too much. These jobs weren’t quite his specialty. Jesse scrunched up his lips, teeth absently gritting against one another instead of the cigar he usually had to chew on.

His metal hand brushed over some labels, nearly missing one that was filed incorrectly, hidden by the one in front of it. The cowboy pulled it up, brows furrowing. It didn’t have a date, only a label.

Venice Incident.

Jesse opened the folder, eyes scanning over the documents. Media coverage, pictures, mission reports, the recorded interrogation of Reyes afterwards. A hand-written report was on the back of that one.

Log report 707,

Venice was a failure. Antonio eliminated.

I should have thought through things first, but he was right. There was no point in taking him in, I knew that from the beginning. Killing Antonio was the only way to unequivocally remove him from the equation. I know Overwatch is only going to hear what it wants to, so I let them do just that. Didn’t bother defending myself, it wouldn’t have mattered. Things will inevitably get fixed, covered up, go back to normal.

But what happens when they can’t do that anymore? What will they do then? Another massive cover up? Another ploy to lead things back to normal, to lull the world back into a false sense of peace? Jack can’t answer those questions yet, but I can.��

It’s going to have to end soon. We’re only making it worse by trying to clean up the world. It doesn’t need us anymore. The Omnic Crisis is over. But Talon will eventually rise, I can see it happening already.

I have my doubts about the way things are going, the things I’m having to do for Blackwatch now. But what more can we do? What more can I do? The world is changing, and it’s going to leave Overwatch and the people involved in it behind. I only hope they can see it too, before it’s too late.

Jesse swallowed thickly, the paper shaking slightly in his hands. Reyes’ voice in his head, a distant memory; when he sat Jesse down in his office, telling him these same things, to leave while he could, before the whole thing fell apart.

Echoes of the past.

“Genji, I found it.” Jesse managed to say, the ninja looking up sharply.

“You did?”

The gunslinger held up the folder, Genji setting his own aside and walking over.

“This is his account of the—”

“Agents, I am detecting a disturbance in the stairwell.” Eris suddenly interrupted. Jesse immediately drew his gun, Genji sinking into a lower stance.

“We were followed?! How?” The ninja hissed, hand on his wakazashi.

Jesse cursed under his breath, taking whatever papers he could from the folder and tucking them into a spare ammunition pack on his belt.

“I had a feelin’ we weren’t alone...Just figured no one would know what the hell we were doin’. Hardly anyone knew about this place.” He muttered darkly, thumbing back the hammer of his revolver as he walked forward cautiously.

Genji followed close behind him, silent save for the sleek sound of metal sliding into his fingers as his shruiken slipped into place. Something clattered in the main room, Jesse’s finger tightening minutely on the trigger.

“We know you’re there. Just come quietly, and we won’t shoot on sight.” He called.

“Agent McCree, I am not quite detecting any signs of life.” Eris alerted him, voice quieter, almost unsure.

“What do you mean, ‘not quite’?”

“It is...Not a biosignature I have been programmed to recognize. It is not even a true biosignature.”

“So what is it?” Genji growled, Jesse’s blood chilling at the twisted laugh that echoed around the room.

A shadow-like fog drifted through the doorway, swirling behind Jesse and Genji both before solidifying into a shape. A mask. Bone-white and carved like a barn owl. The thing was draped in black, clawed hands forming and gripping two massive shotguns.

“I’ve been asking that same question for a long time.”

It had a scratchy, echoing voice, deeper and more guttural than any Jesse had heard before. He held Peacekeeper up, arm unwavering, eyes narrowing. He knew this creature.

“So, this is the Reaper.”

“Always so blunt, aren’t you, McCree.” It rumbled, Jesse’s lip curling.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a whole lot more than you think. Now, I need a certain little file hidden in here, so get out, or I’ll kill you both.”

“We are not going anywhere! You are the one trespassing.” Genji snapped, wakizashi catching the light as he unsheathed it slightly.

“I said, leave.” Reaper repeated, shotguns raising to point right at their heads.

“We ain’t movin’. These files can’t get into Talon’s hands.”

There was a deep sigh like a rumbling growl, before the ear-shattering blast of the shotguns went off. Jesse dove to the side as Genji deflected, already moving around Reaper. The gunslinger went opposite of Genji, Reaper turning to follow his movements.

Jesse reached for a flashbang, but the shotgun went off again, blowing it from his metal hand. It exploded, the flash making Jesse stumble, blinking rapidly as his ears rang. He vaguely heard another three shots go off, then a shout of pain. The cowboy shook his head as his vision came back, the outline of everything still just a little too bright.

He raised his gun, then froze as he saw where Genji was. Hands gripping Reaper’s wrist, those claws tightening around his neck, holding him off the ground. Reaper’s free hand was holding a shotgun towards Jesse.

“Let him go!” Jesse seethed, that laugh echoing softer, more sinister.

“You have the same tricks you always had, Shimada. Too predictable. You both are.” Reaper murmured, grip tightening on Genji. It forced a choked sound from him, fingers scrabbling at Reaper’s arm.

“Let him go, or I swear to god I’ll put a bullet through that fucking mask.”

“Oh? And risk me shooting him?” Reaper cackled, turning the shotgun to press against Genji’s stomach. Jesse lowered his arm slightly.

“Jesse, just—Go!” Genji grit out, the gunslinger’s glare never leaving Reaper’s mask.

“I ain’t leavin’ you, ever. What do you want, Reaper? I’ll let you have it if you let him go.”

“I just needed access to this vault, it doesn’t work for me anymore. Funnily enough, I also heard about two special ex-Blackwatch operatives that had been sent to do just that.” Reaper sneered. Jesse’s eyes flicked to Genji, his struggles weakening.

“‘Anymore’? The hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I thought I taught you better than this, ingrate.”

Jesse’s brow slackened, cotton filling his ears as laughter filled the room, his arm falling back to his side. It should have been obvious. The mannerisms, the fighting style, the way of speech. Jesse knew them all too well, just didn’t want to believe it.

“Gabe...?” He whispered, eyes wide, feeling vulnerable in a way he hadn’t since he was seventeen, tied up by Blackwatch in Deadlock Gorge.

“Not anymore.” Reaper growled, finger tightening on his shotgun. The blast was louder than all the others to Jesse’s ears, a spray of red mixed with black splattering on the ground, Genji joining it as he was dropped.

The gunslinger could only watch, time not moving the way it was supposed to. Reaper walked towards him, Jesse unable to see anything but how he had the same stride as Gabe. How he held his shotgun the same as it leveled with the cowboy’s face again.

“Last chance. Take Shimada and leave. Don’t try anything sneaky, or he’ll bleed out before you can get him back to your base in time.”

Jesse stared up at him, the blank mask, the barrel of the shotgun. He nodded numbly. Following orders, just like he used to. Body moving on autopilot while his mind was still stuck in the past.

Jesse went to Genji, picking him up with an arm around his waist, the other keeping Genji’s arm over his shoulder. He could hear the ninja’s voice, but the words escaped him. Only the slightly robotic hum as he left the bunker.

“We need evac, now.”

His own voice this time, calm and quiet. Jesse didn’t recognize it.

“Copy that, drop ship is inbound. ETA five minutes.”

“Jesse.”

He blinked slowly, staring straight ahead as he trudged up the sand dune.

“Jesse, wait.”

So much like Deadlock Gorge.

Jesse stopped, breathing unevenly. Genji placed a hand on his chest, visor tilted up at him.

“Are you okay...?” The ninja asked softly. Far to concerned about him considering his own state.

Jesse’s eyes dropped to the sand at his feet, the way the grains shifted over his boots with the faint breeze. His vision swam.

“I...Don’t know.”

Just a graze. That’s what Dr. Ziegler had said, just a graze. The healing should have gone faster, but the wounds lingered. No one knew why. Genji was confined to bed, though, he was able to at least stay in his own. Jesse hardly left his side.

Neither spoke of what had happened at the end of their meeting with Reaper, not yet. Jesse wasn’t ready, and Genji stayed quiet for his sake. It had been two days. Jesse had closed himself off, keeping his thoughts and feelings hidden, clutched to his chest. Fragile.

The ninja was laying in bed, a bored look on his face as he stared at the ceiling. All his armour was off, just the smooth synth skin and bits of metal that couldn’t be removed left. Jesse’s fingers traced over the scars on his right arm absently, eyes not really focused on anything in particular.

“Jesse, we should talk about this.” Genji suddenly spoke up. His voice was gentle, but firm at the same time. Jesse knew the tone, the one that meant he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He sighed quietly.

“I know...”

“You’ve hardly said a word to me since we got back.”

“I know.”

“So talk to me. It doesn’t have to be everything, but you need to let those thoughts out. I want to help.”

“I know!” Jesse snapped, closing his eyes and taking a little breath before softening.

“I-I know, darlin’.”

