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no-droids · 4 years

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The Sun on Both Sides

Summary: Cassian Andor is your very close companion. He says best friend, you say pain in your ass—neither one of you are entirely wrong. But then one night you smoke some unfamiliar spice with him, and everything you once thought you knew goes sideways.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Cassian Andor/fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: SMUT, sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), recreational drug use, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, dirty talk, oral sex (both male and female receiving), penetrative sex, me just making so much shit up honestly

A/N: All phrases in Festan are taken from other Star Wars conlangs. I don’t even know if that’s the name of the language people from Fest speak tbh. Probably not. None of this is real. Anyways this is Cassian as a young rebel pilot long before the events of Rogue One. This oneshot will likely be deemed obsolete by Cassian’s new Disney+ show but whoooooooops~

—knock knock knock knock knock—

You know that knock. It’s too quick, too rapid and annoying to be anyone else.

“I’m sleeping,” you huff with your mouth full, sitting on top of your mattress in a hoodie and sweatpants, legs crossed.

“I have gifts,” Cassian’s muffled voice asserts from the other side of the door.

“I don’t care,” you return, swallowing and shoveling more slop together with your tiny little biodegradable spork. “S’the middle of the night.”

—knock knock knock knock knock—

“Stop it.”

“Knock knock,” he beckons vocally, as if you didn’t hear it the first ten times. “Come, open the door. Please—I will get into trouble.”

It’s exhausting being Cassian’s friend. Truly exhausting. It doesn’t matter what Maker-forsaken time it is, as soon as he comes back to base from patrols, he’s at your door. You don’t know why he chose you as his sole victim to personally inflict this torture upon, but regardless of reason, he’s called you his close friend ever since you first offered to help the lanky, dark-haired six year old with his Basic and his best friend ever since your junior year of flight training. Apparently with the promotion came the lingering, severe misfortune of his present company, almost always.

“Can I put in for a transfer?” He also technically outranks you.

“Open the door and we will talk,” Cassian bargains. Bantha shit, you and him both know it. He’ll rip the papers in half before you can even finish filling them out.

You let out a dramatic groan just loud enough for him to hear, dragging yourself off the bed and padding over to the door. “If I accept your gift, will you leave?”

“Maybe.” No.

“If I accept your gift and trade it for the rest of this, uh,” you look at the MRE packet in your hands, “rice and shredded tauntaun meat in glockaw sauce, will you leave?”

“Maybe.” No.

“Good call, not as great as it sounds. What if I—”

He says your name impatiently, accented and sharp. You roll your eyes as his knuckles rap on the door once more. “Quickly, quickly—before someone sees.”

“It’s the residential quarters and it’s two in the fucking morning, Cass, nobody’s going t—”

He cuts you off once more. “Open the door and I will submit for your transfer work, yes?”

You throw your spork prong-down into the beige pouch in your hands and pop your hip, narrowing your eyebrows at the thick slab of metal separating the two of you skeptically. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I will not,” the voice behind it concedes immediately. “But for you, I will pretend.”

As soon as you the door slides open and disappears up into the ceiling with a quiet shhhft sound, his dark silhouette quickly slips past you and sneaks into your room, immediately bouncing his bony little butt down on top of your sizable but thin box-spring mattress without a word. You press the button to close the door behind him with a long, drawn out sigh, turning around and resting your back against the wall panel.

Cassian meets your tired, expectant gaze head-on and wide awake, perched on your bed and huddled around something hidden in his thick jacket. “First. You cannot tell anyone. Understand?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Are we children, Cass?”

“Secondly.” He blinks up at you. Maker, his eyes are so… wide. Dark and warm and bright, framed with thick, long lashes. “If you do not want it, just say. Okay?”

Your expression suddenly narrows. This is new. It’s… still bantha shit, but it’s… new. New bantha shit.

“Because the word ‘no’ holds so much meaning for you,” you tilt your head to gesture at the door to your right, “clearly.”

“Come. Sit here,” he ignores you, patting the space next to him as if that isn’t your own fucking bed he’s inviting you to join him on. “We will look together.”

“I will literally murder you,” you tell him genuinely, though you push off the wall to move toward him all the same. “If that’s not a cute little mini-lothcat in your arms you got me for my birthday, Andor, I will literally murder you.”

“Today is your birthday?” He glances up at you in surprise just as you’re lowering yourself down onto the mattress next to him.

“Two weeks ago, but you were off-base.” You dig around inside the pouch for your handy little spork, not looking at him. “Quit avoiding the subject, my death threat still stands. Where’s my cat, asshole? Who do I have to tolerate in my bed this late at night to push that kind of paperwor—oof—”

The second you catch the hard little end piece of it between your fingers is the second he reaches around you and pulls you into a tight, one-armed hug. You fumble with the packet of food as you’re abruptly jerked forward, trying not to let it get squished it between you.

Stars, he smells good. His parka smells just like him, the fur lining its hood so warm and fluffy and soft as it tickles your nose. It’s still slightly damp from the wet sleet outside, but it smells so good. The smallest undercurrent of clove and spice hidden beneath the sharp, clean scent of fresh snow.

“Happy Year-Over, caraya,” Cassian says next to your ear, quiet and fond. “I know it is late, but I have your gift now.”

“‘Caraya’ better be Festan for ‘here’s your cute little lothcat, birthday girl’,” you warn him, moving to rest your chin on top of his padded shoulder and trying not to sound as breathless or affected by his sweet talking as you feel. He’s never called you that before. Caraya. What does it mean?

It’s… it’s bantha shit, you remind yourself, trying not to close your eyes or lean into his half-embrace. It’s all bantha shit.

“No,” Cassian acknowledges with a small head tilt, pulling his shoulder back but still keeping his long arm wrapped tight around you. “No. Not a… a cat, but…” He slowly opens his other hand between the two of you, finally showing you.

You blink down at the thing in his palm, cradled carefully in thick gloves from the sub-zero temperatures outside. It’s. No, he’s right, it’s not a cat. It’s a… a stick. Reddish-pink, ground up plant matter wrapped in a semi-transparent binding. Rolled up in a nice, even cylinder, a filter secured around one of its ends.

Spice. Hand-rolled. Expensive. Probably swiped off a supply raid, whether by Cassian himself or another rebel fighter he bought it off of. Ludicrous he got his hands on it, much less brought it on base. Here, to your fucking quarters.

“I was wrong,” you eventually say, taking the joint from his open palm and holding it up to examine its strange color in the dim light. “You don’t think we’re children. You think we’re teenagers.”

“I think we are adults,” he corrects, swiping the MRE from your other hand, “with a reason to celebrate.” He releases you and takes his arm back, sitting on your bed and digging two fingers around in your half-finished packet for your spork.

“You’re a bold pilot, Cass,” you tell him, studying the spice. You’ve never seen any strain even similar to this before. “It was one thing to do this during flight training, but now? What happens if we have a piss test tomorrow? Or, well—today, actually?”

“Different kind from before.” He doesn’t sound bothered by the thought, though his mouth is currently full of tauntaun and rice in glockaw sauce. “Only five hours high, not detectable after. Piss tests are expensive, the rebellion has no money.”

“X-wings are expensive, too,” you counter, turning to look at him. “You crash one of ‘em ‘cause you smoked this shit and your ass will be dead before you can even survive.”

“You hurt me.” He uses the utensil to dig around the bottom corners of the packet for more slop, not looking hurt in the least. “Also—you were right. This one is… horrible.”

“Not to mention I have a oh-nine-hundred call.” You both watch each other with matching looks of distaste as he continues to eat your food, clearly neither one of you enjoying it. “You’re giving me barely two hours to come down before I got orange jumpsuits crawling all over me.”

“You did not hear?” Cassian swallows. “Reassigned Dreis during debriefing. I will be leading red squadron tomorrow. Or, today.”

You blink at him. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” he shakes his head exactly once, throwing the spork into the empty packet and flattening it. “No, I would not do that to you.”

“Course not,” you agree diplomatically. “You’d just barge into my room at two in the morning, eat my food, offer me drugs, and then tell me I’ll be taking orders from you tomorrow.”

”Today,” he corrects. “But I could not get our call changed, and for that I am sorry.” He lifts an eyebrow at you, quirking the side of his mouth up and pushing the empty MRE pouch into your hands to throw away. “But only for that. Happy birthday?”

“We’re going to lose this war,” you tell him honestly, sliding off your mattress with a sigh to trash it. “We’re all going to die horribly, and painfully. The Rebellion is fucking doomed. You and I will be but a mere footnote in the Empire’s endless reign of terror, you realize. A footnote. Our names at the very, very bottom of the page, in tiny little six point font, and it’ll link to a one sentence obituary for the both of us. Died horribly and in pain. Did you bring a lighter?”

“Here,” Cassian shifts to one buttcheek and pulls an arc lighter from his back pocket, offering it to you when you come back. “Okay? You will start it then? Birthday girl.”

“You said five hours for one person, right? So that’s two and a half each if we split it,” you reason with a shrug, putting the filter to your lips and talking through the side of your mouth. “Two o’clock right now, nine-hundred call. At least four hours to come down, and thirty minutes to shower if we’re both lucky.”

“We will be fine.” He waves your careful calculations away with his hand as you flick the lighter. “Because we are lucky feetnotes, yes?”

***

You’re not fine.

It’s fucking boiling in here. Maker, you’re on fucking Hoth; why the fuck are you boiling? It’s never even been warm in your quarters before, much less this hot. You feel like you’re sweating buckets through your hoodie, your hair sticking to your neck in thin little curls.

And… and Cassian.

He’s sitting so unbelievably straight on the bed across from you, parka and gloves long abandoned on the floor. His dark eyes flick over to you occasionally, though it looks like he’s trying really hard not to move a single muscle other than that. His hands are clamped tightly between his thighs and he just… holds there. A compact, rigid statue perched upright on the mattress, looking far too still and tense to fit the comfort of his surroundings.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, blinking at how hoarse your voice comes out sounding. Holy fuck, your mouth feels like a desert.

Cassian stares at you, and for some reason, his large, expressive eyes seem even wider now. They’re glassy and a bit red, but also so big and lovely and framed with long, dark lashes.

“This is not.” His accent sounds thicker, words coming out deeper in his throat. It settles down inside you just right and you feel a spark of heat at the base of your spine. He blinks twice. “This is not how it usually feels.”

“Should we stop?” You look down at the half-finished joint in your hand, tilting your head thoughtfully as you consider the drug pulsing through your veins. “It’s… it’s different, but I think it feels good.”

“Yes—I…” He closes his eyes. “Th-that is the problem, I think.”

He shifts a bit on the mattress and bites down on his bottom lip, and you must look so fucking dumb as you stare at him with your jaw slack, watching his lithe body stretch and handle the spice. He’s fucking gorgeous. Stars, you always thought he was gorgeous, but this is something else. He flutters his eyes open to look at you through his lashes, and—

—oh. Oh. You see now. You see what he meant. Warmth pools deep down in your tummy as he looks at you with impossibly dark eyes, slowly drags his glassy gaze down your body. Fuck, you’re getting turned on. You go red and blink softly at him while he stares at you, trying to control your breathing.

“You need to—” your voice jumps, trying to remember the right cadence. How do you speak to him normally? “You can… take—take my pillow, if you want. Lay down. You’re too tall, your eyes are too big. Look like a… like a Kaminoan. Heal any—heal any clones recently?”

Bad joke. Maker, he’s so beautiful. Rich, dark features taking you in, blinking slowly at you and clearly not hearing a single word you said.

You shift your weight and throw him the cushion you’re partially sitting on without waiting for an answer. You both need to calm the fuck down. Hopefully the pillow will help. Even if it’s squished and warm from your butt. “It’s warm ‘cause I was sitting on it, m’sorry. Fuck, it’s warm in here. Do you think it’s warm in here?”

It’s like he still doesn’t hear you. Cassian just takes your flattened pillow in his lap and looks at it for way too long, slowly rubs the fabric on the corner between his fingers and examines it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll be able to see through it.

“Cass,” you eventually call his name in reminder. “Lay down, put that under your head—”

“Do you feel turned on?” He asks quite suddenly, whipping his head to the side to look at you. You almost drop the spice.

“No,” you say immediately, acting on impulse alone and trying to rearrange your face into something… something negative. Something just generally negative, because you can’t even think of a negative emotion specific enough with the way your heart is pounding at the thought of something like this actually happening right now. Holy fuck, you’re sweating. What the fuck is in this shit? “No, of course not.”

“Of course not,” he nods, turning back to look at your pillow. “Me too. Not.” He shakes his head. “Neither. Either?”

“Lay down,” you tell him once more, desperately needing something else to do now, something to distract yourself from the way your lower muscles are starting to cramp up with heat and arousal. “I’ll get us some water. We need water.”

You’re off the bed and setting the smoldering spice on the small metal counter without another word, grabbing two empty cups and beginning to fill them up in the tiny little sink with your back to him.

Stars, he was right. It’s not supposed to feel like this. It feels… it feels like everything is burning inside you, but such a good burn. Like your mind is being seduced by your own body right now instead of the other way around, and the paradoxical sensation is manifesting itself in an unprecedentedly strong urge to jump your best friend’s bones. The urge has always been there, granted, but it’s never been this shameless before. Never arced and pulsed so brilliantly in your veins before, never been steadily fed by such a tempting outside source. Not the drugs—but him. The tangible fuck-me vibes Cassian is radiating towards you right now, staring at your back with those big, gorgeous brown eyes of his, silent and unmoving behind you as he watches you from your bed. He’s never done anything to encourage your desire for him like this before. He’s never wanted anything more than just platonic companionship and playful banter in the midst of war zones from you, and yet you can feel the heat burning from him too, feel it start to intensify your own high.

It’s bantha shit, you have to realize. This whole Maker-forsaken situation—it’s forced; none of it’s real. Cassian is your best friend, and he’s only looking at you like this because spice is chemically altering his hormones right now. You can feel it doing the same to you, just steadily stirring deep in your floor muscles and amplifying your baser desires, but you need to snap yourself the fuck out of it and be the levelheaded one here. Despite the arousal burning hot in your tummy, at least you know your thoughts are still fundamentally sound—in contrast, you have no fucking clue what’s going on in that hard head of his right now. At least one of you needs to buck up, handle your drugs, and be the adult before things get out of hand. If it falls to you, then so be it.

You focus on your breathing and do as much as you can to mentally will the tingling sensation down deep. Taking a second to put a comfortable expression on, you finally turn around and start walking back to him.

When you raise your head and make eye contact with Cassian again though, the look in his eyes almost immediately threatens to undo everything you just decided. Fuck, he looks like he just had an internal pep talk of his own, but in the entirely wrong direction you went. He’s a bit more relaxed now, same as you, but his gaze is now searing hot on your body, tangible enough to stop you dead in your tracks in front of him. It burns through you, and you literally feel the sweat drip down your back as a shiver rolls down your spine.

No. Hold strong. Maker, irresponsibility has always been appealing but never so fucking seductive as this is, has it? Taking such a gorgeous fucking form. You take a few more steps forward, quickly trying to gather composure.

“Should we stop?” You ask him once more and stars, you were aiming for calmer and gentler and with more lung support—not this breathless scrape of a sound that feels like sandpaper in your throat. He hasn’t said a fucking word and your resolve is already wavering. You try not to make eye contact as you carefully hand him one of the cups. “We’re only twenty minutes in, barely halfway through it. We can stop and coast, it’s not a big deal.”

Cassian takes the water from your outstretched hand, letting the tips of his fingers brush lightly across yours in the process. Your heart skips in your chest. “Do you want to stop?”

You absolutely should fucking stop. Just standing here and handing him water without ripping your clothes off is a challenge; you’ve still got half a joint left and you’re not even sure you’ve reached the come-up yet. What if this is just the beginning? What if this is just laying the foundation? What happens when you actually peak on this shit?

“It’s not a big deal,” you repeat instead, keeping your answer as ambiguous as possible and taking a sip of the blessedly cold liquid. At least the water is responding correctly to the frigid environment on this horrible fucking planet. You feel ready to burn up. “Just wanna make sure you’re cool.”

Cassian flicks his eyes over to the joint still cherried and smoking on the metal counter behind you. “We can keep going.”

Your breathing picks up slightly. Does he know what he’s really asking right now? He has to have figured out what that spice does by now, right? But no, he’s so steadfast in the way he looks at you, blinking up at you confidently. Fuck, you should stop. You should stop.

You should… compromise?

“If we keep going, no more of this,” you tell him, gesturing to the way he still hasn’t moved or drank any of the water in his cup. “You need to. Chill out, alright. Act normal.”

Fuck, you’re normally so blunt and outspoken with him, so why is it that everything happening here is so fucking unsaid? Everything is transpiring right below the surface, a conversation taking place within another conversation. You’re telling him to cut the heart eyes, lay back on the bed and spend some rare quality time with his best friend. Regardless of the weird side effects, this spice is still giving you an incredibly strong body high. If he could just stop looking at you like that so you can stop rhythmically clenching and pulsing between your legs, you’d probably be incredibly relaxed right now.

“I will lay down,” he finally agrees, breaking eye contact with you and grabbing the pillow from his lap so he can throw it down next to him. “Go, get the rest of it.”

“Drink.” You stay rooted to your spot.

He gulps down the entire cup of water right in front of you, and something about how sassy and exaggerated it is makes you unwind just a bit and head back for the spice.

This is better, you think. Butting heads with your strong personalities is better than whatever mind games you two were playing before, more familiar and grounding. Cassian sets down his empty cup on the floor as you pick up the joint, and then you sit on the edge of the mattress across from him when you come back.

“So how were patrols?” You ask him, taking another hit of it and studying the strange color it burns as you hold the smoke in your lungs, almost a light pink.

“Not bad,” he says, scooting back to lay lengthwise across the back of the bed. His long legs stick off the end but he looks way more comfortable now, settling back into the pillow and watching you with a calmer, more easy-going look in his eyes.

“Where’d you get sent this time?” You have to lean forward quite a bit to hand him the spice.

“The Lothal Sector,” Cassian responds casually, taking it from you.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, already unamused before he’s even started to mess with you. “I will shoot down red leader tomorrow, Cass, don’t you dare fucking test m—”

“A local was trying to sell kittens to the pilots,” he goes on, completely ignoring you and relaxing back down into the mattress with the joint between his fingers. “They were very cute. But then I tell him no, because I did not know of anyone who could care for one.”

“That’s not fucking funny.” Cassian smiles slowly at you as you glare back at him very, very sternly. “This is a no lothcat joking zone, I’m sensitive about this.”

He keeps smiling even as he takes his hit, gentle and fond and lovely on his face, but his eyes eventually go softer and a bit melancholy on the exhale.

“I am sorry I missed your birthday, caraya,” he says to you truthfully, something sincere and tender in the way he looks at you. “But I will get you something better than a cat.”

“What does that mean?” You lean forward and grab the spice from him when he holds it out for you.

“No idea,” he admits during the careful exchange. “Maybe something with less claws and teeth, I think.”

“No,” you shake your head, settling back on your butt once more. “Caraya. What does that mean?”

Cassian quickly opens his mouth to reply, but then pauses and takes a second. As if he’s debating on what exactly he wants to tell you. You inhale from the spice held between your fingers and wait patiently for him. Probably something to do with birthdays, right? Since he only started calling you that after you told him he missed yours.

You end up waiting for his answer so long, you actually feel like you should take another hit. But when Cassian does eventually speak, it’s incredibly calculated and slow, like he’s actively trying to find the correct words to translate its exact meaning into Basic.

“Fest is part of a binary star system,” he finally tells you, breaking the silence. “It is… it is what my people call the times when… when one of the stars sets while the other is rising on the opposite horizon.”

You pause with the joint halfway to your mouth, staring dumbly at him.

“It is rare. I have seen it only twice. Each time, for less than a minute. It is very rare for them to match up perfectly, but when they do.” His eyes go a bit softer, losing himself in his memories instead of concentrating so much on the words. “The sky shines with every color. Reds, yellows, and pinks to the west; blues, indigos, and violets to the east. It is… it is also… something we call the ones close to us,” he continues, blinking his gaze slowly back to you. “Caraya na cotâ vi zas iz’búsdari. To care and be cared for is to feel the sun on both sides.”

You… you just keep staring at him. Blank, unmoving, not really even breathing. Your chest suddenly feels incredibly tight. He looks back at you and stars, he looks so fucking gorgeous; long lashes dusting over his cheekbones at this angle, one hand resting lazily over his abdomen as he relaxes on your bed.

“It sounds…” You sound winded. “Lovely.”

“Yes,” Cassian returns softly, tilting his head on your pillow and blinking at you. “It is.”

You don’t know why the fuck you thought this would be okay, honestly. This whole thing was such a horrendous fucking idea right from the start. You’re surprised you haven’t set the both of you on fire by dropping the lit spice between your fingers. You were a fucking idiot to think you could resist him. You were overconfident, underestimating him the way you did. It’s like… like he’s approaching this in surges, almost. Lulling you into a false sense of security for a bit, and then carefully pushes forward, toeing the line between best friend and person he wants to fuck and seeing how much you’ll let him get away with.

You’re… you’re a weak, spineless little thing.

“Is it—is it your turn?” You eventually ask him, looking down at the joint in your hands. It’s barely above a whisper and it’s vaguely squeaky and it’s probably one of the dumbest fucking things you’ve ever asked in your life. Of course it’s his turn, who the fuck else’s turn would it be?

Cassian would normally rip into you for being such an idiot, but he doesn’t. He just blinks softly at you, pupils dilated and glassy as they take you in.

“Would you like to…” He sounds equally breathless now, swallowing thickly before he speaks again. “You can… come closer, if you want. Here. With me.” He pats his belly. “No more reaching.”

What is… what is happening right now? Is Cassian Andor actually, like—for real making a move on you? His best friend? The one he’s never looked twice at?

“You want me to…?” Your cunt clenches. Stars, you’re so wet already. You can feel it, dampening your underwear as his eyes flutter slightly at the rasp in your voice.

“Come,” he pats his stomach once more. “Lay down with me.”

You slowly begin to shuffle over to him on shaky knees, trying to move normally as he watches you. He stretches out across the back of the bed, giving you a perfect spot along his open torso to relax into. Your heart pounds as you carefully hand the spice to him before settling yourself on your back with your head on his tummy, making a little perpendicular t-shape with him on the mattress, vision slightly blurry but pulsing at the same time.

Maker, he smells so fucking good. He smells like fresh snow and something warm at the same time, so lean and long above you. You’re almost panting now, burning up in your thick layers as you try to get comfortable.

“Maker, it’s so fucking hot in here,” you whisper, using your sleeve to wipe the sweat gathering at your temples. “Fuck.”

“Take off your shirt,” Cassian suggests quietly, and your mouth instantly goes bone dry, your chest forgetting to rise again after it collapses with a quick whoosh of breath. “You have something on underneath, yes?” He adds quickly before you can completely ignite in flames. “Take off the top one.”

You… you have a thin undershirt on, but nothing underneath that. It’s nearing three in the morning, of course you don’t have a bra on right now. And the undershirt is white, and you’re sweating buckets, which means—

“It… it might show some…” You have no clue how to phrase this, but Cassian quickly responds.

“It is just me,” he reassures, carefully reaching his arm around your head to hold the joint up to your lips for you. You inhale the drug deeply, watching the pink light illuminate the tips of his fingers. “We are best friends, and this is your room. You should relax.”

Maker, this is… this is dangerous. He’s dangerous. He’s smart, choosing to go at it from this angle. He’s not toeing the line anymore, he’s just… blurring it until it doesn’t exist anymore. Or better yet, just walking over it and pretending it doesn’t exist at all. Pretending nothing at all is happening between you right now. Trying to see whether you’ll be more willing to give in if he comes at you from the side like this, not necessarily catching you off guard but refusing to outright confront you about it either.

Apparently precedent rules. You’re a weak, spineless little thing, especially when presented with such a compelling out. He’s… he’s totally right. You are best friends, this is your room, and you should relax. Nothing sexual about it at all, right? Furthermore, relaxing trumps overheating any fucking day of the week, so… so that’s why you tell yourself it’s okay to sit up and immediately reach behind your head, grabbing the hoodie and beginning to pull the thick fabric off.

Only, it’s damp and clings to your thin undershirt, dragging both of them up the length of your back as it goes. You stop when the lower hem pulls up just below your breasts, trying to reach back behind your head even further and separate the two materials but struggling with the angle.

“Cass,” you eventually prompt, trying not to flush. Not like he’d be able to tell, though; you’ve been unbearably warm and fidgety this entire time, your embarrassment conceals itself without your assistance. “You wanna help me? Or you just wanna keep watching?”

“Do not ask me such stupid questions,” he tells you plainly, unmoving. “What did I say? We are best friends. Of course I am not going to help you. You are…” he trails off when you lift your shoulders upright just a bit to see if the angle will work better that way. It does, but the fabric drags further up your ribcage from the shift, “…You are nice to watch.”

Your heart pounds, and you’re even clumsier knowing he’s staring at your exposed tummy right now. Maker, this should not be as difficult as it is. You swing your arms back around behind you, arching outwards and trying to separate them from the bottom this time, but gravity doesn’t appear to work in your favor.

Maybe you can do like, some sort of weird, half-and-half thing to get them apart? Maybe? Where you hold the undershirt from the bottom with one hand and pull the hoodie from the top with the other?

Yes, okay—that could possibly work. Cassian inhales more spice as he lazes behind you, getting a front row seat to watch this subsequent genius unfold.

You get into your monkey-like position, beginning to pry the two materials apart from behind like you planned. But then—oh, your undershirt still sticks to your hoodie at the front, pulling up a few inches with it and flashing the lower curve of your breasts to the room before you immediately halt and switch tactics, reaching back down and trying to pull them apart from the front withou—

A large, warm palm comes up to settle on your bare spine, right in the middle of your shoulder blades.

You freeze. But Cassian doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything more than that. He just holds his hand there, steady and solid against your upper back.

Neither one of you move. It’s like… it’s like you’re both trying so hard to get a read on each other that your reactions are equally stunted. Is he doing this to bring you to a still so he can help you? Is he simply as blazed as you are right now and not thinking about things before he does them? Is he—

But then Cassian starts slowly dragging his hand down your spine, carefully riding the gentle curve of it downwards as your breathing subtly picks up. Your arms are halfway caught in the fabric, not able to stop him unless you untangle them and reach behind you. So you just hold there statuesquely as his palm inches down the sweat-slick muscles of your lower back, thumb just barely brushing the hemline of your sweatpants.

Fuck, you feel like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. Heat pools deep in your tummy, spidering outwards and sending pulsing shocks down your legs when he keeps his hand there for just a second.

Until… until he traces all the way back up and carefully hooks a finger around your undershirt.

Your heart pounds as Cassian gradually pulls it over the top of your head with your hoodie, guiding you to bring both of them around your arms. He pushes against your shoulder wordlessly, urging you to lie back down with your head on his stomach once more, the fabric stretched tight over your upper-body and the entire length of your spine now fully exposed as it touches the mattress.

“C-Cassian,” you breathe, fluttering your eyes up at the ceiling.

“Yes, caraya?” He murmurs, and you completely forget what you’re going to say when he continues to pull the hoodie and undershirt down over your arms, exposing your naked breasts to the open air.

Your cunt pulses between your legs and you hear him throw the thick bulk of fabric carelessly on the floor. “I—I-I don’t—”

“You will stay like this?” Cassian tells you softly, brushing your damp hair back from your shoulder so that your bare chest is completely unobstructed as it faces the ceiling. Your nipples are hard, a thin sheen of sweat covering your entire body, and you can feel his gaze drag down your naked skin, even if he doesn’t actually touch you. No, he just takes another slow drag from the spice in his hand and tilts his head back to rest on your pillow, relaxing into the mattress with a gentle shuffle of his shoulder blades. “If you are too warm, you will stay like this, okay? Be comfortable.”

Is it possible to die from arousal? Your clit is fucking pounding; everything from the waist down is unbearably tight and cramped. Stars, you feel like you’ll cum if you even move wrong right now. He told you to be comfortable, but you’re not—you’re boiling from the sensation, topless on your bed, trying not to close your eyes or squeeze your legs together. It’s too fucking casual and unacknowledged, how he’s going about this. You feel like you’re going to explode.

Cassian gently taps your bare shoulder to get your attention and shifts his head slightly to look down at you. You bite your bottom lip and flutter your gaze sideways to meet his after a second, hoping you don’t look as flushed and tight with burning arousal as you feel. Deep brown eyes look back at you, hazy and dilated. He takes a second to slowly drag his gaze down the length of your half-naked body once more, now that he knows you’re watching him. Your breath comes audibly now, quicker and shallower than it should be after laying flat on a bed for this long.

“Here,” Cassian prompts, holding the smoldering joint out for you to take. His voice sounds raspier now, but still so… casual. Like he’s out here talking about the weather with a mildly sore throat, not because your tits are out while you stare at each other and neither one of you is saying a damn thing about it. It’s like he’s determined to hold onto the splitting tension, drag it out between you as long as he can. “Want more?”

You know what he’s really asking, and it cramps your lower muscles up even harder. He’s asking if you want more of this spice that’s currently getting you naked in front of him. More of this madness, twisting up your insides with need and jumbling your thoughts. More of him treating you like this, like there’s not a damn thing out of place in the universe right now, like you’re still just best friends so that’s why it’s okay you’re both doing this together.

Stars, do you want more? Do you want him to keep winding you up like this? More of this torture, this agonizing foreplay, wondering when he’ll finally give in and touch you? Pretending like this is still completely platonic, like what’s happening here isn’t wildly unprecedented, insanely inappropriate, and so fucking hot?

You can feel your eyebrows pull up in the middle as you look at him, almost pleading with him to… something. To stop, maybe? Stop altogether, or just stop… fuck, stop ignoring the way your cunt feels clamped around itself tighter than a vice between your legs? Stop neglecting your burning desire for him, even when it’s right in front of his face. Stop refusing to acknowledge the way you’re just letting him look at you right now, how you haven’t once stopped playing along with this fever dream just in case you aren’t imagining it? Fuck, but Cassian just looks back at you, his expression completely blank except for the smallest little glimmer in his eyes. A silent, heated glint as he just barely quirks an eyebrow at you.

So you make the decision all at once. You carefully reach over for the spice with your far hand, feeling your breasts shift towards him slightly with the slow movement. Cassian doesn’t even feel like he’s breathing as you gently take it from him. He just stares down at your naked chest and swallows thickly, eyelids dipping slightly as he moves to meet you halfway.

You let your nipple brush up against his knuckles just slightly with the exchange.

When you face back towards the ceiling again and readjust your shoulders flat on the bed, he lets out a slow, shaky breath under your head as it rests on his tummy. The tension rockets up to eleven, weighing heavy and unspoken and ready to snap.

But then like that, the moment passes—it’s just another invisible spark igniting between the two of you, just another thing buried beneath the silence and yet ringing so unbelievably loud because of it. You’re both emitting and absorbing the same buzzing energy, amplifying it back to one another in a slow, endless feedback loop of rising pressure.

The spice comes up to your lips, and Cassian’s fingertips carefully trail along your other arm as it rests by your side.

“This is better, no?” He asks you quietly, the rough tips of his fingers just barely gliding across your skin in small, mindless patterns. They dance down your skin like feathers, tracing a small arch over the ridge of your elbow so lightly you almost feel like you might be imagining it. Your eyes flutter when he gradually skims down the length of your forearm and brushes his thumb in a smooth circle around the bone in your wrist. “Or you are still too warm?”

You bite your bottom lip when one of his fingers carefully stretches all the way up to your hip, running along the hem of your sweatpants.

“Yeah, m’still a little—” you gasp, trying not to stutter when Cassian starts to draw up the length of your waistline, pausing right when his fingers reach your drawstrings. “Little w-warm,” you finish hoarsely, painfully aware of how fucking wet you are, how your nipples are peaked and glistening with sweat as they move with your soft, shallow breathing.

He slowly dips one finger below the elastic wrapping across your hips, dragging it back and forth under the damp waistband.

“This fabric is heavy,” Cassian remarks, just the slightest husk in his voice. “You… you will take this off, too?”

“I-I don’t—” You’re about to say have anything on underneath except you immediately go quiet, because he’s suddenly slithering his entire hand down into your sweatpants and brushing his knuckles along the gentle slope of you.

He pauses once more when his longest finger reaches the very top of your slit.

But then he just holds it there for a second, tracing small arches back and forth along gentle give of it, the slight dip that separates your soft curls from your soaking heat. You tighten up and wait in breathless anticipation for it, before the tip of Cassian’s finger finally comes to a rest over the soft split of flesh.

And then he’s suddenly pushing in, and down—

—fuckfuckfuckfuck—don’tcumdon’tcum—don’t—

You make a soft, vulnerable sound in bliss as he slowly slides his finger through the hot, slick cleft of your pussy.

“You are warm down here, too,” Cassian murmurs quietly. Your eyes roll back when he drags the entire length of it up against your clit, letting you feel each individual ridge and joint and crevice across the swollen bit of flesh. “Is it the spice?” He asks, sinking his finger back down into you once more. “Or are you always this wet between your legs?”

Neither. Both, maybe? Mostly it’s just him. Cassian, whispering softly to you through the hazy darkness, lazily dipping his fingers into your cunt and letting it drench and engulf his skin in its heat.

“Tell me,” he prompts when you don’t say a word. His finger pulls up and begins tracing slow, gentle circles around your clit.

“No,” you breathe haggardly, arching your hips up just slightly as he touches you. “N-No, this is…”

“This is different,” Cassian confirms when you don’t finish your sentence. He keeps circling your clit, and it’s like he’s just casually, carelessly stirring a pot that’s about to boil over and set everything on fucking fire. You pulse threateningly under the tip of his finger, swollen and tight and just trying your best to control your breathing. “So it is the spice. Why you are this hot, this… this soaking.”

“It’s…” Don’t you say it. Don’t you fucking say it. Don’t you turn this into something it isn’t. “Yeah. It’s—it’s the sp-spice.”

His finger follows the hard curve of you down to where you give, where you’re leaking wetness and heat from the source, before he’s suddenly shifting his wrist and pushing the entire thing into you down to his knuckle.

Now you do arch your hips, spreading your legs and helping him go deeper even as Cassian hums, stretching his finger and feeling you clench hot and tight around him. He says something softly, something in a language you don’t understand.

And then he’s pulling out and rubbing circles around your clit again, the tip of his finger steady and firm as he steadily drags the pleasure out of you.

“We need to finish it soon,” he eventually reminds you, and it takes a remarkable delay for you to realize he’s talking about the lingering quarter of the joint still clenched tightly between your fingers. “Take your hit. We have a nine-hundred call, remember.”

Fuck, you bring the spice up to your lips with a shaky hand, trying to remember whether you should inhale or exhale first. Cassian’s finger just keeps circling your clit, winding you up tighter and tighter. His motions are so repetitive and predictable, but they’re somehow still lighting you on fire from the inside, slowing you down spectacularly as you try to take a steady breath in through the filter.

“Stars, you are so wet,” he remarks after a moment. “Are you going to cum soon? You feel like you are so close already.”

You are close. Everything is swollen and slippery and tight, and hearing him say it out loud like that makes the pleasure rocket up even tighter inside you. You don’t even feel him reach around with his other hand and take the spice from you. You just lose yourself in the mindless sensation of Cassian’s finger on your clit, rolling your eyes back and reaching your hands down to fisting the sheets at your sides as he touches you.

“Does this feel good, caraya?” He whispers quietly to you, inhaling deeply from the spice. “You are usually so… mouthy with me. Is this helping? Do I need to rub your clit like this more often?”

“Fuck—Cassian, I’m gonna cum,” you tell the ceiling raggedly, chest beginning to arch up and hips bearing down.

“Do it,” he murmurs, reaching his thumb through your slick lips to pinch and roll the pulsing bud between his fingers. “Right here. All you can.”

And then wild, painful bliss stabs through you, launching you headfirst into a blinding orgasm. A desperate sound tears from your throat as you cum hard all over your best friend’s hand, agonizing pleasure shredding mindless rapture through your veins. It rings white noise through your ears and rips you apart from the inside out, arcing lightning down your spine more bright and explosive than ever before. Fuck, it’s unprecedentedly powerful. You’re drenched but your clit is hard and pulsing and swollen, and he’s able to keep it between his fingers the entire time your hips writhe desperately on the mattress.

Cassian inhales from the spice once more and massages your clit through the torturous, blazing hot aftershocks. He drags the pleasure out of you until you’re a trembling mess, exhausted from the spasms wreaking havoc on your body.

But then… but then you’re still so hot. It’s like your limbs have no energy left but your cunt is still pulsing and wanting more from him. You feel your wetness coating his hand, your inner thighs, probably soaking through your sweatpants, but fuck, you want him to keep touching you like this—you want him to keep doing this.

It’s the spice, something tells you in the very back of your mind. It almost made you black out with a wild orgasm and now it’s quickly preparing your overheated body for another one. Your feet come up to brace against the mattress and your eyes close, jaw going slack as you grind feverishly against Cassian’s hand.

“Again?” He whispers to you, fingers continuing to pinch and roll your clit and then—and then another debilitating wave of euphoria is suddenly slamming through you, pulling your chest up and flooding his hand with another series of wet, powerful contractions. Cassian rasps something in his native tongue and rides you through the second one just as steady as the first, your pussy spasming uncontrollably as he slowly wrings the pleasure from you.

Fuck, it feels so good. You’re worked up and trembling and trying not to whimper for him, desperately wanting him to keep his hand right here forever, buried right between your legs like this. But you also—you also want Cassian to feel it too, feel the way the unrestrained hedonism practically burns you alive when you cum.

So you carefully turn over on your side and shuffle forwards a bit, resting your head on his lower stomach, right in front of the mouthwatering bulge in his trousers. His fingers can’t fully reach your cunt from this angle, but Cassian is resilient. He just drags his hand over your hip and slithers his fingers into your pussy from behind while you start unbuckling his pants with shaky fingers.

He’s unbelievably hard and throbbing and leaking when you pull his cock out of his underwear, the pulsing urgency of his erection not lining up with the way he’s still relaxing on your mattress, still hasn’t moved under you. So you just hold his length up to your lips and open them, slowly sliding your tongue around the tip of him three times before taking his curved head into the hot cavern of your mouth.

Cassian takes a deep, shaky breath as you suck softly on the head of his cock, fluttering your tongue along a bead of precum he leaks from the slit. He drags his fingers through your drenched pussy lips from behind as you carefully move your head down his tummy, opening your jaw wider and letting him fill your mouth deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and you hum softly and lift your back palate slightly, sliding your tongue drift down his shaft and taking him a bit deeper still. He shudders under you and pushes the tip of his finger up against your clit.

And then you shudder because Cassian completely bypasses your hood at this angle, bumping into the swollen bit of flesh without any resistance or protection and just… holding it there. Barely moving an inch while you begin to slowly bob up and down just slightly around his cock, just keeping his fingertip right up against your clit and sparking heat down through your legs.

You move your hand down to cup his balls and start to roll your hips against his fingers. Cassian’s breathing stutters as you lazily suck his cock, rubbing a tight little circle on your clit in silent encouragement.

“We should—” his voice is hoarse now, now that you’ve got his dick in your mouth and you’re gently swirling your tongue around it, almost as unhurried and casual about the act as he was bringing you to your first orgasm. “We should do this. More.”

You slowly pull off him, kissing the tip of his cock and mouthing at the way he’s steadily releasing thick drops of precum for you. Cassian’s finger rolls firmly against your clit in response.

“You just want your dick sucked every time you come back to base,” you counter breathlessly, brushing your lips against him while talking with his cockhead resting on the edge of your tongue.

His hand shifts, and then he’s suddenly pushing two thick fingers deep inside you. You moan around his tip and prop one leg up on the mattress so he can fill you easier, going back to sucking and swiping your tongue over his frenulum.

“I would not mind it,” he admits with a shaky exhale. “You are. Very g-good. Fuck. And wa—” he gasps, feeling you clench tight around his fingers, “—warm. Fuck, every… everywhere.”

Fuck, it feels so good like this. Laying here, topless and being penetrated two different ways by Cassian, feeling him throb in your mouth while you rest your head on his tummy, feeling him stretch your cunt walls with his fingers while you hold your legs open for him.

You pull off him to drag your slick tongue over your palm, coating your fingers in saliva. Cassian groans when you wrap your hand around the thick base of him, and then he lifts his hips slightly as you start to slowly jerk him off into you mouth.

“Fuck—caraya, if you keep doing that, I will—” he whispers after a moment, curling his fingers inside you in warning. You just tighten your grip and add just the slightest twist to your wrist and “Wait—wait—” Cassian grunts, starting to pull his fingers out of you—

You pull off him just enough to murmur the words against his throbbing head. “You’ll want more than one, okay. Trust me. Cum like this, okay? Cum just like this, right in my mouth.”

You wrap your lips around his cock once more and keep jerking him off slow and tight into the heat of your mouth, and Cassian’s abdominal muscles go incredibly tense under your head. And then you squeeeeze your lower muscles around his fingers, and all the tension suddenly snaps.

His cock goes rock hard on your tongue and starts pulsing steadily as he groans out your name like it hurts, fingers stuffed deep in your cunt. You swallow around him and moan, clenching rhymically around his fingers and letting him slowly empty himself into your mouth. Fuck, he takes forever with it, shuddering and gasping and pumping cum down your throat, his orgasm clearly as powerful as yours was. The spice drags it out, makes you both lose yourself in the raw heaven of release for far longer than normal.

The spice also prevents him from softening when Cassian finally stops spurting hot cum in your mouth. You suspected as much—which is why you keep sucking his cock even as he stops throbbing, you keep him in your hot mouth even when he’s laying trembling and exhausted under you. And he still stays rock solid on your tongue, swollen and needing more.

Cassian’s voice sounds shredded when he finally speaks. “I—I am going to crash my x-wing tomorrow,” he tells you hoarsely, fingers finally slipping out of your channel with a vulgar, slick sound. “You were right.”

You pull off him and kiss the tip of his cock one final time, making sure you’ve cleaned up the mess completely. “Today.”

“Fuck. Today,” he acknowledges tightly, adjusting his hips when you lift your head off his stomach. “Fuck. In a few hours. You will make me crash, just thinking about this.”

“Why is it,” you turn around and blink at him, “that after literal decades of my friendship, you only acknowledge my perpetual rightness after I make you cum for the first time?”

Cassian just smiles softly at you, and his fingers are drenched as they rest lazily against your thigh. “Caraya. Two suns. Twice the illumination, no?”

You bite your lip and try not to smile back at him, wanting to blush and roll your eyes in equal parts. Stars, why is he so… so lovely? Speaking to you so sweetly, looking back up at you from your pillow like you’re every single color in his sky. Your heart seizes in your chest, staring at him with the same kind of fondness and admiration his beautiful eyes are shining with. Fuck, you want… you want to…

“Can we… can we have sex now?” You whisper. Not really shy, but… but it almost sounds shy in its quiet, breathless hope.

“You do not want me to taste you?” Cassian immediately asks, reaching out with one hand to offer you what’s left of the spice while the other stays firmly wedged between your legs. “I want to. I have…”

You bite down on your bottom lip and take the nearly finished joint from him, feeling his fingers curl against your pussy lips at the same time and knowing you’re going to regret letting him finish his sentence. He swallows thickly.

“I have thought about it,” Cassian eventually tells you, carefully admitting the words like he never expected he’d ever say them aloud and is completely unprepared. “Sometimes. Sometimes when… when I am about to sleep. I think of… of you. What you taste like. Right here.” He barely slips the tip of his finger back between your folds, fluttering his eyelashes at the way you’re still dripping in his hand. “I bet you are so sweet. Will you let me find out?”

Except. Except you’re suddenly blanking.

He’s… he’s thought about you before? Like this? Fuck, he isn’t just… just saying that, right? Just telling you what you want to hear? Because fuck, it’s almost too good to be true; like everything out of his mouth since you first put his cock in yours has somehow sounded even better than the last. You feel like you’re dreaming, and it. It makes you almost frantic with need, overcome with the desire to solidify your connection with him before it can be ripped away like it always is.

You don’t respond to him. You just quickly wiggle out of your sweatpants and get on top of him, swinging one of your legs around Cassian’s hips. The spice is held in one hand while the other reaches down and aligns his cock right up against your opening.

Cassian grabs your thighs tightly and takes a long, shuddery breath under you. Fuck, he really is a dream, isn’t he? Long and lithe and beautiful, still throbbing and pulsing and ready for you after you already swallowed his first load. You straighten your back and slowly sit down on his cock, letting the thick, hard length of it break you open slowly.

His hands trace up to your hips and then slide along the gentle curves of your sides, measuring the size of your ribcage before eventually grasping both of your tits in his palms. You breathe through the pleasure and the stretch, letting Cassian pinch and roll your nipples between his fingers as you gradually slide down him and come to a rest flush against his pelvis.

Fuck he feels spectacular. You can feel him pulsing inside of you, fitting and stretching the contours of your slick cunt perfectly. You shiver and clench around him, finishing off the last hit of spice as you roll your hips slightly to adjust to the tight fit of his cock.

You twist your shoulders to carefully toss the smoldering roach into the sink when it’s done, really taking your time with aiming it to make sure you don’t miss. The second it lands in the metal basin is the second Cassian grinds his hips up into yours while giving both of your nipples a gentle tug, and a jolt of pleasure rocks its way down your spine.

“Im-impatient,” you whisper, trying to scold him but it comes out sounding all wrong, far more needy and breathy than you wanted.

“I wanted my tongue in your pussy,” he whispers back in reminder, squeezing your tits as you start to circle and grind against him, letting you both enjoy the sensation of each other without any solid aim at the moment. “You could not wait.”

“Later,” you gasp, tipping your head back and just—fuck, just enjoying his cock. Enjoying how it feels, pressing up deliciously tight against something inside you that just absolutely loves the pressure. You scoot yourself back just a bit, just so he is really shoved up hard against that spot as you grind and roll your body. It ignites sparks deep in your floor muscles, makes you clamp tighter around him as you slowly ride your best friend’s cock.

And stars, Cassian just watches you. He drags his hands over your naked body as it swells and rocks back over his hips like waves in the ocean. He’s still completely clothed, and while something inside you wants you to get him as naked as your are, rub your exposed skin against his and make sure he never forgets how you feel against him, most of you is just fucking burning at the eroticism of being so bare and tall above him while he looks at you.

