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fen-luciel · 5 months ago

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The thief

Warnings:Blood/kink/choking/smut

Geralt finds you hidden among the mountains.

Reader not human.

Don't ask. I just do it.

It had all started as a normal contract: two supply caravans were late, their corpses were found, and their provisions had been looted. The villagers wanted justice for their lost loved ones and, if possible, to recover some of the stolen goods.

So, they asked for the help of a Witcher.

Geralt reached the site of the attack. The villagers were convinced that vampires were involved due to the bite marks on the victims' necks. However, many creatures could cause such wounds, and folklore often led people to blame the same two or three monsters at random. Geralt needed to see it with his own eyes.

Unfortunately, many of the victims had already been buried, and the remaining ones showed conflicting signs. There were bite marks on the necks, but the cause of death was deep claw wounds, bruises, and injuries that suggested they had been tossed around like ragdolls.

Only the overturned caravans remained in the road. The horses' bridles were broken, and the animals were found miles away, still frightened.

With his enhanced senses, Geralt could see numerous footprints around the vehicles, both stripped of their food, blankets, and tools.

The vampire theory was as plausible as any other. Perhaps everything had happened at different times that evening—the attack, the blood draining, and the stolen goods.

Or maybe a vampire really had robbed them, though the wounds on the bodies were too large and jagged to be the work of a sentient vampire.

One thing Geralt did notice, however, was a pair of footprints in the mud. The depth suggested someone had been carrying heavy loads on their shoulders.

Whoever it was had left no other traces—just footsteps, as if they had taken everything on their backs and walk away.

Whatever had stolen the provisions was not human.

And it was sentient enough to open the caravans using their keys—probably taken from the pockets of one of the victims.

The tracks remained visible, stretching for miles into the forest until they reached an old road built along the mountainside.

The trail ended there, but Geralt was ready to explore further or return for more information.

The path was in poor condition—unused and crumbling. The deeper he ventured into the winter climate, the more he could hear the wind howling between the rocks. The dull brown and green flora was coated with frost. Snow had fallen a week ago, and at these altitudes, the cold had crystallized the flakes.

At sunset, the mountain peaks glowed with a soft orange hue. Geralt had to take shelter in a small mountain cave to escape the cold, burning scraps of old notices and materials to create a flame.

It provided barely enough warmth but was enough to cook his rations. He realized how foolish he had been to leave unprepared, but he felt he was on the right track.

There were some artificially built caves nearby. The place was abandoned but showed signs of past civilization—perhaps someone was hiding there.

After a few hours of cold rest, he resumed his journey at dawn. Dark, heavy clouds loomed in the distance, threatening a storm. If it worsened, the frozen ground would become a slippery slide to the grave. But he continued.

He walked and climbed until he saw real signs of civilization.

A small village with only a handful of houses. Doors and windows were barred, some roofs had collapsed under the weight of the snow. The place had been abandoned for a long time, but something felt off.

Geralt’s medallion began to hum slightly.

He drew his silver sword and kept walking. The snow had grown deeper.

He walked until he reached a collapsed bridge, a deep ravine separating him from the other side, where the road appeared to end under the remnants of an avalanche.

Yet, his medallion now pulsed more intensely than ever. Looking closely, Geralt could perceive an unusual movement in the wind—a subtle, fluid shift, barely noticeable even with his heightened senses.

A powerful illusion was deceiving his vision, a strong magic.

Luckily, he still had the relic gifted to him by his friend, which he used to dispel the illusion. But unlike others, this one did not vanish completely—he had to keep the medallion exposed to move forward.

Not only was the bridge in perfect condition, but the road had been cleared, with snow piled on the sides, forming a narrow path sprinkled with salt.

A bit further ahead, stone-carved stairs led to the mountain’s highest peak, where a manor was nestled among the tallest rocks.

Geralt sheathed his sword.

By now, it was obvious: whoever lived here had to be a sentient creature.

And the code forbade him from attacking without good reason. Perhaps it really was a vampire—maybe just looking for supplies. It seemed strange for one to isolate itself so much from civilization, but he would only get answers if he found the manor’s resident.

The building stretched horizontally, with two wings on either side spanning two floors. In the center, a slightly taller tower stood.

In front, a small paved courtyard contained pots with winter plants. The place had an ancient, cracked look but was well-maintained. Shielded by the mountain peak, wind and snow had not caused severe damage—the structure seemed frozen in another timeline.

The wooden door was polished. Geralt knocked—twice, three times—then pushed it open.

It was immediately clear that the place was inhabited. Numerous fires burned in chandeliers, everything was clean, and the floors were covered with long red carpets.

Due to the almost perpetually stormy weather, the windows did not provide much light, and most of them were covered with heavy curtains.

"Is anyone here?"

A faint rustle. A heavy breath. And with each step down the corridor, the sound of a quickening heartbeat.

He stopped in front of a door, knocked as a warning, and entered.

The long rectangular room featured a dining table. To the left, a small kitchen was equipped with everything necessary.

But along the row of chairs, right at the end of the table, Geralt saw a figure curled up under a sheet.

That was how he saw you for the first time. A small thing hiding under a sheet like a child.

He raised his hands and slowly closed the distance between you.

"I don’t mean you any harm."

A slow sigh escaped your lips before you lifted your face slightly, peeking from under the table to look at Geralt, who now towered over you, just a couple of steps away.

"I’m a Witcher. I was following a trail and ended up here—I don’t want to attack you," his deep voice was almost a growl, low and rough, yet gentle.

When you finally moved, Geralt could see your eyes—now shining a deep, warm gold.

"You’re a Blood Fae," he said more to himself than to you.

"Did you attack the caravans in the valley?"

The accusation hit like cold water. You wanted to be angry, but you were too scared even to consider fighting him.

You shook your head, opened your mouth once, twice, then pressed your lips together.

"It was a ghoul," your voice was low as you spoke to the witcher.

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"That explains the wounds. But not the state of the bodies, or the missing supplies." There was no accusation in his tone, only curiosity.

"I let it escape, I tried to help them, but it was too late—" you sighed again, a slight tremor shaking you. "They begged me, their wounds were too deep, they didn’t want to suffer anymore." Your gaze fixed on Geralt—on his swords, his clothing, and finally, his face.

"So you drained them? Out of kindness?" He made it sound strange, almost dirty, but you didn’t dwell on it.

"I was hungry—" you admitted with a sob. "I don’t want to, but—" you mumbled some excuse.

"Please, don’t kill me—"

He sighed and slowly bent down to get a better look at you from under the table.

"Did you run away from your clan? Or have you always been wild? Your parents?"

You replied, annoyed.

"I'm not a child."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shrugged slightly, and nodded toward you. "Then come out from under the table, and let's talk like two adults."

His remark irritated you, but you knew that whining wouldn’t do any good. Moving the blanket off your head, you crawled between the chairs before finally standing in front of the witcher.

You clutched the blanket around your body, taking a small step back to put more distance between you.

Even though you weren’t a child, the witcher was large and tall. You had heard of mutants before, though you had never met one.

"Finally," he smiled, crossing his arms over his chest.

He watched you, waiting for an answer to his earlier questions. You were nervous about speaking openly, about telling him about yourself, but you figured he wouldn’t just leave if you asked.

"I lived in the countryside with others of my kind. But I left," you said, unable to meet his eyes. You rubbed your hands together, intertwining your fingers in a nervous gesture. You rarely spoke to anyone except the merchants you occasionally dealt with, all human men and women with harmless appearances—not a witcher.

He exhaled, giving a slight nod as if prompting you to continue.

"I never stole or hurt anyone, I swear—" you pleaded again, pressing your hands together, your gaze fixed on the breastplate of his armor.

He raised a hand in a gesture of peace. "I don’t understand, though—I thought your kind's diet was only blood. Why did you steal food?"

Finally, you looked him in the eyes. "I didn’t take the food. Blankets and supplies, yes. But as you said yourself, I don’t eat that stuff." You ignored the turmoil inside you from looking into those vertical irises and pointed to the kitchen. "You can check—it's empty."

Trying to ease the nervous knot in your stomach, you walked to the other side of the table, where the windows overlooked the outside. The sky was split by large black clouds, but some beams of light still managed to break through, making your marble-like skin shimmer.

"I knew some of them. By sight. I knew where they lived, where they were going—" you glanced outside. "I made the beast run away, then brought the crates of food to the village, next to the well. I don’t know what happened to it, it was late, maybe beasts were drawn by the smell—" but Geralt interrupted you.

"I doubt it. No one mentioned any remains of crates. Someone must have hidden the food before others could see it. I’m not surprised."

You stopped halfway across the table and looked at him. "Do you believe me?" He nodded.

"You haven’t given me a reason to doubt you. And your story matches what I found."

He started walking too, slow steps on the opposite side of the table, his gaze lingering for a moment on your skin, illuminated by the faint sunlight that survived in such a dark place. "If you’ve never attacked anyone, why did you leave your own kind? You’re far from civilization. And I doubt you’re many centuries old—why hide?"

You pressed your lips into a hard line, nervous, your gaze resting on the scratched wooden table, stained with wine long since soaked into the surface, which had swelled and cracked.

"We were a small, peaceful community, living alongside humans. We only fed on animals. But I..." you ran a finger over the dark wood, a nail tracing the shallower cracks. "I hated killing animals. Any kind. I tried to avoid them as much as possible, but that, of course, made me suffer from hunger. And I lost control."

Finally, you let the sheet slip from your shoulders, folding it and placing it on the table. You wore a long black dress, a bodice that left your shoulders and arms bare.

Behind you, the light was disappearing, now completely obstructed by the clouds. The ground was beginning to be covered by a thin layer of snow, and your exposed skin shimmered with a faint glow, almost like an aura around you.

"You know, with all the witch hunters lately, we were nervous. And I was the weak link. But I chose to leave. I knew I was a burden. And I was terrified of hurting someone. Or worse... well. You understand. A friend told me about this place—a mage. He said I’d be safe here."

You spoke in a low voice, knowing the witcher could hear you perfectly. "I’ve learned to feed now. Always on animals, but... sometimes I take advantage of men on the brink of death." You struggled to say the last words, afraid of his reaction. "With the wars going on, you can find plenty of small groups fleeing the army. Unfortunately, many of them are mortally wounded, others on the verge of freezing to death. I can’t save them, and I don’t want to. I’d be afraid of being reported. So, if I’m sure—you know, like the poor men from the caravans—then I feed. Human blood keeps the hunger at bay longer."

He studied you in silence for a few moments, his posture relaxed but always alert, his eyes fixed on your glowing skin.

"Can I stay here for the night?"

The question caught you off guard. You looked at him, eyes wide, a bit confused by the sudden change of subject.

"A storm is coming. And it’ll take at least a day’s walk to get back to the valley. I need shelter."

You turned to look outside again. The winds had started blowing harder, the snow falling thicker, but the real storm hadn’t started yet.

"Uh—sure. But—can I ask your name?"

Geralt.

It sounded familiar—you might have heard it when you still lived in the countryside. You told him yours.

Now that the worst seemed to be over, you walked across the hall, stopping in front of the door. "I don’t have much food for you... maybe still a deer—but I can give you a room, and I have wood for the fireplace and—" you stopped when you saw him smile slightly.

"That will do just fine."

You showed him the house, explaining how the mage had turned the former lord’s quarry into his home for some time. Many of the old residents’ pictures remained, and the former tool room had been transformed into a cozy library, with numerous shelves full of books, a cushioned armchair in the corner, and a lamp to light.

"Is this what you do here? Read?" he asked, looking at the dusted tomes. You nodded, a bit embarrassed. "Lately, I’ve bought new ones to fill more shelves."

Geralt left the room, following you to the guest chamber. "How do you earn money?"

You shrugged. "A bit of everything. I repair objects, sew clothes, blankets." You cleared your throat. "I have a contact who acts as an intermediary."

You opened the room, stepping aside to let him in. There was a canopy bed, a double-door wardrobe, two nightstands, and a small rug beside the bed.

"It’s a bit... dusty. But to sleep, you just need to shake the blankets a bit, and—wait, I’ll do it now—" you moved toward the bed, but he grabbed your wrist, stopping you beside him. His touch was rough, the skin of someone who had spent his whole life holding a sword. He could wrap his whole hand around your wrist.

Ironically, between the two of you, you were the stronger one.

And that thought haunted you.

And it tormented you.

"There’s no need, I’ve slept in far worse places." He let go of you with a slow movement, his fingers lingering on your smooth skin before pulling away.

"Um—if we want to eat—I don’t… I don’t know how to cook—" you tried to change the subject, embarrassed, and he smiled again.

"I'm not picky. Show me the fireplace, and I'll handle it."

The living room overlooked the manor’s edge, where a large single stained-glass window decorated the wall. Geralt took the few remaining provisions and put them over the fire. The deer was inedible, completely drained of blood. You felt ashamed that you hadn’t thought of that sooner when you retrieved it.

You moved the armchairs and a small table in front of the large fireplace. Outside, the storm raged fiercely, the snow falling so thickly that not even a sliver of sky was visible. But the warmth of the room was enough for two creatures who could see in the dark. The atmosphere had relaxed, and you were terribly curious to hear his adventures, the monsters he had encountered, the people he had interacted with, the regions he had traveled through.

Even though he was a man of few words, he could captivate you with the juiciest details. His descriptions of the creatures were so vivid that you could see them with your own eyes. You watched him eat, entranced by his tales.

By the time it was deep into the night, you let him go to bed. Tomorrow, he would have to wake up early and set out for the valley, and the journey would be long.

But once in bed, you couldn't read.

You loved lying under the covers, reading, maybe closing your eyes for a while and enjoying the muffled sound of the storm—but tonight, it was impossible.

You could hear him breathing, even though your rooms were far apart, at opposite ends of the long hallway.

You wanted to hear him.

Tomorrow he would leave, and you would be alone once more.

You hadn’t talked this much in decades, and Geralt’s presence was comforting and warm.

It made you hungry.

You wanted to bite him, to taste him up close with a touch more than the simple friction of skin.

Hours earlier, you had imagined him fighting wyverns, dragons, nekkers, and more—sweaty and breathless, swinging his sword at his enemies.

Maybe well-dressed at court, or naked, washing himself in a cold forest lake.

You saw him covered in blood, wounded, aching.

It made your pulse quicken.

You wanted those hands to press against your neck, his rough fingertips split from years of battle.

For once, you decided to be bold—to do something you had never imagined. If he rejected you, you could always hide and wait for him to leave. But you had to try.

The taste of rejection was better than the taste of regret.

You wore only a thin, white nightgown—something sheer, almost translucent, ending at your knees. Four small ties held it together at the chest, and underneath, a simple, delicate thong.

Your footsteps were light as you moved down the corridor, hair loose, a knot tightening in your stomach. You wanted to surprise him, to slip inside unnoticed—but as you turned the handle, the door creaked just a bit too loudly.

And yet, he didn’t stir.

He was a vision—lying there, bare-chested, the blankets pooled around his waist. His skin was mapped with deep scars—claw marks, bites, wounds—his sculpted muscles encased in pale flesh.

His face was shadowed by light stubble, his silver hair loose over the pillow.

You wanted to bite him everywhere.

Keeping your movements light, you approached the bed, your throat tight as you climbed onto the mattress—one leg sliding over his body so you could sit atop his lower abdomen.

You could feel his warmth through the blankets.

You could see and sense the pulse of blood in his veins.

You could smell him, and you imagined the shade of red that ran beneath his skin.