Genji sat up with a slight wince, turning to face Jesse, legs crossing. He took the cowboy’s hands in his own, thumbs rubbing little circles over the backs of them.

“You are not alone anymore, Jesse. I am here for you.”

That simple promise cracked the foundations of the wall Jesse had put up, making it all too easy to topple. Tears slid down his cheeks, unbidden, his hands shaking in Genji’s grasp. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, his sharp inhale too loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Gen...It was him. I-It was Gabe. He’s alive, he’s still out there—!” Jesse’s voice cut off with a choked sound, Genji squeezing his hands. Waiting patiently. Jesse was thankful for it.

“I thought...We all thought he’d died. They—We lost so many...But him, of all people. Reaper. He’s Reaper. Has been this whole time, Gen, he’s with fucking Talon! I never thought—He would never. Gabe was...”

“He was the best man I ever knew, why has he turned into this...Wraith? A murderer. A traitor, of all things! I don’t understand what happened to him! There’s so much I regret not doing for him, and now, seeing that he’s alive, that he’s workin’ against us...” Jesse trailed off, wiping his eyes quickly.

The swirl of emotion inside him was too thick to make much sense of. He truly didn’t know how to feel. Sorrow, maybe? Betrayal, yes, there was some of that. Hurt. An odd sense of relief. Fear, even.

“I was not as close to him as you were, but I know that is not the man we knew. Whatever happened to him, it changed him. He is Reaper now, and we must treat him like that. An enemy. He wants to kill us.”

“He didn’t, though. He had us both in point blank range, but he didn’t shoot.”

“I’m pretty sure he shot me, Jess.” Genji frowned, gesturing to his stomach, still wrapped in bandages.

“No, I mean, he didn’t shoot to kill. If he wanted us dead, we would have been dead. He took us both out like that,” Jesse snapped his fingers to illustrate, brows furrowing.

“But he didn’t kill us.”

“It’s not him, Jesse.”

“He let us go! He recognized us—”

“Jesse.”

Genji’s hands went to Jesse’s shoulders, dark eyes steeped in gold boring into his own.

“That is not Reyes. Reyes died in that explosion, and Reaper is what crawled from the remains.”

Jesse looked away, lips pressing together tightly. He knew Genji was right, but there was a part of him that wanted to believe Reyes was still there. A part of him that still dared to hope.

Genji’s brows furrowed, reading the gunslinger’s eyes.

“Not believing it will only hurt you more in the end. And I am tired of seeing you hurting. You deserve to heal, to be content.” Genji told him, pressing a kiss to Jesse’s fingers, stubble scratching them lightly.

The cowboy cupped Genji’s cheek, leaning in to press their foreheads together.

“I just wish things had been different...”

“As do I. But lamenting about the past will not help the future.”

“Yeah...Where’d you get all this wisdom?”

Genji smiled softly, humming.

“Mm, Zenyatta truly works wonders.”

Jesse chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to Genji’s lips. The cowboy then let his head sink to Genji’s shoulder, resting in the crook of his neck. Genji toyed with his hair with one hand, the other still holding Jesse’s in his lap, fingers laced.

It was quiet for a few minutes, Jesse’s thoughts not a complete jumble for the first time since Reaper revealed himself. There was still a pressing matter, though.

“We need to tell the team.” He mumbled, Genji’s hand halting its movement.

“Yes, we do. But I want you to just rest tonight, Jesse. We can figure that out tomorrow.”

Jesse nodded. Genji leaned back, taking them both down to the mattress, Jesse careful of his wounds. He was tired, and the next day was sure to be another difficult one.

But for tonight, Jesse felt he could rest a little easier.

#mcgenji #jesse mccree #genji shimada #post-recall #Whiskey'sWorks #this was a suggestion I got a while back that was just too good #thank you for that!#it's been a while huh

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bestflyerprinting · 3 years

Photo

Great Canvas Prints Facts And Tips

Canvas printing is extremely popular nowadays. They decorate dwellings, offices, restaurants, shops and many other places. However, sometimes it’s very hard to decide what you really want and how to choose the right print. In this article, we want to help you to understand what option is the best for you, how to handle such a kind of posters and make them look like pieces of art, which perfectly suit the interior design of your house.

Let’s start with the questions: “What is a canvas?” and “Why do you need canvases and not paper posters or photos?”.

A canvas print is an image printed onto a canvas, which was originally created with the intention to reproduce paintings. It’s usually made in rectangular or square shape. Usually, canvases are stretched over basic wooden frames, but it’s also possible to mount them in visible frames, which are usually custom-made.

Canvas decor allows people to add individuality to their dwellings and working places and get rid of bare walls without spending not too much money. In addition, almost every image can be printed on it.

There are three basic advantages of canvas printing from Asset Print has over paper printing:

Canvas is more durable than any type of photo paper. The photos printed on it are not susceptible to moisture, don’t warp and it’s very hard to pull it to pieces. In addition, canvas posters don’t fade away like the paper ones.

Canvases have textured surfaces and that makes them look more vivid and interesting. Depending on the image, but sometimes canvases can look like original paintings.

If you print photos on canvases, it’s possible to divide one photo between several canvases, which will make up the whole picture while hanging. That’s a very nice design solution, which looks original and complicated but can’t be made with the help of paper photos.

In addition, canvas is a good substitution for some pieces of artwork. Reproductions of many famous paintings are on sale and almost everyone can afford them.

Types of canvases

There are three basic types of canvases:

Custom or canvas on demand. These canvases are made from your photos or images and you are free to choose not only the size but also other additional options. This is the best way to turn your personal photos into artwork.

Stock prints are ready canvases, depicting photos or paintings, which are widely distributed. This type of print is the most affordable one as the seller doesn’t need to make it suit all your requirements. You just buy what you are offered.

Limited edition prints are the most expensive ones. They are usually original works by well-known artists and have certificates of authenticity.

How to maintain your canvas prints

Canvases are considered to be very durable and can serve for decades. However, to make them as amazing as the day you first saw them, you need to take care of them. If you want your canvas to serve for ages, you need to take into account the following:

Don’t expose a canvas to direct sunlight for a long period of time, otherwise, it’s possible that the print will be spoilt. Of course, nothing will happen to a print if it spends some time in the sun. The most important is to avoid the constant flow of direct sunlight.

Canvases are usually water safe, but it’s highly recommended not to use water to clean them. Just take a dry feather duster or a piece of fabric and remove all the dust. If it happens that some water is poured on the print, it’s better to remove it immediately with a dry material.

An excessive amount of hotness or moistness can also harm the canvas. That’s why, don’t place a poster in the place, where there is a steady change in temperature and humidity.

Clean the canvas very delicately so that no dents appear.

How to arrange canvas prints

If you have only one canvas, you will hardly face problems of how to arrange it beautifully. However, if you want to order several ones, then you need to think over how you want to arrange them before making a purchase. Some people prefer posters of the same size, placed in a row, while others want to be more creative and experiment with both sizes and the ways of arranging. The image below shows some interesting ideas of how to place a batch of canvases.

However, before placing an order for canvas printing, you first need to decide how many images you want to print and how you want them to be displayed. Once you choose the photos and the layout design, you will see what sizes you need and be able to purchase the right canvases in the right sizes. The image, we have provided you with, also shows what sizes of canvases you need for each separate design.

Tips on choosing a canvas for your dwelling

Choose colours and design of the print, taking into account your interior design. The print needs to become an integral part of the decor, not a thing, which stands out too glaringly. That’s why you need to know how to combine colours so that they complement each other and look stylish. In addition, the poster needs to suit the style of the room. Thus, an abstract picture will hardly look good in a room in rustic style.

The print themes must match your tastes. Nowadays, there is such a choice of all possible canvas designs that you need some time to find a poster, which you really like. Don’t follow all the fashion tendencies. For example, if you don’t like abstract art, don’t buy it. Choose a print, which will inspire you for years and bring only positive emotions. Custom canvas prints are also extremely popular nowadays. You just take the picture you like and turn it into a piece of art. You can do the same with the photos if you are going to decorate your home with them. Numerous filters can make the photos more sophisticated or adjust them to the style of the room you want to place them in.

Think about the function of the room. Colours and images can have a great influence on our mood and life. That’s why it’s important to choose them carefully. If you want to place a print in a bedroom, the colours need to be soft and calming. However, the bright ones can be used in the living room and kitchen. Besides, each colour has its meaning and effect and it’s also necessary to know that. For example, red is very invigorative and it’s not recommended to use too much of it in bedrooms and children’s rooms. But, in its turn, a floral print in pastel colours will suit a bedroom perfectly.

Article source: https://printingcapetown.wordpress.com/2021/08/28/great-canvas-prints-facts-and-tips/

#canvas prints #canvas printing #canvas

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droneseco · 3 years

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CAT S62 Pro: This Rugged Smartphone Hides an Amazing Superpower

CAT S62 Pro

8.00 / 10

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The CAT S62 Pro is stylish, well built, thoroughly durable, and integrates an incredible FLIR sensor, making thermal imaging accessible to anyone. Sadly, performance is mediocre, and the battery doesn't last as long as we'd like.

