#Chapter 1 Geography Summary

[solvednotes]

Ch-01 Resources and Development - MCQs and Q&A Complete Guide

Prepare confidently for your Class 10 Geography exams with this complete guide on Chapter 01 – Resources and Development from the NCERT textbook Contemporary India II. This post includes a wide range of exam-ready MCQs, Very Short Answer (VSA), Short Answer (SA), and Long Answer (LA) questions with answers—all written in simple, student-friendly language. Whether you’re revising key points,…

[veltana]

Stranded - 1

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~1,3 k

✦ Rating: Mature

✦ Warnings/tags: Grumpy mountain man!Bucky, don't ask me about US geography just go with it, eventual relationship/romance/smut.

✦ Summary: Bucky's solitude is disrupted when you show up at his cabin.

✦ Note: You decided you wanted Bucky's POV so here it is! Next poll will be up tomorrow! Stranded is an interactive story were you the reader gets to vote on what happens in the next chapter. You're also welcome to send in suggestions on what you want to happen in future parts! Everything is tagged with #stranded series. Please take a moment to reblog this fic if you liked it! Comments and asks are always welcome ❤️

Series Masterlist

Masterlist | AO3

The knock startles Bucky. He's about to eat dinner and not expecting any company. From the simple kitchen he can see through the window out to the porch, but the fading daylight makes it hard to make out more than a shape.

His first thought is to ignore whoever is out there, but if someone is lost they'll leave quicker if he helps.

Just in case he places his wood-cutting ax beside the door, out of sight from the visitor.

It's what he least expects out there. A woman. You smile brightly at him and introduce yourself. Before Bucky can ask you to leave you’re launching into a speech about your car. 

When you're done he can't do more than stare. He's not out in his cabin because he wants company, quite the opposite.

He thinks about sending you on your way, but then the wind blows freezing air into his face and he's not heartless after all.

Introducing himself with a grunt he invites you in. Grateful, you thank him and step inside.

All the serenity he previously felt is erased with your presence, even if you're doing nothing more than taking off your boots and jacket. To think about what he's going to do next he goes over to the stove and continues with his meal.

“So, eh… do you have a phone that works?” your gentle voice is like a bellow to him. Instantly he's annoyed. At you, at himself, at the world.

“I have a sat phone,” he explains without turning around, continuing to stir his pot. “But nothing is open right now, better wait till morning.”

As the words leave his mouth he understands the implications. You're going to have to stay the night. Fuck his life. Bucky wishes to turn back time and never open the door. How could he be this stupid?

“Oh, okay, so I can stay here?”

Fuck no, Bucky wants to respond. But he's made his bed and now he needs to lie in it.

“I guess. The couch’s a pull-out.”

He pulls the pot from the stove and finds two bowls before placing the steaming pot on the small table.

“You can have some if you want,” he gestures and looks at you properly for the first time since letting you inside. Now that you're out of your thick outerwear his mouth goes dry. Not only are you invading his space, but you're beautiful too.

“It smells delicious,” you smile and Bucky’s treacherous heart jumps. Fuck it all to hell. He quickly averts his eyes and sits down to eat. The sound of the chair opposite him being pulled out makes his pulse quicken. It's been a long time since he had company, and then it's been old friends or people from the community, never anyone this pretty.

Instead of making polite small talk, Bucky stares into his bowl as he eats. At first, you try to ask him questions about the cabin, if he built it himself, and such. He makes it his mission to answer as shortly as possible and you quickly understand he's not interested in talking. But it makes him proud when you tell him it feels cozy.

When the bowls are empty, you stand up.

“I'll wash up,” you say quickly and your tone makes it obvious that you're not taking no for an answer.

Before Bucky can warn you, you turn on the faucet. It's a little tricky and he's been meaning to fix it but never gotten around to doing it. The water sprays you right in the face and on your clothes.

With a yelp you turn it off and stand still for a second, then turn towards Bucky.

“Sorry,” he says and gets up to help you. “It's a little leaky.”

“A little,” you mutter before grabbing a towel and getting down to wipe up the water off the floor.

The sight of you, on your knees, dripping wet has Bucky's mind reeling in uncomfortable directions. With an irritated sigh he reaches down and janks the cloth out of your hand.

“The bathroom is down the hall, there are spare towels in the cupboards so you can dry off and change,” he says.

Slowly you get off the floor, looking crestfallen and apprehensive. Bucky knows it's because of him and he hates it, at the same time, he hates that he hates it. He doesn't know you. You don't mean anything to him. Everything you've done so far has only made him realize why he needs this time away from people.

“I didn't bring a change of clothes with me, everything is in my car,” you look down and wrap your arms around yourself, obviously uncomfortable.

It dawns on Bucky what he's going to have to do and he looks up towards the ceiling and says, “Un-fucking-beliveable.” Then he stomps off towards his bedroom to find you something to wear.

He rummages through the meager choices of clothing he has at the cabin, managing to find a t-shirt and a hoodie. It's just luck you don't need pants too. He deposits them on top of the toilet seat in the bathroom before going back to the kitchen.

While he's been gone you've cleaned up the water anyway and figured out the trick to not get drenched. When you hear him approach you dry off your hands.

“Clothes are in the bathroom, you can hang yours in front of the fire to dry,” he jerks his head, indicating for you to go and he doesn't turn to watch as you scurry away. 

He washes the rest of the dishes, puts them to dry, and then heads across the open room to the wood stove, throwing in a couple more logs before starting to make space for the pull-out.

“I can just sleep on the couch, you don't have to make the bed,” your soft voice startles him. Instead of answering he ignores you.

When it's done and he turns towards you he almost groans out loud. The hoodie is big on you and you look adorable. An image of the two of you curled up together in front of the crackling fireplace enters his mind.

Without another word, he retrieves a pillow, and a thick blanket and throws them on the bed together with the linen, then says “Good night,” and heads down the hall towards the bedroom.

“Thank you, good night,” your sweet voice calls after him and he bangs the door shut for good measure before leaning his back against it, and letting out a deep sigh.

He has half a mind to go back out and apologize but it will probably make everything worse so instead he pushes off and goes into the small on-suite bathroom to brush his teeth and think about his life choices.

He’s never had a visitor in his cabin that he didn’t invite himself, the few friends he has know not to come over uninvited. And over the years and a few relationships, he’s never taken anyone with him to the cabin. And now, you’re in it.

The sheets are cold and he usually leaves the door open to let in the warmth but that's not an option right now. He refuses to think about how warm and cozy it would be under the cover with you. How your soft skin would feel against his rough palms.

Irriterad he shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts before they stray even further.

Tomorrow he'll call the local mechanic to have your car fixed and you can be on your way. Why the thought of never seeing you again bothers him is confusing, since he does not know you at all, but it's for the best.

[somepsychopomp]

King of Ogygia

So yeah this is my AU where Calypso successfully brainwashes Ody into being her pet man. I'm hoping to post the full fic to Ao3 at some point in the future but for now, here's the first 3 chapters condensed into 1 part. Also this is a rough draft so if u see any typos, no u don't.

+++

Summary: Every day for the past seven years, Odysseus had spent his time living in paradise with his beautiful wife. Calypso provides all that he asks and he gives his whole heart to her, as well.

Yes, she's a bit... demanding. But she is a goddess and he is only a man. It must be expected that, in exchange for such a wonderful life, there's some discomfort along the way.

