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euphemiaamillais · 4 months

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blurb - mentor!coriolanus snow corrupts his tribute

cw: 18+//corruption kink//dub-con//blowjobs//fingering//piv sex//mentions of death (you are a tribute after all)

you’re his favourite tribute, he reminds you each time he makes a visit to your apartments. he’s been granted the illusive role once again, after dr. gaul had noticed his success—and to thank him for his immense contribution to changing the way the capitol viewed the games. so, in thanks, he was allowed to pick any tribute he wanted—of course he selected you. pretty, but oh-so-innocent. he mostly wanted you so he could force you onto your knees and have you lap every last drop of cum from his cock.

that’s why he was here this evening, a bouquet of roses in his arms, matching the one on his lapel, coming on the guise that he wanted to have a special dinner to commemorate your going into the games in two days’ time. you’d ensured your stylist had dressed you in the prettiest gown—a soft green dress that flowed over your figure in such a way that you had gasped when you saw yourself in the mirror. you wanted to look good for coriolanus after all—he had been so kind to you, and it was the least you could do to look pretty for him.

when he arrives at the door, he’s dressed handsomely in a starched white button up shirt and black dress pants, and he hands you the array of flowers. you gasp, bowing your head in thanks and rushing to put them in a vase. however, an avox sweeps past and takes them from your hand to rearrange them for you. a feeling of dread washes over you as you realise it’s unlikely that you’ll be alive to see the flowers wilt. however, you force a smile back on your face, giddy with excitement that your mentor has come to pay you a visit.

‘how’s my favourite tribute?’ coriolanus inquires, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to it, his eyes glistening with a certain intention. you blush, the imprint of his lips burning into your hand. you still felt it after he’d pulled away from you.

‘oh, well, i’m certainly doing well now that you’re here, mr snow,’ you smile, making your way to the settee to rest your legs. you’d been pacing for hours in anticipation of his arrival.

‘what did i tell you about calling me that—really, it’s not like i’m president or something.’ he reprimands gently, and you nod in apology.

he can’t keep his eyes off of you; the way that dress hugs every curve on your body, how its neckline plunges to reveal your pert breasts. he fantasises about unzipping you, hands caressing your breasts, fingers bringing your nipples to harden, and then sliding his tongue over them as you squirm beneath him. of course, he’s getting ahead of himself—you notice his face is hot, which only makes you blush in return. whatever could he be thinking of?

‘i do have another present for you,’ he says, and your eyes light up with delight. presents are such a rarity back in the districts that the mere mention of a gift sends your heart pounding with excitement.

‘oh really!’ you gasp gleefully, and he nods, his icy blue eyes glistening at the thought of what he’s about to do. his poor, innocent little tribute. you’d never expect this, but he knows you’re so desperate to please him—you’ll do anything just to make your mentor happy.

‘but you have to close your eyes. can you do that for me?’ he says in his charming tone, the one he uses when he really wants something. you comply, squeezing your eyes shut with a giggle of excitement, body thrumming with anticipation.

coriolanus unbuckles his belt, and pulls down his pants which are already straining with the hard bulge of his cock. he’s aching for you; aching for relief.

‘what is it, coryo?’ he sighs as you use his pet name; one hand firmly gripping his cock.

‘hush, it’s a surprise. but i promise you’ll really like it…’ he uses his free hand to caress your cheek, and you blush at the touch. his large hands are a little cold, but you welcome his ministrations.

‘okay…’ you giggle again, and he feels his cock begin to leak with precum—your innocence eggs him on, he wants nothing more than to tarnish you completely, make you his.

‘open your mouth,’ he commands, and willingly, you oblige. perhaps he’s given you something sweet. your belly grumbles with hunger, the thought of a bonbon or perhaps a chocolate truffle making you salivate.

you feel him ease something in; it’s firm, but it feels familiar in a way. it tastes… salty almost. you hear him let out a breathy sigh. coriolanus feels the sweet relief of your mouth around him, tongue thick with saliva, coating him so well.

‘don’t bite, sweetheart,’ he winces at the slight feeling of your teeth—you can’t help it, you’re just so hungry. ‘you suck it.’

you take his advice, and use your tongue to lick at the thing he’s put into your mouth. your eyes are still firmly shut, and he hasn’t told you to open them yet, so you assume it’s part of your present. perhaps it’s to enrich the experience—something you’ve heard the garishly festooned capitol citizens say.

‘good girl,’ he groans, feeling your tongue swirl around the tip of his cock, and he begins to slide himself in and out at a gentle pace. you’re not ready for a full face-fucking, no. he can’t spoil you that bad.

you blush at his praise, feeling him move your gift further inside your mouth. you feel something hit the back of your throat, and you gag a little, eyes brimming with tears. you try to squeeze them away with your shut eyes, but your attempts are in vain.

your eyes sting, and you are forced to open them, much to his dismay. coriolanus shakes his head in disapproval as you open your eyes to see him standing above you, cock fucking your pretty little throat. you furrow your brow, a little shocked at his corruption of you; but nonetheless you continue to suck.

‘what did i say about opening your eyes, sweetheart?’ he inquires, one hand stroking the back of your head, twisting his fingers in your shiny tresses.

‘i’m sorry,’ you say, voice muffled as your lips stretch around his tip. you’ve never done this before, but figure it’s quite simple. after all, you’d been doing it with your eyes closed.

‘you’ve been such a good girl; i wanted to give you something special, in thanks.’ he pushed your head back down onto his cock, groaning with delight as you sucked him.

you look up at him with your teary eyes, laving your tongue around his throbbing cock, feeling the rigid veins as he ruts into you. coriolanus tossed his head back, lips drawn into a satisfied grin. you looked so perfect taking him all in. god, just imagine how your cunt would feel around him—stretching out your pretty little pussy with his big, hard cock.

he thinks about how you’ll probably be dead in a few days time—he supposes he ought to relish you while he can, as morbid as it seems.

his thrusts slow, and you feel something warm release at the back of your throat. he pulls out, hot cum dripping from the tip of his cock, and starving, not having eaten in hours, you lap up all the leaking spend.

‘oh fuck,’ he sighs, patting your head as you slide your tongue up and down over the tip. he tingles with overstimulation.

you swallow obediently; he tastes a little salty, but not unpleasant, and feel it slide down into your belly. coriolanus leans down to press a kiss to your plump, wet lips; a little bruised from the sucking. he hoped the gamemakers wouldn’t notice you’d been a little maimed before the games.

‘i’m full now,’ you muse, eyes glistening a little with delight. he laughs at your sudden cheek, and you smile, glad to have just pleased him. that’s all you wanted—his approval; him telling you how good you were as you sucked him off.

‘mhm, i don’t know about that sweetheart,’ his lips curl up into an impish grin. you cock a brow; confused.

‘are you going to do that again?’ you inquire, gnawing at your bottom lip. while you enjoyed it, you felt the nagging feeling between your thighs; want, want for something more. a different kind of hunger.

‘no,’ his voice trailed off, and he knelt down, placing his hands on your thighs. ‘but i’m going to fill you another way.’

his hands creep up your dress, pushing the flimsy fabric aside, revealing your lack of panties—after all, it was impossible with the dress. he groans, seeing your cunt on display, his hands parting your legs which are sticky with want.

‘what are you doing?’ your voice trembles a little, not out of fear, but out of curiosity. back home, you’d known very little about the ways of the world. sure, you’d kissed boys, but nothing ever went further than a bit of tongue. you only knew that your body was desperate for him, and that you assumed, he’d use some part of himself to relieve that aching pressure building up.

‘shhh, relax, sweetheart,’ he put a finger to your lips, and thus you obliged, watching as he dips fingers in the slickness of your cunt.

you cry out, his fingers stretching out your tight little hole. he purses his lips together smugly, feeling you tense around him again—you’re a virgin. he feels his own belly burn with desire at the knowledge that he will be the first to tarnish you, to fuck you full of cum and claim you as his. in fact, you really do belong to him. your life depends on how many sponsors he can rack up for you, and how well he prepares you for the arena. he has to admit, he loves the power surge he gets from this.

he pumps his fingers in and out, adding another when he feels you loosening around them; wanting to stretch you out enough for you to be able to take him.

‘oh!’ you mewl as he fucks you with his fingers; your own making a fist in the rich upholstered fabric of the settee.

‘good girl,’ he praises, and you smile, proud to be pleasing him so well. you see his cock harden again. it is pressing against his stomach, the tip red with need; he’s so desperate to fuck your tight little hole and pump you full of his cum.

‘lay back,’ he demands, and you oblige, wiggling back on the settee and propping yourself up with your shoulders.

he guides his cock with his hands, and slides it slowly inside of you. you feel your walls loosen around him; stretching with a little pain at first, but you��re so wet that soon all you can feel is a delicious fullness, and the tingling growing more.

‘fuck you’re tight,’ he grunts, beginning to thrust into you. he can’t help but be a little greedy, bucking into you with vigour and force—he doesn’t really care if it hurts you, you’re just so tight that he is filled with the desperate need to spoil you.

he is poised over you now, muscular arms propping himself up, and you reach your hands around to caress his back; wanting to feel some sense of closeness. you’ve hardly known him a week, and yet he’s shown your more kindness than anybody else in the capitol.

he begins to pound into you, overcome by his intense desire, and the feeling of you clenching around his big cock is enough to send him yearning for satisfaction. you moaned, eyes rolling back in pleasure as he filled you full; cock buried so deep you could feel his balls slapping against the bare skin between your cunt and bottom.

‘mhm, coryo,’ you mutter into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.

‘such a pretty baby, taking my cock like this,’ he grins, rutting you like you’re nothing better than a common white. ‘can’t believe you’re letting me make you mine, huh? what other tribute would do that? are you a little slut, hm?’

‘uh huh,’ you nod, too fucked out on his cock to muster up anything but a few moans. you’d never imagined he’d be taking you, spoiling you with his big cock. and yet, you’d let him. he’d known how much of a desperate little whore you were; blushing too much whenever he praised you as you showed him your stamina in training.

coriolanus grips your hips as he fastened his pace, driving himself in and out; your wet pussy making a delightful sound as he rutted you. he watches as your tits bounce in that flouncy green dress, threatening to spill out with every thrust. if he wouldn’t get in trouble for ruining your dress, he’d have cum all over your tits, painting you with his spend. but he delighted more in pumping you full instead; watching it drip out as you tried to clean yourself up and put on a show of decorum.

‘fuck,’ he moans as your walls tense around him, your heat burning as his thrusts turn slow. ‘i’m gonna fill you up, hm? would you like that?’

you nod drunkenly—absolutely blissful from his cock. you shudder a little, feeling a sudden tightness in your belly—your cunt contracts slightly, and you gush around him, your first and albeit weak orgasm.

he bucks his hips, grunting and groaning as he finishes inside of you, filling you up with his second load; sticky and hot with desire.

‘god, you’re such a little slut, taking all of my cum, letting me ruin you like that,’ he says exasperatedly, not sliding out yet so he can ensure his cum stays in you—after all, you need to be reminded that you’re his. ‘i wonder what the gamemakers would say if they knew you were letting your mentor pump you full of his cum? letting a fucking slut into the arena…’

your cheeks burn with embarrassment, feeling his cum inside of you; a deliciously full sensation. you’re not so hungry anymore. he slides out of you, and watches as his seed begins to slowly trickle out of you and down your thighs.

‘will you come again, coryo?’ you ask, bottom lip between your teeth, a sheepish look painted upon your pretty face. he laughs in disbelief.

‘what, that desperate to have me before you go into the arena?’ he is a little surprised by this, but is gloating all over at the fact that you’re just so drunk on his cock.

‘mhm, please coryo,’ your lip trembles, eyes stretching wide with plea. ‘grant a dying girl her wish.’

his look darkens, and you feel a pit in your stomach form. neither of you were saying it, but it was unlikely that you’d be making it out alive. perhaps if you were especially lucky… but chances were slim.

‘i’ll try my best. for my favourite tribute,’ he half-promises, feeling a tightness in his chest when he has to remember that you too, are human. not some little doll to play with. he’s not one for getting feelings involved. he learned that the hard way, with lucy gray.

‘thank you coryo,’ you muse, pressing a kiss to his lips. you feel a tender flutter in your heart.

he dresses, and then leaves with the half-hearted promise of being back soon, perhaps later tonight if he can manage to sneak past the guards. of course, he only cares about satisfaction. knowing he has you wrapped around his finger means he has better luck at getting you to win—you’ll do whatever he says.

that’s how he leaves you, his favourite tribute, blissful from his cock, and wanting more; desperate for him. you don’t know his real intentions, that you’re just his little plaything, the chance to bring further glory to his name.

coriolanus snow is a bad man.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coryo x reader #x reader #female x reader #tom blyth #hunger games #smut #president snow #tbosbas x reader #tbosbas #tbosbas fanfic #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games #drabble #blurb #fanfic #coryo smut #coryo snow

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tuktukpodfics · 1 year

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Thinking about how underrated the Foggy Swamp Tribe was in Avatar.

In the show they’re mostly played for laughs. They don’t wear pants, they have thick accents, they don’t seem to know much about the Northern and Southern Water Tribes. But they're a lot wiser than they're given credit for. Not to mention they're big dang heroes.