So engrossed in watching him that you didn't realise his hands were moving over your thighs, a squeak-like sound escaped your lips, the instinct to jump off the bed and run, but he held you still enough to convince you to stay still.

"I wondered when you would arrive" The hoarse sound escaped his lips a breeze on your skin that made your nipples stiffen beneath your robe.

"I- don't" knowing he was waiting for you made you ashamed and warm at the same time, his hand pushed under your robe going up your side gradually moving forward where his thumb rubbed your nipple.

He looked at you with a primal hunger he pushed up one arm to bring his lips close to yours, but instead of kissing you he moved next to your ear.

"Bite me"

You would like to say you tried to resist, but that would be a lie, in a fluid movement you moved your head into his neck licking a long strip of skin before biting down on it with your drawn canines.

Blood flooded your mouth at the same moment Geralt's other hand ripped your panties off with a flex of his fingers, you could feel the damp fabric rubbing your lips, now your core was resting on his waist where his manhood pressed against you.

You drank just a little, just enough to dirty your lips, before launching yourself onto his mouth, the kiss tasted of iron, but neither of you were troubled by it, you were fighting in a war of passion, his hands working on your laces while yours were at his trousers, you pushed your dressing gown off your shoulders remaining naked on top of him.

When his hand grazed your bud you slapped it away, your mouths parted and panting still joined by a trickle of saliva.

You smiled, selling the confusion on his face, his injured neck dripping tiny drops of blood.

You pushed him onto the mattress, and keeping your eyes on his you pushed his trousers and blankets down, freeing his erection.

You wanted to do many things, but you needed it now.

You shifted to your knees before grabbing your manhood and rubbing it a few times, then positioned it at the entrance to your dripping pussy.

"Wait, I don't want to hurt you-" she tried to stop you, but a giggle escaped you.

"I'm not one of your witch witcher" And without waiting you sat down plunging his cock to the hilt into your centre.

You groaned aloud and moved your hips in a slow circle enjoying the fullness you felt, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"You are definitely something else-" he moaned as you lifted your hips, and fell back into them slow and deep.

You were so wet that your juices dripped down his cock and soaked your thighs, the sound of skin flapping was obscene.

"Gods you're wet" He groaned leaving himself stretched out on the pillows, his eyes closed in ecstasy as you continued to ride him, a growing fire burning with need.

You continued for a few more thrusts before he thrashed and pushed into your soaked cunt.

'That's what you wanted isn't it? To ride my cock like a whore."

He grabbed you from under your knees pulling you up flush with his erection, you could only hold onto his chest to keep your balance, then he began to move.

He pushed his hips hard as he let you fall onto his cock, pulling you like a rag doll, the change of pace made you moan hoarsely, the awkward sounds of your pussy getting louder and louder, you felt dirty and you liked it.

‘Yes, yes- I- I want your big cock Geralt-’ you no longer cared what you said, modesty was lost in the snow.

He pushed you into the mattress resting one leg on his shoulder and holding your hip he began to thrust hard, hard and fast, His grunts became louder, you could feel the tip of his cock touch the entrance to your womb, his free hand pinched your clit and breasts, but you grabbed his wrist and moved your hand higher.

It took him a second to realise what you wanted, he squeezed the smooth skin of your neck, your hips slammed hard into each other, your moans mingled, the heat building in your cunt as the air rushed out of you.

It didn't take long for either of you, you contracted spasmodically around his cock as you came, which stimulated by the grip in which you held it could only thrust deeper before it came straight into your womb, hot and thick filling your insides.

You let go on the bed, your limbs entwined and a sense of fullness and rest embracing you, something told you that maybe the next morning life would change for the better.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #monster #geralt x reader #non human

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thicctails · 9 months ago

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I absolutely LOVE your Mythology Falls AU designs, but I’m curious on why you chose the ones that you did.

I'm so happy you like it! Let's go down the list, shall we?

Dipper: I love the Sphinx!Dipper from Nightrizer's take on Monster Falls, but I didn't want to go that route since these are supposed to be an original take on idea of everyone becoming creatures of myth and legend. The first reason I chose a Gryphon for our beloved Pine Tree because they represent traits like bravery, wisdom, and power. Obviously, Dipper isn't the strongest character in Gravity Falls, but when the chips are down, he isn't afraid to start beating the hell out of whatever is terrorizing him, no matter how much stronger they may be.

The second reason is because I wanted to do something with owls and cheetahs for Dipper. I chose the barn owl because their feathers actually do kinda resemble the colours I chose for Dipper's feathers, and also because they're my favourite species of owl. Both owls and cheetahs are nervous creatures with high pitched calls, which I think fits Dipper very well haha.

Mabel: While I like the idea of Mabel being some kind of water creature, I think her being a mermaid would cause quite a few issues with mobility. I went with a selkie because not only are baby seals fricken adorable (especially harp seals, which is what her coat is based on), but it also allows her to keep her iconic sweater look! Now she can be fashionable on land, and utterly adorable in the water. There's also the added risk of someone trying to take her coat, but when one of your Grunkle's is a dragon, and the other is a kelpie, most people get the hint not to try anything.

Grunkle Stan:

Haha, come on, you see it, right?

Really, though, while Stan may love money, and everyone assumes that he would be hoarding crisp dollar bills, his real horde is actually his house and all those within it. He loves his family more than life itself, and anyone who brings them harm is going to be getting a face full of flames. He's big, grumpy, and looks like he'd be nothing more than a dumb brute, but in reality he's a big softie who could outsmart most anyone who crossed him.

Ford: Kelpies look beautiful, friendly, and enticing, promising fun and adventure, if you only would come closer and climb atop their back. However, this is only a farce, and now you're being dragged down into the dark depths of a lake or river. While Ford wasn't drowning anyone as a human, he certainly dragged McGucket down a dark path, often bringing him into dangerous situations, and he almost did the same to Dipper, although not intentionally. However, they are not always bad, and if you can slip a bridle over a Kelpie's head and tame it for a time, they'll tirelessly help you with whatever you need.

They were also said to be shapeshifters, often taking the form of a man. Whether or not Ford will figure this out remains to be seen (hopefully no one sticks him in a cage and threatens to freeze him!)

Soos: The world's most perfect man deserves a nobel and revered creature. Qilins are gentle, benevolent protectors, and unlike unicorns, they really can see into someone's heart! I wanted Soos to have an overwhelmingly friendly and loved mythological form, so a Qilin seemed like a natural fit.

Wendy & McGucket: two North American cryptids, neither one having much to go on. I chose a Splintercat for Wendy, both because its a lumberjack legend, and because this lynx-like beast topples whole trees with ease by smashing into them which reminded me of Manly Dan, who is also a Splinter Cat.

As for poor old Fiddleford, I made him into a Glawackus because 1. tell me that name isn't something he'd say.

and 2. Glawackuses are said to have the ability to erase the memories of anyone who looks into their eyes. I made it so that the eye that is covered by his green eyeglass is safe to look into, while the other will cause memory loss.

#gravity falls #ask #au #gravity falls au #dipper pines #mabel pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #soos ramirez #wendy corduroy #fiddleford mcgucket #mythology falls #monster falls

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xiaokuer-schmetterling · 4 months ago

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a bit more of linguistic meta on wwx name!

-> https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=wuxian&svt=pinyin

okay i get the lwj found his wifi punny jokes now! BUT DID YOU SEE THIS HOMOPHONE!!!???

无限--wu2 xian4--unlimited / unbounded ( ah! is that how they got the untamed??? )

无线--wu2 xian4--wireless [internet]

诬陷--wu1 xian4--to entrap / to frame / to plant false evidence against ( 👀👀👀😱😱😱 )

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example of the lwj finding wifi joke

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so. um. let's go down this rabbit hole 😅

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wwx's milk name meaning

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@hunxi-guilai post about how the drama name got from mdzs to 'the untamed'

-> "so English title of the show, The Untamed, has absolutely nothing to do with any of the titles in Chinese, but I’m going to walk through the titles to get see how we get to ‘The Untamed’ "

-> [xks doing a tldr summary for the key points relevant to this post but defo go read the og post bc IT'S FASCINATING]

tldr: cql can be translated as

“a song to explain matters fully”

“a song of bygone relationships”

“a song to command the world”

everyone ships lan wangji x wei wuxian => wangxian => wuji.mp3 => unbridled / unfettered => the untamed !!!

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this section inspired by ^that post!!!

魔道祖师--mó dào zǔ shī

mo2--devil / magic

dao4--direction / way / road / path / principle / truth / morality / reason / skill / method / Dao (of Daoism) / to say / to speak / to talk / classifier for long thin things (rivers, cracks etc), barriers (walls, doors etc), questions (in an exam etc), commands, courses in a meal, steps in a process

zu3--ancestor / forefather / grandparents

shi1--teacher / master / expert / model / army division / (old) troops / to dispatch troops

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E9%AD%94%E9%81%93%E7%A5%96%E5%B8%88&svt=pinyin

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陈情令--chén qíng lìng

chen2 qing2 [binome / phrase]--to give a full account

chen2--to lay out / to exhibit / to display / to narrate / to state / to explain / to tell / old / stale

qing2--feeling / emotion / passion / situation

ling4--to order / to command / an order / warrant / writ / to cause / to make sth happen / virtuous / honorific title / season / government position (old)

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E9%99%88%E6%83%85%E4%BB%A4&svt=pinyin

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无机--wu2 ji1--inorganic (chemistry)

[this ji1 has the possible meanings: machine / engine / opportunity / intention / aircraft / pivot / crucial point / flexible (quick-witted) / organic]

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E6%97%A0%E6%9C%BA&svt=pinyin

无羁--wu2 ji1

wu2--not to have / no / none / not / to lack / un- / -less

ji1--bridle / halter / to restrain / to detain / to lodge / inn

https://dictionary.writtenchinese.com/#sk=%E6%97%A0%E7%BE%81&svt=pinyin

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more meta on mdzs character names!!!

excerpt:

"When a native speaker hears the term WangXian 忘羨, they get the basic meaning of "forgetting envies", but at the same time they're inevitably reminded of this famous idiom...A pair of love birds is more enviable than immortality...lovers only envy the mandarin ducks, which are symbols of faithful monogamy and harmony, a tribute to growing old together, companions for life."

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meta on the titles HGJ and YLLZ

excerpts:

laozu...[gender neutral] founder of a sect; "This title is about ... where a grandmaster established himself...and his unorthodox powers...The reverence is inseparable from abhorrence."

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"HanGuang Jun is a title that praises Lan Zhan's integrity...refer to a harboring of light"

"If you don't know him well, he seems unconfrontational with those downcast and shielded eyes...but as soon as you step over the line...you'll feel the sharpness of that fierce light in his eyes like a blade to your throat."

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ZOMG how long does mxtx spend choosing names for her characters??? THE MANY LAYERED MEANINGS ARE KILLING ME

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end post

#wei wuxian #mdzs meta #linguistics #when lwj finds his wifi #punny jokes #very punny #i am. frothing at the mouth about this rn #wangxian #the untamed #cql #mdzs #suibian #wei wuxian name meaning #mxtx meta #long post #like. really long post. i'm not apologizing lol just setting your expectations #now with gifs!

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medusapelagia · 11 months ago

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10 - The Tower of Terror

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt: "Where were you?”) and @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: enemies to allies) and @aug-kissed (prompt: Blow a Kiss) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: Witcher AU, violence, blood, injuries Words: 1626

(An AU inside an AU?!?! Yes 😂)

When Steve’s mom dragged him to Kaer Morhen as a kid, Steve didn’t know that she was selling him to the mages to make a witcher out of him. He just thought it was a funny adventure. They rode in a little carriage together with some cabbages, and then they crossed the woods and started the same long path that now Steve is walking down, holding Roach's bridle with one hand, guiding the stubborn girl down the steep slope.

Steve never knew how much the mages gave his mom. He hopes they gave her a lot, she still had other five kids at home and he was just another mouth to feed: too young and weak to be really helpful working at the farm.

Now his mom and his brothers are long gone, but Steve is still there, doing what he was raised to do: killing monsters.

At the end of the winter, he says his brothers and their father goodbye, and gets back on the path, ready to kill monsters and humans alike. Because sometimes, the worst monsters have human skin.

On his back are his two faithful swords, silver and iron, that he keeps in tiptop shape, cleaning and sharpening them every night before resting.

He doesn’t stop at the first few villages, he wants to leave them to his brothers, but he keeps walking toward the farthest towns, looking for little villages that definitely need a witcher, even if most of them can’t really afford him. But Steve was never too high-maintenance: if the people are nice to him and they really need help, he will help them, in exchange for some food and a comfortable place to sleep.

He would probably help them for free as well, but even witchers need to eat and sleep.

That’s how he finds out about the Tower of Terror. An old tower that’s all that remained of a big castle up the hills and that was destroyed during a strong earthquake.

He’s eating some bland soup, the only thing he can afford at the beginning of the hunting season, when a man, wearing fancy clothes, sits next to him.

“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away? The white hair or the yellow eyes? Maybe the two swords on my back?” Steve asks sarcastically, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with rich men, they are the ones that always try to fuck him up and pay him less than the agreed amount.

“Snarky, aren’t you? I thought all of you were grumpy and scary men.”

“Met many witchers?” Steve asks without even turning.

“A couple. When I was a kid. Anyway, I have a job for you. I want you to go to the Tower of Terror and free the place from all the monsters that inhabit that place.”

Steve lifts an eyebrow, “Did they attack the village?”

“Not yet. But they are monsters! We can’t live under the threat of those monsters coming for us if we want to become a bigger village. You see? At the moment all we have are just a few houses, but the road that leads to us is the quickest route to get to Hawkins. If we manage to kill every monster in the Tower of Terror, we will be finally able to attract more travelers and become a bigger city.”

“And make more money.”

“And make more money.” The man agrees, “The tower is full of gold and jewels, you could take anything you want once you clean it from the monsters. So what do you say? It’s a pretty big deal.”

“What kind of monsters haunt the tower?” Steve asks, squinting his eyes, pensive.

“How the fuck would I know! I never got there.”

“I don’t take jobs if I don’t know what I’m facing.”

“Oh. Too bad. Well, I guess I’ll ask the other witcher.”

That catches Steve's attention. What other witcher? He concentrates, trying to find a slow heartbeat like his but finds none.

“Oh, he’s not here yet, but we sent a messenger a few weeks ago and he promised to come soon. In the beginning, I thought it was you, but the messenger told me about dark pitch-black hair, so…”

There’s one witcher crazy enough to accept a job without knowing what the fuck he’s going to face. A witcher on his back has two swords and a lute. A witcher that’s crazy like all the witchers from the Cat School.

Eddie.

Steve takes his bowl of soups and gulps it down in one go, slamming it on the table, “Good for you.” he says, leaving the tavern.

He’s not even halfway through the village when he hears a familiar voice singing a stupid song, he turns in time to see Eddie get off his dark horse and put away his lute.

“When the tavern owner told me a grumpy witcher with white hair came to the rescue I couldn’t believe my luck.” He grins, getting closer to Steve who is still riding Roach.

“Not here to help you. Just looking for a job.”

“Are you saying to me you’re allergic to money? Because, my dear Steve, that castle is full of gold and jewels. So full that you won’t have to hunt for at least ten years.”

“And became old and fat in the meantime? No thanks.”

“Come on! It will be fun! You and me against the world!”

“There’s no you and me. There’s you. And there’s me. And our paths won’t cross again.”