Specifications

Brand: CAT

Storage: 128GB

CPU: Snapdragon 660

Memory: 6GB

Operating System: Android 10 upgrade to Android 11 promised)

Battery: 4000mAh ~1.5 days

Ports: USB-C

Camera (Rear, Front): 12MP + FLIR rear, 8MP front

Display (Size, Resolution): 5.7-inch 2160 x 1080 pixels, LCD TFT

Pros

Incredible FLIR imaging

Durable, rugged device

Looks and feels great

Cons

Sluggish performance

Average battery life

Buy This Product

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It's rare to find a piece of technology that has a genuinely mindblowing feature, but the CAT S62 Pro rugged smartphone is one of those. With a built-in infra-red radiation sensor for thermal vision, you can unveil a magical hidden layer of the world around you. What you do with this newfound superpower is up to you.

The CAT S62 Pro is now available internationally for around $600.

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FLIR Sensor

As the standout feature of the CAT S62 Pro, I wanted to start this review unconventionally by talking extensively about the embedded Lepton 3.5 sensor, sourced from Teledyne FLIR. Normally reserved for military and professional applications, infrared radiation detection enables you to view a part of the electromagnetic spectrum that's not visible to humans.

The Lepton 3.5 sensor is the latest embeddable version that offers 160 x 120 resolution, though by default this is overlaid onto a mixed reality mode using a dedicated FLIR app on the CAT S62 Pro. Although the resolution sounds low, it's a four-times improvement over the previous generation and provides more than enough granularity for most applications, as you'll see below. Remember, this isn't like taking a photograph—it's another layer of data to overlay onto reality.

To test out the FLIR sensor, we took a walk around the garden on a cold April night. For the full effect, it's definitely worth watching the review video from which the screengrabs below are taken.

First, we looked at some bulk compost bags that had just been delivered that morning. These are made from the green waste of the local area, and you could immediately see that they were still very much actively composting. The top appear ascracked lava, and digging away underneath the surface revealed very high temperatures. This compost should be left to decompose a little longer, or risks burning the roots of new seedlings.

It was fascinating to see how much heat is retained by large rocks. Below are some gabion rock walls that hold back our hillside; they're a good 10-degrees Celsium above the ambient temperature. We could really benefit from that by planting against them to protect against frost.

Below is a Hotbin composter. The company claims it can reach up to 60-degrees Celsius, which is needed to break down harder organic waste such as bones—but I've never really believed those claims. But even on a cold spring night, digging in revealed temperatures up to 50-degrees, so it seems feasible after all.

Water also appears to retain a lot of heat—you can clearly see the water level in this opaque rainwater collector.

Footsteps could also be seen for about thirty seconds after the fact; I had no idea that much heat was transferred to a surface with momentary contact. I can imagine this would immensely useful when hunting, both for tracking the live animal of course, and its path when you're close.

We were also able to identify hot water pipes around the home, and some very damp areas of concern. My office was a mess of hot plugs and adaptors, but most interesting were the Nanoleaf light panels, in which you could see where the LEDs were wired (the panels were off at the time).

The FLIR app has a high degree of customization, including changing the color scheme, mixing in more of less of the real camera view, and manually locking the temperature scales. By default it'll automatically scale the view depending on the temperature range. You can also add measurement points for a rough indication of the actual temperature at a specific point or average over an area. Mostly, I left it on the default color scheme and dynamic scaling, with object outlines rather than a full mixed camera view, as that seemed to be the most useful to a layperson like myself.

You could actually buy the sensor alone for around $200, but of course, you would need the smarts to integrate this into your own camera system. The closest offering from the FLIR company for a similarly specced complete package appears to be the C5 model, which retails for closer to $800. As a feature on a $600 smartphone then, I'd say it's good value for money and a lot more convenient than carrying around a dedicated device.

CAT S62 Pro Hardware

Featuring a 5.7-inch TFT LCD with Gorilla Glass 6, the CAT S62 Pro eschews a notch entirely. There's around 2mm of bezel on the left and right, and 10mm or so on the top and bottom, resulting in a fairly low screen-to-body ratio of around 69%. Colors are reasonable and it feels bright enough in daily use, though like most smartphones visibility in direct sunlight is difficult.

With a resolution of 1280 x 2160, it's higher than HD, but not quite Retina-level. I don't have any complaints about the screen, but nor is it an aspect of the phone I would labor over and tell you how great it is.

At 12mm overall thickness and 250g weight (0.47-inches / 8.8 ounces), with a solid metal band around the edge, it's certainly a chunky phone. The back is a durable rubberized plastic, with a textured area on the lower half to help with grip, and feels great in hand. Easy unlock is provided by the fingerprint sensor, which worked reliably for me throughout testing.

The CAT logo is prominently embossed in the top right. On the left side, you'll find a programmable orange multifunction button, and a dual-SIM tray with a shared micro-SD slot. The power and volume keys sit on the right, though in one-handed use the power key feels a little off. On the base is a bare USB-C port with no cover provided, but I had no issues after submerging it in water and dirt.

The CAT S62 is about as rugged as a phone can get, with both IP68 and IP69 rating, protecting against water and dust ingress, and meets the MIL-STD-810 specs. This includes submersion up to 2m for 60 minutes, and protection from high-pressure water jets. Drops up to 6-feet should also be no problem.

I'm not going to deliberately try to destroy it, but it survived some drops in the dirt and water fine, even without a rubber cover on the USB port.

Performance and Specifications

Rugged phones and top performance don't usually go together, and the CAT S62 Pro is no different, featuring 6GB RAM and a three-year-old Snapdragon 660 CPU with Adreno 512 graphics.

Geekbench 5 measured a disappointing single-core CPU score of 294, multicore 1403, and a GPU compute OpenCL score of 574.

The 3DMark Wild Life test ranked the device as more powerful than a mere 9% of phones tested this quarter, and in the bottom 3% overall, managing a paltry two frames-per-second. That said, I was able to play Call of Duty, though I wouldn't describe it as smooth. Clearly, this isn't a gaming phone.

More worryingly, I felt like the general interface had an almost imperceptible lag to most actions. Even with a DNS blocker on the network, browsing the web was sluggish. Loading times in general on the CAT S62 Pro are also slow, likely due to the eMMC 128GB storage. Generally speaking, the performance was acceptable, and I was able to comfortably use it for daily tasks like Slack, Google Discover, Gmail, and Reddit. However, users of pro apps may have issues, and gamers should obviously look elsewhere. Sadly, flagship rugged gaming phones with FLIR imaging is a niche market that manufacturers have yet to explore.

Running stock Android 10, updates do seem to be timely, typically every three months. The latest at the time of testing is from April 1st, so you should be able to rest safely in the knowledge that security won't be an issue. CAT has promised to update the device to Android 11 in due course, though this hasn't yet materialized in the six months since the phone's release.

The Cameras

With the FLIR sensor being the main imaging feature here, you'll only find a single rear-facing 12MP f1.8 sensor. In good light, photographs and videos look sharp and more than adequate for a mid-range phone. It's not stunning by any means, but you won't be disappointed. If you regularly find yourself using the zoom or macro lenses on your current phone, this single sensor will feel limiting.

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The front-facing selfie camera is also adequate, though again nothing outstanding.

Battery Life

The 4000mAh battery is larger than your average flagship, but less than other rugged devices. In typical use I got just over a day out of it. This is a little less than I'd expect from a rugged device and is likely due to the inefficient LCD screen.

A more curious omission from the CAT S62 Pro is that of a wireless Qi charger. Given the otherwise low cost of such circuitry (it's basically just a metal coil), I assume there's a good technical reason why one wasn't included—perhaps because it interferes with the FLIR sensor. This is particularly annoying on a rugged device though, where you don't always want to be fiddling with cables and may opt to block off the USB port entirely with a rubber bung.

Should You Buy The CAT S62 Pro?

The standout feature of the CAT S62 Pro is the FLIR imaging sensor, and it adds a good chunk to the price. If you're not interested in using that, then don't buy the CAT S62 Pro. Simple.

That said, I think it's a fascinating feature to have with a myriad of uses beyond industry professionals. For homeowners, it makes it easy to identify damp or insulation issues and trace pipework behind drywall. For outdoorsy types, you can see in the dark, and get a competitive edge when hunting.

The CAT S62 Pro extremely well built and feels like it would take a beating, at the same time as looking great. But it otherwise offers mediocre performance, an average camera, below-average battery life, and no 5G connectivity or Qi charging.

You'll find better performing rugged phones elsewhere at this price point, or significantly cheaper if performance isn't a priority and you don't need the FLIR sensor. Clearly, this isn't a phone designed to appeal to everyone, but for those who want great quality FLIR imaging, the CAT S62 Pro is an incredible choice.