“Later,” he eventually repeats after you, definitively confirming what you said. Cassian’s voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time, quiet but tight and hoarse in his throat. “I will taste you later.”

You jerk a nod in agreement, starting to gain just a little bit of a rhythm on top of him. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean your weight back slightly and begin to pull up when your hips twist in towards him, and then sinking back down on his cock when your hips circle back around again.

“Fuck,” you hear Cassian grit as you keep doing that, relaxing your lower muscles as he’s thrusted into you and then clamping down on his length as it’s slowly dragged out. “Fuck, you are—a-amazing, caraya. You are. You are—fuck—”

A sinful heat starts simmering deep inside you as Cassian cuts himself off with a gasp and squeezes his eyes shut, starts rocking his pelvis up in time with your slow, sensual rotations. Both of his hands clamp down hard over your hips as they continue to undulate in slow circles around his cock.

“Maker,” you whisper, trying to focus on your rhythm instead of the terrifying, building sensation inside of you. Fuck, you can literally feel the threat of your orgasm start to carefully wind itself around the base of your spine, simmering and sparking with dark pleasure as it gradually spreads its electric claws outwards. It’s huge. You can already feel it gathering together inside you, culminating into something monstrous and fierce.

Cassian says your name, and you suddenly blink your eyes open at the unexpected urgency and tightness in his voice. Your vision takes a second to focus on his gorgeous face, and when you immediately see the same exact storm of swirling desperation in his eyes, your jaw goes slack as you speed up, trying to chase him as Cassian all but hurtles towards the blinding explosion nearing its detonation.

“Fuck, I—” he gasps, and then he’s suddenly going rigid under you and cumming deep in your slick heat with a desperate sound, shuddering and gasping for you as his thumbs dig into your thighs. Fuck, you grind harder, trying to find and focus on your favorite angle now as Cassian whimpers through the bliss and writhes under you, throbbing and pumping in steady, helpless jolts.

You whimper, too—fuck, you’re almost there, you’re gasping and trying to surrender to the swelling sensation, but it’s so intense and overwhelming and you’re close to tears because you’re fighting it just as much as you’re seeking it out, and—

And then the breath is suddenly knocked out of you when Cassian reaches up to grab you and flip the both of you over, your back coming down hard against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, hooks both of your calves over his shoulders, props his arms next to your head, and then he starts thrusting.

You sob brokenly, slapping an open palm against his chest. Fuck, his cock is still so hard and it shreds up achingly deep against that blinding spot so perfectly, you can’t focus on anything anymore. The dark, evasive build immediately twists up sharp and impending as Cassian fucks you steady and deep, and you start to muffle your cries and gasps into the back of your hand.

But then, oh—words are coming, too. Oh Maker, you can feel the urge to say them rise up along with the ferocious stirrings of your orgasm, clawing its way out of your throat before you can do anything to stop it.

“Fuck—” you tear your hand away to sob brokenly, not being able to stop yourself as the tsunami begins to peak, “oh, fuck—I love you. Oh, fuck, I—I love you, Cassian—I love you, I—IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou—”

His cock splinters up against sheer euphoria inside you as you cum with a desperate wail of his name, pussy clamping down hard as it erupts into searing hot ecstasy around him.

—and then suddenly Cassian is lurching against you and bringing his lips down to yours, licking into your mouth and cumming deep inside you once more. Maker, you nearly scream at the sensation, your tight cunt milking the throbbing length of him with endlessly wet, hot contractions as he grinds you both through the aching bliss. He kisses you like he’s wanted to do it for years, bites your bottom lip as you whimper and spasm wildly around him.

Fuck, you can hear the mess you’re both making. It’s obscene, filling the room with the slick sound of your desperate coupling. Cassian eventually pulls his mouth away to look down at where he’s rocking into your drenched cunt, the evidence of his own pleasure slicking up hard lines of his erection.

Your eyes roll back when he doesn’t stop thrusting.

***

You lose track of everything.

Time, direction, responsibility—nothing matters, because Cassian goes on like that. For hours, taking you apart every single way you can imagine. You fuck the effects of the spice out of your body until nothing exists but him—Cassian’s cock stretching you, his tongue gliding along your skin, his whispered words of broken praise murmured against your neck.

Strangely, your body feels absolutely amazing when you finally manage to gain the slightest bit of awareness of your obligations again. You feel like you’re floating above everything, almost dreamlike in how unbelievably satisfied you feel.

You slowly blink up at the ceiling, and then suddenly remember the nine-hundred call you have to make. You’re both naked, sprawled out on top of your mattress, and Cassian—

“Cass—” you rasp, pulling on the thick waves of hair tangled between your fingers and feeling his hot tongue slip out of your pussy. It’s still slightly dark in your room, but that could just be the horrendous weather blocking the sun. “What—what time is it? Did we miss—?”

“Almost eight,” Cassian rumbles low against your thigh. “We still have some time before we need to get up.”

You lurch into startled awareness, getting go of him to prop yourself you on your elbows. “But that’s—no, we have to shower, and—”

“A ten minute walk to the hangar from here, yes?” Cassian reasons, pressing a lazy kiss to your thigh and not sounding bothered in the slightest. “Twenty minutes to shower together, ten minutes to get dressed. We have at least ten more minutes before we need to think about getting up.”

You shudder and blink down at him, naked and relaxed as he mouths over your skin. Maker, how can everything change and yet still be so familiar at the same time?

“I think I might crash my x-wing today,” you finally breathe out, dropping your shoulders back down to the mattress once again.

“No,” he returns, turning his head to kiss your other thigh. “You will not. Because I checked my holopad earlier, and they sent the coordinates for red squadron’s patrols.”

You narrow your eyebrows at the ceiling. What does that have to do with anyth—?

And then you suddenly go shock-still under him, trying not to let the blind, overwhelming hope surge up inside you.

“Bring extra credits, caraya,” Cassian murmurs, lowering his head back down between your legs. “We are going to Lothal.”

#Cassian Andor x reader #Cassian Andor x you #Cassian Andor #Smut #fanfic #no-droids

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carboniteprincess · 3 years

Text

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, character death, murder, you're literally a rebel sniper, it's enemies to lovers boba is not going to be nice to you yet, love at first fist fight, I cannot stress this enough, ENEMIES TO LOVERS, he's kind of arrogant? but he's young give him time

Pairing: Boba Fett x F! Reader | 2.0k words

You're arguably the best sniper in the entire rebel alliance, with hundreds of high ranking Imperial officials on your belt. When you're given the order to kill Boba Fett, you are under the impression that this would be like any other mission. Unfortunately, he seems to have great skill of getting out of situations that aren't in his favor. Now you're on Tatooine, where your comrade Orda has lured him into discussing business in a shady restaurant under the guise of being an Imperial Commander. His luck has to run out at some point, and you intend that to be today.

Crossposted on Ao3!

Being a rebel wasn't as glamorous as you thought. You weren't conducting high-level espionage or anything of the like. Instead, your penchant for sniping was homed in on, making you one of, if not the best in the entire squad. The only flaw you had, was arrogance. Never have you let a target walk away, never have you allowed yourself into a tight spot.

You were always ahead of the enemy, so when your general gave you the order to kill Boba Fett. You assumed it would be an easy in and out job, perhaps he would've posed a threat to other members of your squad. But to you it would be simple, right? Unfortunately not.

This is your third attempt at some kind of ambush, luring him into a perfect position. Mandalorian armor had few weak points, meaning you had to meticulously spend hours figuring out where would land a good, clean blow. His neck. If angled correctly, one tilt of his helmet and it would be over. Right through the jugular, no more bounty hunter. Another imperial dog to add to your list.

If he would just turn his head, a little more to the right. Sweat beads on your forehead, eyes focused down the scope. Being a good assassin was all about your ability to linger, to wait. You're positioned on a balcony, a blind spot to the restaurant below. Your associate kept him talking under the guise of being an Imperial Commander, negotiating pay for the next rebel target. Boba Fett sits across from him, drink untouched. If you could see his face you'd swear he seemed bored. His legs wide open, leaning back nonchalantly.

Fingers clenching on the trigger, you close your left eye. It wasn't like you enjoyed your job, when this war was over you'd swore to never lift a weapon again. The Empire made you, molding you like clay into a perfect killer. A painful truth, a driving force. Your parents. Both were medical professionals, caught smuggling medication to the galaxy's poorest. Promptly executed and then you, an orphan. A street urchin, nothing more.

It wasn't long into your teens that you heard of the resistance, your heart burned with a want of revenge. So you got stronger, learned how to use a blaster, pilot and any skills that would make you useful to their cause. But you weren't a rebel, not really. You didn't care for politics, didn't even bother listening to the speeches about restoring the Republic. It didn't matter to you, but what did matter was taking out as many Imperials as you could before you die in battle or finally become numb to the anger.

Self-preservation was no concern of yours, and that made you dangerous. A loose cannon, hot-tempered, and scarily a woman. You were used to being underestimated by your peers on gender, height, birth planet…. and you were the one who gets the high-profile missions. You were the one who has the highest accuracy, years of practice which left your trigger finger calloused, and every other emotion muted.

Boba Fett had become a real thorn in your side. Threatening your record, career and possibly your sanity. His uncanny talent for escaping situations, even if all cards were against him, was exasperating. You would be lying if you didn't have some modicum of respect for him though, you were somewhat alike. Respect, no matter how great, does not destroy a death warrant.

Someday soon his luck would run out, and it would be you at the other end of the blaster. That day was today. Lips twitching into a smirk, you watch his neck turn. Bingo. You steady your rifle, pulse pounding in your ears. At last, this mission would be over. You'd become a legend, the woman who killed Boba Fett.

Bang. You take the shot, accurate as ever. A hum leaves your lips, watching him fall to the ground. Your calculations were correct, there was a weak point. Every armor has one, even Mandalorian. It was like a drug, the puzzle pieces clicking together with every fragility you discovered.

The restaurant below descends into chaos, even the bartender is panicking. All guests rushing from their tables, abandoning their meals as your associate checks the man's pulse. You stare down your scope, watching the ordeal. He gives a thumbs-up, definitely dead. A buzz in your ear alerts you to a comlink.

"He's dead. But I think you'll want to come down here." Orda replies through static. Your brow creases, what the hell could've gone wrong. Muscles twitching with irritation, you make your way through the currently uninhabited building. You were ordered to avoid collateral damage by all means necessary, a false fire alarm did the job well.

Your feet tap against the stairs as you make quick work of assessing your surroundings— if something is wrong, then it's always better safe than sorry. It seemed to be all clear, so you proceeded out the door and onto the street. This area of Mos Eisley was pretty habitable, aside from the abundance of criminal undertakings. Dust kicks as you march into the restaurant, pushing through various guests who were piling out at lightspeed.

With a gruff, you finally make it to the rooftop, an exclusive VIP spot which proved difficult to doctor identity necessary to enter. You're about to start asking what the hell could've been so important that he dragged you down here, but your eyes meet Orda's now slumped body, face down with all color residing. A frustrated sigh leaves you, he was a good man. Even worse, he was a great rebel. His heart was in it, unlike yours. He shouldn't have been the casualty here. You reach down, pulling out his identichip and stashing it in your pocket. An action that you've taken with far too many of your comrades.

Painfully you pull yourself from Orda's body, standing upright. Lingering would be a deathwish, whoever killed Orda was skilled. An impressive marksman, obviously one of Boba's accomplices who mistakenly thought he was the one that shot him. You could go over what-ifs later, right now you were going to finish the fucking job.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in crimson constellations as the wind settled. Inspecting Boba's body was your primary concern, whatever Orda discovered, it cost him his life. You were determined to find out what exactly it was, from a glance it seemed like Boba Fett. With a grimace, you move his drooping head around. Concerningly heavier than expected, beskar is light and durable.

You hook your fingertips under the helmet, pulling it off and coming face to face with…. not your target. Fuck. You'd be deceived, spectacularly. Knuckles white, feeling bile in your throat threatening to explode in a cocktail of frustration and admiration. The crudely made edges of the helmet abrasive against your palm, a reminder of your failure.

Without a second thought, your balled fist comes into contact with the wall, encasing the helmet and sending tendrils of pain, a shock wave through your arm as you verbalize your confliction with a strangled scream. Orda died for nothing, you were a joke. Everything you had built, buried and locked away was floating to the surface.

But you haven't felt this alive in years. Being outsmarted, so cunningly sent a morbid thrill up your spine. You could almost laugh, had you not heard footsteps approaching. Impulsively your hand fell to your blaster, making a mental note to thank your teacher for always carrying more than one.

"Surely you didn't believe it was that easy to kill me." Before he can finish you turn, firing your blaster in his direction. Of course, his armor deflects it with ease. "I must admit, I'm impressed. Not everyone could distinguish beskar through weight alone." A snort leaves him at your feeble attempt to hold ground, looking over your pathetic secondary weapon that could barely injure an Ewok.

"Go thing I'm not everyone then." You stand, keeping your right arm extended, blaster aimed at his inner thigh. It wouldn't kill him, however it would allow ample time for escape. "You killed my friend." He's circling you now. "Who's your Intel? How did you know I'd be here?"

"You are hardly in the position to be making demands, little rebel." Another chuckle, you'd heard of him toying with his advisories before, but this was different. A teacher disciplining a student.

"You're going to kill me anyway, what's the harm." You huff, shrugging. He stops pacing, chewing over your words.

"Killing you would be a waste." That bastard. "Of my time and resources." He adds matter-of-factly.

"Orda wasn't?" You spit, voice cracking in frustration. Figuring out what made others tick was your specialty, but the lack of motivation and reason within Boba's actions is what baffled you.

"That was a favor." He sounds like you should be grateful, almost insulted that you hadn't figured it out yet even with him practically dangling the answer in front of you. Perhaps you weren't as clever as he thought.

"A—favor? How would killing my comrade benefit me!" You reply astounded, cheeks burning red, hand shaking on your blaster.

You think for a second, taking your eyes off him. Why did it take until after the kill for Orda to realize what was wrong with the body… He isn't… wouldn't…could've of… you've been double-crossed. "He wouldn't— I've spent months with him—"

"And every little thing you did, he told me." His admission is calm, you look over Orda's body, no longer do you feel remorse. Just shame. You couldn't even see betrayal under your nose.

You walk closer to him, the barrel of your blaster getting dangerously close. Nothing could stop you from finishing your mission right now, but he's letting you. Knowledge is far more appealing than rewards in the resistance.

With your grip around the handle tight, you slam it down across his helmet, your knee reaching his groin. "You're very easy to fool." A smirk replaces the look of misery on your face, it was a dangerous game to pretend to let your guard down. Your risk paid off, managing to get a shot at his thigh.

Swiftly, you press all your weight on him, knocking him back just enough to make a run for the edge of the balcony. He groans in pain, you're so close to the edge, escape almost in your grasp— when a grappling hook wraps around your ankle.

You struggle against the cold floor, doing anything you can to wriggle free from his grasp.

It's fruitless, as soon as he's in reach you're kicking him, hurtling all kinds of abuse. Your attempts to wrestle him are almost comical and in a frenzy, you grip the only thing that seems viable. His Helmet. You manage to free it, your fingers hooking under and pulling it off his head, sending it on the floor beside you. For a moment you're the one stunned, not him.

Dark curls frame his face, a beautiful border to tanned skin. His nose is prominent but compliments his features. Scars pepper his face, but he's young. Younger than you thought. You watch as his forehead crinkles in anger, hands pinning yours beside your head.

Wasting no time, you bring your head to crack his, sending him back with a kick to the stomach. Your nose pours from impact, dripping onto the floor as you clamber to your feet.

"This isn't over." You hear his voice, unmodified. You rush to the edge, peering over and assessing if you can land in one of the speeders below. He stands, trying to rush over to stop you. "Don't!"

With a wink, you throw yourself over the side. In seconds you're hurtling onto the street, watching a bare-faced Boba Fett grow smaller with each passing second. His eyes are widened in either admiration or shock for your bravery.

He eventually dares to look over and finds that you're gone. Whoever you were, he finally had a worthy opponent. He would find you again. His little rebel.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett #boba fett x female reader #the mandalorian #star wars #fic #mine #this fic is lowkey my baby #and there def will be a chapter 2 I'm just stupid and can't work ao3 #anyway #enjoy💖#I know I know I'm bad at proof reading #I try

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soulmate-game · 4 years

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Part 1 … Part 2

“So, How was your first day of school in America?” Lois asked as her small family all sat around the table eating dinner. It was almost painfully ordinary, traditional. A married couple and two kids eating a normal dinner and talking about their day.

All of them appreciated that one piece of normalcy in their worlds of superheroes and villains and PTSD.

Marinette snorted, almost choking on her forkful of food. After managing to somehow swallow without causing herself discomfort, she smiled at her mother figure.

“Honestly? I know Jon could fly and I could teleport to school in practically no time at all, but somehow Damian still manages to seem more impressive.”

“Right?!” Jon agreed emphatically, leaning over the table towards her and almost getting his whole plate of food smashed against his chest. “Probably because helicopters are huge and look awesome, but we’re still just us when we use our powers.”

Marinette nodded sagely at that reasoning as if it was something actually serious. Tikki, who was sitting next to her plate with a half-eaten cookie, giggled.

“That makes sense. But be careful Kaalki doesn’t hear you referring to them as ‘not impressive—‘“ Marinette was cut off before she could even finish her sentence.

“Too late, I already heard that blasphemy,” the other Kwami’s voice carried down from upstairs, making Lois and Clark’s lips twitch up in amusement. “I’m a god, dear, I have even better hearing than Kal-El,” for some reason the little horse god always referred to the boys by their kryptonian names, but they didn’t seem to mind much. “Not as impressive as a helicopter, hah! See if I let you use my fabulous powers anytime soon, Guardian or no Guardian.”

Marinette just rolled her eyes. Technically she could just command Kaalki, but that was against her morals and the horse god would never keep her from responding to an Akuma attack anyway. This was just harmless teasing.

And it was really nice in contrast to everything they were used to dealing with.

“Okay, but besides the helicopter,” Clark pressed gently after everyone’s chuckles quieted down. His face was open with genuine curiosity, and a little bit of worry that Marinette caught onto instantly. “I know Damian isn’t always the easiest person to get along with or understand. Did the rest of the day go by alright?”

Marinette actually set her fork down on her plate, her smile turning a little gentle. “Actually? Yeah. When we first spoke I thought he was a stuck-up jerk like some of my ex-friends and a bully of mine from Paris. But he’s just not good with people,” Marinette’s smile turned even softer as she gazed down at the table, at some memory nobody else could see. “It reminds me of my friend Kagami, from Paris. She acts pretty similar. Really impersonal and prickly on the outside, but once you get to know her she’s the most loyal friend you’ll have. Her mom is really strict though, and Kagami never got to interact with a lot of kids her own age, so she still has issues figuring out how to behave around others sometimes,” Marinette actually ended up laughing a little, rubbing the back of her neck. “We uh, we actually had a crush on the same person back when we first met and it sparked a pretty rough rivalry for a while. Once we got past that though, we ended up being best friends.”

Jon snickered, trading knowing glances with their parents. They had already agreed that, unless Damian or Bruce told her themselves, Marinette would have to figure out the Bat’s identities on her own.

“That sounds very familiar,” Jon stated with a little nod. “Me and Damian fought when we first met, too. Legend has it that Dad and Bruce, Damian’s dad, didn’t get along right away either.”

It was Clark’s turn to snort. “I think it’s just a Wayne thing,” the man agreed, amused. “They don’t like getting close to anyone right off the bat,” Lois kicked his leg under the table for that pun, but Clark cheerfully ignored it. “It is pretty funny that you have a similar experience with someone completely unrelated, though. Maybe we should invite her over sometime? Do you know when her school’s next break is?”

Marinette sat up straight in her chair, her smirk wide and almost blinding at the prospect of seeing one of her closest friends in person again. They video chatted and called often enough, but it wasn’t the same. “Actually! Kagami told me that she’s going to Gotham next month for a fencing competition. She’s an Olympic hopeful, you know. She has to make a good enough impression in different national and international competitions to be selected,” Marinette was almost bouncing in her seat, looking like a female version of Jon for a moment with her vibrant blue eyes shining with rare unhindered excitement and her body unable to stay still from the energy.

“I heard that Gotham was holding the World fencing finals this year,” Lois remarked, but kept eye contact with Clark for a moment as the two communicated silently in a way even telepaths couldn’t copy. Marinette recognized the hesitance in their faces, and her bouncing stopped immediately. She knew why they would be reluctant to let her go.

“I know Gotham is dangerous and I still have attacks pretty often,” Marinette’s voice was suddenly soft, but firm in a way that the rest of their little family hadn’t heard from her much at all. It made Clark and Lois look at her, waiting for her to finish making her point patiently. “But self defense isn’t really an issue. Even without any powers, without transforming, I…” Marinette took a breath to steel herself before continuing. “I learned martial arts from Maman. And I’ve used the Miraculous so long that all the combat experience of the previous Ladybugs is mostly muscle memory by now. And Kagami is more than just a fencer, her mom’s trained her in all sorts of sword fighting her whole life. Trust me, nobody messes with Kagami and gets away with it easily,” Marinette actually looked down at her hands, watching as she essentially had a thumb war with herself to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.

“I don’t think physical attacks are what we’re worried about,” Lois admitted slowly, frowning. “I mean, yes, it’s a concern. But if I remember the dates for the competition correctly, I’ll be out of town for my first long distance job since you came to live with us. Clark will be at work during the day on the weekend, though maybe he can get a day or two off,” Lois gently worried her bottom lip with her teeth for a second. “I suppose, if Jon wants to go with you, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem if something happens…”

Oh. They weren’t worried about people attacking her. They were worried about her own mind. Which, after the last few months? Was perfectly fair.

“I don’t mind if—“

But, as life usually ended up, they were interrupted from their peace. Everyone jolted in their seats as the door was unceremoniously kicked down, and a man in his early twenties walked in carrying a mountain of boxes in his arms. Marinette blinked, no longer on guard since the rest of her new family immediately relaxed. But still, she was confused. Nobody said anything about having a visitor today.

“I know, I know. I haven’t been in touch for way too long, give us a little forewarning, blah blah blah. I brought presents this time though,” the man said, cheerful and casual and blasé. With the boxes on the center of the dining table, Marinette could finally get a good look at him.

He was probably about twenty four or twenty five, if Marinette’s ever-sharp eyes were correct (they hardly ever weren’t), and his hair was spiked up with a bit of gel, but not too much. Just enough to give it kind of a tousled-rebel look, and it was cropped close to his head on the sides. He had on a black leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders and slightly down the arms, with slightly baggy black jeans and a plain, worn red shirt. Dark black sunglasses rested on the top of his head, even though the sun had been down for a while.

He did not meet the usual Kent aesthetic of a charming, traditional nuclear family. He was more of an… oddly joyful punk. It actually gave her slight Luka and Jagged vibes, and made her relax a bit into her chair. Contrary to what most might think, Marinette had a bit of a soft spot for the punk rocker look. Most people, that she had met at least, who wore it on a regular basis were amazing people with great senses of humor and large personalities.

“Old man, I got you socks,” he called out with a lazy smirk, chucking the first small box over at Clark. The man caught it with a fond eye roll.

“You always get me socks.”

“Maybe if you stopped being boring, I’d get you something better,” the stranger mocked with good humor. “Lois, jewelry that you’ll never wear,” he handed the box over to the woman with significantly more care, before sliding over one of the bigger boxes to her as well. “And a new camera that you will actually use.”

“Hey, Wait a second, you know you don’t have to—“

“And for the squirt,” the man interrupted without letting Lois finish saying that there was no need to spend so much money. He tossed the last big boxes over to Jon one at a time carelessly, smirking the whole time that Jon playfully scrambled for them. “Video games, geeky shirts, and inside jokes,” he stated happily.

With the table now clear of boxes, he finally noticed the extra body. He blinked, making silent eye contact with Marinette for a tense moment.

“Okay, she’s too old to be a secret child. Did someone make another clone? Did Jon get a girlfriend that looks freakishly like a long lost Asian family member? What did I miss?” He asked, never taking his eyes off Marinette. Clark grimaced.

“If you didn’t break your phone so often, maybe we would have been able to tell you sooner,” the man said slowly, cautiously, with his eyes never straying from the stranger. “This is Marinette. Marinette, this is Connor. He’s… Jon’s brother,” the pause there was a bit odd, and Marinette frowned at the look on Clark’s face. It was like he didn’t know what to say at all, or how to say it. “Marinette is living with us for the foreseeable future. If we get the chance we might officially adopt her, so she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Woah woah woah, what?” Marinette’s voice came out a lot squeakier than intended, the girl thoroughly whiplashed by this situation. It was hard to think straight. “I— we never talked about adoption.” Clark’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, not in as many words,” he conceded slowly. “It would be incredibly hard, and we wanted to give you time to settle in before asking. But… well, you’re officially an American citizen and we all feel like you’re family already. So…”

“You wouldn’t have to change your name,” Lois was quick to interject, watching Marinette’s face worriedly. “And you can say no. You’re already a Kent. We would just like to make it official legally, if and when you’re ready.”

“Okay, stop making the poor girl freak out,” Connor interrupted, eyes also on Marinette and gentle in their concern. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Ignore them. Clark never had great timing that wasn’t related to legitimate danger. So, sorry I didn’t get you anything,” he leaned back casually, thumbs hooked on his jacket pockets lazily. “Didn’t expect I’d have a new sister when I came back to visit.”

Marinette calmed down a little, but emotions still overflowed in her head, her chest still tight and the air feeling too thin. She offered Connor a shaky smile before standing up, looking over to Clark and Lois. “Um, I— can I— I’m tired.”

Clark sighed, nodding even as his face fell at Marinette’s state. “Yeah. We’ll talk about the competition some more in the morning, get some rest.”

The girl only nodded before making a hasty retreat up to her room, even forgetting to take care of her only half-empty plate. Tikki did her best to calm her bolder down from her place hidden in the girl’s hair, but it wasn’t doing much good. She just needed space, and time to try and process everything.

—*—*—*—*—*

“Aren’t you cold?” Connor’s voice made Marinette jolt, looking over at him with wide eyes. Nobody had ever followed her on her post-nightmare trips before. She wasn’t even transformed. She just sat, in her pajamas, on the empty terrace of her old home. It hadn’t been sold yet so she wasn’t worried about scaring anybody.

“I… should have expected you to be the other Superboy, honestly,” Marinette deflected with a weak smile before turning to look over the city again. She licked her lips, trying to calm herself down. “And yeah, I’m a little cold, but it’s no big deal. I’ll just go back home before it gets too bad.”

“You’re trembling,” he pointed out casually. And she was, her whole body was practically vibrating against the terrace railing. Marinette only gave out a pitiful laugh.

“That’s not from the cold.”

Connor only sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall behind them. Gave the girl a little space.

“What did… What did Clark and Lois tell you? About me?” Marinette decided to ask tentatively. Connor raised one brow, honestly a little surprised that she didn’t also have super hearing to go with her powers. It was slowly becoming more and more obvious that Marinette was not exactly like the other Kents, and Connor only liked the jumpy little girl more for it.

“As much as they could without feeling like they were crossing a line,” Connor admitted. “That they took you in after an accident during a metropolis attack a few months ago, when you had nobody else reliable enough to take care of you. That you’re not Kryptonian, but still special and knew about all of our identities already. But strangely enough they didn’t mention teleportation or the fact that you were a Parisian superhero, not that I’m really all that surprised.”

Marinette smiled, snickering a bit at that last part before sobering again. “Is it… weird?”

Connor silently examined the girl for a moment, she probably expected him to ask what she meant. And maybe if he was anybody else, he would have.

“To suddenly come home to a new person that I’m suddenly supposed to accept as a part of the family? Not really. In fact, you’re probably the most normal surprise I’ve dealt with in years.”

“But,” Marinette looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed and blue eyes swimming with uncertainty. “But I just show up out of nowhere, and you really just accept me? Just like that? I mean, you’ve known me less than a day and you just saw me teleport to Paris in the middle of the night— you aren’t worried at all? Or suspicious, or— you really just accept me just like that?”

Connor couldn’t help but chuckle, pushing himself off the wall to lean over the terrace railing with her. “You know, technically I’m only eight years old.”

Marinette flinched with surprise at the subject change, eyes wide. “Huh?”

Connor laughed at her confusion, rustling her hair a bit. “I’m a clone. I was made with Superman’s DNA, and that of another asshole we won’t mention. Don’t tell Lois I swore. Anyway, I was ‘born’ as a teenager,” he used finger quotations to show that he wasn’t exactly born normally. “With all the mental development and knowledge of a sixteen year old. Pretty much, anyway, but I was still a newborn,” he shrugged. “Clark wasn’t exactly thrilled. Jon was eight at the time, which is why Clark can never decide if I’m the older or younger brother, and he wasn’t exactly planning on another kid back then. Not to mention the whole ‘created in order to kill Superman if he ever went bad,’ and ‘might be a spy because I was made by his arch nemesis’ thing,” Connor waved his hand as if this blasé info dump didn’t actually matter. Marinette just gaped at him, which made it hard for the guy not to smirk. “Point is, Clark was suspicious. Didn’t exactly want anything to do with me. Can’t say I completely forgive him, but it’s mostly water under the bridge nowadays. Especially when we found out that I did have trigger words, and I was unknowingly dangerous. Don’t worry, those trigger words were erased ages ago. Anyway, Clark eventually got his act together. Gave me the Kryptonian name Kon-el, had me live with him for a little bit. We worked it all out,” Connor turned back to Marinette, taking his sunglasses off so he could look her in the eye properly. “I really don’t think a Ladybug is exactly threatening in comparison.”

Marinette was silent for a moment.

“You know I could throw you off this balcony, right?”

“Eh, I can fly.”

Another moment passed before Marinette couldn’t help it, and started giggling. Those giggles turned to laughs, which quickly turned into joyful bellows. Connor joined in, smiling as he laughed alongside her.

“But… you like it with them, right?” Connor suddenly asked, looking over at her. “I know Jon can be a bit overexcitable, and Clark is an annoying boy scout.”

Marinette just shrugged. “Well, it’s not too bad,” she said softly. “I mean, at least neither of them can die by getting crushed by falling debris. So that’s an improvement at least.” Marinette instantly went pale at her own words, slapping a hand over her mouth. Connor snorted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s the exhaustion talking. C’mon, let’s get you back in bed before Clark accuses me of corrupting you.”

Marinette just nodded, doing the world’s quietest transformation before opening a portal back to her room. She was already detransformed, Connor having one hand on her doorknob, when she spoke up again.

“Uh, Kon?” She fidgeted, not able to look up at him. “Thanks.”

The man just smirked, shrugging his leather-clad shoulders. “That’s what family’s for, right?”

Marinette smiled, huffing out a tired laugh. “By the way? I’m glad at least one of you Supers has a sense of fashion.”

“We heard that!”

Connor and Marinette broke back out into guffaws, and the girl couldn’t help but think that she was really grateful for her new family. Maybe she wouldn’t call Clark dad or Lois mom anytime soon, those wounds were still too raw, but maybe eventually. And she’d never had brothers before.

Yeah. This was nice.

—*—*—*—*—*

Part 4

I don’t think this ended up as good as the others..? But this is the best way I could write this part. Why is this story turning out longer than expected? Geez I need to learn self control. At least this one was actually kinda fluffy.

@fantasiame @thestressmademedoit @amayakans @resignedcatservant @too0bsessedformyowngood @chocolatecatstheron @mooshoon @jeminiikrystal @bigpicklebananatree @thezestywalru @bugaboosandbees @ironspiderstark @mikantsume @marinettepotterandplagg

#ml x dc #maribat #mlb x dc #platonic jonette #pre daminette #platonic connette #marinette joins the kent family #marinette kent #jon kent and marinette #connor kent and marinette

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writinglionqueen · 3 years

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My King Tribute Fic | The Boar’s Den

A very considerate follower made me a fantastic fanfic that coincides with my My King universe!!! @tinkerbell-has-chlamydia dedicated her time to create this masterpiece of a story and asked me to post it here to share with you all. Please give her some love and read this story. You won’t regret it. All credit goes to her. The only thing I can take credit for is beta reading this masterpiece.

You considered your life to be very blessed, even by the standards of a Queen. You enjoyed the privileges that belonged to a lady of your status, but suffered very few of the entrapments that often followed it. The food you ate was always fresh and well prepared, but you were never forced to eat what was laid out for you, or forbidden from eating what you wanted out of fear that it would ruin your figure. The clothes you wore were tailored from the highest quality fabrics in the world, for you alone, and yet you always took charge in how you dressed, and by extension, what your day would consist of. You lived in the very castle that young girls dreamt of when they heard tales of brave knights and beautiful princesses, but you were never restricted as to where you were permitted to go. You could roam freely and enjoy your home and all that came with it, especially the training grounds which you happily frequented.

Above all, it was your husband that you were most grateful for. It was he that granted you all of these liberties. He gave them to you freely, and without hesitation. He took on your discomforts, your burdens and your displeasures as if they were his own and always made it his personal task to help you in any way possible. You admired his tireless efforts to give you everything you desired, both as a queen and as a wife, and you always made sure he knew you appreciated those efforts. There were times where you were even convinced that you lived the perfect life.

This was not one of those times.

You had been standing in a single room, that you could not leave, for hours on end dressed in quite possibly the most frivolous (and hottest) garments known to womankind, all while your hunger grew to almost unbearable proportions. However, what you hungered for was not food. It was the man sitting on the oaken throne before you, draped in furs and skins of wild beasts, with his copper and onyx circlet set firmly above his brow, listening to a tailor from a nearby village drone on about the prices of cloth compared to the price of thread.

Drew had been on campaign for the past month, leading his men in battle against a rebel, who was calling himself the True King. He did call himself that. Now he would find it difficult to call himself anything with his head no longer belonging to his neck. Drew had also captured the rebel’s two generals. His sons, the traitor’s only living heirs, and he had imprisoned them; fully intending on executing them once the two revealed any and all plans for further rebellions.

Nevertheless, the King’s long absence did have an effect on the realm’s day to day operations, and although you pride yourself on how you maintained your keep, the villages surrounding your castle needed their King. It had been mere minutes between Drew coming home bloodied and bruised, dragging the traitor’s two gigantic sons by their chains, throwing them in the castle’s dungeon, trading in his armour for regal clothing, and taking his place on his throne to hold court. The only interaction between your husband and yourself was when Drew presented you with the sword of his fallen enemy, and placed a chaste kiss to your lips as you welcomed his return in the courtyard with the other nobles of the castle. But even then, you were in such a... dizzied state for seeing your husband again that you allowed that sword (which looked rusted and dull) to cut your thumb ever so slightly. But above all, even though it was short and mostly for the sake of appearances, that kiss he gave you was all you were able to think about as you stood on the balcony of the great hall with the high ranking ladies of the court gazing at your husband’s profile as he tried desperately not to fall asleep.

All you could think about was how much Drew must have been holding back when he kissed you in front of all those people. How much he wished he could just rip your clothes off, taking you then and there. You knew that when you embraced him after he dismounted his horse and proclaimed to the people that their King had returned a hero, he was desperately wishing that your hands were scratching down his back as you heralded him in a more excited and primal manner. You knew that when the people around you cheered, he imagined the clapping of their hands to be the pounding of your bed-frame against the stone wall.

You knew he was imagining it all, because you were imagining the same exact things. Though there were many, many great privileges to being Queen, being made love to by the King was by far the greatest. You were unsure of other wives, but when Drew let you know that you were to be bedded that night, you felt nothing but pure lust until he fulfilled his promise. Even when he was injured (which was often) he still managed to please you, powering through his pain to give you pleasure… and he always seemed to find his as well.

It was odd, though. No matter how much you desired your husband, no matter how much your body screamed for him to be inside you, no matter how much you wanted to make him feel the same way he made you feel, you always reverted back to a shy, tentative young girl when you were in his arms, just like you were on your wedding night. Drew had some other worldly effect on you that prevented you from initiating intimacy. Not fear. You had never felt afraid of him, but there always was this… hesitation. This expectation for him to take control, as if there were no other option. It never really bothered you, however. With the way that Drew took control over you, there never needed to be an alternative.

As you stood there, suffocating in your ridiculous dress, watching the dust float through the sunbeams penetrating the glass of the windows inside this dry, wooden hall, you nearly hallucinated the scenes of what awaited you that night. You discretely swept your tongue across your bottom lip to only find it as dry as the air around you. The only source of moisture that you could sense in the entire room was pooling itself between your thighs. Every time you shifted your stance in a futile attempt to give your feet more comfort, you were sure that everyone in the hall could hear the sopping noise that it made. Your... wetness had trickled itself almost to your knee at this point, and it was completely unbearable.

Then, if by some miracle, the tailor stopped droning on long enough for Drew to interject that something or other was to be done about his issue and that he could leave the court knowing that he had been heard. Then, the tailor bowed and left. He left. The demon that had been preventing you from heaven has been vanquished.

“One petitioner more. After him, this forum will be continued tomorrow.” Drew’s booming voice echoed across the hall. You swore that you heard everyone give a sigh of relief. As a page left to usher in the final person, Drew turned his head so that his eyes met yours. His devilish smirk met your beaming smile as he slowly nodded to you as if to say, “I know, my Queen. I know how you’ve missed me, and very soon, I’m going to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

Then, Drew draped his arm over the side of his seat, and grazed his fingers over the engravings of it, in perfect view of you. His hand danced a bit more until it landed on a tiny gemstone, no larger than the bud of a flower. He then slowly swirled his fingers around the nub before shifting his muscles and pressing in on it for just a moment, before circling it again.

You sucked in a breath and held your stomach where you felt heat bubbling inside you. You bit the inside of your cheek and suppressed a moan. It just wasn’t fair. Queen’s shouldn’t be teased. Not like this. Your face hardened as you tried to stay expressionless. Drew smiled and turned his head forward again, still working his hand. He knew the hold he had on you. To everyone else, it looked like the King was absentmindedly fiddling with the etchings in his throne. But you knew better. You knew much, much better.

Then there was a bang that grabbed you out of your painfully bliss-filled trance. You turned your head and put your hand over your mouth. Not out of fear. Quite the opposite, actually. It was to keep from laughing. The man who had just burst through the door without waiting to be properly announced was shorter than yourself, and wearing a brightly colored… outfit, that no true Scot would ever don. You found the garment very hard to make sense of, so you didn’t bother to try. He wasn’t forced to wear it either, like a fool would be. By the way he took strides that his little legs shouldn’t have been able to take, he was very proud of his appearance.

You looked at Drew, whose mouth was slightly open as he stared at the little man who was barreling toward him. For the first time in hours, the King was sitting up at full attention. The walking curiosity stopped a few feet from the throne, dramatically bent his knee and gestured broadly with his hand.

“Your Majesty. Before I begin, I beg of you to allow me time to praise your grand victory over the vile pretender-”

“I am grateful for your praise, friend, and I’m sure that your words would move the ladies of the court to tears if they were to be spoken,” Drew quickly said. There were scattered laughs throughout the crowd. The little man just smiled and nodded. “But I must say that you entered this hall with such... urgency that I can say in full honesty... I would like to know your cause here today.”

At this point, Drew was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin. Not quite in a mocking manner, but in a manner of one who was asked an impossible riddle. The little man, however, was elated with the attention shown to him by the King. He stood up tall and proud with his bird-like chest puffed out.

“I am Slibhin Mac a’ Ghobhainn, and I am here to petition His Majesty for a company of royal warriors to assist me in retaking my home. My home... that was stolen from me... by my very kin.” Drew glanced at you, asking with his eyes if you and he were just sharing a dream one would have whilst they weathered a fever. You just shrugged your shoulders. Drew turned back to your guest.

“I must say, your request has been the most... ambitious one that I’ve heard today. But, I have to ask you how I can give you my men to reclaim your home when they have just returned from defending their’s.” Drew raised his eyebrow. The man called Slibhin stood back a bit, comically intimidated by your husband’s small gesture. Nevertheless, he persisted.

“I must confess, Your Majesty. This endeavor is not as… dramatic as I may have relayed.” He bowed his head in faux humility. “My father is… was... the blacksmith of your keep’s village, and with his passing, I should have inherited his estate and all intended incomes. However, my birthright has been… usurped by my… cursed sister. While I had been away on business these past few weeks, she has been, without my knowledge or consent, conducting transactions with the people of the town and has been calling my enterprise her own. Not only has she taken my means of income, but has destroyed my home and has turned it into a… boar’s den of the most unappealing state.”

Your ears perked up at the word “sister.” You had always had a great admiration for smithing, and had always fantasized about creating something yourself, though you kept this secret. Not even your husband knew... yet. When the image flashed in your mind that a woman was in charge of a smithy, it brought a bright smile to your face that you didn’t even attempt to hide. Drew, however, let out a breath.

“So, you are asking for the arrest of your sister?” You immediately frowned at that. You knew that Drew was compelled by his office to uphold the laws of the land, but… you both knew... just by looking, that the man before you had no right (other than virtue of his sex) running a smithy. Slibhin showed his smile again. The smile that had amused you at first now was the cause for your most sincere disdain.

“No, Your Majesty, that is not what I am asking for. You see, if my sister were to be arrested, then I would be without the means to make my fortune.” His smile deepened. Drew rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was clear that as much as the funny dressed man was enjoying his showmanship, Drew was becoming agitated by it.

“My late father was very keen on having his skills transferred through his children. When I didn’t immediately become a prodigy under his impossible training regime, he turned to my sister who, in an overwhelming need to be praised by him, showed something resembling skill in the field. As much as it pains me to say this, I need her to perform her duties. I just need them done under my jurisdiction.”

“Well, if your father raised your sister to take over his business, what right have I to disrespect a dead man’s wishes?'' the King asked, crossing his arms over his chest. You smirked in a slight satisfaction over that. Even though you knew this had nothing to do with you, it somehow felt like Drew was defending you. Though you couldn’t explain it, you considered Slibhin, the petitioner, as an invader. As a threat. Not a physical threat, not at all. You were certain that even in your present state you could make him bleed. Heavily. It was his mind that you felt put off by. He wasn’t clever, not by any means, but his way of thinking (if you could call it thinking) somehow disturbed you. He just felt so… entitled. Though he hadn’t done anything outrageous, there was something about him you just couldn’t trust. You had hoped that Drew’s questioning would have somehow disheartened the small man, but he just kept… on… smiling.

“Your Majesty, like yourself, I am fortunate enough to have been wed this year...” He smiled and nodded to the space next to your husband. You gasped loudly. There stood your King’s cupbearer. A little girl with soft skin and wide eyes, no older than ten. It was a subtle nod, one that the vast majority court hadn’t seemed to notice, thank the Gods. But you had known what you saw, but you refused to believe it. Yes, she was the closest person to Drew and she was very well dressed, but surely no one could have possibly thought that she was their Queen, or that Drew would ever dare wed or… lay with a... child. Who looked at a child so young and innocent and thought: “wife”? Tears welled in your eyes. Drew leaned forward and inhaled to repute the gesture, obviously aware of what was implied, but Slibhin persisted.

“But I haven’t married just any woman. I have married the daughter of a Laird.” He said the last word as if he were sampling a rare vintage. “Through this union, I have acquired a status that supersedes that of any blacksmith, alive or dead. By both my birth and my diplomacy, I have the right to that smithy. Now all I need is... well, physical support to take what is mine.”

You could feel the veins in your forehead bulging as your eyes stung. You hated this man. Everything he said. Everything he thought. Everything about him filled you with a rage. He had insulted you and your husband. He believed his Queen was a child and his King was a senseless monster. More than that, he was stealing a woman’s right to work. Her livelihood. Just because he could. There was no way he could do this.

“Very well.” Your head snapped to your husband. Drew rubbed his temples under his circlet. “You’ll have some men to help you restore peace to your home, but that’s all. You cannot-”

“WAIT!”

Time stopped. Silence covered the room like a woolen blanket. Even the little gnats that were fluttering about seemed to be suspended in the thick, heated air. Every living thing in the world had turned into a statue, all with their heads turned to you, including Drew’s. Your face felt hot. Hotter than before, if that were even possible. You noticed that your hands were gripping the railing before you. So tightly, in fact, that your knuckles were the color of milk. You looked down at Slibhin. His smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were small and full of malice. You took some comfort in that you broke, if just for a moment, that boy’s jovial mask. It gave you the courage to speak.

“If I may speak on this-”

“Your King has already made his decree, my sweet girl.” said Slibhin quickly, hoping to put you down as swiftly and as kindly as possible. “I don’t believe he-”

Drew quickly stood to his feet, causing the floor to quake in the process.

“Your Queen has chosen to honor you with her words. I suggest you listen. Kneel, boy.” As if his legs were cut at the knees, Slibhin fell back down with his head bowed once more. You could see that the little man was sweating… heavily, and not because of the blistering heat. Drew looked back at you, his eyes filled with admiration and encouragement. You felt some kind of power in the bottom of your feet, anchoring you to your castle. Your home. Your seat of power. Air gracefully filled your lungs and you spoke.

“Perhaps it is just my female sensibility, or the fragile constitution that poisons my sex,” you said with an overly-sweet tone, so much so, that the ladies of the court tried to suppress their giggles, leaving the men confused, “but it seems to me that sending military force to settle such a small domestic dispute, even without violence, is very... uncivilized.”

You looked at Drew for support. He nodded slightly. “Well said, my Queen. What do you suggest instead?” You hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Send an ambassador. Someone to settle the matter diplomatically. I believe it would spare exhausted men more work, and inspire less resistance from the blacksmith.”

The court murmured in support of your idea, but you couldn’t help but feel disheartened. You didn’t want to send an envoy to solve the matter. You didn’t think there was a matter to be solved. Let the damn girl smith in peace. However, you knew that couldn’t be. The small, hateful man that knelt before you had a right to his father’s business... and his sister’s life if she were not yet married. You just couldn’t bear seeing a young woman dragged out by soldiers to be humbled before her brother; a brother that clearly bore her no love.

“It shall be done, my Queen. I can think of no better alternative.” Drew proclaimed, just happy that the matter was finally done with. “The crown will send the Laird of Commerce to settle-”

“I will go,” you said. “Today.”

Drew’s eyes widened. He turned to you and raised his brow. You did your best to not look directly at him, but instead kept your chin raised and your eyes on the frivolously dressed man. You knew what you had done. The place of the Queen was inside her castle, not in politics. Drew had allowed you some leniency just then, by giving you leave to speak, but that was just because he was so utterly exhausted. The repercussions that may fall on Drew for your actions were not lost on you. He could be seen as weak or incompetent. Your outburst could be seen as him allowing a woman, even if it was his wife, control him. You knew all of this.