Word Count: Approx. 5.8k

(WARNING FOR: on-screen SA, though brief, and some other depictions of domestic abuse.)

+++

Ogygia was a beautiful island, if not small. One could wake up at dawn, walk along the soft, white sand that met the sea, and return to the spot he started at by dusk. 

Which was what he was doing. He’d asked his kindly wife to let him wander the shores on his own for once, wasn’t he finally ready?

When asked why he felt compelled to do so, he merely said he’d like some time and silence to think and to enjoy all the sights their home had to offer. After all, while she had gardens to tend to and tapestries to weave, he had little in terms of industry to keep his hands occupied. Whenever their sprawling home was damaged, he did not have to take up nails or a hammer to mend it, for his wife could repair any damage from rain or wind with a deft flick of her wrist. Nothing in her paradise could ever be broken.

She let him go, on the condition that he return by nightfall and not a moment later. 

He understood her warning well, that there would be punishment if he disobeyed his dearest wife. So he packed a rucksack with enough food to serve as a midday meal and a waterskin, his sandals at the bottom of the bag, and set off at dawn. 

It only took about half a day to reach the far side of the island. Here, the sand was still soft and white, but it grew cold under the shadow of the island’s mountain. 

What Ogygia lacked in size, it made up for in splendid geography. Beyond the beaches, there was a ring of wooded land where all sorts of strange plants bloomed and where beautiful birds sang. And at the center of the island, a small mountain peak. The most magnificent thing about it was that the mountain was hollow; within its sprawling caverns hid a beautiful palace adorned with marble columns and balconies overlooking the sea from every angle. The mountain’s face was adorned with neat stone paths, creeks, fountains, gardens, gazebos and arches. Though it was a struggle to memorize all the routes, once he had them in his mind, he found it quite easy to go anywhere he wanted on the island. 

This side of Ogygia though… it held somewhat less of a splendid sight. 

A massive series of cliffs rose high over his head, nearly as tall as the mountain itself. The sheer rock, exposed to the wind and other elements, was a dull gray color. For the longest time, his wife had refused to bring him here, insisting there was nothing worth looking at. But he saw. 

He saw the nests the seabirds made on the cliff ledges, could occasionally hear their cries. He’d yet to find any fledglings, leaving him to wonder if they had their offspring somewhere far away. 

And there were tide pools in the shadows of the cliffs, who hosted an endless supply of little creatures to find. He had to be careful, though. At low tide, it was easy to walk out and find the secret entrances to underwater caves where more adventure awaited. Though they tempted him, his wife told him firmly to never venture there. She would not let him be caught by the high tide.

So he sat with his back to the sheer rock as he unwrapped and ate his salted fish, fresh bread, and honied dates, sipping his water as he watched the seabirds glide toward the horizon. Though he’d been walking for hours, he didn’t wait to pack away his belongings and continue on his way. If his wife found out he’d lingered on the far side of the island, she’d surely grow upset. 

After about an hour, his feet began to ache from walking barefoot all day. He stopped to pull a hefty branch from a wiry tree by the beach and used it as a walking stick. His discomfort wasn’t to the point where he would want to don his sandals, so he kept walking. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d done much thinking on this little trek of his. Mostly he thought of nothing, observing the lapping waves and enjoyed the silence that came with isolation. 

After another hour or so, he shivered and came to a stop. He glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised and yet relieved to see no one there. 

What was this strange feeling that compelled him to stop? 

It almost felt like he was being watched, but he knew what it felt like to have his wife’s eyes on him. Beyond gardening, weaving, cooking, singing, dancing, and reciting poetry, his wife’s most favorite activity was to keep him within her sights. 

Maybe if he had more time, he’d investigate. The forest, while lacking much complexity in its design, had fewer pathways than the mountain and it was easy to feel lost among the trees and foliage. He would’ve liked to venture outward. Perhaps there was some curious little creature his wife had yet to mention to him…

Making his choice, he tapped his walking stick against the sand and kept walking along the beach. He knew his wife would have dinner ready by sunset and did not want to disappoint her. 

He kept rubbing the back of his neck as he walked, still bothered by the thought that something was watching him. Which was likely, all things considered. A number of animals also called the island their home. Some, like the rabbits and wild goats, he used to hunt freely. Ogygia was fully under his wife’s control, so the populations never seemed to dip as a result of his hunting. Though lately, he set traps and pursued prey less and less. There wasn’t much thrill in it, not like his occasional dream of a massive, wild boar charging at him. 

With the sun sinking beyond the horizon, the air much cooler than midday but not unbearably so, he came around the final bend and upon the pathway that’d take him up the mountain at a gentle slope. 

He stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his walking stick. “What?” 

And then he was running. 

He ran past the pathway that would take him home and dropped to his knees before the prone figure lying face down in the sand. Whoever they were, they didn’t respond as he touched their shoulder. Their face was obscured by long, brown hair and most of their body was covered by a ragged, wet chlamys. Fearing that, somehow, a corpse had washed up on their isle, he turned the body over with a grunt. 

His eyes widened. It was a woman. Even with her hair a tangled mess, her skin having taken on a sickly pale pallor, he could tell she was beautiful. She had the angular nose and jaw of a proud, stately woman, coupled with a kind of serene grace to her soft lips. 

He pressed his ear to her chest in the hopes she was alive. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he could hear anything. But faintly, very faintly, he made out a dull beat like a distant drum. He breathed a sigh of relief and fetched the water skin from his bag. Gently, he brushed the sand from the woman’s face and hefted her head and neck onto his knees. He was careful to let only a thin trickle of water into her mouth to avoid choking her. He stroked the length of her throat to coax her to swallow. 

At last, the stranger stirred. She coughed, then groaned. He could hear the rasp in her voice and said, “Please, drink more.”

Though she didn’t open her eyes, she slowly drank more water. 

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, unsure if she could hear him, “My wife is a healer, she’ll be able to mend you.”

He hurried to slip on his sandals before hefting the woman into his arms. Though he wasn’t a strong man, he found strength enough to hurry up the path toward home. He followed the sound of singing until he came upon the outdoor kitchen where they often dined in the evening. 

“You’re nearly late!” a voice called, “It’s almost dusk. You had me thinking I would have to go out and-”

His wife turned around. Her supple smile fell from her face as she took in the sight of her husband, breathing hard and brow beaded with sweat, as he set the strange woman down on their dining table. 

“Calypso!” he said, “Come-”

She was in front of him before he could blink, her hand wrapped around his wrist. She pulled him even closer, eyes narrowed and cold. 

“Please,” he said, voice lowering to a murmur. He felt the hand around his wrist tighten. He knew what it felt like when his bones were on the verge of breaking, she did too, and she was merciful enough to spare him the pain. 

“Who is she?” 

He answered truthfully, “I don’t know, I found her on the shore. Can you help her?”

Calypso narrowed her eyes. She was always wary of strangers. 

“Why would I do that?”

He stifled a flinch as he felt the pressure begin to build. He was losing sensation in his fingertips. He said, “I was once a haggard stranger on your shore. You spared me, won’t you extend the same kindness to another lost soul?”

Calypso dug her nails into his flesh. Thankfully, she kept them short so she could do her work more easily. 

She asked, “You promise you only found her just now?”

He nodded. “Please, my wife.”

At last, she sighed and let him go. Calypso waved her hand and the chairs flew from the table. She turned the woman’s head from side to side, frown deepening as he fetched her jars of herbs and ointments from the storeroom inside. Calypso, ever the healer she was, rubbed some sort of salve on the woman’s chest. 