CAT S62 Pro: This Rugged Smartphone Hides an Amazing Superpower published first on http://droneseco.tumblr.com/

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illyrian-nights · 6 years

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A Court of Light and Shadows

The oddest thing about the silent sunlit villa was that it had not changed in the fifty-odd years since the day its occupants had fled. The world had gone to hell. Twice. People had been stripped of their property, homes, family, lives but here was the villa. Precisely the same.

The golden lattice of oriel windows cut the sunlight into beautiful, geometric pieces that shimmered across the tiled floor. Surprising. The floors had remained clean. Not a mote of dust or dirt obscured the stunning cerulean, gold and white tiles. The redolent scent of cinnamon and rhondinium hung heavy in the entry, a stinging reminder of days past. Low cream-colored divans divided the entry from the living room, padded by plush pillows and blankets. A velvet ottoman was barely visible underneath a mountain of books and papers, still open to to whatever pages were being read when news that the capital was sacked clattered through the front door. That door still swung wide, though it was now held open by a different, more gentle hand.

The female it belonged to stood immobile, spellbound by the unchanging nature of the home. Fifty years. In fifty years she had evolved, unraveled, broken and reformed but this house... this house was a perfect preservation of memories she had nearly forgotten. In the golden reflection of light off the floor, the female’s striking amber eyes were illuminated as if they were twin suns in a sky of honey-brown skin and cinnamon freckles. The soft panes of her face were tightened by the indecipherable emotion that held her so still. Another hand, the same honey-brown hue, startled the female by smoothing her mane of thick, curly hair.

“Thea.” The figure turned back to her mother, having forgotten she was not alone. With an inward sigh, Thea looked again to the home and walked inside.

“It’s the same.”

Her words sounded like an accusation.

“No one has touched it since your father and brother fled.” Thessalia followed her daughter into the entryway. “Amarantha, fortunately, did not deem us important enough to ransack our home.”

“Yet, important enough to murder father and Thaldur.” She turned to her mother, eyes distant.

“Th-” The older female’s voice caught and she pressed a hand to her mouth, trembling slightly. Thea made no move to comfort her, instead, opting to venture further into the villa. Gliding over to the room, she stroked a soft gold blanket strewn haphazardly over a divan. Curious, she leaned forward and sniffed it. It still smelled like aromatic wood; the perfume of her father.

She sat down and pulled one of the open books onto her lap, fingering the page so gentle like any wrong move might tear it. The leather binding was cool and smooth to the touch. Nostalgia wrenched Thea’s bruised heart. In an effort to keep the pain at bay, she tried to read the sentences but found she couldn’t make out the words. She blinked and tried to read the page again before realizing her vision was too blurry to read anything. A tear slid down her face and hit the page, distorting one of the words.

Thea quickly closed the book and gently set it on the table. She rose from the divan and slipped into an adjacent hallway to avoid her mother’s misty eyes. Leaning against the wall, she slipped off her sandals and felt the cool tile on her feet. The sensation of the cold floor grounded Thea and she focused on the pleasant coolness that numbed her cracked soles.

Thessalia would weep for the condition of Thea’s dulled, ashy skin. At least, the Thessalia that Thea knew before Amarantha terrorized the land and murdered hundreds without hesitation. The woman that had found her daughter in Vallahan was far different than the woman who raised her. Something had faded in her mother, had become subdued. Thea could see it from the moment the door opened in that dim Vallahan tavern. Thessalia’s eyes were muted and no longer shone with the apical gleam she had been known for.

Pushing herself against the wall, she summoned the will to walk down the hall to a door on the left. Afternoon light flooded the dark hallway as Thea pushed open the silent door. Taking a step into the light, she sagged slightly, relieved that the library had not been sacked. All of the precious books sat on their shelves patiently, as if waiting for Thea to come home. Eyes wide and lips parted in reverence, she crossed the marble floor and reached out a hand to nearest shelf. Cold like the tile. Her hands glided across the leather and cloth spines, feeling every engraved, tooled title, savoring the soothing textures on her roughened palm.

Her hands were far more calloused than the last time she had been in this room. The thought of younger, softer hands stilled Thea. Fifty years in that land had transformed her. No, had broken her. Had choked the naivety and childlike predilections from her. The hands of thoughtless people could do that. Apparently, female hands as well- if Amarantha’s reign of terror was any indication. The rumors of atrocities committed in Prythian were sickening. Even Herrod had-Herrod. Something tightened in Thea’s chest and she clutched at her chest. Head beginning to spin, her heart jumped as if electrocuted. A sense of terror seized her entire body and her breaths became short, rapid.

Stop thinking, Thea closed her eyes. Breathe. Good. Again. Open your eyes and move on.

The whisper of a door snapped her stupor and Thea twisted around to see Thessalia standing in the doorway.

“How are you doing?” The question hung in the air, both fae wincing at its inadequacy. Neither mother nor daughter could meet the other’s gaze.

“I am alive and I am home.” Came the slow reply. Thessalia hesitated for a moment, unspoken questions on her tongue. “For now, that is all I can ask for.” Thea finished quickly, a tone of finality ending the conversation before it could start. Her mother’s blue eyes gazed wearily, as this pattern of conversation had become commonplace over the past few days. The lady’s shoulders sagged, heavy with the weight of fifty long years.

“I’ll be in my room.” The door shut softly.

Thea turned back to the books. She didn’t know why she was so reserved with her mother. Cauldron knew the promises Thea made to the gods all those years if only to see her family again. And here her mother was, broken but healthy, and Thea couldn’t even touch her. An overwhelming mix of rage and paralysis broke through her heart, tears stinging her eyes. All those years. All that wanting to escape only to come home and still feel like a prisoner in her own body. To still feel dirty.

An urge to bathe escorted her to the door and down the hall to her old bathroom. Passing her mother’s room, she hesitated. Through the cracked doorway, Thea could see her mother staring at the portrait of her and Thea’s father. Thessalia’s eyes were pained and her lips trembled as she gazed upon her late husband. Lord Shaams had been a robust presence and the painting reflected his straight back, strong arms and wide smile. Not that Thea had ever been on the receiving end of it. Thessalia touched the painting longingly and something dislodged in Thea’s heart. Biting down on the sweep of wistfulness that seeped from her aching heart, Thea backed away from the door. She ventured further into the villa until her hand rested on the handle of the bathroom door. A wave of resentment battered her heart. Resentment, hurt, anger. It had battered her for so long, turned her heart heavy and cumbersome.

Thea turned the handle and stepped forward, inhaling the warm wave of cinnamon and bath oils that curled around her. The familiarity of the sensation tightened her gut and she leaned against the door, eyes closed. It was a moment before she opened them, walking toward the wonderfully large bath and turning on the faucet.

Minutes later, her clothes lay in a pile on the floor as steam fogged the room. Thea’s tightly coiled hair curled down her back, volume augmented by the humidity. Thin rivulets of sweat ran down her dewy face and the tightness around her eyes dissolved in the tranquilizing heat. Relief dripped from Thea’s head to her shoulders to her back down to her feet. She took a deep breath for the first time in fifty years.

Thea and Thessalia avoided each other for the first week. A simple, “Morning,” and “Good night,” each day had been sufficient for both. They had always been less-than-inclined to share unnecessary conversation with each other but now, with fifty years between them, even those few words a day were too much. Perhaps Thessalia noticed the barely-repressed anger that rippled off of her daughter. Despite the silence, Thea spotted the changes in her mother almost instantly.

This Thessalia was quieter than the cutting, compelling fae Thea had grown up under. Her mother had always been quick to stop Thea from being anything but silent and unseen. Requests to play outside or meet other Day Court children was met with an anxious denial and her own request that Thea read quietly in the library. That mother had been vivacious and brazen around others, but uneasy and tight-lipped around her daughter. Once, the silence had wounded Thea’s young heart but so many things had changed. Now, neither knew what to say or expect from the other; so both sufficed for silence.

Until the day one of Helion’s stewards winnowed to their doorstep. A sharp knock had Thea spilling her coffee on her chest.

��Motherf-” She managed to get out the first two syllables before Thessalia hissed a warning as she quickly strode down the hallway to open the door. Thea nearly retorted another foul word before recognizing the alarm on her mother’s face as she turned the knob, facing the steward. She had not seen that look for a long time. What was it about the Day Court that frightened Thessalia so much? Helion had godlike power but was not known to be cruel to his own people. Instead, he was known to love his people quite liberally-opting for the intimate setting of his bedroom to become better acquainted with his citizens.

She often thought that this was the reason Thessalia had practically hid Thea from the world-that Helion might take too much interest in her daughter than Thea was comfortable with. Once, Thea was curious about such things but Vallahan had exhausted her of all such inclinations.

The steward was saying something about a court session to be held in a fortnight. For the first time for a very long time, Thea felt curious. Conversely, Thessalia looked like a rat in a trap. She was blocking the steward from entering the frame.