“Oh, you weren’t so adamant when I was fucking you against the tree in the middle of the woods a few summers ago.”

“That was a one-time thing. And we were drunk.”

“Were we, Stevie?” Eddie asks, licking his lips and showing the little cat fangs.

“We come from different schools.”

“Doesn’t mean we are enemies. I'm pretty fond of you, actually.” Eddie says, blowing him a kiss and then winking at him.

“It does,” Steve replies, deadpan, before hitting Roach in the stomach and pushing her to gallop away.

“Tomorrow, at first lights! I’ll be there, waiting for you!” Eddie yells, but Steve doesn’t even turn.

***

Steve doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t even meditate. He just tosses and turns, thinking about that only night he shared with Eddie years before. How good it felt to be adored and loved even if it wasn’t real.

Finally understanding he won’t get any more sleep he sits near the ember of his fire, trying to remember everything he knows about the Tower of Terror. He has definitely read something about it but now all he can think about are pale hands wrapping his sex while a horny voice whispers dirty things in his ear.

If Eddie is really going to get into the Tower alone he will die, and those hands will never touch Steve again with reverence and desire.

It’s not Steve’s problem. If Eddie wants to die he’s free to do as he wishes.

Roach turns her head, glaring at him from the tree she’s tied to.

“Ok, I get it. I get it.” Steve sighs, dismounting the camp and preparing himself to fight.

***

It’s the smell of blood to guides him through the stupid tower, not the greedy, as Eddie insists when they meet in a maze of corridors.

The dark-haired witcher is holding his side, a deep wound gushing blood through his fingers, but Steve doesn’t have the time to take care of his injuries, because the monsters with no eyes are attacking them again, their shriek so loud on Steve’s sensitive ears that he has to fight with himself not to drop his sword and protect his ears with his hands.

With a slash, he cuts the arm that’s reaching out toward his head and when the creature loses its balance, Steve’s sword pierces him from side to side. He doesn’t even have the time to retrieve the blade, when another creature, smaller than the first, attacks him, making him fall on his back while he tries to keep the monster’s mouth away from his face. Steve kicks it in the stomach and the creature yelps, recoiling just enough to give Steve the time to grab the dagger from his belt and cut its throat.

The dark and warm blood falls on his clothes and his face, and Steve curses, kicking the dead beast.

“You should think about dyeing your hair.” Eddie chuckles, spitting some blood, “Black maybe it’s a little too dark fir your skin complexion, but I think chestnut would be perfect for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve replies, trying to determine how bad the injury is.

“Where were you? I thought we agreed to be here at dawn.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“I heard you growl, distinctly. That’s not how your school expresses agreement?”

“Fuck you.” Steve says, fishing some vials for his bag, “Take this.”

“Swallow? How magnanimous of you.”

“Just drink it and let’s get out of here.”

“Can’t.”

“Come on Eddie. Not even a cat can be so stupid to risk his life for some jewels that were probably stolen ages ago.”

“Have you ever seen monsters like these?” Eddie asks, pointing to the two dead creatures.

Steve squints at the monsters without eyes. He doesn’t remember having read anything about them in the book he studied, and he definitely hadn’t met such creatures before.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you come with me we could find something more than gold and jewels.” Eddie drinks the potion in one go and gives the vial back to Steve, “Can we be allies, for once?”

Steve stares at the other witcher who slowly gets up, one hand still protectively in front of his wounded side.

Allies.

Just for this time.

They shake hands, and then their medallions start to shake like crazy.

(Should I start working on a Part 2???)

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not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl · 3 months ago

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Yearlings | Chapter 22

Pairing: Aragorn x OFC, arranged marriage AU

Summary:

yearling (plural yearlings)

A young horse that is between one and two years old;

Still a wild thing, untamed, knowing only the endless horizon of the plains, the world vast and waiting. It knows neither the weight of the saddle or the pressure of the bridle, untouched by the responsibilities that will one day rest heavy upon its back.

Elira, daughter of Rohan, once knew only the whisper of the breeze and the freedom of the endless fields. Yet now, bound by an arranged marriage to a king, she finds herself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire. Within the shadowed halls of Gondor, where power shifts and secrets linger, she must learn to carry the weight of a future she never chose. Alongside Aragorn, a man whose own burdens weigh heavy, she will face the slow, inevitable taming of her heart—a heart torn between the wild call of freedom and the quiet, steady pull of love between two souls learning, together, to carry the weight of grand destinies.

In a world where future is yet uncertain, Elira will come to understand that love, much like a yearling, must be nurtured, tamed, and made her own, before it can bear the weight of all that is to come

Word count: 5,677

Content warnings: brief descriptions of war, non-explicit sexual intimacy

AN: I'm so sorry for not updating sooner, but the facfiction author curse has befallen me. Because I've gone through a wlw breakup that included custody arrangements for MY cat, got hospitalized, studied for (and probably failed) my pathology midterm and then a cow almost impaled me with her horn—but don't worry, I'm fine, I'm (almost) a professional. Anyway, that's the final full chapter of this story. I will also be posting an epilogue, hopefully soon. I might also make this into a series, but for now I'm cooking up something else that's also ridiculously entertaining to write, so stay tuned for that.

EDIT: I actually passed my midterm, my improv skills are on point apparently

AO3

The wind outside howled against the canvas walls of the tent, a ceaseless whisper of the wild lands beyond, but within, there was only silence between them. The dim glow of the lantern cast flickering gold upon the folds of fabric, upon the furs piled upon the ground, upon the steel and leather of their armor discarded at the day’s end. It was a fragile, fleeting moment of stillness in the midst of the storm that surrounded them—of war, of duty, of everything that lay beyond the threshold of this space that belonged only to them.

Elira stood before him, her face illuminated in the golden glow, her gaze steady and unwavering, and Aragorn felt his breath catch in his throat. How had he come to this? How had she taken root in his heart so deeply, so irrevocably, that it was no longer possible to imagine the shape of his world without her?

He had not sought this. He had not wished for it, nor dared to hope. Love had come to him once before, bright and certain, like the light of the Evenstar above, and he had thought it the only love he would ever know. But fate had taken a different path, and grief had hollowed him, leaving in its wake a wound he thought would never mend.

And yet—here she was. A flame against the darkness, burning quietly, steadfastly, with a warmth that had seeped into his very bones. He had fought against it, against the longing that crept in when he least expected it, against the way his heart reached for her as though it had always belonged to her. But he would fight no longer.

He lifted his hands, so slowly it was as if he feared she might vanish before him, and cupped her face with infinite tenderness. His fingers brushed over her cheekbones, tracing the shape of her as though he needed to memorize her. They were rough with the years he had spent wielding a sword, bearing the weight of a kingdom yet unclaimed, but now they were gentle, reverent, as if she were something sacred beneath his touch. His breath was uneven, and there was something in his eyes—something raw, something that had waited too long to be spoken aloud.

Elira’s pulse was unsteady, her breath too shallow, and she knew it had little to do with the battle they had fought that day. She stood before Aragorn, her heart pressing hard against her ribs, as though it wished to break free. He was so close. And yet she wanted him, needed him even closer.

“Elira,” he murmured, and her name in his voice was like a prayer. His thumbs skimmed along the edge of her jaw, rough with callouses yet unbearably gentle. His breath was warm against her skin. “I did not look for this,” he murmured, his voice deep and roughened by the weight of all he had held back. “I did not seek it, nor expect it, nor even dare to dream of it. But it found me. You found me.”

His fingers traced along her jaw, gentle as a whisper. His hands trembled slightly, just enough that she could feel it. “I love you,” he said, and the words were quiet but unshakable, as if spoken into the very fabric of the world. “More than anything, more than I have words to tell you.” He swallowed, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. “I should have told you sooner. But I tell you now—I am yours, in every way a man can be. My body, my mind, my soul. Down to the last drop of my blood, down to the marrow of my bones. I will give you everything, until there is nothing left to give.”

Elira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. His words settled into her, into the very core of her being, unfurling in her chest like roots breaking into deep, ancient earth.The firelight wavered in his eyes, reflecting something fierce, something boundless. It was as if the very earth beneath them trembled with the weight of what he had spoken.

She had never longed for something so fiercely, never wanted to believe in anything more than she did now. And yet she had spent so long trying not to name this feeling, to keep it buried beneath duty and fear and the ache of knowing that to love him was to risk everything.

But she had lost that battle long ago.

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, and what she saw there made her breath catch once more. Love, fierce and unyielding. Love that had sought her out and refused to be denied.

She did not hesitate. Her hands rose to grasp his wrists, holding him there, as if to anchor him, as if to tell him she would not let him go. And when she spoke, her voice was steady, rich with something deep and profound, something that had long burned within her and could no longer be contained.

“I love you,” she said, and it was not just a confession, but a vow. A truth as deep as the roots of the earth, as certain as the turning of the stars. “I would walk through flames and through ashes, through every peril if you were the home I was walking to. I would see the world reduced to embers if they were warming you. There is nothing I would not give, nothing I would not become, if it meant standing beside you.”

Her hands tightened against his, and there was something fierce, something unshakable in her gaze. “I would be the shield before your enemies, the sword at your side, the name whispered when all else is forgotten. I would be whatever the world required of me—so long as I was yours.”

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly, searching his face. “I love you.”

Aragorn let out a shuddering breath, as if the force of her love was something that shook him to his very core. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though carving this moment into the depths of his soul, branding it into him so it would never be lost.

When he opened them again, his gaze was softer, filled with something raw and aching. He tilted his forehead down, resting it against hers, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her lips, his hands still cradling her face as if she were both precious and unbreakable.

His hands slid down, his thumbs brushing over the curve of her throat, feeling the pulse that beat strong beneath her skin. He was drowning in her, in the sheer force of what she was, in the way she had torn through him like a storm and left him standing bare before her.

A breath shuddered through him, and, he thought of nothing but kissing her. Of closing the last of the space between them, of claiming her lips with his own, of tasting the fire that burned so fiercely in her words.

Elira saw it in his eyes-the war between restraint and longing, between the weight of duty and the pull of something deeper, something that had already claimed them both. He had spent so long holding back, so long denying himself, but here, now, in the hush of the tent, with her hands still curled around his wrists and his touch burning against her skin, there was no more room for denial.

There was only them.

She did not know which of them moved first.

Perhaps it was him, closing the last breath of space between them, or perhaps it was her, tilting her face upward, her lips parting just slightly in unspoken invitation. But in the next moment, his mouth was on hers, and the world seemed to still.

His kiss was not fierce, not desperate like the first time he had claimed her lips. It was slower, deeper, a quiet unraveling rather than a storm. His hands, still cupping her face, slid down to cradle the curve of her jaw, his fingers brushing feather-light over her skin, as if learning the shape of her. He kissed her as if she were something precious, something to be cherished, as if he wished to commit the taste of her to memory and hold it there forever.

Elira melted into him, her body pressing against his as his arms wound around her, drawing her close. She clutched at the fabric of his tunic, holding on as if she might fall, as if the very ground beneath her had shifted. And perhaps it had. Perhaps she had already fallen long ago.

She felt the firm strength of his body against hers, the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, the warmth of him seeping into her skin. The fire crackled softly in the brazier, but it was nothing compared to the fire between them.

And then, slowly, she felt his fingers at her hair.

He traced the braid at the nape of her neck, the one she had plaited hastily that morning, fingers deftly finding the woven strands. With a patience that sent a shiver down her spine, he began to undo it, threading his fingers through the loosened strands, combing them free with aching gentleness.

Elira shuddered, her breath catching as she felt her hair spill down, tumbling in loose waves around her shoulders. There was something so intimate about the gesture, so reverent, that she felt heat rise in her cheeks. She had never been touched like this before, with such quiet devotion, as if every part of her was something to be adored.

Her hands trembled slightly as they found their way upward, threading through his hair at last, burying her fingers in the thick dark waves. She felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath, and then-a sound.

A low, quiet moan.

It was barely more than a breath, but it sent a shiver through her, sent warmth pooling low in her stomach. She had not expected it, and yet the sound of it-the way he responded to her touch-made her own breath stutter, made her knees weaken.

Aragorn's grip on her tightened ever so slightly, his hand still lost in her hair, his lips pressing more firmly to hers for one lingering heartbeat before he finally drew back, just enough to look at her. His eyes were darkened, unreadable, and his breathing was uneven, mirroring her own.

Elira could not move.

She could only look at him, lips parted, skin flushed, every inch of her trembling with the depth of what had just passed between them.

And then, after a long moment, he pressed his forehead to hers, his hands still holding her close, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Elira."

He said nothing else.

He did not need to.

For in that single word, in the way he held her, in the way he kissed her, she knew.

She knew.

Aragorn's forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling, the space between them thin as a whisper. His hand, still buried in her hair, trembled slightly, as if he too felt the weight of something breaking, something unspoken but undeniable, pressing against the marrow of their bones.

Elira could not bear it.

This aching pause, this delicate moment poised at the edge of something vast and unknown-she did not want delicacy, not now. She wanted to feel, to press herself into the warmth of him, to hold onto something real, something solid, something that did not slip through her fingers like all else had.

She had spent too long denying this, too long pushing aside the way her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, the way her body knew his presence before her mind even registered it. She was tired of caution, tired of measured words, of pretending that her love for him was anything but all-consuming.

She moved first.

Her hands, still tangled in his hair, tugged him back to her, her lips finding his again, this time with a fervor that burned through them both. He answered her without hesitation, a quiet groan escaping him as he pulled her closer, his arms closing around her waist with a strength that left no space between them.

The kiss deepened, no longer tender and patient, but filled with something raw and unspoken.

Elira clung to him, pressing herself against his warmth, desperate for the feel of him, the steady beat of his heart, the undeniable proof that he was here, that she was here, that this was real.

That this-this consuming, aching love— was not some fleeting dream that would slip through her fingers come morning.

Aragorn's hands roamed up her back, fingers splaying against the curve of her spine, as if trying to memorize the shape of her beneath his touch. He pressed her closer, his body solid and warm against hers, and Elira shuddered at the sensation, at the way he held her like she was something precious, something to be cherished, even in the urgency of their embrace.

He wanted to taste more of her, to learn the feel of her beneath his hands, to know how she trembled when he touched her. His fingers skimmed up, cupping the nape of her neck, tilting her head as he kissed her deeper, as if he could pour everything he could not yet say into the press of his lips.

And she answered him in kind, her body yielding to him, her hands gripping the fabric of his tunic as if she might fall, as if the world itself had narrowed to this-his warmth, his strength, the way he held her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Elira had never felt this before.

She had kissed him before, had known the fire of his lips against hers, but this— this was something else. This was not the hurried passion of their first desperate embrace, nor was it the careful reverence of their gentler moments.

This was hunger and longing, restraint slipping between their fingers like water.

This was a need to feel something beyond duty, beyond grief, beyond everything that weighed upon them.

This was love, stripped bare.

Aragorn broke the kiss first, but only just.

His lips lingered, brushing against hers in a breath of a touch, his fingers still tangled in her hair. His forehead came to rest against hers again, his breath uneven, his chest rising and falling in the same unsteady rhythm as her own.

She opened her eyes to find his already watching her, his expression unreadable. And yet she did not need to read it-she felt it, thrumming between them, humming in her blood.

Slowly, she brought her hands to his face, cupping it gently, her thumbs brushing over the rough plane of his jaw.

"I love you," she whispered.

And he kissed her again.

Aragorn kissed her again, and this time there was no hesitation, no uncertainty.