It was so pungent, it made his eyes water. But he stayed, curious to see how his wife would tend to someone else. Once, maybe a long time ago, she nursed him back to health as well and saved him from the brink of death.  

Using some hot water from the pot over their fire and a handful of herbs, she crafted some kind of herbal tea. Calypso blew on the surface as she delivered it to the table. 

He tucked one hand under the woman’s head and raised it ever so slightly so she could drink more easily. Calypso drip fed the woman, her face laced with disinterest. 

“My dear husband, if this doesn’t work, then this poor woman should be considered a lost cause. You might as well get to work chopping some trees for her pyre in the morning.”

After a moment, Calypso added, “Or we could bury her in the garden, put her to good use.”

The stranger surprised them both by sitting up of her own accord to go into a coughing fit. Her coughing had a wet quality to it, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the sea water or the tea. He winced in sympathy for her. 

“Where-” she began. Tears laced her eyes from how fitful her coughing was. 

He quickly said, “It’s alright. You’re safe here.”

Calypso shot him a look that he knew very well as a silent warning. He urged the woman to lay back down. 

As she blinked her eyes, he could see that they were the loveliest shade of green. Verdant like a field in early summer. Of course, not quite as lovely as his wife’s golden, immortal eyes, but fair enough for a mortal. 

“Thank the gods you’re alive,” he said, glad to see the woman was not as close to death as he was when he first arrived at Ogygia. 

His wife cleared her throat. “There’s only one goddess here.”

“Of course,” he said, daring to hold out a hand. Calypso took it and squeezed, refusing to let him go. “My apologies.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at them. “Who are you?”

His wife pressed her other hand to her chest, “I am the divine Calypso, queen of Ogygia. And this is my dear husband, Odysseus.”

Since his wife, wise in ways beyond that of mortals, didn’t seem interested in speaking further, he asked, “Tell us, where have you come from? Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes shifted from Calypso to meet his own. She sat up slowly, unblinking. 

“My name is Penelope.”

A lovely name. 

“Well, Penelope!” he said, “We have plenty of food here. And rooms, too. If my wife and queen is willing to oblige.”

Isn’t that right, Calypso? 

But his question died on his tongue. Odysseus had seen his wife in all manner of moods. He’d seen her happy, calm, solemn, and furious. He thought he knew her well by now. 

But the sheer venom in his wife’s eyes as she glared at Penelope was unrivaled by anything he’d ever seen before. Her hand squeezed tight around his own and Odysseus didn’t even have a spare second to warn her, to plead, to calm her before–

Not a sound passed his lips as a clear crack sounded through the still air. 

Odysseus only turned his head away so that their guest could not see him grimace. A sharp, throbbing pain began to radiate from the side of his hand, running from his thumb to his wrist and quickly spreading.

Calypso blinked and schooled her expression, but she didn’t let go of him, seemingly content to ignore the fact she had broken his hand. Perhaps that was for the best. He knew she didn’t mean it and it would be preferable to not scare their guest. He was sure she had survived horrors of her own on the open sea and did not need to witness more. 

Odysseus cleared his throat and put on a smile. “Ah, so, who else is hungry?”

+++

(SA starts here)

This was his punishment. 

Nothing needed to be said. Nothing needed to be explained to him. For all the ways he was a fool, he knew what he’d done. 

He brought another woman into Calypso’s house, even carried her in his arms.

Odysseus went through dinner without complaint, ignoring his injured hand even as it throbbed and hot sparks seemed to shoot through his arm every time he flexed his fingers. They were silent throughout dinner, Calypso uninterested in entertaining, Penelope hungry and reserved, and Odysseus trying to not mind the pain. 

They gave their guest a room, one far from their own wedding bed. He was grateful for this. 

Almost as grateful as he was for the sight of his beautiful wife over him, the curve of her bare breasts and soft hips visible in the moonlight. She’d let her hair down, her delicate braids flowing over her shoulders. Calypso devoted so much time to her hair and it showed; her braids were dressed with beads of gold, pearls from the sea, and streaked with a rich, lavish violet dye that came from her own garden. 

He felt the weight of her golden stare upon him and attempted to reach out to her, to pull her into a kiss, but she would not be cajoled. Instead, desperate, he touched her waist. She let him, but didn’t do much else. 

His other hand, his injured hand, was pinned to the bed by his head. 

Calypso moved effortlessly, rocking herself on his cock as she pressed her thumb into the flesh of his palm. Not enough for it to hurt, but just enough that it was a constant reminder. 

He was never certain if it was a trait of the divine or just his wife, but she could do things to him. Make him do things, too. She could manipulate his body to her liking, just as she was doing now. Odysseus had no idea how long he laid under his loving wife, only that it was late into the night and he was tired.  

He craned his head back, taking labored breaths as he remained throbbing, leaking, wanting, even though he was exhausted and Calypso’s ministrations had begun to hurt.

He whispered, “Please…”

They’ve gone at it like animals until sunrise in the past, though that was mostly back when he was new to her island and still learning how to please his wife. She could be ravenous when she wanted to be. And while she could stir the lust within him with no effort at all, just a snap of her fingers, he was just a man. 

He caressed her hip. “Calypso...please…”

Finally, she spoke. “But doesn’t it feel good?”

Odysseus’ head swam. He wanted to rest. He wanted his wife to take pity on him. 

The thumb against his palm pressed ever so slightly harder, sending fire through his veins. He choked out, “Of course it does.”

“Don’t you love me?”

The pressure was unrelenting. Her hips had slowed to a ceaseless grinding. He gasped. “I do.”

At last, Calypso leaned down. He tried to meet her for a kiss. 

Her lips brushed against his ear. “Then act like it.”

She twisted her thumb into his palm. His hips bucked as his teeth clenched and his wife hummed in satisfaction. He felt so wet and hot, and tired. Despite the pain in his hand, a disorientating numbness had also settled deep under his skin. The air smelled of sweat and lust. 

It took a while longer until she was satisfied. When she was, Calypso settled against his side, her bare body against his own. He cradled her close. She traced her fingertip in circles across his chest before splaying her palm flat against his skin. He had so many scars and yet she still loved him, still called him handsome. 

Her fingers trailed up to his throat and caressed the side of her neck.

She closed her radiant eyes and sighed, “This is why I shouldn’t let you wander on your own. You always get into trouble.” 

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond. Odysseus exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, sinking into a fitful sleep as his hand and body continued to ache. 

+++

When morning came, he knew she had forgiven him. 

Odysseus woke up and was met with no pain and the ability to freely flex his fingers. The rest of his body was free of any discomfort as well. 

Such an amazing healer. He rolled over and kissed his wife awake. 

The sun was only just rising. Their gossamer curtains fluttered with the gentle breeze. Some days, they were both up early to tend to whatever needed tending. Other days, Calypso willed a soft rain to befall the island. The cool, sleepy weather would compel them to stay in bed all day long, lounging and feeding each other fruit and whispering sweet nothings. Such was life with a goddess. 

Calypso’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him. 

He whispered, “Morning, sleepyhead.”

She yawned and stretched her legs. She suggested a bath together and he agreed, thinking he should clean himself up before facing their guest. 

There were multiple options when it came to bathing in Ogygia. There were a number of mountain springs where the water was always clear and clean of debris. Or they could venture deeper into the mountain, where a system of hot springs awaited them. There was also a plain old bath house a short walk from their chambers, it held a rather nice view of the island’s south side. 