“I’m afraid my daughter and I will be unable to attend. Thea-” Mother looked to daughter hesitantly, “Thea and I are recovering from our journey from the continent.”

“You believe that two weeks is an insufficient amount of time to rest?” The steward narrowed her brows and tilted her head. Thea saw this as a moment to intercede. She rose from the divan and glanced at her mother.

“I think that’ll be just fine. Right?” The set of Thessalia’s jaw told a different story.

“I don’t think that-” She tried again before the steward interrupted her.

“Perhaps a personal visit from High Lord Helion would be better.” The steward was only trying to help but Thessalia only went whiter.

“No! No, I, uh- no.” Thessalia elegantly smoothed her brow and smiled tightly. “It seems that Thea will be well recovered by then. I look forward to court. Thank you.” She started to close the door but the steward put a hand out, concern written plainly on her face.

“Lady Thessalia. I hope I’m not out of turn by saying this but Helion wanted you there specifically. What happened with your husband and son, it-” She swallowed and peered at the lady intently, “Lord Shaams has been greatly missed these years. He’d like to grieve with you.” At this Thessalia hand dropped from the door to her heart. “And to meet your daughter. He knows that these past fifty years has been especially painful for your family. There are items on the agenda he looks forward to addressing.” The steward drew back from the doorway and gave them a small smile, “Take care, miladies.” She winnowed out of sight.

Thea looked to her mother, who was staring blankly at the spot the steward had occupied. She was breathing heavily. Tentatively, Thea touched her elbow.

“Is everything… okay?” She hated the last word. It meant one thing but everyone used it to mean another. Thessalia slowly looked at her daughter and thought for one long moment. She glanced down, face long and sunken.

“It will be the first time that I go to court without your father.” When she glanced back up, her blue eyes were shining. There was hesitation on her lips but she clamped it down and shut the door behind her.

For the first time since watching her walk into the Vallahan tavern, Thea hugged her mother. Thessalia put a thin arm around her daughter. It was uncomfortable and awkward but Thea only held tighter.

“I’m sorry, Thessalia.” She whispered into her mother’s black, coiled hair before untangling herself and backing away. Turning toward the library, she heard her mother whisper, barely audible.

“I’m so sorry for everything, Thea.”

The weeks leading up to court had seen Thessalia sitting in silence, ruminating in whatever thought dominated her mind. Thea, on the other hand, had found a small joy in looking forward to something. She found herself wondering what court would be like and what Helion had in store for them all. He had held court after Amarantha, of course, but she had been in Vallahan. Her mother, apparently, had immediately left Under the Mountain the moment the red-haired witch has been slaughtered, running to Vallahan to find her daughter where she had left her. Upon discovering that Thea was no longer in Roda, a port town, Thessalia had spent months searching the continent for any sign of where Thea had gone. As a result, Thessalia had missed Hybern’s invasion completely. Nearly a month after the Night Court decimated the King and his soldiers, Thessalia and Thea had returned to a newly re-ordered Prythian.

It was no wonder Lord Helion had an extensive agenda to address; there was a world to rebuild. The thought sparked something within Thea, had made its way through murky despondency to the small brightness that managed to survive Vallahan. Perhaps in this new world, there would be a place for Thea.

Despite Thessalia’s reservations to even go to court, she still expected to both she and Thea to look like nobility. The morning of, she called Thea into her room. When Thea entered she noticed an array of dresses on the bed. Fifty years ago, she had enjoyed feeling beautiful. Now, the thought of drawing anyone’s attention sickened her, made her feel bare.

However, this seemed to be the only thing that her mother was enthusiastic about. Thea would give her mother this. So she sat on the bed as her mother quietly fussed over which gown she should wear, what makeup would suit her complexion and how she should do her hair.

A long time later, Thea peered into the mirror and her heart sank. She looked radiant. Thessalia had chosen a soft peach dress with sheer overlay to complement to her warm skin. An intricately-carved torque of gold covered her neck with matching adornments in her black halo of hair. Thessalia had rimmed her amber eyes with black kohl and shimmering gold dust. Her lips were dark and full against her glowing brown skin. Her mother had covered her freckles completely. Thea stood shaking in front of the mirror, hands itching to wipe the mask away. She wished, for the first time, that she could stay home.

“Ready?” Thea looked at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. Thessalia was wearing a halter gown of gleaming white, hair pulled back from her sharp, intelligent face with gold loops. Her dark blue eyes stood out against it all, waiting for Thea to give her an answer.

Thea nodded and turned to face her mother.

“Then let’s go.”

The Day Court long considered their capital to be a wonder of the world. White minarets rose above enormous domed buildings. Villas and open-aired markets dotted the space between the libraries, cafes, and courtyards. Inside the courtyards, fountains that ran four directions spread towards vaulted halls carved with stalactite patterns. Delicate blue and gold crenellations framed high doorways and curled around oculus ceilings. Thea passed one particular library with colorful mosaic windows and stopped in awe. Thessalia stopped next to her daughter and smiled slightly.

“You should see the inside.” Thea looked at her curiously. Something like romance entered into her voice as she continued, “There are similar sunken windows in the ceiling depicting the Hizir Afsan and when the noon sun hits, the entire library becomes lit with a thousand colors. Your father’s journals of work are archived here. It was his favorite place in this city.” She looked at her daughter and blinked. “Come, the capitol building is close.”

She took Thea’s hand and gently pulled her away. Thoughts roiled through Thea’s mind about her father. Not only had he been charming and bold but the lord had been incredibly brilliant. Lord Helion had often relied upon his own research into curse-breaking. For a long time, he had not only been his closest friend but his trusted advisor. It was one of the reasons Amarantha took such vicious delight in killing him. Thea remembered her mother’s pained face as she related the story on their way out of Vallahan.

Nearly thirty years into her reign, it was discovered that Day Court scholars had been working on a way to break Amarantha’s hold on the High Lords. The witch had ordered the court’s brightest scholars to be publicly executed as a show of the cruelty she was capable of. Lord Shaams and his son, Thaldur, had been among them. The method of execution was brutal: High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court obliterated each of their minds through his daemati powers. According to Thessalia, Shaams had been the last to die-forced to watch his friends, colleagues, and then son to die before him. When asked why she was left alive, her mother merely shook her head and shrugged. Thea was left with too many questions for a silent mother to answer.

Thea’s thoughts were interrupted by the tightening of Thessalia’s hand; they were here. The capitol building was the brightest building yet, prefaced with impossibly white stones and gold inlays. It opened with a large courtyard-currently filled with Day Court high fae. Three iwans faced the center fountain, their vaulted ceilings coated with stunning tiles painted to look like flowers. Pink bougainvillea climbed up the outside walls and delicately draped against the white stones. For a moment, Thea was struck by the bright sheen of it all and dropped her mother’s hand. The nobility were dressed in finery similar to her mother’s and lesser fae milled around, serving tea and coffee.

Lesser fae, Thea thought derisively. Even the term was derogatory. By now we should have realized there is no such thing. After everything, how has this institution survived. Even fae in Vallahan had commented on the twisted hierarchies of Prythian. It was something Thea hoped Lord Helion would address today.

“Lady Thessalia,” The steward from a fortnight ago materialized from the crowd. “Lord Helion has requested to receive you early, before the session starts.” Thea took the moment to study the female.

She had the strong cheekbones and jaw common in Day Court fae, well-shaped eyebrows and black eyes. The female’s fiercely curly hair reminded Thea of her own, save it was colored a deep red. At least, Thea surmised it was colored. Not many fae in this court had lighter-colored hair.

“Thea?” Her mother asked, intoning that this was, in fact, a repeated question.

“Hm?” Color rose to her cheeks as Thea realized she had missed whatever had been said.

“I asked if you were ready to go inside with Fas.” Thessalia elegantly nodded towards the steward.

“Of course.”

Fas, the steward, lead the females into a hall off of the courtyard. With every step, anxiety coursed through the younger female’s veins. She barely noticed the windows in the hallway were flooded with creeping flowers and sunlight. The thought of High Lord Helion had made her curious before but now she worried. Most of her life had been in Vallahan, ironically enough. At seventy-five, Thea had only lived in Prythian for the first twenty-five years and she felt like a stranger here. People only knew her father, mother and brother. She was nobody to them. Did High Lord Helion know where she had been living and what she had been doing? Would he be ashamed of it? The moment her mother had opened the tavern door and their eyes met, an understanding issued between them. It had not been shame that shone in Thessalia’s eyes but icy guilt.

A breeze picked up through the corridor and the scent of jasmine soothed Thea’s pounding heart. Her mother took her hand again and smoothly drew her closer. To all the world, Thessalia looked cool and at ease but the her drenched palm told a different story. Finally, Fas stopped them at a wooden door inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She opened the door and led them inside.