But you couldn’t let this happen. Even though you had never met this smith before, you felt a kind of womanly bond with her. You didn’t have a plan for when you met her, or how you could save her, but you also had no plan to speak out a few moments ago. Slibhin looked back and forth between the two of you, hoping that the King would somehow intervene. Though you had never declared your intention to have the girl keep her forge, he could sense your motives... and he didn’t like them. You could tell that he was just waiting for Drew to silence or perhaps admonish you in front of the court… all with that damned smile on his face.

“I suppose you will be in need of an escort…” Your head snapped to your husband. He had a smile of his own. Sincere and cocky. “My Queen. I’d like to offer you my services.”

Your heart fluttered and you nodded. A collective giggle escaped from the crowd. Him doing this not only showed that he approved of your plan, but if anyone dared to oppose you, they would have to go through him first. On top of all that, his attitude was a playful one, showing he wasn’t bothered by your actions at all. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

“The court is dismissed. Those in attendance will retire and I will go to fulfill my duties.” Drew’s voice boomed through the hall as the nobles and commoners alike scrambled toward the exit. The room emptied uncommonly fast either out of fear of their King, or because they wanted the ordeal to just be over already. It was most likely the latter. In a moment the only living souls left behind were yourself and Drew. Even the sniveling Slibhin was taken out and told to make his smithy ready for the royals’ arrival.

You walked down to the lower level to meet with Drew. The smile on his face hadn’t lessened, but it did change somehow. As soon as you were within reach your husband grabbed you and held you close. It wasn’t in a romantic way; it was in a very lustful way. Your face was forced into his chest. One hand gripped your hair while the other was pressed into your backside. Drew squeezed his hand and forced you to roll into his thigh. You tried to gasp, but found breathing impossible. The King lowered his mouth to your ear.

“I know what you’re trying to do, little one,” he growled. “You’re trying to torture me. Trying to make me wait. Get back at me for teasing you. But let me tell you something, my Queen.” He let go of your hair and tilted your chin to look up at him. Your eyes were glazed over and your mouth hung open at the sheer sensation you were experiencing. Drew continued, “I may be beaten down, but I still have the strength to take you. I still have the power to ravage you. I still have the endurance to turn you into a whimpering mess. The only thing I don’t have is patience to visit that little idiot’s house and watch you comfort some crying welp.”

Drew lifted you and placed you roughly on his throne. He leaned over you and put his arms on either side of your head, caging you. Your chest heaved as your breathing became erratic. Your husband captured your gasping mouth in a fiery kiss and you moaned unabashedly. After a few moments of bliss, you felt a rough, dirty hand slide up the side of your leg. It reminded you that just a few minutes ago, you could feel yourself dripping as you dreamed of this exact scene. But something felt wrong. Your head was swimming and your thoughts were scattered, but you knew that you had forgotten something. Something important.

“Welcome me home, my Queen. Not like that little farce this morning. Give me a real welcome.” Drew growled and bit your neck, making you hold in a scream of pleasure... and a small amount of pain… just the right amount. “Come on my love. I want to hear you.” By now his fingers were pushing into your core, threatening to enter you. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He was whispering now. In the midst of his beast-like state, he still found softness to give to you.

You felt guilty for what you were about to say. You loved your husband more than anything in this world and you wanted to give him what he wanted. What he craved, but…

“No, Drew. I have to go to that man’s house. I have to see that smithing girl. Today. I really truly have to... Please, let me go.”

Your husband froze. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. You swallowed and started to get up from the throne. Only then did Drew back off from you and in doing so, you felt his fingers leave your core. It was devastating. Drew stood to his full height and stared at you. His face was confusion incarnate. You got to your feet only to stumble forward and be caught by your King. Your legs were still shaking from what he had just done.

“Thank you.” You were barely able to speak let alone look at him.

“Are you serious? You actually want to go?” His voice didn’t have a hint of malice. But it seemed... small. Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded. The guilt you felt was immeasurable.

“I’m sorry. I just… I-I… yes. Yes I want to go… and I need to go now. If-If we, um… share each other now, I w-wont be able t-to think of anything else.” You shook, hugging your husband’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I want to give myself to you. I want everything to be perfect when we…” You couldn’t finish your thought. You looked up at Drew’s face, expecting him to be angry, sad, frustrated, anything like that. But the corner of his mouth was turned upwards and his eyes were sparkling. You went to speak before he rolled his eyes and let out a breath of a laugh.

“On we go then…” The King turned and lumbered away from you, shaking his head dramatically. “The things a man must do to bed a woman.” He spoke over his shoulder. “You’d think a King would at least have an easier time.” He stopped and turned to you. “Well? Are you coming?”

A broad smile covered your face as you ran to catch up with your teasing husband.

The first word that came to mind when you walked through your keep’s village was “quaint.” Compared to the village surrounding your father’s keep, this was a bustling metropolis, but that wasn’t saying much. Every building looked the same, some just slightly bigger than others. The people also looked the same… some were just slightly bigger than others. Everything was a different shade of greyish brown. With a few splashes of specific colors to indicate different shops. You could tell that these people were poor, but none seemed like they were “in-need.” They had dirt on their faces, but they also seemed to have food in their stomachs. The noises that you heard were dull but plentiful. Men grumbling about prices, old women sharing rumors with one another, big wooden wheels of food carts crawling along on the soft peat roads.

Luckily, your feet and the hem of your dress were safe from the filth. You rode on your horse a few meters behind your escort, your husband. Though he no longer wore his royal circlet, it was obvious to the village folk around you that he was their King. Everyone got out of his path. From the littlest children play-fighting with sticks to the largest men pulling wagons along because they couldn’t afford a mule, all stopped what they were doing and stared at Drew… from a safe distance, of course. You couldn’t help but feel prideful. You saw how the townswomen stared at your husband. How they lusted after him. They also must resent you for keeping him from them, as if they ever had a chance. You suppressed a giggle. All women wanted him, but he was yours by right. And you were going to lay claim to what was rightfully yours… very soon.

“Well, would you look at that,” you could hear Drew proclaim. You craned your neck as the King slowed up to leisurely ride beside you. This time, you couldn’t contain the laughter that burst out of you at the sight of the little Slibhin sitting in the dirt, dizzy with pain as blood steadily dripped from his nose. It was a lovely sight. Drew looked at you and raised an eyebrow. Your laughter subsided a bit as a hint of shame plucked at you. That was very unladylike. Even Drew, who resented the little man almost as much as you did was able to maintain his composure. Still… it was funny. You didn’t think much of it.

Drew dismounted and helped you off your mare. You looked at your surroundings. It consisted of hundreds of grey eyes fixed upon you. Some were trying to figure out who you were. Others were judging you for your outburst. Others still were looking on and wondering how a woman so small could lay beneath a man so large and not be flattened. You began to feel self-conscious and fiddled with your sleeve. You took in a breath to address the crowd before you felt the large torso of your King block out the sun as he stepped between you and the masses.

“Royal business. On with your day.” Drew grunted. Like ants after you pick up the slab they were hiding under, the people disbursed. You reached out and squeezed his hand in thanks before you turned to the building behind you.

Under a shoddy overhang, there stood a gigantic forge with multiple anvils, crafting tables, whetstones, and pieces of different metals and ores grouped together by size and type. Your first thought was that no one man could work this forge alone, let alone one girl. On the wall hung more smithing tools than you knew existed. Each one grimy and well-used. Even the wooden handles of the hammers seemed to be rotting, but you couldn’t help but admire how well organized everything was. As Queen, you were in charge of keeping the largest estate in the country in the best shape it can be, and even you could never be this organized.

You swallowed hard and looked at your husband. By now he had taken the reins of your horses and led them to a water trough. You watched as he sat on a nearby overturned barrel and looked at you. You gave him a weak smile, pleading for some gesture of encouragement. Drew smirked and replied by spreading his legs. Under his kilt, you saw his already glistening cock jutting straight out of a roost of thick, black curls. Slightly less noticeable were the black and purple bruises that seemed like knolls in the tree trunks that were his thighs. They had to be extremely painful, but he didn’t seem to care. Drew gave you a look. “Don’t take too long,” it said.

You turned and knocked on the wooden door in front of you. Slibhin gave a groan of pain and mumbled something incoherent. You just rolled your eyes. The big door creaked open a sliver and you saw two pale blue eyes meekly peer out. You blinked a few times in surprise before crouching to be level with them.

“Umm… may I come in? I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

The two beautiful eyes nodded before retreating behind the door to heave it open with both hands. This was not how you expected the visit to start, but now you were more curious than ever. You hiked up your dress, stepped over the threshold and entered the house.

This was a home. You could tell that these people were richer than most, but they put nothing they owned to waste. The chairs were cushioned, but with makeshift pillows that seemed to be sewn from very fine, but very torn silks. Suspended from the ceiling beams were little figurines of colored glass that others would put in a cabinet and never dare breathe on for fear of shattering it. They gave the house a comforting glow when the light hit them the right way. In the wooden support beams and rafters were etched runes that you didn’t understand, but liked to look at. They had little statues and figures carved from wood that must have been imported from somewhere far away, but they weren’t for decoration. They either had overcoats draped over them or cooking utensils in their hands. Expensive looking urns and pitchers had been stuffed with soil and sprouted mixed clumps of different wildflowers, giving the house a sweet, clean air. Everything had a purpose, and even fluffy, expensive furs that even the highest of nobles would keep locked away safe, were used as carpets and doormats.

You couldn’t quite explain it, but you felt… safe here. It was like a child’s nursery in a way. While you admired the house you were in, the door closed, and your ear twitched at dainty little ghosts of footsteps. You turned.

Standing there was a woman that was somehow even smaller than yourself. Her half-braided hair was so light that it appeared silver in the few beams of sunlight that filtered through the shuttered windows. Somehow, her skin was even more fair, with a sweet but extremely shy look on her face. If you were a child, you would have believed her to be a fae. She wore an extremely well made and expensive looking dress... that appeared to have the sleeves, collar, hem, (and practically all areas that caused discomfort in a woman) torn or cut and resewn. It didn’t restrict her in any way. You would be lying if you said you didn’t envy her. You silently cursed yourself for not changing out of your ridiculous gown before making the journey into the village.

It was only then that you remembered that you had come here to speak with a smith. You quickly glanced at the girl’s arms, noting them to be as weak and as elegant as a willow’s branch. Her fingers were small and lithe, like strands from a spider’s web. Her back and neck … unbent as if it were an icicle, not at all like the hunched over men you had seen working your keep’s smithy.

“My Majesty. I am having a great honor, now, to be receiving your person at my little homestead.”

You were taken aback by her broken speech, but her voice was absolutely beautiful... like the ringing of a bell. She got on her hands and her knees before you, a bit excessive, but you understood her intent. You began to question if you should reciprocate her absurd amount of formality.

“Arise, my good hostess. A woman should never have to kneel in her own home.” You gave her a warm smile, and after a pause she rose to her feet but kept her head down.

“Please have forgiveness for me, Highness. I am stupid to your traditions of the South.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, sweet girl,” you were quick to reply. “I’ve come here as a friend. Please, don’t feel that you’ve insulted me.” The silver girl nodded understandingly, but her shoulders were still tense. You had never met this woman before in your life, but you desperately wanted to reach out and embrace her. To stroke her hair and whisper comforting words to her, like you would a frightened child during a storm.

“I believe you know why I’ve come here,” you gently pressed. The woman nodded.

“Yes, to discuss the business of this family. I am begging you, now, to possess a chair of mine.” You smiled at that. The way she spoke was adorable to you. You grabbed a seat and almost gasped as you sank into the cushion. It was just so comfortable. The girl moved to the chair opposite you as if she were gliding on a frozen pond, and nervously sat. A long unnerving silence blanketed the room until you were finally able to find your words. You deeply wanted to just get it all over with.

“I would just like to tell you that I do wish I could support your claim to your father’s forge. In fact, I- I admire you. Ladies are often not as… bold as you are about your talent.” You spoke about her “boldness” with great hesitation. You have never seen a more meek person in your life, but she must have some bravery in her. If you had learned anything from being the wife of the King, it was that people are not often as they appear.

The young woman tilted her head and furrowed her brow in confusion. You were afraid that she didn’t understand you and were prepared to repeat yourself in simpler terms, when you noticed her eyes widening. She flung her hand over her mouth to hide a gigantic smile as her shoulders bounced in an attempt to suppress giggles. While it was comforting to see your hostess joyful, you were the tiniest bit offended that her newfound laughter was directed at you.

“I am sorry. I am sorry, Queen. Do you… Do you believe that I am the smith?” Her eyes were playful and innocent. A wave of embarrassment flooded over you as all the color was drained from your face. Of course she wasn��t a smith. Any idiot could see that. Just lifting a hammer would exhaust her. The girl gestured to herself. “I am the wife.”

That sentence caught you by surprise and you looked up at her. Then you remembered that Slibhin had bragged about marrying the daughter of a Laird. She did carry herself like a noble, but… the way she spoke showed that she was certainly not a native of Scotland.

“Of course. Forgive me, but your accent…” you tentatively asked. The girl nodded.

“My mother was Norse. She raised me in the old language, being very prideful of her people and of her land.” Your eyes followed her right hand as it played with her left wrist. It was adorned with a pale silver bracelet. Obviously, it had a connection to her mother. “Yrsa,” you heard her whisper to herself, sadly. She took a moment before seemingly returning to the present. The girl continued. “She was for my Scottish father, a reward. A chained bride from conquest. His only desire was to breed savage boys with cold blood. And she did give to him two sons who were strong and brave and warlike... however he was plainly not content with my birth.” She kept looking at the bracelet, speaking as if you weren’t there. “It was his demand for her to swaddle me by the sea and have the waves take me… he sent my brothers along to witness my death, and to force my mother if she were unable to do it… but she did not do it… and my brothers did not force her. She hid me and when I was able, I played the role of a servant-girl. My brothers aided my farce.” She gave a weak smile. “I will now have been dead by his own hand if he had known of my living. By the time he was made aware of me, I was too old to kill quietly and I proved useful for marriages... in exchange for weapons and armour.”

She looked directly at you. Both pride and pain shined in her eyes.

“I am Sigrdrífa, my Queen. The fruit of a mother’s defiance and two boys’ mercy.”

At first, you didn’t know what to say. It was good that you finally knew her name, but you were at a loss for words. You only wanted to hear more of her story. Who was her mother? Was she still alive? Did she know that her husband was lying three feet from the door, knocked silly?

“Sigrdrífa... are you-”

Just then, outside, you heard a loud thump followed by a comical wail of pain. Slibhin must have been struck by something.

“This is the smith, my Grace.” Sigrdrífa muttered, almost amusedly. You were suddenly filled with an excited nervousness. This is why you were here after all. To talk with the smith. If she was anything like this little Sigrdrífa, this would be more interesting than you imagined it to be this morning, and you were imagining quite a bit. At least you would have an easier time understanding her.

The door was busted open with a kick.

“Oi, te’ foockin’ cunt’s still bleedin’ by te’ nose! Ah dun’t even use me good han’! Ah shoulda done tha’ years ‘go! ”

She was massive. Her body nearly filled the door frame, blocking out all the light. Her broad shoulders and arms that were left exposed by her leather jerkin were wonderful advertisements for her trade. Her head was shaved, and you couldn’t tell if the brown that sat on her head was stubble, or layers of ash and dirt that seemed ingrained in other parts of her skin. You suspected it was both. She had no indication of a womanly figure. Her clothes were clearly meant for a grown man, and they fit her perfectly. In one fist, she held the necks of several ducks.

She opened her mouth to speak again and froze. Her eyes were the color of newly unearthed ore with clumps of dirt still clinging to it, begging it to return to the ground. Rough and unrefined, but strong. You felt that her gaze alone was strong enough to knock you down, and it was fixed on you.

You smiled and stood, intending to walk towards her, curious, and only the slightest bit intimidated. That all changed when her once toothy smile was swallowed by her tightening lips. Her nose crinkled and you saw her jaw tighten. You swore you could hear her teeth grinding. She took her tree-trunk of a leg and kicked the door closed. You stopped before you could even take one step.

You suddenly felt yourself suffocating. Not like you were in the morning, with boredom and stillness, but you couldn’t find your air out of fear for the giant before you. You felt like a caged animal, not a dangerous animal that could fight back, you were something small like a hare or a field mouse. There was just no way you could do anything physical to her. The smith tilted her chin up to as if to speak over you. The veins in her neck were bulging, but she still stared at you.

“Te’ son ofa whore wun’t bluffin’. ‘E got te’ bleedin’ Queen… Ya let ‘er in?” Her voice was surprisingly soft. There wasn’t much anger in it, more like she had been slapped in the face… by someone who could actually reach. You looked back at the meek little girl you had just met. She stood up straight with her eyes locked on the smith, not showing one bit of fear. If anything, she seemed annoyed.

“She is here to be settling your business.” Sigrdrífa spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. Patronizing. The big woman sneered and stared you down.

“She dun’t look li’e she’s ready to settle anythin’ wit me.” Your eyes moved to her free hand, where she used her thumb to crack each of her knuckles. Loudly. You gasped when you felt Sigrdrífa’s tiny hand grab your arm. She spoke to you.

“I give you apologies, my Queen. She speaks harshly for she fears losing her-”

“Ah’m naw ‘fraid. Notin’ ta be ‘fraid of. Et’s naw gonnae ‘appen.” The large woman continued to stare at you and raised her eyebrows, as if daring you to challenge what she had just stated. You heard forceful, purposeful footsteps come from behind you. You watched as your tiny protector marched up and met toe-to-toe with the mountain at the door.

“You are behaving as a boar does.”

“Ye’ eva jump inta a boar’s den? Tear ye’ foockin’ guts out, they will. Rightf’lly so.”

“You will lose your neck for speaking so.”

“They’re welcome te’ try ‘n take et.” She still looked directly at you, never breaking eye contact. A ghost of a smile played with the corners of her mouth. She was cocky. She knew that she could do whatever she damn well pleased to you. This was her den, and you had just stumbled blindly into it.

“Yer naw takin’ me forge. Et’s mine.” The smith just would not stop staring at you. Sigrdrífa pushed against the smith’s chest. Her porcelain skin seemingly red with anger.

“She has been sent here to keep the peace.”

“She’s been sent ‘ere ‘cos they don’ t’ink ah’d lay a hand on te’ Queen... Bu’ ah can, an’ ah will.” You felt faint. Your head swam in a freezing kind of heat. You wanted Drew here. You wanted him to barge through that door and rescue you. But you knew he wouldn’t. He only escorted you to keep up appearances as King. He let you walk into this house alone. He must have seen the gigantic girl walk in and kick the door shut behind her. He trusted you to settle things here. He wasn’t coming. If you screamed his name, the smith would still get to you first. It was up to you to save yourself, and you were too terrified of the scene before you to conjure anything that could remotely resemble a rational thought.

The smith saw this, and was loving every second of your horror and fear. She opened her mouth to say something else when the woman in front of her began to sob. For the first time since she saw you, the giant took her eyes off of you and looked down at Sigrdrífa, her face now immense with concern. She dropped the ducks in her hand and shot her arms up to hold the trembling woman. Sigrdrífa swatted her hands away and punched at her vest.

“You are not made of metal! You think that you are, but you are not!” The smith went to hold her again, but again she beat away her hands and continued to wail on the giant’s chest. “You will fight the whole of the King’s army? Yes? You will fight every soldier of this Scotland? You will kill every soldier of this Scotland? You will fight the King? You will kill the King?” The smith took in a breath to respond, but was cut off. “You will be KILLED! You will be dead, and I will wish to be dead!”

Sigrdrífa’s strength seemed to fall away instantly. Her hands stopped their pounding and fell to her side. She fell forward, directly into the chest of the monster, who immediately wrapped her arms around her, giving her the support that her wobbling legs failed to provide. Sigrdrífa’s shoulders heaved as she wept, and the giant just... held her. You couldn’t believe the scene that was unfolding before you. You didn’t know what to think. Sigrdrífa spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. You strained to hear.

“You are selfish. You are selfish to try and fight the world. When you are dead, I will have lost all of me. When you are dead, there will be nothing to stop him-”

“No.” The smith spoke with a stern and clear voice. “‘E won’t touch ye again. Even if ah lose ev’rythin’ else, ‘e will never touch ye again. Ah promise, little one.”

Little one.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You immediately looked up at the big woman. Her eyes were fixed firmly on Sigrdrífa in a state that you instantly recognized. Her eyes were focused, but so soft. Her mouth ever so slightly curled in a contemplative smile, despite the dire circumstances. Her head was tilted to the side. Her breath was slow and even. She looked at Sigrdrífa the same way Drew often looked at you. Just after you caught him staring, and just before he averted his eyes, pretending he didn’t even see you. It was a look of utter adoration. Pure love.

Your eyes darted down to Sigrdrífa. Her posture was different than it was a few moments ago. Though she was still distraught, she sought refuge in the person she had just been fighting, as if she had nowhere else to go. She nuzzled her head into the smith’s chest, as if she was trying to disappear into it.

Everything clicked into place. Your heart sank. Sigrdrífa was married to Slibhin, the smith’s brother. A brother that she clearly had no affection for... and a man that clearly had no respect for his wife or his sister. They had found refuge in one another. The smith was unapologetic about her brutish nature in front of the dainty girl, and she in turn felt safe to scold this monstrosity of a human without any fear or hesitation. You quickly looked around the room again to recognize the oddity of it all. The unorthodox nature of it. They had taken useless, idle things that Slibhin had most likely purchased using the money that his sister made, and had used them to serve their own comfort, something that Sigrdrífa desperately needed. These two had made a home together.

And you were about to take it all away. You couldn’t do that to them. Even if one of them had just threatened your life. You understood why she did so. Drew would have done the very same thing if someone had threatened to hurt you. Actually, he wouldn’t even utter a word of a threat. He would just kill them then and there. You gasped and held your heart. If Drew knew that this girl had threatened you, she would be killed. You had to do something.

“I support your claim to your forge.” You felt your throat resonate with sound even though you didn’t even feel your lips move. You didn’t feel yourself rise to your feet and take several steps toward the pair, but that’s exactly what you did. Though the smith’s attention was still on Sigrdrífa, you saw her eyes rise up to meet yours. They were red and threatening tears. Somehow, this gave you confidence. You had to take advantage of it.

“Also... no one sent me here. I demanded to come here and settle this matter myself.” The smith stood to her full height once again, but still held the girl. Sigrdrífa turned around in her embrace, wiping her eyes in shame of her outburst. Both of them, waiting for what you were going to say. For the first time since entering the house, you felt like the Queen.

“I may be willing to forgive you for your childish threats if you sit down and let me speak.” Your back straightened and you lifted your chin. In a way, you were trying to emulate Drew when he spoke to his undisciplined recruits. Sigrdrífa gently pushed the smith’s arms away from her, as if they weighed nothing, bent over and gathered the ducks off of the floor, holding them in her arms like a newborn. She took small, slow steps towards you.

“My Queen, may I ask you to pardon me? I must be preparing these for supper.” Her voice quaked. She was completely embarrassed. You felt pity for her. She was most likely the most gentle woman you have ever met, and she was thrown into the middle of all... this.

You nodded and gave a ghost of a smile. She bowed her head and retreated to the fireplace. She sat in a rocking chair and began plucking the feathers from the ducks. The chair and fireplace were extremely close to the table. She was well within earshot and could easily talk business with you, but you understood that she just wanted to disappear. You at least could give her that courtesy.

You looked back at the smith at the door. She was walking toward you, but stopped in her tracks.

“Ah was just gonnae sit down. Ah wun’t gonnae do nothin’ else.” She put her hand up, as if swearing an oath. You had to suppress a smile, keeping your regal composition. Even though you were touched at the big woman’s devotion to the smaller one, and even though you desperately wanted them to live happily with one another, free from the little monster that plagued them both, you still were the Queen, and you had been not only insulted, but threatened by your subject. It was your turn to be intimidating, even if your target was just a stubborn, rough, protective giant. Just like Drew.

“Sit down.” She almost lunged to the seat opposite you. The ground shook with her every step. Even when she was seated, she towered over you. Frankly, you still had trouble believing that she was really that big. You took your own seat. She folded her hands together and hunched forward, clearly trying to show that she was listening. However, in doing so, she took up most of the table. To answer this, you leaned forward yourself and watched in glee as she retreated into the back of her chair. This time, you did smile. Proudly.

“Tell me why you should keep your forge.”

“Ye said ye s’pport me claim.” The big woman was tensing up again. She knew she was being toyed with, but she could do nothing about it.

“I do, but I only support your claim because I don’t want to support your brother’s.”

The smith smiled at that. A broad, toothy smile like the one she wore when she first entered the house. Her teeth were square, and she had a small gap between the front most two. Just like Drew. She was delighted that someone hated her brother. She looked into your eyes, hoping that you would return her smile, and lighten the mood somewhat. You didn’t return anything. Defeated, the smith cleared her throat and spoke.

“Ah’m te’ furst born. Ah’m from me da’s furst wife. ‘E said I’d ‘ave te’ forge when ‘e died… ‘E died. ”

“When did your father die?” You tried to formulate some sort of timeline. You didn’t know what for. You knew you shouldn’t get involved too much in their family affairs, but curiosity got the better of you. The large woman hitched her thumb back at Sigrdrífa..

“Same day Slibhin brought ‘er ‘ere. Died in ‘is sleep,” she huffed and rolled her eyes, clearly insinuating that that was not, in fact, the way her father truly died. But surely there was no way to prove any foul play. When a dying old man finally passes, nobody really questions why, or how. You got your thoughts together. So Slibhin brought back his wife and then his father ‘died in his sleep,’ meaning that she never truly had power over the forge. It had just passed from her father to her brother. But something wasn’t lining up.

“Then… when did you... take control of the smithy? I mean, why is your brother begging for help now?

“Te, King an’ soldiers wen’ off te’ war. Nob’dy te’ enforce it.” She looked at you like you were stupid. You weren’t sure if she realized what her facial expression was offensive or not, but you didn’t like it. Your cheeks grew hot at that insult, but you didn’t pursue it and further.

“So you’ve been in the head of the house for about… one month?”

She nodded her head. You opened your mouth to ask another question about the previous whereabouts of her now unconscious brother, but the smith cut you off, already knowing.

“E’s been livin’ in a whorehouse fer te’ past month. Anythin’ else? Can ah keep goin’?” Her patience was wearing thin, and even though she didn’t intend to scare you, you felt fear creep back up into your chest. But before you were able to even inhale to steady yourself, you heard the faintest sound of someone clearing their throat. You looked back up at the giant woman, who looked confused in turn. You saw her turn in her chair to meet Sigrdrífa’s gaze.

The smaller woman didn’t say a word, just narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, scrunched her nose and gave the smith a curt nod. The universal way a wife signaled to her husband that he was being inappropriate. The smith’s head lowered and she let out a big sigh, causing her shoulders to loosen and drop. Her hand went to rub the back of her neck in embarrassment as she slowly turned back to you, not daring to make eye contact.

“Ah’m sorry, my Queen,” was all she said. You immediately stopped yourself from forgiving her… and calling her ‘Drew.’ In that moment, you saw your husband in that smithing girl. Utterly and completely. That was the way Drew always apologized to you. From the body language to the facial expression down to the cadence of her words; it was an exact match.

“Continue,” was all you said. The smith nodded and did just that.

“Ah’m te’ one tha’ smiths. Ah’m te’ one tha’ earns te’ gold. Me brothe’ dunt kno’ an’thin’ ‘bout makin’ deals wit’ nob’dy. ‘E’s a cunt. Nob’dy want’s te’ work wit’ ‘em. Townsfolk don’ li’e me much, buh… ah’m sure tha’ ah’ve dun be’er than ‘im.. makin’ deals, ah mean...”

You genuinely nodded along with each point that the smith made… well, the ones you were able to understand. With every breath she took, you wanted more and more to give her the rights to her forge, and it pained you knowing that you couldn’t do so. Even though you didn’t like the girl, you knew that she cared about what was hers, and she was willing to fight for it. Just like Drew.

“-Wit’out ‘im, ah’ve made more gold ‘n ah’ve eve-”

“What’s your name?”

That caused the smith to freeze, mid sentence. She looked at you as if you’ve just grown three heads. You didn’t think what you had asked was difficult… Perhaps she didn’t understand the question? The woman opposite you rubbed her knuckles across the palm of her other hand and bit her cheek.

“Brynhildr... Ye’ Grace.”

“Brynhildr…” you repeated. The guttural pronunciation forced the name to get caught in your throat, causing you to cough a bit. You composed yourself and smiled politely. “That’s an interesting name.”

“Et’s a’ ugly name,” she corrected you, looking almost apologetic. “If et’s easier, ye’ can call me ‘Breun.’ Most evr’yone else does.”

Breun, you knew that word. It was Gaelic for something. You took it upon yourself to learn the language, but your teacher became very… excited in hearing you speak the ancient tongue and often cut lessons short to… reward you for being so studious. You had heard the word before. You just couldn’t remember what it was.

The smith read your mind. “Et means ‘filthy… stinkin’... beastly... t’ings li’e tha’...” she rolled her eyes and smiled sadly as she told you. Her voice was much softer than when she first walked in, as if she were trying not to upset you. Her eyes were somehow less harsh-looking than before, but just as strong. You felt like they could hold you up and support you, reliably, just by virtue of them looking at you. You stammered for something to say. Something that would give her comfort.

“Why- why would they call you that?” Stupid question. Anyone could see that breun was a perfect description of her, and she knew that perfectly well. She gave you a small smile and turned her hands over on the table, palms up, presenting herself as evidence. You quickly shook your head, trying to spare her feelings. “I will not call you that. That’s cruel.” She shook her head.

“Et’s true. Well... et wa’ true a month ‘go. Now ah git scrubbed bloody e’ry foockin’ sundown.” The smith tilted her head back when saying that, clearly not talking to you.

“It would not be necessary if you did not insist on ending every day by wearing a coat of ash,” a soft voice chimed in. You leaned to the side to look at Sigrdrífa, who had not taken her eyes off of her work, but was sporting a shining smile and a deep blush on her cheeks. You chuckled as you imagined the scene of this colossus sitting in a tub too small for her, with a sour expression on her face as the tiny, dainty, soft spoken girl scrubbed her back with a horse brush and reprimanded her for being too dirty… while blacksmithing.

“Tha’s naw all et means.” Your attention returned to the smith’s face. “Breun also means bold, loud, an’ unladylike.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Dun’t soun’ too ‘orrible te me.” Her eyes sparkled with pride. “Ah won’ be ‘ffended ef ye call me ‘Breun’, Ye’ Grace.” She offered you a smile once more, and this time you returned it sincerely. It must be a family trait, smiling. Her brother Slibhin, you remembered, often sported a smile when speaking to others, but his was snide and arrogant while her’s was humble and giving.

“Breun, it is,” you conceded with a nod. “It actually is a fairly handsome name, in my opinion.”

Breun’s chest swelled as she took a deep breath, trying not to shed a tear. It dawned on you that you may have been the first person to say something truly kind to her. Well, one of the first people at least. She leaned forward to say something, but froze as she just began to open her mouth. A flush of confusion and a tiny bit of fear washed over you.

You started to speak. “Excuse-”

“SHHH” Breun scrunched her face up and held a finger uncomfortably close to your mouth. Your heart began to race once more. Sigrdrífa stood up and moved to stand by Breun, putting her hand on her shoulder. The smith seemed completely statuesque. The only part of her that moved was… her ears. They seemed to twitch. You closed your eyes and tried to focus your hearing.

At first, you could hear nothing, just stillness. Then, the lightest, faintest dinging sound. It was constant and even, purposeful. Like a musician beating a drum. It was clearly coming from the outside. Drew would be able to see what was happening.

Breun slammed her hand on the table and pushed herself up, leaving cracks and splinters where her palm hit. She almost sprinted over to the door and flung it open, shouting incoherent curses. You looked over to Sigrdrífa for answers. She just closed her eyes and shook her head.

“What man would be foolish enough?” What was she talking about? What was foolish and who was doing it?

“Ah don’ gev a SHITE if yer te’ Fookin’ King o’ Scotlan’! Tha’s MY fookin’ ‘ammer!”

Oh no.

By the time you were able to hike up your ridiculous dress and run outside, Breun had already tackled your husband to the ground and was in the process of wrestling a hammer out of his hands. Both yours and Drew’s faces were full of surprise and confusion. No one had done this to him before. Many have attempted. Mostly it was just soldiers who wanted to earn the respect of their King, but they had fallen from him like raindrops against a stone wall.

At the realization that he had a real challenge before him, Drew’s face quickly turned from shock to savagery. Your husband pushed Breun back and kicked her in the chest, nearly launching her ten feet across the dry, dusty ground straight into the side of an anvil. The girl let out a loud grunt and doubled over. Drew then got back to his feet and looked at you.

“I thought you said that you could resolve this matter quietly!” The King was about to yell some more when he was knocked into the dirt again. Breun had already gotten back up and charged him, this time focusing on his right shoulder, the arm of which was holding her hammer. Surely enough, he dropped it, and like an attacking hound that had just been called back to her master, she pushed herself off of Drew, grabbed her tool from the dust, and pointed it at him.

“Right... now fuck off.”

That was the clearest you had ever heard her speak. Probably because that was the calmest she had ever looked, satisfied with her performance. Drew, on the other hand, was furious. Even though he had sustained injuries that would render a normal man bedridden for weeks, the mere fact that he had been knocked over was enough to make his blood boil. As Breun stepped over your husband to put her hammer away, he grabbed her ankle and tripped her. She fell flat on her chest, causing the ground to shake and a cloud of dust to explode around her.

Breun scrambled back to her feet and threw the hammer on a nearby workbench. Drew got up as well, slower than he should have. You called out to him, but he couldn’t hear you. The two stared at one another, and though you couldn’t tell who initiated it, the two locked up as if they were two bulls. You noticed that Breun was about one head shorter than your husband. Drew started pushing forward, causing the stubborn smith’s feet to skid backwards in the dust until her back hit the stone wall of her house. Her eyes went wide as she realized that she couldn’t best your husband in strength. Drew wore a smirk on his face. He knew he had won. The King raised his eyebrows, taunting his opponent. Breun’s face became flushed with fury and embarrassment.

You didn’t know if it was out of defiance or desperation, but you watched on in horror as Breun cleared her throat and spat in Drew’s face. You heard gasps behind you. You spun around to see that a gigantic crowd had formed to see their King. Maybe it wasn’t a terrific idea to not have any guards accompany you and your husband to the town. Just then, you saw a woman cover her mouth to silence a scream. You turned back around to see Drew with his arm raised and the hammer in his fist. You bolted forward, trying to intervene, when you saw a flash of silver. The next thing you saw was Sigrdrífa hanging about Drew’s neck, trying to stop his movement somehow, but only having the same effect as a silk scarf would.

Although the girl was light, her screams and pleas alerted Drew to her presence. Annoyed, more than anything, he dropped the hammer, shook Sigrdrífa off, and forced Breun to her knees before giving her a swift knee in the gut for good measure. He then marched over to you, wiping off his face.

“I’m sending the soldiers to settle this mess. They’ll humble that little bitch and we’ll be done with the matter. She had her chance to submit peacefully and she wasted it.” Drew looked at you, waiting for your response. You couldn’t think of anything, except...

“Why did you take her hammer?”

That stopped your husband in his tracks. He twisted his face in confusion, and then shook his head. “I figured I could make a full set of armour for every man in Scotland before you finished talking in there.” His answer was mean-spirited and sarcastic. You knew that he was feeling aggressive and embarrassed at the moment, but it still hurt you that he would speak to you like that. You took a step back from him. Drew sighed and rubbed a hand down across his face.

“Let’s go.” Drew grabbed your arm, being purposefully gentle, and screamed for the crowd to disperse once more as he led you over to your horses. He untied your mare and lifted you onto her saddle. You saw him grimace in pain at performing the action, but decided that you could say nothing. You had failed. The forge would fall back into the hands of Slibhin (who was still unconscious at his own doorstep) and the two girls you had just met would go back to their miserable lives that they fought so hard to escape. You went to wipe a tear that was forming in your eye when you saw Drew looking at you. He gave you a small smile in an attempt to comfort you, but you turned your head from him. For the first time since your wedding day, you didn’t want to look at your husband. Drew just sighed and started untying his own horse from the wooden beam, only to be stopped by a small hand grasping the hem of his bearskin cape.

“My Majesty. I beg you to have forgiveness.” Drew turned around and looked down to where the small voice was coming from. Sigrdrífa looked into his eyes and grabbed his hand with both of hers. “The smith... she thinks with her strength, and not her head. She fights before she knows what else to do.” Drew’s eyes softened just a tiny bit. He looked back at Breun, who was staring down at her feet. She nodded in agreement. Sigrdrífa spoke again.

“Your rage for her is within me countless times over. I begged her to be quiet... to be calm... and yet she could not do that. But, you cannot ask the waves of the sea not to crash. It is willed to happen by nature. She has no choice. She did not mean to disrespect her King.”

Drew took a deep breath and rubbed his neck with his free hand. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. This fragile little thing... speaking to the King of Scotland with such grace and calmness after everything that had just happened. And he seemed to be receptive to it all, as well. You couldn’t help but be the tiniest bit jealous of how... regally she was handling everything. The people around you all seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for him to say something, anything. But before he could, Sigrdrífa let go of Drew and reached up to a rip in his shirt that must have been made during the wrestling match a few moments ago and opened it up with her fingers, revealing a deep purple, almost black bruise that was trickling with blood. In a small voice, you heard her almost whisper.

“She did not mean to hurt you.”

In an instant, Drew’s eyes were filled with fury once again. Though she didn’t know it, Sigrdrífa had just insulted the King in the worst way imaginable. She suggested that he was hurt. Your husband refused to ever acknowledge pain around other people, especially those who hurt him. No one had ever heard him even grunt in pain when soldiers sparred with him and landed what would be a devastating hit for any other man. Even you didn’t feel comfortable enough yet to ask to clean his wounds when he came back from battle. He did so himself when he believed you to be asleep. When he bedded you during those times, he would behave much more aggressively, often causing you some pain without realizing he did so. It was an attempt to show you that he was just as much of a man as ever, even when in dire need of rest and healing.

It was the worst possible thing the girl could have said to Drew.

He slapped Sigrdrífa’s hand away... hard. You could hear a multitude of gasps join your own as you tried to process what you had just seen. Sigrdrífa didn’t make a sound. She didn’t even seem to flinch. You figured that she must be used to suffering that sort of pain in silence. Breun was ready to lunge at your husband when Sigrdrífa yelled something in her language, and that prevented the smith from taking a single step. You couldn’t help but marvel at the control the tiny girl had over the beast. Drew hesitated for a moment, clearly regretting what he had done, but knowing that if he were to do anything to apologize, he would appear to be weak. Drew looked at Breun.

“This time tomorrow, members of the royal guard will have come by to inspect the forge. If they find that you are still defiant in obeying your brother, they will do all that is necessary to restore order.” Drew pushed the girl away, and she fell into the dust. Breun ran to her and wrapped her arms around her, almost completely shielding her from the world. Not even paying any mind to Drew. “Does anyone else have any objections?” the King roared. Everyone in the crowd looked at their feet. No one in their right mind would even look into the King’s eyes after everything that had just occurred. Though, you did notice when you scanned your eyes across the masses, that many of the people looked somber. You remembered the smith mentioning in passing that the townsfolk preferred dealing with her over her brother. Through your husband’s decree, not only was Breun losing something, but the village was as well. But you doubted that anyone was going to bring that to his attention.

Drew untied his horse and put his foot in the stirrup. His steed jumped, as if he didn’t recognize his master. Drew grabbed the reins and jerked the animal’s head to keep it obedient. You couldn’t quite tell why, but a wave of terror spread over you.

Watching your husband climb laboriously into his saddle was almost torturous. You saw him bite the inside of his cheek and hold back grunts of pain as he hoisted himself up. When he sat straight, his gaze fixed itself upon you. For a moment you considered turning your head away from Drew, but found it impossible. Be it out of pity, fear, or a mix of both, you were unable to look away from your husband as he stared at you, accusatory.

“You shouldn’t have gotten their hopes up.”

You inhaled sharply, intending to speak in your defense, but after a second, you just bowed your head in defeat. You didn’t want to fight. You didn’t have the strength to say a single word of disagreement. “Yes, my King,” was all you could say.

Drew nodded and moved his horse forward. You followed suit. The sun had just reached its noontime peak. Lunch would do your husband some good, you decided. You were unsure if you would be able to eat anything. Your stomach felt knotted and tight. At least it was all over now.

“Ye cheated.”

Drew’s shoulders tensed. He cracked his neck and turned his horse around, as did you. There, a few yards away, holding the frail silver woman was that stubborn smith who just didn’t know when to quit.

“Say that again.” Drew’s teeth were clenched. Tight.

Breun grunted as she rose, holding the silver girl like a bride. She set Sigrdrífa on her feet, and duster her off, subtly tucking a stray hair behind her ear in the process. You heard a quiet “thank you” from the girl. Breun then smiled and gently pushed her off to the side, to relative safety.

“Ye cheated. Ye were gonnae bash me ‘ead in wit me ‘ammer.”

“You spat in your King’s face.”

“Yer naw te’ King when ye fight!” Breun sounded appalled. “A fist cannae tell te’ diff’rence ‘tween comm’ners ‘n nobil’ty. Yer jus’ a man when ye fight... An’ ye cheated.”

Of all the things to be concerned with at the moment, you couldn’t believe that the smith was attempting to rationalize and delegitimize her loss to Drew. You didn’t believe that Breun had much wits about her, and clearly it had hurt her pride, but standing back up after she had been humbled and challenging him again wasn’t just stupid, it was suicide. You looked to Drew, but surprisingly, his face was stoic and unreadable.

“‘You’re just a man when you fight,’” Drew spoke very slowly, as if contemplating each word’s meaning. There was something in his voice that unnerved you. It seemed... cunning and dripping with malicious intent, like Slibhin had sounded when he was petitioning for some soldiers. Leaning forward in his saddle, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and he raised his eyebrows.

“Is that how you feel when you fight? Like a man?” Drew let out a small chuckle. The crowd around him burst with loud, deep laughter that shook the air itself. The smith had told you that the townsfolk didn’t like her, but you didn’t expect this level of animosity. Breun herself didn’t move a muscle. Whether she was petrified by the comment or it had passed her by, unimpactful, you couldn’t tell. She seemed to be waiting for the laughter to die down so she could speak. She seemed very unamused.

When the thunderous laughter fell into a dull roar of mocking quips and insults from the crowd, Breun walked toward her forge and picked up the blade of an axe that hadn’t been fitted to a handle yet. The crowd went dead silent. You even saw a few men break out into a sprint away from the scene. That would have made you smile and maybe giggle, but you were too preoccupied with all the stupid things that Breun might do with that blade. However, she just looked it over.

“T’is wha’ ye’ were werkin’ on?” She didn’t take her eyes off the axe-head, purposefully avoiding looking at Drew, as if to insult him. The King’s grip on his reins tightened and he gave a curt nod.

“Aye.”

“Aye? Et’s’ done.”

“It’s hideous.” You couldn’t disagree with your husband there. The blade was a dark grey color, not at all like the glimmering pieces that your husband would present to you. It seemed warped and strange, like it was rotting. In short, it was hideous. It didn’t even look sharp. But Breun just sighed and shook her head, as if she was humor in the matter.

She rolled her shoulders back, and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. Sigrdrífa took a small step back and covered her ears. You wondered what was going to happen when you saw Breun open her eyes and let out a monsterous yell. As she did so, she swung her arm around and smashed the blade into the corner of her house. Sparks flew and you heard the most ear-piercing, shrill shriek that you ever thought possible as the stone was hit. Your horse bucked, and it took everything in you to not fall to the dirt. You shushed and calmed her as you stroke her side. You looked to Drew, but his unfriendly gaze was still fixed on the smith. You doubted that he even noticed that you nearly fell from your horse.

Breun looked at your husband and smiled. The then let her fingers uncurl themselves from the blunt side of the blade and dropped her hand to her side, leaving the axe embedded in the stone. She raised her chin and called out.

“Calhoun!”

You heard an elderly man’s voice ring out through the crowd. “Aye!”

“Ye’ got any logs stronger ‘n stone?”

“Nae!”

“T’is’ll do fine then! Et’s gonnae be ready t’morrow!” Breun then promptly ripped the blade out of the stone and tossed it back onto the side of the forge, never breaking eye contact with the King. She smiled.

“Ah’m better ‘n a man. Ah’m a better smith ‘n tha’ fookin’ King.”

You lowered your head. You truly felt pity for Breun. This was all she could do. Trying to show her strength as a last ditch effort to save something that she had already lost. Like a bear cub would roar in an attempt to terrify the hunter who had already stuck it with a spear. She had nothing left, all that she could do was put on her little show and try not to make a fool of herself any further.

“No you’re not.”

Your neck nearly snapped itself as you whipped your head to look at your husband. Being this close to him, you were able to see the features of his face that you couldn’t before. The corners of his eyes were red from lack of sleep. Directly under his nose was a fair amount of blood that had dried and clung itself to his dark facial hair, effectively hiding it from view. His chest was moving, as if just breathing was a great challenge for him. He clearly wasn’t in his right mind, or else he would have dismissed the insult as a fruitless attempt to provoke him.

But she was getting to him, and she knew it. Breun’s eyes lit up when Drew took the bait. She walked over to the wall where her tools hung and grabbed two identical hammers. Your eyes widened. She was going to challenge him. For the rights to her forge. Either she knew that something was wrong with your husband or she felt confident that she could out-smith the King. You looked to where Sigrdrífa was standing in the doorframe of her house. Her eyes were closed and her head was turned to the ground, she knew what was happening, but didn’t seem optimistic about it.

“Prove et.” Breun stood in the dirt road a few yards away from you, her arm outstretched with a hammer, the handle pointed at Drew. “Prove tha’ yer a better smith ‘n me.”

This couldn’t go on any further.

“Stop!” you heard yourself shout from atop your horse. All heads, including the one of your husband, turned to you. You swallowed hard. You despised yourself for what you were going to say… but it had to be said. “The King and I have both indulged in your childish games for long enough! You work at your brother’s forge, under his authority. Whatever chance you believed you had at persuading myself to pity you has been killed by your idiocy and your lack of respect for your King. It is over, smith. You’ve lost.” Breun still didn’t budge. Out of desperation, you added, “ Just today my husband has killed a man far more powerful than you believe you are. Trust me, I am protecting you. To protest any further would be suicide.”