Calypso took him to her favorite waterfall carved into the side of the mountain. As she stood under the spray, letting the water run over her face, Odysseus pressed his chest to her back and kissed the nape of her neck. They were nearly the same height. She stood a touch taller than himself, his gracious and buxom wife, and he only loved her more for it. 

He felt her hand reach back to caress his hair. He grinned softly. 

Without warning, she forced his head forward until he was under the fast-flowing water. Odysseus sputtered and murmured his protests against her shoulder. When she let go of him, she was laughing as he pushed the wet hair from his eyes. 

“Very funny,” he said. 

But the important thing was that she was laughing. Nothing mattered more to him than his wife’s happiness. 

When it was his turn under the waterfall, Odysseus had that strange sensation of being watched again. He glanced around but found no one else present, not even their guest. It was just him and Calypso, wasn’t it?

He soon waded out of the water as Calypso finished drying herself off. 

“So…” she said, donning a beautiful emerald peplos trimmed in white. “How are we going to get rid of our intruder?”

Odysseus froze as he rubbed a towel through his hair. He stared at her. 

“What do you mean?”

“Her,” Calypso said, as if even speaking Penelope’s name was beneath her, “We can’t have someone else on the island with us. You know that.”

Well, it was true that wherever Penelope had come from, she was never going back. 

Calypso fitted a golden band around her wrist and said, “Now, if you aren’t willing to kill her, then I’ll have it done by sunset. What do you say, Ody?”

He used the excuse of dressing himself to hesitate. Odysseus donned the iris colored chiton his wife worked so hard to weave and dye. Such a color was typically reserved for royalty only, but even the finest and rarest dyes could be made in abundance here. 

“Odysseus,” she said. 

He sighed. “It seems cruel to kill her while she’s helpless.”

Calypso approached him. He leaned forward without being told as she tied a silken strip around his head to keep the hair out of his eyes. One by one, she slipped the leather bands over his wrists and laced them tight. 

“My tender-hearted husband, then what are we going to do with her?”

He wanted to ask why she was so against someone else staying with them on the island. Perhaps Penelope was god-sent to provide them with companionship. Why refuse her refuge when Odysseus was given endless kindness? 

But he knew the truth. Penelope was a woman, and Calypso as the resident goddess-queen had no interest in female company. 

“She might not recover from whatever she’s been through.”

Calypso gave him a skeptical look. “So you’d rather she have a long, slow death?”

“I’d rather see what the Fates have to say about her, before we do anything.”

She didn’t seem very happy with his response. If she wanted to kill the newcomer, Odysseus would have no way to stop her. 

Calypso sighed. “Either way, her life ends.”

“As you wish,” he said. It was getting to be mid-morning now. He should bring Penelope something to eat and drink, at the very least. Hunger was a terrible beast, and thirst just as wicked. 

Odysseus ventured down to the storerooms and filled a tray with bread and spiced olive oil, fresh figs, and ripe olives. He knew the water on the island was safe to drink without intervention, but thought it’d be more polite to offer their guest the opportunity to drink according to her homeland. He didn’t know much of the outside world, but was aware that the water was unclean and had to be mixed with wine to make it potable. He filled a larger pitcher with water and a smaller cup with wine. 

Penelope’s quarters consisted of a guest house at the foot of the mountains, shaded by the lush forest and complemented by a pond where a pair of white swans were known to frequent. He entered the front exterior, climbing the marble steps and venturing inside, where the far wall was hewn from the mountain’s very stone and dotted with uncut gemstones. 

“Penelope?” 

He set the tray down on the nearest table and ventured farther inward. He was surprised to find her on her feet, examining the tapestry upon the wall of her bedroom. Threads of sapphire and silver mimicked the crashing waves at midday. Her hair hung in loose tresses around her face, still stiff from saltwater. 

Penelope met his eyes and didn’t seem startled to find him in her quarters. 

“Good morning,” he said, “I’ve brought you something to eat.”

A little songbird had settled on the windowsill above the front entrance and was warbling out its pretty melody. Penelope followed Odysseus and took a seat at the table. He sat across from her at a respectable distance and pushed the tray closer to her. She stared at him. 

“Does your hand not hurt anymore?”

“Hm?” he looked down at his hand, “Oh, no, no! I’m fine. Please, eat.”

She didn’t eat. Her green eyes seemed cold despite the sunlight streaming through the windows. She pushed the tray until it sat in the middle of the table and said, “I feel it inappropriate to dine while my host does not.”

It was true that he didn’t have anything to eat yet. Most mornings, he fixed himself a meal. Sometimes, his wife joined him. But being a goddess, she didn’t have quite the same need for food as he did. She simply ate when she wanted to. 

Then it occurred to Odysseus that maybe Penelope was afraid. He offered a smile as he took a bit of bread, proving that nothing had been poisoned or tampered with. 

Penelope finally plucked a fig from the small bowl on the tray. She took a bite of its supple flesh and chewed slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. Odysseus chuckled softly. He knew the food here was perfect. As an island paradise, every bite of every meal was without flaw. It was something that took time to get used to. 

For a little while, the two of them sat and ate in silence. Odysseus was amazed that Penelope had recovered so quickly, when he had vague memories of being bedridden for days, or even longer, when Calypso first found him. He was weak, malnourished, and suffering from multiple infected wounds. 

Penelope was first to break the silence, “Tell me something, o’ King of Ogygia.” 

Odysseus cleared his throat in surprise. “King? Please, you misunderstand! It’s only myself and my wife here. And while she’s certainly queen, I’m only her husband.”

Penelope was silent for a moment. She studied him, her eyes narrowing before her entire expression smoothed over. She leaned forward and asked, “Where are we? I’ve never heard of any island by the name of Ogygia.”

He was beginning to realize that Penelope might very well make a full recovery. Which meant she may have to learn of Ogygia’s true nature, that no one can leave. But why torment her with knowledge she didn’t need to know yet?

And if she was going to die, she might rest more peacefully having never known the full truth. He pitied her silently, as he would never age or grow sick while he called this place his home.

Odysseus gestured to the paradise outside, “Well, it’s Calypso’s island. Her paradise. You cannot find Ogygia by searching for it. As far as I understand, it’s simply a matter of fate if the island finds you.” 

Penelope nodded in contemplation. She continued to study him. Of all the questions he expected her to ask, she found one that nearly made him shiver in the warm morning sun. 

“Then… if you are no god, where did you come from?”

His smile began tighter, more pinched, as he tried to answer honestly, “I don’t know. Whatever life I had before… I don’t remember. Calypso tells me I was very hurt when I arrived. I assume whatever injuries I had led me to forget.” 

He shrugged and added, “Or perhaps I was bewitched!”

Odysseus chuckled at such a silly suggestion and stood. He was going to take a walk through the gardens and thought the fresh air might do Penelope some good. She agreed to accompany him. He walked at a slower pace than usual to accommodate Penelope's gait. She walked slowly, as if fatigued already. It didn’t bother him, he spent the time pointing out the many beautiful fixtures the island had to offer. 

Past the series of stone arches draped in vines and flowers, the pathway split into two. One led farther up the mountain while the other led to another guest house. Odysseus walked right past it, ignoring the building with its overgrown ivy nearly concealing it from sight. 

“The bath house is up ahead, if you’d like to… Penelope?”

Odysseus suddenly realized he was alone. He looked around and spotted Penelope making way for the neglected guest house. He jogged after her, confused as to what could be so interesting about this place. 