The room was darker than that of any Day Court building. Either that, or the group of fae standing therein seemed to emanate their own shadows. After two beats, Thea decided it was the latter.

An impressive male with dark complexion dressed in white stood in front of the group, glowing brightly and grinning. They were an impressive group though there were three-no, four- of them. Three winged males and one female. Thea almost didn’t notice the third male for he was nearly hidden in the shadows. Though darkness obscured his face, there was something, perhaps, familiar about him. She eyed him for a long moment before turning to the male in white as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Lady Thessalia, it’s been too long.” High Lord Helion, for only a High Lord could glow like that, seemed to have a penchant for the sensual as he grinned at Thessalia. But Thessalia only had eyes for the strikingly handsome male in the middle beyond Helion.

“You.” A hiss ripped from her throat and an apical gleam slid into her eyes. Unease shot into Thea’s heart. Her mother seemed like an entirely new creature, contrived of pure hostility and malice. The two other males moved towards Thessalia but it was the female who stepped in front. Her eyes narrowed in warning and the beginning of a snarl reached the corner of her lips.

Helion seemed to be enjoying the small spectacle and seemed inclined to watch until a thought slid across his face.

“A lot has happened since you left for Vallahan, Tess-”

“Don’t you dare call me that in front of my husband’s murderer and Amarantha’s whore.”

Rhysand. This is Rhysand, High Lord of the Court of Nightmares. And the female now snarling at Thea’s mother- Feyre Cursebreaker. Thea’s mind went completely blank. Rumors had torn through the tavern about the fae female with a human heart. A fae that had been made.

News had arrived that Amarantha had spun some sort of trap for this Feyre. That she had broken the curse that chained the High Lords. Thea could believe it as she felt an other worldly-power pulse from her. The name Feyre Cursebreaker had been Thea’s salvation from the moment she heard the news. Feyre’s name meant that, perhaps, someone would come looking for Thea and bring her home. Rhysand slid his hand into Feyre’s and another thread connected in Thea’s mind.

Something about Rhysand stealing her on the day of her wedding to the Spring Court High Lord. There had been a number of theories concerning that matter but none of them seemed to fit as he looked to the stunning female holding his hand. All that Thea truly knew was that Hybern had allied with Vallahan, Montsere, and other countries of the continent against Prythian. Her hope of escape had vanished as quickly as it had come. However, the continental countries soon turned on each other and the alliance dissolved. Thea remembered one particular night at the tavern when she overheard a hooded stranger speak of the soldiers he had seen amassing on the Vallahan-Montsere border.

Without the continental alliance, the Hybern army was massacred by a united Prythian front. Some said that it was Rhysand who killed the king personally, others said it was another demon: a fae called Nesta. Whatever the story was, it didn’t explain why the monster of the Night Court was here.

“How could you ever think I would just stand here and listen, Helion?” Thessalia nearly spat in her High Lord’s face. “I watched as this demon ravaged the minds of our court, I watched as he serviced that bitch for fifty years. He deserves to rot for eter-”

“I think-” Feyre snapped- “that it’s your turn to shut up and listen. As someone who saved your ass twice, you owe me that.” Thea’s mother was livid but allowed her to continue.

Thea stared as Feyre began to tell them a tale concerning wolves, trials, human queens, a cauldron and a book. It was an astounding story, one that Thea would have loved to read, that rang true on the faces of the Night Court.

Thea had learned to read faces during her time working at the tavern and while the faces of the Night Court fae revealed little, there was the glimmer of pride in their eyes. It was enough for her to understand the protective shift towards Rhysand, though it was obvious by the dark power that rippled off of him that he was the most powerful fae Thea had met.

“I believe you.”

Feyre had just finished her story when Thea spoke. The room looked at her and she felt the heat of their glances. Color rose to her cheeks but she repeated herself.

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” Rhysand spoke for the first time. “I believe your mother is beginning to believe us, too.” He smirked at his mate, for Feyre had cleared that matter up, and walked over to where Helion had been leaning against the wall. Thessalia’s arms were tightly folded and her jaw was still set but her eyes no longer gleamed with manic fury.

“What was the point of telling us?” Her voice was flat. “Surely, two High Lords and one High Lady have more to do than pour their hearts out to a grieving widow.”

Thea looked up, her mother had a point. Why were they here?

Helion shifted off the wall and cleared his throat, “There may be trouble where the season courts are concerned. Now that Hybern has no king and the continental territories anxiously watch their own borders, there has been the predicament over Spring and Autumn Courts. Tamlin’s court was devastated by Hybern and refugees fled into Lord Beron’s territory once they realized it was too dangerous to stay. The influx of refugees-particularly Spring Court refugees- has Beron petitioning for a change in territory lines. There has even been mention of abolishing Spring Court altogether-”

“It was Tamlin’s pride that cursed us all.” Thessalia’s voice was low and baleful.

“Regardless,” Helion continued, “It’s been agreed that a larger Autumn Court opposes the interests of all other courts. However, there was a-” Helion looked to a grinning Rhysand and a slightly pink but defiant Feyre- “an incident at the last High Lords-”

“-and Lady,” the winged fae on Feyre’s right interjected.

“Apologies, Cassian. There was an incident at the last High Lords and Lady council and we’re hesitant to meet so soon after. Feelings between the Autumn Court and the Night Court have been high and we’re looking to alleviate tension before Prythian falls to internal conflict. Our courts are so distrusting of each other. For good reason, I might add. But it was our division that made it so easy for, first, Amarantha to enslave us and then Hybern to invade us. Perhaps, if we had trusted each other more there would not have been this period of misery.” Helion’s voice became soft and musing. “Perhaps, we can prevent another period of similar agony. I have proposed a… creative solution to the distrust that has built up between the courts for so long. It would involve the younger fae. Like your daughter, Thea. Now before you leave -yes I know that look Thessalia- I’d like you to listen to this.

“Older fae are far too wary. We’ve been entrenched in the politics of our forefathers. Many of us fought in the wars against the mortal lands. This world is of our creation. Mortals live a fraction of our lifespan and remember so little. Our memories have controlled us, taken away whatever fellowship we might feel for each other. Younger fae have no such problem. Many only know the terror Amarantha inflicted rather than Prythian’s extensive history of political maneuvers and double-crossing. They do not have the memories we possess. Instead, they have the momentum to move forward into a new age, one where our courts are not enemies to one another. We-” He gestured towards the room- “will be sending fae into each other’s courts to build relationships between our two territories.

“Some courts see this as yet another maneuver for power. To change alliances of young fae. The Night Court and our own court are willing to put my idea on trial, to show the potential of a united Prythian.” Helion stepped closed to Thessalia. “Everyone watched as your husband and son were killed at the hands of Rhysand- who has assured me they felt no pain. If Thea was to live with them for a time, it would show all of Prythian that there is potential to grow out of our tragedies. Your daughter could become the picture of a better world.” Helion now looked to Thea.

She was breathing heavily. The Night Court? Live at the Night Court? Had she heard them right? Feyre had made Velaris sound almost holy but Thea had just made it back. Her body trembled. Fear or anticipation? She wondered. Whatever emotion shook her body fared inconsequential to the shock at her mother’s quick answer.

“I see the merit of the idea.” The lady’s face still was stone but her tone turned thoughtful, “It might be for the best.”

Thea’s heart broke a little at the ease with which Thessalia was willing to part with her. Perhaps, it was too painful having Thea around. Or perhaps the shame of Thea’s past in Vallahan had finally borne down on her mother. Disgrace washed through her and her eyes stung.

“And what do you have to say?”

It took a beat before Thea realized the male in the shadows had spoken. A beat more before she realized he’d been talking to her. It was the first time a request or question had been directed towards her.

“I think,” She peered hard at his face, “that it’s something I could try out.” Another beat. “Do you have a library?”

A hint of amusement tugged at the male’s lips and he nodded.

“What Azriel means to say is that we have many libraries.” Rhysand said. “I think you’ll find Velaris very comfortable, Thea.”

She hazarded a timid smile at the High Lord, “When would we leave?”

“Whenever you feel ready.” Feyre’s voice was a touch gentler than before.

#acotar #feysand #helion #feyre #rhysand #azriel #cassian #night court #day court #morrigan #amren

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amira-darkhall · 7 years

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the bakery

I wrote a fic about Amira and a bakery that doesn’t exist. I’m tired so there aren’t any capital letters but it would make me happy if people read it because I think it’s pretty good (also Gay). I’m trying to write more, so if you think I should keep doing that let me know. I like feedback!

one.

the door pushed open and amira was greeted by the smell of flour and spices. she looked around with curiosity. the bakery was small, dotted with about ten small tables. the wall that looked out onto the street consisted of tall, square-paned windows, and display tables showed off racks of golden saffron buns and braids of sweet cardamom bread. an older couple that sat by the wall were drinking from mugs of hot chocolate, although the day was sunny and warm. light poured in, yellow and almost solid, melting in sheets over the worn floorboards and painting abstract patterns on the walls.