You raised your chin and gave a definitive nod. Turning to your husband, you saw the smile of satisfaction that you prayed he would have after you had spoken. You looked back at Breun, whose face was unreadable, though she no longer held out her arm. You dared not look at Sigrdrífa. You knew that what you had just said had broken that girl’s heart, betrayed her trust, and damned her to a husband that… you didn’t even want to think about it. You wish you had never learned her story. You wish that you never grew to care about the two women whose lives you were destroying. You wish that you had never seen the home they made together. You wish that you had just kept your mouth shut at Court, and ran to your bedroom to have Drew fuck you until you couldn’t see straight, leaving you in ignorant bliss.

But you had made a choice, and now you were paying for it. The shame that you felt was masked by the inviting grin that you gave Drew, hoping that he would forget about all this and rush you both back to the keep. Just to be safe, you leaned toward him and whispered.

“I would like to give you your apology for this mess… along with your welcoming, as soon as we arrive home.”

A cruel giggle bubbled inside of you. It was extremely ironic. This was the very first time you spoke, or even acted provocatively toward Drew. The first time you initiated intimacy… and it was insincere. But Drew didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t mind. He gave one last look at Breun, who appeared to have taken a few steps toward you and your husband. He didn’t say a word, but simply nodded his head and pulled the reins of his horse, showing his back to the smith. You followed suit, not daring to look the woman in the eye as you turned, knowing that if you did, you would run back to her side and beg the King on her behalf, and the whole Hell you had just endured would start all over again. This was all your fault. Your need to interfere in these women’s lives was the cause of all this suffering. You knew you had to leave before you caused any more harm. You urged your horse forward.

“Good on ye’, Yer Grace. Ah nev’r took ye’ fer a man tha’ listen’d te ‘is wife. Et’s a rare virtue.”

You did your best to keep moving forward. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Drew’s jaw tighten. He was angry, but at least he was still ignoring her. Everything could still work out.

“Ye’ must love yer Queen. Well… ah least more ‘n yer first one.”

All the blood drained from your face as your entire body went cold. You closed your eyes and let your head fall into your hands. You heard Drew rear his horse around to face the smith, but it sounded like there was a barrier between you and the rest of the world. As if you were in a bubble. As if you were drowning.

“You speak of my wife again, you’ll wish you were never born..”

“Ah men’ no ‘ffence, Ye’ Grace. Ah jus’ tha’ well… y’know…”

“WHAT!” Drew screeched, uncharacteristically.

Even though your eyes were closed tight, the vision of the smith standing there and Drew’s enraged face was burned behind your eyes. You could still see what was happening, and you just knew that Breun was smiling. She thought she was playing your husband perfectly. Riling him up, making him question himself. She thought she knew what she was doing. She thought she was going to get him to fall for her trap, but there was no way she knew how close to terrible, horrific pain and suffering she was, even if she would be spared from death. That was probably for the best. No other man would ever face Drew if he knew what The King was capable of.

“Et’s jus’ tha’... we,” Breun took a pause, most likely gesturing to the crowd around her, “found et… odd tha’ when sh’ died… ye’ wed ‘gain awful quick-”

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!” Drew screamed. You almost lifted your head and attempted to calm him, but you found yourself unable to move.

Breun’s voice dropped all of the mock friendliness that it held moments ago.

“Riches’ woman en te’ world. Lives in te’ world’s bes’ castle. Owns te’ world’s bes’ furs. Et’s te’ world’s bes’ food... Dies of a... chill?”

Your hands gripped at your hair as you shook your head. You felt your heart beating faster than it ever had before. Your breaths became shorter and shorter. You felt like you had been poisoned.

“We jus’ wonder wha’ kinda man ye’ are.” You heard the smith take another step toward him. “Wha’d she do? Got too loud? Too ‘pinionated? Not as pretty as she was when ye’ furst saw ‘er? Squirmed too much when ye’d try te’ force a son in ‘er?”

You heard Drew hop off of his horse and land on his feet with a pain-filled grunt. You breathed in the dust he had just kicked up, making it harder for you to get any air into your already strained lungs.

“I’ll show you what kind of man I a-” Drew stopped mid-sentence as you heard a whirring sound of something being thrown and the soft pat of him catching something. It had to be the spare hammer Breun had been holding. You wanted to look, but you were... paralyzed by some invisible force. You felt a cold sweat on your forehead and under-arms. You wanted someone to hold you. Drew. But at the same time, you wanted to run from him. You urged your arms to at least cover your ears so you wouldn’t have to listen, but you couldn’t even do that.

“Tha’ ye’ will. Ye’ Grace. Tha’ ye’ will.”

You could hear Breun pacing in the gravel, like an actor on a stage.

“Now, ye’ can thrash me wit’ tha’ ‘ammer. Beat me ‘till ah’m bleedin’ tru’ me arse, if ye like. Ah’ll recover in a few days... But, if ye’ can win a smithin’ contest ‘gainst me? Ah’ll never wannae show me face ‘gain. Ah’d be broken. Me life’d mean not’in’. Smithin’s all ah am. ‘T’s all ah’ll ev’r be. If ye’ beat me... ye’d kill me.” You heard her footsteps grow louder as Breun took slow steps toward Drew. “And ah t’ink ye’ really wannae kill me.”

A heavy, sharp silence rained down upon the crowd. You felt dizzy. It’s as if you were frozen solid, but constantly being urged to move, as if lightning strikes flowed through your veins. You closed your eyes tighter, hoping that someone would come and take you away from all this, but praying that no one even noticed you.

“We’ll both make pieces. Doesn’t matter what. Better smith wins.” You heard Drew growl.

“An’ te’ judge?”

“The Queen.”

You tried to react, but there was nothing else your body could do. Nothing else you could possibly feel.

“Te’ fookin’ Queen? Naw.”

“The Queen. No one else.”

“Naw.” Breun seemed unbothered, her demeanor was of someone who was trying to figure out what to wear for the day. “She’d choose ye…” You could hear her stance shift. Her voice became gruff and accusatory.

“Ah kno’ wha’ ‘appens t’ girls who defy thei’ belov’d ‘usbands.”

Drew inhaled sharply. More murmurs rippled throughout the crowd. Through it all, you heard footsteps that were heading towards you at an alarmingly fast pace. You gasped as you felt a hand touch your thigh and, as if by some invisible force, you opened your eyes.

Standing there, looking up at you, was a delirious and bloody Slibhin.

“My Lady, what have you done?”

And with that, the world went black around you.

Your fingertips twitched and your eyelids fluttered as you slowly began to regain consciousness. Underneath your fingers, you could feel soft, clean linens covering a mattress. On top of you, you felt the gentle weight of a blanket. You gently moved your head and felt the lenient, forgiving pillow cradle your neck. Your eyes fluttered open, and though your vision was blurred, you could tell instantly, that you were in your room. A contented sigh left you as you turned your head once more to look out of your balcony window, as you did every morning.

However, something was different about the sky. You squinted and tried to make sense of what you were seeing. Instead of it’s usual rosy, periwinkle coloring, this morning boasted a sky of bright amber and indigo. You turned over to ask your husband about this, when you found his side of the bed empty. There was not even an imprint left behind by his massive body, as there usually was on the embarrassingly common occasion that he woke before you.

You made a confused face and sat up in your bed. When the blanket fell from your chest, you saw that you weren’t dressed in your nightgown. Instead you were wearing that damned dress. The tight, itchy, uncomfortable thing that now seemed stuck to your skin by your sweat. You rubbed your forehead and saw dried dirt flake from your skin. You gasped as everything came back to you. The petitioner, the smith, the fight, the shame. Everything. You began to cough uncontrollably as the dried dirt entered your lungs.

Enraged, and with tears in your eyes, you fell out of your bed and ran to your bedroom door. You were sure that the sound you made while kicking the door open would be heard clear across the sea. Servants and guards ran to you as you marched down the hallway, unyielding, as if you were made of metal.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty please return to your bed!” you heard one woman yell. “We’ll draw you a bath and bring you some food, my Queen.” you heard another shout. The torches and tapestries all seemed to blur together as you rushed past them. By now, two guards had positioned themselves at the end of the hallway, waiting for you to meet them so they could stop you.

“Saddle my horse!” your voice boomed throughout the keep. You came up to the two guards.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but we can’t do that. The King gave us direct orders to-”

“Where is the King? Where is my husband?” you asked with fire in your eyes. You were trying to hide the fact that you were panting, exhausted. A strand of hair fell into your eyes and you violently pushed it back.

“The King is dealing with official business. He will be back shortly. Please let us escort you back to-”

“Where is he? I must speak with him. Now.”

“As I said, My Queen, the King is dealing with-”

“Where.”

There were no mirrors about, but you could tell from the look in the guards’ eyes, that you resembled a madwoman. You decided to use this to your advantage.

“His Royal Highness is not the only monarch here who knows what it is like to brutalize her enemies. Do not give me a reason to doubt you.” The two guards stood frozen. Now, you knew very well that you couldn’t defeat these two in combat, at least in your present condition, but they recognized your power, and recognized that antagonizing you, in your present condition, would be a very stupid thing to do.

“His Majesty is dealing with the smith,” one guard whimpered.

“They have been… negotiating since yesterday and all of today,” said the other, meekly.

A million different things rushed into your mind. First, the smith was still alive, at least for now, and had a chance of keeping her forge. That means that Drew must have accepted her challenge and the two had found another judge. Secondly, you had been unconscious for an entire day and a half, and your husband didn’t stay by your side. Thirdly, and arguably most importantly, you knew that you had to be at the scene. You didn’t care about how you looked. You didn’t care that you had disgraced yourself in front of your entire village. All you knew was that you were heavily involved in creating this mess, and you had to be very heavily involved in stopping it.

“Saddle my horse.” you repeated, gravely. This time, you were greeted with nods and servants rushing about, trying to appease their Queen, or at the very least, avoid her wrath.

As the sun set, you rode fast and hard back to that damned smithy. As you approached, you saw that the entire village had gathered to watch this apparent contest. People had set up tents, and vendors weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to sell their wares. Children sat atop their father’s shoulders. Torches littered the streets, lighting up the town as if it were a festival. Even royal guards were mingling with the common folk. Your brow furrowed as this somehow enraged you.

“Move!” you yelled, hoping to clear a path for yourself. However, your voice was so small compared to the cacophony that was the crowd, that you yourself could barely hear it. Luckily, if the villagers couldn’t hear the weak plea of an angered Queen, they would still run from a charging mare.

You ignored the hundreds of eyes that followed you as you rode by, and finally came across the smith’s house. There, you saw everything.

First, your eyes went to your husband. Drew was shirtless, hammering away at an anvil. His face was almost unrecognizable as it was completely covered in ash and soot. His eyes were a deep red with irritation caused by the forge’s fumes. His hair had become undone and draped along his shoulders. His shoulders. You could see his muscles spasming with every movement. His body was shutting down, you could see it. And yet, these people cheered him on.

Your eyes switched over to Breun, who stood beside Drew at another anvil. She had shed her leather jerkin and now only wore a shirt that she had obviously ripped the sleeves ripped off when she bought it. Curiously, the cambric clothing that she wore revealed that she did have a surprisingly female figure. Her breasts were large… well an average size if not a bit smaller than what was proportionate for her. Her waist was by no means slender, but did appear so due to her wide hips. And yet it seemed like there was no place on her body that was not insanely muscular. Not muscles like Drew had, where he took care in making sure he kept in shape for battle (and for you). You could tell she gained her strength from working. She didn’t meticulously sculpt her strength, but she had it all the same. In an odd way, it seemed completely reasonable for men and women alike to be both repulsed by and lust after her form. You knew that if she were able, she would shed the undershirt altogether. Her neck craned and was clearly cramped. She was clearly in pain as well. However, you noticed that her hammering was just a touch faster and harder than Drew’s.

Suddenly, you saw Breun drop her hammer on the table, grab what appeared to be tongs, pick a small piece of metal and rush to the other side of the area. She dropped it into a barrel where a man made a tally mark onto parchment, before rushing back to her station and taking up the hammer once more. You blinked, and Drew copied her exactly. Then, another man made a tally mark on another piece of parchment.

You looked around, as if searching for someone to explain to you what was happening. You called out for Drew, but he didn’t hear you. You shouted for a guard, but your voice drowned in the sea of shouts and cheers made by the townspeople. An old man came up to you and tried to sell you some small bird he insisted was pheasant. You shooed him away only to realize the pangs in your stomach. You knew that you hadn’t eaten since this morning, but it shouldn’t be this bad. You felt lightheaded and practically fell off your horse, somehow landing on your feet. The world spun around you as the blood pumped in your ears.

“My Majesty?”

That voice. That beautiful little ringing bell of a voice. You gave a sigh of relief and turned to face the sound. But when you turned and saw Sigrdrífa, you were not put at ease. In fact, the exact opposite happened. You saw her there, still as clean and healthy as she was when you left, but dressed in a new gown, one that looked more expensive and more uncomfortable than anything you cared to own. Her hair was fashioned in a gaudy kind of bun, stuck with pins and ribbons. She stood next to an ornate and ridiculously expensive looking canopied seat where her now cleaned off and re-dressed husband, Slibhin was reclined and sipping what appeared to be wine from a goblet (that was also ornate and ridiculously expensive looking.) Soldiers stood beside the two, obviously appearing to guard the two from any unruly peasants or troublemakers, but you knew they were put there by Slibhin to make sure his little wife stood by his side.

Sigrdrífa took in another breath to speak to you once more when her husband gave an annoying “Ahh!” after finishing his drink and, without looking at her, practically threw the goblet into the silver girl’s hands. This caused her to stop in her tracks and look at the ground, obediently. Like she was a beaten dog.

In an instant, you had forgotten your hunger and weakness as you marched straight toward that gaudy throne. One guard looked at the other and nodded toward you. They both pointed their pikes toward you.

“Careful, witch,” one guard warned.

“Stay back now, we don’t want trouble,” tried the other.

You looked at the two guards incredulously. They stared back at you, confused. Slibhin, without looking at you, rolled his eyes and tossed a bronze coin in your general direction. It fell into the dust a few feet away from you.

“There, now get out of my sight… begging whore,” he spoke under his breath. Sigrdrífa’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth. Again, your anger made you forget your appearance and you practically growled through your clenched teeth.

“Is that how you treat your Queen?”

You had never seen someone’s eyes widen so quickly. Slibhin flopped from his chair and into the dirt, groveling and weeping. You saw Sigrdrífa smile ever so slightly at that. The two guards began to walk toward you with immense concern in their eyes.

“My Queen, let us escort you back to-” You put your hand up to stop them and beckoned for Sigrdrífa to follow you. She went to you immediately, but the guards were not yet done. “Please, the King has ordered all of his guards to keep you-”

“Fuck the King’s orders!” you screamed with impunity. “If my husband demands something of me, he will tell me to my face. You-” you pointed at Sigrdrífa again. “You’re coming with me.” You grabbed the girl’s hand and walked toward the front door of her house. You paused as she opened the door for you and you looked back at Drew. He had just finished another piece of… something, and he was running to drop it in his barrel, which made him run directly toward you.

His eyes were upright and you could have thought they were staring at you, but you knew deep down, that he was staring through you. It’s not that he didn’t recognize you. He didn’t know you. You had seen that look in his eyes before, when he was training in the yard. His intensity and focus always inspired the new recruits, but he always snapped out of it when he saw you. But this time it was different. You had seen him prepare for battles before, but right now… he was in battle. And he was terrifying. Donning only a kilt and boots, your King was fighting for his life.

You came to when Sigrdrífa took your arm and attempted to lead you into her house. You ripped your arm away from her and looked back at Slibhin who was attempting to follow you in. “No.” was all you had to say before he fell down once more and crawled back to his guards and his ridiculous chair. You turned once more to Sigrdrífa and nodded curtly before walking into the house before her.

With your head turned down, you marched toward the table and chairs that you remembered from your first visit nearly two days ago. You needed something, some kind of base to hold you up. Some sort of comfort. You plopped down into what you remembered to be a blissful, makeshift pillow, and yowled in pain as your backside fell into flat, hard wood. Your body wanted to hop back up to a standing position, but your legs wouldn’t let you. You stayed seated on the most uncomfortable seat imaginable.

You opened your eyes wide and were greeted by a pristine, beautiful home that held you in like a prison. All of the… personality you saw two days ago was ripped away, crumpled up, and thrown into a far corner to be thrown out later. Replaced by sterile and beautiful… things. The only sign of life you could detect was a hint of embers burning beneath a simmering pot. You opened your mouth to comment on the change when you heard a little grunt and the closing of the front door. Sigrdrífa turned to you and curtsied.

“Hello again, my Queen. Are you well?” She smiled. Like a little doll, she was. Her back straight, her hands holding each other in front of her. Just like your servant girls did when they were awaiting an order. Her smile was perfect. It made her ears perk up and showed a small, charming crinkle in the corners of her eyes. Her eyes, oddly enough, were the ones that betrayed her. They were full of fear. She didn’t feel safe. Her husband had control over her once more, and her only friend in the world was practically killing herself, unable to keep the promise she made of him never touching her again. She wasn’t sure if she could even trust you. She was all alone. This was her only form of protection now. Her beautiful, dutiful doll-like demeanor was all she had for armour.

You stared at her for a moment. She stayed perfectly still, as if she were made of marble. A wave of sadness washed over you and for a moment, all of your anger and confusion subsided. You opened your arms out toward her. It only took a moment before her mask cracked, and she ran to you, falling to her knees and sobbing into your lap. You just held her and stroked her long, silver hair, gently shushing her.

Her shoulders heaved with each gasping breath she took. Her heart beat as quickly as a mouse’s, almost like it was humming. You wanted to let her cry. Let her expel all the fear, sadness, and hatred that was festering inside of her little glass heart. But you knew you couldn’t do that. You needed to act. And in order to do that, you needed answers. You took your hand and gently lifted the girl’s chin so that her red, swollen eyes met yours.

“Sigrdrífa,” you gently tried, “What is happening here?”

She just closed her eyes tightly and shook her head before seeking refuge again in the folds of your dress. You took a sharp breath before taking her chin once again and forcing her to look at you. This scared her, but you held firm.

“Tell me. I need to know.”

She looked at you for a moment, not saying anything. You silently kicked yourself for your aggression.

No matter what urgency you felt, it would be cruel of you to take advantage of this disadvantaged girl. You smoothed your thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear.

“Please. I don’t know what’s happening.”

The girl nodded her head. She slowly stood up and sat in the chair opposite of you, bracing herself against the hard, unforgiving wood. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. Her voice shook.

“The smith and the King are in contest, My Queen.” She sniffled and cleared her throat. “They have been smithing to see who can first make one thousand…” she trailed off, her mouth slightly open and her brow furrowed as she tried to think of the correct word. You leaned forward to try to encourage her. She sighed.

“Nagl.” She said, and made a hammering motion.

“Nails? The first to make one thousand nails?” you gently pressed. Her eyes lit up.

“Yes. One thousand nails. It is claimed that in order to be known as a true smith, a man must first make one thousand nails. The greatest of these smiths can forge a single nail in less than one minute, I have heard.”

You immediately tried to calculate in your head how far along those two must be if they had been smithing for almost two days, and if what Sigrdrífa said was true. But your head was too cloudy to come to any kind of answer. You closed your eyes and pressed your palms into your temples. You could feel the world spinning around you.

“My Queen? What is wrong? Are you to become sick?”

You absolutely felt that way, but somehow, you were able to look the silver girl in her concerned eyes and compose yourself.

“I’m fine… I just…” You had to think of something to say. Anything. “How did they get all that metal?” Sigrdrífa looked down. You figured she didn’t understand the question. “For the nails? I don’t remember seeing enough metal to make one thousand nails in the smithy.” The little woman shuffled her feet for a moment before speaking to you deliberately and slowly, as if careful not to offend you.

“The metal was taken from the royal forge. The King ordered it to be brought here after you… were taken back to the castle.”

You nodded your head, accepting the answer. Everything started to make slightly more sense. Forging one thousand nails would eliminate the need for a judge. Also, you supposed that the nails could be used to rebuild houses in the countryside that had been destroyed by the recently ended war. You sighed. Everything seemed more reasonable than it did a few moments ago. It felt like a small victory in a way, understanding what was happening around you when it felt like the world was trying it’s very best to confuse and scare you. You wanted to know more, as if it gave you more power over your situation.

“So, what happened while Drew and I went back to the keep? Did the entire village swarm the house and set up this… festival?” You asked in a lighthearted manner. This caused Sigrdrífa to pause and hold her hands to her chest. She murmured.

“The King did not follow you… He stayed and arranged the terms of the contest with the smith.”

Your heart sank. Drew, your beloved husband, hadn’t even followed you back to the keep? How did he know you were safe? How did he know you were even alive? Did he not expect you to wake up before he had won? And if you did wake up (which you did), did he not expect you to come back to him? The one thing that you had always believed to be true about your husband was that Drew protected what was his. No matter what. And all of a sudden this truth was no longer true. You felt your eyes sting once again, but you held those damned tears back. You had cried enough.

Sigrdrífa leaned forward and gently took your hand, cradling it as if the bone were broken. She took a few breaths before looking you in your eyes.

“My Majesty, is the King… good to you?” she whispered, as if she were telling you a secret while sat in a crowded room.

But, you had been asked this question before. For the first few weeks you were married to Drew, you had received dozens of letters from your parents asking about how your new husband treated you. You assured them in many, many responses that you were being treated well, and that Drew showed you nothing but respect and adoration. However, this time the question put you off, quite a bit actually. You understood her concerns, considering the fact that she had only ever seen Drew as this seemingly aggressive tyrant. But he had only ever acted that way because he was being provoked. Sure, you didn’t appreciate how he was behaving, but you at least understood why he was behaving that way. Breun hadn’t even tried to come to an agreement in a civil manner. She had never even spoken a civil word to Drew after their first interaction... which was her tackling him. Hell, the only reason she had even listened to a word you said was because Sigrdrífa forced her to.

You wondered to yourself how this little thing could control a giant. You looked back at the silver girl sitting opposite of you. Her face was leaned in and attentive. Her eyes were wide with curiosity and care.

“Yes, sweet girl. The King is very good to me. He is just very…” You searched for the right word. “Frustrated.” You paused and raised your eyebrow. “And... I’m positive that the… boarish actions of a certain smith haven’t helped him very much.”

You were wondering what reaction you would get out of her. You suspected she would be embarrassed or ashamed of her sister-in-law, eager to apologize for her actions. Instead, she wore a smirk on her face and let out a small huff.

“I am afraid that the smith’s behavior is my doing,” Sigrdrífa murmured. “When I was newly brought to the village, she never even spoke. She only ate when the food was tossed to her. At night she would lie on straw and rotting furs on the outside of the house, but never close her eyes. Flugur would buzz by her; crawl on her skin, bite her, and she would allow them.”

That was a shock to you. You wracked your brain, trying to imagine Breun as docile. How could someone so hardheaded be so passive? Sigrdrífa said herself that it was in Breun’s nature to be confrontational.

“When did she become so… protective?” you asked her, trying to sound nice. Sigrdrífa’s face turned red and her eyes refused to meet yours.

“Because… I needed to be protected, my Queen.”

There was shame in her voice. Guilt, even. A tear fell from her eye as she shook her head, as if trying to bring herself back to reality. A million things flew through your mind; mostly images. Images of Sigrdrífa cowering in fear. Slibhin with that damned smile on his face, touching her. Breun finally taking action against him for the first time in her life. The look Breun gave Sigrdrífa, letting her know she was safe. Sigrdrífa showing Breun the first kindness the smith had ever known. The most fragile beginnings of trust connecting the two as they both tried to navigate how to live with happiness.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a bell and the raucous cheering of the crowd outside.

“Only a few nails left,” Sigrdrífa murmured to you.

You turned back to her. “Who has only a few nails left?”

“The King, of course. Why else would the people cheer?” Sigrdrífa crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. She let her head hang low. “It’s almost over.” You saw a few tears splash down onto her lap. You didn’t reach for her though. Instead, you were confused.

“You don’t think Breun will win?”

Sigrdrífa shook her head. “Her body is too worn.”

You opened your mouth to ask why she was worn, but your hostess guessed your question before you asked it.

“She has been forging my mundr… my bride-price. I was traded to Slibhin for weapons and armor; the smith had to make these to pay for me. She had been working for months to complete things for my father, my brothers, and their favorites. She pushed herself so far... if she did not complete them in time, I would have been taken back by my father. AND... after she had finished those, she still did not rest. No, she worked twice as hard to finish her work for the villagers that she had missed during that time! Only a few days ago could I convince her to sleep the whole night, and eat all of her food! Now she challenges the King to-”

Sigrdrífa cut herself off with a huff, clearly frustrated. You had to suppress a giggle at how flustered the girl was, but you understood the fear and anxiety she felt. She believed that Breun had no chance against your husband. However, you knew that not to be true.

“Sigrdrífa, the King may not have as much of an advantage as you might believe,” you confessed. “He has been battling a rebellion for the past month, don’t you forget. And he hasn’t rested since returning.

Sigrdrífa, his body is worn as well. I don’t even know how he’s able to stand upright.” You shifted in the uncomfortable seat and cringed at the dry creaking sound it made. Sigrdrífa placed her hand on the side of her head, embarrassed that she hadn’t remembered the rebellion. To be fair, it was a smaller army that took up arms. You weren’t even sure of the name of the traitor, yourself. Sigrdrífa bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a smile, but you saw hope return to her eyes. There was a change Breun could be the victor.

“Who do you think will win?” She asked the question rather quickly.

“I don’t know.” It was a diplomatic answer, but to be fair, you truly didn’t know. At first, you believed Breun would win only because of your husband’s injuries. But now, you sincerely weren’t sure. However, you knew that that answer wouldn’t satisfy the girl across from you.

“Who do you want to win?” The question stung, as if it were accusatory, even though the tone in which it was asked was innocent. It was a test. An evil test. Of course you wanted Breun to keep her forge and live happily ever after, that went without thought; but you didn’t think your heart could take seeing Drew be defeated after everything you had put him through. Yes, you were angry with him for not staying by your side when you were unconscious, but he only because Breun had insulted you… and Drew’s first wife. You didn’t like his rage but you understood it. You did want Breun to win, but you didn’t want Drew to lose. You looked back up at Sigrdrífa who held your gaze firmly, and answered.

“I want the man I love to win, as any wife would.”

The silver girl nodded. “I would expect nothing else.” Her eyes were sad, but intelligent. Your words had caused her pain, but she understood that you didn’t mean them to. You expected her to read between the lines, but what you didn’t expect was a small breath of a giggle escaping her throat.

“It is strange then. That we are the same, but… enemies. Sitting here speaking as if friends.” You gave her a smile, showing her you understood, but the girl continued. “Two small women with the same, but opposite hope; for their lover to defeat-”

Your smile disappeared. Not because you were unhappy, but because you saw Sigrdrífa’s face somehow turn even whiter than it already was. It took you only a moment to realize what she had said.

She had called Breun, her sister in law, her lover.

You hadn’t been Queen for very long, but you were well aware of what would happen if the town learned of what she had just said. There would be no saving either of them. The two would be hunted down to the corners of the kingdom. The common folk would torture them, treat them like demons; like animals. What would happen to the two girls, you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. If someone knew about this, it would be well within the law, and the interest of your simple-minded subjects, to have both women put to death.

But someone did know about it. You knew about it. And you certainly had the power to enforce the law, and swore to have the interests of your simple-minded subjects at heart. You looked at the frozen girl across from you, her eyes desperately trying to read yours. Trying to figure out what you were about to say... or do.

It took you less than a second to come to your conclusion.

“You misspoke, Sigrdrífa. I know this isn’t your best language. You used the word ‘lover.’ You meant to say ‘family.’”

You couldn’t help but smile on the inside as Sigrdrífa sucked in three lungs’ worth of air and let out a long sigh of relief. The rosy color returned to her cheeks. She gave the quiet laugh of an exhausted woman and placed her hand over yours.

“We both love our family.”

You reached forward with your other hand and covered hers in turn. You felt something scratch against your skin and looked down. Around her wrist, the girl had tight sleeves embroidered with prickly threads. They were very beautiful.

You grasped the fabric with both hands and tore it apart. Underneath, you saw her irritated skin finally touch the air. You looked at her and raised your brow. She gave you a toothy smile and immediately presented her other sleeve to you, and you ripped that as well. After that, she grabbed at the fabric wrapped around her neck and tore that collar away as well. Beads and other small gemstones flung themselves from her throat and skittered across the table. You reached out and undid the ribbons in her hair, letting it fall loosely around her waist. Sigrdrífa kicked off her shoes and freed her legs from her stockings and underskirts. She stood up, knocking her chair to the ground, and took fistfuls of lacing that tied the back of her dress, yanking it loose.

You let your laughter ring throughout the house. The sight of Sigrdrífa dressed in the most expensive of rags…

“That cannot be very comfortable.” The silver girl pointed at you.

She was right, of course; but you could never destroy your dress. You already looked unpresentable as Queen; covered in filth and hair strewn about. The heat of the last two days left you drenched in sweat. You were certain that if you wrung your sleeves a steady stream of the putrid liquid would spill out. The accumulation of dirt and filth that clung to your body itched to no end. That sweat caused the heavy fabric to cling itself to your skin and that dirt made you feel every wrinkle and crease as if they were gashes and gouges of your very own flesh. You had been through so much already, ripping up your dress would just be… be…

You balled up the fabric of your underarm and yanked as hard as you could. A small ripping noise came from your dress, but not much else. You heard light footsteps come towards you and two white hangs join your fist. The next thing you knew, your arm was completely free from it’s silky prison. You waved it around in nonsensical patterns, just wanting to feel the air brush past your skin.

You didn’t even consider the state of your dress as you relished your newfound partial freedom. Sigrdrífa’s giggle resounded throughout the house as she held your sleeve in her arms. Bunching up the fabric of the inside of your other arm, you let out a yelp as you ripped it open. A few more tugs, and your forearm was completely naked, with it’s coverings hanging by a thread by your elbow.

“How do you feel now, My Majesty?” There was a kidding nature to her words. You took in a breath to laugh and became very aware of the restrictive waistline that held your stomach in. You clawed at your back trying to get a grip on any seam or hem that you could use to tear it apart.

“Help me undo this damned sewing and I’ll finally have enough breath to tell you.”

She hadn’t even taken one step toward you when you heard the roar of the crowd outside once again. You looked at Sigrdrífa, your eyes asking what that noise meant. The only thing you saw was a flash of her hair as she raced toward the front door.

You tripped over the threshold and stumbled out of the house, crashing into the dirt. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. It seemed that every head in Scotland was turned toward The King and The Smith.

“My Queen!”

All except for two. The guards that had greeted you when you confronted Slibhin rushed toward you, grabbing you and helping you stand upright.

“My Queen, allow us to escort you back to the castle.”

“Your Grace, please come with us.”

You pushed them off of you. Though there was no strength left in your arms, the soldiers heeded your warning, standing at attention from a very respectable distance (probably doing everything they could not to upset you considering their introductions to you.) That was when your eyes locked onto Slibhin, who stood at the edge of the crowd, wringing his hands in desperation. He was planning something. You just knew it. Those hands were the hands of a schemer. You almost laughed at how different they were compared to his sister’s. His hands were spotless, well groomed, but weak and feeble, and he used them to plot. To gesture and accentuate his honeyed words as he tried to ruin lives for his own benefit. In contrast, Breun’s hands were scarred, rough, and ugly, but strong and efficient. They were used to make useful things, powerful things. Her hands were like the weapons that she made: grotesque, but practical.

Just like that unfinished axe she had forced into the stone wall of her house. It didn’t look like much, but if you weren’t careful, it could hurt y-

Slowly, you lifted your hand to your eye, gazing in wonder at your thumb. The nick from two days earlier had almost healed.

“My Queen? Are… you alright?” The two guards looked at you with apprehension. You turned your body fully to them, and they snapped back at attention.

“Go and get me the sword of the rebel. The one Drew gave me two days ago.”

The two men didn’t move. Perhaps they were uncomfortable with the idea of a less than stable monarch wielding a deadly weapon in a heavily populated area, but you soon put those worries to rest.

“If you don’t, I may mention to my husband that a certain pair of his soldiers believe that his wife is a witch.”

The two men raced off as if their lives depended on their task at hand… which was probably the case… You truly did hope that there would be no need for what they were fetching. You truly hoped that the contest would end in a clear way, or that Slibhin didn’t dare to protest the eventual outcome, whatever it may be. You prayed that you would be able to look the two guards in their terrified eyes and order them to take it back to the castle before the King learned that it had been “stolen”. But you needed the traitor’s sword just in case. Just in case.

At last, you turned your attention back to the task at hand.

The blurred faces of the spectators didn’t hold the fascination and awe that they did when you first rode into town. You dragged your feet through the crowd, absently pushing through the field of brown and grey, searching for silver. As your vision slowly began to uncloud itself, you looked at the scores; there was nothing there. The two men who were making the tally marks just sat and stared with eyes wide as the moon.

Of course this was the last nail. Of course the two were tied at the last nail. Of course.

You couldn’t will yourself to care who won. You just wanted it to be over. Still shuffling forward, you somehow managed to reach the very front of the gathering, all but coming face to face with Drew.

He was turned to the side, hammering away at the anvil. Each hit triggered sparks which illuminated his features. He was tired. His skin seemed to be slipping off of his face. The amber coloring against his black, soot covered body was terrifying. He looked like death.

“Drew.” It was less than a whisper. You didn’t even feel air pass your lips, but you called for your husband. He heard you. Though he didn’t look at you, you saw his jaw clench and a tear fall roll down his cheek, leaving a trail of clean skin in its wake. When it fell, it landed on the piece of metal he was hammering away at, causing a sinister hissing noise. Your eyes fell to the anvil where Drew was banging his tool on a rod of metal, trying to break a piece off; for the final length of the nail, no doubt.

Though you didn’t tell your eyes to move, they did anyway. You looked past Drew to see the smithing woman shaping the head of an already broken off, and squared length of metal. Her nail was almost finished. She was about 30 seconds ahead of him. Just then, another set of tears fell, but this time it came from Sigrdrífa, who was standing opposite Breun; across the anvil. Tears of joy.

You returned your attention to your husband, whose breath was ragged and uneven. He was crying like a child. A child who had lost a game. There was no higher form of sadness and despair.

“It’s alright. It’s almost over.”

Drew shook his head violently.

“It’s alright. We can go home soon.”

You didn’t even know where you found the energy to speak. There was nothing left inside of you. You couldn’t even feel happy for Breun, even though your compassion for her was what started this in the first place. You just wanted all this to end. You wanted to watch it all end. And it was going to end with Breun.

Looking up at the smith again, you were able to see that the nail was done and her hand was reaching for her tongs so that she could carry it to her barrel. You felt an air brush past you as your eyes caught a glimpse of something… fashionable. A dainty hand from an ornate sleeve snatched the tongs from off the anvil. You turned your head to see Slibhin, eyes wide, holding the tongs against his chest.

You knew what was going to happen next, but what you didn’t expect was the sound. Not only did Breun lunge at her brother, but she tipped over the anvil in the process, sending it crashing to the ground with her.

Slibhin shrieked like a woman as he was beaten. Half of the crowd cheered at the sniveling coward being taught a lesson, while the other half gasped in horror, believing that the sounds he made were actually coming from the frail, silver girl they had seen rush past them a moment ago.

As for you, you couldn’t deny that watching the boy whipped gave you a great satisfaction, but your heart sunk upon closer inspection of the actual brawl.

Breun wasn’t actually trying to strike her brother, but instead was trying to recover the tongs from his grasp. But considering that she spent two days exhausting herself, and that the boy was squirming like the worm he was, that task appeared to be impossible.

All this while, you saw fire return to your husband’s eyes. He let out a yell as he slammed his hammer down, separating the piece of metal from the rod. He didn’t even try to shape the metal into an actual nail. He just threw his hammer down and reached for his own tongs.

“NO!”

Your neck snapped to Breun, who (while still struggling with her brother) looked at your husband with fear and loathing in her eyes. He was cheating again. He wasn’t honoring the rules of a fight, like he did when the two first locked up. Her eyes were bright red with tears. With her attention diverted, Slibhin was able to squirm out of her grasp and run off, tongs in hand.

Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw Drew smirk. He used his tongs to grab the metal, and turned away from her. You wanted to say something, but you knew that nothing you could say would change Drew’s mind about the forge, about Slibhin, about Sigrdrífa and Breun, about anything. To be honest, you were a bit relieved that you had no control over the situation. It was as if no one could blame you anymore. You were surprised as something resembling peace slowly washed over you. You let your eyes flutter to a close and sighed in relief.

That small sanctuary of stillness was shattered like glass when you heard this noise. It was a wail, a shriek, a scream of pain, a howl of desperation, a squeal of something small trying to defeat something big. You opened your eyes and saw Breun, sprinting like she was being hunted; smoke emanating from her closed fist.

You would swear until your final day that you could see the orange glow of the nail burning through her palm, the blaze visible through the back of her hand.

Drew didn’t even have time to look over at her. The smith lunged herself toward her barrel, her arm just reaching over it, and dropped her finished nail on top of the 999 others she had forged.

Clink.

The crowd erupted. In cheers, nonetheless. Whether the smith won their support by her performance, or they were all so happy the damned contest was over, you couldn’t tell. Breun let herself fall to the ground, not even clutching at her still burning hand. The dead skin and blisters of her palm had a few little embers burning at the edges, making it look like she was holding stars.

Everything else seemed to fall into place after that. Drew’s body gave out and he fell into the dirt. Sigrdrífa ran and threw herself onto her lover, holding her face and placing thousands of kisses on her forehead and cheeks, all the while sputtering out Norse gibberish... and crying, for what you hoped would be the last time this century. Breun was whispering things as well.

“Safe… yer safe now… safe… little one… safe… safe...”

You had hoped for a moment that this would be the image their story ended on.

The beautiful hope was dashed once the previously disappeared Slibhin fell in front of Drew, shaking his shoulders and screaming fruitlessly into his face.

“You can’t do this! I’m the only one who can run the smithy! Without me, there would be no smithy! Every single thing that… beast has forged was because I made her! Your Majesty, if I’m not in charge of my sister… this town will collapse! Your kingdom-”

That was when Drew pushed Slibhin away, letting out a growl of agony while doing so. You rushed to Drew, trying to find some way of comforting your husband, but then the boy switched targets, clinging to your skirt and groveling at your feet.

“My Queen. My beautiful, fair, flawless Queen. You now realize that you have made a grave mistake. And I know that you will do what’s right in fixing it. I know that you let your emotions control you when it came to my sister. You were entranced by a woman being able to perform a man’s task, but you must understand: the only reason she ever smithed anything in the first place was because I allowed it! I ordered it! I have made deals regarding everything she has ever forged! Before this month, my sister never even picked up a hammer without me saying so! She’s obeyed me all her life! I’m the reason for her success! Please, I beg of you; allow me to serve the realm through my forge!”

Your patience was at its absolute limit with this one. You glanced back at the crowd. Most of them had turned and left for their homes now, knowing that as soon as their head hit the pillow, it would not be coming back up in at least two days. There were a few stragglers, who had stayed behind to ogle at the exhausted competitors. Luckily, castle guards who had been standing watch over the crowd herded the onlookers away. Good. No one would be around to witness their Queen beat the ever-loving shit out of one of her subjects.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, before you were even able to clench your fist, you heard two voices calling out to you between their panting and coughing.

“Your… Majesty… we… we were able to locate the… the sword,” sputtered one.

“My… My Queen… the… the traitor’s... sword,” tried the other. He fell to one knee and presented the sheathed blade to you. With a swift kick, you rid your hem of the sniveling boy and walked over to the exhausted and terrified guards.

The original sheathe had been lost on the battlefield. This one clearly was taken from the armory by the two guards, just needing something to transport the weapon. The exposed hilt was made from a pitch black metal, but despite the low visibility, it was extremely well sculpted with images. The pommel was a single eye, with a pale blue gem as the iris. It looked hauntingly beautiful. Like the sky on a bright winter’s day, when the frost is hard on the ground. The length of the hit was engraved on both sides with the image of a running horse that had 8 legs. The crossguard was two ravens spreading their wings and cawing.

The guard clearly expected you to grab the entire sword, sheathe and all, but you wrapped your hands around the hilt and pulled the weapon free. Where the blade and hilt met, were the heads of two wolves, each with their mouths wide, as if swallowing the blade.

The look of fear in the eyes of everyone around you made you feel all that much more powerful. You wanted so very badly to use the sword for its intended purpose, on anyone really, but you had a burning suspicion that you desperately wanted confirmed, more than anything else.

You walked over to the side of the forge where Breun had tossed the head of an axe after embedding it in stone. With an aching arm, you raised the sword so it lay side by side with the axe.

It was a perfect match.

Both the blade of the traitor and the axe that split stone were unsightly; grisly to behold. The ripples that seemed to swim within the metals itself were identical. These pieces were unlike anything you had ever seen before.

There was no doubt in your mind that they were made by the same woman.

You marched yourself over to where Breun and Sigrdrífa lay. The smaller of the two was busy trying to heave the larger one into the house. No doubt to tend to her. The smith looked horrible, but not just because she was tired and dirty. Her breathing was labored and heavy. Her chest was expanding and contracting rapidly. You could hear her struggle to inhale. Her arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably, with the tremors kicking up dirt around her. Sweat poured from every part of her skin and her face was beet red, no doubt with fever.

Ignoring the smith’s state, you stood over her, the sword in your clenched fist. You didn’t care about the look of terror on Sigrdrífa’s face. If she wanted to believe that you were about to hurt Breun, then that was her own foolishness. You held the blade across your body, letting the smith see the entirety of it; all of its details.

“You made this.” It wasn’t a question. Breun’s eyes took a second to focus on you, then the blade, then back to you. You could tell she was holding onto consciousness by a thread.

“Aye.”

You were satisfied. Taking a step back and turning on your heel, your eyes fell once again on Slibhin. He was looking at his sister with his jaw so agape that you thought it was going to fall off. His eyes were as wide as an owl’s. It took everything in your power not to cut him down right then and there as he opened his mouth to lie to you once more.

“She admits it. In it’s feverish state the brute lets the truth come to light. She has committed treason, but knows not the severity of her confession. Your Majesty, please find it in your heart to spare my feebleminded sister her life. Yes, her crime is very worthy of a long and painful death, but you must remember that without her, there would be no smith in your village… an essential part of any local economy. Please allow her to continue her practice… under my strict supervision. I promise you that I will do the thinking for her.” Slibhin started to snicker. “You… you clearly see that she has no judgement… she has even brought herself nearly to the brink of death by challenging her King!”

You wanted to plunge the sword through his neck when he threw his head back in laughter. But instead, you joined him in his mocking. You glanced back at Sigrdrífa, whose face was painted with confusion; but not fear. She knew you were up to something, and she knew that you were on her side, but she didn’t know what you were planning.

“It is true,” you said, turning back to the boy. “that your sister is very dull-witted.” Slibhin’s eyes showed a sense of relief that you hated for him to have, but were delighted to know you were about to take it all away. “I would guess… that your sister forged enough weapons and armor for the traitor and his generals… and didn’t even know what it was for!” He laughed even harder at that, assured that you suspected nothing of him, that you finally came around to hating his sister as much as he did.

“But you, on the other hand, are well aware of every deal you make. And you’re very smart about it too, I’ll bet.” Slibhin bowed in mock humility, still bursting with chuckles. He gave you a beaming smile. He felt comfortable. Good.

“And you were well aware of the deal you made with the traitor. You were well aware of what you were making, who would use them, and what they would be used for.”

Slibhin’s facial expression didn’t change one bit. The phony smile stayed plastered onto his face, but you were able to notice the light leave his eyes. You knew that given enough time, he would conjure some words that would allow him to weasel his way free, escape the situation unscathed, mold his circumstances to his liking and find a way to enrich himself while dragging those around him down. You were not going to give him that time.

“Guards. Arrest this boy for acting as a conspirator and as a traitor.”

During the time you were talking with Slibhin, several royal guards and servants from your keep had come down to try and wrangle their monarchs back into the keep, so there were more than enough people more than willing to take care of whatever needed to be taken care of. A plethora of men, and a few scullery maids and stable boys as well, descended upon him. He barely tried to fight them off, only flinging his arms in a weak, sluggish manner. His eyes stayed wide, but now his smile was now gone. Instead, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. After he was forced to his knees by two rather large washerwomen and his hands were bound, he finally found his voice.

“M-My… my... my sister-”

“-smithed under the direction of you and your father for her entire life, and if you somehow believe that you can convince me that she was the one responsible for all this I will save myself some time and cut your head off right here.”

You brandished the traitor’s sword and held it above the boy’s head. He shivered and shook and in that moment, you knew what Drew felt like when he passed judgement on criminals and lowlifes. It made you feel too powerful. Slibhin reeked of fear and you inhaled the stench like it was a gift from the Gods. As if it made you stronger. You looked over to where your husband lay, scanning his broken body until you met his eyes. He was looking at you as if you were a storm. Powerful, terrible, beautiful, and part of him wanted to run into you just to feel your chaos for himself. But you also noticed the tiniest glint of fear as well. You had never acted like this. He didn’t know you could act like this. You didn’t even know you could act like this. But you could; and you were.

Just then, you felt the beginnings of hunger swirl around in your stomach. Not for food, but for him. It reminded you of when your King teased you in the great hall as he held court. When you longed for his hands on you. When you longed for him to take you. To fuck you.

But this time, it was different. You weren’t fantasizing about his power. You weren’t thinking about the things he decided he would do to you. Instead you were lusting after the power that you felt inside yourself. You weren’t feeling gracious for any affection the King showed you. You felt entitled to pleasure. You deserved it. You were the Queen of Scotland, and you wanted to make sure he knew it.

A knowing smirk formed from the corner of your mouth and you winked at Drew. His mouth fell open slightly and his eyes flashed with an emotion that you didn’t recognize.

“B-b-but why? Why would I betray my King and Queen? I-I need you to maintain my status.”

You clenched your jaw so tightly you thought your teeth were going to crack. Your head swiveled back to the kneeling boy who took a small victory in making you turn around to pay attention to him once more. His ears perked up and he straightened his back a bit. He reiterated his point.