The world beyond the tent, beyond the warmth of their embrace, faded into shadow. There was only the press of his lips, the strength of his arms as he drew her to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

Elira felt as if she were coming undone, as if she were unraveling beneath his touch, and she did not care. Let it all fall away—the fear, the restraint, the pretense of caution. She wanted to be his, wanted to feel him as close as flesh and bone would allow.

His hands traced the curve of her waist, reverent yet desperate, as if he sought to memorize every inch of her. His lips left hers only to find the hollow of her throat, the soft skin there yielding beneath the press of his mouth. She gasped at the sensation, her fingers tightening in his hair, and Aragorn groaned in response, his breath hot against her skin.

"Elira," he murmured, her name rough with longing, as if it were the only word that remained to him.

She had never heard her name spoken like that before.

Her heart thundered, her breath unsteady, but she did not pull away.

Instead, she tilted her head, allowing him greater access, her hands tracing down the strong lines of his shoulders, the solid warmth of him beneath her touch.

She wanted to know him like this, to learn every scar, every place where his skin was warmest, every tremor that she could pull from him with the barest of touches.

And yet, despite the fire between them, there was something deeply tender in the way he touched her, in the way he gathered her close.

He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering, as if savoring the moment, as if tasting the way she made him feel alive. His hands traced up her back, pressing her closer, until there was no space left between them.

She reached up, brushing her fingers over his cheek, and he turned into her touch, pressing a kiss against her palm.

Then he pulled her to him once more, cradling her face between his hands, kissing her with a depth of feeling that left her breathless. There was no more hesitation, no more distance.

The tent was warm, the light low, flickering in golden pools against the canvas. Beyond, the night stretched silent and vast, the world lost to them for a while.

And when Aragorn laid her down, when he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with her own, his hands steady as they traced the lines of her form, Elira knew-this night would not be one of restraint.

This night, at last, belonged to them.

Aragorn's hands slid down her back, reverent and slow, and Elira shuddered at the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of her tunic. His breath was warm against her cheek, uneven, as if he too struggled against the weight of his own longing. Yet, when he kissed her again, it was not with the desperate fervor of a man lost to hunger, but with something deeper - an aching, unshakable need that had lived within him for far too long.

She felt it in the way his lips moved over hers, unhurried but insistent, in the way his fingers traced the curve of her jaw as though committing every shape, every breath, to memory. The thought sent a tremor through her. How often had she imagined this? How often had she longed for the warmth of his hands, the taste of his kiss, and now - now he was here, pressing his love into her skin with every touch.

His mouth drifted, seeking the line of her jaw, the soft place just below her ear. Breath hitched in her throat as he pressed a kiss there, slow, deliberate, then another just beneath it. His lips brushed the hollow of her throat, lingering, as if he were listening to the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch.

She did not recognize the sound that left her lips, something between a sigh and a plea, but she knew that she could no longer keep herself from reaching for him, from grasping at the fabric of his tunic, from drawing him closer still.

His hands found the ties of her tunic, his fingers pausing, uncertain, and she smiled-barely, breathlessly-as she reached up, undoing them herself, as if to tell him there was no hesitation, no doubt.

His hands, when they settled on her bare skin, were steady but warm, a deep warmth that seeped into her, igniting something fierce and undeniable.

She traced her fingers over the ridges of his shoulders, over the firm lines of his back, and when she pressed her lips to his throat, she felt him inhale sharply, felt the way his body tensed before yielding to her touch. The sound that left him then-a quiet, shuddering groan-sent a rush of heat through her, and she trembled in his arms.

Aragorn's forehead pressed to hers, his breath mingling with hers in the hush of the tent. His hands cradled her face, his thumbs tracing slow circles over her cheekbones as he kissed her again, long and deep, until there was nothing left in the world but the two of them and the steady, rhythm of their breath entwining in the hush of the tent. The rest of the world had ceased to matter. Gondor, duty, war, fear—none of it existed beyond this moment, beyond the warmth of his hands and the steady weight of his body against hers.

Elira curled her fingers into his tunic, half-afraid that if she let go, he might slip away like some dream conjured from firelight and longing. But he was here. Flesh and blood. Solid, warm, real. His lips traced a slow, reverent path from her mouth to her jaw, down to the curve of her shoulder where his fingers had slipped the fabric aside, his breath raising gooseflesh along her skin.

He held her as though she were something precious, something he had longed for but never dared hope to have, and it sent a deep ache through her, a fierce, unrelenting tenderness. Her hands slid up into his hair, threading through the strands, and the quiet, shuddering sound he made at her touch sent a thrill through her. His control was fraying, she could feel it in the way he clutched her, the way his breath grew uneven against her skin.

When he kissed her again, it was slower, deeper, filled with something too vast for words. She had never known such tenderness, such quiet, unshakable devotion.

His hands spanned her waist, steady, firm, and she pressed closer, feeling the heat of him through the thin barrier of their clothing. The last of her hesitation crumbled away like dust in the wind.

Whatever lay beyond this night, whatever trials the dawn might bring, none of it mattered. Not here. Not now. She was his, and he was hers.

The air between them was thick with warmth, with the steady pull of something inevitable. Aragorn's hands roamed with a reverence that sent a tremor through Elira, tracing the shape of her waist, the curve of her back. His breath was uneven where it fanned against her skin, and when she tilted her head, giving him silent permission, his lips found the line of her throat, pressing slow, lingering kisses against the racing pulse there.

Her hands moved of their own accord, slipping beneath the rough fabric of his tunic, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath her fingers. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, and he let out a slow, measured breath as if trying to steady himself, but when she ran her hands up his back, feeling the scars and strength written into him, his restraint faltered.

A soft, near-broken sound left him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"I never dared to dream of this," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with longing. "To hold you like this.To have you."

She swallowed against the ache in her throat, her fingers tightening where they rested against him. He had never asked anything of her, never demanded or expected, and yet she saw it in his eyes— that silent question, that deep, unspoken plea.

He lifted his head, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "Are you certain?"

Her heart thundered against her ribs, but there was no doubt, no hesitation. She would have walked through fire for him.

She would have defied the world itself if it meant standing at his side.

"Yes," she whispered, the word slipping from her lips like a promise. "Yes."

A slow, shuddering breath left him, as if the last restraint he had been holding onto had crumbled to dust.

His lips found hers again, slower this time, savoring, as his hands moved to the hem of her tunic, pulling it over her head with a careful, deliberate motion. The fabric fell to the floor in a soft whisper, audible in the quiet of the night.

She reached for him in turn, undoing the clasps of his tunic, her hands trembling only slightly as she pushed the heavy fabric away, baring him to her touch. He was warm beneath her fingers, solid and steady, and when she pressed her hands to his chest, he closed his eyes, as if the sensation of her touch was something too much to bear.

He exhaled slowly, his hands finding her again, pulling her to him, and she went willingly, as if she had always been meant to be here, in his arms, in his heart.

And when she drew him down to her, there was nothing left between them but love.

Aragorn gathered her close, the last of their barriers slipping away like the dying embers of a fire, leaving only warmth between them. His hands moved over her skin with a reverence that made her tremble, not with fear, but with something deeper, something that made her breath hitch and her heart race. She had never been afraid of him, never once, but now—now she feared only that this moment would pass too quickly, that she would wake and find it had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Yet there was no dream that could match the feeling of his lips against hers, the way he murmured her name like a vow, the way he held her as if she were something precious. He traced slow kisses along her shoulder, lingering and she let her fingers tangle in his hair, feeling the softness of it, the warmth of him beneath her hands. He shuddered under her touch, his breath uneven, his hands tightening on her waist before softening again, as though he still feared to break her.

“Elira,” he whispered, and when she met his gaze, she saw everything laid bare—the love, the longing, the weight of all that had come before. “I am yours.”

Her throat ached, her heart too full for words, so she answered in the only way she could—by drawing him down, by pressing her lips to his once more, by letting her hands roam over his skin, learning the shape of him as he had learned hers.

He moved with care, with the patience of a man who had spent a lifetime waiting, yet there was something else there too, something unshaken even by war or duty—the deep and steady devotion of one who would never turn away, never falter, never let go.

And as the night wrapped around them, as the candlelight flickered and shadows danced along the canvas of the tent, Elira gave herself to him as fully as he had offered himself to her. There was no fear, no hesitation, only the steady rhythm of their hearts, beating as one.

***

The morning light bled slowly through the fabric of the tent, filtering in muted gold through the heavy canvas. It stretched in soft bands across the furs and linen, gilding the curve of Elira’s bare shoulder, setting a faint glow to the strands of her hair where they lay unbound over Aragorn’s chest. The warmth of her was a quiet, steady thing, pressed close against him, the weight of her leg thrown over his in the careless sprawl of sleep. Outside, the camp had begun to stir—the distant murmur of voices, the shifting of hooves on trampled earth, the occasional clatter of steel as soldiers roused themselves for the day ahead. And yet, within the sanctuary of their tent, time stretched slow and undisturbed, as though the world outside could not yet reach them.

Aragorn lay awake, unmoving save for the slow drift of his hand over the bare expanse of Elira’s back, tracing idle patterns against her skin as he listened to the sound of her breathing. She was so peaceful like this, her features smoothed of all the weight she carried when wakeful, the tension in her brow gone, her lips parted slightly in sleep. His hand followed the gentle rise and fall of her ribs, the soft curve of her spine, the warmth of her sinking deep into his bones. He had not known such mornings in long years—mornings where peace was not some distant thing, where he was not alone. And here she was, lying against him as though she had always belonged in his arms, as though this place, this moment, was inevitable.

A breath of air stirred against his skin as Elira shifted slightly, nestling closer into him before she lifted her head just enough to glance up at him, still caught in the drowsy haze of sleep. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked, and he could feel the way her breathing changed—slower, more aware—as she studied him in the dim light.

Then, softly, she asked, “Do you remember,” she murmured, her voice hushed, as though she feared disturbing the fragile stillness between them, “when you fell in love with me?”

Aragorn’s lips curved, his fingers stilling against her back. He held her gaze for a long moment, considering, then finally said, “I do not remember one clear moment,”, his voice deep and warm, laced with a kind of quiet wonder. “It was not a single instance, nor a sudden realization. Rather, it was as though the stars rearranged themselves without my notice, and one night I simply looked up and found a new constellation written in the sky.”

Elira exhaled a small, breathy laugh, pressing her forehead briefly to his chest, but she did not interrupt him.

After a pause, Aragorn let out a quiet breath and added, almost reluctantly, “Though—I will admit something.”

She shifted against him, her fingers absently tracing along the scarred skin of his shoulder as she waited for him to continue.

She glanced up at him again, waiting. He exhaled, his hand smoothing along the curve of her spine before he spoke. “The first time I saw you with Faelan,” he said, his tone careful, as though weighing his own words, “when I saw the way you looked at her with such affection, such devotion…” He huffed a soft, almost rueful laugh. “For a moment, I wished that you might look at me like that.”

Elira stilled. And then, after a beat of silence, she lifted herself onto one elbow, blinking down at him with something between amusement and disbelief. “Are you telling me,” she said, her voice light with laughter she barely contained, “that you were jealous of my mare?”

Aragorn sighed, then let out a low chuckle of his own, shaking his head before reaching up, catching her wrist, and pulling her back down against him with an ease that made her breath hitch. “I am glad you find me so amusing,” he muttered against her hair, though there was no true irritation in his voice—only warmth, only fondness. He buried his face against the curve of her neck, pressing a kiss to the spot where her pulse fluttered just beneath her skin. She smelled of sun-warmed grass and the lingering traces of battle, of leather and earth and something unmistakably her.

Her laughter softened into something quieter, something fonder, as her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him close. They lay like that for a time, wrapped in each other, listening to the sounds of the waking camp beyond their sanctuary.

Then, after a long while, Elira spoke again, her voice quieter, more thoughtful. “I only asked,” she murmured, “because I do not even remember how it was not to love you.”

Aragorn felt something inside him clench, an ache that was neither pain nor sorrow, but something deeper, something more profound. He drew back just enough to look at her, his hand lifting to cradle her face as his thumb traced gently over her cheek. Her eyes, bright and solemn, held his gaze without wavering.

She paused, then added, her fingers absently tracing along his arm, “It is as much a part of me now as bone and sinew that keep my body together, as the blood in my veins. As real and unshaken as the earth beneath my feet.”

His breath caught in his throat. Slowly, reverently, he leaned in, brushing his lips over hers in a kiss that was neither hurried nor desperate, but something deeper—something weighted with understanding, with gratitude, with love.

She melted against him, her hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if she, too, wished to hold onto this moment for as long as time would allow.

They stayed like that for a while, pressed close, neither speaking, neither willing to shatter the peace they had found.

But at last, Elira sighed against his lips and murmured, “We should get up.”

Aragorn groaned quietly in protest, his forehead still resting against hers, unwilling to part from this peace so soon. “Must we?” he murmured, voice heavy with reluctance.

Elira laughed, the sound light and warm as she pressed a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” she said, her fingers smoothing absently over the back of his neck. “Éowyn and Éomer have been left to their own devices. If we are not up before breakfast, they will likely burst in here themselves.”

Aragorn sighed, his grip on her tightening slightly before he finally relented, rolling onto his back with exaggerated resignation. “If those two share one trait, it is their absolute lack of patience.”

Elira only grinned as she sat up, the morning light spilling over her bare shoulders like molten gold. She turned to look at him, her eyes full of something warm, something unspoken but understood. And in that moment, Aragorn thought that if this was to be his waking every morning, with her beside him and laughter in her voice, then he would count himself the most blessed of men.

#fanfiction #fanfic #lord of the rings #lotr #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #lotr fanfic #aragorn #aragorn x reader #aragorn x ofc

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staticspaces · 10 months ago

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French Style Chateau

Have you checked out the video yet!?

youtube

Now on to the primary suite, this main bedroom was huge, including a massive ensuite with a round stained glass window…as well as a few more photos of the staircase from the second floor!!

This mansion was built in 1985 on two lots in The Bridle Path neighbourhood of Toronto, Canada and was designed to resemble a French style chateau. The 30,000 square foot mega mansion had 10 bedrooms and 14 bathrooms, and was located on a huge four acre property that also included a tennis court. It also had a granite cobblestone driveway, a horseshoe staircase at the back and extensive gardens which completed the experience of living in a castle in France.

Originally built by Robert Campeau a financier and real estate developer. Robert began his career by building just one single house in 1949 in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. His company then known as Campeau Corp was also responsible for building Scotia Plaza, a hi rise built in 1988 in the financial district of Toronto, as well as the Harbour Castle Hotel in 1975. In the 80s, Campeau began a series of leveraged buyouts of companies, both in Canada and the United States. The final company was Federated Department Stores, the owners of Bloomingdale's for $7 billion. This was the beginning of the end for Campeau Corp, as they filed for Bankruptcy in 1990, one of the largest in history. Robert was forced to sell the home in 1990.

The home was purchased in 2002 by Harold and Sara Springer who entrusted architect Gordon Ridgely, interior designer Brian Gluckstein, and landscape architect Ronald Holbrook to bring their vision to life. They brought in 17th century antique furniture from france, original royal academy paintings, Italian marble and even crystal chandeliers.

Other features of the large house included a two-story indoor Olympic-size swimming pool with a retractable floor that converts into a ballroom. It also had an elevator, an oak wood bar, recording studio and even its very own bomb shelter!