The Banyan-grove tree

Philosophically, the swamp is fascinating. Their home is centered around a banyan-grove tree, a cross between a mangrove and a banyan—two trees symbolizing life and death.

Mangrove trees are the nurseries of the ocean. Sea life migrates to mangrove forests to lay eggs in the protection of their murky root systems. Bato may look down on the swamp people and make a snide comment about them not wearing pants, but the swamp people are the stewards of ocean life.

Banyan trees are trees of death. The banyan is a parasitic plant that grows by latching onto another host plant, eventually choking the host to death. Banyan figs are also pollinated through death. Wasps crawl into the immature fig, lay their eggs, and die inside it.

So this tree needs death in order to live. And it can’t provide shelter and food for animals without the death of other animals. You can see how this cycle of life and death is reflected in their worldview—which is completely ride or die.

Everything is connected.

The first thing they do once the gaang stops attacking them is call them kin. They bring them home and treat them like family. And I think the swamp people really do see them that way.

They could have comfortably sat out the war. They didn’t. The war might not have affected them personally, but they still felt responsibility to help.

Death is an illusion.

They’re not even scared on the Day of Black Sun. They don’t seem afraid of death at all. They keep cat-gators as pets! For fun! Katara and Sokka are distraught by the visions of dead loved ones they see in the swamp gas. The swamp people live in the swamp gas all the time. Death is all around and they do. not. care. In fact, they embrace it, treat it like a normal, necessary part of life.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the swamp people after the Day of Black Sun. They surrendered along with the other adults, buying the children time to flee. The swamp people have their own section in the crowd at Zuko’s coronation, so presumably they were released. But released from where? Were they locked in a prison for water benders like the horrific one Hama was imprisoned in? What happened to them in Legend of Korra when Kuvira harvested the banyan-grove’s vines? Where was their kin when they needed help?

#P.S. Fun Fact: Tho is the only person outside the gaang who correctly identifies Momo’s species (lemur)#Everyone else calls Momo a monkey #Tho calls Momo a leemoo #...which is played for comedy because of his accent #foggy swamp tribe #atla #avatar the last airbender

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penvisions · 1 month

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by the grit of sandpaper {chapter 1}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Chapter Summary: But what is there to miss at the end of the world? It depends on the person, but you? You would do anything for decent kitchen gadgets, something you let slip to your routine patrol partner, one Joel Miller.

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence (later chapters), canon typical language, illusions to past death, illusions to past trauma, pining, unrequited feelings, joel a little daft in this, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, mild injuries, head injury, reader bonks her head, mild concussion, lots of feelings, slight angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, jealousy, two (2) instances of joel miller gently touching reader, intentional flirting, unintentional flirting. fluff, this is so unbelievably soft, reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name

A/N: home on bed rest today after a cortisone shot and i was reading through the draft for this when the words all came together for the first installment and i'm super excited to share it with y'all ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Joel Miller was a quiet man, not quick to engage in conversation beyond the pleasantries of greeting someone as he crossed paths with them, or asking after the issues people bring to his attention. Not quick to divulge his personal activities or words of his past. But he was willing to help anyone who approached him, the list on the spiral notepad in his back pocket never ending. Every single pair of the man’s pants held the same distressed markings, a testament to how he never left home without it wedged into the fabric.

But you wouldn’t admit to having noticed such a small thing.

The man’s pants were none of your concern, truly. As someone who regularly patrolled with him, would wave to him throughout the town’s streets and gatherings though he would seldom return it, his attention pulled toward someone wishing to interact with him. But that didn’t mean you weren’t aware of the faded lines along the denim stretched over his backside.

Almost as if were a secret you held to yourself much like the fondness you found pulling at your lips every time you mounted your horse alongside him and left through the gates.

The man in question held out a thermos to you, steam rising from the top of it where he had left it open to breath. The early morning carrying a slight chill despite the birds chirping happily and the buds beginning to bloom along the trees around the town.

“So, I know you’re good with a shotgun,” His rich baritone washed over you, warming you faster than the coffee he had taken the time to brew and the rising sun, barely cresting over the horizon now. “But what do you like to do to fill your time?”

“Like…for fun? Or to make the day go by?” You quirked an eyebrow, looking sideways at Joel as he rode a few paces ahead, he knew the trail by heart at this point. The same one you always did this time of the month, a routine set in stone that allowed you a pocket of alone time with him outside the town’s walls.

“Either. Both.”

“Um, well it’s not so easy now, but cooking, making things for people to enjoy.” You took a tentative sip, slurping accidentally as you realized it was still a touch too hot for the sensitive skin of your lips. You sputtered, droplets of the hot liquid flecking along the saddle and back of the appaloosa’s neck. The sweet mare startled, halting in her steps. The sudden stop causing you to knock the top of the thermos to your chin, more of the hot liquid finding your lips.

“Fu- c’mon Lowry, you know I didn’t mean to get ya!” You lightly scolded, tugging on the collar of your button up to wipe at your now throbbing face. You felt heat flood you, fluttering in your stomach as you realized how embarrassing a sight you just put on for the man beside you. But he wasn’t chuckling with that deep rumble he tended to do sometimes. Instead, he was calmly urging his own steed to come to a stop.

He dismounted, coming up beside you. He had a clean kerchief in his hand that he was holding out to you. You had no idea where he pulled it from, his jacket pockets were zipped closed. At least, they looked like it as your eyes had roved over his form ahead of you. Once you wiped the coffee from your face, he was moving closer, causing your heart to flutter.

“Lemme see,” His thick fingers were brushing your bottom lip and you froze. His eyes were focused on the way they looked irritated, catching the soft morning light. You tried to hide the way your breath hitched, but you were sure it puffed against his thumb, giving your nervousness away. He had never been so forward before, only spare instances of hands and thighs brushing against each other over the months you’ve been paired with him. “Doesn’t look too bad, sweetheart.”

As quickly as he had reached out, he was moving away with a lingering brush of his hand along your chin, an unreadable expression on his face. All you could do was nod an affirmative, feeling heat bloom in your chest and the swell of your cheeks.

Lowry knickered, bobbing her head. Joel’s hand then reached out and caressed the side of her face, gentle sounds humming from his chest.

“Were you a fancy, make it from scratch kinda cook or one that threw everythin’ in a crock pot and played the waiting game?” He turned his head to the side, catching your eye. A small grin you weren’t sure how to read pulling at his plush lips. “I was pretty hopeless in the kitchen, made a lot of spaghetti and had a lot of cereal.”

“Oh, um, from scratch.” You thought back to the meals you would create, the flavor profiles you would put together. “But that’s not so bad, sometimes routine is good, I’m sure you needed the carbs and protein to do….carpentry?”

“Contracting, actually.”

“I had a contractor scheduled to look into a re-do of my kitchen, but they never showed. It was such a letdown; he came so highly recommended. But I guess it was just too big of a project for him.”

“Nah, was probably just a matter of supply and demand.” He easily comforted you. “Kitchens are a lot of work. Especially if the design is for someone who spends a lot of time in the room. Need all kinda gadgets for that, hmm?”

“Typically, which is why it can be such a hassle nowadays. But it’s a small price to pay for being so safe in town. The loss of a good cutting board or sturdy utensils is a good trade for the life we have.”

Joel only hummed in response, and you felt like you had spoken too much. Opened up in the wrong way to the man back in front of you, his horse trotting along happily.

He didn’t ask you any more questions as the route was made and you didn’t try to bridge the gap, feeling foolish for voicing your rather naïve loss of kitchenware. You often has small conversations of a similar fashion, a simple question. Not too focused, general. Easy going subjects that allowed you glimpses of each other.

Later that night, Joel stood in the doorway of his workspace.

He had just stepped out of the shower, washing the long hours of the day from his shoulders. Ellie had left a plate of what she deemed dinner for him with a note before she had taken off for the night.

‘Gotta keep your mind sharp, old man. Here’s some dinner cause I know you didn’t stop to eat all day.’

She had even included a smiley face with downturned eyebrows, the little shit. And it made him realize he needed to set some time aside for another guitar lesson, just the two of them. A day on the porch in the warm sun while it was still the season for it. It was well into Autumn, the leaves changing into rich colors all around the town and in the forests beyond the walls.

But not seeing her didn’t feel like the worst thing because it had been a productive day. Patrol with you, then helping Tommy to work through foundation of a few new houses. The town was growing and he was glad to help, never having even dared to dream of a place such as this before he had quite literally stumbled upon it nearly a year ago.

Eyes trailing over everything he had neatly organized in the room. The different, albeit only a handful, types of wood he had accumulated with the help of the council. There was an ancient sawmill in one of the town’s buildings, used to help cut downed trees to turn them into lumber for construction. Tommy had been able to help them run diagnostics on it once he had become a part of the population, his shared past with his brother allowing for him to have the knowledge to maintenance it and get it in operating form.

He wasn’t sure what wood was typically used for kitchenware, nor was he sure he had a food safe sealant. But he was going to inspect everything in town, mind working overtime as he removed the small spiral notebook from his back pocket and began writing down his thoughts as they bubbled up.

Spatulas

Serving spoons

Rolling pins

Spoon rests

Cutting boards

Joel underlined the last one, knowing what a vision it would be to see you lovingly stood at the counter in his kitchen making a meal for a shared dinner. And excited smile on your face, explaining the details of the recipe you were working on. And he would listen to every word, even if he didn’t understand. To see the brightness of your soft smile as you shared parts of yourself with him. He rather liked that you had become his regular patrol partner, you could read the moods he felt. If he was open to conversation, if he needed little quips to keep him on his toes, if he had had a small argument or disagreement with Ellie and needed to either stew or hash it out.

You were good and he wanted to use his aching hands to not only provide for the town, but to provide for you as well.

The rest of the week passed easily, another patrol alongside Joel having occurred. But he had been rather quiet, in his head for most of the silent trip around the settlement. You hadn’t thought much of it, in your own thoughts as well. Made okay by the pair of thermoses of coffee he had brought along for you both indulge in. An easy-going rapport built up between the two of you, one where the sharing of such a commodity was matched.

Upon taking the first tentative sip, he had assured you it wasn’t as hot as last time.

The strong heat it lacked seemed to bloom across your cheeks, recalling the last time he had handed it to you. The whisper of his fingers against your lip as he inspected it for burns making it hard to look at the man watching you take a drink, ensuring that it really was cool enough to not harm you.

Smiling to yourself at the memory, you made your way through the streets and into the front of the town, toward the collection of shops with a list in your pocket. But all thoughts of productivity were halted when you spotted him.

Joel’s broad back was visible even from down the main street. Busy working on repairing a sign for one of the shops that fronted along it. The sawhorses he had propped up supported the new frame he was building according to predetermined measurements. You watched as he leaned down to read something along the wood, pencil tucked behind his ear, a tape measure carefully stretched out. His hand patted at his back pocket, the sound making heat bloom in your stomach and dive lower as suddenly as the sound.

Someone shouted his name before you could even form your lips around the sound of his name, his head lifting up and looking right past you to whoever it had been. Your half-raised hand feeling awkward, and a wave of embarrassment whooshed through you. You shoved your hand in your pocket and kept on your path, though you had no true reason to be on this side of town. The only one you had now occupied with someone else.

You didn’t dare look his way or see who it was who called to him as you crossed the street and began to inspect the fruit out on display. The first tentative crops of the season had done decently enough and then flourished. Apples aplenty. The trees so fruitful this year. Reprimanding yourself for entertaining the thought of ambling around, you decided to actually get a few errands done. You were out already, after all.

You had signed your name along the inventory and the weight of the apples you deemed worthy of being backed into a pie when a bark of laughter had you whirling around. He was working no longer, attention pulled to the woman standing closely in front of him. Joel’s hand cupped over her shoulder. His expression was so open, his eyes kind and trained on her. She reached up to brush some sawdust from his curls and you bolted.

But you hadn’t looked.

And you ran right into the end of the wooden boards Tommy had balanced on his shoulder as he walked down the street. Pain blossomed on the corner of your forehead at the contact, balance suddenly gone along with it. The canvas bag of apples flies from your grip, bouncing around the packed gravel of the street just as your body thumps to the ground.

A pair of voices pulled you back from unconsciousness. A dull ache reverberating from your temple and you groaned as you brought a hand up to gently prod at the spot. You were in your bed, a small thing to be grateful for. Not too fond of the small medical center set up in the middle of town, right off of main street. Tommy’s steps were quiet as they came down the hall, his voice preceding his entrance.

“You awake, Olive? What had you so distracted? You walked right into me.” His strong brows were furrowed, concern etched into his weather features. His curls bouncing with his steps as he came to rest on the end of your bed. He wasn’t teasing, question genuine and worry wafting from him as he reached a hand out to jostle your foot atop the covers.

“Shut up, Tommy. I was lookin’ at my feet.” You felt heat creep up your face, recalling the way you had been ogling his older brother and then gotten so worked up that the man had been touching another woman so causally. It shouldn’t have bothered you, it was really none of your business.

Sensing the serious hush of your words, Tommy regarded you with sharp eyes.