“can i help you?”

amira returned abruptly to the moment. someone was talking to her from behind the rounded glass display cases at the back of the room. she looked barely older than amira herself, but she wore an apron and her fingers were dusty-looking, as if she had just stepped out of the kitchen. she probably had, mused amira.

“i recommend the bullar. if you like cinnamon, that is.” the girl smiled. her hair was the color of honey and sunlight, thick and falling in a braid over her shoulder. a deep blue scarf was tied over the top of her head, but a wisp of hair had escaped it and brushed against her cheek.

“i like cinnamon.” how eloquent. amira wanted to hit herself.

“is that all you want?”

“that’s all, thanks. can i get it to go?”

the girl smiled and reached into the display case for the bullar, wrapping it in wax paper and placing it into a small paper bag. amira paid quickly and left, her heart beating a little off-kilter. her brain felt as if it were filled with clouds.

after she had walked for five minutes, she found a bench under a tree that bloomed with white flowers and tried the bullar. it tasted of cinnamon and almonds and cardamom, still warm and slightly sticky. she smiled to herself, her hands tacky from sugar and her mind in the tiny bakery, watching a girl with dusty fingers as she worked.

two.

“you’re back!” the scarf was still the same, but any strands of hair that might have threatened to escape were tucked securely beneath it. amira noticed a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“your bullar was amazing. can i have a saffron bun? i’ll have it here this time.” amira did her best to smile, but realized how much of a grimace it was and stopped, tugging at her shirt self-consciously. the girl slid a plate across the counter, bright white against the yellow swirl of the saffron bun.

“next time you should try the hot chocolate. i make it myself.” there was a smudge of flour just above one eyebrow, and amira resisted the urge to reach out and brush it off. it was sickeningly endearing.

“i will.”

the saffron bun was just as good as the bullar, and the color reminded amira of the baker’s hair, shining like wheat under the sun.

three.

“one hot chocolate made with milk fresh from the harvest counties. anything else?”

“i think i’m all set. should i wait here, or…?”

“i’ll bring it over to you. go find a table.”

when the girl came over with a mug the size of a soup bowl, dusted with fragrant slivers of chocolate and smelling like vanilla, amira let a real smile dance across her lips for a moment, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared.

“thank you.”

“you haven’t lived until you’ve had one of my hot chocolates. i promise you won’t be disappointed.” she set down a long-handled spoon, turned, and walked back to the counter.

five minutes later, when amira caught her eye across the room, she mouthed, did you like it? and amira smiled for the second time, nodding vigorously in return.

four.

“what’s it going to be this time?”

“what’s your name?” amira said it a bit too quickly, rushing to say the words before she chickened out.

the girl pushed her scarf (a different one this time, patterned with cornflowers to match her eyes) back with one hand and said, “astrid.”

amira decided that she had made the exchange awkward and tried to move on. “can i have a cardamom braid? i might need a bag, too, because i don’t think i can finish a whole one on my own.”

“not until you tell me your name, too. this has to be a fair trade. i’m giving you food and my name and you’re giving me nothing.” astrid gave her a look, one hand resting lightly on her hip.

“hey, it’s not like i’m getting the cardamom braid for free. i’m amira.”

“that wasn’t too hard. one cardamom braid and a paper bag coming up, amira.” her name sounded different coming off of astrid’s tongue, more lilting and song-like.

when amira took the plate, she brushed fingers with astrid, and it felt like her stomach had dropped through the floor. she looked up a little, startled for some unfathomable reason, and astrid’s lip quirked. “what?”

amira shook her head. “nothing, sorry, i just thought i had forgotten something.”

i think i want to kiss you.

“enjoy the cardamom braid!” something beeped faintly from the kitchen, and astrid hurried through the door, disappearing from view.

five.

amira was buying oranges from a fruit stall in aideen’s plaza when she saw a familiar blue scarf and a twist of blonde hair.

she crossed the square to where astrid was sitting, looking through an old notebook bursting with scraps of paper and long, scribbled lists.

“hey! what are you doing out of the bakery?” astrid looked up at the sound of her voice.

“it’s sunday, we’re closed. i don’t suppose you want to help me sort through this notebook the old owner left me. i found it in a drawer in the kitchen and i think it’s got recipes and all kinds of things, but i can barely read the handwriting.” astrid pulled off her scarf and ran her fingers distractedly through her hair. “if you’re busy, don’t let me distract you. i’m just desperate to know what this says, for aideen’s sake. it’s practically a cipher.”

“i was just getting some oranges. i can stay for a bit.” amira sat down.

somehow, she spent several hours poring over the notebook with astrid. it was odd spending time with her outside of the bakery, but amira decided that she liked it. astrid was good company, and she cracked jokes and chattered while amira listened and watched her.

around five, amira checked the time and stood up abruptly. “i have to go! i was going to do some work at the stable this afternoon.”

the light was heavy and cast soft shadows in the concave shapes of astrid’s face. “tell the horses hi from me.”

an hour later, amira braided little blue flowers into her gelding’s mane, her thoughts drifting. he whickered at her, confused, and she patted his neck. “astrid says hi.”

six.

“you get some cookies for free this time, since you helped me with that notebook last week.” they were back in the bakery, astrid behind her counter and amira standing before her.

“i didn’t do that much. you don’t need to give me cookies.”

“i appreciated it anyway. you were very helpful. also, i made a few too many in the first place. that’s what comes of messing around with recipes. and my pepparkakor is delicious. you’d be a fool to pass up an offer like this.”

amira stopped fiddling with her hands and looked up. astrid’s hair was shot with gold, wisps of it catching the sun and outlining her features in a halo. her freckles were a little more visible now, spreading across her cheeks, and her eyes were bottomless blue. amira suddenly registered that there was no one else in the bakery.

“there’s, um. there’s some flour on your face.” she reached out, bravely, and brushed astrid’s cheek with her thumb. it was soft, barely there. flour hung in the air like a cloud of dust particles. amira let her thumb rest nervously on astrid’s cheekbone, feeling her heart pound painfully in her chest.

her hand dropped as astrid leaned forward, hands braced on the counter, until their noses nearly touched. their breath mingled in the space between them. amira shut her eyes and closed the gap.

astrid tasted like her bakery, all sugar and vanilla and the dusty scent of flour. her hair was soft as amira tangled her fingers in it, and her eyelashes fluttered on amira’s cheek.

they kissed for a long time, seconds flying by like hours. amira tried to catalogue every piece of astrid; the feel of her skin and the sigh of her breath and even the texture of her scarf. she felt weightless, ignoring the edge of the counter as it dug into her thigh. her other hand found astrid’s shoulder and hovered there, sliding along the fabric of her shirt.

when they finally pulled apart, they were both smiling. astrid adjusted her hair. “i’ll get you that pepparkakor.”

#i stayed up until midnight to finish this for some reason #i need to go to sleep there is school tomorrow #also to find a name for the baker i just googled 'popular swedish girl names' i'm so original #my writing #sso fanfiction

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seriouscuttervoice · 7 years

Text

Sacrifice

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Characters: 707/Luciel Choi, V, Rika (Mentioned), Saeran Choi (Mentioned)

Links: AO3 | FFN

Notes: I mainly wrote this to get some practice with Saeyoung’s point of view, but considering this fic is set when he’s about seventeen and he’s drastically different from how he is in the thing I’m writing that I needed the practice for, I don’t think I really achieved what I was going for. Regardless, I really like how this turned out and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Luciel's favourite part of soda is the hiss when he pops the tab on his can, bringing it to his lips to gulp down the slightly minty beverage, cool and unlike mostly everything else he's ever drank, which, since two years ago, has expanded widely in variety. He wonders how V kept it cold in his car driving here, since Luciel lives pretty out of his way. Between his agency assignments to learn more complex types of software hacking and the physical training he's been mandated to go through, Luciel doesn't have much time to watch television or stream shows online, but he does recall seeing one where a character's car had a fridge in it. He doesn't remember the name of the show or what it was about, but the fridge stuck out. If he can ever afford a car he'll definitely get one with a fridge.

He dangles his arm over the railing that overlooks the mountainside, covered in fresh green grass since it's summer, tipping the can just enough that he can feel the danger of spillage without any of the Ph.D. Pepper actually dripping out. Beside him, V's eyes roam the landscape, a soft smile on his features, subtle enough that it could almost appear to just be his neutral expression.

Luciel doesn't get to see V in person much, since they're both very busy, but V does make the effort to catch up with him at least once every couple of months. The mountainside is a nice place for it, and probably better than the public places V has sometimes brought him to. Luciel knows that sooner or later he'll be receiving missions where his intel gathering will need to happen beyond his computer, but rarely going anywhere except to church for the most part of his life made encounters with strangers awkward experiences, and it's even worse when he goes with V. Whether it's experience or something else, Luciel doesn't know, but V's words are always seamless, sweeter than the words of the priest at Luciel's church were, and even average people like the barista or the ticket counter at the arcade seem enthralled by his presence. Luciel's own long pauses while searching for the right words to express what he wants are more than laughable by comparison. They're humiliating.