The mansion has been featured in several movies including Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen's 'It Takes Two', 'Kissinger and Nixon', 'That Old Feeling' as well as most recently in an episode of Suits. A party was also held for Jane Fonda in the two-storey ballroom, which was then disassembled overnight so that Campeau could swim in the pool the next day with Pierre Elliott Trudeau.

The Springer's listed the chateau for sale including all of its contents starting in 2014 for $25 million and was last publicly listed in 2018 for $39,500,000. Finally, the home was purchased by Nascond Holdings in 2020 for $30.8 million.

Nascond Holdings is a company owned by the Muzzo Group which is a well known development company in the area. Marco Muzzo caused a drunk driving crash that killed four people and seriously injured two others. It was a very high profile incident several years ago, because of his ties to such a wealthy family. There was also a guest list of people found in the home including Marco's name as the host of the party.

The mansion was demolished shortly after my visit in August of 2022. Not much happened after that until more recently when some activity began to happen on the property. Ferris Rafauli who was also behind Drake's Bridle Path Mansion, is the designer and builder behind the new mansion that will take shape in the coming years.

#abandoned #urbex #urban exploring #urban exploration #bandos #abandoned buildings #abandoned places #forgotten #abandoned houses #forgotten buildings #abandoned homes #forgotten places #abandoned mansion #abandoned mansions #mansions #mega mansions #mega mansion #Youtube

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srgntjamesbuckybarnes · 2 years ago

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Truth or Dare (6)

Summary: What started off as an innocent game of truth or dare between two noble born sisters, Y/N and Margaret “Peggy” Carter, quickly turns south when Y/N meets Steve Rogers and James “Bucky” Barnes. 10 years later Peggy is getting married reuniting the bunch, tensions rise as the sisters engage in truth or dare one more time before Peggy is married.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Not Beta'd. Sorry for the long wait. If you want to be added to the tag list, please leave a comment saying so below. Let me know if I missed anyone.

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 6

Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop.

Each thud of the horse’s hooves hitting the dirt below reverberated in the open meadow. The sound was a stark contrast to the duke’s usual return. Typically, when returning, Bucky didn’t care about drawing attention to himself. No one paid him any attention anyway. This time was different.

Beyond the cloud of dirt, Bucky could make out the shadow of a man leaning against one of the horse stalls. Gently pulling the reins, his sleek black horse slowed into a trot. The cloud of dirt faded behind them. Drawing closer, Bucky could make out the honey locks and strong jaw beyond the rich fabrics clinging to the man. Steve. Bucky wasn’t sure if he recognized the man because he wore the face of his old best friend or because of the status that came with the clothes he now wore, the clothes Bucky once wore.

When he arrived at the stalls, neither man said a word as Bucky dismounted the horse. Bucky made quick work unfastening the saddle while stealing a glance at the new prince over the horse’s back. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, putting Bucky on edge. He didn’t know why Steve had been waiting for him, watching him.

Sensing the silent judgment radiating off Steve in waves, Bucky’s control burst. Stomping around the front of the horse, he snarled, “If you have something to say, just say it.” His words were hard, but his hands were gentle as he removed the horse’s bridle. The horse blinked back at Bucky, unfazed by his loud outburst.

Steve kept mute, wondering if Bucky would confess something if he remained silent long enough. In return, all he got was a lot more stomping and grunts as he closed the wooden door, sealing the horse behind it.

Lifting a hand to block the sunlight from his eyes, Steve asked. “Where’d you go?”

Bucky shrugged, wiping the dirt from his leather-clad palms. “You came all this way just to ask me that?”

Steve frowned, folding his arms across his chest. ”Just answer the question, Buck.”

“What are you doin’ here?” Bucky countered.

“Can a guy just check in on his pal?”

While Bucky’s mouth remained frozen, his eyes scanned Steve from head to toe, searching for a tell. Growing impatient, Steve pushed himself off the wall, taking a step forward. “Where’d you go?” He asked again.

Bucky ran a gloved hand along the stubble on his chin. “Out for a ride.” It wasn’t a lie, but Bucky knew that didn’t answer Steve’s question. Bucky stalked away from the horse stall and headed straight for the castle.

Bucky got three feet before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Bucky, stop.” The brunette spun around, knocking Steve’s hand off his shoulder in the process. “I know.” Bucky stilled, his eyes cold enough to make Steve freeze. Ignoring his chilling gaze, Steve sighed. “Tony sent word that you’ve been lurking outside of his house. It’s bad enough he lost Pepper in the war. You have to stop this obsession with him and Gail.”

The duke straightened his shoulders, clenching his fists. His mind pressing rewind on the moment Tony took a flail to the arm of his last statue. The moment Gail looked at him like he was the bogeyman. They deserved each other.

“I know you, Buck. You’re going down the wrong path all on your own this time. Whatever you’re plotting has to stop. Now.”

I do. I do. I do.

The two words ghosted on Peggy’s lips in a silent prayer. Cast back at her through her wine glass, her scarlet-stained lips wrenched into a grimace. Had the youngest Carter been marrying a gentleman without status or of equal status she would have been fine. Instead, she was marrying the forthcoming king. As a countess, Peggy was already under the spotlight, but her engagement added more pressure. Like sand descending to the base of an hourglass, every wedding planning event taunted her, a countdown until she would lose her privacy and be expected to produce an heir. She needed a proper send-off to her youth, to up the stakes of truth or dare.

Steve would never approve of such a risky game, not when the fate of their kingdom relied on him. Peggy didn’t want to sneak around Steve, but her need for an adventure was too great. If she couldn't find the excitement she craved, settling for living through others would suffice. The countess’s grimace turned into a mischievous grin. Clink. She tapped her wine glass against the glass bottle. Cheers.

A sea of green and pink swarmed Y/N’s vision as she entered the queen’s garden. The orchids were in full bloom this time of year, but the queen’s statue in the center remained the main focus. The carefully etched marble eyes followed Y/N throughout the garden. It didn’t matter that Y/N wasn’t alone. As soon as she caught a glimpse of the queen's icy stare, she realized she was under scrutiny. The silent judging eyes and pressed lips were an expression Y/N had become familiar with. It was a mask Amanda Carter wore around her daughter. It was the same expression Peggy or Steve had adopted at the mention of Bucky. Like everyone else, Y/N was sure the late queen would side with the majority on an introduction to her son; it was a bad idea. Despite the warnings attached to the former prince's name, Y/N wasn’t worthy of an official introduction to her son.

Walking through the queen’s garden with another man hadn’t been on her to-do list, but the prince insisted. T’Challa’s presence the past few days had been welcoming. His kindness had been a slap in the face. It was genuine, not a front in the public eye like her parents often reverted to. Given time, she could envision herself falling in love with the prince. If only Bucky would stop invading her thoughts.

“She’s beautiful.”

The comment caught Y/N off guard. Her eyes sliced toward the prince standing beside her. She scanned him from head to toe. His eyes remained trained on the statue, his face contorted in admiration. The back of his right hand rested in his left, clasped behind his back. T’Challa was a tall man, but between his rigid posture and monochrome black outfit, he grew a few inches with one glance.

“A marvelous queen,” he continued.

“Was,” Y/N corrected.

T’Challa’s lips curved into a tender smile. “In my culture, death is not the end. It’s more of a stepping off point.”

“That’s a nice way to look at it,” Y/N hummed. Making eye contact with the statue once more she wondered if that was true. Did Bucky have anyone in his corner, looking out for him?

Making eye contact with the guard pursuing them, T’Challa extended his elbow. Accepting the silent gesture, Y/N latched onto the prince’s arm. His gait turned brisk, creating a massive distance between the guard and them.

“I am not foolish enough to think you love me,” T’Challa began. Y/N's eyebrows skyrocketed. Before she could open her mouth to protest, the prince continued, “Nor do I love you.”

“Excuse me?” Y/N asked, but part of her was relieved. Sure, her mother would be disappointed she wouldn't marry a prince like Peggy, but it wasn’t what Y/N truly wanted, who she wanted.

T’Challa chuckled. “The king’s son, you fancy him.”

Her attempt at ripping her hand from the prince’s arm failed. Wakanda’s prince held his other hand firmly over hers, maintaining the appearance of a couple. He could hear the faint sound of metal rattling behind the pair. With enough distance between them and the guard, T’Challa reassured her. “Don’t fret. Your secret is safe with me.”

Y/N's shoulders dropped, her eyes trained on the cobblestone beneath her feet. “How did you know?’

“The way the two of you evade one another in public. It’s the same way my friend Nakia and I perform in public.”

A gasp tumbled beyond the woman's lips. The lighthearted way he spoke, as if there were no consequences for their actions, had her head spinning.

“Why are you telling me this?” Y/N whispered.

T’Challa glanced at the woman beside him. “I like you, Y/N. A marriage between us would be profitable to both kingdoms. Between you and your sister, the alliance between our kingdoms would be powerful. An alliance by blood. Since we are in identical situations, I figured we could have our own partnership.”

Y/N's heart thrummed beneath her bodice. She tentatively opened her mouth to speak, her shaky voice betraying her, “What do you propose?”

T’Challa smirked at her choice of words. “We wed. We honor the marriage when it comes to politics and the eyes of the public.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“We are free to see whoever or do whatever we want.”

Mulling over the idea, she frowned as the castle came into view along with other lively bodies. So many things could go wrong, but her focus remained wholly on what could go right. This might be her only opportunity to have something with Bucky. If her parents married her off to anyone else, she was confident they wouldn’t offer her the same arrangement.

After gnawing at her bottom lip, Y/N asked, “Is that a formal proposal?”

Y/N stood motionless at her bedroom window. The imaginary rock on her finger weighed her down more than she had anticipated. As a child, the idea of wearing a ring from the love of her life excited her, but now, when she imagined a ring on her finger, she saw nothing but a shackle. One her status would trap her in. Forever stuck in a loveless marriage. It would be the performance of a lifetime, for a lifetime.

An image of the dark-haired duke flashed through her mind. Would Bucky accept the terms of this new relationship? He didn’t seem to mind Natasha’s career choice, although her performance was exceptional. He had snuck backstage to fuck her. Was that what Y/N had condemned herself to? A life of sneaking around?

A knock at the door had Y/N stepping away from the window. She had only taken a few steps when the door swung open.

“Y/N!” Peggy shouted, racing toward her. The costly fabric of Peggy’s skirt bunched between her fingers.

Bracing herself for the impact, Y/N was able to keep the two of them upright when her younger sister collided with her. Y/N gasped for air crushed between Peggy’s arms.

When Peggy finally pulled away, her hands trailed from Y/N’s biceps to her hands. Pulling both Y/N hands toward her chest, Peggy squealed, “Congratulations! Mother just told me the good news. Steve and I are so thrilled! T’Challa is a great choice.”

Y/N froze. She knew? “What?” Y/N asked exasperated.

Peggy tipped her head, staring at her sister through her eyelashes. “T’Challa asked Father for your hand. Father accepted.”

Y/N gulped. “And Steve knows?”

Peggy rolled her eyes, “Of course! Mother has become the town crier, alerting everyone that not one but two of her daughters will be queens one day.”

Y/N’s stomach churned. It was idiotic of her to think she would have a chance to break the news to Bucky when she couldn’t talk to the man in public. If her mother hadn’t told him, she was sure Steve would.

“The kings are going to sit down soon and discuss the terms of the alliance. Steve and T’Challa will modify it when they are kings.” Noticing the faraway look on Y/N’s face, Peggy squeezed her hands. “None of that matters. I’m just glad you’re going to be taken care of.”

Y/N wanted to ask Peggy if she and Steve had the same arrangement, but she couldn’t without giving her and T’Challa away.

Wide-eyed, Y/N replied, “T’Challa hasn’t even asked me yet. I haven’t said yes.” Y/N knew it was a pointless argument. Her father had accepted the proposal on her behalf. She would be engaged to T’Challa by the end of the week.

Peggy led Y/N to the bed decorated in rich fabrics. When her sister sat beside her, Peggy sighed, crossing her legs. “I know it’s a lot of pressure, but it will be worth it. Trust me. You need a distraction, and I know just the thing.”

Y/N stared blankly back at the younger Carter.

Peggy inched forward. “Truth or dare?”

Y/N huffed a laugh. If there was one thing that could keep Y/N distracted, it was a dare from Peggy. Without missing a beat, she replied, “Dare.”

Peggy licked her lips before a devilish grin overshadowed her angelic features. “I dare you to visit the pleasure house.”

Dumbfounded, Y/N hissed, “The whore house?! Margaret Carter, have you lost your mind?”

The brunette shrugged and then collapsed the rest of her weight on the mattress. She gazed at the ceiling, kicking her dangling feet like a schoolgirl disclosing a secret at a sleepover. Then she rolled onto her side, propping her head into her hand.

The older Carter resembled a fire-breathing dragon. Peggy swore she could see the steam seeping from her sister’s ears.

“Not as yourself, of course.” Peggy rolled her eyes as if it was the most obvious thing. “Look,” she narrowed her eyes. “I overheard the help discussing that the prince will be there.”

“T’Challa?”

Peggy squeezed her lips in a thin line. “Steve.”

Squeezing the bridge of her nose, Y/N moaned. “You want me to spy on your fiance?”

“Some of the guard’s garments are in the washroom. I’m sure something will fit you.”

Y/N scowled. “You’ve gone mad. Why don’t you spy on Steve yourself?”

Peggy pushed herself into a sitting position, twiddling her thumbs. “He’ll recognize me. We’ve spent too much time together. He’ll never expect you, let alone recognize you.” A coy smile graced her lips, “Unless you surrender.”

Next Chapter

Taglist: @supraveng @kandis-mom @xycnsstuff @mcu21lover19 @saltedcoffeescotch @unaxv @raven1234321

#bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #royal au

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vuldak-juneau · 1 year ago

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Who: @heroic-ignus Where: En Route to Hrimthur’s Outpost When: Between The Last Night and arrival at the outpost, further into the trip than not. Notes: (tw: animal death alluded to in the starter, falling injury, broken limb described in some detail) - again this is soooo much set up, do not match length unless you really have that much to say :)

A steed exhausted beyond the point of any return had gifted Juneau with an unlikely tool–the useful leather strap of a horse’s bridle. She was surprised none of the king’s men had taken it for repurpose or surplus until she collected it from where it had been tossed aside to claim it as her own. The leather had not been cared for well. It was dried from age and exposure, the oils that would have kept it in fine shape long-since applied. Although it was brittle and cracking in places, she knew it could still provide her some use. Juneau was used to being creative with resources. It was a rarity she possessed a tool that was called for when she completely a task, and so she already had an idea of what to do with this meager blessing on the trail.

Juneau looked at the birds flying high above the temporary respite where they had stopped. Already, arguments had been started on who would be given rations of the meat–waste not, want not–and she didn’t feel like fighting like a dog in the hopes of a scrap making its way to her plate. Not tonight, anyway. There had been no shortage of fowl flying overhead at many points between Nornwatch Tower and this point on their route. A deteriorating old bridle wouldn’t help her catch a bird, but as she withdrew her pocket knife and cut the bridle into one long strip she thought of the promise finding a nest full of eggs high in one of the trees.