By the time he caught up with her, she was standing in the open doorway, gazing inside. He came to a stop next to her, but found nothing of interest. The house was as it always was, dim inside since the vines and ivy overtook the windows. The air was a little stale and musty, and cold. 

Penelope spoke softly, “You say this island is a paradise, but this place stands neglected and derelict. Why?”

Odysseus didn’t have an answer. “I’m not sure. It’s my wife’s will.”

This was the house she kept him in while he was recovering, however many years ago that was. 

“What are all the markings on the walls?” Penelope asked. 

He looked closer. He’d nearly forgotten. 

“Oh, I did that,” he said, embarrassed, “I suppose I was overcome with a little bit of madness at the time.”

The walls of the modest house were covered in thin scratch marks. Not erratic like an animal, but in neat rows. 

“I think I carved a line for every day I was here. I can’t possibly fathom why, though.” Odysseus laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m grateful for Calypso’s patience. I doubt most women would forgive their husbands for vandalizing their house.”

It was probably why Calypso did her best to hide this building from sight. She didn’t need it and Odysseus wasn’t comfortable being reminded of his confusing, maddening past behavior. 

“Come, there’s more to see,” he said, eager to leave. 

+++

What a coincidence it had to be, for a woman named Penelope to arrive on her shores. Calypso was certain it was his Penelope defiling her island at this very moment. The two of them acted as if they had never met before, but what if it was a ruse on that wretched woman’s part? 

Penelope could simply be biding her time, waiting until she thought Calypso’s guard was down to steal her man away. 

But Calypso was no fool. Odysseus was her love, her husband, hers now. 

It had made her stomach twist to see Ody carrying another woman in her arms the night before. It made her furious when he left this morning to fetch that bitch something to eat, believing Penelope was nothing more than a wayward traveller.

But Calypso knew better and it was up to her to protect her husband from any pains his past might bring. 

In a moment when she was alone, Calypso closed her eyes and concentrated her divine power. She was no mere nymph; she was the daughter of Atlas, a goddess of beauty and magic. Calypso searched her island for a host and found it in a songbird nesting in one of her branches. 

Ogygia was hers to control. All its inhabitants made up her domain. 

She poured her mind into the little bird and took flight, following Odysseus as he wandered down the path to Penelope’s quarters, bearing a tray of food as if he were a mere servant. 

Calypso watched her husband sit with Penelope and even eat together. It disgusted her, made her want to flood the island up to the guest house’s level so that Penelope could drown. But alas, her poor, foolish husband would be in trouble, too. 

Odysseus caught her attention when he said, “...and while she’s certainly queen, I’m only her husband.”

At least he knew his place. At least he remembered who he had to be faithful to. 

Penelope was a clever one, probing Calypso’s unsuspecting husband for information. She seemed curious about him and where he had come from. 

It could’ve all been a coincidence. 

But Calypso was no stranger to fate. She was stranded herself on this isle with no company for a century. The only other times she saw another face was when the occasional god came to visit her with stories in exchange for the ripe fruit or luscious flowers from her garden. But that was only once a decade if she were lucky. 

Then her Odysseus came. Her handsome Odysseus, who needed her hands to heal his broken body and broken heart. But he was a married man when she found him, another cruel twist by the fates. 

Now that he was her spouse, she was never going to let him go. 

Especially not when faced with her greatest challenge yet, another woman. 

Calypso took flight and entered a window high in the mountain where she landed upon the floor of her private chambers. She pulled herself from the body of the poor little bird, now dead from the strain of carrying divinity within itself. 

Her husband knew better than to venture here, to the zenith of the island. Calypso’s most powerful potions and charms laid hidden here, accrued over the many lonely years should she ever need them. 

Stained glass windows in shades of emerald, sapphire, ruby, and gold threw colorful, shifting beams of light across the floor, where a mosaic of the heavens resided. Marble columns lined the circular room. The tables and shelves here were all cluttered with sealed boxes and bottles, some glowing and others humming faintly with power. 

Calypso waved a hand and a heavy, wooden chest popped open. She rifled through its contents until she pulled out a bottle that fit in her palm. It looked as if it were filled with plain water, but she knew better. This was the end result of much trial and error until she had a colorless, odorless, tasteless, and lethal poison. 

She closed her hand around the bottle. 

“You can’t learn,” she said to herself, “You can’t remember. I won’t let you.”

All she had to do was mix this poison with their pitcher of water at dinner tonight and Penelope will be dead by morning. 

Calypso herself might have a faint stomach ache, but it was a price worth paying. Though she wasn’t quite sure of how it would influence her husband, she was more than able to protect him from death here. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” she promised. Safe from the world, from his past, from himself. It was what any good wife would do. 

+++

Alright! That's all I'm posting for now!

FYI, it's made pretty clear throughout the fic that something's up with Penelope & it's really clear after this part that something else is going on with her. Sorry to spoil the fun, but it's actually Athena in disguise. She's doing some recon on Ogygia to try and figure out wtf happened to her bestie bc she really thought for sure that Ody would recognize her.

[noticiasarquelogicasjaponesas]

Capítulo 1: Diferencias entre Geisha y una Oiran Introducción. Sean bienvenidos japonistasarqueologicos una nueva entrega resumen, en esta ocasión os contaré que es una Oiran (おいらん) dicho esto comencemos. - Las Oiran son prostitutas que surgieron en el siglo XVII en el período Edo. No debemos confundirlas con las Geishas(げいしゃ). - En la segunda imagen os enseño una Oiran (おいらん) del anime Kimetsu no Yaiba(los guardianes de la noche) - Espero que os haya gustado y nos vemos en próximas publicaciones de Historia, arqueología, geografía nipona, entre otros temas, Que pasen una feliz semana. - Chapter 1: Differences between Geisha and an Oiran Introduction. Japonistasarqueologicos are welcome to a new summary installment, this time I will tell you that it is an Oiran (おいらん) having said that, let's start. - The Oiran are prostitutes that emerged in the 17th century in the Edo period. We should not confuse them with Geishas(げいしゃ). - In the second image I show you an Oiran (おいらん) from the anime Kimetsu no Yaiba (the guardians of the night) - I hope you liked it and see you in future publications of History, archaeology, Japanese geography, among other topics, Have a happy week. - 第1章 芸者と花魁の��い紹介。 Japonistasarqueologicos は、新しい総集編へようこそ、今回はおいらん (おいらん) ということで、始めましょう。 - 花魁は、江戸時代の17世紀に登場した売春婦です。 芸者（げいしゃ）と混同してはいけません。 - 2 番目の画像では、アニメ鬼滅の刃 (夜の守護者) の花魁 (おいらん) を示しています。 - あなたがそれを気に入ってくれて、歴史、考古学、日本の地理、その他のトピックの今後の出版物でお会いできることを願っています。

[deepamuthukrishnan]

The Science of it All:

High school Luke Hughes x OC

Summary: Luke has a raging suspicion that Divya is hiding something from him with her changing behavior.

Warnings: none

Author’s Note: I did take a short break but I’m back now ready and ever (that was so cringe kms)

—————————————————————————

Chapter 5:

Luke

Shit has been weird.

It’s been a few days since Divya’s matcha accident and it’s like she’s been hiding something.

Don’t get me wrong, I trust Divya but I feel like she knows something that I don’t.

We also have some semblance of a friendship.

At least that’s what I think.

I think Divya thinks so too.