“Why would I choose to make so many weapons, to start a war, when I had already achieved everything I wanted?”

You didn’t want to answer him. You didn’t care enough to answer him. You knew he was wrong. You knew he was guilty. You knew he was…

But…

A shadow of doubt crept up from your stomach through your throat. From the bottom of your heart, you felt that the boy was evil, but you had no evidence. No proof that he was a slimy, conniving, untrustworthy, unfaithful, traitorous-

“Because you did not have a choice…”

Sigrdrífa stood timidly by the incoherent, mumbling smith. A few fingers from her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes stared off into nothing, but you saw her mind working something out. A scornful, mocking laugh was heard, and Slibhin forced a look of amusement on his face.

“No choice? I alone was in charge of-”

“You were forced to make weapons and armor…to pay for… me…”

Time stopped. Fire and ice chased one another up and down your spine. You felt everything and nothing all at once. Your knees felt so stiff that they would snap if you attempted to move. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Breun vomit out some burgundy, watery liquid into the dirt by her head. It went unnoticed by everyone else, who was busy staring at the silver girl. Sigrdrífa looked at you. You must have had a stupid look on your face, as she turned and kept talking to Slibhin, as if trying to indirectly explain everything to you.

“If you did not… my father would have taken me back… and… without me… you would not be the son of a noble...and you would have no right to the forge. You had no choice.”

A small giggle left her. You looked at her incredulously. She moved over to her husband. Breun let out a weak whine and reached out, as if trying to stop her from getting any closer to him, but the girl knelt down, putting her face inches away from his.

“You had no choice.” she repeated, savoring the words. Slibhin’s head fell limp. His shoulders shook as he heaved sporadic breaths. His once captive wife had just proved his guilt. She had just sentenced him to death.

You couldn’t help but smile when you saw him weeping. It felt like this was your reward for enduring his utter bullshit for as long as you had. You could only imagine how Sigrdrífa felt. She was the one who had lived with him… or rather lived under him for so long.

Her beaming smile was bright enough to guide ships to shore in the dead of night… at first. You saw her eyes study him, probably mining for more of that satisfaction of seeing the boy defeated. But as the tears ran from his eyes, the snot ran from his nose, and the dribble ran from his lip, the silver girl’s expression started to change. Her eyes began to dart back and forth, trying to absorb all of the pain and anguish her husband was displaying right in front of her eyes. You could tell she was beginning to get unnerved; nervous and unsure. Then Slibhin lifted his face to meet his wife.

His eyes bright red, he opened his mouth to let out some kind of silent cry. You watched as he sniveled and pleaded with his body for… mercy, forgiveness, any ounce of her conscience she was willing to spare him.

For a moment, you let yourself believe that she would show him mercy. Instead, she turned away from him. Without a moment's hesitation. He had already used up every ounce of her kindness, her patience, and her sympathy. Her eyes instead met with the smith’s. That was where her kindness, her patience, and her sympathy lay. That was where her heart lay. In the dirt, and the dust, and the ashes.

So, naturally, Slibhin had no other choice.

With his wrists still bound, he rushed forward and threw his hands over her head and yanked her close to him, effectively trapping her by her neck and pinned her on the ground. He looked Drew in the eye and he began to scream.

“MY KING! MY KING! I GIVE YOU THE DAUGHTER OF THE TRAITOR! TAKE HER! TAKE HER AND KILL HER! CUT HER FUCKING HEAD OFF! ENSLAVE HER! RAPE HER, EVEN! DO WHAT YOU WISH! I AM YOUR LOYAL SERVANT! JUST TAKE THE BITCH AND LET ME LIVE! I LOVE SCOTLAND! I LOVE MY KING! PLEASE-”

Breun lunged herself across the ground and struck Slibhin. You knew he would never speak again. His jaw went sideways and blood poured out of his mouth. His teeth fell and skittered across the soot. The noise he made was primeval. If an animal had made that same sound, even the cruelest of men would concede and put it out of its misery. His body squirmed and twitched. Sigrdrífa was finally able to break free of his hold, though she was covered in his blood and scratched by his flailing. Breun was hurt in her own right, obviously.

It was funny. At the very beginning of this entire ordeal, the very sight of what was in front of you would have left you petrified.

Instead, you snapped your fingers and motioned for the boy to be restrained. And restrained he was. Though the shrieking and gurgling didn’t stop. Slibhin looked at you and tried to speak, but that was quite impossible. You looked down at Sigrdrífa. She had crawled her way over to Breun, draping herself over the bigger woman with her mouth to her ear, whispering something that didn’t concern you.

“Guards!” At least a dozen men in armor presented themselves before you. “Take this boy to the dungeons. Put him with our other prisoners… and make sure that they know everything that he has said about their little sister.”

Your men smiled at you, showing that they would be happy to carry out your order. They marched the prisoner off as he shrieked and wailed indistinct sounds of agony, defeat, and fear of what was still to come. You were done with him.

Turning now to Breun and Sigrdrífa, you saw the smaller one look up at you. Just as you went to take a breath to speak, she spoke your previous words back to you.

“‘Make sure that they know everything he has said about… their little sister?’”

That struck you. All this time, she probably didn’t know if her brothers were alive. If her father was killed in battle, it would be logical to assume that her brothers did as well. Her brothers to whom she owed her life. You smiled and nodded your head.

Sigrdrífa’s voice was barely above a whisper, but you clearly made out the names of her two brothers.

“Erik... Ivar…”

The peace was interrupted by Breun’s grumbling. She lifted her head from the dirt to look at you, but her eyes couldn’t focus. Her face was bright red and beads of sweat littered her face. You turned to your soldiers and opened your mouth to issue the command...

“FOR PITY’S SAKE SOMEONE TAKE THE GIRL INSIDE! AND FETCH A HEALER DAMMIT!”

Your jaw stayed wide as you turned your head to your husband, who was still lying in the dirt, but whose voice still commanded respect. His eyes were fixated on the smith. Men scrambled to pick up a nearly incapacitated Breun, which proved to be quite the challenge as the smith seemed to think that everyone that was trying to move her was, in fact, challenging her to a fistfight. A servant ran down the road to find a healer that could not only treat the girl, but possibly survive her left hook as well.

Luckily for every man in Scotland, Sigrdrífa was able to calm the rowdy young lady enough so that she could be moved into the house. As she herself was about to walk through the front door, she stopped and looked back at you. Though she still had blood stained in her hair and on her clothing, and the exhaustion in her eyes matched the shaking of her legs, she looked more calm and content than ten thousand queens. She nodded to you, a gesture of comradery and of finality before shutting the door, not even giving you a chance to respond.

Drew had been much more lucid than his female counterpart and was rushed back to the keep quickly and quietly. He wouldn't look anyone in the eye and said nothing to anybody. The servants had the sense to go about their duties and disregarded their King. By now you had reached your shared chambers. The guards gently set Drew in your bed as you stood by the fireplace, next to a tub of water that you had requested be filled. You needed a bath. Drew grumbled and winced, ashamed that you could see him like this. One man even attempted to cover the King in a blanket, but was stopped when Drew looked at him with a scowl so deep, you were certain his face would stay like that forever. Drew wasn’t one to be coddled.

The servants bowed their heads to you as they backed out of the room. You heard one mutter to you, “Let us know if you need us,” before he shut the door behind him, leaving you alone with your husband.

Drew didn’t say anything to you, nor you to him. He looked straight up at the canopy of your bed, as if seeing through it to the ceiling. You let yourself sigh. Your husband’s eyes flickered at the sound, but he did not look at you. You couldn’t blame him, but it still angered you. You had just spent the past two days dealing with an immature brute, and you didn’t know if you could handle another one.

First thing was first, you were going to get into that tub. Instinctively, you opened your mouth to call for your husband, asking him to help you with the laces of your dress. No sound escaped your throat, but you felt stupid all the same. Reaching behind you, you were thankful that you had torn a fair amount of the garment, but you still struggled to get a feel for what you were supposed to do. You let out a grunt of frustration as your fingers frantically picked at the back of your dress, not making any progress. Drew looked at you, and your eyes met his. He was trying not to betray his feelings through any facial expression, but you could tell that he was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he could not help you with something that he did every night.

You felt embarrassed too. Embarrassed that you were unable to do such a simple task by yourself. Though you always loved it when Drew undressed you before, now you resented your helplessness and cursed all the times you didn’t just undress yourself, like an actual self-sufficient person.

Rage bubbled inside you at the thought of your dependence on Drew. Out of nowhere, you screeched like a banshee and tore your dress clean from your skin. Standing there, completely naked in front of your husband, and not feeling shy or giddy was a new experience for you. You took the rags left of the dress and threw it into the fireplace. The heavy cloth covered the flames and greatly dimmed the room, but you could still see your husband’s eyes fixed on you.

Half wanting to cover yourself for modesty, half wanting to punish Drew by not having him see you, you quickly hopped into the tub. The servants had left a scrubbing brush and some soap for you, but you didn’t even think about using them. You just wanted to sit and brood. You were so exhausted that you were certain the warm water would lull you to sleep before you even attempted to clean yourself. If you did fall asleep in the tub, and your head went underwater, you guessed that Drew wouldn’t even be able to save you in time.

“My Queen.”

You had no desire to look at him, but your head turned toward him nonetheless. You couldn’t will your lips to curl into a smile, which you usually did when you looked at your husband. His body was so bruised and battered that you couldn’t look anywhere but his eyes, but that was no better as they were red and tired, threatening tears. His Adam’s apple was quivering. His lips were slightly parted. His voice barely a whisper.

“Forgive me.”

And you forgave him.

Right then and there, you forgave him. Every single sin he had committed in your eyes: the arguing, the fighting, the brutishness, leaving you behind, failing to win. Everything was absolved. You kicked yourself mentally for not being able to hold a grudge, even for just one evening. However, you were saved by the fact that your face was too exhausted to change from the mask of apathy and disregard that you wore. To Drew, you were still his scowling, disappointed Queen.

Some Queen I am. Sitting hunched naked in a tub, covered in filth. Bitter and defeated. I’ve never felt LESS like a Queen. I don’t feel like the wife of a King. I don’t even feel like a wife. I don’t even feel like a woman…

You looked down. Through the muddy water you were able to see your body. Bruises and scratches and scrapes covered it. Your skin was pasty and shriveled. In certain areas, it was rubbed raw from friction with the tighter parts of your dress. Any little touch on any little bit of your body would only hurt you. But you wanted to be touched. You didn’t care how much it would bring you pain. You wanted to be touched by Drew. To be held by Drew. To be loved by Drew. To be fucked-

The fireplace roared back to life as the flames finally caught hold of your discarded dress, engulfing it. The room brightened as if it were almost day. You looked at Drew. His eyes were squinted, as he couldn’t even lift his hands up to shield his eyes.

So you did it for him.

You rose from the tub, your shadow completely covering Drew. His eyes popped open and he looked at you. You swore you could almost feel the air move as he gasped, taking in your form.

“You told me… that despite how beaten down you were… you still had the strength to take me… to ravage me… You told me you still had the endurance to turn me into a… a whimpering mess.”

You tried to keep your voice even and cold. Drew held you with his eyes and for a moment you were excited. You saw his muscles tense up as he attempted to lean forward. Your body shivered from the night air and from anticipation. You closed your eyes and bit your lip, your body’s memory reliving all the times Drew would pick you up and throw you on your shared bed, giving you the love from a wounded warrior, whose heart still beat with hot blood.

“My Queen…” You opened your eyes again to see Drew with his head back on the pillows, his muscles shaking, his chest heaving from his panting. He ever so slowly was able to bring his head back up enough to look at you. “I… I can’t.” His lip was quivering and his eyelids were fluttering. The fireplace dimmed once more as the flames had eaten up the rest of your dress, leaving a small glow of singed fabric behind. Your body stopped shivering in the cold air. It stopped feeling cold. It stopped feeling anything. You stood there in the tub with your mouth slightly open and your eyebrows raised in confusion and sadness.

Of course he wouldn’t be able to take you. You were stupid to even think that he could. You were cruel to ask him to try. And he did try. After everything he had gone through, he still wanted to try and please you. You mentally kicked yourself for trying to get him to exhaust himself further.

Then, you heard… breathing. You couldn’t really describe it. It wasn’t whimpering, and it wasn’t sobbing. Just a strange kind of breathing. You turned again to Drew who had his jaw and his eyes clenched tight. He looked so helpless.

You moved to him. You couldn't even feel yourself walking. You were gliding. Before you knew it you were crawling over the sheets of your bed, staining them with the grime that rubbed off your body.

When you were next to him on the bed, he tried to turn his neck and look at you, but he winced. You kissed cheek and whispered to him. “Just lay with me, my love.”

You lay your head on his heart, mindful of his wincing as you brushed by the bruises on his chest. Your eyelids grew heavy as you listened to the rhythm of Drew’s heartbeat. Through your lashes you saw your husband fight to keep his eyes open, just to look at you. You turned and wrapped your two small arms around one of his massive ones and heaved it so it lay over you. So he was holding you. Drew sighed contently. The very next sounds that came from him soft snores as you yourself felt all the pain of the last three days melt away.

Then you slept.

I am so very honored and so awed that someone dedicated their time to create a fanfic for my fanfic universe....that’s.....that’s so beyond incredible and I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around it. This tribute fic was absolutely amazing. I legit read this fic until 3 am when I was given it. I couldn’t stop reading it and I loved every small detail and the story telling. Thank you again, @tinkerbell-has-chlamydia for this fic. Truly. Thank you so much. I’m so honored you adored my fics enough to write this. From the bottom of my heart; THANK YOU. ~Bri 💛🖤 (Again this fic is NOT MINE. I was given permission to post it here and place it on my masterlist)

Tag: @adriennegabriella @amandalynngraves @amariemoore @andie01 @annoyingasian @ar3le @artemisapalla316 @ashkrystal @astolenheartnkiss @axelwolf8109 @baemcintyre @balorstrowmanblackmurphy @beckyann6879 @bigbabyscottishpsychopath @brownskinafro @calicina @calwitch @claymoreme @commando-claymore @crossfitjesusinblackskinnyjeans @curlyafrogirl @daddyslittlevillain @dalia-corven @darlingambrose @dcnmarvelgamergeek @demonqueen29 @drew-is-boo @drewshoneybadger @fabulousrockstar @fireyegale @fivefootxo @flawlessglamazon @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @gold--gucciempress @hardcoresweet45 @heel-rollins @homeorbust @ihavenowilltolivelol @i-have-saracasm @itsicantbelievethis666 @jazzy-tzw @jeffhardyenigmawwefan @junglecassidy @kalliravenne @lilred91 @littlesuperstar @madebypointlesswerewolves @malethirsty @meishaabae @melblacc @meremaidqueen @midnight--luna @monocromaticstaircase @morenokatt @moxleysbaby @moxley-unhinged @mox-made-me-do-it @moxnmurphy @moxtiel @neversatisfiedgirl @nevertoofarfromivar @new-zealand-chic @nicolewoo @nothinginlifebutgreif @number1120 @ofbeornandbjorn @pandaluver96 @queenofthearchitect @saiyandude @sassymox @savemeroman @scuzmunkie @sebstanismylife @shieldgirl18 @shortyiceheart @slytherinyourrpants @softmoxymuffin @superrezzy00 @taryn-dibiase @thatnerdwriter @thatpanpal @the-beastslayers-queen @thehoundsofjustice @thepalaceofmelanie @theworldofotps @thewrestlingwarehouse @trashofambrolleigns @twistedbeautifully @unabashedwrestlefics @undiscovereddisneyroyalty @undisputedmorgs @unprettypeony @voidstrugh @waywardwrestlewritingwaif @welcome-to-lovecraft-country @xbreezymeadowsx @yaint-me @youcantreignonmyparade

#drew mcintyre #drew mcintyre x reader #my king #my king series #my king series tribute #fanfic for my fanfic #WOW!!!!#not my work #not my writing #not my fic #i do not claim ownership #tinkerbell-has-chlamydia

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polar-stars · 3 years

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☕️ + megumi and hojo?

(Give me a ☕️ + a character/ship and I’ll ramble off whatever thoughts and opinion I have about it)

Oho, interesting! Thanks for the ask!

Megumi Tadokoro

Megumi is a character I love and adore. She has given me no choice in that matter, lol. I cannot possibly dislike a character who portrays such a huge amount of real, genuine kindness. Adding to that, she's incredibly easy to relate to (I know that I am not the only one who does).

In my opinion Megumi has had some of the very best moments in all of Shokugeki, especially in it's earlier parts. The Shokugeki against Shinomiya in Trainings Camp is still my favorite battle in the whole manga after all. Her performance in the Autumn Election Premlins was also really satisfying and sweet to see. (Monkfish Preperation Scene Supremacy)

Tsukuda really did great on making Megumi a character that I really want to see succeed.....But that is where the problem comes in.

The problem is that Tsukuda struggles with the Show, Don't Tell-Rule from Central Arc onwards.

Pre-Central, Megumi's character development was solid in my opinion. It was believable and not too fast-paced. But once focus was shifted to Azami-Drama, Megumi and other characters had to take a little step back from the action. And Megumi's character arc started to stagnate.

Through Training Arc. Autumn Elections and Stagiares, Megumi had visibly gained some more confidence in herself and her stage fright problem from the beginning of the series was ceasing. However there was something missing: pay-off. Her character arc lacks proper pay-off.

You see, throughout all of Central Arc Megumi has not won any single fight on-screen. She was given one victory against Shigemichi Kumai but not even second of that fight was actually shown to the reader. But when it's time for a more detailed fight against Momo, she looses.

In her fight against Momo, the judges do find the time to point out tho that Megumi might hasn't been able to beat Momo however there is quote unquote ✨potential✨.

Thing is that the "potential"-thing has been getting old at that point. It felt very reminiscent to Megumi's fight against Ryo back in the Autumn Elections. Ryo was able to win, however it was made clear through multiple dialogue-lines that Megumi did give him a good fight, defying the expectations the audience had from her. So basically that fight was like: Yes, she lost now. But she is on the right path. There is a lot of potential.

The issue is that time has progressed ever since the AE and it was about time for us, the readers, to see that potential unfold.

But we never got that.

We get a lot, a lot of talking about Megumi's potential throughout Central Arc but never an actual showcase of it. And it does not get much better with BLUE Arc either (I mean, what do you expect from that trainwreck of an arc anyway?)

First off, despite all of her potential and her participation in the Regiment de Cuisine & the retaking of Totsuki as a whole Megumi somehow ends up with the lowest seat in the Neo-Elite 10??? And I'm just: Why??? Why is she the only explicitly ranked below Eizan & Nene (who got a massive downgrade) with everyone else far ahead? (Tho the Neo-Elite 10 Ranking as a whole is one confusing mess and I should probably stop trying to bring sense into it if I do not want to go insane, lol.)

The infamous Hot Spring Fight against a Noir is where we finally see Megumi shine a little on-screen (at least in the manga). And well....I enjoyed seeing that but...

It is still not the proper pay-off she deserves, I'm sorry. Because ultimately that Noir-Guy is some random One-Off we never saw again. And that's a problem.

This character had no time establishing himself to us. We barely know him.

To put it into perspective: Satoshi Isshiki beating Julio Shiratsu in the RdC did not feel like a very impressive thing. Because we have only come to know Julio in that one fight and had absolutely no judgement on how powerful he may be (not to mention, that he was mostly placed in a very ridiculous light). It would have been a lot more impressive to the reader had Satoshi won his later fight against Eishi Tsukasa, because Eishi is a character who we have spent a lot more time with and who has repeatedly been portrayed as absurdly skillful and an actual threat.

See what I mean? As much as I loved seeing Megumi being an absolute badass in that Hot Spring Saga...It was not the satisfying pay-off I want for her.

The few victories she gets are always against random One-Offs while her fights against the more important characters are always a loss for her. Case in point: BLUE. She gets anOTHER off-screened match against some Noir in Chinese clothes, whose name I won't bother looking up if he even has one, where all characters talk about how talented she is but once it's time for her to go up against big bad bitch Asahi she looses. And that sucks.

Not to forget the fact that Megumi always gets strung along to every big event but we never get much justification for her participation (other than the obvious Meta-Reason that she's a main character).

Think about it, her and Takumi got extremely lucky in Train Arc by having Rindou giving them a free pass just for the lulz, while everyone else got expelled. Then a good number of messy chapters later, Megumi and Takumi get invited into BLUE without even a shred of reasoning behind it. Why them? How random is it to invite the 1st, 7th and 10th seat but no one else? Meanwhile when BLUE Arc was first mentioned in the manga they told Jouichiro that it's actually extremely rare for a student in that age to get into this tournament. And Jouichiro was a 3rd year back then, what are those three 2nd Years doing there??

The anime at least addressed that by having Totsuki's students fight for the participation (I appreciated that, if only the episode that covers it wasn't so lazily done)

I'd have much less of an issue with that if they actually gave Megumi something to work with in that arc. But really in RDC and even more so in BLUE, she's mostly just there I feel. She barely really impacts the story meaningfully in both of these arcs, I feel.

And it's one big shame.

As I said, I love Megumi and Tsukuda set her up as someone who I wanted to see succeed and defy expectations. Her journey up till Central Arc was a lot of fun and very compelling but then it just...came to a halt. And her arc never got any real, proper closure I feel. She was instead pushed more and more into the background and she just did not deserve that, man.

Never forget that she is one of the mains after all and she should have been treated as one.

damn I did not think this would get this long ahhdhdf

Miyoko Hojo

When realising that Miyoko's speciality is Chinese cooking, I was super excited for her! I really love Chinese food and I've been waiting for it to be covered in Shokugeki up till that point.

I like Miyoko quite a lot, she's definitely one of my faves from the...well, I don't think "secondary" cuts it...the tertiary cast. Unfortunately we've got to see so painfully little of her.

I like that Megumi, in the most Megumi-ways, made her learn a lesson like "Feminism =/= You can not possibly get along with a man. Ever.", but it was also interesting to see acknowledgement of the inequality of men and women within the culinary business through Miyoko.

Miyoko's friendship with Megumi is something I adore and I would have very much liked more of it please. I enjoy the thought of Miyoko, this tough, unapproachable woman, having her face soften whenever this pure, little angel approaches her. Also 100% sure Miyoko would drop-kick whoever gives Megumi a funny look.

I also would have liked to see Miyoko interact more with Kuga, because I imagine it could have been a lot of fun. From the one, tiny interaction they've had I feel that Terunori actually respects Miyoko quite a bit. Which I think is interesting, because Terunori otherwise seems to enjoy bitching at people.

Honestly? If you ask me??? Miyoko should have been in the Regiment de Cuisine.

I'll never get over how she's shown in the audience, alongside Nao, smiling when the rebels are about to snatch victory. Like ahdhFJG, excuse me Ma'am what business do you have just watching??? You can not tell me that from what we've seen about Miyoko that she would not be up to kick Azami's ass out of Totsuki. I generally think it's stupid for the Rebels to go up against the Elites in a number even to them.

Azami. Explicitly told you guys. That you can bring more than that.

You were up against the Elite 10 Council.

YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED ANYONE YOU CAN GET!

YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED MIYOKO

(and Nao as well tbh)

(The Regiment de Cusine could have been a lot better to buy for me if the Rebels had shown up with more participants tbh but that's a different subject)

Anyways, as I said I wish we could have seen a lot more of Miyoko. But it just wasn't meant ot be :( I mean, when characters like Alice and Akira get pushed to the side, what chances does the tertiary cast have?

I'm at least glad that she is sort-off shown being the new president of the Chinese RS in Les Dessert 1? I like that for her.

But yes, ultimately...another criminally underused character. I look forward to write her being a cool mom in my fanfic tho.

#well #that was rather lengthy hdhfhf #Rambly Asks #Shokugeki no Soma #Megumi Tadokoro #Miyoko Hojo

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whirlybirbs · 4 years

Note

Stumbling across Pre-Flight Check and Post-Flight Debrief when I was stressed and needed some cope reading like 6ish months ago was the best thing I’ve ever done. It brought me here! I love your writing and I’ve grown so attached to every story and character you’ve made. Checking in on here each day has been burned into my schedule and I can’t imagine stopping. So seeing you go back to the story that introduced to your blog makes me so happy like I’m going soft in this chili’s tonight I SWEAR-

✧ — BEHIND-THE-SCENES. ;

summary: poe and snap catch up. the wampa in the room is dodged.

pairing: poe dameron x punchy!reader, from pre-flight check series.

warnings: just poe staring lovingly at punchy from across the cantina.

a/n: it’s about time someone started asking questions, don’t you think? after all, every starpilot romance is destined to have a rocky take-off... or is it? anyways, enjoy me doing some dialogue work for poe as a warm up :-)

“So... You and the Lieutenant...?”

Snap has been one of Poe’s closest friends for as long as he can remember.

It’s not to say the rest of squadron isn’t equally as important to the flight leader — in fact, Poe Dameron would lay his life on the line for any of Black Squadron. All of them are his friends; people who he wouldn’t be able to live without, but Snap and Poe...

They got along easy. Natural. Bonded over having rebel parents and being in this fight long before they ever joined the Resistance. It just made sense that they’d be this close, chattering over nothing and everything over warm beers in the base’s cantina.

Poe, swigging his drink, casts Snap a look.

(It’s one he’s been working on. Hiding your relationship was just the smart thing to do. If it wasn’t the regs, then it was the rumors and... you both wanted to spare each other from the run-around as much as you could. The only problem is that the sheer mention of you is enough to light up his face, and Poe Dameron is a terrible liar.)

Immediately, the bearded man to Poe’s left raises his hands. “Listen — I think it’s nice, y’know... I’m happy for you.”

“It’s nothing, Snap,” Poe says, leaning back, “Really.”

Snap narrows his eyes. “Poe.”

“I’m serious!” a high and tight laugh, “Really, it’s, uh — we’re just friends.”

“I know you and Punchy smoothed over whatever was going on between you but...” Snap raises a brow, “You’ve been staring. All night. You don’t stare at me like that. And I’m you’re friend, too.”

“What, do you want me to? Stare at you, I mean?”

“I’m just sayin’ —”

Poe’s gaze reflexively jumps back to you and your spot across the bar; you’re chattering with the girls, enveloped in some sort fo rowdy conversation that carries laughter up and over the music. Even under the scrutiny of Snap, Poe can’t help the way his features soften at the sight of you — you’re all cozied up between Jessika and Karé, sipping your own drink and watching the game of cards play out on the table in-front of you.

“See.”

Snap shoulders Poe.

“See what?”

Snap rolls his eyes. “I know that look, Poe.”

“What look?” he nearly cries, laughing painfully, “She’s great and all, but —”

“But, what?” Snap leans on his elbow, jutting his chin your way, “It’s against regulation? Because I know it’s not hard feelings. Those went away a while ago. Before Spira.”

That shuts Poe up — the uncomfortable silence is enough to let Snap know he’s right, and the pilot just shrugs. It’s clearly a point of tension, but whatever is going on behind the scenes has left both his Commander and his Lieutenant in particularly good moods. Snap really can’t say he’s complaining.

Or that he blames Poe.

When him and Karé had first gotten together, there was plenty of word following them around. And they were the same rank. Snap knows his friend’s hesitation lays within the potential difficulty of violating the New Republic Navy’s fraternization rule...

“Alright, alright,” Snap eases up, “I don’t wanna wring it outta you. But, if you ever wanna talk about it... y’know — off the books and not here...”

Poe’s smile oozes thanks and kindness.

“I know, Snap.”

“Yeah,” a slap to the arm, “You do.”

#poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader #poe x reader #star wars imagine #poe x punchy #pre-flight check #hehehehhehehehe

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scaredandbored · 4 years

Text

frailty, thy name is leonard mccoy

(title is a rip-off of shakespeare’s line “frailty, thy name is woman” from hamlet)

warnings : THERE ARE SPOILERS IN THE WARNINGS

1- look bones gets kidnapped by aliens who are totally against their planet’s agreement with the federation and he gets beaten up pretty bad. im not sure how to warn specifics for this, but there’s physical violence and blood and stuff so if you don’t like that, this isn’t for you

2- this is my first time writing with a vague plot in mind so please feel free to tear into it with the ol’ constructive criticism

3- there IS a lengthy discussion of a “global viral pandemic” but it ain’t covid and it ain’t earth so s’long as words like “outbreak” “viral” “pandemic” “global pandemic” “isolation” etc don’t bother you it should be ok

4- bones is in it so there is cursing. also spock kinda gets Overly Protective so if yall dont like that give this one a skip (not that im always shit at writing spock anyway)

5- oop character death didn’t expect that but the plot goes where the plot wants to go

no editing we die like men

it IS a spones fic who do you think i am

words : 3,523

When the Anti-Federation Rebels did not return by the time Leonard’s throat had begun to itch with thirst, he started to realise that he wasn’t critically injured Had any properly trained Starfleet officer been put in his situation, they probably wouldn’t even bother showing up to medbay at this stage. But he wasn’t properly trained. Just a bumbling country doctor the fleet had stupidly thought would thrive while being held responsible for the lives of the entire crew of their flagship. He wasn’t built for this kind of thing, he wasn’t trained. Physically and emotionally weaker than the rest of the crew, and completely ignorant of the politics and mind games involved in space travel; he was in pain. All he had wanted was to try and stop the spread of the virus, and look where that had gotten him.

He’d strong-armed Kirk into taking this mission. Pulled in a few favours. He’d not been keeping a particularly close eye on the negotiations happening between the official representatives of Caughlaigh and the United Federation of Planets, but when he’d heard about the viral outbreak on the main content of the planet, Leonard McCoy knew they weren’t equipped to handle the situation. The night he first heard about the outbreak, he’d asked Kirk what he’d known about Caughlaigh, to which the captain had responded : “To be perfectly honest, not much, Bones.”, before neatly taking Spock’s rook with a knight. Spock had raised an eyebrow at Leonard’s sudden breaking of the comfortable silence in the room. The eyebrow crept a millimetre higher at the captain’s unprecedented move. Leonard decided to drop the conversation and forget about it. He knew he didn’t know everything about the situation. He knew Starfleet would’ve looked at the medical capabilities of the people of Caughlaigh and reacted accordingly. He knew Spock was underestimating the importance of that particular move made by Jim. He’d thought maybe he was underestimating the Caughlaigh officials. Jim had won that particular match.

Two days later, a recommended news story on his personal PADD told him the situation on Caughlaigh had escalated from an outbreak to a pandemic. There were cases in every settlement on the main continent, and the spread of the virus to the other two smaller continents was inevitable. He’d hung behind after watching Spock destroy Jim at chess three times in a row to tell the captain what he’d learned. Jim had smiled softly in the way he always did when Leonard was being unnecessarily worrisome. “I’m sure the powers that be are making sure no-one is in any real danger.” A friendly clap on the shoulder that the rest of the crew would’ve taken in their stride shook McCoy slightly. “Now, I recommend you get yourself a good night’s rest, Bones.” Leonard had grumbled something about not knowing Jim had gotten a medical license.

Another two days later, another recommended news story. The first deaths from the virus had happened in the epicentre of the pandemic, the largest settlement on the main continent had lost their main healer and her most trained assistant. McCoy set up his PADD so that any articles regarding the Caughlaigh Pandemic would be automatically downloaded, available to read even if they entered some electromagnetic storms or some other astro-phenomenon he didn’t fully understand.

A week later, three inhabitants of one of the smaller continents passed away. Leonard had gone to Jim with the intention of seeking comfort from the closest thing he had to a friend on this godforsaken tin can. He’d come back six hours later with a promise from his captain and Starfleet that the Enterprise was going to assist with the Caughlaigh situation.

A day later, Leonard hand picked multiple ensigns and a few nurses to take with him to the surface to work on the frontlines. Commander Spock had formally contested the logic in sending down the ship’s chief medical officer to work in a hospital instead of working on a cure back at the ship. Leonard’s friend Spock had requested he be unwavering in his sanitation and self-preservation on the surface.

He’d only been on the surface for a week when he’d been knocked out while he was scrubbing up for a surgery. The anti-federation rebels had noticed his uniform and taken him for a great deal of questioning. They used a method that was rather... forceful.

They had left him alone, finally. Maybe they had realised he wasn’t going to cooperate. Most likely they were taking a break to make sure they didn’t render him useless before they could exploit him for information. Lucky for him.

Leonard McCoy didn’t enjoy bright lights at the best of times; as a boy growing up in Georgia he’d always been mocked by his peers for his adverse reaction to the harsh sunlight, whether it was violently scrunching up his face or wearing sunglasses every time he stepped outside the door. He’d eventually stopped wearing the sunglasses, migraines be damned. A kid can only take so much ridicule. Now, decades later, he found himself irrationally wishing he’d taken his sunglasses with him. He had to focus on how much the harsh, almost surgical lights were paining him. Had to, unless he wanted to focus on the rest of his aching body.

He could heard the sound of his captors making their way back into the room he’d been strapped up in, and began to pull helplessly at his bonds, which did nothing but give him friction burns around his wrists and ankles. He tried to speak but instead of his voice, a pained hiss of air rushed out from somewhere low in his throat as a clawed foot connected with his stomach.

Clinically, Leonard registered the puncturing of the skin over his stomach, but failed to extrapolate any further medical analysis as pain seared from the wounds. A fist connected with his nose. There was a crack, then more pain. He could feel blood rushing down his lower face, could feel it looking between his lips, could taste it when his mouth opened in a gasp for air as something constricted his breathing.

Thrashing his head, Leonard desperately tried to get a glimpse of who was in the room with him, tried to figure out where they were coming from, where they’d hit him next, but the lights were blinding him, his eyes were burning, he was pretty sure his nose was broken, he was bleeding, he... he was alone.

An open palm struck his face while another clawed foot pressed painfully at the base of his spine. It was probably his imagination, but Leonard thought he could hear his old bones creak and groan under the pressure.

His lips grew tacky with the blood that continued to gush from his nose, and his head spun. He couldn’t stop himself from jerking his arms instinctively to press against the throbbing wounds to his stomach, which caused the restraints on his wrists to dig into his skin.

A cold, almost-leather strap was clamped around his neck, and it was tight, much too tight. He tried to tell them, desperate mewlings that went ignored as his nose kept bleeding and his stomach kept churning and he couldn’t think and then there was a strong, cold, seven fingered hand gripping his jaw, forcing his chin up.

A growl, from someone Leonard couldn’t see, corresponded with a significant tightening of the grip on his jaw. His head was full of feathers, he was sure of it. A soft, swan-like down that was probably stained brick red from the steady stream pouring out of his nose, out of his gut-

He felt his jaw shatter and his head hit the ground.

***

“Bones, please respond.” The captain had been comming his CMO for upwards of an hour now, ever since he failed to give his morning report. He hadn’t been particularly worried about Bones’s failure to report precisely on time; he’d always had an awful internal clock. The only reason he was starting to worry now was that his away team hadn’t seen Dr.McCoy since lunchtime yesterday.

Now, if it had been an away team of senior officers, he’d believe Bones would’ve felt no need to check in with the crew, but he’d taken down a bunch of ensigns to try and give them some experience on the field, and Bones was the biggest mother hen Jim had ever met. “Spock, life signs?”

Spock hadn’t looked up from his console all morning, which was a worry in itself. “The doctor removed his comm badge before retiring last night, earlier than normal, captain. He has not reattached it since.”

“You’re telling me we can’t find him?” Jim was trying to keep his professionalism, but when his friend was unaccounted for on a politically volatile planet, he thought he could be forgiven a little terseness.

Spock took longer to reply than usual, his hands fiddling with what Jim knew to be more sensitive equipment than their general sensors. “There is no terran life-forms outside of the planet-side transporter location within our sensor range, captain.”

“And what exactly is our sensor range, Mr.Spock?” Angling for less confrontational, Jim found himself using a tone of voice he knew Spock had difficulty discerning whether it was angry or not. To make up for this, Jim perched himself on the edge of Spock’s console, placing his hand on the back of the chair and leaning in closer so he could look at the readings himself.

“We can scan the entire surface of the planet with the assistance of the numerous towers planet-side. However, we can only penetrate approximately six feet below the surface due to the composition of the planet’s soil. It contains isotopes which-”

“Thank you Mr.Spock, I understand.” Normally, Jim would indulge Spock in his analysis, but time could very well have been a resource they were lacking. “Six feet, you say?”

“Affirmative, captain.” Spock was looking directly at him, his normal micro-expressions invisible to Jim.

“Well, at least we know he’s not dead.”

“Captain?”

“I’ll explain later, Mr.Spock. Mr.Scott?” The crackle of the infamously bad reception from the engine room rang over the bridge’s intercom.

“Aye, captain?”

“Any chance we could get those sickbay kids back onboard?”

“Aye sir. I had someone repair those transporters this mornin’.”

“Excellent. Bridge out.” Kirk took a steadying breath. Just one. He couldn’t let the panic he could feel settling low in his chest affect his ability to command the ship. Especially when the livelihood of the ship’s CMO depended on that ability. “Transporter room?”

“Sir?”

“Have we got a lock on the away team?”

“All bar one, captain. Do you have the coordinates of Dr.McCoy?”

“Not right now, no. Beam up the rest, and have them report to my ready room.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jim closed his eyes for a moment, vaguely aware of Spock standing up from his station. “Alright, Mr.Spock. Let’s find out what we can from these officers before we go jumping to any conclusions.”

***

Leonard woke as his head was thrown against what felt like a stone wall, blood bubbling in the back of his throat. He could only hope the blood was from his nose and not his lungs, although both his face and chest were aching equally.

A hand pinned him to the wall by the back of his neck, grinding his face against the gritty surface. Tiny pebbles scraped at the skin of his face, and he could feel his head spin as concern about an infection flitted in and out of the overwhelming bouts of different kinds of pain. A burning pain on his face from the fiction between his cheek and the gravely wall, a sharp pain in his nose (broken, if the amount of blood pooling above his upper lip was anything to go by), another sharp pain somewhere on the back of his head (sticky substance on back of neck: sweat or blood?), various, almost insignificant pains along and around his torso, an overall stiffness, and, oh Jesus.

A shriek ripped its way out of his severely dehydrated throat as a scaled fist collided with his side, tugging at the skin which they had haphazardly sewn back together while he’d been knocked out. The area around the wound was warm, and the second the fist made contact with his side he could feel something oozing out of it. Not good, his brain helpfully supplied. The scream that had perforated the room left him whimpering in pain, his jaw a horrific cocktail of sharp, stabbing pains and dull aches, a bitter metallic taste stinging at his taste buds.

A voice, speaking a language he didn’t know, was coming from somewhere in the room, too far away to be his assailant. Then, right beside his ear, from a tongue not designed to verbalise Standard : “They come.”

Leonard could feel a sharp talon being pressed against the junction between the hinge of his jaw and his ear, not piercing the skin, not yet. It took him a while to try and figure out what they meant, then he gave a sharp, barking laugh followed by a coughing fit, splattering the wall he was pressed against. Jesus Christ. “You’re on some goddamn dumb shit if y’all think they ain’t halfway across y’all’s galaxy by this point.”

The faraway, foreign vocalisations. The talon jabbed forcefully into his skin, making him groan, feeling a warm trickle of blood slither down his neck to pool with whatever was dripping down the back of his neck.

He’d been crying since before he’d woken up, at least he thought so. “They ain’t comin’ you goddamn idiots, get your paws the fuck offa me.” His voice was thin and non-threatening, even to his own ears. The talon dragged itself down, towards his carotid artery. Leonard’s shriek was trapped in his throat as he squirmed, pressing himself further into the wall in a pathetic attempt to escape the motion. He could hear the owner of the slowly advancing talon release a hiss, before jerking it back up to his ear, deepening the wound.

He could hear his own sobs bouncing off of the walls, echoing around his head. They weren’t coming. They couldn’t come, they’d get caught too, they had to leave him. The shudder that ran through his body tugged at the rancid stitches in his stomach, the shifting of his clothes hitting him with his own stench: dried blood, fresh blood, sweat, urine, and vomit.

Must’ve thrown up while unconscious.

Why didn’t I choke on it, damnit?

His stomach heaved, his stitched popped, and he felt himself crumple, but was unconscious before he felt to the ground with a dull crack.

***

“Captain it’s been three days-”

“I won’t give up the search-”

“I would not suggest we cease our search, captain. I was suggesting you allow me to proceed ahead at my own pace, as I believe I will be more efficient in locating the doctor than the security team.”

“I need you here, Spock.”

“You do not.”

Jim had never seen Spock like this before, never born witness to his unwavering loyalty secondhand. He was used to being found by a Spock who had already begun to lose his version of a frantic disposition. He did not know what to do with a Spock who looked like he was going to go ahead with his own plan regardless of orders received. “Spock-”

“You have many competent officers aboard who would be willing to assist you in interviewing the locals.”

Jim tilted his head, giving his first officer a warning look which he had a feeling went ignored. “Are you suggesting my search team is incompetent, Mr.Spock?”

His eyebrows jumped as Spock clearly opened his mouth to give his agreement. Spock quickly checked himself and closed his mouth, took a deep breath, then leveled Jim with a look he knew all too well. Spock had picked it up from him. “I am merely noting your CMO has been missing for three days, presumed in mortal danger.” It was a vulcanised version of the look Jim got before disobeying a direct order from a superior.

“I need you back alive. Both of you.”

Spock blinked once in what Jim hoped was a promise before he was gone.

***

The team of redshirts trailed behind Spock as he followed the sound of a gentle scraping his human teammates had not been able to hear. The sound grew louder as they wound their way through a cave system that was almost too dark for him to see in. Spock’s already brisk pace grew even faster as a pained groan joined the scraping noise, an eerily human expression of pain.

The team following him broke out into a full sprint the second they heard a yell coming from directly ahead. Spock froze at the familiarity of that yell. He’d heard it more times than he cared to, and his stomach lurched at what it implied. Snapping into action, he easily outstripped the rest of the team, who yelled for him to stop.

Spock did not stop.

He burst into a wide open cavern flooded with bright light, felt his second eyelid slide shut, and in the split second it took for his eyes to adjust, there were three pairs of eyes fixed on him. Two threatening, reptilian humanoids watched him carefully, as Spock stood, frozen. McCoy was looking at him, but his eyes were glazed over, his face gaunt and bloody, his bare feet slipping in a puddle of his own shockingly red blood as he was held up by his neck by one of the two friendly locals. Spock felt cold, and he could feel his heart drop to his pelvic girdle as he was unable to see the rise and fall of the doctor’s chest. He couldn’t move. The captors were stood in shock, uncertain what to do with their intruder.

“S....Sp....” McCoy blinked slowly and tried to speak. The sound of his voice struggling up through a restricted throat, past a mangled jaw, desperately trying to form the sounds of his name brought a fury Spock had never known.

He felt a growl rumble in his chest, and when the lizard holding McCoy by the neck gave the doctor a shake, Spock launched himself. He was vaugly aware of a scuffle ensuing behind him, but his focus was totally on pulverising this creature who had dared to try and take Leonard from him.

Wrapping an arm around Leonard’s chest elicited a pained mewl from his tiny doctor, which sent another surge of red through Spock, as he shoved the creature away from them instead of trying to pull Leonard away, but the creature dug its talons in instead of letting go. Spock could feel Leonard jerk forward, pulled by the nails embedded in his neck. A strangled noise left Spock as he leaned forward and sank his teeth into the hand, which released Leonard in surprise. Immediately, Spock slipped McCoy behind him, his concern slowly growing to outtake his anger as Leonard’s pained noises grew more and more frequent. Backing into a corner, Spock’s eyes did not leave the advancing opponent.

There was a flash of light, the lizard fell, and Spock immediately turned to Leonard, his hands flying to the psi-points on the doctors face without hesitation, totally unaware of the frail hands shakily trying to pry him away. Spock joined to McCoy without hesitating, ascertaining the extent of the damage.

That wasn’t a very good idea, darlin’.

Spock had not wanted his first meld with Leonard to be like this, not filled with more pain than he knew the doctor could withstand, not feeling the ghosts of what he knew, logically, were recent, fatal wounds, and older, debilitating lacerations and fractures.

You may not leave.

Since when have I ever done what y’told me to, Spock?

His thoughts were... surprisingly direct for a human untrained in vulcan ways, but the way they were growing gradually quieter was enough to send Spock into a panic which he tried desperately to tamp down.

On Vulcan, one’s spouse always obeys their husband.

Who’s t’say y’ain’t the one who’s ‘posed to do th’ obeyin’?

Spock felt a flash of pain as Leonard tried to smile, then the connection went dead.

Leonard had slammed up a mental barrier, and Spock did not have time to wonder where he had learned to do that, not as he was desperately pressing at Leonard’s psi-points while fixedly staring at the increasingly unsteady rise and fall of the his chest. Spock’s gazed fixed in horror at the stark white slip of collarbone protruding from the skin with every inhale.

By the time the familiar fizz of the transporter surrounded them, Spock was no longer fighting against the mental barrier, but was still unable to make contact with the spirited doctor.

***

Jim had known Spock’s expression had meant he was going to disobey an order. He’d hoped by giving the order Spock had wanted, to bring his two best friends home, to avoid that. He should’ve known better.

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adella-the-idyllic · 3 years

Text

How To Tell Your Family You’re Moving According To Mermaids

@attina-the-responsible @arista-the-musical @alana-the-badbitch @aquata-the-champ @ariel-the-rebel @melody-the-unwritten

Date: January 15th, 2021

Adella Triton

Adella Triton was sure of precisely three things: 1. She was leaving Swynlake for the second time and hopefully last. 2. Alana was happy for her. 3. Jury was out on everyone else. Daddy would be happy for her in time; he gave her his blessing in that sad dad way, but she knew it was only because he'd miss her.

She should have left a long, long time ago. Andrina was right in way. Their family could be a little...suffocating.

Not that Adella felt that way right now, but two years ago? Yeah.

Dinner was going well-- and right when everyone was getting seconds, Adella looked over at her father to make eye contact, and nodded to let him know she was ready.

"Hey, um. I actually have something to tell everyone." Adella said, and she turned up her hearing aids for the conversation that was about to happen. "So, Daddy knows, I told him earlier today. But I have a brilliant work opportunity."

Aquata Triton

Aquata kept twirling spaghetti on her fork but looked up at Adella quizzically. Was this about the acting thing? Because, after a few weeks had passed since her conversation with Adella in the kitchen, she had assumed the thing hadn't panned out. Which was fine with her. Kind of a bummer, of course, but Aquata had been right.