“It’s not like you to not be aware of your surroundings. Please tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened.” You kept his gaze, eyes not giving anything away as you moved to sit up. But it was too fast a movement, the momentum of your balance thrown off as your temple throbbed. A hissed curse fell from your lips.

“…okay. Well, you’re off from patrol tomorrow, to rest that bump on your pretty little head, okay?”

“I can do patrol.” You felt panic flare hot in your chest, worried for the reason of losing your time with Joel out beyond the gates and not because the man in front of you thought your injury was serious enough to take you off of rotation.

“Honey, you smacked your head into some lumber. Don’t think you need to be on a horse right now, just take the day, okay? For me?” When you looked back up, he was making big eyes at you, knowing you couldn’t resist his kicked puppy routine.

“Tommy, do not look at me like that.”

“Can’t blame me for using it when I know it makes you crumble.” A upturn of his lips on one side allowed for a dimple to appear. Maria was a lucky woman, though you knew that for all the strength and seriousness she possessed, she was no match for the same look aimed her way.

“You’re a butt.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest and settling into the pillows even more.

“Yeah,” He stood from the bed and walked over place a bottle of aspirin on the small table you kept beside it. “But you like it.”

“Not when it’s aimed at me.”

The apples you had tried to get yesterday were on the counter down the hall when you finally got up from the bed. It was late, well into the night but sleep wasn’t coming easily. The echo of Joel’s easy laughter and voice from across the street as he talked with the woman in your ears.

With the warm light of your kitchen, you washed away your worries and thoughts by beginning to mix together a dough. Letting it set to rise for a bit as you washed a circular pan, cut the apples into thin slices, and prepared a mix of seasonings. Creating something with the energy flowing through you that had no other outlet.

You had just made a kettle of tea, body tired from the out-of-routine events of the last twelve hours and allowing you to sleep well past the rising of the sun. A distant thought of now being about the time you would be approaching the gates and waiting for them to allow you back in.

Curling your legs up, you had just settled into the couch with a book and your mug when a knock sounded on your front door. Startling, you felt your heart hammer harshly a few times before you stood back up and moved toward it.

You weren’t sure who you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Joel in his post patrol glory. His curls were windswept, some of them frizzing and creating a hallow around his head. His cheeks were a little dusty from the strong rays of the early morning sun, illuminating his golden skin in a rather eye-catching way.

“Hey, sorry, did I wake you?” One of his hands was resting on the doorway, his jacket pulled open as it rested over his shoulders unzipped. Broad, your mind helpfully pointed out. He took up nearly the entire doorway, the sun behind him and his face lit up from the open windows of your living room. Shadows making it obvious how big of a man he was.

“Oh, um, no. I was just starting to get up and about.” You stepped out of the way, a silent invitation for him to enter your home. He had only been a handful of times before. To fetch Ellie as she waited for him to return from a later patrol, not wanting to be in the main part of his house alone. Or to help fix something that had begun to have problems. There had always been a reason and you were trying to figure out the current one. “Do you want some tea? I just made a kettle of orange spice.”

He followed you through the living room after ensuring the door was securely sealed. As he did you were made aware of the oversized cardigan you had thrown on over a camisole, sweatpants that were too big fastened around your waist.

“Missed ya on patrol this morning,” He took the offered mug, taking a tasting sip before offering you a grateful smile. You knew he wasn’t big on tea, but this one you suspected would pass the test. His voice was low, velvety smooth in that drawl of his. It warmed you up, filling your chest. And for a second, you thought he meant it. “Jesse was the replacement. That boy sure does have a mouth on him, prattled on and on about I don’t even know what.”

Only for a second, because of course he would prefer you to one of the younger members of the settlement alongside him.

“I was just feeling a little under the weather,” You averted your eyes from his, roving up and down your form at your words. A glint of something behind them you couldn’t read. He didn’t buy it, the flimsy excuse. You could tell because one of his brows arched and that damned dimple appeared in his right cheek as his lips lifted up in a teasing smirk.

“Not tryna get away from me, are ya?” That same, syrupy drawl coasted you and made your movements slow. There was an undertone of something in his words that you tried not to read too much into. He was just joking, right?

As if you could even try. He was a staple of the town, from his physical presence at every important meeting to the things he fixed. Pieces of him, of the life he had created for himself and for Ellie prominent all around.

“No, ah- ha, this is so embarrassing but,” You busied yourself with finding a small enough container to send him home with a piece of the pie sitting uncut on the table. Having been left to cool after your late night baking escapade. Setting it down beside the pan, you picked up the knife you had taken out just before Joel knocked on your door, intending to cut into it at some point during the day. “I hit my head yesterday and Tommy insisted I take the day off.”

“Are you alright?” He was stepping close, one of his hands coming up to gently brush your hair away from your face while the other took the knife from your hand and set it back on the table. Eyes searching for any sign of the injury, his lips thinning when they landed on the bruise on your temple you had tried to hide. It had mottled overnight, into a dark purple, faded around the edges of the raised bump in the middle. His thumb whispered against it, causing you to suck in a deep breath full of the smell of him. His chest was so close that it brushed against your own with it, his face was so close that you could see the individual hairs of his salt and pepper scruff, the freckles decorating his weathered skin.

Dizzying, it was so dizzying to be that close.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he was suddenly leaning in even closer. His head ducking to allow for his lips to softly brush over the bruise, not wanting to agitate it but wanting to soothe.

“There,” His breath fanned over your face, the lingering scent of coffee along with it. And then he was stepping back, his hands dropping from where they had cradled you. “All better.”

The sunlight was soft, streaming in through the kitchen window. Illuminating a rich, thick cut of mahogany. Stepping closer towards the counter, your hands twitch as if to reach and run over the expanse of the smooth wood. It was carved to be a perfect shape and size, small feet propping it up from the counter directly. Little flowers engraved in the corners and protected by a sheen of sealant. It was beautiful and you blinked quickly to stave off the tears surging at the sight.

He did it. He listened to you.

Footsteps had you turned from it, hips meeting the edge of the counter as you tried to act like you hadn’t been admiring the new addition to the home casually laid out for people to see.

Tommy had a bottle in his hands, wine he had found on a recent patrol that he thought you’d like. But as soon as he entered the room, he clocked that you had gotten up from your spot, what you were next to.

“Who knew my brother would end up making decorative pieces in the apocalypse, huh?”

“I don’t know him well enough to agree, we only patrol together.” Smooth words didn’t betray the way you pictured the man seated and concentrating on carving into the block of wood to create something so beautiful. His large hands gripping the handles of tools you couldn’t even begin to name, brushes to wipe away the shavings, to slather the sealant over it. The striking sound of sandpaper fills your senses along with the scent of freshly carved wood.

A lingering one you could often catch if Joel was close enough, of rich cedar mingled with whatever he used to wash. Culminating into how he always smelled, signature, familiar. Easy to pick out in a crowd and no it was him. Blinking, you focused back in the present, reigning in your thoughts of a man you had no business thinking after in such a manner.

He was a patrol partner. An acquaintance.

“Oh hush, Olive, you know him more than most.”

You just hummed, eyes looking everywhere but at the man across the room. He busied himself pouring a drink into two glasses. Just as you took a sip, Maria entered the room with Joel right behind her, shoulders laden down with canvas bags. Seems they had been out, and he decided to walk her home, protective even on unsure ground with the woman deep into her pregnancy.

“It really is beautiful Joel, already have a few requests for them from some people around town.” Maria joined in the conversation, noticing the way that Joel’s eyes had zoned in on the piece of wood settled atop the counter. As if he was seeing each mistake and wrong shave of the wood even from across the room. He moved to place the bags he had taken from her atop the table, nodding a greeting at you as he realized you were right beside the thing he had tried his hand at creating. Spurred on by your little tangent weeks ago.

“Not really lookin’ to make that my pastime, yours was just a trial run.” Joel shrugged the words off, the praise off, like he so often did. Even when the haphazard crew he worked with completed repairs on a building or created a new one from the ground up, it was always the same response. A brush of the direct compliment to everyone who worked on it together, even if it was his plans and his hands that had played a part in the whole thing.

“Don’t even know where you got the idea, brother, such a random thing to think to make.” Tommy moved to press his lips to Maria’s cheek in greeting before helping her to put things away.

Your eyes snapped to Joel, willing him to admit that it hadn’t been his idea, but your own. It was silly, really, to want his immediate family to know that you two had talked, shared things with each other that resulted in an item that was now a part of their life. Pointless, no real connection except for the one made up in your mind and an overinflated sense of importance. Just a throwaway comment when you recalled the difference good cooking supplies could make. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulder hunched.

“Jus’ came to me, one night, is all.”

Your chest panged at his indifference; it didn’t have to mean anything. But it meant something: that he didn’t want to reveal that he had opened up to you once upon a time on patrol. That he had listened to you as you had done the same. Couldn’t let others know that he was open to genuine conversation sometimes. Or maybe just that it was with you, someone he tended to look over in the crowds of gatherings and events, more often than not You huffed around a mouthful of wine and set the still half full glass down.

“I’m shoving off, see y’all later.”

“Oh wait, I wanted to see if we could trade patrols. Kinda why I brought out the bribe of wine.” Tommy turned wide eyes to you, knowing the whole set up of his favor was being thwarted by the arrival of his wife and brother. It was easier to ask you of things alone, not that you were known to turn them down, but you preferred to stay under the radar. Avoid direct attention, direct recognition for the things you accomplished and helped with around town. For the way you always made sure the elderly got home safe after important meetings and children who got turned around were reunited with their guardians.

“….which patrol?” You tried to hide the suspicion in your voice, positive he was about to ask you to do the overnight route with Joel in his place that would happen in a few days’ time. Something you didn’t do. Ever. Overnight routes something you didn’t have the wherewithal to handle, not since you had lost your last connection to what the world had been before. It had been relatively soon after settling into Jackson when it had happened, a handful of years ago now, but Tommy nor Maria had ever even thought to ask it of you.

You supposed they figured with Joel having settled in nicely himself the past year, that it was time to consider broaching the subject.

“Teton.” Joel supplied when Tommy choked, unable to voice his request. Knowing they would all be standing there for a few moments for the younger man to find his words between your almost fearful look and the suspicious one Maria was pinning him with as she looked from you to the wine and toward to her fumbling husband.

“Oh, um, I haven’t done that one in a long while. I don’t do the overnight routes, you know that. Surely you wanna find someone who’s done it more recently? Someone who does it regularly.”

“Think-you, uh, you’re about ready.” He managed to get out, his body no longer relaxed but picking up and responding to the way you had tensed up. The way his brother had. Feeding off of each other’s energy in a way he couldn’t begin to understand, but wanting to assure you that he had confidence in your skills and knowledge. Despite the things that had occurred for you to only stick to the same routine of early morning patrols a week.

“Tommy…” You didn’t feel particularly comfortable being asked in front of Joel. You don’t think he knew, had any idea of how had lost yourself. Rumors ran rampant around the settlement, but you hoped that those surrounding you had dwindled down to nothing but recent events. You knew for a fact Marsha liked to say you put too much sugar in your pie fillings, trying to hook everyone onto them with a heavy hand. But it wasn’t your fault that her pies always got looked over when yours was set right beside hers.

“I know you have your reservations, Olive. And I understand,” Tommy watched the stilted way you downed the rest of your wine, setting the empty glass atop the counter with careful movements. “But it would mean a lot to me if you covered this one time.”

With a sigh, you agreed.

Ignoring the weight of Joel’s curious eyes as they followed you out of the kitchen.

Thoughts a whirlwind as you tried to flee the seen without it being obvious that you wanted to be anywhere but in that kitchen with two pairs of apologetic, concerned eyes and one that held curiosity.

next chapter

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

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jolenes-doppelganger · 2 months

Text

Shooting the Messenger

Reverend Mother Jessica Atreides x Fem!Harkonnen Reader

Summary: Following the Battle of Arrakeen, House Harkonnen remains decimated. With Baron Harkonnen’s corpse slowly rotting in the sand and Feyd Rautha thrown amidst a pile of burning bodies, Reader is left with no choice but to hide amidst the rubble of the city in the hope of eventually escaping before being killed. Unfortunately, the bastard child of Emmi Harkonnen finds herself cornered, incapable of escaping from the clutches of the still surviving Atreides clan. (Emmi Harkonnen is the wife of Abulurd Harkonnen, brother to the Baron Harkonnen- NO INCEST!!!!).

Warnings: Dark circumstances (war, murder, death), complimentary Stockholm/Lima syndromes dynamic, grey-morality, abuse of power (Jessica), spitting

A/N: I’ve leaned more into the circumstances of the Dune books, specifically with Alia being born before the Battle of Arrakeen. If pregnant women are your thing, good for you, but I’m not into pursuing a relationship with a woman pregnant with a psychic, talking baby that observes everything going on from inside the womb. (Authored with inspiration and council from @ilovehotactresses- Here ya go buddy). This is all worldbuilding, no sexy times, I apologize. I legit cannot comprehend this woman fucking someone just 'cause she can. More sexy times later, I promise, promise, promise!!