It wasn’t difficult to slip away from the wider group. She knew they would be there for a while–first, they would need to settle the dispute over who was entitled to what in terms of a meal, and then there would be the butchering, the preparation, and undoubtedly tempers over portions would flare once more before anyone took a single bite. How anyone got anything done was beyond Juneau, and she felt a sense of pride that she had outsmarted those around her. She could fend for herself, and she was proud of that. She ventured deep into the first, not worried about getting lost on the way back to the group. She could track her way through a thick blanket of snow without much effort, even if the wind blew the soft powder around and obscured her tail. If it were not for the white direwolf, Lor, following her, this hubris may have been her undoing even with her accelerated healing abilities. If Juneau even knew Lor was there, she paid her no mind.

Juneau slowly walked amongst the trees, neck craned back to examine what they held in their twisted, naked branches. It took a short while, but she finally found something that looked like a nest. She spent a few moments sizing the tree up before looping the brittle leather strap around it. For a moment, she wondered whether or not this was a good idea. She tugged at the strap–all seemed well. One more check, she thought, just in case. She looped each end around her small hands and leaned back as far as she could trying to test if it would hold her body weight. It seemed fine.

She knew that she had already used a decent portion of the time she had before the group would move on for the night–there would still be a few hours to travel before the towering peaks consumed all of the light the sun had to offer that day. She needed to get a move on. She lifted her arms above her head, lifting the strap as high as she could and using it to offset some of her body weight as she ascended the trunk of the tree. She had climbed hundreds of rock walls, trees, and domes in her travels. She was an expert at finding and utilizing even the smallest of footholds using small imperfections, cracks, and knobs. Much of her ability came from her ability to pay great care and attention to paths and holds available to her. With the help of the belt, she ascended with quickness, but the tool made her less discerning about where she placed her feet and her hunger made her careless.

Juneau could feel a part of the leather stretching, one of the cracks coming apart entirely, and suddenly the counterbalance the strap around the tree had served as was not there at all. Her arms scrambled to try and grasp at the trunk to at least soften or slow her fall, but with her hands full from the leather straps she was not fast enough and she plummeted toward the merciless ground below her. Her unfortunate left leg found the forest floor before the rest of her and she felt, heart, and smelled the snap as it happened.

Smelled. The metallic ichor of blood filled her nose when her vision finally focused again and she could breathe after the impact. Plain shot through her like lightning, all emanating from her leg. But there was a snap–why could she smell blood? She yelped, a helpless-sounding little cry, as she did her best to sit up again without moving her leg. It was an impossible task, the fabric of her clothing not able to remain completely unmoved even if she kept her leg as still as she could. She felt breathless when she saw the injury in full, her shin split open to the world. Red blood poured out into the white snow on either side of her leg and she could see a long shard of her bone pointing up toward her–notably jutting from a deep gash in her crooked leg. The sight of it made her nauseous–she was not especially used to seeing the insides of bodies on, well, the outside.

Stop the bleeding first, her survival instincts reminded her. She tried to calm her breathing and think of how she could rig something on her person to act as a tourniquet. It took her a few moments longer than she cared to admit, but her hands still grasped onto the leather straps, one much longer than the other. She swallowed hard, streams of tears already freezing against her cheeks, and cried out as she moved her leg only enough to slip the thin strap beneath the back of her knee. She shimmied it upward, just slightly, to where she guessed the best spot would be and tried to think of what she might be able to use as a windlass rod and something that could secure it–if she passed out from blood loss without one, well, she didn’t exactly know if she died but she didn’t want to find out either. The long bowie knife she carried with her might work, the blade neutralized in its thick leather–fucking leather–sheath. She maneuvered the strap and knife to serve the purpose of a tourniquet as best she could, trying to convince herself the woozy feeling she experienced was just a weak stomach, and that she didn’t need to panic because she had no idea what to use to secure the knife and keep the strap around her leg as tight as possible.

#tw: animal death #tw: injury described #alder #alder 03

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touchmycoat · 2 months ago

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may tropes day 1: fairy tale fusion

(AU of original work, gen, pre-relationship, transmigration)

Joanie could have complained—about the place she’d been magically transported to, about the point in the plot, about the plot itself—but what was the point? Instead, she just hunkered down and got to work.

The first order of business was land. When she’d woken up confused in an inn, the innkeeper had been an older lady who slid Joanie a share of breakfast and gruffly waved off her lack of coin. The cow that Joanie had apparently been in town to sell was also being kept in the back barn free of charge, so the innkeeper was who Joanie approached first.

“That lot of land you have out back,” she said. “May I clear and ready it for gardening for you?”

“I can’t pay you,” the innkeeper replied, barely looking up from the table she was wiping down. “But you can have food and lodgings for as long as you’re working on it.”

“Done,” Joanie said quickly, grateful at the immediate opportunity. “I’ll go get some materials and start working on it immediately.”

The innkeeper straightened, taking her time as she folded the old rag into a neat square. After making Joanie wait a minute or so she asked, “and your mother’s going to be alright on her own?”

Joanie had yet to figure out if her sense of certainty that her mother (in this world) was already dead (like in her past world) was grounded in any truth, so she didn’t know how to answer. She could only shrug and project helplessness as strongly as she knew how, answering, “I came to town to earn coin and medicine, so I have to do that somehow.”

So it was settled. For the second order of business, Joanie grabbed her cow and went out. The poor cow was visibly ancient even to a farmyard amateur like Joanie, so she tried to be patient as she led it from stall to stall in the market streets. Beaming her best I’m a good girl trying her best! beam and batting her best I’m a poor girl trying her best lashes, Joanie managed to get a solid four baskets of food waste, all of which she loaded onto the cow. They made their way back to the inn, where Joanie proceeded to pile the root peelings and rotten fruit onto all the dry and brown leaf litter she could gather.

This took some time, though ultimately less than she anticipated. So she managed to make it early to the crossroads where she’d met the Stranger yesterday. She idled on a fallen tree trunk, popping foraged berries into her mouth as she waited.

Finally, just before sundown, the Stranger arrived, walking up one of the paths cloaked and looking a little harried. Joanie got up to greet them.

“You’re early,” the Stranger said, almost accusatory. Joanie blinked as she dusted off the seat of her pants.

“Oh, yeah. Is…that alright? You’re actually early too.”

“Yeah, I’m usually the one who’s early.” They sounded frustrated, and Joanie wondered if she’d accidentally ruined the Stranger’s entrance or something. “Never mind. So you’ll sell?”

“Sure will.” Dropping the rope of the cow’s bridle into the Stranger’s hands, Joanie gave the cow’s head one last pat. “Treat her well.”

“And here are the beans as promised. Now remember, you’ll want to plant them immediately.”

Joanie blinked again.

“I can’t wait?”

“No.”

“Wh—so that’s not usually how seeds work—”

“That’s how these seeds work, you have to plant them tonight.”

“Tonight,” Joanie repeated. “Okay, that’s fine. In like a starter pot or—”

“No, the ground.”

“The ground. Fine. Fertilizer?”

“Sure. I have to go.”

The Stranger started off. With the ancient cow in tow, the Stranger was stuck at an incredibly slow pace. If she wanted to, Joanie could a hundred percent follow after them, asking questions to her heart’s content. But that felt rude, so Joanie turned to go, magical beans in hand.

With her initial timeline foiled (slowly clear land, wait for compost, then plant), Joanie reluctantly dug a large pit. This went late into the evening, the hard labor done by torchlight from inside the inn and under the curious eyes of locals and travelers both. Four separate farmers advised her not to bury the food scraps since they would compost much faster in a turnable pile. Joanie thanked them with grateful smiles and said she had her own reasons.

It wasn’t a great reason, but it was one that made a bit more logistical sense to her. Pit dug and filled with her compost scraps, Joanie didn’t cover it up with soil. Instead, she watered it and then dug a little six-inch hole just to the side of it. That was where she planted the beans. The way she figured, if the magic beanstalk sprouted to the sky overnight, it might still be able to absorb the raw compost material in the “soil” right at its root system.

That night, Joanie went to sleep fastidiously pushing aside thoughts of her ailing mother in this universe. In the morning, she woke to pounding on her room door.

“What,” the innkeeper snapped, “did you do?”

Joanie rushed out without a word, the innkeeper in tow. Sure enough, there in the backyard of the inn was an enormous beanstalk, twisting up and up and up until it disappeared above the cloud layer.

“I can explain!” Joanie called as she circled the base of it. Funnily enough, the pile of compost materials was no longer there, looking just like the soil around it. Joanie gripped what looked like a reasonable handhold, got her foot up on a reasonable foothold, and pulled herself up, mentally thanking every bouldering gym she’d ever been to. “Just give me a minute!”

So Joanie climbed. Not all the way up—just to the first node where a leaf had unfurled. Sure enough, right there at the base of the leaf, another nub of a stem was protruding, threatening flowers in a little fist-sized bulb.

Both immensely relieved and pleased, Joanie dropped down in front of the innkeeper. She flashed the older lady two thumbs up as she said, “It’s all good! I’ll keep fertilizing it, and soon enough we’ll have enormous beans to sell. They’ll be as big as steaks! With plenty of protein. This is your land, so what do you say we split the proceeds? 50-50?”

The innkeeper’s eyes lit up.

A week later, with three bean harvests under their belt and a pouch full of gold coins over her belt, Joanie had officially “sold” the beanstalk to the innkeeper and was ready to go. The plan was to bring medicine for her mom back home and then see about moving both herself and her mother in with the innkeeper, where they could tend to this stalk and harvest together. Joanie had purchased a new mule with her bean money and was all set to go in the morning. She settled in to get a good night’s sleep.

She was woken up in the middle of the night by a strange sensation, like the air in her room in the inn had somehow changed. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, looked around, and bit back a scream when she spotted a woman standing by her window.

“Hi,” the woman said, and while most of her expression was unmoving, Joanie spotted a glimmer of amusement in the light in her eyes. “You were supposed to come up the beanstalk.”

Swinging her legs cautiously off the bed, Joanie replied, “you were waiting for me?”

“Kind of.” The woman moved closer and held out a golden egg the size of a softball, one eyebrow lifting. “You were supposed to steal me away.”

For some reason, that made Joanie’s thoughts stall a bit.

“Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “I figured no need to piss the giant off if I didn’t need to. I didn’t realize you were, um, sentient.”

The woman shrugged.

“Fair enough, I didn’t either.”

“But now you’ve escaped?”

“Yes. So—what’s the plan?”

#may trope mayhem #you ever write a quick AU of your own novel that you haven't finished writing yet?#this was fun #and thematically helpful lmao #conceptualizing origfic as canon for an AU is a fun exercise #original work

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lilulicious · 2 months ago

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Coe-Pilot: The Space Between Us

Chapter 5 (Part 2): Cowboys! Why'd There Have to Be Cowboys?

(Author's note: I am in the process of posting this Starfield fan fiction to AO3, but I will need to go back and edit some of the past posts to ensure the in-game quotes are more paraphrased so as not to cross any plagiarism lines. I've tried to write this chapter with that notion in mind, so you'll see that the quotes now don't exactly match up with the screenshots, which is intentional. The screenshots are here to give some visual reference to those who haven't played Starfield or perhaps not as in-depth. But I thought I'd clarify the mismatches as I continue to learn and grow in this process of writing my first ever fan-fic! Thanks for reading!)

Before THEN:

Scottsdale, AZ, United States, Old Earth, February 2024. The Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show, "The Greatest Horse Show on Earth" at WestWorld showgrounds, featuring 10 full days of competition for the best Arabian horses from around the globe, including professional and amateur competitors in all disciplines. Although Scarce River Equine typically trained race, jumping, eventing, and dressage horses, occasional clients with the "pretty horses" in those disciplines wanted hardcore performance horse trainers to perfect their steeds and/or help their darling children come home with blue ribbons, championships, and trophies at their breed-specific shows. In fact, it turns out parents can buy their children's love, especially when it has four hooves, a cute pink muzzle to kiss, and it does well in the show ring.

Lilu had proven her mettle around Scarce River, first helping with grooming and groundwork. Then due to her father Robert McLovin's recommendation, her equestrian C.V. (because her military and clandestine resume here was irrelevant and kind of scary), and some videos of some past rides, she started jogging young and convalescing horses down the shedrows and on the short bridle path meant for controlled exercise. When it became clear that she was talented, they started to test her on lower-level dressage mounts and hunter-jumpers and were pleased with the results. She was, sadly, too heavy to make weight as an apprentice jockey or even to breeze horses in workouts. Her height and the soft curves that belied her muscular fitness beneath them had her over 160lbs, easy. She looked good, but she wasn't going to be on a racer anymore. Lilu was more fit for other performance equestrian disciplines, at which she excelled.

So, her first big assignment: go with a small contingent of hauler, groom, and herself to the Scottsdale show to work with a junior amateur-owner-to-ride and her Arabian dressage mount, coach the girl through riding in her division, then she herself ride the horse as the "professional" trainer representing Scarce River to try to score a ribbon there, too. And hopefully come home with a modicum of success. In short, Scarce River was not going to send their big dressage trainer for this one, Lilu was good enough for a 14-year-old girl who was an ok rider on a horse that wasn't a fancy European Warmblood and not necessarily expected to hit the top 3 placings, let alone even the famous Scottsdale Top 10.

Lilu didn't let that kid down despite the rather academic dismissal of her chances. She asked for four extra days' stall rental at the WestWorld showgrounds, and the girl's family had the money and time to pay for it and come in early. Sending the van ahead with the groom and horse for the 21-hour drive, she flew in to Phoenix to meet the girl's family and they went to Scottsdale together to get settled in. They went from the hotel and visited the ongoing horse show while the girl's horse arrived, got bedded down into his stall, and relaxed a full day from his long journey. Then Lilu worked with the girl those few extra days at WestWorld so both the kid and the horse were comfortable with each other in the bustling environment of the enormous show, which had vendor booths, camel and elephant rides, various demonstrations... in short, plenty of distractions that could create a spooky horse and a real wreck.

When show time came, there wasn't a huge fairy-tale ending of a blue ribbon and a trophy, but there were a lot of junior amateur-owners-to-ride in her Level 2 dressage category and the kid had to ride two tests to triumph with that 3rd place ribbon that Lilu's boss had written off. The girl was beaming so brightly that Lilu thought she could be seen from outer space. The horse had a rest day, then Lilu had to ride him in open dressage, Level 2. That was a much tougher division than she anticipated and the horse, though well trained, was physically not capable of ascending to great heights with the additional professional competitors. She scraped through into the open Level 2 championship test and, riding her and her mount's hearts out, barely got the last place in the coveted Scottsdale Top Ten, which she thought wasn't too bad, and the boss back home was happy, as were the clients. They had two sets of ribbons to take home. She told the boss her recommendation was that if the girl wanted to win Level 2 or move up to Level 3, she needed a new horse with the mind and physicality for that level of movement, and this one would be great for a younger kid looking to start out. His Scottsdale show placement would ensure his resale value into a quality, high-care, show home.

And the crew prepared to take the horse back to Scarce River in his Air-Ride van, that boy deserved it. The kid and her family were going to stay in Scottsdale and enjoy the last few days of the show. And Lilu was going to head home a day early, thank god. Her newest home, now with Adam in his little house in Tenino proper. She had dated him about 3 months before he propositioned her to depart her aerie above the shedrow barn and come live with him. He had a dog, a lovely, older chocolate lab with a gray muzzle, and she could get a dog, too, this way, if she wanted. He loved her, he said, and he wanted her to be a permanent part of his life. Sounded great, didn't it?