So this was unexpected. "Hm?" she said, thinking she probably knew what was coming but not entirely sure. Either way, it was weird.

Adella Triton

"Right! So, one of my roommates from London, Rowan, referred me to his agency. They have offices in New York, London, and LA." Adella let that hang in the air for a moment as she nervously shuffled her food about on her plate.

Maybe she should lie and say 'they rejected me, haha!' That might be best.

But, no. Adella had earned this. She was nearly thirty-- she needed to follow her career goals.

"And I sent them my acting reel and my modeling portfolio a few weeks ago. And..." she set her fork down and smiled -- this was good news. She was happy! "They want to take me on a client. They're sending me a script tomorrow to record an audition for by next Wednesday, and we'll see if that goes anywhere. I have an agency now. For acting. They believe in me, a real actual talent agency!"

Alana Triton

Alana was keeping an eye on everyone's reactions -- she just wanted this to go as smoothly as possible, though she was under no illusions that it would.

She just -- she missed Andrina. It was a missing she knew would never be filled, because she wasn't actually missing Andrina: she was missing a nebulous before time, when they all were under the same roof and it seemed like it would be that way forever. She'd wanted out of it then, but now that it had somehow slipped from her fingers, it seemed swathed in gold in her memory.

But Alana knew better than anyone that that wasn't the case. That she was gone from under this roof, technically. That they were all going to leave eventually.

So she smiled -- she knew the news, of course, but she figured it'd be best for everyone to pretend she was finding out with them.

"Oh my god, Della!" she chimed. "That's brilliant!"

Aquata Triton

Aquata didn't try to hide her surprise, jaw dropping. Because even if Adella had told her that this was coming, she didn't really think it was. Or maybe she had convinced herself otherwise. But Adella had made the deal.

She composed herself, not wanting to look too ruffled. "Well, duh, you're really talented," she said, trying to look unbothered. She was not going to freak out. Or maybe she was, but very deep on the inside. On the outside, she was calm, cool, and collected. "So I guess you're gonna have to take the train into London a couple of times?"

Was she being obtuse? Yeah, a little. A lot, maybe. But maybe she could salvage some sense of everyone being in the same place.

Ariel Triton

Ariel was genuinely surprised. When Adella had stood and spoken, she'd been picking at her food, exhausted from her day and ready to go to bed. But that all went away as she kept talking. She blinked once, twice - taking in the words as her mind shifted slowly from the groggy state it was currently in.

"Wait...seriously?"

Okay, she didn't mean for it to come out that bluntly. Honestly, it was just shock. And out of the blue. Not that she didn't know Adella was working towards something like this, but it still surprised her.

She glanced around the table once herself, catching Alana's eyes momentarily then looking back to Adella and giving an easy smile. "Sounds cool. Can I come visit you on set?"

Arista Triton

Arista had of course noticed a change in Adella’s mood and general routine. They shared a room, it wasn’t entirely hard to keep track of someone’s habits and daily routine but Arista had figured if it was some kind of momentous thing she’d be told about it eventually. So she hadn’t pressed and instead waited patiently to find out if it was a boy or modeling or acting or maybe everything in one that could cause Adella to look so pleased in the moments that she thought Arista wasn’t watching. Adella was her older sister by just a year but often times their roles reversed themselves. The singular blonde was a middle child but she took that more to mean that she’d wear both hats rather than none.

At this news, Arista just grinned, sitting up more in her seat excitedly, “How absolutely lovely, Dells! I’m certainly not surprised they finally saw your talent.” Now some would think that since they were so close in age and both on the road to a career in entertainment that Arista would harbor some kind of jealousy, but she didn’t. She thought it was absolutely wonderful that Adella got this shot. She worked incredibly hard and as she told Arista in the past, she wasn’t happy in Swynlake. And all Arista ever wanted was for her sisters to be happy. Even if that meant they left or she saw less of them.

She glanced around the table at her sisters, their numbers were starting to dwindle. One by one they budded off and found their own places to nest with partners and careers and here she was still at home, still single. Part of it did make her sad, but it was truly hard to be sad when her sisters were so happy

Melody Oceana

The announcement felt jarring to Melody. Things were just getting quieter again, calmer, softer. Melody could breath again and while this opportunity sounded wonderful Melody wonder just how much would change.

Continue to change.

But as always Melody was just the cousin, it was the others that would be losing a sister. Hopefully it wouldn't be as distant as Andrina. "Congrats Adella, that's wonderful and a great opportunity."

Adella Triton

Did this hurt her?

She'd be lying if she said it didn't; not because she didn't want this, but because she did love her family. She only just got to get close to Mel these last few years. Attina was getting married.

She'd miss out on so much of the preparation.

But like Ariel said when Andrina left -- they had to stop pausing their lives for everyone else.

"Of course you can visit Ariel! You may have to get Daddy to let you fly to LA...I'm still not positive if it'll be LA or London but. I'd love you to visit."

She looked up at Arista and her heart lurched painfully in her chest. Of her sisters, Arista was the one that outsiders looking in would call her favorite. Adella would say that wasn't true. She would say she did not have a favorite, and that was true, but Ris was the sister she was closest to.

Like Nina and Andy used to be.

Maybe Andy could visit her on set too.

"It means a lot to me that you all-" she looked pointedly at Aquata before looking back to Daddy. "-support me in this. It wasn't an easy decision -- in fact, I was close to giving up entirely. But this opportunity fell into my lap and it would not be fair to myself to ... not try. I should give it one more good go. I kept thinking about how Mum would be disappointed if I didn't actually give my dreams a proper shake. 'We left the ocean for your to give up? I don't think so.' You know?"

Aquata Triton

Aquata had several things to say about what "Mum would have wanted," namely that she didn't think any of them were allowed to invoke her name for just anything, and also that maybe there were several other reasons they left the ocean, but after seeing the look on Adella's face, she stopped herself. Aquata didn't want to go down that road. So instead she just nodded.

"Well, try for London. Apparently the smog in LA is horrible," Aquata said simply. "And London's closer to home. But I guess you'll keep us posted."

Alana Triton

Lana also bristled slightly at the mention of their mum. She wasn't sure what it was -- the fact she sometimes felt guilty that she didn't have as many memories of Athena as the rest of them, the fact that they didn't talk about their mum often, the fact that when they did it was always like... this.

But she smiled.

"Well, you're gonna wanna be close by for the wedding stuff at least," she teased.

Adella Triton

“Like I wouldn’t fly in all the way from China for that if I had to!” Adella laughed, playfully giving Lana’s foot a love smack with her own under the table.

A beat, then she nodded to Q, her sister was taking a less hostile tone than she expected so she would acknowledge that.

“You’re right about that though. You’d think they’d spread out the industry if the hub was so polluted.”

Aquata was giving a little, Adella would respond in kind. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t hope to go LA — it would be something new and exciting! — but if she got offered a job in London then of course she’d take it.

“Thank you, Daddy.” She said, finally to her father. “For being behind me on this.”

#ariel #attina #arista #the little mermaid #adella #aquata #melody

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blarrghe · 3 years

Note

"Watching me while I sweat from exercising" for Dorianders because... of reasons? XD

Up on AO3 or uner the cut! (the formattinig is probably better on AO3 tumblr is the actual worst)

Befriending Magister Dorian Pavus continued to be the worst decision Anders had made since the one that had landed him in Tevinter in the first place. Not at the least because being friends with Magister Dorian Pavus was, on a scheduling level, practically impossible. It was almost maddening, how neither of them ever seemed to have any blighted free time. There was Dorian, very important and very busy, always rushing off to meetings or press events or fundraisers or galas, only available for a quick coffee or for trying to convince Anders to go out clubbing at two in the morning. Which, frankly, he had less than no interest in doing — for several reasons, only minimally to do with the fact that the music gave him a headache (the thought of standing by and watching Dorian dance and practice his smarmy lines on attractive club goers made up most of the rest of it). And then there was his own life, overflowing with unkempt medical notes and overdue bills, and a schedule packed with night shifts and on-call hours that made maintaining a regular sleep schedule impossible, never mind a social life. But despite all that, it was nice to have someone to talk to again. Someone passionate and revolutionary and witty and… just about as lonely as he was, so better not to go messing it up. Better to try to maintain this one terrible friendship — the only one he had that wasn't with a "work friend", or a cat. It was just a really difficult thing to do, between the unrepenting workdays and restless nights filled with dreams of his beautiful Maker-damned face.

Dorian, however, was remarkably good at being his friend. He always managed to make time. Drew it out of thin air, it seemed, conjured it up like magic between his press conferences and business trips. He had this impossibly serendipitous way of always seeming to send a text offering to meet for coffee right as Anders' break was coming up, and thanks to his own life of impossible hours he was always amenable to a spot of caffeine well into the evening. Other times, he'd offer up an address, saying "meet me here tonight if by the end of your shift you're still alive", and Anders would reply "doubtful", and then show up later anyway to the movie theater, or concert hall, or burlesque playhouse, only to fall asleep in his seat once the lights went down — which, at the burlesque playhouse at least, everyone seemed to find incredibly amusing.

Today, his shift would be finished at an uncommonly early hour, having started at one that was painfully so. And even though his work-to-sleep ratio for the week was currently hovering at around four to one, when a text came in from Dorian during his break that read simply, "lunch later? Meet me if you have an hour free." He cheerfully replied "I'm off at noon!" And decided to postpone his much-needed afternoon nap. Friends with Dorian, he smiled, terrible decision.

----

Anders did not work out. Whatever strength he had he came by naturally, by way of pushing hospital equipment around and running up and down stairs all day. His calves, as a result, were particularly firm, and he had defined, if skinny, biceps. His core was probably strong enough, what with the constant balancing act that was keeping up with his daily life, but if he had wanted abs he would probably have to do something about his diet; more protein, fewer sugary carbs, meals that weren't eaten while standing on a city bus. But a personal beauty routine had always been low on his priority list. If he was looking to impress someone, he usually tried to get his bad jokes and the somewhat trashy rebel-mage aesthetic (which he also came by naturally) to do the job for him. It was not, historically, the best strategy. But he also wasn't looking. Dorian, on the other hand, had beauty routines for his beauty routines. Apparently the way to make up for the sleeplessness of a busy life was to exercise regularly, drink exceptionally expensive vitamin concoctions (despite the fact that his friend, who was a doctor, had told him repeatedly that the vitamins in such quantities were oversaturated, contradictory, and essentially useless), and to apply a laundry list of products to one's skin and hair — that, at least, seemed to work.

And so it was that when Anders showed up at the designated spot, practically asleep on his feet and slouching eagerly off the bus towards the promise of an hour of good company and food, that he discovered that the place Dorian had instructed him to meet at was not a restaurant, or even a coffee shop, but a gym. A gym with wide glass windows facing the street, so that the gorgeous, obviously affluent, gym-membership-holders could sweat it out while on display for the benefit of all the less beautiful and less lucky passersby. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and rich people got a kick out of running in place for their health while watching working folk run breathlessly after the busses that pulled up to the dirty old bus shelter on the street outside. Anders didn't know, he didn't go to gyms. But Dorian did; he went to this gym. He paid an exorbitant membership fee and wore a tight t-shirt branded with the gym's logo while he ran himself sweaty on a treadmill, spraying fancy water into his mouth like he was advertising the stuff, and towelling himself off with the clean white towels provided while still running, panting with the efforts of his impressively athletic exertions. This, Anders discovered by staring at him as he did it, through the clear glass window from the street, his mouth falling open and throat going dry until Dorian spotted him, and he snapped his mouth shut while his cheeks went red. Dorian's cheeks were also red, a bead of sweat dripping down over one in a long glistening trail from his temple. He pressed some buttons on the treadmill, slowed down to a walk, smiled, and waved. Anders, like a dumbfounded puppet on a string, raised his hand and dropped it again, in some approximation of returning the greeting.

Ten minutes later, Dorian met Anders outside the door of the clean, white and minimalist setting of the gym's lobby with his regular (still tight) clothes on and his damp hair fragrant with some kind of rich, flower-infused cream.

"You got here faster than I expected, sorry you had to wait."

"Good bus timing," Anders shrugged, pointedly not looking at him. One intolerable sensation at a time, and he still smelled amazing.

"You know there's an app for the schedules, GPS tracking and everything." Dorian commented. Why he knew that, when he'd probably never taken public transportation in his life, Anders couldn't guess. But then, Dorian was infinitely more organized than he was; good with schedules. Anders, meanwhile, struggled to keep his own thoughts straight, never mind the kinds of itineraries that Dorian kept. So he just nodded along, certain that he would never remember to check, or even download, the recommended app.

Dorian led them up to the intersection, and pressed the button at the crosswalk, every simple movement somehow upright and deliberate. "So, lunch? I'm starving, there's a great place across the street."

Anders glanced back at the gleaming white and chrome of the gym, and the equally sleek boutiques to either side of it. He frowned, fingering the well-worn leather billfold in his pocket. "How great?" He asked, cautiously.

"Great as in healthy, all vegan food and local produce and the like." Dorian smirked at him, and Anders made the mistake of looking at it. He blushed, and frowned some more.

"Oh, great." He said, with very little enthusiasm. A twelve dollar salad and one of those ludicrous vitamin waters, just what he and his malnourished billfold needed.

"You're a doctor, you can't live on cup noodles and granola bars all the time. It sets a bad example." Dorian berated, lightly, in return.

"At least cup noodles have salt." Anders protested, "Maybe too much, but that's better than none at all. And you know organic is just a buzzword, not everything organic is healthier. And the hoops of getting branded "Organic" just make it harder for actual family owned farmers, who grow perfectly healthy crops, to market to sellers," he ranted about it, albeit halfheartedly, until Dorian sighed and shook his head.

"Which is why I said local, not organic. And I've been, I promise they use seasonings. You really think I'd debase myself by dining somewhere that didn't know how to properly use spice?"

Anders grunted, still disapproving.

"It's good, really. You'll like it there, they have cats."

"They have…?" Anders spun to watch Dorian, squinting in confusion at him as he brightened the world about him with another one of those obnoxiously perfect smiles.

"Cats, they're all very tame. You can sit with them while you eat or play with them afterwards. An endeavour of the local animal shelter to help encourage adoption, as I understand it." Dorian explained casually. Then the light changed and he set off walking. Anders followed, significantly less grumpily, though now his stomach was turning flips for an entirely different reason besides hunger.

Forget Kirkwall, actually. Befriending Dorian was, hands down, the absolute worst decision he’d ever made.

#dorianders #dorian x anders #my fic #my writing #modern au #dragon age fanfic #friends to lovers #mutual idiot pining #dorian #anders #what if we were

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years

Text

A Taste of Rebellion

Part II

(For Part 1 go HERE)

A/N: Well, I’m not sure how many people will read this given that “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” was just released today, but I hope those of you who do enjoy it! I know it’s been a long time coming. FYI, the time period is the same in this, surrounding the 74th Hunger Games, but I’ve aged Katniss and Peeta about 7 or 8 years.

Prompt 68: (submitted by @oakfarmer12): Dark Coffee Shop AU- Capitol Peeta runs a coffee/pastry shop in the poshest part of the Capitol nearby President Snow’s mansion. Capitol Katniss is a frequent customer. Things in the Capitol begin to deteriorate as the rebellion drags on. Are they sympathetic to the rebel cause?

Written by: @acpoe82 (JHsgf82 on A03)

Rating: T

Trigger Warning: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, and sex/prostitution

Peeta looks the necklace over thoroughly before his eyes gravitate back up to her face. “It’s very nice.”

Katniss nods. “I lost my dad, too,” she mutters, still staring down at the necklace, fingering it. When she looks up, Peeta’s blue eyes seem to shine with sympathy.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says.

He doesn’t ask how it happened, but she tells him, anyway, at least as much as was told to her. “He worked in the Nut. It was an accident,” she says, wondering if she sounds believable.

Sullenly, Peeta nods. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I just…it’s…” She huffs. “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Peeta replies. “I felt that way, too.”

Katniss twists her lips into her best smile of appreciation, though she’s sure it comes out weak. If only Peeta knew…but of course, she’s not ready to tell him her theory. She barely knows him. She knows Peeta is trying to be helpful, but the situation isn’t really the same. Peeta’s father got sick, and while that’s terrible, at least he died of natural causes. Her father didn’t have to die. It wasn’t nature’s way. He was murdered. She feels terrible comparing the deaths‒a death is a death, after all. No matter how they went the person is still gone, and the loved ones are left dealing with the aftermath.

“He used to take me hunting,” she starts.

“Hence the talk of venison.” He gives her a small smile.

“Yeah. I go to District 7 to hunt. I use his bow.” Katniss doesn’t know why she’s telling him all this. If it was just a fair trade of information, she could have stopped at her father’s death rather than volunteering more information. That, in itself, is more information than she’s given any who didn’t directly know him themselves.

“That’s nice,” Peeta says, “being able to do something he did. Carrying on his legacy, in a way.”

His words strike a chord with Katniss. She supposes hunting was kind of her father’s legacy if anything was. That, and protecting the Capitol, of course.

“You’re doing that, too,” she tells him.

Peeta’s smile grows warmer but quickly drops off. “Trying to,” he says wryly. “Although, this place isn’t quite what I imagined it would be…”

She studies him, the twist of his lips, the slight wrinkle in his forehead, the look in his eyes‒there’s something hidden in those blues that seems painfully familiar…it feels like the look she must get when she thinks of her father. Katniss’s lips part to speak, but she presses them tightly together. And she and Peeta swap tentative glances. He must be processing, too, perhaps as uncertain as she about the exchange of so much personal information in such a short period of time.

“What do you mean, Peeta?” she asks after some time. It seems to her that the place does well enough. Peeta simply tells her to come back at night and she’ll see, and then he offers her a cheese bun.

*** She does as he suggests, and the next time Katniss visits the coffee shop, it’s evening. She’s still wondering why Peeta asked her to return at night; he was so cryptic about it. Was it just a ruse to get her here and see her again? He had expressed interest in her returning in the past. As soon as she steps inside, she has her answer…

The coffee shop is completely transformed, and Katniss nearly walks out, thinking she’s accidentally stumbled into a posh Capitol nightclub. It looks it, after all, so much so that she’s surprised no one stopped her at the entrance to check a list before allowing her inside. The interior of the space is darkened, lit by fluorescent ambient lighting, and music is playing, which she could hear from outside but thought she was imagining. She wasn’t. And it’s certainly not the gentle background music she’s become accustomed to here, but much louder and more upbeat.

The place is bustling. In some more congested areas, Katniss even has to push her way past crowds of Capitolites who are talking, drinking, laughing, and even dancing‒or, more like drunkenly swaying while sloppily attempting to hold each other up. And another thing, everyone around her seems to be way more dressed up than usual, even…Peeta? At least, she thinks it’s Peeta, but maybe it’s another stocky blond man behind the counter…

When she ventures closer, there’s no mistaking him, although he looks much different. He’s dressed all in white, in a pristine suit that seems to perfectly complement his blond hair, which, tonight, appears professionally styled. Not that Peeta’s hair doesn’t always look good, but it’s usually…messy-good, not so…coiffed.

Katniss takes a seat in one of the few open spots at the bar, a couple of seats over from her usual one which is taken. Peeta is busy and hasn’t noticed her yet, so she uses the opportunity to observe him quietly as she would a creature in the forest. He’s turned to the side, and she lets her eyes drift all the way down as far as she can see past the counter. She notices he’s wrapped his apron around his bottom half, over his suit. While it seems an odd thing to do, she imagines it’s functional, and she must admit a rather cute touch. She slides a finger across her lips as she watches him.

When Peeta turns her direction slightly, she discerns that the most uncomfortable-looking collar (possibly known to man) completes his ensemble. It’s diamond-shaped, the jagged top point pressing against his throat like a dagger. It looks like it was designed by a sociopath; it must jab him whenever he moves. How could Peeta choose to wear such a thing? Definitely more fashion than function. Capitolites do oftentimes choose to look stylish over being comfortable, but Peeta doesn’t seem like that type. It looks to be the work of a stylist‒9 times out of 10 (at least), a stylist will choose what looks good over what’s comfortable‒but, to Katniss’s knowledge, Peeta doesn’t have his own stylist. Then again, there is Cinna…

Cinna. Peeta’s partner. The brilliant former Games stylist…

When Katniss first met Cinna, she liked him right away; she could tell he was different from most Capitol citizens. Like Peeta, he seemed down to earth and easy to talk to, and he wasn’t extravagant. He wore sensible clothing like her, a dark shirt and pants, simple although made of fine materials, and just a swipe of gold eyeshadow.

She finds it hard to believe the collar could have anything to do with Cinna. Not only has he given up on being a stylist, but he would never torture Peeta so.

That aside, overall, Peeta looks good. Really good. And Katniss feels very under-dressed by comparison…

Finally, Peeta sees her, and he gets a great big smile on his face and waves. The corner of Katniss’s lips tilt slightly as she throws up a static hand. And he heads over. When he’s standing before her, she notes that he still smells as he always does, of cinnamon and dill, but tonight, she also catches a hint of some hair product. It’s coconut and another scent she can’t identify, simultaneously sweet and masculine. So then, in addition to looking nice, he smells nice, too.

“Hi,” Peeta says, a smile teasing his lips.

“Hi. Here again?”

“I could say the same of you.”

“You asked me to come,” she states plainly, folding her arms on the counter.

“So I did.” His smile broadens.

She taps one arm with a finger. “You work a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s necessary with such a small staff.”

Katniss nods, and her eyes flicker over him. “Nice suit.”

“Thanks.” He glances down, straightening his lapels.

“Oh, by the way, am I dressed okay?” she asks. Normally, she wouldn’t care, but some places have standards, and Peeta’s been so nice that she doesn’t want to offend him.

Peeta grins. “Of course. Why?”

She hopes he doesn’t think she’s fishing for a compliment. “Well, it’s just…,” she adjusts her hood around her neck, “it seems more formal here this evening…” She almost wonders if it’s some kind of special event.

“I don’t enforce any kind of dress code here, Katniss.” He gives her a quick scan and another smile‒he hands them out like candies. “Besides, as usual, you look perfect…” It seems the ‘p’ word has slipped off his tongue without him realizing because he swallows before smoothly finishing, “To me.”

“Perfect?” she scoffs. “I don’t know about that,” she mutters, glancing away.

There’s a brief silence, then Peeta clears his throat and picks the conversation back up. “I, uh, dress up in the evenings,” he explains. “And Portia did my hair,” he adds when he notices Katniss’s eyes settling there. Katniss frowns.

Peeta chuckles. “She does that sometimes. Guess you can’t take the stylist out completely.”

Katniss gives him a halfhearted smile. For some reason, the idea of the gorgeous Portia running her fingers through Peeta’s silky golden curls unnerves her a little. Maybe it was she who put him in that ridiculous suit. But what would she be doing dressing him…?

“What?” Peeta asks, smirking. “Don’t you like it?” He runs a hand through his slicked hair, and it bounces right back into position.

Katniss shakes her head. “It’s not that. Just…adjusting to it.“

“That’s right. You’re a creature of habit, aren’t you, Katniss?” He obviously thinks this because of her drink orders. “And speaking of habit, will you have your usual, or are you feeling adventurous today, Miss Everdeen?”

“Adventurous?” She nibbles on her lower lip. “Uh, what did you have in mind?”

Peeta just smiles and says, “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, Peeta,” she calls out, holding up a hand. He turns to look back. “What are you going to bring me?”

“You’ll see.” She thinks he winks at her, though it’s tough to tell in the lighting.

When Peeta returns, he brings a tall glass filled with a bright yellow liquid and sets it before her.

“What’s this?” she immediately asks. She’d never put something past her lips that she didn’t know what it was. “Is it alcohol?” She’s never touched the stuff, but she sniffs it, anyway. She doesn’t catch a hint of that strong, unmistakable scent some of her mother’s medications had, which is what she imagines alcohol smells like.

Peeta laughs. “Don’t worry, Katniss. I wouldn’t spike your drink without telling you. I’m not trying to get you drunk.”

“Okay.” At his word, she brings the glass to her lips and takes a cautious sip. It’s sweet, but not like the hot chocolate; it has more of a citrusy taste. It’s good, so she takes another larger gulp. And another.

Meanwhile, Peeta leans against the counter, watching her drink in amusement. He finds it cute how she always begins eating and drinking (especially new things) so tentatively, as if she’s a wild creature being offered a handout from a stranger, but once she discovers she likes something, she becomes unquenchable.

“It’s mostly fruit juices,” he tells her. “A few different kinds. Kind of a non-alcoholic cocktail, you might say. I call it a…,” he hesitates, “a dandelion.”

“Dandelion?” Her eyes shoot straight up to his.

“Yes,” Peeta affirms, smiling almost shyly.

“Does it have dandelions…?” she begins.

“No. Not real dandelions. I just call it that because the yellow color reminds me of them.”

Katniss nods, though honestly, she’s surprised Peeta’s ever heard of one. They don’t exactly make fine Capitol floral arrangements. Her eyes drop to the liquid, and as she stares into the swirling yellow void, she drifts back to simpler, happy times in the woods with her father.

After a bit, she begins to wonder again about the decor of the coffee shop. She decides to ask. “So, Peeta, why the dandelions everywhere? Drawn on the specials board. And the lights, they’re shaped like dandelions, right? Now this drink.”

“Ah, well…,” Peeta rubs the back of his neck. “Just…a…a fond memory from my childhood.”

Katniss doesn’t ask further questions, and Peeta goes on to tell her about Mellark’s Capitol Coffee and its nightly transformation.

“So, like I was telling you…this…,” he motions around, “isn’t really what I hoped the place would be.”

“No?” she asks just before drinking up the last of her dandelion. He shakes his head. “It seems successful from what I can see.”

“Oh, that’s not really the issue.”

“Then what?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s…just not what I imagined it to be. I mean look around…”

Katniss does, and her eyes settle on a couple vigorously kissing in a corner.

Turning back to him, “What did you imagine, Peeta?” she asks.

“Well, I’m glad you asked, Katniss.” He smiles so wide she imagines it must hurt his face. It would certainly hurt hers; scowling, or at least keeping a neutral expression is much less effort.

“I kind of envisioned something like a pâtisserie,” Peeta says, the French rolling flawlessly off his tongue in a strangely appealing way. He even uses an accent, and Katniss is impressed. “What I really wanted was to start a bakery, but there’s already a large chain around here, so I didn’t think it would do well.”

“You’re a baker?”

Peeta smiles. “Who did you think makes those cheese buns and pastries you’re so fond of? From scratch.”

Well, she hadn’t thought him. She doesn’t know why; she just supposed he was the face of the coffee shop and had workers back there that she hadn’t met. She tries to imagine him up to his elbows in flour, and it puts a smirk on her face.

“Speaking of which…” Peeta holds up a finger then heads back into the kitchen. He returns not long after with a plate of two cheese buns and another glass of dandelion.

“That wasn’t nec‒,” Katniss begins, but knowing it’s no use, she smiles and accepts it. She does, however, reach into her purse to pull out a tip for Peeta. When she slides it toward him, he places his hand over the money and hers. Katniss’s breath catches at his touch.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. You’re my best customer.”

Katniss’s eyes shoot briefly to the counter, her cheeks warming. “How can I be your best customer if you keep giving me free stuff?” she says, pinning him with her eyes. His cheeks are a bit rosy, too.

“Well, uh…” She smirks at his sudden lack of speech. “Because you’re a regular, and that’s what keeps us going,” he recovers nicely. “Besides, you don’t tip the proprietor of an establishment, Katniss,” he adds, giving her a wink.

Katniss doesn’t know whether he made up that rule or not, considering she’s not as versed in etiquette as say, someone like Effie Trinket, but she goes with it. Arguing with Peeta, after all, is as fruitless as arguing with a brick wall. Shaking her head slightly, she takes a bite of the cheese bun. It’s hot and fresh out of the oven, extra cheesy, too, and she wonders if he added some extra cheese today.

While Katniss eats and drinks, she listens to Peeta talk more about his beloved place.

“By day, the place is a closer approximation of what I wanted it to be,” he goes on to say, “but at night, it turns into…well, this. It becomes a hotspot. Mostly on weekends, but then there are plenty of Capitolites who either don’t work or go out partying on work nights anyway, so the place is rarely dead. Sometimes I feel like I run a nightclub instead of a coffee shop.”

She’d thought the same. “It’s certainly different,” Katniss agrees, her gaze falling on that couple again. They’ve begun pawing at each other like animals in addition to kissing. Her cheeks heat up yet again, and she looks away a moment before back to Peeta.

“Most importantly, I wanted a homey, family type of place,” he’s saying. “But of course, that didn’t work out.”

Katniss feels for him, truly.

“All this…this isn’t really my doing, you know. The patrons have kind of taken it upon themselves to change the atmosphere at night.” His mouth twists. “I suppose Cinna had a hand in it, too.”

Speaking of Cinna, Katniss hasn’t seen him tonight. She scans the room, assuming he’s out somewhere amongst the crowd. She finally spots him off in a corner, talking with a larger man in a fine suit and a couple of other particularly well-dressed patrons. Rather than being light and frivolous as most others are, their conversation appears heavy and serious.

She returns her attention to Peeta.

“The music, the alcohol, even my sudden…sense of style…” Peeta chuckles at that, although Katniss has always considered Peeta to be stylish, at least more so than her. “All Cinna’s ideas.”

So, Cinna did put him in the suit. Why would he do that? she wonders. Judging by the few times she’s witnessed, the two work so well together, and Cinna doesn’t seem like one to try and control his partner. But then again, she doesn’t really know him.

“Well, if you’re so unhappy about it, why don’t you talk to him?” is Katniss’s practical suggestion. “It’s your place mainly, right?”

“Yes, but we sort of have an agreement. I manage things during the day, and he does at night.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t discuss it with him.”

“Yeah…I could…” Peeta scratches behind his ear. “But I trust Cinna, I do. He knows what he’s doing, what’s best for the business. I mean, look,” he motions again. “He’s brought so many patrons in.”

Although it may be good for business, Katniss has decided she doesn’t like it here at night. It’s way too crowded and too loud; she can barely hear Peeta, and the whole atmosphere is giving her a tightness in her gut and a suffocating feeling as if she’s trapped in a box and slowly losing oxygen. She wishes Peeta hadn’t invited her here, yet she can’t seem to force herself out of the chair.

“It’s not like Cinna didn’t consult with me about the changes,” Peeta continues. “He proposed the ideas to me, and I-I went along with them.” He shrugs. “He did make some strong points, so I guess I should just deal with it.”

“What points?”

“Well, in addition to drumming up general business, I think he wants to get the attention of some…important people.”

“Important people? Like who?” Katniss clutches her half-empty glass and leans in slightly. She’s not normally the type to engage in gossip or really even care about other people’s business at all, but somehow, Peeta has her on the edge of her seat.

“For one, wealthy Capitolites who’ll think nothing of dropping a small fortune on alcohol and hors d'oeuvres,” Peeta says with a wry grin.

Just then, Portia passes by wearing a fuschia, skin-tight/mermaid style, sequined dress and carrying a tray of lavish-looking morsels. Peeta beckons her, and she holds the tray out to Katniss.

“You make hors d'oeuvres, too?” Katniss asks, taking one. “I didn’t know you could do any…fancy cooking.” She has to admit, she’s impressed.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Katniss.”

That’s certainly true. Up until tonight she didn’t even know he did the baking around here.

“I’ll bet,” she says sardonically. Right away, she realizes how that must have sounded. The comment was just her sarcastic‒bad‒personality coming out, but she hopes she hasn’t upset Peeta. Her eyes tentatively flit to him; he only seems amused. “Barista. Painter. Baker,” she nonchalantly rattles off the list. “And now a gourmet cook. Any other hidden talents?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” The wink he gives her causes her stomach to do a little flip. She hates when he does that, and when he smiles at her like he’s doing now, like she’s something special when she knows she isn’t. Ignoring him, she pops the hors d’oeuvre into her mouth and slowly chews. It’s rich and creamy as much Capitol food is.

“Well?”

She finishes chewing. “It’s good,” she says, licking the last bit of cream off her lips. She glances away when she notices Peeta staring, seemingly entranced by her action. Had she been seductive about it or something? She hadn’t realized she was even capable. “Um. Yeah, it’s good, but‒,” she chances to look at him again.

“But you’d still rather have a cheese bun,” Peeta finishes for her, a broad grin crossing his face.

“Uh, yeah, actually.”

“I figured.” He’s doing that thing again where he keeps smiling at her like he can’t stop.

“Because I’m a creature of habit, right?” she says, fiddling with her fingers.

“Right. That, and you really love them.”

Raising her eyes, Katniss smiles a little. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Loving cheese buns?”

“No,” she shakes her head at him, “being a creature of habit.”

He presses his lips together. “Not at all. But…maybe it wouldn’t hurt to broaden your horizons a little, Katniss. There’s a lot to see and do in this world.”

There is. And being born into privilege as she has been, she has the world at her fingertips. Of course, if she told Peeta where she really wants to go and what she really wants to do the most, he’d laugh in her face. Most Capitolites would, for what citizen in her right mind would want to leave the Capitol where one has everything at their feet in favor of a country cottage surrounded by nature.

“How do you know how much I’ve seen, Peeta?” she snips, unintentionally harsh. Peeta’s not fazed, though.

“I don’t. But a person can always see more, Katniss,” he says.

“What if she doesn’t want to?”

“That’s fine, then.”

She doesn’t know why she’s being argumentative because really, he’s right; there is much more she wants to see… It just…hits too close to home, she supposes‒that dream died along with her father…at least, she thought it had.

Deciding to change the subject, Katniss gently clears her throat. “So, uh, who else does Cinna hope to attract to the coffee shop?” She’s surprised herself; she never talks this much. It’s Peeta’s doing, surely. Not only is he smooth with words, but apparently, he can coax speech out of others.

“Well…,” Peeta begins.

It’s then that they’re interrupted by a shrill female cackle. They both turn to see a middle-aged woman, slightly toasted from the looks of it, wearing a huge headdress and covered in jewels. Katniss and Peeta watch her stumble over to the bar a few seats down from them, and then she beckons Peeta by curling a long, pointy finger.

“Friend of yours?” Katniss asks, sounding more disgruntled than she intended. It’s just a bit unnerving to see the woman leering at Peeta that way.

“Uh, no,” he says. “But I have seen her in here a few times. I’ll be right back.” Peeta heads over to take her order.

“What’ll it be, ma’am?” she hears Peeta ask in that sweet tone of his.

Although she’s close enough to hear everything, Katniss tries to ignore the interchange. She takes a drink from her cup, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she catches the woman leaning over. She reaches out to pinch Peeta’s bicep.

“Hmm…how much for you, honey?” Katniss hears the woman slur, and she nearly chokes on the liquid in her mouth. Okay, so she’s more than slightly toasted; she’s completely wasted.

Suddenly, Katniss has an almost sick feeling that could be jealousy, but she dismisses it, assuring herself that Peeta would never go home with some random older patron who wants to purchase him. And of course, he’s too good to take advantage of an inebriated woman. Right?

She keeps listening.

“Oh.” Peeta chuckles good-naturedly, though he’s clearly caught off guard. “I’m not for sale, ma’am,” he tells her directly.

Good boy, Katniss thinks, finding her mental response rather odd. After all, why should she care what Peeta does? He’s not her guy, and this is the Capitol. What’s a little prostitution? At least they’re both adults, which isn’t always the case…

“But how about one of our famous pastries?” Peeta deflects. He must be looking out for her, thinking eating something will help soak up the substantial amount of alcohol she must have ingested.

Yet the woman persists. “Not for sale?” she exclaims in her high-pitched, alcohol-saturated affected accent that’s like nails on a chalkboard to Katniss. “Everything’s for sale if you have enough money.” And apparently, everyone, too, according to her. Katniss discreetly watches the woman lean in to get a better look at Peeta. She flattens her palms and runs both hands up and down Peeta’s lapels. “Weren’t you the Victor a few years back, honey?”

Katniss isn’t thrilled with the fact that she’s touching him, but it is rather ridiculous. She thinks Peeta is a Victor? Either this woman is extremely misinformed‒perhaps she doesn’t even watch The Hunger Games–or she’s so incredibly drunk that Peeta has morphed into a former Victor to her. Maybe next he’ll become a mutt, and she’ll run out screaming. Whatever the case, it’s a little sad; although she’s sure Peeta will let her down easy. Katniss rolls her eyes.

“No, ma’am. I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Peeta says, still polite as can be. “But seriously, you should try one of our pastries. They’re the best around, loved Capitol-wide. A pastry and a cup of strong, black coffee can’t be beat.”

The woman groans loudly and slumps over the counter. Apparently, she’s not hungry for food right now. But Peeta is an excellent salesman and manages to tempt her with something aside from his body‒his amazing selection of sweets. She finally chooses one and he retrieves it for her, along with the coffee, but then, to Katniss’s disgust, she opens her blue-lined lips as if expecting Peeta to feed her.

Oh, God. Katniss cringes. He’s not really going to…, is he? How’s Peeta going to get out of this one?

She expected him to be more creative about getting out of it, but it works, nonetheless, when Peeta feigns being beckoned by someone. He calls out “Be right there,” pushes the plate with the pastry on it toward the woman, and darts off.

Katniss places a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing when Peeta comes over. She’s softened, however, by the look of embarrassment on his face.

“So, how often does that happen?” Katniss deadpans.

“Never.” He rubs the back of his neck. “That’s never happened before.”

“Well, at least she thought you looked like a Victor,” Katniss states plainly. “I guess that’s a compliment.” Although certainly not every Victor is attractive, many of them have some kind of appeal.

“Yeah. I guess so…,” he says, uncertain.

“Not that she could see straight,” Katniss quips.

“Probably not.” Peeta grins. But I wonder which one she thinks I look like?” He taps his chin, considering it a moment. “Maybe…Gloss?”

“No,” Katniss responds immediately. “You look nothing like Gloss.”

Peeta raises a brow. “I’m even more handsome, right?” And grinning, he leans forward.

Katniss is onto Peeta’s game. He’s not being arrogant; he just wants to get her to compliment him. But she’s not going to do it. Her first thought is to say something outright insulting, not because she doesn’t find Peeta attractive‒that’s definitely not it‒but because, she supposes, she doesn’t want him to know just how attractive she does find him, and also, negativity comes easier to her than sincerity.

Thankfully, Peeta digresses. “So, you were asking about important people, right? Well, as our lovely intoxicated friend mentioned, there are the Victors…”

“The Victors come in?” Katniss asks, incredulous. She’s not one of those Capitolites who gets starstricken over whoever the Victor for the year is, but it’s curious.

“Yes, we’ve had a handful of Victors in here,” Peeta says.

On second thought, it’s not really so far-fetched. Some of the more desirable Victors are frequent visitors to the Capitol, and since they’re mentors, there’s always an abundance of them around during the ceremonies leading up to the Games. It’s only natural they’d have someplace to hang out, too.

Peeta goes on to mention the Victors he’s encountered, including Johanna Mason, District 7, Victor of the 71st Hunger Games.

Katniss remembers her. She was the one who acted like a weakling in order to fool her competitors and only much later, when the numbers had substantially dwindled, revealed how skilled and vicious she actually was.

“Johanna Mason is…interesting…” Peeta raises his blue eyes skyward then proceeds to tell Katniss the story of approaching her to warn her about keeping her clothes on in his establishment…

*** Johanna Mason gives him a long look up and down and shrugs. “It’s hot in here. What’s it to you, Blondie?”

“Well, it’s my place,” he speaks politely but firmly while doing his best to keep his eyes only on the face of the half-naked woman, “and it’s a public restaurant…”

He begins to suggest he could adjust the temperature setting, but she cuts him off.

“So? It’s the Capitol, isn’t it?” she argues. “And the Capitol’s all about luxury and pleasures and debauchery and shit, right?”

“Well, that’s…”

Johanna scoffs. “What’s the big deal? I don’t hear no one complainin’. And it’s not like I’m totally naked. You a prude, Blondie? Gay?”

“No. No,” Peeta asserts. “But this is a classy place, Miss Mason…” He can tell right away what Johanna thinks of that, and she makes her discontent known by laughing in his face and flipping him off before defiantly moving to another table and turning her back on him. She keeps her clothes on, though.

*** Katniss’s mouth forms a tiny ‘o’ in response to Peeta’s tale, and then, the corner of her lips tilt slightly. It was amusing, but Katniss is glad she missed it.

“I’d add ‘spirited’ and ‘sassy’ to Johanna Mason’s list of descriptors,” Peeta says. Katniss laughs a little at that.

“Oh, and when he’s in the Capitol, Finnick Odair is a regular here.”

“Finnick Odair? From District 4?”

Katniss remembers him, too. The youngest Victor of the Hunger Games, the bronze-haired sea god with eyes to match his watery world, master of the trident. He’s handsome and his sexual prowess is rumored to rival his combat skills‒it’s always a toss-up whether he’s a better fighter or lover. Speaking of the latter, Katniss doesn’t know how many women he’s bedded at his young age (barely older than her), but she’s sure there’s throngs because he’s as good as gold here in the Capitol.

“Yeah. He comes in probably two-three times a week when he’s around,” Peeta says, “usually with a woman or two on his arm. And if he’s alone, more often than not, he finds a companion to leave with.”

Katniss nods.

“Then, of course, there’s Snow…,” Peeta goes on.

Katniss’s eyes widen a tick, and her lips part. “What about President Snow? You’ve met him?”

“Sort of, yeah. He’s been in here several times.”

Katniss hasn’t seen President Snow in person, herself. When her father was killed at the Nut, she thought Snow might have shown up to pay tribute to all her father’s years of loyal service, but he only sent one of his officials to present them with a commemorative plaque.

“Doesn’t come in often, though,” Peeta tells her. “He usually sends someone to pick up his order. But he does occasionally stop in for a drink and an appetizer. With his guards, of course. Oh, and he always has his food and drink tested before he takes even a single sip or bite.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Katniss says. “He’s clever to do so.” Because surely, a president such as Snow would have enemies‒a man doesn’t stay in power for so long by being stupid enough to trust just anyone who comes along.

The woman returns, interrupting them again. “So, if you’re not going to take care of my needs, honey, then can you direct me to someone who will?” she says to Peeta.

“Oh. Um…” He scans around then points. The woman turns her head to follow his finger, staggering a little as she does, and Peeta reaches out to steady her. Probably a mistake. The woman doesn’t try to jump him, though, and Katniss is surprisingly relieved. “There seems to be a group of handsome men over there,” he tells her. “Why don’t you head over and mingle a little, strike up a conversation.”

The woman turns back to him, her thin blue lips curling up. She reaches out to grab a hunk of the flesh of his cheek. “Thanks, honey,” she slurs. She gives his cheek a pinch before heading off in the direction of the group of men.

Peeta turns sheepishly back to Katniss; she has a baleful expression on.

“Peeta, do you run a…a prostitution ring?!” she exclaims, her face flushed.

“No!” Peeta shakes his head vigorously. “I-!” He holds up his hand in a conciliatory fashion. “That…that just happens sometimes…”

“I thought you said it never had.” Katniss eyes him suspiciously.

“Well, I mean,” he adjusts his collar, “never to me. But a lot of people hang out here at night, Katniss, and that sort of thing…is bound to happen.”

She understands. This is the Capitol, and casual sexual encounters are as commonplace as going out for a fancy dinner. She just thought Peeta’s place might have been different…

“I don’t condone it, Katniss,” Peeta begins. She shivers slightly when he touches her shoulder. “This is a prime example of what I meant, about the place turning out different than I thought.”

She listens as he goes on. “Sometimes I just feel like…I don’t know…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “A pawn. Like some kind of pawn in a game.”

That’s a bit strong. “What do you mean?”

Peeta shrugs. “I don’t know. Did you ever get a feeling…like a storm’s brewing…like something’s about to happen, but you’re completely in the dark?” He stares out across what’s become a makeshift dance floor. “That maybe something big’s going on, and you’re part of it, but a very small, expendable part?”

She has no idea what Peeta’s talking about; he’s being cryptic again, speaking nonsense, and she tells him so. He simply stares into her eyes.

“What are you saying, Peeta?” Katniss prods. She gasps when he takes hold of her arm and tugs.

Only protesting a second, she goes along willingly, allowing Peeta to drag her off to the side into a dark, quiet corner. Here, she can barely make out the outline of his facial features, but she can sense him inching closer. She catches his eyes briefly dropping to her lips when a strobe flashes across his face.

There’s no real reason for it, but she suspects he might kiss her. Maybe because he’s so close right now…or maybe because they’ve been flirting a little; at least, she thinks that’s what they’ve been doing all this time, but she’s far from an expert. She’s not sure how she feels about the idea of Peeta kissing her, but she doesn’t move away.

There’s no need to decide how she feels, though, because he only leans in, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, “You wouldn’t believe some of the things that go on here…”

“What sort of things?” she whispers back, her curiosity piqued.

“I can confide in you, right, Katniss?” he asks, those blue eyes, darker and dilated in the lighting, piercing through her.

“Yes,” she says.

Alright, what has she gotten herself into? What is he about to confide in her?

Peeta tells her of the ‘deals’ that go on here, the exchanges of goods and favors, the secret rendezvous, and the whisperings… Although she can imagine, she asks about the kind of deals, and Peeta explains that there are all kinds, from exchanges of jewelry or substances to alter the mind and body, those meant for euphoria or function to sexual favors and the direct selling of human beings for either sex or labor. He tells her that Cinna and he put a stop to any illegal transactions, but then, not much is illegal around here‒the Capitol is a place of comfort and privilege and pleasure.

Peeta pulls back to study Katniss’s face, and she’s sure it’s impassive.

Honestly, not much of this surprises Katniss. She knows the kinds of things that happen in the Capitol. Does Peeta think she’s too pure to understand? Did he really think she’d be shocked by what he’s told her? She supposes she did react kind of strongly when she thought he permitted or even encouraged prostitution here.

She’s not sure what to say to him. She can tell Peeta doesn’t like what happens in his place of business, but what could he do about it, really? He could ask people to leave, and they’d just go somewhere else to ‘conduct their business,’ that’s about it. It’s not like he can stop it from happening, altogether. Who knew Peeta had such high moral values?

“That happens everywhere,” Katniss says, deciding on honesty.

Peeta thins his lips. “Yeah. I guess so. But there’s more, Katniss…”

They’re interrupted yet again, this time by that passionate pair Katniss was watching earlier. They’re undoubtedly heading off to be alone when the giggling female bumps into Katniss, knocking her forward. Peeta wraps his arms around Katniss’s waist to catch her, and her hands end up flat against his chest.