Word Count: 3.3k

House Harkonnen had fallen. Baron Harkonnen was dead. Feyd Rautha, his successor, laid upon a pile of Sardaukar and Harkonnen soldiers, slowly being burned by flames on the sands of the fallen city. You had lost track of Beast Rabban, your oldest half-brother. It mattered not, you hated both of your half-brothers, the dead Feyd Rautha most especially. But regardless of resentment and old wounds, you were left without protection. Finding a dark, well hidden corner of the fallen city was difficult. But you did. Panting, in between collapsing from exertion and crying out of fear, you'd found a corner. Making yourself as small as possible, you covered your ears and froze.

"Reverend Mother, you cannot go into this sector! It is not secured!" a voice echoed down the halls.

"I don't have another option. Alia has spoken to me of her. I must find this remaining vestibule of the Harkonnen throne, the one that remains, the living heir." a voice rasped.

Silence. The room fell silent, and the footsteps disappeared. It must have been an illusion of some sort, a trick of the senses. Those voices and footfalls had been near, therefore the woman who spoke should have been near.

"There you are. Rise."

A force greater than you pulled you up, causing you to put pressure on your lacerated, probably fractured leg. You cried out in pain, but you remained standing.

"Nevermind. Kneel."

You kneeled, the force of your knees on the stone caused white hot pain to flash up your body. Hands cupped your face, pushing back the veil that hid your hair.

"Ahh, so you're half-Harkonnen? The rumours are true.. You're Emmi Harkonnen's bastard, her little mistake." the woman cooed, stroking over the hair repeatedly. "Precious, so precious. You'd make a poor heir. But we have to ensure that, don't we?"

You could only wheeze, looking up at the veiled woman in spite and fear.

"Oh, if you've heard the rumors, you've most certainly heard of my rumored fathers." you managed.

Reverend Mother Jessica drew closer.

"No, I most certainly haven't."

Glaring up at her intentionally, you smirked in recognition of the advantage you had.

"I was supposedly conceived during an Imperial caucus, the product of an affair. But I've heard the whispers. I may have been the product of none other than your deceased Duke Leto."

The slap that landed across your cheeks was resonant, and humiliating. No matter how much pride one has, slaps can never be any less humiliating than nature intends them to be. Tears collect in your eyes from the force, and you're knocked backwards, or to the side, depending on the direction of the slap.

"You will not speak of such things." Mother Jessica seethed.

"It doesn't matter if I was his bastard. This was several years before he met you."

Her hands encircled your throat, and you were met with the steely blue eyes of the Reverend Mother in the flesh.

"Shut your mouth. I have one purpose for you, and if you do not fulfill it, you will find how little life has left to offer you."

"-I'm a bastard child, there was never-"

"Sleep."

Jessica could only look with a mix of relief and victory as the Harkonnen slumped forward, pushed into a dream-like state by her command of the Voice. This child was a fighter, she knew it to be true. But she hadn't slapped the young woman out of spite, or fear, rather it had been merely annoying to suggest she was the Duke's child. Jessica knew her deceased concubine well, she knew that if he had made such a mistake as sleeping with the wife of a royal Harkonnen it would have come out before his death, most certainly under the pressure of the move to Arrakis. Not to mention the child in front of her did not look like her duke. She'd know his features anywhere; they were burned into her soul.

"Pesky, belligerent. More Harkonnen than I'd like to admit." Jessica muttered to herself. "Pick her up and have her treated for her wounds. She is useful, for the time being."

The Sayyadina that surrounded her nodded, and a Fremen soldier appeared, hauling the war-worn woman up, towards a medical unit. Jessica knew that her injuries would not be attended to at all if she did not press the matter, so she ensured that the girl was brought into her chambers, that her Sayyadina would oversee the matter to fruition. In the meantime, she had the council of her child Alia to attend to.

"It is done?" the toddler asked, voice uncharacteristically adult, in a tiny little body of a girl.

"Yes, the Harkonnen bastard will be attended to." Jessica murmured.

Her daughter came forward, crawling into her mother's lap. Regardless of her mental age, the body begged for connection from her mother, the soul too.

"She is more than just a bastard, she could be very useful to Paul's cause." Alia mused, childish voice still containing a hint of a lisp.

Jessica hummed, stroking the blonde curls that were springing from her daughter's scalp.

"How do I manipulate her to our needs?"

Alia furrowed her brow, thinking carefully. It seemed the little girl blessed with such mental and psychic foresight was momentarily at a loss for words, carefully considering her next proposal.

"She is like her brother. She has wounds, desires, all of which are accessed through physicality, through sexual manipulation." the girl spoke.

Jessica looked at her daughter carefully.

"So, I bed her?"

Alia shook her head.

"Seduction comes in many ways. If it pleases you to engage with her like that..." but Alia did not finish the thought. "It is not necessary to go all the way."

Jessica hummed, returning to petting her daughters curls. Upon inspection, they were covered in dirt and sand. It was natural for the Caladan born woman to immediately think of baths, but on Arrakis no such luxury could exist. Her daughter was of the desert, conceived upon Arrakis, of this Jessica was sure. Secondly was the matter of her daughter's strange connection to the sands. Alia smelled of the desert, an eerie quality Jessica could not explain. Truth be told, the warrior-child scared her. The mere toddler, the small body that contained such irreputable wisdom and violence, it was a body that should have glowed with innocence, of mindless naivety.

"Mother, of what do you think?" Alia asked, seemingly sensing the dark, contemplative nature of her mother.

"Of matters that you need not concern yourself with, my daughter." Jessica answered curtly. "... I have but one request. Stop wielding those knives. Your mind is old, but your body is young.."

"-I will be fine." Alia shrugged, hopping off of her mother's lap, walking away.

Watching her daughter display such independence was exhaustingly emotional. Jessica felt the tell-tale sign of her eyes burning, and the willpower it took to restrain the tears that begged to fall was more exhausting than just allowing her body to release a few drops of water. Walking away, Jessica moved towards the body that lay prone some distance aways. Jessica yearned for something to care for, something that needed her, someone that would be loyal, and innocent in the nature of the world in ways that her children could not be. Jessica wanted something to call hers, and hers alone.

<------------->

Glowing light burned through the windows of the conquered city of Arrakis. Smoke wafted through the main palace, the smell tinged with burning hair and flesh. It was grotesque, the smell unforgettable. It reeked of murder, of shed blood.

"Ahh, she awakes." a voice purred, hands encircling you, a face coming into focus.

Blue eyes of the desert came into view. Tattoos, marks of prophecy; symbols your mind could not comprehend adorned her face. Hair, brown and dark, hints of grey peppered in amongst the rest of her straight hair.

"Who are you?"

The woman smiled, and her breath was unnaturally odorless. The product of fasting, you assumed.

"You may call me Lady Jessica, if that suits you." the woman murmured. "Or Reverend Mother."

Lady Jessica Atreides, mother of Paul Atreides, the Lisan al Gaib, Muad'dib of the Fremen, prophet, the mind to bridge time and space. The mother of the demon-child Alia, St. Alia of the Knife, abomination, Reverend Mother, that which should have remained unborn. You knew her well. You knew of her hell-spawn, her corruption, her disregard for higher authority. She submitted to her son, but that was an illusion, you assumed.

"No." you rasped. "No, no, no, no!"

Jessica pressed a hand over your mouth, silencing you.

"Shh," she cooed. "No fear, no cries for help. None of it will make a difference for what I have planned for you."

Since you were a child, since before you had the ability to comprehend the complexities of being a Harkonnen, of being a but a half-breed, you'd always known that it had been okay to run to your mother. Scraped knee? Mother. Your older brothers cornering you? Run to mother. Maids jeering and bothering you? Mother. Lonely, scared and wet after an acid polluted thunderstorm caught you and burned your skin red and painful? Mother. It was in these moments of foolish vulnerability that your heart would sing for that connection, that safety. It was futile. Emmi Harkonnen had died years prior.

"Hmm... Alia may have made her first mistake." Jessica mused, dissecting your fearful micro-expressions. "Or only partly right."

Jessica's hands reached up, cupping your face, brushing hair out of your eyes. Thumbs glided over your brows, analyzing your expressions carefully.

"No... You'll be much easier to crack this way..."

Hauling you up and into her arms felt deceptively easy for Jessica. Her body had hardened and grown sinewy with tough, resistant muscle the longer she remained in the desert. She drew you to her breast, resting head in the crook of her armpit. She reeked of sweetness, of sweat long dried, of the unmistakable tang of spice.

"There... Don't fight it, don't try to hide away." Jessica whispered, her breath now sickly sweet, from low-blood sugar, you guessed.

"You need to stop fasting." you murmured. "Your breath is sweet."

Jessica laughed a little, cradling you closer.

"I have complete control of my bodily functions. You need not concern yourself with the matters of my health."

Hands dragged over the cloth clothes the Sayyadina had pulled over you. Bandages covered your body in innumerable places, your leg was especially bandaged, the product of the fracture you'd sustained. Jessica continued stroking your face, pulling you closer, fingers desperately combing through your hair.

"It's been so long since someone's needed me... Even my own daughter outgrew the need for me once she was a year old..." Jessica whispered, her face showing signs of paranoia, of unmistakable jealous rage. "The Bene Gesserit have taken so much from me... My mother first, then my innocence, my connection with my Duke, my son's innocence, the life of my beloved, even my own daughter."

There was a madness in her eyes that could not be explained. She was strong, ruthless, ready to take and take and milk the desert of every last devotion to her cause, to her children that it could offer. But yet with all that work, with all that pain and suffering she'd put forth, her children grew farther apart from her. Jessica grabbed at the Harkonnen woman with desperation, pulling her in as close as their mortal forms could allow.

"No, you will be mine and you will love me."

"Let me go, I want to go home." you protested, trying to wiggle out of the woman's arms.

The madness in her eyes grew brighter, and she smiled obscenely.

"But you are home."

"I live on Giedi Prime." you whimpered.

Jessica let out a laugh so harsh it might have been mistaken for screech.

"Giedi Prime? No child. I could not send you back to your decaying father, to the dark, colorless, soulless world of Giedi Prime. You belong to me now. Arrakis will be your home. Then, one day, when the time comes, you and I will return to Caladan. We will live on the cliffs, the oceans will sing to us, the breeze... We will remember the good days, and make them ours once again..."

The woman in front of you, the woman who cradled you was haunted, deranged in ways that could not be explained. Whether she had been pushed too far by the loss of her house and her beloved Duke, or whether it had been the Fremen Spice Agony that had caused her to be so utterly consumed by her desires, by her visions of Paul and his propheted status as the Lisan al Gaib.

"I want to be close to my mother." you whispered.

This gave Jessica some pause, she stalled her frantic massage of your scalp, your neck, your face.

"I could be your mother, if you wanted." she whispered. "I could be that for you... I could be whatever you needed, just so long as you needed me."

Jessica seemed on the verge of a breakdown of some sort. Whether it would result in violence, in verbal aggression, tears, yelling or complete psychosis, she was close to cracking all the way.

"I just. Need you. To need me." Jessica whispered.

Pity. The first feeling that came over you when she said those words. The woman in front of you was fearsome, yes. But the truth was she was broken. For all the psychic enhancement and wisdom she'd maintained, she was scarred and brutalized, a thing of beauty and willpower turned feral and menacing due to the elements of the desert planet Arrakis. It was a look you'd seen in your mother, days before Feyd had murdered her. An animal cornered, and animal bearing it's teeth and striking out at anything that dared confront it. Fear. For all of Jessica's training and years of containing her fears, she had never conquered one. Jessica Atreides, Reverend Mother and widower of the Duke Atreides, daughter of the Baron Harkonnen, mother of the most fearsome leader of the advanced times was afraid of being abandoned, of no longer being needed.

"... I don't want a mother... I don't think I could bear treating another woman with the same type of affections as I gave my mother."

Jessica's face spasmed in grotesque anger and betrayal.

"But I need someone. And I don't have anyone to turn to."

She swallowed, a vein on her forehead bulging with the stress of containing her emotions.

"I am that person." she rasped, voice coming out in violent puffs of air. "No one else will put up with you, no one else will bother keeping you alive. You are stuck on Arrakis. The Harkonnen troops are dead, Grossu Rabban is dead. No one will come to save you." Jessica sneered, violently digging her hands into your hair. "The Bene Gesserit will abandon Princess Irulan here as the bride of Paul, the Emperor will retreat back to House Corrino with the Bene Gesserit. They will not bother hauling a bastard such as yourself with you."

Her words rang harsh, true. You needed the woman in front of you to survive, and you suspected that without someone to love, to love her back in the ways she needed, she too would find herself irrevocably insane.

"I know."

"Silence!"

Your mouth clamped shut, teeth clacking together aggressively. Jessica let out a low whimper, holding you close. She seemed to be muttering in a foreign language, eyes glazed from effort. It was becoming apparent that Jessica did not have control over her body as she said she did, or, more accurately, she was pushing it to limits that were unsustainable. You managed to reach for a glass of water. Jessica did not notice. Your throat begged for moisture, you needed the water as much as she did, but if she died and you didn't... No one would keep you alive.

"..." you tried to speak, but the command remained.

Bringing the cup to her lips, you managed to coax her into drinking. Jessica's hands flew to the cup, gulping down the water greedily. You suspected it was the first time she'd had water in days. Dates lay on the table. Again you were presented with the dilemma of eating it and fueling your weak body or giving it to the weakened Jessica. You brought the dates to her mouth, one by one until they were gone. She appeared to recover gradually. As her senses came to her, she called out to a Sayyadina, requesting something.