Currently we’re at her house and she’s trying to teach me the demographic transition while some Spanish song plays in the background.

“Okay so you have to remember these acronyms before I even tell you about the demographic transition.” She explains.

“Lay it on me.”

“Okay so we have CBR. That’s the acronym for crude birth rate. That just means how many live births, live is the key word, per 1,000 people. Now CDR, that’s the acronym for crude death rate. It’s the same thing as CBR but rather than measuring live births, it measures how many deaths there are per 1,000 people.”

“Got it.” I say as I write that down in my notebook.

“Now we’re at TFR. That’s the acronym for total fertility rate. That just means the amount of babies a woman can make per 1,000 people.”

“Why 1,000?” I ask. “What’s its significance?”

She shrugged. “I guess human geographers saw 1,000 and thought that should be a good number.”

“I thought you were all knowing.” I tease, smirking a bit to which she rolls her eyes and smiles a bit.

Is it wrong to say that I like her smile and I like that I’m the one making her smile?

“I said I knew a lot, I didn’t say all knowing.” She answered, chuckling a bit.

I laugh a bit and take a chip out of the chips bag and munch on it.

“Okay so know we have IMR. IMR is the acronym for infant mortality rate. That measures how many babies before the age of 1 die-“

“Per 1,000 people,” I finish. “I get it.”

“Great.” She takes a chip and eats it. “Do you know a guy named Thomas Malthus?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a simple yes or no. Do you know a guy named Thomas Malthus?”

“No. Do you?” I asks.

“Biblically.” She answered. “He was a demographer who created this concept of the demographic transition in the 1700s.”

“Wait what do you mean biblically?” I asked.

“I took AP Human Geography my freshman year and we had to learn about the demographic transition as one of our units.”

“We don’t have AP Human Geography.” I say. I’ve heard of the rumors of how this was one of the easy AP classes and I would’ve taken it to boost my GPA.

“We do, you’re not a program kid.” She explained.

“Program kid?”

She sighed and picked a stray piece of thread off her camo pj pants. “Remember how you complained about the 30 minute drive to my house?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not zoned to go to PCEPS. I only go to PCEPS because they have the International Relations program that I had to apply to. AP Human Geography was one of the few exclusive APs I took because I’m in the program.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t expect people to. It’s not like I have it tattooed on my forehead.” She joked.

She continues to teach me and halfway through a worksheet packet I’m working on, a little boy bursts into her room. She has the same brown skin, jet black hair, and same brown eyes.

“Aakash get out!” She screamed.

“Ooohh! Is that your boyfriend?!” He yells, wiggling his eyebrows at the both of us.

My cheeks flame in embarrassment and Divya looks like she’s going to blow a fuse.

“He isn’t my boyfriend you doofus! Get out before I tell Amma!” She yelled.

“No!”

The boy smiled and begins to touch all of her stuff.

“Amma!” Divya yelled and the boy scurried out of her room.

“I’m so sorry you had to witness my idiot brother.” She rolled her eyes.

“It’s alright. I’ve seen worse. Once when we were younger and lived in Toronto, Jack was pissing Quinn off so much that Quinn snapped and ripped Jack’s braces off his mouth.”

She gapes at me, her eyes widening. “First off, how does one do that? Last time I checked they’re like glued down.”

I chuckled and looked at her. “I don’t know. Pretty sure Jack cheated or something. I don’t know.”

Her faces pales a bit and she lets out a chuckle. “Cheating huh?”

I look at her warily. “You good?”

“Yeah, why would I not be good?” She asked.

“You know you can tell me whatever it is.” I say. “I won’t judge.”

“No it’s nothing. Just, AP stuff. I have this Euros test tomorrow that I’m a bit nervous on.”

I know she’s hiding something but I don’t press the matter.

“Okay then.” I say before going back to the worksheet.

I’m at hockey practice and we’re doing some shooting drills.

It’s supposed to get my mind off of Divya’s weird behavior but it only seems to heighten it.

Like I know she’s hiding something, but I’m scared to find out what it is.

“Damn Lukey, you keep shooting like that and you’ll rip a hole in the net.” Ethan jokes.

I sigh and grab another puck, shooting it into the net. “I don’t know what to do.”

“About?” He grabs another puck and shoots it into the goal.

“Divya.”

“Bro, you’re not thinking about cheating on Amanda with her, right?”

“What? No!” I shoot another puck into the goal. “I just—I know she’s hiding something from me and when I try to ask her or I mention something about what she’s hiding, she totally pales and it happened yesterday. I mentioned something about cheating her face looked like she’d seen a ghost dude. But then she’s brushing it off and saying shit like oh AP stuff and whatnot.”

“Huh. That is weird.” He shoots another puck into the goal. “Maybe it’s something in her life or something.”

“I guess. But we’re kind of friends and I just wish she’d tell me you know.”

I shoot another puck into the goal. “I mean like, I tell her things, I just wish she’d tell me.”

Ethan sighed and stretched his arms a bit. “Maybe some secrets should be kept hidden.”

He skates off to the other side of the rink, leaving me to my thoughts.

What does he mean?

And why do I have the feeling that it involves me?

[sisterofsomeone]

Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter 1/10

Chapter 2

Summary: On a wedding day in Baldur’s Gate, a marriage is sealed with a sanctified bond. A powerful magic that allows your minds to meld and cannot ever be undone. It is also required to share your darkest secret for the bond to be bestowed. There is a common myth passed around that once, a very long time ago, a woman was tricked into marriage by a demon of sorts and only found out when they wed. Every wedding at that moment the room falls silent, waiting for another scream, another myth making secret to be revealed. You just never thought you would be witness to it.

Series Warnings: Wonwoo x fem!reader, slight Seokmin x fem!reader (because I can't help myself), established relationship/situationship, angst, fluff, swearing, drinking, smoking, there are references to end game BG3 and spoilers for the whole game so please proceed with caution! smut MDNI 18+, unprotected sex, pet names (baby girl, pretty girl, princess), oral sex (male and female receiving), breeding kink, slight daddy kink, size kink, reader has a vagina that gets described as a pussy/cunt, slight dub-con for a second then clear consent, (more will be added as the series goes on!)

Word count: 3.5K

Author's note: Hello again! I was originally going to write this as a oneshot, but I just kept writing and writing and felt that I really wanted to try and flesh this world out. So, it's becoming a series! I cannot promise regular updates as I am in my final year of university, and start back up at my graduate job in september, but I am really enjoying writing this so I'm aiming for at least once a month, but maybe more. I do also have another series in the works which I want to post soon as well, so keep on the lookout for that one! I’ve never written anything like this before so bear with me if it’s not very good! Please enjoy, I really do hope this is entertaining for you, and have a wonderful day/afternoon/evening! Lots of love, Caitlin <3

This is a work of fiction and in no way is meant to represent the actions, ideals, or attitude of the idol Jeon Wonwoo.

Baldur’s Gate. The jewel of the Sword Coast. Granted, you never knew there was supposedly a dragon sleeping under the city before the invasion, but still. A wonderful place to live. Life here was easier for someone like you, the eldest daughter of the Apothecary Merchant. Father had spent most of the money he made to dress you in the finest of clothes, hire chefs to teach you to make the finest of meals, and ensure you were surrounded by the best trained ladies in waiting possible. Status meant everything to him, and you knew you had to marry up to please him. Being the eldest of three girls, you were schooled in house making, cooking, mathematics, business, politics- anything and everything that would endear you to one of the knowledgeable and wealthy bachelors your father was hoping to wed you to. Your younger sisters however were afforded the luxury to follow their throws of passion and learn dance, music, or geography to teach and travel. You didn’t much care for home making, your fascination with the foul words in other languages usually left your tutor giggling after you begged her to teach you them. You were smart, quick with numbers and well versed in politics and business. It was something your father loved about you. The daughter that would lift them even higher in status. You were his political pawn.