“Sorry,” the female mutters as she clasps the man’s hand and drags him off elsewhere.

Katniss stares up into Peeta’s eyes. His head’s tilted, his lips parted slightly in surprise. There’s a look in his eyes she can’t quite place; she’s never been looked upon in quite this way; it feels somewhere in between attraction and adoration. His fingers curl at her waist, pressing in ever so slightly. A chill runs through her, and she’s cold and hot all at once, ready to completely unravel. This is all happening too fast; she should pull away, but…

Peeta sucks in his bottom lip then takes a breath. “Katniss, I‒there’s something I want to…,” he starts, still holding onto her.

Whatever he has to say, she doesn’t want to hear it. It’s all just too much. She shouldn’t be here in this place, in the arms of a stranger. She works up the motivation to yank herself away, and she puts some distance between them.

“Katniss, I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” she says, holding a hand up to prevent him from either saying something or coming closer. “But, it’s getting late…I have to go.” Before he can say a word, she spins around and is gone.

*** Katniss races home, her heart beating through her chest the entire way. She calms down a little by the time she makes it inside her high-rise apartment just off the main avenue of the Capitol, and she gets it together fully as she takes the elevator to the top floor, to the penthouse, where she resides with her family.

When she steps through the door, the place is darkened. The crystal chandelier is off, the area being lit only by moonlight coming in through the tall, glass windows and a single lamp on the table beside the snow-white, semicircular couch. Her mother isn’t around; she’s surely in bed by now as it’s nearly midnight, but from across the room, she can see that Primrose has fallen asleep on the couch, probably waiting up for her to get home.

Katniss goes over. She removes the book from Prim’s chest and places it on the end table; then she kneels on the carpet and leans over her. Brushing aside her long, golden hair, she places a soft kiss on her forehead. “Little Duck. Wake up, Little Duck,” she speaks softly.

It’s an old nickname‒one day when Prim was very small, she’d dressed up in their mother’s clothing. Naturally, they were way too big, and when she’d tucked in the shirt, the back stuck out like a duck tail, so Katniss took to calling her ‘Little Duck.’ At 19, Prim is a woman now, but to Katniss, she’ll always be her Little Duck.

Katniss gives her Little Duck a soft shake. “Mmm…” Prim stirs and opens her blue eyes. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi.” Katniss smiles. “Why don’t you go to your bed? You’ll be much more comfortable.”

“Okay,” Prim mutters drowsily, and Katniss helps her to stand on her sleep-weakened legs. She still can’t believe she’s nearly her height now.

Prim straightens her nightdress and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “How was your night?” she asks.

“Fine,” Katniss replies. That is, if ‘fine’ means nearly kissing a guy she might (probably) likes, then running off on him like a child when he’s about to say something possibly important to her.

Prim seems to be waiting to see if she’ll say more; she’s always been attuned to her, and she does tell Prim more than anyone else. Except, now there’s Peeta… Of course, she can’t talk to Peeta about Peeta, and she’s not ready to tell Prim about him, either, so she simply tucks back Prim’s hair and says, “Goodnight, Little Duck.”

“Goodnight, Katniss.”

*** After her embarrassment, Katniss doesn’t return to the coffee shop for a few days. She’s gotten into this terrible habit of running from Peeta like a frightened fawn in the forest. She doesn’t know what’s the matter with her, but she’s decided it needs to stop.

The next time she goes, Peeta is dressed casually, this time, in earth tones, browns and tans, and likewise, he is casual with her. He doesn’t attempt to reveal any more coffee shop secrets, nor does he touch her. He’s friendly, but he keeps the flirting to a minimum. In fact, he doesn’t say anything that makes her feel remotely different from any other customer in the place, aside from his initial remarks…

When she first arrived, Peeta automatically brought her hot chocolate and her favorite accompanying sweet pastry. “I, uh, saw you coming,” he told her sheepishly. And then, more confidently, he added, “I know what you like.”

She hesitates, staring down at the drink and pastry.

“Uh, I’m sorry to assume. Would you like something else?”

“No,” she shakes her head, “this is perfect.” Perfect? Had she actually just used the word ‘perfect’ with him? It takes her back to a few nights ago when he said she looked ‘perfect…’

“Good,” he says, uncertainly. He’s beginning to tell her to enjoy when she cuts him off.

“And what about you, Peeta? What do you like?”

Peeta seems surprised. Possibly because of what happened the other day or maybe it’s because they haven’t played the ‘Real/Not Real’ game in a while, and she’s not normally the one to initiate the exchange of information when they do.

Blue eyes meet silver a moment, and a slow smile creeps up on Peeta’s face. “You aren’t playing the game correctly, Katniss.” He wags a finger.

Katniss rolls her eyes. Speaking of which…

“Fine. You like coffee. Real or Not Real?”

“Not Real. I prefer tea,” he tells her.

“You take sugar in it. Real or Not Real?”

“Not Real. No sugar.”

Damn. Maybe one of these days she’ll get one right.

Her eyes drop away, and she glances down at her feet, being reminded of what she’d carried in. Oh, right.

“Oh, Peeta?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not tea, but I brought you something,” she says, lifting the canvas sack with both hands and plunking it down on the counter.

“What’s this?” Peeta asks.

“The meat I promised. You seemed to want it so badly, so I made a point to go hunting this morning.” She smirks. Truth of the matter is, she was feeling she needed to make amends for yet again being so rude to him, so she’d left at first light, snuck into District 7, despite the increased Peacekeeper volume for the upcoming Hunger Games, and bagged him some fresh game. She doesn’t know if he’s going to like what she brought, and the whole thing did start out as a joke, but she really wants him to experience it.

“Don’t worry, they’re not bloody corpses. Just packages of meat. I skinned and cleaned them for you.

“Them?” Peeta’s mouth drops open, but she can see the relief in his face over not having a bag of mangled animal carcasses thrown onto his nice, clean counter; although he’s probably going to have to wipe that counter down, anyway, because her bag wasn’t the cleanest. “Wow. Um. You really…shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

She wants to laugh. Peeta, ever the kind, polite one, doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, but it’s obvious he’s dreading tasting the meat. “Oh, it was no trouble at all.” She attempts a genuine smile, but she’s sure it comes out devious. “Call it payment for all those free cheese buns and pastries.”

And then there’s that. This isn’t meant to torment him, though Peeta might think so. She really does feel the need to repay him in some way for all the free goodies, and she didn’t know another way.

Peeta wets his lips. “Well, great. Thanks. Deer, huh?”

She senses his hesitation as he reaches out for the bag.

“Yes. Oh, I also threw in a rabbit and a tree rat.”

“Tree rat?” Peeta’s face contorts into an expression that’s part-cringe, part-bewilderment.

“Yeah.” She cocks her head slightly to the side studying him. “Not much meat, but they’re tasty enough.”

Peeta’s trying so hard to hide his horror, but today, his typically great poker face is completely failing him. “Uh, okay. Thanks…thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” She pushes the heavy bag–which she had to drag part of the way here but made sure to brush off before bringing it inside‒toward him, and he hefts it over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

After a couple of steps toward the kitchen, he turns back. “Oh, uh, which one is which? Are they labeled or anything?”

She smirks at him.

“You’re not telling, huh?”

Katniss shakes her head slowly from side to side. “No, but I’ve numbered them. Just tell me which you like best.”

Peeta nods. “Alright. I’ll just…go freeze this.”

“Now, don’t forget to try it,” she jabs a finger at him. A tiny smile spreads across her face as she adds, more sincerely, “I really want you to try it. I think you’ll like it.”

He smiles warmly back at her. “Okay, Katniss. I promise to try it.” And then, he does something strange…he holds three fingers up in a kind of salute… She feels like she’s seen this gesture before, but she’s not sure where.

“What’s that?” she asks, looking at his hand.

“I’m just giving you my word, Katniss.”

*** Going to Mellark’s has become part of Katniss’s day now. She always has something to drink and eats either a cheese bun or some other pastry or two, and sometimes, she even has a small lunch there. One time she teased Peeta that she was going to gain a ton of weight, and he only reassured her that it wouldn’t matter to him even if she did. She’s learned to accept Peeta’s remarks and compliments, no longer getting as embarrassed by them, though she usually pretends to ignore them altogether.

Katniss still hasn’t told her mother or even Prim about Peeta Mellark. They know she goes to the coffee shop, but they don’t know why she goes so often. And she’s too embarrassed to admit it. She’s started bringing sweets and cheese buns home, though, mainly for Prim, and those seem to satisfy and negate any need for explanation‒Peeta’s baked goods speak for themselves, and they’re loud and clear and delicious.

Still, she’s been careful not to mention the guy who made them for her, nor that he often throws in freebies when she’s not looking… Speaking of which, after a few times of arguing with him about that, Katniss gave up, knowing Peeta’s never going to change and that he even seems to get some kind of sadistic glee out of ticking her off sometimes.

Katniss shakes her head. She can’t seem to stay angry at him for long, even with as infuriating as he can be. One dimpled smile or flash of innocence in his blue puppy eyes and she’s a goner…

That being said, she doesn’t know exactly how she feels about Peeta. She could talk to Prim about her feelings, but no, it’s not the time to speak up about him. Not when there’s nothing really to tell. If this‒whatever it is‒continues, she’ll surely mention him one day, and when she does, she expects Prim will ask all sorts of questions like: ‘Is he cute?’ and ‘Do you like him?’‒questions she doesn’t want to answer and isn’t even sure she has an answer to yet…

Okay, so, yes, she’s long since decided that Peeta is cute, and as far as liking him goes, well, she doesn’t even know if he likes her. When a guy talks to you and smiles at you a lot and gives you goodies, does it mean he likes you? She feels stupid for not knowing, especially at her age, but it’s not like she’s had much (or any) experience with this sort of thing. And Peeta is, well, different than most guys. Katniss sighs. She might be a lost cause when it comes to dating and romance, but her gut doesn’t often lie to her. And her gut seems to be telling her that the odds are definitely in favor of her liking him, and there’s a strong possibility that he likes her, too…

*** And so, Katniss continues to go to the coffee shop. And she and Peeta fall into a comfortable rhythm. She drinks and eats. They talk. And when it’s slow, Peeta sketches in a notebook. Sometimes he shows her his drawings, other times, he’s careful not to let her catch a peek. It doesn’t bother her, though. She understands the need for privacy more than most.

The sketches Peeta has shown her, though, are amazing. They’re usually of nature, which she can appreciate, or of items around the coffee shop. Occasionally, he draws a person. He’s done a portrait of Cinna, Portia, and a few of the coffee shop’s more memorable patrons.

It’s nice that Peeta’s creative, thinks Katniss. Around here, the only people who really get the opportunity to be creative are stylists and Gamemakers, and then of course, there’s personal fashion, those who dye their skin and hair various hues or have plastic surgery and who seek out the most outlandish hairstyles and clothing choices. It’s become so commonplace in the Capitol that, although it might shock visitors from the districts, it never phases Katniss, no matter what she might see.

It’s been nearly a week since she brought him the venison, and presently, Katniss is seated at the counter finishing off a fluffy cream-filled croissant that Peeta whipped up. And Peeta is sketching again. She glances over to see him intently focused upon his latest creation, whatever it might be.

“Someday, I’d like to pursue my art a little more,” he speaks up out of the blue, his hand still flying across the page. “Not that I’d ever make it as an artist, but if I did, I’d want to do more than fill the coffee shop and Capitol homes with meaningless wall adornments.” He comes to a halt, closes his sketchbook, and looks up at her. “I’d want my art to have meaning, make a statement, you know.”

Katniss nods, although she doesn’t really know. She’s not sure how exactly he would go about doing that, but she understands the notion of wanting a purpose.

Peeta studies her a moment before clearing his throat. “Maybe I could…show you more of my art…someday.”

“Okay,” Katniss says automatically, wiping her hands of crumbs onto a cloth napkin.

“I have some finished paintings…,” she hears him suck in some air, “upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Katniss’s eyes land on his.

Peeta nods. “Yeah.” And all of a sudden, the rate at which he’s speaking increases. “That’s where I live. I have an apartment upstairs.” He motions in that general direction. “It’s relatively small,” he shrugs, “but at least I have it all to myself.”

“Oh.” Katniss stares down into her dandelion. It was hot today, so she’d wanted something cool. She spins the straw around, pondering what he’s saying. Was his remark leading?

“Maybe I could…show you my art, and my place…and maybe…make you some dinner sometime.”

Katniss’s eyebrows raise as her jaw drops. She finally gets it. He’s asking her on a date, isn’t he?

Clueless as she may be about romantic things, Peeta’s uncharacteristic nervousness is unmistakable, and his intent is clear. So, what if she said yes? If she said yes and went upstairs with him to look at his art and have dinner, would he expect something else from her after? It seems fast. They haven’t even kissed yet, and now he wants to take her to his place? What is he hoping for exactly? Surely, not…that. But then again, he’s a man, and she’s a woman, and they’re in their twenties. How is he supposed to know she’s never even kissed a guy, let alone been with one intimately? And she’d feel ridiculous admitting it.

But then she recalls something her father told her years ago. Before he died, as she was approaching adolescence, he had a talk with her about boys. Yes, it was her father, not her mother who’d told her everything she needed to know. He hadn’t been awkward about it or beat around the bush; he’d shot straight. He’d told her all the details, how everything worked, and then, he’d said something that really empowered her and stuck with her: He’d told her to never let a man take from her what she didn’t want to give. He’d said that it was her decision to make, that only when she was ready and willing was it okay and that no one should ever make her feel weird or wrong about saying no.

She returns her attention back to Peeta. Peeta’s jaw is set, and his cheeks have gone rosy. She watches him swallow thickly, and she’s sure he’s dying in wait of a response from her. But she doesn’t know what to say. She assumes his invite is innocent, and even if it is a date, she’s not worried about him trying to force anything on her. Peeta has shown her time and again that he’s a gentleman. Not that they’ve ever really been alone together, but her gut tells her she can trust him.

There are a couple of problems, though. One, she doesn’t want to send the wrong message. It’s not that she doesn’t like him; she’s pretty certain she does at this point, but more than that, she wouldn’t know how to act if they were alone in his place together. Not that her father hasn’t taught her the basics, but she’s never…attempted them in real life. So, if things suddenly turned…romantic, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin. But surely Peeta would…

Peeta suddenly groans. “Oh, Katniss, I’m sorry. That was probably the worst thing I could have said. It didn’t come out right. I was just thinking we could…get to know one another. You know, in another capacity. Outside of the coffee shop.”

She grips the edge of the bar. “You mean like a date?”

“Yes, exactly. Like a date…But we don’t have to go to my place if you’re uncomfortable,” he adds. “We can go someplace else, anywhere you want.”

A heavy silence passes…

“Well, say something,” Peeta finally pleads, his breath coming out as if he’s been holding it all this time.

“I’m not good at saying something,” she mumbles, looking away.

“Okay.” Peeta nods. “Let me put it another way, then.” He takes a deep breath. “You like me. Real or Not Real?”

Katniss’s eyes dart back and forth, her entire body beginning to tremble.

“Katniss?” he inquires, an edge of concern to his tone. He touches her forearm lightly, and she jerks back. Hesitantly, she meets his eyes, and his search hers, probably for an explanation to her strange behavior.

“I…I…I’m sorry,” she stammers.

“It’s okay…”

Clenching her fists beneath the counter, she fixes Peeta with her gaze. “I don’t…really know how I feel, Peeta. I’m just so…confused.”

She knows immediately that she’s hurt him. He looks as if she’s just ripped his heart out and stomped on it, even though she never said she didn’t like him. But of course he’d be hurt. She’s been coming around a lot, acting like she likes him this entire time, and then she goes and tells him she doesn’t know. Maybe he thinks she’s just been coy, that it was all an act. But it wasn’t. She just hasn’t been able to pin down exactly what she’s feeling or what she wants.

Tentatively, she looks at Peeta, and he thins his lips. “Well, let me know when you figure it out,” he says wearily, and with that, he turns and walks into the kitchen.

***

Katniss leaves that afternoon feeling confused and conflicted. Her chest aches, and remembering the pained expression on Peeta’s face only makes it worse. How many times has she run out on him now? And he’s always kind; he never gives her the cold shoulder the next time he sees her. The way he walked off on her just now is the coldest he’s been. She wonders how long he’ll put up with her. Maybe he’s already done.

She could definitely use some advice, so as much as she hates to wake Prim from a restful slumber when sleep eluded her for so many years after their father died, she decides to make an exception this time.

Prim turns on her lamp and springs into action, sitting up in bed and patting the spot beside her. “Katniss, what’s wrong? Is something on your mind?”

“Yeah.” Katniss takes a seat beside Prim. “I’m so sorry to wake you, but…can we talk?”

“Of course.”

Katniss keeps things vague, but she basically outlines her entire situation for Prim, and Prim is a great listener. She doesn’t tease her or berate her; she’s simply understanding.

“I think you’re scared, Katniss,” Prim says after she’s told her everything. “And it’s understandable considering what happened to Mom when Dad died, and the only experience you’ve really had with guys is when that boy in your high school tried to kiss you and you decked him.” They share a laugh over that.

“But seriously,” Prim goes on, “it sounds like you really like him, and he definitely, definitely likes you from the sounds of it, so maybe you should give him a chance.”

Katniss smiles and strokes Prim’s hair. “I should wake you up more often, Little Duck.”

They exchange another smile, and Katniss kisses Prim’s cheek before tucking her back in.

“You can join me if you want,” Prim suggests, holding the covers open for Katniss.

“No, that’s okay. I’m feeling much better. Thanks for everything, Little Duck.”

“Anytime.”

*** Unable to wait any longer, Katniss returns to the coffee shop a mere two days later, hoping that’s enough time for Peeta to have cooled off and forgiven her. When she sees him, he’s cordial, but something is amiss. She’s working up the courage to say what she’s come to when he speaks first.

��I’m sorry about what I said, Katniss. I didn’t think. All that just flew out of my mouth because I thought you liked me, and I’ve just liked you for a long time, and…” At that, Peeta stops short and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck

A long time? They haven’t known each other for all that long…maybe a month.

“Do you think we can…just forget it ever happened?”

He wants to forget…?

“If…if that’s what you want,” she says.

Peeta’s lips part, and he presses them together. “Well, I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to stop coming here because I misread things.” You didn’t misread things, Peeta… “I want to at least stay friends. We’re friends, aren’t we? Real or Not Real?”

She thinks a moment, and with a bob of her head, she tells him, “Real.” But she’s not answering his most recent question about friendship, but the one before, albeit a little belated, the one about liking him.

“Good,” he says with a smile, although she gets the impression he still feels bad. “Now, what would you like today?”

She attempts to be flirtatious by asking him to surprise her, but she’s awful at this stuff, and he’s not picking up on it. He simply says okay and turns toward the kitchen.

“Wait, Peeta, don’t go,” she calls out. Surprised, he turns around, and she feels utterly ridiculous. “What I mean to say is…before, when I said ‘Real,’ I wasn’t…I wasn’t talking about…” She can’t seem to force the words out of her mouth; they’re sticking like that sweet taffy she once tried when a group of traveling entertainers came into the city. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to psych herself up.

There’s a sudden voice in her head barking, ‘Say it, say it!’ And so, she does…

“Peeta, when I said ‘Real,’ I didn’t mean to say that we’re friends. Well, yes, we are, but I was referring to your other question…” Her eyes flit away. “The one about liking you.”

When she finally does look at Peeta, he appears as though he’s gone into a tracker jacker-induced haze. “Uh, Peeta, did you hear me?” She waves a hand in front of his face, and he comes out of it, his rapidly growing smile practically splitting his face.

He’s reaching out for her face now, she thinks, but it’s as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They finally land on her shoulders. “Really Katniss? You really like me?” He’s grinning like an idiot, and he sounds like a little boy, but she’s smiling, too.

“Yeah.” She nods.

She can tell he wants to kiss her, but he probably doesn’t want to embarrass her in public, so instead, his hands move to cup her face and he presses his forehead against hers. A content smile on his lips, he shuts his eyes, and hers flutter shut, too as she takes in the warmth of his hands on her cheeks. It’s been a long time since Katniss has had a moment as happy as this one. As business has been booming leading up to the Games, Peeta’s been busy, and they haven’t been able to go on their date. But Katniss drops by everyday to see him, anyway, and they steal what moments they can with one another. He’s invited her to watch the Reaping at Capitol Coffee and further extended an invitation for the Tribute Parade, the interviews, and the actual Games, but he insists that those don’t count. He’s adamant that their first date is not going to involve a hundred other people and consist of watching The Hunger Games. She has to agree with him there.

It’s the day of the Reaping, and Katniss is seated at the counter with Peeta close by. They’re watching a large projected image of Caesar Flickerman talking with Seneca Crane on the back of Peeta’s wall as is everyone else in the place. And Capitol Coffee is packed. Peeta even had to turn people out, but of course, he saved a spot for Katniss.

Along with everyone else, Katniss and Peeta watch the footage of each district’s Reaping ceremony. The group is an interesting mix this year. Of course, the Career districts garnered the typical aggressive, highly-trained eighteen-year-olds, but there seem to be some other wild cards with intriguing skills.

When it comes to District 11, and a little twelve-year-old by the name of Rue is reaped, it hits a little too close to home for Katniss. It’s because she reminds her so much of Prim. Not her look, exactly, but her size and something in her eyes… Katniss knows there’s no fear of Prim ever being reaped as a Capitolite, but it still manages to unsettle her.

Peeta senses Katniss’s unease and places a hand over hers. “You okay?” he whispers.

Katniss nods, although she isn’t exactly okay. Seeing that young, dark-skinned girl reaped just really did something to her. It put her stomach off. But why should it be so? She’s been watching the Hunger Games for years; she’s seen plenty of reapings and numerous violent deaths, more than a few being young children like Rue… In fact, they usually are the ones to be slaughtered first…

“Uh, Peeta, could I have something to eat, something…easy on the stomach?”

“Are you feeling sick?” he asks, concerned.

“No,” she half-lies. At least, it isn’t a physical sickness. She just really hates seeing young children reaped, and this one especially got to her. Why, oh why does she have to remind her so much of Prim…

“I’m okay. I just want something light,” is all she says.

“Would you like some bread, Katniss?”

“Bread?” Katniss likes bread, though she doesn’t eat it often, at least not by itself.

“Yes, Katniss, bread.” He smiles. Somehow, Peeta’s smile cheers her up a little. “As you know, I’m a baker, and bread just so happens to be my specialty.”

“Okay. Plain bread?”

He nods. “If you want. I could also add something to it.”

He starts to tell her about the types of bread he can make, but it’s too overwhelming, so she finally asks him to choose, saying she trusts him. His instincts have been good so far, after all.

Peeta goes off to bake, and not long after, Katniss can smell it. The scent seems to permeate the air, wrapping its invisible arms around her in a hug. As foolish as it might sound, the bread makes her feel lighter and happy while at the same time making her salivate. He places it before her, and she’s in awe. It’s perfect. She’s never imagined describing food so highly, aside from, perhaps lamb stew, but this bread really is…perfect. It’s hearty, the perfect shape, has the perfect smell, and it’s even covered in raisins and nuts.

“Something wrong?” Peeta asks.

She shakes her head and continues to stare at the beautiful loaf until she hears him bark out a laugh. She looks up to see him smirking, and she scowls.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you appreciating my food, Katniss, but are you just going to stare at it all day long?”

Her scowl hardens.

Peeta just chuckles. “Come on, Katniss. You act like you’ve never seen bread before. Now, you’ll want to eat it while it’s warm. Fresh out of the oven, that’s when it’s best.”

She forgets her annoyance over him making fun of her and focuses on the bread. Peeta smiles as he watches her raise it to just below her nose and sniff it before biting in.

It’s initially crispy, then soft and moist, and oh, so delectable. Katniss takes her time at first, chewing and savoring, but not long after, she’s ravenously ripping off pieces like a mutt, despite his warnings. Peeta was right. It’s as if she’s never seen bread and hasn’t had a meal in weeks. And even though she’s devouring it rapidly, it’s just light enough to calm her stomach.

“Well?” he asks hopefully, nudging her arm with his.

“It’s just right, Peeta,” she says with a smile.

How does he do it? Katniss wonders. How does Peeta always seem to know just what she needs?

She eyes up the bread, ready for another slice. It’s only then that it dawns on her that he’s brought her a whole loaf, cut up into slices.

“You really didn’t have to bring so much, though,” she says.

“Well, just eat what you want.”

“You’re not going to throw it out after, are you?” Katniss can’t stand waste.

“No, you can take whatever’s left home with you.”

That placates her. She can give the rest to her family or throw it to the animals next time she’s in the woods. But now that she’s tasted it, she’s not sure she’ll make it home with a single slice.

Peeta inches a bit closer to her. “So, what’d I miss?” He breaks off a tiny piece of her bread and shoves it in his mouth.

“Twelve,” Katniss says.

“Oh yeah, how’d that go?” Peeta asks through a bite.

“Well, Effie Trinket got mauled by that drunken former Victor, and he pulled her wig off. Then two timid-looking sixteen-year-olds were reaped.” The Tributes from 12 didn’t stand out to Katniss, but she recalls how warily they shook hands. She doesn’t know if they knew each other beforehand or not, but she could see the fear and mistrust in their eyes when the camera panned in.

*** A few days later, Katniss is back at the coffee shop, and they’re watching the Tributes Parade together. Cinna is there, too, relating tales of his days as a stylist and comments on the costumes. Lastly, District 12 shows up, and as usual, they’re in their horrible coal-mining outfits, but at least they aren’t stark naked and covered in black powder this year. It’s then that Cinna suddenly has a ‘vision,’ or at least, that’s how it appears from the look on his face. He proceeds to tell Peeta and Katniss how he would dress his tributes, and then, he starts eyeing Katniss up.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Cinna?” she glowers.

“It’s just…you have such…fire in you, Katniss. Your personality. I think I would have you be on fire. I’d put you in flames.”

“Flames?” She quirks a brow. “Real flames?” She looks to Peeta, who seems amused.

“No, not real, of course. But I know how to create a substance that would appear as flames. Portia and I were brainstorming one day, and we cooked it up.” He doesn’t laugh at his own wordplay, only grins, and it makes Katniss want to as well.

“But the costumes are supposed to reflect the character of the district. I’m from the Capitol, Cinna,” she protests.

“I know, but just go with it for a moment, Katniss. District 12. Coal-mining. Coal burns, so it’s related. Now, imagine with me that you’re a girl from District 12…”

“I don’t want to imagine I’m from District 12, Cinna,” she snips.

Cinna chuckles throatily. “See, Peeta, I’m telling you, this girl is pure fire.” Peeta bobs his head in agreement, and Cinna leans over toward Katniss, his long, thin lips curling all the way up. “If you were in the Games, Katniss, I’d definitely bet on you.”

Katniss scoffs, then chuckles a little. “Me? In the Hunger Games? That’s ridiculous. And why would you bet on me, Cinna? I have no combat training.”

“Yes, but you can shoot,” Peeta chimes in.

“Animals,” she clarifies, getting back to the matter at hand. “I know how to shoot animals, not…” And it’s as if it’s the first time she’s ever realized it, that the Hunger Games is all about people killing each other. Not just people, but kids‒many of them completely inexperienced. It’s stupid because, of course, that’s what it is, and she knew it all along, but this is the first time it gives her an unsettled feeling in her stomach.

Both Peeta and Cinna have somber expressions. They both know exactly what she’s thinking.

“Yeah,” Peeta finally says in a dire way. “Those kids lose a lot more than their lives in the Hunger Games.”

“What do you mean, Peeta?”

“Well, killing another human being…I wouldn’t know, but…it must cost everything you are.”

Peeta’s words set like a rock in Katniss’s stomach. And it reminds her…

“Cinna,” she says flatly. “I’m kind of surprised you’re so excited about my hypothetical costume, considering you gave up being a stylist.” Not that she knows much about it, but upon recollection, it seemed like he had talent.

“Yes, well,” Cinna’s gaze flicks to Peeta, then lowers for just a second. He raises his eyes to meet Katniss’s. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate fashion. There were…,” his lips quirk, but not in the amused way she’s accustomed, “let’s just say, other reasons I left.”

Katniss nods, though she doesn’t understand a bit.

“It wasn’t because I dislike the notion of designing a pretty dress for a pretty girl.” Cinna gives her a pointed look. “And one so strong shouldn’t be dressed in some stupid costume.”

Katniss feels a touch of warmth rise in her cheeks, even though it’s just Cinna who said it. And then, for some reason, she looks over at Peeta. His lips are parted ever so slightly, and he and Cinna are engaged in something akin to a staredown.

It doesn’t last long, though, because Cinna bursts out laughing and claps Peeta on the back. “Relax, Lover Boy. I’m not hitting on your Girl on Fire.”

Katniss and Peeta’s mouths simultaneously drop. Apparently, they haven’t been able to keep their interest in each other a bit secret. Geez, they haven’t even gone on a date and already they’re being teased!

A sincere smile creeps up on Peeta’s face as he looks between Katniss and Cinna. “Well, I think Katniss would look good in anything you put her in, Cinna. But you’re wrong about something.” He presses his lips together. “She’s not pretty; she’s beautiful.”

“Mm.”

Katniss barely hears Cinna’s mutter of acknowledgment because that stupid organ in her chest has gone and betrayed her; her heart’s rhythm has gone askew, and her cheeks are burning, also, and she’s uncomfortable with it, so she turns the situation around. “So, Cinna? What would you put Peeta in?”

Cinna strokes his chin thoughtfully and comes to a swift conclusion. “Well, Katniss, I’d put him in flames, too, because of course, you two would be a team.”

This floors both Peeta and Katniss, and they exchange a quick look of shock. Cinna’s clearly noticed this thing between them which Katniss can’t quite put a name to yet. But, more importantly, Katniss wants to tell Cinna how stupid that is, that even if she and Peeta were district partners, they wouldn’t be a team. They would be mortal enemies trying to kill one another.

“Cinna, that would never work,” she says instead. “That’s not what the Hunger Games are about.”

“Well,” Cinna smiles, “you never know.”

Katniss swallows a groan and pushes back her frustration over Cinna’s lofty ideals. “Let’s just…watch the rest of the Parade,” she says.

@oakfarmer12

***To Be Continued…***

A/N: I really thought I’d get to the Games this time, but alas, I didn’t. And in general, I didn’t expect this to get so long, but it has, and now I feel powerless to stop it. So, I’m just going with it. I hope you’re enjoying it so far! Hope it’s not too slow-going. FYI, there will be at least two more parts.

#springtime edition 2020 #acpoe82 #prompt 68 #oakfarmer12 #submission

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heathers-wig · 4 years

Text

last kiss oneshot aka a sad heathers-wig making a duncney oneshot at 1AM and getting emotional over the duncney parallels because i’m THAT bitch

listen,,,,, i know. i have no shame. making duncney content in 2020? to old taylor swift songs? my pride has evaporated, so please td tumblr, have mercy.

also @ my few non-td mutuals and non-writer mutuals: do not judge me more than you already have please i’m begging.

available on ao3 here

I still remember the look on your face

Lit through the darkness at 1:58

The words that you whispered

For just us to know

You told me you loved me

So why did you go away?

A somber reflection of her own face stared back at Courtney as the brown eyed girl stared, saddened, outside one of the jet’s windows. The Jumbo-Jet had been flying for hours, to wherever the show’s next location was, and the rest of her team was fast asleep; even Cody, who was terrified of Sierra rubbing his feet at the dead of the night. Sierra herself had been worn out after hours of cutting out perfectly shaped pieces of paper of a Gwen silhouette and then destroying it — she had taken so much joy out of it, and had done it so flawlessly, that Courtney was sure it had become a routine over the few years Total Drama had been airing on TV. After today, Courtney would gladly join Sierra, if she wasn’t so busy making a list on how much of a back-stabbing, helio-phobic goth-loving liar that Gwen was.

God, Gwen; just the name made Courtney want to let out one of the most pathetic sobs that had ever been seen on television. She knew it was stupid, she honestly did, that she trusted Gwen — it wasn’t anything she said, or really anything that she did, that deemed Gwen as untrustworthy, it was more like the feeling of being unsettled that came after every time Duncan’s name would worm its way into the conversation, and the way Gwen had tensed and how the goth’s cheeks would become slightly pinker, yet her skin somehow paler; in hindsight, it was so dreadfully and painfully obvious that this would happen, and how inevitable it was that this sad, beautifully breathtaking destruction would crumble down on the fragments of happiness in Courtney’s life, but maybe that’s why Courtney and Gwen were drawn together in the first place. To prove the paparazzi wrong, or maybe because Courtney really believed that Gwen wouldn’t stoop as low and confirm the public’s suspicions. However, time had slowly gone by and Courtney learned the hard, cruel way that they were absolutely right.

Chef, who had never taken any sort of liking or pity on Courtney — except when she had sued Chris, he had begrudgingly admitted that he was impressed — had been nice (or cruel, Courtney couldn’t decide which one was more accurate,) enough to show the brunette the clip herself. Herself hugging Duncan (who she now nicknamed Dumbcan in her own mind — ugh, the jerk!) so lovingly after being separated for what felt like ages, and feeling her heart soar when he said he thought of her while he was gone —

— But that was all a lie. A lie that made Courtney feel secure in her deteriorating relationship, a lie that allowed Duncan an easy way out, a lie that filled Gwen’s stomach to the brim with fluttering butterflies. Courtney had to watch, with something that felt all too familiar to horror, as Duncan and Gwen embraced and slowly leaned towards each other, all while knowing and ignoring the brunette outside who was just so happy that she had her boyfriend back and someone she could call the closest to a best friend was still in the game with her. It was almost ironic how that ended. Almost.

Now, staring out the window, Courtney couldn’t help but wander how this could have possibly happened. Of course, she knew the actual answer; Gwen falling for Duncan after her public and awful breakup with Trent, and Duncan losing interest in her as Courtney thought more and more of their relationship as long-term versus until one of them had gotten a sudden sweep of common sense and dumped the other. Whenever Courtney had tried to construct the words in her head of what she would say to Duncan when she eventually had to actually face him, the thoughts that were so carefully balanced on the tip of her tongue would come tumbling back down to the pit of her stomach. Throwing a pity party and tantrum when breaking up with Duncan would be inevitable — she knew it, as much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it — but the feeling of dread she felt when looking back on their initial relationship was too much to bear.

It was ironic, wasn’t it, how she was the first to lean in, while Duncan had took the final lean out? And how he didn’t even have enough guts to breakup with her to begin with? Sure, it would definitely hurt, but she was almost positive that it would be nowhere near the amount of heartache she felt while watching that clip.

What killed her the most was that she could still remember the electric blue eyes of his that seemed to illuminate the darkness of night that day she rebelled, the very day she would now do anything to erase from history. The look of initial shock on his face when Courtney grabbed his face and smashed their lips together in one electrifying kiss... it was painful to remember such a time. If Courtney tried hard enough, she was sure she could hear the slight chatter of their friends behind them and the crickets around them and maybe even the humming of porch lights next to them. Possibly even pick up on the slight smell of cigarettes that followed Duncan everywhere (like his criminal record, as Courtney would snidely berate him, though those days were left to wither in the past), or unfortunately the resting puddle of vomit next to the porch.

“Enjoy a peanut butter-less life,” he had remarked, the words still ringing in Courtney’s head almost two years later.

“Thanks,” Courtney herself had quipped, leaning up against him. “Enjoy prison,”

“I will,” the juvenile smirked. It all felt like such a long time ago. Had it all meant nothing? Maybe it had been broadcasted around the world, but it was such a private and intimate moment between them that felt like it was for them and them alone — and yet he cheated? He turned around and kissed up her best friend with little to no remorse? Did it mean anything to him? She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

If it did, wouldn’t he had stayed? Wouldn’t he had wanted to talk things out, instead of hurting her in the worst way possible? Wouldn’t he have meant every ‘I love you,’ he said while they were still dating with no second thought? Did he even mean every ‘I love you’? Or were they just lies that tasted as sweet as honey on his tongue, that he spoon-fed to Courtney every now and then to keep her from leaving him.

She wasn’t sure what haunted her more; knowing that Duncan felt no regret for what he did or having a last kiss with no knowledge of its significance.

I do recall now

The smell of the rain

Fresh on the pavement

I ran off the plane

That July ninth

The beat of your heart

It jumps through your skin

I can still feel your arms

As odd as it felt, a few weeks have gone by since her nasty breakup with Duncan. She finally got to shove Gwen (who was swelling up from her allergic reaction at a concerning rate, but Courtney had no pity left for Gwen in her heart that the goth and Duncan were responsible for breaking) off of Chris’s jet, but to her disappointment it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she hoped it would be. Sure, seeing Gwen’s falling figure struggle to open the parachute brought a smile to her face and earned a chuckle from Heather (and a maniacal laugh from Sierra), but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to personally shove Duncan off the plane herself, but she wouldn’t be as kind to him as she was with Gwen; she’d be taking the parachute right before she shoved the fatal push.

The feeling that came after Gwen’s elimination was hard to describe — of course, sheer joy immediately after, but after the cameras stopped rolling and Chris instructed them all to head to bed, panic took its place. Courtney knew she was a target from her fellow teammates — Heather probably wanted to chop all her hair off for flirting with her dear Alejandro; Courtney almost wished the two would get together and save Courtney the heartbreak she’d have to face that there was no one left for her. Duncan would of course crave Courtney’s elimination, and Alejandro and Sierra would probably agree to anything so as long as it wasn’t them, or Cody, in Sierra’s case. Just about everything seemed to be going her way, wasn’t it?

Courtney wasn’t even sure if she cared at this point. Should she? Of course, winning would be a great payment for everything she’s had to put up with on Total Drama, this season in particular, but at the same time, with Gwen officially out of the running, following her and going back home would feel even better.

Home. Courtney hadn’t been there in ages, and at this point she wasn’t sure what she considered home to be. There was the pristine mansion she was raised in by her lawyer parents, and while that place might have looked like the front of a magazine cover, it felt like an empty ghost of a home. Not a single thing was out of place — not a throw pillow or piece of silverware. Her parents were either always at work, travelling for a case, or holed up in their respective offices; there was rarely “family time”. Courtney was fine with this, though; that’s just how things were for the Castillo family.

There was Camp Wawanakwa, as evil and ironic as it was. For a few weeks, she lived with teenagers, not the reality stars they were now. When her friends from debate club sometimes dragged her to a rewatch of the first season, it was odd to see how different they were all back then, but at the same time, they really hadn’t changed at all. Though Courtney was unsure if she would ever step foot on that island ever again, it would always hold a place in her heart — good or bad? She hadn’t decided yet — for the beginning of whatever her life was now.

Her apartment was an option, as well. It wasn’t as much home as just the place she so happened to live in. No emotional attachment whatsoever; some boxes were still stacked in a spare coat closet, all neatly labeled in a thick Sharpie. It wasn’t that Courtney was disorganized or lazy, more like there was no use in unpacking all of her belongings in a temporary home. She moved out of her parents’ mansion as college crept closer and closer, and she hadn’t lived with her parents since last summer.

That summer felt alien at this point, looking at old photographs that were neatly organized on her cellphone. She remembered her family went on a month-long vacation in Europe, and Duncan had come to pick her up from the airport, much to her parents’ displeasure. The Castillos and Duncan did not get along, but tried to be civil for Courtney’s sake — they knew how much it could upset her when they were constantly at odds. Being civil was nowhere easy for either parties, but seeing Courtney’s happiness and hope that there was just maybe a hope that she and Duncan would be able to have a future together made it worth it.

However, seeing his arm around her waist with easy smiles on both of their lips made Courtney’s stomach lurch, just knowing what he would do a little more than a year later. It brought back too many memories that were painful to recall, and came all at once with no warning, much like a band-aid being harshly torn off the surface of a child’s knee.

That day it had been raining all afternoon, and there was still a slight drizzle and mist in the air when Courtney’s family had landed. Duncan was there, at the pickup area, with brunch for herself and her entire family from some local cafe — as much as he would deny it, deep down she just knew he was a sweetheart — and as soon as he could, he wrapped his arms around Courtney, which Courtney had gladly returned.

The smell of rose and cigarettes, a smell that had become the twisted combination of the aromas surrounding Courtney and Duncan, filled Courtney’s nose, and she couldn’t help but bask in how glorious it felt, to simply be embraced by Duncan. No bickering, no making out, just a simple sign of affection was all it took for Courtney to feel at peace. They were so close, she could’ve swore she could feel the faint beat of his heart underneath his t-shirt.

It was such a quick, and rather insignificant moment, of their relationship, that Courtney couldn’t figure out, for the life of her, why it stuck with her. Maybe because it was insignificant in the long run it was so cherishable to her — a quick, stolen moment of sweet nothings that was caught in the middle of the timeline of her rather messy and confusing relationship with Duncan.

Did Duncan still remember that July ninth? Probably not. Realistically, not. In fact, he was probably busy daydreaming making out with his new girlfriend in another all new spot on Gwen’s neck that made them feel something new that they never felt with Trent or Courtney. Not at all reminiscing on Courtney unwillingly falling in love with Duncan that July ninth in front of her parents, not at all remembering the imprint he left on her heart (though it did give her a sense of satisfaction that all Duncan could do was wish, as Courtney could gladly say she heard Gwen’s shrieks of terror as she plummeted towards the Earth at a rapid pace with a broken parachute).

Feeling a sudden chill in the air, Courtney runs her hands up and down her upper arms. As much as she hated him for it, she could still feel Duncan’s arms wrapping themselves around her, and she felt less colder.

She doubted Duncan remembered the smell of lingering rain on the pavement that July ninth, or the hand squeeze and smile she gave him, or her parents finally warming up to him when he remembered their favorite brunch meal.

She doubted he would even want to remember any of it.

But now I’ll go sit on the floor

Wearing your clothes

All that I know is

I don’t know how to be something you missed

Never thought we’d have a last kiss

Never imagined we’d end like this

Your name, forever the name on my lips

Courtney wasn’t sure what to feel; upset? Angered? Humiliated? Robbed of winning, yet again? Maybe even a little relieved? They were all emotions she had felt before on the previous times she had been eliminated from Total Drama, but considering the circumstances... Courtney decided a combination of all would be the most appropriate.

She was upset she allowed herself to cheat for Alejandro, who she was only really using to spite Duncan (not like Duncan had even batted an eye, which admittedly really stung), and she was fully aware Alejandro didn’t return her feelings, but God, she hadn’t felt any joy in what felt like ages, maybe she felt Alejandro would, what, reward her? All she got was a kiss after she freshened up, and it wasn’t even that good to begin with — too much tongue for her liking.

Duncan knew how to kiss me just right. Crossed her mind, but as soon as it surfaces, she shoves it far, far down.

And she was angry, so angry that she had allowed herself to be used and manipulated, on International TV no less! She looked like exactly what she was, and she did not like it in any way, whatsoever — weak. And with that, humiliation; being cheated on, blanked, used and then sent packing with that trashy, gossip-craving Blaineley of all people was such a huge hit to her pride, Courtney was unsure if her pride would ever be able to recover, even five years from now. God, that was pathetic, the thought of still being sensitive to her Total Drama World Tour experience as a full-on adult. Definition of embarrassing. Her ego was massively bruised, and had taken such a fall that Courtney was sure she would never allow herself to get close to anyone ever again. Was it selfish? Maybe. But a businesswoman has to do what she has to do to be successful and strong, and if that meant ghosting everyone and plunging herself into her work — so be it.

However... a small, incredibly fragile fraction of herself was so relieved. Of course, she wanted to win, to show to her ex-friend and boyfriend she was more than capable of destroying them, but she had already endured so much humiliation during that season that she felt her shoulders relax a little rather than tense up before she jumped off the plane. Though the cameras didn’t show it, Courtney found herself smiling like a lunatic — like Izzy, as she had now come to realize, not that she enjoyed acknowledging it one bit — as she dived off the jet, finally free from Chris, the cameras and most of all, Duncan.

But now that she was back at her bleak apartment, she realized that cruelly ironically enough that he was more present in her own dorm even when he was across the world, with no thought or emotion to spare in her direction. The couch reeked of him, where he had spent New Years’ Eve and where they ended up falling asleep at 4 in the morning; the coffee table underneath her bare fingers felt like him, where an engraving of D+C was proudly displayed on the corner; the fridge seemed to still have him traced all over it, where she and Duncan had a huge argument in front of before he had slipped out the words “I love you” for the first time, and even the coat racket was imprinted with Duncan, where one of his jackets still hung, firm from months of not being used. Though a part of her wanted to reach out for it and wrap it around herself for some source of comfort, Courtney knew she shouldn’t — she couldn’t. But...

It was ridiculous. A stupid, humiliating and reckless idea that would take the mere shreds left of her ego, dignity and pride and bury them six feet under. But right now, nobody would know... there was no paparazzi or roommate around to expose her, and she did feel awfully cold....

Grabbing the collar of the jacket, Courtney wrapped it around her shoulders and (shamefully, she couldn’t believe she was allowing her pride to stoop even lower than it already had) dashed in her pristine bedroom and immediately opened one of her drawers; Duncan’s drawer, which was filled with even more memories, both good and bad. To be fair, they were once all good, but now they left a sour sting on Courtney’s tongue. She tore through the drawer, before fixating on one item and pulling it out — one of Duncan’s many copies of his infamous skull t-shirt.

Without even meaning to, Courtney found herself crumbling like a piece of wet gingerbread. How pathetic are you? She mentally scolded herself, but at that moment she found herself realizing she simply didn’t care. After a lifetime of being as cold and emotionless as she could be, a boy of all things is what broke her down. After being rid of Total Drama — for now, Courtney had to remind herself — and the travel, the cameras and the clothes, and now just in her pajamas and dreadfully Duncan’s jacket, Courtney couldn’t help but unleash the full power of the sobs that had been building up in Courtney since the breakup.

How was she going to get past this? Would she always be remembered as the bitch that a criminal cheated on on TV? What about her future? Would this all affect her chances in office? How could her ego possibly come back from this? Most of all, how would she cope knowing that Duncan, the nuisance criminal she’s despised for around two or three years, was gone for good and was never, ever coming back, no matter how much Courtney craved for it?

Would Duncan even miss her? Would he ever, someday in the future, when things with Gwen were rocky? Would he remember Courtney, and think of her as something he missed? Was that even a title Courtney had the chance of claiming?