"You are wiser than I thought." Jessica murmured. "I had not realized how long I had been fasting."

The Sayyadina returned with food, hot and earthy smelling. She handed you a bowl, allowing yourself to eat without help. But as you struggled with coordinating in the awkward position, she ultimately grabbed the bowl, spoon feeding you like a child. Water was provided, and the relief it brought was indescribable. Jessica finished her own portion of food, ingesting more water. She appeared to be healthier now, more content and less capable of descending into madness.

"There. Now we are both taken care of." Jessica smiled. "You may speak now, the command only lasts for as long as I wish it to."

You looked around, seemingly looking for something to say to test your ability to speak, but found none. Jessica noticed this, humming appreciatively.

"Alright then, if I must speak first, so be it. You said that you did not need a mother. Of that I can understand, but do not necessarily agree with. Everyone needs a mother figure in their life, until middle adulthood I would imagine. You are young still, you require coaxing, teaching, nurturing."

Jessica's words were wise, of that you could not argue with.

"But you do not wish for a mother figure. I will not press the matter. I will allow you to naturally find that mother figure, but, you will receive all of your needs for companionship, for safety, for community directly through me."

Her words contradicted themselves, but dwelling on it seemed unwise. Jessica leaned forward, searching your eyes with hers in a way that seemed uncannily invasive.

"I'll find exactly how you need me." Jessica whispered. "Don't worry."

Her breath smelled of the curry she'd eaten. It was hot, no longer tinged with sweetness. And her eyes danced in ways that seemed almost provocative.

"... Oh no. I retract my earlier statement. My daughter was right." she whispered, voice a little husky, slightly hoarse.

A hand trailed down your thigh, nails snagging on the thin fabric, making contact with the skin beneath your pants.

"Desire."

The command inflamed your injury-restricted desires, white-hot lust burning through your body in maddening ways.

"Oh, I've always wanted to try that." Jessica smiled, eyes a little manic as she watched heat bloom over your cheeks. "Open your mouth."

It wasn't a direct command infused with the Voice, but in your altered state, it might as well have been.

"Accept the gift of my water." Jessica whispered, spitting into your mouth.

In any other circumstance, the act would have been seen as ridiculously demeaning, but combined with your basic knowledge of Fremen culture and the lust-addled state of your brain, it was enough to cause a slight gasp to fall from your lips. Jessica let out a soft laugh, kissing your cheek forcefully.

"Swallow."

You did as obeyed, her spit sliding down your throat. Jessica caught the motion with her lips, savoring the act.

"Again." Jessica whispered, hand holding your jaw.

Her saliva hit your tongue, and you closed your mouth. You waited for her lips to find your throat before swallowing. Jessica hummed, bringing your body closer.

"Now my water lives inside of you. You'll be mine before you know it."

Slowly, about as slowly as it took for your body to absorb the moisture she'd delivered you, your body stopped desiring. But the humiliation of the act lingered. The claim, the power she had of you, her words. That remained for much longer than you cared to admit.

#lady jessica x reader #lady jessica x you #reverend mother jessica x reader #reverend mother jessica x you #lady jessica #reverend mother jessica #dune #dune part two #rebecca ferguson x reader #rebecca ferguson x you #lesbian #wlw

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thegnomelord · 4 months

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Ahhh! The Harpy Gaz fic was so cute. But that section at the beginning has me thinking about Ghost, who is interested in reader hybrid that has a very unusual courting ritual(s).

Like, apparently, pandas have a weird hostage situation. The female runs and hides in trees while male competitors fight for her. They will follow her around and try to steal her away until she's ready to mate. It's theorized that this little battle actually stimulates the mating cycle. Similarly, female ferrets don't ovulate unless they're being mauled half to death. (Doesn't sound pleasant to me, but to each their own) my thought here would be more like Ghost's total confusion as to why you seem to like fighting him so much.

Or one of my personal favorites, certain birds and pufferfish (and probably many others that idk yet) have taken to terraforming. They'll create intricate designs and illusions with sand, rocks, sticks, bones, whatever you can think of to attract a mate. The structure they create doubles as a sort of nest. Bowerbirds are particularly keen on displaying an assortment of blue things specifically.

Ooh or shrikes, imagine Ghost's reaction to seeing his favorite food impaled on a sharp object (maybe a combat knife). Tbh, that would be a little threatening. Opening the fridge and seeing a steak or something stabbed with a combat knife and a little note saying, "For Ghost, I hope you enjoy 😁❤️"

Sorry for the little rant, I have an unnecessary amount of knowledge about animal mating rituals.

- 👑 anon

No, no, as a fellow animal nerd I find this stuff so interesting!

I think Ghost would be weirdly into the knife being impaled in his food. Especially if you attempt to feed him with the knife, like sticking small chunks on the tip and expecting him to eat off the knife. And while he acts aloof he's hard in his pants because there's something hot about you using a dangerous object so tenderly with him (also weapon kink idk)

I really love the idea of reader being some deep sea monster or of some species that has a "fuck or die" mentality. Like some anglerfish or spider sexual dimorphism thing where if you were to court your own kind they'd be like 4-5 times your size and wouldn't hesitate to eat you. So you're very crafty and your courting rituals are weird as fuck.

Like Ghost is reading up on your species mating habits and seeing you tie up your mate and if they can't get out you fuck? And if they can you die? Should he be worried? And like he's rethinking every enemy takedown simulation you two had when you needed to tie him up like; were you courting him? was he courting you? what?

Or an especially powerful monster that has a tendency to make nests out of bones, to show how strong they are. So Ghost just walks into your room to see it covered from floor to ceiling in bones of all kinds of creatures with you looking at him like a puppy lol

Or or some kind of mercreature monster reader having a ritual where they pull their mate down to the depths away from competitors, because if it's not dark and cold and you're not drowning your mate won't want to fuck, and Simon's wondering if he needs to buy scuba gear?

#gnome's tea break #cod mw2 #gnome correspondence #x reader #👑 anon #simon ghost riley x reader #monster cod au #monster 141 au

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dualdeixis · 10 days

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[Image description: Digital drawings of two original characters in black and white. The Ferrier wears a black, wide-brimmed hat; a shirt with puffy sleeves and an embroidered collar, cuffs, and hem; a vest with geometric patterns; a black, sleeveless overcoat with two lighter stripes near the hem; loose pants; and black sandals. They appear to have short, messy black hair, and their hat casts a shadow over their eyes.

The Sacrifice's clothes are almost entirely white and intricately embroidered. They wear a loose, long-sleeved shirt; a cropped and wide-collared vest which is buttoned together; dimije (voluminous pants which are gathered at the ankle); a cap with coins sewn into the sides; a very long veil which ends in tassels and is pinned to the cap; a necklace of coins; a belt of large metallic roundels; and black shoes. They have long, curly black hair and several moles on their face.

In the first drawing, the Ferrier stands while wringing their hands with an extremely flat expression. The Sacrifice stands behind them and carries a bag, looking off to the side with a small smile.

Next is a comic featuring the two of them, with all of the speech bubbles being cut out from Discord screenshots. There are full descriptions of all of the pages under the cut. End image description.]

first drawing based on this painting of a peasant and nun going to the market by amedeo preziosi; comic based on a convo between me and @wildcatfourteen that reads uncannily like our ocs LOL. happy birthday my friend <33

[Image description: Page one. The Ferrier has a small smirk as they point to an image which reads, "some of y'all would melt down in this situation. ONE HAS GOT TO GO: THE EYE, THE FORMLESS, THE ECSTATIC, THE SUN, THE WOUND, THE EGG." The Sacrifice replies with a carefree smile, "how can you choose ?? are they not all as g_d ordained ??" The next panel shows that the two are sitting on opposite sides of a rowboat, which is stopped at the bank of a river going through a forest. The Sacrifice says, "i mean i guess if youre talking like which motifs i personally like to use in my hymns … i dont do much with the egg so that one" The Ferrier frowns and says, "I don't know if I can forgive u for saying that. Egg… U GET RID OF EGG?" The Sacrifice: "WHICH ONE WOULD U GET RID OF??" The Ferrier: "The ecstatic"

Page two. The Sacrifice stares in astonished silence for a moment, and then says with a cartoony vein popping from their cheek, "I think ur saying that on purpose to piss me off. to get back at me for saying ehg. Why do u hold such hate in your heart" The Ferrier closes their eyes and says nonchalantly, "I'm sorry it's not out of hate." They look off to the side and mutter, "Except u started this with ur egg slander" The Sacrifice glares at them with dismay and says, "THE HATE IN YOUR HEART IS OVERTAKING YOU" The Ferrier glares back, smiling through gritted teeth, and replies, "LOOK IN THR MIRROR"

Page three. The Ferrier pinches the bridge of their nose and says, "I can't believe this is what's causing an argument" The Sacrifice puts their hands on their hips and snaps, "I WASNT EVEN SLANDERING EGGS? IM JUST SAYING PERSONALLY IF YOU FORCED ME? I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST EGGS I EAT THEM ALL THE TIME" The Ferrier: "ITS NOT ABOUT EATINF THEM EVEN THO THEY ARE DELICIOUS AND VERSATILE." They roll their eyes and add, "Sorry for wanting to shatter my shell and be birthed anew" The Sacrifice clasps their hands together with a smile, their eyes hidden by their speech bubble, and says, "see thats the thing for me there is no rebirth only resurrection . its not dying and being birthed anew its about dying and then undying . coming back from death with none of the catharsis of newness just being forced to hold on to the old and what you once were ." The Ferrier pulls their hat down over their eyes and argues, "You say that and yet that is the whole point there is never any real birth of newness but just the illusion of it and the necessity to keep that illusion bc there is no coming back anew but taking whatever dead pieces u have and reconstructing some choppy form of a fresh creature"

Page four. The two sit in silence for a moment. Then the Ferrier says matter-of-factly, "Just like how ecstatic state is fake" The Sacrifice glares at them and says, "how DARE you say ecstatic state is fake ." The background turns black as the Ferrier's eyes go wide, gazing dramatically down at the viewer. They thunder, "ITS TEMPORARY" The Sacrifice, also on a black background, holds their palms up with an ecstatic grin. One of their eyes is teary and a bright halo flashes around their head. They answer, "AS ARE ALL THINGS."

Page five. The Ferrier, looking irritated with a cartoony vein popping from their temple, says, "fine. Fine whatever." They turn away with gritted teeth. "I'm gonna go in my egg shell and not come out EVER !!!!" The Sacrifice smiles with a thumbs up and says, "ok you do that im gonna be out here achieving union with the Beloved 👍" The Ferrier turns as far away from the Sacrifice as they can and crosses their arms. "U go do that. Hmph!" The Sacrifice does the same. "HMPH -_-" A school of black fish swims through the river. A line at the bottom of the panel reads, "THEY STAYED LIKE THIS FOR THE NEXT 24 HOURS." End image description.]

#other #the sacrifice and the ferrier #the sacrifice #the ferrier #drawings #designs very much subject to change this is like a first pass ... but also no designs for them are actually canon dont worry abt it

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aboutiroh · 1 year

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#atla polls #atla #avatar the last airbender #look #these quotes did not qualify because unlike the others i didn’t think of them off the top of my head #doesn’t make them less iconic #just means they don’t live in my head rent free #but i like to be a fair person #i think i already know which on you guys will choose #as someone suggested in the tags #I initially did not include it because ‘it is too powerful’#but you’re right #you deserve to click on it #so here you go

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pisupsala · 2 months

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 19 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.8k

Library

Chapter 19 - It Had to Be You

“Do you feel… strange?” Emil phrases the question awkwardly. “Since the war, I mean.”

You pause and look up from the mushroom you had been inspecting before popping it out of the ground with your knife and placing it in the wicker basket on your arm. You nod.

Strange is a good word for it. You just don’t know if the world has become estranged or you.

It’s late autumn and still pleasantly warm. The sun is low, but your heavy white cable-knitted sweater is still a bit too warm. You haven’t spoken to Emil since you marched out of the hospital last June, so you were surprised when you received a letter from an estate in the northern mountains with an invitation to visit. It had your old address on it, but your downstairs neighbor forwarded it to you.

“I can’t be in the city anymore,” He admits with difficulty, eyes trained firmly on the forest path before you. His stance is casual, hands in pockets of his dark green pants, in stark contrast to his near-wavering tone. Emil left the army abruptly, and this is the closest he’s come to admit as to why. The tranquility of the forest and the smell of pine and moss are soothing. “It’s too… busy. Too many people, you know?”

“I understand,” You reply softly. Too many people, no oversight, and blocked escape paths. “I don’t feel like I really have a place anymore.”

“Yeah…”

Silence falls as you walk, looking around for more mushrooms. It’s only the two of you and the sounds of the forest.

“Are you still waiting?” He doesn’t elaborate. There is no need to. Your hand automatically moves to the pocket of your gray slacks. The metal of the bracelet is cool and familiar.

“I’m not sure if I’m waiting or just stuck,” You admit, smiling sadly. You should have given up by now.