You were with your mathematics tutor when she burst through the door. Your mother, her face flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly with her heavy breaths.

“The- The King wants you to attend the ball.” She spoke. “The ball for the princes to choose their brides. He has called for you specifically.”

“Oh?” You didn’t so much as look away from your work, still toying away with the problems in front of you.

“Yes! Oh Gods girl, what are we to do with you?” Your tutor excused himself as your mother swanned towards the large windows. She was as dramatic a woman as you had ever met, and you loved her for it. Turning to face you, her dress billowed, and it struck you yet again how beautiful she was. You knew she used to be the catch; the young daughter of a cattle farmer swept into the Sword Coast by her wild fancies and taking Baldur’s Gate by storm. She married your father in a rather quickly arranged match, both being only 21 and your bump already starting to show through her clothes. She had always held a special place in your life, and the closeness in age only solidified your bond.

“You’re to help me avoid it. You know I want nothing to do with the royal family.” You raised an eyebrow, smirk playing on your lips as you turned another page in your book.

“It’s such a shame. You should go, if not for yourself but for me. It says and family and you know how much your sisters and I would love it!” Her fingers danced across the edge of the paper, twirling the red silk ribbon that used to hold the envelope closed as she read and reread the words.

“You know, there must be a specific reason they invited you. I heard only four girls and their families were invited specifically by name.” He voiced wavered, tone light, eyes meeting yours with that twinkle you knew meant trouble. Sometimes it felt like you were the parent in this.

“Will I need a new dress?” With that she squealed and swept you into her arms.

“Oh darling! You are going to love this!” Untangling her arms from around you she ran from the room and to the staircase.

“Girls! Darling! Come downstairs, your sister has an announcement!”

It was dark outside when you were finally allowed to rest. Your mother had dragged you and your sisters around every tailor in the city, eventually settling on a beautiful, glittered gown from the Facemaker’s that made it look like you were dripping in starlight. Your sisters marvelled at you, them seemingly more excited for your prospects than you were. As you stood before the full-length mirror, watching the way light danced across the dress you caught your own breath. You stood tall, the shimmering fabric laying against your body as if made solely for you. Your face now seemingly had the allure you always attributed to your mother, the colour of your eyes mirroring her own beautiful hue. It was the first time you felt a fraction as beautiful as her. That’s why you let your mother buy the dress, but you’d never tell her that.

The evening was warm as you took a book from the library and made your way to the balcony. Lighting the lamp on the table you slipped yourself onto the velvet covered seat and pulled the small blanket around your legs, hiking them up to your chest. It was here you sat, absorbed in the words of scholars until a small cough caught your attention. This was routine at this point, so you put your book down and pulled yourself from the seat, dangling a hand over the railing in front of you before leaning your head over. The man clasped your hand and smiled up at you.

It had all been an accident, you meeting Seokmin and Wonwoo. You weren’t supposed to be walking unescorted to Sorcerers’ Sundries, well technically you weren’t supposed to be walking there at all, but what Father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. You had stopped but for a moment to watch the magic show at the front entrance when you felt a hand dip into your pockets. You grasped their wrist and turned, only to be met with a small child.

“I’m-I’m so sorry miss, please let me go.” The tiny tiefling looked terrified, eyes wide and lower lip trembling. Immediately you dropped your guard, gaze softening and grip on their arm loosening.

“Child, no need to be scared I won’t call the Fists. But let’s not go picking anymore pockets hm?” They nodded, thanking you as they scurried away. Thats when you heard the laughter. Two tall men, eyes dark and trained directly on you and the scurrying child.

“What are you two laughing at huh?” The slightly broader one cocked an eyebrow at you, and the other pointed behind you. There you saw the scared tiefling, not so scared anymore as them and their friend – who you hadn’t noticed until now – were poking their tongues out at you as they waved a purse above their heads.

“That’s mine!” You shouted as they hurried off, tails wagging and giggles filling the dark streets.

“You fell for that hook line and sinker.” One of the hooded men let a plume of smoke escape his lips and curled them into a smile. “Are you new here or something?”

“No, no. Look at her, she’s a sheltered little princess I bet.” The other said, closing the distance between you and him. You finally got a good look at him. Dark eyes, golden tanned skin, a smile spread across his face that lit a fire in your stomach. He leaned down, face now only inches from yours. “Such a sheltered little princess, aren’t you?” There was an earthiness to him, a woody smell that danced under a zesty citrus. This was no commoner’s perfume.

“Who are you?”

Wonwoo’s eyes shone from below you on the balcony, that same smile lighting that spark deep in your soul. He was intelligent, worldly, but most of all, he was kind. He climbed up the balcony as usual, pulling you into his embrace and kissing you. It was hot, fiery and passionate. It always felt like he was swallowing you whole, devouring every part of you. He pushed you backwards, lowering you into the plush of the loveseat as his body covered your own. His mouth never left yours, tongue playing against your bottom lip as you gave him entrance. He moaned, fingers running through your hair and pulling, revealing the length of your neck to him. He kissed down it, careful not to leave any marks as he did so.

“My beautiful girl, my pretty girl.” His lips left a searing trail down to your chest, his hands trailing down your sides, bunching up your dress to reach your core.

“Wonwoo, baby, we can’t. Not tonight.” It was almost useless, his lips never stopped working against your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse point. “Wonwoo, baby.” A whine left him that had a throb course through your body and set that flame burning.

“Don’t tell me to stop baby please.” He kissed you again, hands never stopping their assault on you. “Please don’t tell me I can’t play with my pretty girl’s pretty pussy.” His eyes darkened, teeth bit down harder, and you could almost feel the punctures from his canines.

“This pretty pussy has been invited to the King’s ball. This pretty pussy might have just been sold off by her ever-scheming father.” He stalled at this, hands stopping their assault and mouth leaving your skin.

“What?” His eyes were trained on yours as you swallowed thickly.

“We got the invitation today. Gods know how he did it. But he did.” Wonwoo moved off you, settling into the space beside you.

“Are you happy? With the idea I mean?” You let out a short laugh, cold and harsh.

“Happy? Why would I be happy? No one has ever seen them, been allowed near them, and what? I’m supposed to marry one of them. Be used as breeding stock. Finally put all this stupid training to use.” He laughed softly from beside you.

“You think this is funny? My life being sold off to the highest bidder and you laugh?”

“No! No, it’s not like that I promise.” His arms were around you again, pulling you into his chest. “I think there’s more to this than you know. Go to the party. You might be pleasantly surprised that’s all.” His lips were on yours again. “And no matter what happens, I’ll never let anyone else touch you the way I do.”

The morning broke through your curtains and the man beside you stirred. His chest was warm beneath your cheek as you kissed the arm draped around you.