Except... well, Adam was great when he was happy. Which wasn't as often as one might think, for all the positive things he seemed to have going for him: young, nice looking, smart, good job, owned his house. But he seemed happier before he had her firmly in his clutches. Like she was something he looked forward to discovering each time he came across her. When he was just coming by the barn, his face would light up when he saw her. She almost felt a pang of guilt, like she was doing something to him she shouldn't be. Leading him on? No, she was giving him affection, giving him her body, she just never told him she loved him, too.

But cracks started to show not long after they started having sex. She was not shy about how her body was shaped, she knew she looked good in most conventional respects. She was built for the traditional male gaze. But there were some aspects of her body she liked to keep hidden by clothing or cover of darkness. Less attractive, newly added features that were the results of the trauma she had endured. There was a reason the inpatient PTSD program she went to also treated MST (military sexual trauma). Her scars were more than euphemistically "skin deep", they were literally skin deep. She didn't want to have to explain them and their placement near intimate areas of her body and thus relive how they got there. And the terminus of that discussion would lead to exactly why Adam even had a place at her side when there should have been no vacancy.

One night, not long before she left for Scottsdale, they were engaged in foreplay, he was kissing up the inside of her thigh and he stopped to trace one of those scars with his fingers. For the first time, he decided to ask her, "What happened there, that almost looks like a burn..." but she cut him off and yanked his hand off her inner thigh as if he had burned her again.

"I don't want to talk about it, Adam," Lilu said in a flat tone, and she pushed him away, closing her knees, pulling her t-shirt back down and her panties back up, then pulling the blanket over herself. The desire for sex vacated her body almost as quickly as her soul did.

He slid back up, leaned back a little way from her, his head on his pillow, and stared, frowning. "So, what, we're done now because I touched you the wrong way?" Petulant. Entitled. Wrong conclusion drawn on purpose or genuinely confused? Lilu wasn't sure with him, he could be manipulative to get what he wanted, and he ALWAYS wanted sex with her. When she first got with him, she told him she still had a lot of issues to work through and she wasn't sure she was in the right head space for a committed relationship, much less a physical one, but he swore up and down he'd be patient. He was anything but that.

"Adam," Lilu started, but he'd rolled over with a flop and turned his back on her. She didn't bother with continuing; she wasn't going to plead or beg.

Now as she was coming home from Scottsdale, she knew he'd be ready to fly at her with a raging boner. She wished she was excited to see him, but she found she wasn't, partially because of this... anticipation? Dread? She wanted to do more than fuck when she missed seeing someone. A kiss and a cuddle would be nice. She didn't even let him know she was coming back already. As soon as the horse was loaded in the wee hours of the morning, she grabbed a red-eye out of Phoenix-Sky Harbor to Sea-Tac and started the drive home. Adam had told her about his shifts for the week, and she knew he'd be working overnight; she would have some time in the house to herself for the morning. She did want to see the dogs. Yes, now dogs, plural: she had adopted a cute border collie mix, an older spayed female to match the energy level of Adam's old dog. It was soothing to hear the clack-clack of their claws on the wood floors, like a balm for her soul, and have them settle on either side of her on the sofa while she watched old movies and relaxed.

But on the way home, winding through the neighborhoods, she came to an abrupt halt. She saw Adam's Thurston County Sheriff's Deputy's compact SUV parked in the driveway of a house she didn't recognize. She knew the plate and the tiny decal of his favorite Saturday morning cartoon character, that Martian with the helmet, that he hid near the rear wiper blade. It was only 8:00am, and the vehicle was covered in dewy droplets. It hadn't been moved overnight. Next to it was a red Mini Cooper that Lilu recognized as belonging to Candalyn "Candy" Johnson, a blonde, 30-something, 911 dispatcher that she'd heard the other deputies refer to as a "Milf". Except there never seemed to be any kids around her place. So, this was where she lived. Lilu had no reason to take notice until now.

How fucking typical. Lilu felt tears pricking her eyes, but she blinked them back and decided Adam wasn't worth losing the salt. "Motherfucker," was all she said, and she drove on down the street towards home, thinking that she just needed to get back out of there, ASAP. There was a job waiting that her dad had asked if she could do over in Amsterdam for The Company. It was ugly, of a sexual nature, and originally, she had refused because it was the last thing she needed after what she'd been through. Being cheated on changed her mind. When these boys decided to engage in extracurricular activities, it was at their own risk, and this job was not unrelated to that concept. She could call her dad, pack, and be out of Sea-Tac again before Adam knew she'd been there and gone. Her boss's implicit deal with her dad allowed for an occasional absence, that was the beauty of it as far as her father was concerned. Fuck it, why not, no reason to stay here and fight with her "boyfriend". She could deal with that later. But she had one idea for a parting shot. She stopped at the convenience store.

As Lilu McLovin finally departed Adam's little house with her carryon repacked with a different set of "necessaries", petting and kissing the dogs copiously, she left a box of condoms from the convenience store on the kitchen table for Adam with a note telling him to make sure he used them in her absence, she'd be in Europe on assignment, didn't know when she'd be back, don't call. Petty? Sure. But he wasn't leaving her with any presents in the form of STDs, and he was going to get the goddamned point that his extracurricular activities had been made.

--------------------------------------

NOW:

Lilu guided the Frontier to touchdown at the Akila City Spaceport. As she looked out the front window of the ship, she was a bit surprised at what she saw. Unlike the sleek lines and glittering towers of New Atlantis, there were wooden walls and gates. No paved path led forth from the spaceport, but instead it was packed clay, mud, and puddles. It looked like an Old Earth, Old West, fort town. People were bundled up in leathers and woolen clothing, boots and hats. Some were carrying long rifles. "Jesus Christ," muttered Lilu to herself, "Where the hell am I, a theme park frontier land? If I find that cartoon mouse or fabled frontiersman in a coonskin hat up in this joint, I'm gonna shit myself."

She heard the clanging of a hatch in the rear of the ship and realized that her passenger, Sam Coe, had already left. He didn't say a word to her, so she assumed she was just supposed to meet him outside. Great, this was already going so well, and with Sarah coming along to add tension to the situation, it was bound to be tons of fun. She worried her inward groan was almost audible.

Oh well, it was still better than Argos Extractors... so far. She gathered her gear and still wished she had a better gun, as she looked balefully at the little Beowulf which had served her well but wasn't great if this Akila frontier was supposedly so daunting. Sarah, as if reading her mind, said, "You know, if you're looking for an upgrade, you won't have a better opportunity than right here in Akila City."

"Oh, yes?" Now Lilu perked up, interested at last in what Sarah had to say.

"Yes, Laredo Arms is a really high-quality gun maker, and then Rowland Arms as well, you should be able to find something they either sell or make that's a boost over that Beowulf," explained Sarah.

"Laredo!? Really?" Lilu asked, incredulously, half laughing.

"Yes, what's so odd about that?" asked Sarah, also laughing a little bit at Lilu's sudden mirth but looking puzzled.

"Because this 'city' is right out of a Western movie and Laredo is a place in..." but Lilu trailed off when she realized, seeing Sarah's confusion, she could have been speaking in Japanese and made as little sense. Future Woman had no idea what she was talking about. But then Sarah said what Lilu had long been hoping to hear.

"I think it's going to be just you and Sam for this mission, so I'm going to stay here and review that dossier that was sent over, you know, your files? Especially since you've obviously been wanting me to look it over for a while now," Sarah offered. Lilu felt relieved, although at the back of her mind, a tiny warning light of anxiety started to flash. Hopefully Sarah would view everything through a trained, military eye, not the eyes of a reactionary hysteric. Oh wait, that's what UC SysDef was supposed to be, trained military eyes and they had her pegged at first as a dangerous psychopath, like reactionary hysterics might do. What could go wrong here?

"Oh, that's great, Sarah, thank you." Lilu smiled a genuine smile this time, "I think that'll be really helpful going forward, maybe some things will start to make sense." And with that, she made her way to the back of the ship. She saw Cora, who said, "Hi!", brightly and happily, and then went back to her reading. Lilu smiled and waved and kept walking to the exit hatch. The kid seemed nice enough, she admitted to herself, as she made her way out of the hatch, through the landing bay, and into the Akila City sunlight, where she could see a man waiting in the distance, closer to the city gates. A man in a cowboy hat. Sam Coe.

What can be said about Sam Coe at this stage of his life in Constellation? He was a mirror of Lilu McLovin in so many ways that neither of them quite realized yet. An heir apparent turned crushing disappointment who started to find some level of redemption being a lawman, only to once again disappoint both his family and his professional colleagues by joining Constellation. A man raising a little girl, seemingly on his own, in the face of criticism for putting her in danger and (at least per Sarah) possibly not being up to the task of continuing her education while they went roaming through space on missions of exploration. If nothing else, no one could say that Sam Coe didn't have grit, determination, and courage to stand in the face of outside pressure. If Lilu had known all this going in, her approach might have been different. She might have understood his authoritative, cocksure attitude that already had her hackles up. And he already seemed like he wasn't too fond of her. As it stood, she would never admit to herself, in that moment, despite how little she knew, she was intrigued, nonetheless. He was...something else.

As Lilu strode up to Sam, she knew that she did have a second chance to make a first impression, and the one she wanted to make was that she was just as cocky as Sam, so she walked towards him with a catwalk strut that would have put a model to shame during New York Fashion Week. She was looking him directly in the eye, shoulders back, hips swaying, and stopped before him, feet slightly apart in a confident stance, their gaze almost level. She hoped she sold it better than she felt. She'd caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the many puddles in the dirt track, her hair blazing red in the sunlight, her skin a light brown, like coffee with just enough cream. "Ay, que chulita," her mom would have said. If Sam spoke Spanish, he might have said it, too. She saw how his eyes ran over body, her legs, lingered over her breasts and her mouth before locking onto her gaze. There was a pregnant pause as she waited expectantly for him to say something. She was rewarded more richly than she could have ever hoped.

"Good, you're here," Sam said, and then he more than half leered at her. "So, are you ready? Because it's just going to be you and me, and I'm gonna be riding your ass until we get what we're after."

Lilu stared at him, a smile playing on her lips, thinking, "You can't be serious? What do I say here? 'Promise?' Shit, no, I can't say that, Jesus Christ, ummm," and she continued to stare at him like she had vapor-locked because the possibilities were endless. And the moment to strike had passed.

"Hello? Are you ok?" Sam looked at her, waiting, puzzled.

Had she imagined the look and tone when he said what he said? Surely not. But she didn't want to embarrass herself. The smirk that had been twisting her lips faded. "Act natural," she thought, but out loud all she could manage was, "I understand." Her inner voice groaned, "Smooth," as she rolled her eyes inwardly at herself. Her flirting game was in the basement. Must have been those impure thoughts, they'll get you every damned time.

"Before we go any further," began Sam, "there's something I should tell you. I'm a Coe, as in Solomon Coe is my direct ancestor." And here, he paused and looked at Lilu waiting for some reaction. She just stared at him blankly for a beat or two and shook her head and shrugged slightly for him to go on, because she had no idea who Solomon Coe was. Too late, she saw the sign above the city gate that said, "Akila City, Founded in 2167 by Solomon Coe", thought "Ahhhh," but Sam was already continuing. He must think her to be a complete idiot.

"Solomon was a great man, his accomplishments have gone down in history, but time has a way of building upon legend." finished Sam, emphatically.

Lilu had now recovered, and her sense of sarcasm rose to meet this momentous occasion. "Sooo... Solomon Coe is your ancestor?" she asked Sam. "Your family founded Akila City?"

"Yep," he said, "And the Coes as a family have been riding those coattails for generations."

Now there was no mistaking the mischief in her eyes, the twist of her mouth again into an evilly sweet smile. "Well, now, hold up," she purred, "I may need some time so soak in your celebrity status." Lilu looked like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. Sam was not amused.

"Alright, alright, smartass. That's why I don't even like talking about it in the first place," he said.

"Oh, I bet you don't," thought Lilu, but she wisely said instead, "So where's our first stop?"

"Well, the place we're looking for is called 'The Empty Nest', it's something of a family legend," and he swiftly looked sidelong at her in case she decided to mock him or the Coes again, but she remained carefully poker-faced. "We have some heirloom maps that might give us an idea where to look. They're locked in one of the family safe deposit boxes at GalBank, so that's our first stop."

"I heard there were a couple of good firearms vendors in Akila City, I could really use an upgrade if we're going to be heading anywhere after that where we may need to defend ourselves. Do you think we could do that before we hit this frontier if it's going to be dangerous?" asked Lilu.

Sam said, unbelievably, infuriatingly, "Don't worry, darlin', I can protect you from anything dangerous that comes our way. When the shooting starts, you just get behind me." His face was serious.

Apparently, the steam that began to rise from Lilu's gut towards her face was a scald risk even from a distance. Sam laughed and said, "I kid, I kid. It looks like you could probably protect me. Sure, I know a couple of places. Let's go." Lilu allowed herself a tight smile, shook her head, chided herself for being sucked in, and walked on with him through the Akila City gates, feeling conflicted, her inner voice chanting mantras: dammit, don't let him be funny, funny is the kiss of death, try to dislike him more.

As they walked up to the security guard at the inner gate, they were stopped abruptly. The guard, a handsome young man with a buzz cut, heavy five-o'clock shadow, and a square jaw, told them there was a robbery gone bad at the GalBank, their GalBank, and the Marshall of the Freestar Rangers said for bypassers to stay away. He suddenly recognized Sam and asked, "Sam Coe, I remember you, glad to see you're back, the Rangers could use your help."

"I'm afraid I'm still out of the Rangering business, Andy, but we'll go see what we can do," said Sam. He turned to Lilu. "We're not going to get into that bank during a hostage situation, we'd better see if there's anything we can do to move things along." He led her towards a cluster of men standing behind barricades. One man was clearly the Marshall. It wasn't just the badge he wore, which bore a resemblance to a weathered one that Sam wore around his neck as a charm of sorts, it was the look of care, of deep thought, of weighing lives in the balance against the decisions he was yet to make. The look of responsibility and the buck stopping with him.

"Well, well, Sam Coe, it's been a long time," said Marshall Daniel Blake, extending his hand to shake Sam's. "Sam, I just wanted you to know, I don't blame you for doing what you did for your own life. But some of the others don't see it the same way. Just be ready."

"Thanks, Marshall. I knew that sooner or later I'd have to face that music, but I did what I had to do for me and for Cora. I'm sorry if the others can't accept it." Sam sounded so final in this, and Lilu wondered what had happened. The way both men talked made it sound like it was something altruistic and she genuinely hoped it to be so. Someone out there had to be making good decisions and not be as fucked up as she was.

"Sam, I'm a little busy here, the Shaw Gang tried to rob this bank, and it went sideways. Now there are hostages, and the Gang says they're going to start shooting them if we don't meet their demands, which there's no way in hell I'm just going to give them a ship and let them fly out of here. So, if you don't mind, we'll have to catch up another day. I have to find a neutral negotiator because they won't talk to any of my Rangers or Akila City Security." Marshall Blake looked haggard and helpless. He had no idea what he was going to do.

Fuck me, thought Lilu. Well, they did have to get inside that GalBank and maybe there was such a thing as karma. Put one foot forward, recruit!

"I can do it," she said, in a flat, bored tone, not betraying her thundering heartbeat and the flash of adrenaline that made her sphincter clench. She hadn't really negotiated a hostage release before. She had, at best, kept a suspect busy on the radio while an entry team set up outside the suspect's door. But at least she'd had some training and a tiny bit of experience.