For years, you thought everything was on hold temporarily, and you’d return to your life, classes, and books after the war. But you came to the realization you are not that person anymore. It’s a version of you that stayed behind on that dreary September day in 1939; you just didn’t realize until everything and everyone else returned. And now you’ve lost that; you no longer know where your place is. You’re not even really sure of who you are anymore.

The only time you were reminded of the person you once were, which made you believe that you still existed, was with Bradley. He so skillfully unwrapped you to the barest essentials. But when you go looking now, there’s nothing left – like it was only a fleeting illusion that existed between the two of you, a flash of a chemical reaction before it all went up in smoke.

It’s like you’re in stasis. Again.

“Do you still hope?” There is no bitterness or accusation in the question.

“Hope?” You croak out. Of course, you still hope. It’s just becoming harder to believe by the day. The world has changed, and Bradley has probably changed with it. You don’t think you could blame him—not really. Not after what you’ve become. You blink rapidly a few times. “It mostly hurts.”

It’s a more honest admission than you would typically make. But who else could yet tell?

“I’m sorry,” Emil mumbles, aimlessly kicking a pine cone down the small path.

“Times have changed. For the better, I might add,” You shake your head with a chuckle as you move your wicker basket to your right hand, balling your left hand in a fist, trying to stop it from shaking. “And people changed with it. That’s okay.”

You slow down your pace, looking at Emil. “It has to be, you know?” You say urgently like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him.

“I suppose we both got left behind in more ways than one,” He sighs before meeting your gaze. “I always believed you, of all people, were destined for more, Anya.”

“Maybe some version of me was,” You chuckle dryly, playfully bumping him with your elbow, holding out the basket to him. Emil takes it without argument. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime?”

He laughs, a small, genuine laugh. Finally, you’re unsure if you can forgive Emil for planting those seeds of doubt in your head about Bradley. Maybe one day you’ll be grateful. Perhaps you never fully believed what Bradley told you, and you’re mad at Emil for voicing what you had been too afraid to confront. But whatever he said, whatever you sniped in return — he’s still your friend. Brother in arms.

“You’d be content with just being a housekeeper?” He asks, almost incredulously. Just a few years ago, you would have been offended by the question—because of course not. You were going to travel the world and become a diplomat, a writer, an explorer. Now, you only count the steps from your home to the tram stop.

“Are you content with just being a gamekeeper?” You counter without malice. Emil doesn’t react. “Maybe we both deserve some peace, in whichever form.”

“I hope you find your peace, Anya.” Emil looks at you sadly. “You more than anyone.”

Peace.

The city is cleaned up quickly, but the splatter of blood, the agonizing screams, and the explosions have become indelible in your mind's eye. It’s like a ghostly shadow wrapping around the bustling city. Maybe Emil could see it, too. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t stay.

Was the city like this before the war? Were you part of that crowd? Why can’t you go back?

You’re moving through life without purpose, just getting by. It’s enough.

Right?

You live a quiet, frugal life. You dutifully add to your monthly savings, but it’s a slow undertaking. Your salary is okay, all things considered, but traveling to the United States is expensive — and you’d need to get to a port city first. And that’s just travel. You need money for hotels, food, and a visa — it makes your head spin when you think about it. It’s that sliver of a dream that keeps you going. So you just keep your head down.

You don’t question Mrs. Parker’s particular requests; even though you figured out pretty quickly, she puts a lot of stock in seeing hard work and effort over results. You don’t question why Mrs. Parker appears craftier than her husband, the ambassador. You especially don’t question why the ambassador and his wife sleep in separate rooms. You clean them all the same.

And then there is Loretta. Beautiful, young Miss Lo. She came with silken blonde curls, bright green eyes, and trunks of dresses from exquisite fabrics on a gap year. You don’t question that she seems more interested in parties, men, and dancing than anything else. But you recognize the insatiable hunger recognition: being great at your work. And Miss Lo is excellent at being fun, young, and beautiful. And not a single man in the long parade of officers and dignitaries visiting would disagree.

Deep inside, you know you don’t question it because if you did, you’d have to see the lingering envy in you for what it is. So you just keep your head down.

Almost a year passes. You’ve hemmed and re-hemmed more dressed than you count, scrubbed more stains from delicate fabrics than you care to identify, sweeping piles upon piles of ashes from the marble floors.

If anything, you are an excellent seamstress now, especially considering how awful you were at most handwork, like knitting. Miss Lo caused you plenty of practice, and your roommates were gratefully making use of your offer to mend and tailor what they needed. But you’ve had enough of your dresses that needed tailoring — raising necklines, adding collars, and sometimes even adding new sleeves. Anything that would keep prying away from the scarred skin that your ever-longer hair could not hide.

You’re in stasis.

It’s May again. It’s a year since the war has ended, and it’s a beautiful day — warm, with a gentle breeze swaying the blooming trees. In a few days, you turn 27, although you’ve not celebrated your birthday… well, since Eva last baked you a small cake. That’s four years ago now.

It still hurts. It’s like every memory is now overgrown with thorns, the edges irreparably singed by the fire. Eva. Your parents. Bradley. It still hurts, and it will probably never stop hurting. Like your shoulder aches and hand shakes after a long day after a long day of work. Like your head is always buzzing, the ceaseless noise in your ear painfully keeps you awake. You long for the morning you wake up and finally accept that this is it. None of them are coming back. You will never be whole again. When waves finally wash you away, and you’ll see them again. Like in that dream, on that beach, when for a moment nothing hurt.

Standing at the back of the tram, a bucket full of beautifully arranged bouquets wedged between your foot and the wall, you are entirely focused on the leather-bound booklet in your hand, tapping the back of the small pencil against your lips. You try to scratch the itch in your brain by doing crossword puzzles. Your dad bought you all those newspapers, after all.

Maybe you’ll even get good at doing crosswords, finally.

You don’t need to pay attention to where you are going; you’ve taken this route hundreds of times. You know where you are just by a glance from the corner of your eye. You recognize the shape of the buildings, the way that the sun hits the street, the gait of the tall figure walking out of the train station -

You swing your head around so hard your forehead rams into the window with a dull crack. You see stars for a moment, colors melting into each other in strange shapes. When your vision returns, the tram has already turned a corner. Ignoring the stares around you, your hand flies into your pocket, dropping your pencil. It rolls away between the legs of the other passengers, but you pay it no mind. You are trying to catch your breath. The metal loops around your fingers, but it scarcely brings you comfort.

Your bored brain must be hallucinating; the cruel sun must be playing tricks on you; your poor heart must be dreaming.

Because of the tiniest second, you could have sworn you saw Bradley walk out of the station.

***

Dear Captain Bradshaw,

I am writing to you in response to your repeated inquiries to the International Red Cross about Anna Sokolova, born December 25, 1919, in Prague. No person matching that name and birthdate has been found in our records of wounded, dead, or missing in Czechoslovakia. The IRC has also been unable to confirm Ms. Sokolova’s current whereabouts with any local authorities due to a lack of records.

I hope to have sufficiently informed you. Please understand that at the time of writing, our resources are stretched, and we regret to inform you that we cannot further assist you on this case.

Bradley must have read the letter a hundred times before crumpling it up in frustration and jamming it into the side pocket of his duffle bag. It’s all coming down to this last-ditch attempt. Getting to Europe was actually surprisingly easy — Cyclone seemed more than pleased that Bradley had decided to follow his advice and take a desk post in Nuremberg. By the end of January 1946, Bradley was making his way back across the Atlantic.

However, getting a liberty pass was more difficult, especially a week pass for international travel. Bradley had called in about every single favor he could, signing on to stay an additional month in Germany, ultimately getting Mav to pull some strings for him. It’s May by the time he finally boards a train east, restless in his seat, looking out the window, waiting for when he will eventually see something he recognizes. Something, anything, will make all the puzzle places fall in place again and show him a path to you.

Bradley desperately hoped that everything would fall into place when he got off the train. That he would remember.

But in the back of the large black car that was waiting for him, zipping through the city, everything is just a blur.

It makes him uneasy. Nervous.

It’s like that moment of take-off; the second the wheels leave the carrier runway, there’s nothing but dark water beneath him. In that fraction of a second, his stomach drops — what am I even doing here?

Meeting his hosts does little to calm the mounting anxiety he feels. The ambassador’s residence is a grand villa surrounded by a beautiful garden overlooking the city. In the distance, the river glitters happily in the sunlight; the fruit trees are in fragrant bloom, colorful bunches of lilac in pink, blue, and purple color the city. The ambassador himself is almost unremarkable in stature as well as demeanor. Mrs. Parker appraises him with a sharp look and a too-kind smile. The daughter bats her eyelashes a little too hard for it to be genuinely demure; her perfectly sweet smile is a little too well-practiced, not a wrinkle on her pretty dress, not a hair out of place.

Behind them stand two maids in matching dark dresses and white aprons, with blank, borderline bored looks. After exchanging pleasantries, one of the maids leads him wordlessly up the grand staircase. Red carpet on marble. Gold latches on the windows.

It all seems very… formal, considering Bradley is not here on business. But when he received his travel visa, it came with an invitation to stay. It seemed rude to decline. Now Bradley is starting to regret not doing so anyway. Something about the house and these people is making him uneasy. It’s making his head hurt like he’s even more out of place here than anywhere else in the world.

Walking into the large sunny guestroom, a fresh flower arrangement in the vase on the dresser, Bradley closes his eyes for a moment. You once said May was your favorite time in the city because you liked how everything bloomed. Breathing in deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, floral notes hit his nose. There’s something familiar in the air.

He can smell your soap.

Bradley drops his duffle bag; it crashes on the carpeted floor. The smell, the tiniest hint that lingers, is making his stomach lurch like at take-off. God, it’s like your ghost is in the air, dancing around him, evading him every step. Bradley screws his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. He wants to remember.

Every route you showed him.

Every street corner he kissed you on.

Even that goddamn small room tucked away behind the hidden servant's entrance.

Your steps echo around him, running up the stairs, coming closer and closer. Suddenly, his heart was beating so fast, and his breath was coming out, heaving, somewhere between panic and elation. Before he can pinpoint where the footsteps are coming from, they disappear. A door closes. Silence.

You are haunting him.

***

Eyes closed, blouse sleeves rolled up, cigarette dangling loosely between your lips, you’re lounging on the old, creaky wooden chair outside the kitchen entrance. The empty bucket sits at your feet. Your new red and blue plaid coat hangs from the chair. It’s quiet. The sun feels pleasant. Behind your closed lids, you see the shadows of the trees move in the breeze. Inside, you hear the cook pottering around the kitchen, whistling.

It’s such an odd day. Despite the gorgeous weather, you have that foreboding feeling, like when a storm is brewing — not a cloud in the sky, but you feel how the air pressure suddenly drops. Your forehead still stings.

It’s ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. Eva would have already set you straight. If not for her, your mom would have. You thought you saw Bradley in a flash, in a flicker of shadow, and your heart soared with such force that you nearly knocked yourself out, falling over to catch another glimpse of his ghost. How incredibly pathetic.

The pit in your stomach is there again. The consuming darkness expands through your flesh and bones again. You managed to keep it at bay all this time, simply not admitting it was eating away at you. But the split second of your dream leaking into reality broke the dam.

Men like Bradley don’t wait for a girl for three years. They don’t need to. Men like Bradley sure as shit don’t settle for jumped-up little schoolgirls that dropped out of college. Why would they? And men like Bradley, you swallow heavily, have no use for a broken and burned body like yours. You have nothing to offer him.

You knew this. But it was your mistake to make, you tell yourself again. You thought you accepted that. Logically and rationally, it shouldn’t hurt like this. Your hand sneaks into your coat pocket again, the tip of your finger just brushing against the nameplate. It brings you no comfort — instead, you feel so much more aware of the pit in your stomach.

What would Bradley say if he knew you still had it in your pocket? He would probably make fun of you and tease you for falling for him so hard, still pining despite your constant protests as if he would remember. He never gave it to you to keep. He flung it at you. You just never gave it back, and Bradley never asked for it.

You screw your eyes shut tighter for a second, exhaling deeply. It’s Sunday, your day off, and you should be enjoying yourself. Not pondering the maybes of life long passed. Moreover, you shouldn’t be at the residence today — you’re only here to drop off the flowers for the guestroom because the florist forgot to deliver them. Which you did, and then you bolted through the servant’s entrance to the back of the house.

So why do you hear someone calling your name?

You wonder how much longer you can pretend not to hear and just bask in the sun a bit longer. The rapid footsteps approaching spell the end of your moment of quiet. Sitting up, rolling down your sleeves, and brushing the carefully styled curls back into place, framing the left side of your face.

“Annie!”

You wince. You hate that name.

Smiling broadly, Julie comes bursting out of the house. Her red hair is like a flame. Unceremoniously, she sits herself down in the doorway, legs stretched in front of her, toeing her neat black lacquered shoes off.

Automatically, you hand her your cigarette holder and a box of matches, which she gratefully accepts.

“Don’t sit on the floor, Julie,” You say in way of greeting. “You’ll get your dress dirty.”

She ignores you, stretching languidly.

“Did you take a peek at the new house guest?” She asks instead, a devilish look on her face.