Courtney craved Duncan. She wanted his presence in her apartment, she wanted his arms around her, his lips pressed on her own; she hadn’t, didn’t and probably would never have wanted a last kiss, and knowing that they were as good as done with no chance of having another stolen kiss — it was too much. How could she have let them end like this?

“D... Duncan,” The name forces itself out of Courtney’s throat and through her lips, crumpling his shirt in her hands and bringing her knees to the ground, where she continues to sob. Tossing one more item from the drawer — the wooden skull, with D+C engraved on it, looking as new as it did years ago — she hurls it at the mirror in the corner of her room, its impact cracking the glass.

Maybe in the morning Courtney would care, but at that moment, all she wanted was to be comforted by the one person who couldn’t, wouldn’t and would never comfort her ever again. All she knew was that she would never stop craving Duncan, no matter who was by her side or made her smile and laugh and shower her with kisses — the whole time she would be wishing it was Duncan instead, sharing a kiss that would be far from their last.

I do remember

The swing in your step

The life of the party, you’re showing off again

And I roll my eyes and then

You pull me in

I’m not much for dancing

But for you I did

Because I love your handshake

Meetin’ my father

I love how you walk with your hands in your pockets

How you kissed me when I was in the middle of saying something

There’s not a day that I don’t miss those rude interruptions

Courtney despised the nights that followed post-World Tour elimination; they were filled with nightmares of happier times that mocked Courtney, nightmares that were dressed like perfect, safe and welcoming dreams. Nightmares that felt like incredible dreams at first, until Courtney woke up and remembered how alone she truly was.

That night it was a random, and rather insignificant, memory of a wild party that Duncan had dragged her to. It was hosted by the cousin of a friend of Geoff’s friend, and of course Geoff and Duncan insisted that Bridgette, Courtney and DJ to come with, as much as Courtney was opposed to the idea. Duncan always made impacts, for lack of better word, on the guests, that would usually result in him adding a hundred followers to his Instagram, starting a riot and Courtney having to bail him out of jail or being kicked out by the host; it was a gamble each time.

That night, Duncan had chosen to boast in front of a group of guests on all the laws he had broken and tattoos he had gotten — just Duncan’s usual load of shit.

Courtney had rolled her eyes and sneered in disgust — just Courtney’s typical reaction to said load of shit. “God, Duncan, those tattoos are disgusting, I don’t see how you put up with them,” She had scowled. Duncan shrugged and wrapped his arm around her, leaning into Courtney, intently watching her incredibly dark and hypnotizing (at least, they were to him) eyes widen in surprise.

“You’re just no fun,” Duncan lamely insulted, poking his tongue out at her and showcasing his tongue piercing that made Courtney’s nose scrunch up.

“I am plenty of fun!” Courtney snapped.

“Really? Prove it,” Duncan challenged, jerking his head toward the dance floor. Courtney gave him a withering glare that would have turned anyone else to a mere pile of dust, before gripping his wrist and dragging her with him, determined to prove him wrong. Unbeknownst to her, he was grinning like an enamored puppy behind her.

As a slow song came on, Courtney wrapped her arms around Duncan’s neck while her wrapped his around her waist as they slowly swayed around to the beat of the song. Just as Duncan dipped her down, and Courtney felt a glamorous sensation as they both leaned toward each other and —

— suddenly, Duncan impaled a hook through Courtney (that looked all too familiar to the one he had spooked her with a long time ago) that Courtney hadn’t even noticed he had, before dropping her on the dance floor, her white dress staining with red blood like wine, as everyone else continued dancing to the romantic melody, paying no glance to Courtney.

She felt light headed while her eyelids felt like three tons, and as she fell on her knees, hunched over from the wound, she couldn’t help but notice as her eyes began to flutter shut no one spared a glance at her way; not even Duncan, who was back with his friends, showcasing the book like it was a trophy. As Courtney knew she was breathing her last breath, Duncan glanced her way and gave a crooked smirk, his eyes flashing hot with satisfaction at her pain. The ocean blue in his eyes had become a ferocious storm.

Courtney had jarred awake, hot, sweaty, emotional and desperate with the time of 2:34 staring back at her from her alarm clock. Courtney sighed with relief upon the realization it was just another nightmare about her ex-boyfriend, one that was rather cheesy anyway — what she would give to not be haunted by him as she still was. Unfortunately, as much as she hated the fact, she knew he still roamed her consciousness, subconsciousness and unconsciousness because of the fact she still loved him, even after everything, and a fraction of that love would probably live on for years to come until Courtney was on her deathbed.

With that comforting thought, Courtney groaned and turned away from her clock and towards the wall, studying the plaster like her life depended on it; anything to get her away from the angry electric blue that followed her even when her eyes were sealed shut.

It was plain annoying how she knew that she still loved Duncan, no matter how many times she was forced to re-live the brutal truth that he no longer loved her whenever she came face-to-face with a tabloid at the checkout line when she would occasionally get groceries, or search his name on the Internet to see how he was coping; maybe Courtney couldn’t face the truth, couldn’t face that maybe she was no longer in love with Duncan but instead with the memories of him that were scattered about her life.

It felt odd going to her parents’ and not having to deal with her father staring Duncan down, and for Duncan to stare right back, passive-aggressively. Not to watch both men clench each other’s hands firmly while looking at the other dead in the eye when Courtney introduced them. Now whenever she went to her parents’, all she felt was the sore reminder that in the end, the Castillos were right — Duncan was nothing but trouble and pain in the end.

It was painful going to the mall without Duncan to lean on, or his hand to clutch as they would lazily walk around the shops. Or how Courtney no longer had to unfold each of Duncan’s clothes from being inside-out in the laundry or hand a mountain of objects found in Duncan’s pockets to him before stuffing his pants in the washer. Duncan used to (or maybe he still did, Courtney would have no idea,) stuff anything and everything he possibly could into his pockets — keys, empty wrappers of gum, cigarettes or small things he’d pick pocketed, even spare change (though Courtney used to mock him for still carrying pennies around — who does that? She’d tease).

“That’s what you get for always walking with your hands in your pockets,” Courtney used to barate. “Someday, you’re going to end up washing your wallet if it isn’t for me,”

“Yeah, well, you’ll always be here, so that’s not a concern,” Duncan had winked back.

All Courtney could do now was scowl at how that had aged.

Hell, Courtney found herself missing their arguments — mostly over the small and rather unimportant things, they were ironically some of her fondest memories. Half the time their arguments would end up with the two making out after Duncan had silenced her with a kiss, and Courtney was now well-aware no one would ever interrupt her in such a way ever again.

Duncan was the only person who Courtney would allow to interrupt her, though now he wouldn’t want to even listen to her, let alone care enough to plant a kiss on her lips when she was in the middle of talking. Courtney had never wanted someone to interrupt her more than she wanted Duncan to.

And I'll go sit on the floor

Wearing your clothes

All that I know is that

I don't know how to be something you miss

Never thought we'd have a last kiss

Never imagined we'd end like this

Your name, forever the name on my lips

So I'll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep

And I feel you forget me like I used to feel you breathe

And I'll keep up with our old friends just to ask them how you are

Hope it's nice where you are

( TIME JUMP: 4 Months after TDAS )

Two months after coming home, Courtney found herself slowly healing from the damage that Duncan had caused on her heart. Two more months after that, Courtney found herself genuinely able to smile after that without the desire for Duncan and Gwen to be by her side; a year after that, Total Drama All Stars has been done for four months and Courtney lived day-to-day life without thinking of either Duncan or Gwen.

Courtney had been laying low for that time; obnoxious, gossip-hungry tabloids had asked for a “statement” from her whenever Gwen or Duncan or one of her ex-contestants found themselves on a headline, but Courtney shot them down every time — her ego might have taken a huge hit from World Tour and that episode from All Stars, but she wasn’t desperate enough to willingly make an appearance and be interviewed by Celebrity Manhunt.

The questions for “statements” seemed to blur over time; do you have any words of advice for Heather, who suspects Alejandro of cheating? Have you heard Trent’s new single? Rumor has it it’s about Gwen and Duncan! Speaking of Gwen and Duncan, if they were reading this, what would you say to them?

It was an endless and rather tiring cycle of the paparazzi trying to lure a reaction out of her, which Courtney refused to give into.

However, one day as Courtney was loading her groceries on a conveyor belt at the local grocery store, a headline from a tabloid caught her eye. All Courtney read were the words Totally Dramatic, and Courtney knew she should look away — they were the same magazine that publicly called Courtney a bitch a few months ago, which she would never forget. Though she had self-control in public, she found that at 11PM on a Friday night she had little to no self-control and found herself pulling open her laptop and typing Totally Dramatic in the search bar on Safari.

Almost immediately, the faces of her ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend take over her screen, with the text underneath that’s all too hard to miss — Gwuncan Engagement Rumors Confirmed!?

Courtney could feel her the pit of her stomach drop and her heart shatter as it crashed to the ground below her.

It wasn’t that she missed Duncan — she didn’t! It was just that she so good at her job of avoiding Gwen and Duncan’s names like the plague she was blissfully unaware that they had gotten back together.

She would be lying if Courtney said she hadn’t thought of reaching out to Gwen — and shamefully, it would be a lie if Courtney swore she never considered sending a drunk text to Duncan (thankfully, she never had; it was a nightmare just thinking of the embarrassment that would cause) — but always decided against it because of three reasonings; there was no way either would want to hear from her, they hated her guts and Courtney would never allow her dignity to stoop as low as it had during the third season ever again.

But now — now Courtney was sure she would never reach out. Not even a quick Congratulations! text, not a gift basket, not even show up to Gwen’s bachelorette party if she felt bold enough. Courtney was positive that she was reduced to the stalking ex, browsing through both of their Instagrams, watching them mature and fall back in love through their own photographs. It was... strange, to say the least.

What was this feeling that was erupting inside her? It wasn’t jealousy, she had gotten over Duncan months ago, but it wasn’t sadness, resentment or anger, either. It was like the feeling of realizing that, as ironically and unbelievable as it was, the two had grown up without Courtney, and all she could do was watch from a distance. Watch them slowly move on from their memories of Courtney — both bad and good — until the mention of her left both indifferent; Courtney was almost positive that being hated by the two would be less painful than knowing that at one point, they were the closest and best people in her life and now they couldn’t care less on how Courtney was.

Courtney used to watch Gwen paint and draw with such concentration that she was sure she would be held accountable for messing her art up if she just so much as breathed too loudly. The furrow between her brows would deepen and the stormy gray of her eyes would be clouded over with concentration and care, and Courtney found herself wishing that she was as passionate about something as Gwen was of her art. Sure, she had her studies in law, but Gwen’s skills — they were truly beautiful. She used to watch Gwen’s head very thrown back a little when she laughed a little too hard, and how tears would leak from the corner of her eyes from laughter so easily. Or how whenever Gwen dyed her hair again, she would unintentionally run her fingers through it all of the time, leaving Courtney wandering just how soft her hair could possibly be with her double-conditioning. But now she would witness all of Gwen’s happiness through her phone’s screen when she would look up her name on Instagram.

Courtney also used to watch Duncan do so many miscellaneous things that it would be impossible to list them all; like how his eyes would glint with joy whenever he would successfully break a law, a small shot of success and pride to keep him going. Or how, as much as he stated he hated them, always showing great amounts of concern when his friends or family were stressed and immediately began brainstorming how to make them feel better. Or how no matter how tough he pretended to be, when he slept, he just looked so peaceful that it was impossible to find yourself able to avoid falling for him. But now all she’d be seeing of him was his face plastered on a tabloid, probably with his arms around Gwen’s waist.

Maybe she was being overdramatic, but it really was ironic how at one point, she had held them both so close she could feel them breathe but now all she felt was herself slowly becoming more and more insignificant to the two of them, until she was nothing more than just a blurry memory and a face that was hard to recall among others.

Someday in the future, she could already picture herself casually asking Bridgette how Duncan was, since he was still friends with Geoff and DJ, afterall — what would she be expecting? For him to be struggling to make a living and pay rent? For Duncan to be unhappy with his life and relationship? For Gwen and Duncan to experience as much pain as they inflicted on her?

Deep down, she knew the real answer; no matter how many times they’d backstab the other, Courtney just wanted Gwen and Duncan to have the best, even if it killed her to admit it.

A small part of her couldn’t help but wonder if they felt the same about her, too.

And I hope the sun shines

And it's a beautiful day

And something reminds you

You wish you had stayed

You can plan for a change in weather and time

But I never planned on you changing your mind

Maybe one day Duncan would look back on their relationship like Courtney had been doing for months — or maybe, a small part of her hoped, he had been.

All Courtney could hope for was that someday in the future, when Courtney had found peace and Gwen and Duncan were happily moving on to whatever chapter of their lives lied ahead of them, something small would catch Duncan’s eye — a picture of her on the news, a box that reeked of memories of her, even the mere mention of her name — would send him back in time to when they were sixteen and still in love and clueless to the cruel world around them, and maybe a small part of him that he thought died when he was a teenager would blossom again with the wish that he had stayed; they would always be their own biggest what-ifs.

Courtney had planned anything and everything in her life ahead of time; one thing she hadn’t ever expected? Duncan to give up on her and leave her with a last kiss while she still craved for more. And while he had moved on, Courtney was stuck in the past, but that was okay — if he could move on, so could she, and her while that may take time, she was fully prepared to wait it out; she may have been painted as the villain of the story, but she also deserved her happily ever after.

So I'll go sit on the floor

Wearing your clothes

All that I know is that

I don’t know how to be something you miss

Never thought we'd have a last kiss

Never imagined we'd end like this

Your name, forever the name on my lips

Just like our last kiss

Forever the name on my lips

Just like our last

#duncney #writing angsty and sad duncney in 2020?#couldn’t be me #total drama #td courtney #td duncan #gwuncan #td gwen #total drama world tour #total drama all stars #pls td tumblr forgive me #WHY DID I WRITE SM #song fic #song fic oneshots are my jam #please forgive me for writing all of this #enjoy angsty courtney is it obvious i love her with my entire heart

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 77

Warnings: none

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @alievans007, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y

“Easiest way to do this is to park on the east side of the Sultana Kamal Bridge,” Esme instructs, face emotionless and eyes riveted on the road in front of them.

The closer they get to the city center, the more powerful the anxiety grows; gnawing at her stomach and tying it into knots and painfully tightening her chest. The mere thought of being in Bangladesh itself has been nerve wracking enough, but being minutes from the downtown core and from the single most traumatic event of her life has her body and mind rebelling. Incessant nausea accompanied by a pounding headache; her heart thundering in her chest and sweat gathering at her temples and along the nape of her neck. She feels light headed and repeatedly wrings her perspiration slicked hands together and bounces her leg up and down. The beginning of the ride had been tolerable, but when weather beaten high rises and smaller, derelict apartments began to appear on the horizon, the situation became far too real. It’s terrifying and puts her already frazzled nerves on high alert, and there’s nothing she wants more than to tell Koen to stop and turn around; go back to the house and get someone else to do the dirty work. To find a way back to Mumbai and her children; wait the situation out and hope and pray that they can go home sooner rather than later. But it isn’t that easy. She can’t simply walk away and wash her hands of it. Not when Neysa and Aarev are being held captive and especially not when her own family is being threatened. There’s not a single escape that doesn’t involve going directly into town. And unfortunately, the quickest way in -and out- is over that bridge.

“You sure about that?” Koen asks, a frown curving his lips. “Doesn’t seem easy. Or smart for that matter.”

“It’s way too crowded right downtown,” she reasons. “Especially at this time of the day. This is prime market hours. I’ve been here; I know what the streets are like and I know they’re crowded and damn near impossible to navigate in a car.”

“And if shit goes down, we have a hell of a long way back to our ride,” he informs her.

“If shit goes down, it won’t matter where we’re parked. Thirty inches away, thirty feet, thirty yards, thirty miles. If something goes wrong, we won’t make it back to the car no matter how close it is.”

“So how do we get back? If something does fuck up?”

“We don’t. At least not until nightfall. We find somewhere safe to hunker down until things have calmed and we can start moving again. And that’s IF we get that far. You do realize what will happen to us if we’re caught, right? If Asif’s people catch on or the cops figure out we’re connected to Tyler? Chances are, we won’t survive long enough to see the sun go down.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“I know places where we can hide out if we need to. But they’re only good if we can get to them. We have to get into town and be smart and be quick. The longer we’re there, the higher the chance of things going to shit. I learned that the hard way. I don’t want you to learn it too.”

“But if we…”

“You have to listen to me!” Esme snaps, and he blinks at the force in her voice. “I’ve been here before. I know the city and I know the market area and I am telling you that the best thing to do is park on the east side of the bridge. There’s a clearing there; it’s where we got Ovi out. And if you want to get out of this, you’ll learn from my mistakes. Because I made enough of them seven years ago and I don't want to make any now. I have too much to lose and I won’t let you fuck this up!”

Silence descends on the car, and she places an elbow on the ledge of her window and her palm against her forehead. Eyes closed as she battles both increasing nausea and the flood of tears that threaten to escape. It’s all too much; the sunlight glistening of the waters of the Buraganga, the cityscape in the near horizon, the faint outline and expanse of the bridge in the distance, even Amir Asif’s home -still occupied and majestic; looming down river.

“I’m sorry,” her voice trembles. . “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“That was hardly yelling, kiddo. You’d make a great third wife if you think THAT’S yelling.”

She manages a small laugh. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just stressed and tired and scared. And this baby has me hormonal as fuck already.”

“You know, that last part could have been prevented had you just told him to roll over and go to sleep,” Koen teases, then drops a hand from the steering wheel and lays it on the back of her neck, gently massaging. “It’s okay, sunshine. I get it. I understand.”

“This place...Dhaka...that bridge...it’s nothing but horrible memories and a lot of suffering and a lot of trauma and nightmares and bullshit. I do NOT want to be here. I don’t even want to be in Bangladesh. Or Mumbai. I just want to be home; with my husband and my kids and my dogs. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of the ocean and fall asleep to it at night. And I want to sit on my back porch and watch my kids play and hear them giggle and squeal. And I want to cuddle up to my husband knowing he’s safe and sound and that there’s no one out there that wants to hurt him. That’s all I want. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“It’s not. It’s definitely not.”

“I almost lost him to this place once, and I don’t want the second time to be successful. I know I pride myself in being a strong, independent woman, but I can’t lose him. I CAN do this life alone...raise the kids by myself...but I don’t want to. That man is my entire world; he’s my best friend and he’s my lover and he’s my confidant. He’s my ‘person’. And if that makes me weak and pathetic for saying all that, I don’t give a shit. It’s true. I love him in a way I thought I could never love another human being. And I’m not ready to let that go. To let HIM go.”

“It won’t come to that,” Koen assures her. “I’ll see to it. That it doesn’t happen.”

“Tyler showed up at a time in my life when I’d given up on ever trusting a man again. Mark was a terrible person, he destroyed me in every possible way and Tyler came along and he picked up those pieces and put them back together and he never once complained about it. He just did it. In his own way. He always talks about how I saved him, but he doesn’t realize he did the same thing for me. That he saved me in every possible way a person can be saved. If I'd never met him, I probably wouldn’t even be here. Because I was just as much of a mess as he was and just as ready to give up on everything.”

“I never realized it was that bad. That YOU were that bad.”

“There’s a lot of things people don’t know. That only Tyler knows. But believe me when I say that I was broken and I was lost and he found me. We found EACH OTHER. And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t care how cliche it sounds or who hears me say it. It’s the truth. And I didn’t let Mahajan or Asif’s people take him from me. I didn’t let them the first time, and I won’t let it happen this time either.”

“You’re a tough little shit," Koen praises. “You know that?”

“A tough little shit bawling like a baby in front of you? Yeah, that screams tough.” She uses the backs of her hands to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t tell Tyler I got like this, okay? He worries enough. He doesn’t need to know about my mental breakdown.”

“Your secret is safe with me, kiddo. But I’m afraid I have some things to say that might make you cry some more.”

“”Oh great! Just what I need; looking like a wreck on the job.”

“Now this is all between me and you, because we both know how embarrassed he gets about feelings and emotions and all of that crap. Just between us, yeah?”

Esme nods.

“First, I have to start off by letting you know that he is wildly and crazily, head over heels, in love with you. More than he thinks he could ever possibly tell you. So if he doesn’t say it a lot, just know he’s feeling it. That every time he looks at you, he sees his entire world in front of him. The most beautiful, incredible woman on the planet.”

“He told you that? That came out of his mouth? Was he drunk?”

“Stone cold sober. He does say things WHILE he’s drunk, but those are triple x rated, so…”

Esme laughs. “Of course they are.”

“He is terrified of losing you. Right scared shitless. And he isn’t scared of much and he certainly doesn’t admit what he IS scared of. He doesn't want to do this life without you, and he’s pretty convinced he wouldn’t be able to. I’ve seen women come and go out of his life; mostly one night stands or girls in different places he could go to for getting his rocks off.”

“Nik?”

“Nik meant nothing. He’s not lying when he says that. There wasn’t anything there; at least not for him. And I knew his ex. Sarah. Spent some time with her.”

“”Yeah, I had the pleasure of meeting her. When they shipped him from the hospital here to the one in Sydney. That was a...pleasant...experience.”

“He thought he was in love with her. High school sweetheart, mother of his first kid. She treated him like complete shit and they’re both at fault for how that whole thing ended up. But when you came along? When I first met you at the hospital and I talked to him about you? I could tell you were different. That what he was FEELING was different. And I saw how he looked at you; how his whole face just lit up when you walked into the room. The way he’d smile at you and how the whole tone of his voice would change when he talked to you. He had it bad even then; I could tell.”

“Maybe he was still caught in the afterglow of those five days.”

“It was more than that. We all knew it. And I’ve known Tyler a long time; I’ve seen him at his worst. And when you came along, I could see how badly he wanted to change. How much he wanted to be the man you needed him to be. That you deserved. And he worked at it. He STILL works at it. You could have easily walked away after Dhaka. Even with a baby in your belly.”

“I didn’t want to walk away.” Esme says. “I wanted to be with him. I wanted to see if we could make something out of nothing. And we did. We made something so amazing.”

“No way he was letting you go. He knew he had a good thing. He wasn’t going to fuck that up.”

“We were both a mess. And somehow we’ve managed to not make an even bigger one and not totally screw up our children.”

“Those kids are incredible. They’re beautiful. The best of both of you. And they’re here because you looked past just how messed up their daddy was and you saw the potential in him. He was screwed up, but you still managed to see he was a good person...a good man...under all that. And you gave him a chance. To prove that he mattered. That his life meant something.”

“His life has always meant something to me. And it means everything to his kids. He’s our entire existence. He’s the one that keeps it all together when it feels like it’s falling apart. And it WILL fall apart; if something happens to him. If he doesn’t make it out of here…”

“He will,” Koen insists. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll make sure he gets out and gets back to you and those littles. I promise.”

She gives a small, hopeful smile.

“And thank you. For taking care of him like you do. For giving him this life. And for loving him like you do.”

“Your voice…” her voice cracks once more. “...you are going to make me cry again..”

“Some things just need to be said,” he reasons, and runs a palm over the top of her head and down her hair. “Just in case.”

****

“We have a problem.”

It’s difficult to make out what she’s saying; a mixture of poor signal and the near deafening sound of vehicle horns blasting and impatient, flustered yelling of people gathered around her. But there’s no mistaking THAT tone of voice. Fear and worry and a whole lot of anxiety. He had just managed to fall asleep -a combination of pure mental exhaustion and another handful of meds- when the phone rang; startling him awake and leaning him disoriented and lightheaded. The extra dose of dilaudid making his head spinning; drowsy despite the nap and sweat beading across his forehead and the back of his neck. And he grimaces as he sits up on the couch, wincing as he stretches his legs out in front of him and then reaches across his body to rub his shoulder. All those drugs and it STILL persists; that dull, incessant throb deep within the joint and the numbness in his hand.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“We parked on the south side of the Sultana Kamal bridge. I figured it was easier to walk in then deal with the traffic and the crowds around the market.”

“Good thinking.” he praises. “Definitely the best way to go. What's the problem?”

“They’ve locked the bridge down. All of the bridges, apparently. They’re not letting anyone through without showing proper ID.”

“You got it, yeah? The one Anil got for you?”

“I do. But that’s not the point. If they’re doing this, they know you’re here. How the hell would they know? We were so careful; coming from the airport. How do they know you’re here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Someone is feeding these people information. Someone inside. You need to call Anil and let him what’s going on; tell him he needs to figure this out. How are you supposed to do an extraction if you can’t even get into the city? They will kill you on sight, Tyler.”

“I’ll have to figure that out. Is it just the cops?”

“Military too. This is some serious fucking deja vu. As if being on this bridge isn’t bad enough…”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Esme admits. “They have pictures of my husband that they’re comparing to everyone that walks or drives across. So no; I’m not okay.”

“I need you to stay calm. I need you to get over the bridge, get shit done, and get back here safe and sound. I know it sucks; being there on the bridge. But I need you to stay calm. If they see you freaking out, they’ll know something is up. So I need you to settle down.”

“What do we do? If we can’t get out? What do you want us to do? If they lock the city down completely?”

“You call me. You call me and I’ll come and get you. You find somewhere to hide you and I will find a way to get there and get you out.”

“They’ll kill you. If they see you…”

“Better me than you.”

“And if we get caught?”

“Don’t fight them. Let them take you. You fight, they’ll make it worse on you. And if that happens...IF you get caught...I still come get you. Right now, I need you to just relax and get shit done, okay? In and out. No mistakes. Not a single fucking one.”

She gives an uneasy laugh. “No pressure, right?”

“You’ll be alright. You’ve got this. You’ve done this kind of thing hundreds of times.”

“Not when there’s so much at stake, I haven’t. I feel sick. Like really sick.”

“You’re working yourself up. Just try and stay calm. I wish I was there with you; I wish I was the one keeping an eye on you.”

“I wish that too. I’d feel a lot better about all of this if you were here.”

“And it should be me. With you.”

“Koen has things under control. I trust him. Not in the same way I trust or as hard and as deep as I trust you, but…”

“You’re going to be okay. You run into any trouble, you call me. You call me and I’ll get you out.”

“I love you, Tyler. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too. You’ve got this. I know you too.”

“I’ll call if I need to,” she promises, and then disconnects the call.

Sighing heavily, he tosses his cell onto the coffee table and then leans forward and places his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. It’s his worst nightmare; her out on the street without him to keep an eye on her. As much as he trusts Koen and knows his friend would stop at nothing to keep her safe, he also knows Koen’s limits. He hasn’t been on the job that long, and despite his years in the military, he simply doesn’t have the skill level or the experience that Tyler has. And it's hard as hell. Being able to do nothing but sit back and wait while his entire heart is out there walking around, putting itself in danger.

He feels nauseous, and both his head and his heart pound furiously. He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his chin to his chest; attempting to steady himself -and his nerves- with long, slow intakes of breath through constricted lungs. It’s the start of a panic attack; he recognizes the fast, irregular heartbeat and the twisting and knotting in his chest and stomach, the perspiration that dampens his hairline. All he can think of is the worst case scenario; Asif’s people grabbing her and spending days...even weeks...making her beg for mercy and eventually death. Doing disgusting and horrendous things to her; abusing her in ways that will make his nightmares seem tame. And they’ll make sure he witnesses it; whether it be through photographs or videos or even forcing her to call him.

His eyes snap open as he reaches for his cell phone; prepared to call Anil and let him know of the hurdles awaiting him in the city center. Pausing when his eyes fall on the bottle of meds sitting nearby. He’s already tripled the recommended daily dose and it’s not even past noon. But there’s no denying the pain; the throbbing in his shoulder and knee and the gnawing in his stomach. And his hands violently tremble as he reaches for the bottle, resorting to using his teeth to twist off the cap. Feeling shame and guilt as he lets four pills drop into his mouth and then swallows them dry.

****

“Something’s not right,” Esme says, as she drops her cell phone into her bag.

The heat is stifling and the humidity nearly unbearable; the Dhaka sun bright and punishing as it beats down on the pedestrians crammed shoulder to shoulder on the bridge. She refuses to acknowledge her surroundings. Choosing to walk along the curb as opposed to near the railing; keeping her eyes straight ahead and never looking down at the ground or out at the river. It’s still too hard; the memories still so fresh and vivid. Easily able to recall the exact spot in the cracked and dirty sidewalk when he’d been dying in her arms and she’d resorted to sticking her fingers in his neck to save his life. She can still hear the staccato of gunfire and the cries of the wounded and dying and smell spent lead and spilt gasoline. Still able to see the burnt out shells of cars and trucks and mangled, bloody bodies.

“There’s nothing right about any of this,” Koen grumbles, a hand resting protectively on the small of her back, keeping her half a step in front of him as they make their way to the checkpoint.

“That’s true. But I meant with Tyler. Something isn’t right with him.”

“He seemed fine this morning.”

“He is FAR from fine. Things have gotten so much worse since the night he was jumped. The pain is intense and he’s suffering more and more and I don’t know what else I can do for him, other than forcing him to go to the doctor when we get home.”

“Just keep loving on him like you do and taking care of him. I know he appreciates it; Even if he won’t admit. And Lord knows he’s stressed and he’s worried and he’s got a lot on his mind. Makes sense he’s not himself.”

“It’s more than that. He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded...off. He didn’t sound like Tyler. I KNOW his voice; I know its changes and all the different ways it can sound depending on his mood. And that? I haven’t heard that Tyler in a long time. Since our battle trying to beat Oxy. He almost sounds like he’s on it; he’s groggy and just out of it and his accent is even thicker. It’s hard to explain.”

“He was probably napping. You probably woke him up.”

“No. I know what he sounds like when he first gets up in the morning or when he wakes with the baby. It wasn’t that. I know it wasn’t. It’s weird, right? That I notice those things? The changes in his voice? That must seem weird to you.”

“He’s your husband; You spend that long with someone, you notice things. Even the smallest of them.”

“How come you didn’t stay married?” she asks. “Why didn’t any of your wives work out?”

“Marriage isn’t for everyone, sunshine. I happen to be one of those who can’t be married AND happy. I just can’t. Can’t be tied down like that. I like not having to answer to anyone. Doing what I want, when I want.’

“But did you love either of them?”

“Love is...subjective.”

“Humour is subjective. Love is love. You either feel it or you don’t. So did you? Love either of them? Tyler said he liked the second one. What was her name? Kim? He said she was really nice; that she seemed crazy about you. How come you didn’t hang onto her?”

“She was friends with Sarah. His ex. So once they split up for good, it kind of made things difficult between Kim and I. I know he fucked up...HUGE…but I also know what she was like. I know she was always cheating on him and doing him wrong. A lot of us didn’t even think the kid was his.”

Esme arches a brow. “Really?”

“We had our doubts. For good reason, too. He’s never told you that?”

“No. I guess he’s never felt a reason to. But knowing Tyler, it wouldn’t have mattered to him if Austin wasn’t really his. He would have loved him and taken care of him anyway.”

“That big heart of his is going to be his downfall one day.”

“Nik doubted Millie. Hell. I think Tyler even doubted Millie when I first got pregnant. Which is understandable.; I totally didn’t blame him for questioning it. But her? Even when Millie was a baby and even a toddler, she tried putting it in his head that Millie wasn’t his.”

“Which is bullshit,” Koen says. “I mean look at the kid and look at the father.”

“Right? She looks just like him! There’s no way he could ever deny her. Nik’s been a thorn in my side since day one. And I just…” she grimaces and lays a hand against her stomach. “...oh god...I feel so sick.”

“It’s the heat,” Koen reasons. “You shouldn’t be standing out in it like this.”

“It’s everything. The heat, the noise, all the people, the smell of the water...” she draws the neck of her t-shirt over her mouth and nose. “...this isn’t good.”

He moves his hand up to the back of her neck, keeping her moving forward. And when they reach the front of the line, he rummages through her bag for her ID and presents it -along with his own- to the police officer manning the checkpoint.

“Bandha,” the officer orders in Bengali, motioning for Esme to remove the shirt from her face and the ball cap from her head. “Bandha!”

“Now what’s the point of that?” Koen questions. “She’s clearly not the bloke in the picture you got there. She’s clearly not a bloke at all.”

The officer ignores him, pulling a second picture out from underneath the photo of Tyler. A black and white shot of her from the job in Ireland. When she’d sported short, red hair and glasses. And she feels her stomach jump clear into her throat.

“Look, my wife isn’t feeling well,” Koen explains, as he wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her tight into his side. “We just found out a few days ago that we’re having a baby; our first. And she hasn’t been having a good go of it and the sun’s making it worse. It's obvious she’s not a bloke and she’s definitely not the girl in that picture. So unless you want her throwing up all over the place…”

“I really do feel sick,” she whimpers. “I need to get somewhere to puke.”

“I know, honey,” he presses a kiss to her temple. “And I’m sure this nice policeman understands.”

The officer looks towards the nearest colleague -likely a higher ranked officer -for help. And receives a nod to allow them to pass.

“Have you seen them?” The first officer inquires, showing the two pictures in her face.

“Haven’t seen them a day in my life,” Koen says, and quickly whisks her away.

****

“That was way too fucking close!” Esme finally allows herself a sigh of relief three blocks later, and tucks her hair back under her baseball hat. “Why the hell would they have a picture of me?”

“Asif’s people aren’t stupid. If they know Tyler’s in town, they also know he’s not dumb enough to show his hand just yet. Guess they figured he’d send you in his place.”

“This is fucked. Way more than I first thought it was. How do they even know Tyler is here? Nathan made the most sense as the mole; he disappears and then shows up out of the blue, being held captive by them? A week and a half later? That makes no sense. They would have let us know if they had him. They take pride in shit like that.”

“So you don’t think it’s him now?”

“I still don’t trust him. Something IS shady about him. But he wouldn’t know that Tyler is here. So there has to be someone else; someone on the inside. Two moles.”

“That’s reaching, don’t you think?”

“It’s the only way any of this makes sense. Nathan was the one who told Mahajan’s man where Tyler was that night and what areas of his body to target. They knew, Koen; they knew to go after his shoulder, knee, AND back. They even went after his neck; right where he was shot and the surgeon had to repair that vein. They knew. And then Nathan takes off and doesn’t show up until a week and a half later?”

“But they have him,” he argues. “Asif’s people. They have him and they’re fucking him up pretty good.”

“It’s all bullshit. I’m sure of it. And there has to be a way to prove it. Tyler can’t just go in there trusting him. He can’t. There has to be a way to find out Nathan is in on this. We just have to figure out what it is.”

“Whoa...whoa...whoa...you and I don’t need to do shit. We’re doing enough being here.”

“I’m going to ask them to let me see him with my own two eyes. When we find out where he is, I want to go in and see him for myself. I’ll know if he’s lying or not.”

“Are you fucking insane? You can’t go into something like that. That is not your job.”

“If it prevents Tyler from going in and Nathan backstabbing him? I’ll do it.”

“You think he wants you to? You think he wants you to go in there? Put yourself...and that baby...at risk? He’d never allow that.”

“I don’t need his permission.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but this is fucked. This is a horrible idea. Let someone else figure it out. This is not up to you. You’re doing enough. MORE than enough.”

“But if I…”

“No more,” he orders. “I won’t hear of this. Not a single word more. You mention it again, I will tell him. Hear me?”

“I hear you. I wont talk about it again. It was just an idea.”

“A stupid ass idea.”

She rolls her eyes.

“So what are we looking for?” he inquires, a hand on her shoulder as her eyes scour the market.

“It’s not WHAT I’m looking for. It’s WHO I’m looking for. And I’m hoping he’s still here.”

“You want to be a little more specific, or…”

“I met a vendor the first time we were here. He sold handmade jewellery. Tyler got me this…” she holds up her right hand; showing off the simple braided leather and beaded bracelet she sports. “...from him. But he’s way more valuable than just his jewellery. He keeps his ear to the ground. BOTH ears. He was able to find out things for me like that…” she snaps her thumb and index finger together. “...and if he’s still here, I’m hoping he can still help.”

“A lot can change in seven years,” Koen reasons.

“Nothing has changed here. It still looks the same, sounds the same, smells the same. That’s where we stayed,” she nods towards a rundown hotel across the street. “Third floor, second room. The balcony that has the rug hanging over the railing. THAT hasn’t even changed. I bet the toilet is still broken and I bet they haven’t painted the dirty walls or put in a proper shower head. Nothing’s changed; not a goddamn thing.”

For several minutes she searches the market. Attempting to blend in with the other shoppers; making small talk with both buyers and vendors, picking up various objects and studying them, purchasing food items for the safe house and small trinkets that would appeal to the kids. Koen sticks close to her side; hand never leaving the small of her back, never speaking yet offering pleasant smiles and nods in greeting.

“Here! Over here!” she suddenly exclaims, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him behind her. Pausing at a vendor tucked alongside of a busy laundry, nervously rocking back and forth on her heels chewing on her bottom lip as she waits for the owner to finish up with a customer. And she notices the look on the older man’s face when he regards her; his eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side. And she sees the glimmer of recognition. “Do you remember me?” she asks. “I know you’ve seen a lot of people since we met, but…” she removes her head and shakes her hair free. “...do you? When we first met, you commented on my hair. About how long it was and how the sun made the red in it sparkle. Do you remember?”

A bright, wide smile spreads from ear to ear. “My friend!” he gleefully cries, and hurries around the side of the table to warmly embrace her. “You haven’t changed a bit!” He presses a kiss to each cheek. “As beautiful as ever!”

“Thank you. But believe me, I’ve changed a lot. How are you? You look wonderful. Life’s been treating you kind?”

“It’s been fair to me. I can’t complain. Well I could, but no one would listen,” he chuckles. “You’re back! In Dhaka?”

“Just for a few days. For work.”

“And your husband? He is still your husband?”

“He is. He is still hanging in there. We have five kids now.”

“Five children! Big family. Last time I saw you, you just had the one. A little girl.”

“Amelia. Millie. She just turned six. And she’s so smart and so beautiful. She looks just like her daddy. They’re back at the hotel; the kids wanted to go swimming and he offered to stay behind to take them.”

“Good guy that one!”

“Yeah, he is. A very good guy.And this is my brother. Kyle.” She lays a hand on Koen’s shoulder. “The one I told you about.”

“The fireman?”

“That’s me,” Koen smiles, abandoning his accent and shaking the hand offered to him. “Thought I’d keep little sis company.”

“I was wondering if you could help us.” Esme says, and begins admiring and surveying items for sale when she notices curious bystanders watching them intently. “I could really, really, REALLY use your help.”

“With what?”

“I need information. Do you still have an ear to the ground? You still have people you can trust?”

He nods.

“Have you seen the picture floating around? The man everyone is looking for? The mercenary?”

“Looks very much like your husband. I only saw him with a hat on when he was here though. And sunglasses. So I couldn’t say for sure. I didn’t think it was him. A mercenary? That doesn’t seem like a job for someone like him. He was always so friendly and good to me.”

“His name is Tyler Rake. My husband. And he IS a mercenary. Seven years ago, we came here to find a kid that had been taken by Amir Asif.”

“Mahajan’s kid?”

“That’s why we were here. And we found him and everything went to shit. All that trouble on the bridge? That was us. That was ALL us. And I need your help again. And I’m willing to pay. I’m willing to pay VERY well.”

“What do you need?”

“Amir Asif is dead, but in some ways, he’s very much alive. I know he has people trying to avenge him. Carrying on his business. And they've grabbed friends of ours.”

“A woman and a teenage boy,” the vendor says. “And a mercenary.”

“I work for the people that want them back. I need to get word to Asif’s people that I’m in town and I’m ready to negotiate. That I have access to the money they asked for, but I’d rather talk first. And I need proof of life. For all three.”

The vendor nods slowly.

“Can you do it? Get the word out? To the right people?”

“I can.”

“But will you. Will you do that for me?”

“I will.”

“I need it done right away. As soon as I walk away. It’s important it gets done right away.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pen and small notebook, tossing open the cover and hastily scribbling her cell number. “Tell them to text first. They text with a number that I or one of my people can call. Tell them we want to talk and start negotiations. ASAP. But nothing will happen unless we see with our own eyes that everyone is alive. That is the only way they’ll get what they want. Tell them I’m in charge. Not them. And that I’ll give them their money, but I’m NOT giving them the man they want. That’s non negotiable and it’s never going to happen.” She tears the paper from the notebook, then removes a hundred dollars from her wallet and hands both to the vendor. “Thank you.”

“This is too much!” he exclaims. “Way too much! You are too generous!”

“You deserve way more than that, believe me. Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“At least take something.” he says. “For yourself. Your children. Especially your little girl.”

Selecting three bracelets -for herself, Millie, and Addie-, she slips her hat back onto her head and bids farewell, giving an appreciative smile and a small wave as other customers approach. And she grabs Koen tightly by the hand as they slip into the crowd.

*****

He doesn’t hear the phone until it’s on the second ring, and he hastily rinses the soap and shampoo from his body and hair, leaving the water running as he tosses open the door. Wincing and limping as he hurries across the room and grabs the cell from the ledge of the sink. He’d thought a shower - alternating between ice cold and steaming hot- would help alleviate both the fogginess in his brain and the multitude of aches inhabiting his body. But so far it’s done nothing.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” Relief rushes through him at the sound of her voice. Much calmer...brighter...than it was the first time around. “We just got back to the car. It didn’t start out too good though.”

He uses his shoulder to hold his phone to his ear and snags a towel from the back of the door, loosely wrapping it around his waist. “What happened?”

“They had my picture. At the checkpoint.”

“What the fuck..”

“It was an old one. From Ireland. When I had glasses and my hair was red and short. I almost passed out, I swear. And I had my hat on and my shirt over my mouth and nose because the smell of the water was going to make me puke and they were going to make me take both off.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Koen handled it. He told them I was his wife and that it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t the guy or the girl in the pictures. That I was pregnant and feeling sick and unless they wanted me puking everywhere, they’d let me through.”

“And they bought it?”

“Yup. But that was a close call. Way too close. And then I saw Farhad. On the way back across the bridge.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I pretended I needed to tie my shoe and by the time I stood back up, he was past us already. I swear...when I saw him...I have never been that angry in my entire life. I know he was just a kid when he almost killed you, but I was so fucking angry. He’s out there walking around like nothing ever happened and meanwhile he’s caused so many fucking problems! If you run into him, you better end him once and for all.”

He uses a second towel to vigorously rub at his hair as he heads out into the bedroom. “Esme…”

“I mean it, Tyler. I won’t have peace until he’s dead. He’s not a kid anymore. There’s no reason to spare him now.”

“Baby, that’s revenge.”

“And sometimes revenge is needed. And I need it. I need that peace of mind that I haven’t had in seven years. So if you run into him…”

“What’s the chances of that? That I’ll actually run into him?” He hasn’t told her about Farhad’s involvement in Neysa and Aarav’s capture, or the pain and suffering he’s been inflicting on them. Nothing good will come of that; it will serve only to stoke that already simmering fury and need for revenge that’s been eating away at her for seven years.

“What’s the chances I’d run into him on the bridge?”

He sighs, then grabs his discarded jeans from the back of the chair by the window.

“That little bastard is still out there, walking around. Look at the damage he’s caused. To you. To me. To us. He shouldn’t get away with that. He deserves to pay for what he did. HE NEEDS to pay.”

“You’re just working yourself up. That’s the let down from the adrenaline talking. Or the hormones. Maybe a mix of both. In an hour you won’t feel this way.”

“I’ve felt this way for seven years. It’s not just going to go away. Not unless I know he’s gone.”

“We’ll talk about this when you get back. Talk. Not fight. There’s no sense getting into it now. Everything else went okay?”

“I got the word out. I don’t think we’ll have to wait very long.”

“You’re fucking amazing. And I love you. So much.”

“I love you too. I just wanted to let you know that we’re okay. I know you were probably worrying yourself sick. And Koen did a great job. He kept an eye on me; not a single hair on my hair was disturbed.”

“So he lives to see another day.”

“Basically,” she laughs. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You definitely will,” he assures her, then presses END on his cell.

****

“That was pretty fucking intense,” Koen declares, as he guns the ignition and peels out of the clearing, leaving a cloud of dirt and dust in his wake.

“Right? I nearly peed myself a couple of times. You saved my ass on that bridge. And you go to live out one of your fantasies. You got me to be your wife for a few minutes.”

“I would have preferred a few minutes of something else, if you know what I mean.”

“Well you’ll have to keep dreaming about THAT. I’m a one man woman. You’ll have to live vicariously through him.”

“Lucky bastard,” Koen grumbles.

“He knows it too. But I’m pretty lucky myself. That’s something I should probably tell him more often. Even hard asses probably like to feel appreciated once in a while.”

“You ask me, you SHOW him how much you appreciate him.”

She smiles at that.

“So that was him? The guy on that bridge. That was Farhad?”

“Yeah,” Esme nods. “That was him. The little prick that shot Tyler in the neck. From behind. A total bitch move.”

“He looks like a little bitch.”

“That kid almost took everything from me before it even started. He’s the reason I can’t let go of that place. The things I saw, the things I had to do? That’s all because of that fucking kid. And I can’t forgive him and I can’t move on; I can’t leave the place behind if he’s still here. I just can’t. What if Tyler did die that day? I would have gone home and found out about Millie and I would have gone through it all by myself. She never would have known her dad. I wouldn’t even have had a picture to show her. All that I would have had was those five days in Dhaka. Those memories of it. That’s it.”

“But he DIDN'T die,” Koen points out. “He made it. Because of you. If you hadn’t stepped up and put your ass on the line…”

“Don’t do that,” she begs. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. I did what I had to do because I felt he deserved to live. And because selfishly, I wanted more time with him. But I don’t deserve praise and I don’t deserve praise for doing something anyone would have done.”

“Not anyone would have done it and you know that. You saved him. And not just on that bridge, either.”

“I just don’t feel comfortable with it; people thanking me and praising me and thinking so highly of me. Tyler deserved to live and that’s why I did it. Because he’d more than made up for the mistakes he’d made and he deserved another chance.”

“And not everybody would see it that way, either. Would see HIM that way.”

“Well I saw him that way. I’ll always see him that way. And that’s why I want revenge. For him.”

“You want the kid to die?”

Esme nods. “And if that makes me a bad person, so be it. But it’ll give me peace. I’ll finally be able to let go of this place. I NEED to let go of it.”

“I’ll do it,” Koen offers. “I’ll take care of the kid. For Tyler. For you.”

“You’d do that? For us?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I would.”

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fic #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Chris Hemsworth character #Best Part of Me #Extraction #Extraction 2020 #Extraction 2020 fan fic #extraction fan fiction

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