Luciel sighs, raises the can to take another sip and shifts his weight onto his left leg. He can't help but wonder at Saeran, if perhaps his little brother is any better at this than he is, if he has more opportunities than Luciel does to practice. It's an enjoyable prospect to consider, that Saeran has adjusted to a better life than Luciel and has plenty of free time to spend in arcades or ice cream shops, well off enough to treat himself to small pleasures that Luciel can't indulge in and impress the workers with the smoothness of his speech.

Realistically, the chances are low. The trauma their mother had inflicted upon Luciel and Saeran had a dramatic influence on their ability to develop healthily, and Saeran had dealt with far worse from her than Luciel ever had to. Recovery would be a long journey, and all Luciel can do is trust that Rika and V are helping Saeran through it.

He turns his head slightly to glance at V again and starts when he realizes the other's been looking at him, immediately turning his gaze back to the mountains.

"Sorry," V apologizes, and Luciel can hear a smile in his tone. "Did I surprise you? I shouldn't've been staring."

"No, it's okay," Luciel says, hoping he sounds reassuring. "I just wasn't, um…"

V waits.

"… Expecting it," Luciel finishes lamely.

"It's all right," V says. "You looked like you were concentrating hard, though. I was wondering what you're thinking about."

Luciel's cheeks heat, and he takes another gulp of Ph.D. Pepper, looking away from V to the horizon line.

"Nothing," he mumbles, unsure of how he'd explain it even if he tried. Luciel isn't supposed to have thoughts of Saeran anymore, is supposed to have given him away to the care of Rika and V and entrusted them with keeping him safe and helping him heal from his painful childhood without further involvement on Luciel's part. It hurts his chest to think about, and he swallows his next mouthful of soda down hard so the harsh sparkling texture burns his throat. If only there were some way they could've emerged together… or, even better, if they could've been born as twins to a loving family, who'd lavish them with presents just for no reason, go out all together to fancy restaurants or amusement parks like in the shows. He fingers the cross around his neck and tries to think that this is all a trial, that one day whatever God's plan is for him and his brother will be fulfilled and he can just live in happiness. To have separated a pair of twins… it's so cruel, but considering the circumstances in which they were raised, Luciel wonders if maybe they were doomed from the start. His fingers move to clasp the pendant, and its corners dig painfully into his palm.

V takes a step toward him, places his forearms on the railing and leans out too. Luciel is conscious of him but doesn't look, the black sleeves visible in his periphery. "How's your work for the agency going?"

"Okay," Luciel answers. "I mean, the same as usual." His hand drops from the necklace.

"That sounds good, then," V says. "You're a fast learner."

"Mm," Luciel agrees. The training is difficult, but Luciel knows he's moving through it at a much faster rate than the agency expected of him when he first joined. Unfortunately, that means they raised their expectations pretty quickly. He's given more assignments on the fronts of both actual work and learning the skills required to be successful in this job than most of the others he works with, and V's sporadic visits mean never having a stable sense of when he'll get a break. People who've been in the business longer like Vanderwood use the money they earn to reward themselves between missions, but Luciel wouldn't even know what to spend it on, except maybe soda. On top of that, he hears the higher-ups are thinking of sending him to college in about a year to work undercover on some new project no one has details on yet.

It'll all be worth it though, if it means Saeran gets to smile like on Rika's floppy disk. Luciel cracks his neck, straightens up a little. It's so sunny and warm out today. Maybe somewhere not so far from here, Saeran is outside enjoying the weather too.

"Hey, V?" Luciel says quietly, and V turns his whole body in Luciel's direction to listen, one arm still resting on the rail. "You and Rika… you love her, right?"

"Yes," V's response comes without hesitance, like it's the easiest question he's ever been asked, and Luciel wonders if there's anything that he knows with that kind of sureness. He shifts his weight to the other leg again, feels an itch on his neck but resists the urge to scratch it.

"Well…"

V wears boots that lace up, and next to Luciel's dirty sneakers they look pretty professional, though he knows that's not what actual professionals wear. Now that he thinks about it, V's always worn the same kind of shoes basically since Luciel met him.

"Then you should know," Luciel ignores the distraction, trying to sound confident. "Like… if you love someone… I mean." He pauses, and turns his head away from V when he can feel the other's expression changing. "What are you supposed to do for people if you love them? How do you know if it's the right thing?"

V's silent, and the seconds rolling by make the soft breezes chilling. Luciel zips up his hoodie. He probably shouldn't've even asked. His life with Saeran is over and there's no way for him to go back, whether he did the right thing or not. So he has to believe he did the right thing… there's no other choice but to believe he did the right thing.

He bites his lip, maybe he should tell V not to bother with an answer, dismiss the question as caused by stress, because there's no doubt the other is probably worrying about the implications of Luciel asking such a question.

"I, um," he mumbles. "I'm not having second thoughts, or anything. It was—"

"Sacrifice," V says, and Luciel finally looks at him to see he's staring out, the sunlight reflecting on his face making it difficult to discern his expression, still like a pool of water. Luciel's eyes widen involuntarily. Maybe it's the blue hair but something about V is so unnatural, like the space dust everyone evolved from isn't totally able to hold its human form for him. Maybe that's unfair, since in Luciel's kind of work, there's not much room for him to be 'natural' either. "When you love someone, you sacrifice for them. Your life and theirs exist on a continuum, like the sun that has to burn for life on earth to flourish. When you love someone, you accept that burning, you put the comfort you would've taken for yourself if you were alone aside for their sake. It's not always easy… but you know it's right because your love for them tells you that they deserve to be happy."

V fixes him with a bright white smile, and for a moment Luciel is breathless. The sunlight behind V is a soft glow around his face that's warm and inviting, like that first time Luciel met him, like the time V promised he could give a better life to his brother. He hears a soft clink when the can slips from his fingers, and looks down with a start to see Ph.D. Pepper soaking into the grass before the can slips off the edge of the mountainside, a few more clanks against it before it vanishes out of sight.

"S-sorry," Luciel stammers. He doesn't know how much V paid for the soda but it's a waste now, and the can is just going to be a pollutant. He shakes himself out of his trance and hopes they can go home soon.

"It's all right," V says, puts a hand gently on Luciel's shoulder. "It was an accident."

Luciel's eyes sting. Mistakes… accidents… they aren't a luxury he can afford, not a luxury he's ever been able to afford, and if there's one thing that's consistent about his life since escaping his mother it's the harsh punishments he still knows to expect if he messes up. The touch on his shoulder makes him want to step forward into V's arms like children do into the arms of their parents on TV, but Luciel isn't a child and that kind of relationship has never been feasible for him. His throat clenches, and he feels so stupid. It's just a pop can.

Perhaps sensing his desire, V's hand slips behind Luciel's back and he pulls Luciel to his chest. Luciel gasps, his glasses shifting slightly off his face, and before he realizes what he's doing he's clinging tightly to V too, sniffing gross snot and his throat aching with the stubborn effort not to let tears spill through. V's chin rests on his head, pointed and slightly painful, and Luciel takes one of his arms back to wipe his eyes under his glasses.

"I'm sorry," V murmurs, and Luciel's body trembles.

"For what?" he muffles against V's shirt. "No one in the world has ever done so much for me."

V's warm hand is secure behind Luciel's neck, fingers and thumb cradling his head in place.

"I should be the one who's sorry for acting like this. I'm… not supposed to talk about those things anymore."

"It's okay," V reassures, and Luciel knows that without him he never could've broken away from there, never could've given Saeran a chance for a better life. A sob breaks his breath and he's grateful that they're alone right now. "I wish I could've done more."

"You did everything you could."

He hears the faint chatter of birds and closes his eyes, lets himself imagine for a moment that he's normal, that he and Saeran had been born to parents like V, who'd love them enough to sacrifice for them like a parent should for their child. To imagine a life where hugs like this are normal, where accidents are forgivable just because they're accidents, and instead of doing dirty work for terrible people he and Saeran could've gone to a regular school and made regular friends instead of having to count on Luciel's genius to make them stand out to someone kind enough to offer a second chance. A second chance…

Even if that chance isn't perfect. Even if it hurts, like the sun burns his eyes if he looks for too long, mesmerized by the openness of the blue sky.

A/N: I feel like I should disclaim just in case that V’s notions about love are unhealthy and not good advice at all. Sacrifice and compromise can be part of loving someone if they’re also willing to sacrifice and compromise for you, but love should never be about suffering. The circumstances are different in Saeyoung’s case, but what V talks about when he describes his own love is toxic and dangerous.

#Luciel Choi #V #Mystic Messenger #fanfiction #my writing

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