“Do I ever?” You reply, ashing your cigarette absentmindedly. You ensure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes: the rooms look beautiful, not a crinkled sheet or speck of dust, magically laundered clothes each morning, fresh flowers. But it’s not your job to serve drinks or dinner.

It was hiding away in the shadows that once protected you. The shadows that wrapped their branches around you, through you, rooting you into place.

“He had Miss Lo on the ceiling with one look,” she continues, giddy. “This is promising to be such an entertaining week!”

“Oh please,” you close your eyes again, leaning back. “Nothing will happen. Miss Lo will simper, fawn, and complain, Mrs. Parker will loom over every step we make, and then the ambassador and his guest will probably burn a hole in the smoking room curtains again.”

Julie snorts.

“I get her, though,” she adds thoughtfully. “Miss Lo, I mean.”

You shoot her a skeptical look.

“What, you never have a little daydream about one of those handsome officers sweeping you off your feet?”

“Me?” You gesture vaguely at your face. “Hardly,” you lie.

“Especially you,” Julie continues, undeterred. Your mouth sets in a hard line. “You pine.”

“I don’t,” Annoyance is seeping through your voice.

“Yeah, you do. When you think no one is looking, when you’re working, it’s like your eyes glaze over. You’re pining for someone,” She’s pointing her index finger at you playfully. You roll your eyes.

“You know you could just tell me, right?” She presses, a little too eager. “You’re inviting all the gossip because you never tell us anything,”

“It’s annoying when Miss Lo does it, but it’s rude coming from you, Julie,” You cut her off sharply. Your head still hurts, and your ear feels heavy like it’s full of water.

You could talk about Bradley. There is no reason to keep it a secret anymore — the danger has passed. Once, you were waiting for the time when your great wartime romance would only be a story lovingly recounted over too many wines.

You could talk about what happened in those final days of the war. You were hardly the only one that came home broken in more ways than one. You thought that one day you’d look back at everything that happened, everything that you did, and feel some pride.

But it just hurts. And that hurt is all you have left. It’s yours to suffer because you convince yourself it’s the only way you are sure everything that happened was real: the good and the bad.

“You’re doing it again, Anya,” Julie takes a long drag from her cigarette, mercifully dropping the horrid new nickname bestowed on you by Mrs. Parker. You shoot her a long-suffering look.

“You know what they say, right?” Julie says calmly, legs stretched before her, languishing in the sun. “The best way to get over a man is to get under another one.”

You start laughing, despite yourself. You don’t know what has suddenly gotten into you. Maybe the shadows had become too cold and lonely for you to handle.

Maybe you finally allowed yourself to break free from your stasis.

Maybe you really stopped believing Bradley would ever come back to you.

Maybe you are ready to admit you never truly believed it in the first place.

The music is too loud. Your head is spinning — not from the collision, but from the white wine spritz going down too quickly. Why are you in a club on Sunday night? Why is it so busy? Someone is talking to you. You can see his mouth move, shaping the words, but you cannot hear his voice. It simply disappears in the wave of dissonant sounds. Julie is dancing. You see flashes of her red hair twirl in and out of sight.

It’s the creeping realization that you shouldn’t be here.

The room moves in strange waves. Fingers wrap around your chin. You want to stumble back, but your back is against a wall. Were you here the whole time? Nervously, you brush your fingers through your hair, ensuring the curls framing your face's left side are still in place. Another hand brushes them away again. You wish you could melt through the wall. The puffs of breath against your skin tell you he’s whispering something in your ear.

“Leave me alone,” You try.

You can’t hear your own words. You can’t hear the fucking words. Panic is bubbling up now. The grip on your chin is painful — you jerk your head away, throwing up your arms to create a shield between yourself and the hulking mass hovering over you. It doesn’t have the intended effect. The moment you think you’ve made an escape for yourself, he closes in on you more.

The hand threading through your hair yanks your head back painfully. You are sure that you screamed out. But it’s like the sound disappeared into the void. Maybe you only screamed in your head. His lips crash roughly into yours. Every action elicits a reaction — whenever you pull away, he pulls you back in closer.

It’s like a switch flips in your head. For a few seconds, the surge of adrenaline sharpens your vision again—the wave of noise stills. You stop struggling.

You know where you are.

Your wine glass is on the table, on your right-hand side. Your fingers sneak towards it, gripping the stem tightly. You have one shot at this. He is taller than you, heavier. You don’t stand a chance in a fair fight.

That’s okay. You won’t fight fair.

Shattering the bell of the glass on the side of the table shocks him enough to break off the kiss. The shock changes to wide-eyed horror when the sharp edge of the wine glass is pressed against his jugular. You use the moment to switch positions. It’s almost comical how meekly the man allows himself to get pushed against the wall.

You want to say something clever. But it’s like your tongue is paralyzed.

This is your chance. You need to get out before people start noticing you are poised to stab someone in the neck.

Stay in your shadow.

You are halfway down the street in the pitch dark night when you realize you are still holding the broken wine glass. The fine shards have made your fingers bleed. You stumble to a halt. The world is spinning uncomfortably again.

Why are you holding that glass? Where is your coat? Your purse?

Fuck. Fuck.

You don’t care about the coat. You don’t care about the purse or anything in it. Everything is replaceable.

A broken sob escapes you.

You care about that fucking bracelet in your pocket. It’s the one thing you can’t make yourself leave behind. You let out a scream from frustration. A window slams shut somewhere.

Why can’t you move on? Why are you allowing Bradley — fucking Rooster — who is not even fucking here, that you haven’t seen or heard from in the three years, who spent the better part of two months sweet-talking you into bed with him when he could have fucking died, who fucked with you, your head and heart so thoroughly in just six short days, and you let him, why are you still allowing him all this power over you? Why can’t you just let him go already?

You will yourself forward, but your feet won’t move.

You’re in stasis.

Tears streaming down your face, broken wine glass in your bloodied hand, you are sure you look as unhinged as you feel. Turning around, you march back to the club.

You will get back what’s yours.

You will get what was promised to you.

And you’ll do it your fucking self.

***

Looking at the picture he tore from Life, Bradley tries to determine if the church spires in the background are the same ones he’s looking at now. Has he been here before? Did you ever take him through this part of the city? It’s frustrating how little he seems to remember and how hard it is to recall the things he was so sure were branded onto his brain.

That place, the villa, was messing with his head. Something there was putting him on edge like he had to be on the lookout the whole time. It was almost like he was expecting to turn a corner, open a door, walk into any room, and find you there. He barely made it through the one night there before the anxiety became too overwhelming, and he packed his bag and checked into a hotel.

It settled some of his anxiety, but it didn’t help Bradley remember anything. Instead, he snaps a picture of the church. He got a new camera so he can play the part of tourist fully, but he mostly hopes someday, somehow, something will click in his brain again, and he’ll find his way to you. As of today, he has five days to find you in this maze of a city before he needs to get back to Germany and finish his assignment there. After that, there is no telling how long it will be before Bradley gets another chance to come to Europe.

He has to find you.

“Rooster!”

Alarmed, Bradley turns around, stuffing the picture back into his wallet. He’s not sure if he should be relieved or annoyed at the person calling his name.

“Bradley Bradshaw, as I live and breathe,” Jake Seresin saunters to Bradley, grinning widely. Bradley closes his eyes for a moment, cursing. Of all the people in this city, he had to run into Bagman. A Bagman that looks and smells like he just rolled out of a bar, no less, his RAF uniform jacket unbuttoned, tie loose, cover askew.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Jake asks, attempting to fix his hair by running his hand through it several times, just making it stick out worse. “Did you miss me so much you came to see me on my home turf?” He adds arrogantly, still smiling like the devil.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Seresin,” Bradley retorts flatly. “I didn’t come to see you, and right now, I’m not sure I want to be seen with you,”

“You’re such a stick in the mud, lieutenant,” Jake drawls sarcastically.

“It’s captain,” It shouldn’t feel so good to Bradley to lord his rank over Hangman, who is still a lieutenant. But of course, Hangman only responds with a deliberately poorly executed salute to Bradley.

“I know a good watering hole near here,” Jake says offhandedly as he searches his pockets, only to pull out an empty carton of cigarettes, crush it, and stuff it back in his pocket — if it’s supposed to be an invitation, it sure as hell doesn’t sound like one. “You can buy me a drink and tell me what you’re doing here.”

“It’s 11 in the morning, Hangman,”

“When in Rome and all that,” He waves Bradley’s protests away.

Bradley hates the idea. Absolutely hates it. But what if. What if Bagman, of all people, could actually help him?

“Fine,” Bradley tries to sound indifferent. “I’ll buy you a drink, but you have to help me with something,”

The broad smile on Jake’s face at the mention of Bradley needing his help has Bradley convinced that this is all one big mistake.

Bradley still thinks Jake is arrogant and annoying at best, but he begrudgingly appreciates him tagging along. Jake seems to be at least somewhat genuinely interested in helping him, and he cleans up quite well. Bradley needs a guide and someone who speaks the language, even when that guide is more interested in catching the eye of as many girls as possible in his flashy uniform, adorned with medals for bravery and the highest orders of service. It’s not that Jake didn’t fairly deserve those—Bradley still thinks he’s an absolute madman, both in the air and on the ground. A madman with his heart in the right place, however.

And he can hardly blame Jake for using his uniform to charm the local ladies—Bradley has done the exact same many times. But he’s only looking for one lady to charm again.

“I’m sure even you thought of this before, but are you sure you have her real name?” Jake asks conversationally as they walk across the bridge over the Vltava.

He has four days to find you. Yesterday Jake was of relatively little actual help, and somewhere, it pains Bradley that the first and only person that he has spoken to about you, is Jake fucking Seresin. Bradley couldn’t tell Jake all the details, but he put together the details. He thinks that by now he has seen every part of the city in the last two days, but he still hasn’t found you.

“I know her first name is Anna—everyone consistently referred to her as Anya, though,” Bradley replies, looking around. A little tug in his heart. Carefully, he thinks he sees something familiar when you connect the first two pieces of a puzzle. Bradley remembers the bridge, with the golden ornamented columns at either end. He remembers your teasing smile as you helped him practice the pronunciation. He walked past it with you so many times, the national theater behind them.

“Yeah, people do that here.” Jake shrugs. “It’s a common nickname to a very common first name, though.”

“As for her last name—I know for a fact, her initials are A.S.” Bradley continues. “She gave me her handkerchief with her initials embroidered on it and a little bird. Sokol, for falcon.”

“Sure, her last would be Sokolova.” Jake interjects, bored. “But,” he continues, lighting a cigarette. “Have you considered that, even if her initials are A.S., she could have a different first name? Alzhbyeta, Alitse, Anastasia, Alena—I mean, if I had to pick a cover name, I would probably pick the most bog-standard first name in the whole country, too.”

Bradley knows Jake is inferring it will be next to impossible to find you. They walk along the colorful buildings along the water—Bradley feels like he’s walked this route a million times in his dreams, and the moment he waited for is finally here. He knows exactly where to go without being able to explain which turn to take.

“I grew up near here.” Jake suddenly pipes up as he walks next to Bradley, looking around the stately buildings. “My mother still lives around here,”

“Anya said she grew up here too.” Bradley’s heart is beating loudly. Maybe asking Hangman for help was a good idea after all. “Do you think there’s a chance you might have known her?”

Jake shrugs, eyeing the girls walking down the opposite side of the street. Bradley describes what you look like; you were in your sophomore year in university in 1939.

“She could be my age,” Jake admits flatly. “But there were at least five girls named Anna that could roughly fit your description in my cohort in high school—if she even went to the same school as I did. And I don’t remember what they went to college for.”

Jake is not the most encouraging companion, but Bradley’s heart still skips a beat as he sees the familiar street. It’s all slotting into place now. The row of yellow, white, pink, and green. The statues look down at the entrance. He speeds up his pace, Jake jogging behind him.

Bradley quickly scans the names next to the doorbells before moving on to the next one, Jake hot on his tail.

“Bradshaw, listen.” Jake puts a hand on his shoulder, face concerned. It’s strange to see him so serious suddenly. “I grew up in the next building over,” He gestures at the yellow building at the end of the block. “I don’t remember a family called Sokol living in one of these buildings.”

“Fuck.” Bradley mumbles as he pulls out your handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. He traces the stitching of your initials. Was it really all a ruse? Did you never truly believe he’d come back for you? Were you just playing out a role in the end?

Jake glances down before clearing his throat awkwardly. “Can I see that?”

Bradley hands it to him wordlessly, tucking his hands in his pockets. Did he not tell you enough times? Did you forget or simply stop believing? Did you never believe him in the first place, and were you only happy to dream with him? The fact that he had spun so many girls so many tales over the years this might finally be his comeuppance.

All the dark thoughts he had tried to keep at bay have broken through. He would be crazy not to consider that you might not have gotten married in the meantime or still living in the same place. You were never going to wait for him. Why would you? He knew he was right when he saw your real smile, and you could see everyone wrapped around your little finger, and you did the same thing so effortlessly with him. And he’s more and more sure you could have a devoted husband now, maybe a baby. And you’re happy. Without him.

You never told him your last name. You really didn’t mean for him to find you after the war.