As Sam and Blake stared at her, the adrenaline got the better of her and she forgot herself for a moment. "I had a couple of hostage negotiation courses at Quantico..." and then she stopped, horrified at what she let slip. Not the fact there was cross training between the CIA and FBI. But the fact that she mentioned a place on Old Earth, a place that had been dead the last several hundred years.

But Blake and Sam were, at least in that moment, oblivious to this. They were surprised that she had any such experience at all, and Sam, who gave her a side-eye that said, "You'd better not be full of shit," went on to say to Blake, "Seems like my friend here just might be able to help you out."

So they sent her to the intercom at the front of the bank, since all other comms in and out had been cut. No other data was going in or out of that bank. Blake told her they had no intentions of meeting the Shaw Gang's demands, but to say anything to get them to surrender. Ah, bargaining in bad faith, surely this would end well.

Lilu pressed the intercom button and right away a voice asked who it was and what they wanted. Lilu said, in her smoothest, kindest, television-commercial voice, "My name is Lilu McLovin, nice to meet you, who am I talking with?"

"Oh, how polite, what a lady. I'm Jed," sneered the voice. He sounded tired, angry, trying to put on a good bluff, but he also sounded scared. Lilu leaned into it.

"Look Jed, I'm gonna play it straight with you. I'm not from Akila City, I'm not from anywhere near here. I know what it's like to be scared and alone and have no one on your side, but here's the god's honest truth: If you come out of there, and don't hurt any of the hostages, the Marshall and the judge will go a lot easier on you. But if you hurt any of them, it's gonna go hard on you. And if you kill any of them, it's gonna get way worse, Jed. I mean BAD."

"Wh-What do you mean?" Jed asked, already cowed. He didn't even think to ask for anything now. The honesty from this sweet-sounding woman had disarmed him.

"Jed, think about it. If the hostages are dead, you simplify things for them. There won't be a judge. There won't be a trial. They're gonna come in there and kill every last one of you. Every last one. And you know what else, Jed?" She asked this last part very softly. She looked back over her shoulder. Sam was about 10 feet away, the Marshall and the others were behind the barricades almost 20 feet away. They wouldn't hear her.

"Yeah, what else?" Jed said, sounding as if he were marshalling his courage.

"I'm gonna help them do it," Lilu whispered. "That's my job, Jed. I'm an assassin. I kill people for a living. I've done it most of my whole life. The last man I killed, I strangled to death with my bare hands. That's what I'm here to do. They brought me here to end you and your gang. Not even your families will be safe. Every last one, GONE," she hissed menacingly. Huh. Maybe she was a murderous psychopath after all.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there," said Jed, loudly. "Let's think this through." Lilu knew the onlookers had to have heard him, but she didn't turn around and she said nothing. The intercom crackled again. "OK, no one has been hurt, you go tell the Marshall we'll come along quietly. We surrender."

"YES!" thought Lilu, but when she turned around, her face was carefully assembled into an expression of bored nonchalance, like she solved hostage crises every other morning before she had coffee.

"You'd make a pretty good Ranger, the way you dealt with that," said Sam, looking at her with new appreciation. "Although, I didn't quite catch what you told him towards the end."

Lilu smiled beatifically at Sam and thought, "Oh honey, that's probably for the best." And she made her way up to Marshall Blake. "It's over, they're coming out. The hostages are safe."

"That's incredible, you really got us out of a tight spot." Blake looked surprised and relieved all at once and then focused on her. He had written her off as some sort of creme puff and only allowed her to try because of Sam's recommendation. He knew Sam, but even then, he was skeptical of this less-than-rugged looking woman, overly-pretty in his estimation (meaning soft), in her skimpy, fancy, off-world clothing. But she had produced phenomenal results, and fast. "I know you're running with Sam so it must be Constellation business, but you sure would be great Freestar Ranger material, if you're ever interested, head on over to The Rock and ask for Emma Wilcox, she handles new recruits."

"Will do, Marshall." Lilu stifled another urge to laugh when she heard "The Rock". Alcatraz? Or no, there was history about the Alamo and the rock quarries in its construction. She saw the building a little further into town in the distance. It bore a passing resemblance to a different stone version of The Alamo. Freestar... Lonestar... Texas. The Freestar Collective symbols of the eagle everywhere... Akila.. Akila was Latin for eagle, or a bastardization of aguila, Spanish for eagle. In point of fact, there were some characteristics of this place that made her feel a little more at home than New Atlantis. The planet's terrain reminded her a bit of the Southwestern United States, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, and yes, parts of Texas, especially. She didn't mind the dirt and mud; she was used to it working on horse farms or being in active duty military. And it was quieter here. It felt more like a community. She wasn't sure what her future held or what other planets might offer her, but this one, so far, seemed a bit more up her alley. Dare she say she almost felt comfortable here?

Sam interrupted her musing. "Now that this situation is cleared up, we have to get inside that GalBank and get those maps."

"Oh yeah," she said. "Eventful morning." And she jogged up the steps, two at a time.

"Gravity is a bitch here," he said. "Be careful, there is no such thing as a simple fall on this planet." But she continued on the way she was, praying that what now would look like showboating wouldn't bite her in the ass and land her with a broken bone just to pay her back for her hubris.

They found the Coe family safe deposit box empty except for a note to Sam saying the maps were now residing with one Jacob Coe. Sam swore a blue streak. Lilu wondered what this meant and tried to make light of it. Her attempt at humor went over like a lead balloon.

"Oh boy, this is where I walk right into the drama, isn't it?" she asked, jokingly.

"You gonna act like this the whole way?" Sam barked at her, gruffly, but before she could even act surprised, he said, "Dammit, I was hoping not to go to the estate, Cora's gonna be mad if she finds out."

"Why would Cora be mad? Wait, estate, what estate? Talk to me, Sam, I have no idea what's going on here."

"Yeah, well, it's not your business to know," Sam said in a surly voice.

"Asshole," Lilu muttered, sulkily. She was frustrated and a little bit stung. She had just resolved a goddamned hostage crisis where no one got hurt, what else did this guy want from her? Yes, she was a smartass but using humor to keep things light and as a defense mechanism was her specialty. She wanted to just walk away from Sam and let him figure it out. "Fuck this guy," her inner voice said. Well, one of her inner voices, the angry one that liked to tear things up and burn bridges, and she turned away from him as if she no longer possessed free will, as if she really was going to walk away.

"He's my father, alright," blurted Sam, suddenly, as if he realized he was losing... her assistance... her companionship... her... right then and there. "Family affairs weren't anything I wanted to get into."

She stayed still for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned back to him. The way he was looking at her, like a wounded child in search of approval. She knew the feeling. She looked away for a moment into space, decided to slow her roll. It wouldn't cost her anything to relent on this, would it?

"Thanks for opening up to me, Sam," she said, trying to sound sincere, hoping her token of goodwill wasn't squandered.

"Yeah, well, there's no love lost between me and my old man, it's a family tradition," he said. "Shall we?"

"Lead the way, my good man," Lilu prompted, and they were on their way deeper into Akila City, up the steps past the Rock, towards the Coe Estate.

The Coe Estate sat in an area of Akila City known as The Core, it was the oldest part of the city and apparently the founding families had settled there. When Lilu entered the great room of the house, she was struck by how warm and homey it felt for a stone, wood, and steel structure. The older gentleman waiting for them, however, was anything but welcoming.

Jacob Coe was, by anyone's account, a long-time public servant and a heavy hitter in the Freestar Collective government. The spirit of exploration and derring-do had left the Coes a long time ago. Sam was sort of a throwback to the original spirit of Solomon Coe. Not that there was anything wrong with the type of work that Jacob did. People with institutional memory and passion for doing right by the constituents they serve were always vital to a thriving society. Lilu had seen firsthand on Old Earth what happened when self-serving politicians took the reins. In fact, these people of the Settled Systems probably would not be inhabiting these planets now if not for that. Earth might have been saved, perhaps, if politicians cared more about the planet and its occupants rather than the pursuit of filthy lucre.

"Well, look who comes darkening my door again, and bringing some Constellation lackey with him, I bet," growled Jacob at Sam. He then turned to Lilu. "Come to help Sam loot his ancestry?"

Sam immediately spoke up. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, I do know, and you're not getting those maps, period. They belong to the Coe family that you don't seem to want to be a part of anymore," said Jacob, twisting the knife a little.

"I won't ask a second time," said Sam, his hand on his belt, leaning towards Jacob menacingly. Jesus, thought Lilu, he wouldn't actually attack his father, would he?

"When did you even ASK once?" Jacob's voice rose and he was turning red. Lilu decided maybe it was time to say something.

"Constellation just wants to follow up on Solomon's work," she offered. But Jacob turned his fury onto her. She allowed its blast to wash over her. This was more than rage, it was hurt that was pouring out of the man.

"You really believe that? Let me set you straight. There's only one place a Coe should be, and it's not out there putting his life at risk. Nothing is more important than our family, and if Sam would come to his senses, he'd realize that and you? You wouldn't be here!" Jacob yelled at her. She said nothing, she just looked at him, into his blue eyes, Sam's eyes. But she saw something else there, too. She missed her horrible father, and it was almost like staring him in the face. Ice cold anger and disapproval. She felt the innate desire to turn that around and remembered it wasn't her dad, and it wasn't her place. Stifle it, soldier.

"OK, that's enough!" Sam said forcefully to Jacob, startling Lilu out of the spell that had fallen over her for a moment. To Lilu he said, "Let's talk for a minute." He took her by the elbow and guided her to one side of the great room.

"I hope you don't stay long, Sam," said Jacob with an audible "harumph". And he made off into an alcove and stood, back against the wall, arms crossed, glowering at them.

"You ok?" Lilu queried Sam, softly. "You want to talk about all this?"

"No, because this is how it goes almost every time. But we have to figure out how we're going to get those maps from him." Sam seemed at a loss, defeated. It was clear that Jacob Coe had his measure. Lilu totally understood this. She thought about how her own father could reduce her to a mere speck.

"Let me talk to him," she said. "I have experience in the 'bad dad' arts." Sam hesitated, but before he could object, she continued, "Trust me, it's a family tradition for me, too."

Sam looked both confused and skeptical. "You sure? I have more than 30 years of arguing with the man, basically since I could form a coherent sentence, but if you want to try it..." He trailed off, his lack of confidence apparent.

Wordlessly, Lilu turned and walked up to Jacob, her eyes appropriately and respectfully downcast, and then she said, "I meant what I said about just wanting to follow up on Solomon's work, don't you want to help Sam?" Then she flashed her big brown eyes up at Jacob, appealingly.

Jacob gave her a hard look, but Lilu's close proximity and innocent gaze took hold, and he softened ever so slightly. "You think I don't want to help him?" His tone carried more of a wounded tone now than just an angry one.

"I know you do," she said, soothingly. "Sam said something about you being part of the Freestar government? My father was a government man, too. It's an honorable profession, serving the people. What was your role?" Paydirt: she saw the spark light in Jacob's eyes.

"Yes, I was, I handled a lot of trade and commerce. You know, back in my day, we handled some major crises. The Colony War almost destroyed our economy. We thought we were going to crater more than once. I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown. It was one of the best times of my life." Jacob smiled, reminiscing.

Lilu smiled, too. "Folks underestimate the pressure of a job like that, the highs and the lows. You're quite a character, Jacob. You remind me so much of my father, he would have felt the same way, you two would have liked each other."

"Could be you're not too bad yourself, but... is he no longer with you?" Jacob asked, looking at her with sympathy.

"He passed away a long time ago, I miss him. Maybe if I come back through Akila City I can visit again sometime?" she asked, with a wistful tone. She almost felt as if she meant it. Maybe she did.

Jacob looked at her with an expression that bordered on fondness. "Sure. And listen, about before... you can have the maps, they're in the other room, here's the key. You seem like a nice girl, respectful, maybe you'll be a good influence on my Sam, huh?"

"I'll do my best," she said, warmly, and with that, Lilu gave him a winsome smile, reached out and clasped Jacob on the forearm to give it a squeeze. He smiled back at her and walked away on into his study to sit down. When she turned to look at Sam, he stared at her like he was in shock.

"How the hell did you do that?" he asked, incredulously.

"I hypnotized him," she said, nonchalantly, the smile still playing on her lips, but her mind far away with the thoughts of her own father. She unlocked the storage room that held the maps. Sam shook his head, mind still boggled, and followed her inside.

"Seriously, though, what did you say to make him change his mind? He can be stubborn as a mule," Sam persisted.

"I told him I'd bear him another grandchild," she said, quite neutrally.

Now Sam really was staring at her, stunned.

"Oh, spare me, you're actually thinking about it?" Lilu exclaimed, laughing.

"I mean," and here he dropped his voice, "I wouldn't mind the trying," he leered.

"Calm down and keep it in your pants, bub, you've got enough to handle with the child you have. Now, let's look at these maps." And both of them smiling with the joke, they stood close and bent their heads over the maps to get their bearings.

But there was something in that exchange, something in the way he moved closer to her, the way their eyes met for just a heartbeat or two, Lilu felt something shift. It had always been there, in the background, a low susurration of attraction that was starting to bubble to a simmer now. She knew by how much she wanted to dislike him the moment she met him. After what had happened to her during that fateful mission where she screwed up, and the big mistake in letting Adam into her life so intimately far too soon for someone so inappropriate for her, she had been determined to not rush in once again to find comfort in just any man's arms simply because he wanted her and he was attractive.

This was already moving fast enough to be similar. Far too fast. And she was afraid of it already. But there were some key differences, about Sam at least, if not herself. He was older, more confident (at least outwardly, with the exception of dealing with his father, which she understood), he was funny, and he was... well, to her, he was gorgeous. She had never been a sucker for a pretty boy, but those eyes of his held her captivated. The lines of his perfect cheek bones, his classic jawline, the short beard she wanted to rub her cheek against, the thick hair she wanted to bury her fingers into. She felt a compulsion to put her hands on his face, pull it close to hers so she could get lost in those beautiful blue eyes before she...

"Hey, you ok?" asked Sam.

"Oh." Lilu snapped out of her fantasy, realized she was staring right at him. She wondered how her own facial features had been composed while she had been fantasizing about sticking her tongue down his throat. Wouldn't he be surprised if he only knew? Instead, she said, "Yeah, I was just thinking again about how I really need to stop and look for a firearm upgrade before we leave the city for any place too wild and woolly. Remember?" Yeah, sure, that's what she was thinking about. Guns. Uh huh.

"Well, you couldn't be more right, because according to this map, we're heading right back out into Shaw Gang territory," Sam said, grimly. His face implied that he wasn't confident about their chances. Well, that's because he hadn't been out on a mission with her before. She couldn't wait to show him what she could do. Then as she caught herself thinking these thoughts, she dealt herself with a swift rebuke. Showboating to impress a boy could get them both killed.

"Damn, there are more of these idiots out there? Well, let's go get that firepower I've been asking for and our Artifact! And, don't worry, darlin', when the shooting starts, just get behind me, I'll keep you safe." Lilu flashed a wolfish grin at Sam as she used his earlier joke against him. But in reality, she hoped she sounded more confident than she felt as they turned to leave the Coe Estate. She called out, "Thanks again, Mr. Coe!" She didn't wait for a response, and went through the door with Sam, back into Akila City and on their way to Laredo Arms. Because it was time to head out to the Akila frontier and find the Empty Nest, and whatever lay within it.

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Chapter 5 (Part 2) Song:

It's just a little bit warmer Than you're used to up above It's just a little bit harder To control the one you love It's just a little more danger And the slightest remark It goes a little bit deeper And gets a little more dark

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