“Bradshaw, I cannot believe I have to tell you this.” Jake sounds like he’s holding in laughter, breaking Bradley out of his reverie and thrusting the neatly folded fabric back into his line of vision. “This,” He jabs at the embroidered corner. “Is not a fucking S with a little bird,” He bursts out laughing.

“Wai- what?” Bradley forcefully grabs the handkerchief, looking at it intently, like it now contains some new information.

“Did she tell you it was an S with a little bird?” Jake asks, barely able to contain himself.

“No, no…” Bradley is sunk in thought. “I just… I just thought Anya was awful at embroidering.” He mumbles.

Jake absolutely loses it at that, doubling over in laughter. An old lady looks out of her opened window, staring both men down judgmentally. When Jake finally stops laughing, he tries to catch his breath to explain how this could be funny.

“So, it’s not an S,” Bradley asks impatiently. “Then what — Hangman, get a grip! — What is it?”

“It’s a Sh,” He replies simply, rubbing his face and giggling. “It’s a completely different letter.”

Bradley stands rooted to the ground, speechless, as Jake keeps laughing.

“You know what would be even more hilarious?” Jake is leaning his forearm against the building, hand covering his eyes with his hand as his shoulder shakes from laughing. “If this whole time, you had been actually talking about Anna Shafrankova, my neighbor who tutored me in high school.”

“They say it’s a small world,” He takes a deep breath, wiping the tears from his eyes. “But man, that would actually be really weird.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Bradley throws himself against the wall, closing his eyes. He feels the sun shine warmly on his face. The gears in his head turn, overheating. He tries to desperately remember every bit of information you shared with him, sometimes offhandedly. As a child, you were scared of ghosts and explored the passageways between buildings with other neighborhood kids. Jake must have been one of them. The arrogant classmate who went to flight school and then disappeared. Was that also Jake?

“Was she scared of ghosts?” Bradley ventures carefully. Suddenly, Jake’s laughter evaporates, and he’s looking at Bradley with astonishment. “When exploring the buildings, as kids, she told me she was scared of the ghosts haunting the servant stairwell,”

“What the…” The look on Jake’s face is confirmation enough. Bradley is sure of it. They are talking about the same person: you. This means, embarrassingly, that Bradley now actually knows less about you than he thought. Those identity papers had been fake.

“Was her birthday on Christmas?”

Jake actually looks confused for a moment. “No,” He ventures carefully. “I’m pretty sure it was sometime in summer — we used to go swimming in the reservoir lake and build camp fires for her birthday, so definitely not in winter.”

Those papers had been very fake, indeed. It’s both a relief and a setback.

“Come on, let’s see if old Shafrankova is home,” Jake announces, clapping Bradley on his back. “After that, you can buy me a drink or ten, and I want an invitation to the wedding.”

Bradley follows Jake in a daze to the green house – you always took him out of another exit, so Bradley never knew which building you lived in. Or which apartment for that matter?

“There’s a different name on 2B now.” Jake comments. “But maybe she left a forwarding address.”

Jake is playing up his natural charm to the lady of the house, who is blushing furiously, answering his questions. Bradley looks around. You never talked much about your home or family. The apartment is light and spacious, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. It’s ornately furnished. What was it like to grow up here? You always seemed humble, never complaining about the conditions you found yourself in, from sleeping on the floor to eating old dry bread. But to live here, surely your family must have been well off, solidly middle-class.

You were well-educated; that should probably have been a hint of your background. But Bradley thought you were just determined. Because you had proven time and time again in the short time he knew you that you had determination and discipline in spades.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jake motions him out, and the lady of the house waves at them with a dreamy look in her eye.

“What did you learn?” Bradley can’t contain his curiosity.

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address,” Jake grumbles. “The lady said Shafrankova sold everything and disappeared.”

Jake hesitates suddenly, eyeing Bradley wearily.

“She said that she only saw Shafrankova once.” He says, choosing his words carefully. “She said she looked… scarred.”

Bradley stops mid-descended on the stairs.

“Scarred, how?” He asks sharply. The vision from his dream, blood gushing from your head, the smell of burning flesh, your face contorted in a voiceless scream, flashes through his head.

Jake shrugs. “She didn’t elaborate. She only said it was a waste of such a lovely face.”

Bradley feels the blood drain from his face. Someone hurt you. Someone came after you. His mind keeps flashing back to when he looked out the train window. What if he wasn’t misremembering? What if it was really someone dragging you off the platform by force? What if you had been arrested? Locked up?

What if that dream really had been more than just a dream?

He tries to find solace in the idea that you aren’t dead. That picture in Life, with his bracelet, must have been you, and if the new tenant saw you, you must have survived the uprising. But you got hurt. And he’s getting the sinking feeling it’s because of him.

“I need to find her.” He utters, panicked.

“That’s the idea,” Jake replies in a bored tone again. “But let’s figure out a plan first. I know a good bar near.”

Dragging his feet, Bradley follows Jake down the street. All the progress they made today was for naught in the end. He is no closer to actually finding you; he only knows where you are not. Time is ticking, and tomorrow, he needs to spend the whole evening as a dinner guest of the ambassador.

“Hey, cheer up,” Hangman turns to look at Bradley with that exact shit-eating grin that never spells anything good out of his mouth. “If you don’t find her by Saturday, I’ll happily introduce you to another Anna,”

***

Mrs. Parker likes to see effort over results. Even though the windows in the smoking room are squeaky clean — the room hadn’t been used since it was cleaned just a week prior — she won’t be satisfied until she has seen you scrub everything and sweat on your brow. She is always particular, but now she is doing it to punish you.

A searing headache and repeated nightmares that kept you bedbound until yesterday. You couldn’t sleep, you couldn’t stay awake. You just lay there, tears streaming down your face.

And from what you had heard, the houseguest suddenly left without a real explanation. It’s not your fault, but Mrs. Parker needs to get rid of her frustration somewhere.

You hate washing windows. You hate it even more when someone hovers over you. But dinner is in an hour and a half, and Mrs. Parker is getting nervous. You don’t bother to ask if important guests are coming; they are all important. Decorated, distinguished, loud, and drunk.

The big windows of the smoking room on the second floor open outward into the beautiful garden of the villa on the hill, the city sprawling below it. The sun is low, and the blue sky slowly colors pink and orange. You wish you could take a moment to enjoy it rather than scrubbing nonexistent dirt from the window sill and listening to Mrs. Parker going through what appears to be a nervous breakdown as she zooms through the room.

“Annie, make sure that there is fresh ice here before dinner ends,”

“Yes, ma’am,” You reply lightly.

“Annie, this tablecloth has a gray sheen; please replace it and rewash it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” You reply dutifully as you strain to reach the top of the window with your cleaning cloth.

“Annie, Annie, these flowers look like they are wilting. Are you sure they are fresh?”

You look over your shoulder at the vase Mrs. Parker is holding. Wilting is a strong word.

“I’ll replace them with fresh cuts before them men arrive after dinner, ma’am,” You assure her, although you doubt they will notice the difference or care.

“Oh, Annie, I need to go check on dinner,” Mrs. Parker dramatizes. She grasps you by the shoulder as you stand by the open window, the long sleeves of your dark work dress awkwardly rolled up, sweat prickling on your forehead, and sopping cloth in your hand, slowly dripping onto the hardwood floor. “You’re the only one I can trust,” She implores you. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

She’s asking you like she’s not paying you to do this.

“Of course,” You smile politely. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am.��

You sigh deeply when you hear the door click close, returning to the open window. You plop the rag back into the metal bucket on the window sill, wiping your hands on your apron as you look out over the garden. The blooming colors, the sweet smells — it’s really at its most beautiful right now. The apple tree is so full of blossoms it’s almost completely white. The rose bushes have come in beautifully again in pink, red, and yellow. The lavender is abundant.

When you hear the high-pitched giggle, you step back from the window, averting your gaze. Miss Lo is strolling through the garden with tonight’s guest, showing him the lush surroundings and stunning view. You busy yourself with changing the allegedly grayish tablecloth and taking the perfectly fine flowers out of the vase.

You can hear Miss Lo’s melodic voice, although you cannot make out any words. Envy is searing through you like a red-hot iron. Today, you just can’t take it. Resolutely, you march back to the window, expressly not looking at the two figures slowly walking down the garden path in the sunset. As you reach the window latch, you plant your left hand on the window sill to keep yourself stead.

The windows are so unnecessarily large you have to strain to reach far enough — your fingertips barely touch the handle. As you put more weight on your left arm, leaning forward, you feel the pain building in your shoulder.

Just a little further.

Finally, you get a grip on the handle, but it’s like a bomb bursts in your left shoulder. Your elbow buckles from the sudden wave of pain, colliding with the metal bucket that you stupidly left on the window sill. Time almost slows to a crawl as you grab your left arm, pressing it against your chest to stop it from violently shaking, and you watch in partial fascination, partial horror as the metal bucket is no longer standing on the window sill but rather tortuously slowly is sailing down to the patio.

You scrunch up your face and hold your breath in preparation for the screech and clang of the metal against the stone, still standing in the window, looking down at the inevitable chaos below you.

The impact echoes, drawing out your mortification. You close your eyes in frustration.

The high-pitched girlish scream is several orders of magnitude louder than the bucket hitting the stone patio.

Shit. Fucking shit. Miss Lo.

Hesitantly, you open your eyes, still frozen in the open window. You don’t see the bucket and the soapy water sloshed over the stones. You don’t see Miss Lo in her evening dress and glittering jewelry, her face etched in horror, clinging to her companion. Everything has disappeared, melting away in the background.

Because on the garden path leading up to the house, in a resplendent white Navy uniform, looking right at you, is Bradley.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Bradley pulls his arm away from Miss Lo, shaking her off almost rudely. He’s still staring at you like he’s just seen a ghost. As he takes one step forward, you take a step back. With one last look, you start running.

In the war, you left small parts of yourself scattered. A version, a part of you, stayed on that square in front of the university between the bodies of your classmates. Another part of you broke off in that mountain cabin when you first aimed a gun at another person. Bradley chipped off and pocketed so many bits of you, and oh, how gladly you let him. Finding Eva’s murdered body in the stairwell of your apartment cracked deep into your soul. When you shot Jan, you didn’t feel anything; you were already so broken, but more bits of the person that you once were died there that day. The explosions, the bodies, the blood, the shots—they cling to the wreckage of your former self.

As you stand at the top of the stairs, tugging your sleeve down out of habit, you’ve never been more acutely aware of how incomplete you truly are. There is nothing but debris left of the girl Bradley met that day in that barn. You are surprised he even recognizes you.

He is looking up at you in wonder from the bottom of the stairs. Hurriedly, clumsily, he grabs his cover off his head, holding it in his hands almost nervously, unsure what to do next. The black pit in your stomach is still there — you are so afraid that the look of wonder will disappear forever when he sees you up close. Despite your heart beating as much in fear as in excitement, your feet start moving down the stairs of their own accord, going faster and faster. Every broken piece of you rattles like broken china with every step, the sound becoming deafening the closer you get.

Bradley is running up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. His brain is going a mile a minute: you look exactly like he remembers, but also different. Still beautiful, so much more beautiful than in his memories. Your hair is different than he remembers— longer for sure, but he could swear you used to wear it parted to the right rather than the left. The long-sleeved, high-collared, dark charcoal dress looks severe on you in the light summer weather.

You almost crash into him as you race down the stairs. You grab onto his uniform jacket to steady yourself, your face automatically moving to his, only just stopping yourself short. His scars have faded, although you can still see the raised ridges on his skin. There is no way he cannot see yours now. His arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against him. His warm hazel eyes roam over your face, unreadable. You hesitate, averting your gaze.

Maybe you’ve changed too much. Maybe there’s really nothing left of the person Bradley once knew. He can probably see that now. Maybe this Bradley is not the one you remember anymore. His fingers graze the damaged skin along your hairline. Swallowing dryly, you look up at him.

He’s smirking at you, eyes twinkling.

How you hate that cocky smile. How you’ve missed it. Seeing it again, feeling him again, is so overwhelming you feel your poor heart might give out. You tighten your grip on him, pulling yourself closer, as if you’re scared he’s going to turn to smoke in your arms, or, worse, push you away.

But Bradley moves his face closer to you, his mouth only a fraction away from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your face. You can feel his heartbeat under your fingers.

“Do it, you coward,” He whispers.

He sees the flash of anger in your eyes. How dare he use your own words against you? But it has the intended effect. It’s all you need to hear. You kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, barely giving him a moment to recover from your ferocity, slanting your mouth against his, begging him to let you deepen the kiss. Bradley allows you without hesitation, easily catching your weight as you fall into him. Your body still fits so perfectly against his.

This is what it should have felt like, Bradley realizes. Coming home, finally closing the long chapter of war. He had been chasing this feeling: the benevolent calm, the warm intimacy.

Home is where the heart is, and that was always in your arms.

note | good things come to those who wait. Also, this chapter has some of the earliest scenes that I actually wrote over a year ago, and those were the exact things that kept me awake the whole night when I came up with this story. Which is more than a year ago, actually. God, I hope the payoff is really going to be worth it hahahaha. Thanks for sticking by me, still. There was actually a full chapter of material before this, titled Blue Skies. But I cut a lot of stuff out to start moving the story a bit faster, mostly because I really want to write this finally!

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