“Darling, you must go before we get caught. Again.” He groaned, rolling the pair of you over, trapping you beneath him. That smile was back, softly lit by the warm glow of the sun pouring in through the windows. “Wonwoo, baby please.” His lips were soft against yours, pouring love into you like there was no tomorrow. His fingertips danced across your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He rolled his hips into you, want evident at the broken gasp that left his lips. “Wonwoo baby.” You moaned out, fingers moving to his shoulder blades. He rolled his hips again, the slickness of your cunt allowing for him to rock smoothly and bump his cockhead into your clit. “Wonwoo, we can’t.” But your body gives you away, the roll of your hips as you shake beneath him has him lining up instantly.

“Princess, say no right now and I won’t do it. But say yes and I’ll give you a baby. I’ll fuck you so full it has no option but to stick. You’ll be mine.” Your lips chased his as you nodded frantically against him.

“Yes Wonwoo, yes yes yes.” He pushed in, cock stretching you as you raked your nails down his back. His thrusts were deep, angling his hips to hit that spot inside of you.

“My princess wants a baby yeah? Wants me to fuck her full?” He growled into your ear, hips smashing into yours.

“Please, wanna make you a daddy.” You purred back. His hand snaked between your bodies, fingers rubbing circle after circle into your swollen clit as you arched up into him. He never stopped kissing you, never stopped whispering praise into your mouth as you came around him.

“Please Wonwoo, want you to fill me up. Please.” You dug your nails into his skin, drawing a hiss from him. He’s panting, sweat lining his forehead as he thrust into you again and again, bringing you to orgasm over and over until you couldn't take it anymore. He pushes you over the edge again and again, having you crying his name into his mouth over and over as you beg for him to finish in you, mark you as his.

But he doesn’t. He pulls out as he always does and finishes onto your thigh. It’s over then, the light shifting to a cold blue as the sun shifts behind a cloud. He moves away from you, gathering his clothes and dressing.

“When will I see you again?” He pauses, eyes meeting your own.

“You won’t see me like this for a while. At least, not this version of me.” You don’t know what that means, but he doesn’t give you any time to ask as he kisses you again so softly. His hand caresses your face, thumb rubbing your cheek as a tear falls from his face and onto yours. “But you will see me again, I promise.” As he pulls away, he places a final kiss on your forehead before stepping back towards your balcony. You let him go like you always do, but not without that horrible hole ripping through your chest.

The night of the ball drew closer, and there was no sign of Wonwoo or his brother. You were alone. The lessons ramped up, your father wanting there to be no chance of failure. You were his pawn, and he was so ready to make that final check. Your mother tried to get through the walls you put up, your sisters gushed every day about how lucky you were, how you were going to have the life of your dreams. But you weren’t. You wouldn’t be with Wonwoo. Wouldn’t be able to kiss him again, wouldn’t be able to hold him. You’d never be able to make him a dad.

“Your invitation madam?” Your mother was positively glowing with excitement, your sisters each hanging off one of your arms, you suspect to stop you from running. Your mother presents the invitation, and the guard cocks an eyebrow. “Please, this way for special guests.” You were escorted towards a separate entrance, a large pair of white wooden doors beset by giant boars on each side. The doors were parted for you, and the entrance was the most beautiful you’d ever seen. You were ushered inside, your sisters gasping and pointing at the artwork lining the walls. But your eyes were drawn to the three other girls.

“They’re your competition child.” Your father pulled you aside from your sisters and scanned you from head to toe. “But you’ve got a brain to best all of them. Be smart, be strong. Be the girl I raised you to be.” You glanced back over to them. Each one you knew to be a member of one of the aristocracies, as you were. You vaguely remember having a run in with the half-elf, but if she remembered you, she gave nothing away in the cold gaze she returned.

“If everyone is now here?” A voice sounded from the stairs above you. Your eyes followed where it was coming from, and the woman you saw standing there was the most beautiful you had ever seen. Dark eyes, with even darker hair cascading down her back that held soft curls that bounced as she began to walk towards you all. You had never seen this woman before, but something pulled at you from your stomach as if you recognised her.

“You are all chosen specifically by the princes themselves. My sister's sons wouldn’t allow for our intervention, so feel very lucky. Some of you would never have made it this far.” Her eyes fell on you at this, and your father bristled beside you. “Now, if you’ll follow me.” She sauntered towards the large doors across the marbled floors. You moved to follow the queen's sister, silently cursing yourself for not recognising her as your legs pulled you along before your brain could think of a reason to turn and run. She demanded that the girls line up, manhandling you all into a line with you left on the end. Your families were to follow along behind, and not say a word.

There was a commotion behind the doors, music filled whatever room you were about to be ushered into and laughter and conversations could barely be heard through these giant doors. You tried to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles of your dress, hands moving on their own as you chewed on your bottom lip.

There was a moment of silence before the doors swung open, and an even longer moment of silence when all the eyes in the ballroom fell upon you. Your gaze flitted from person to person, not a single face you couldn’t put a name to. Families with daughters much better suited for this match burned holes into your skull from jealousy. You were standing there, with the whole world at your fingertips and their daughter wasn’t.

You were ushered down the steps before you, the sea of people parting as the four of you made your ways forward. Your eyes were on the floor as you had been instructed to do so, never for a second daring to look upon the men sitting at the other end of the ballroom.

“This is the half-elf Carmae of the Boat Merchant.” You were right about recognising her then.

“This is the high elf Dauphine of the Gold Merchant.” You heard her light steps, the small “Hello sirs.” that sounded so beautiful falling from her lips as she greeted the men.

“This is the wood elf Avalynne of the Cloth Merchant.” You were next.

“This is the human Y/n of the Apothecary Merchant.” You stepped forward, curtseying as you were taught, eyes moving up to acknowledge the men before you.

“Hello sirs-“ Those eyes. That smile. Wonwoo sat before you, hand rested on his chin as he surveyed you. You felt a churning in your stomach as you let your eyes fall upon Seokmin beside him. His soft curls sat upon his head as he smiled ever so softly at you.

“We can now begin.” The music started up again as the crowd of people swallowed you up. Your sisters beamed at you as people swarmed you. They wanted to know where you got your dress “The Facemaker.” You politely replied. Who did your hair? “My mother wanted to.” You smiled at them. You were pulled from conversation to conversation. Every family wanted a piece of you. But your mind was back on Wonwoo. Your heart calling out to him across the floor.

His eyes followed you, dark and cold like you’d never seen them before.

“Wonwoo, calm down. She’s yours I’m not going to take her.” Seokmin leant over to his older brother, giggling slightly at the older man’s demeanour.

“I know you’re not. But they might.” He followed his brother’s gaze to the men being introduced to you by their fathers. “It seems like being the prince’s chosen gives a girl a certain…” His eyes scanned the crowd of men now surrounding you. Your father ever so keen to get you introduced to as many of them as possible. You were trying to be amicable, that soft smile on your face hiding the discomfort you felt. The burn of jealousy coursed through his veins as he watched you laugh and smile at these fools. If only they knew what he’d done to you, the noises he could pull from you with just his tongue or fingers. The way you beg him to cum in you, the tears in your eyes as he fucks you through another orgasm. You’d be too much for those idiots, they couldn’t make you feel how he did. Couldn’t make your body react the way he did.

“The princes will now have their first dance with each of the chosen.” Wonwoo and Seokmin stood, and the floor was cleared again. You finally found yourself walking back towards the man who held your heart in his hands and smiled. Wonwoo noticed that it finally reached your eyes.

“It is lovely to meet you Y/n.” He placed a soft kiss against the back of your hand.

“It is my honour sir.” You smiled even wider this time as he drew you closer as the music began.

“I hope you’re a good dancer.” He flashed you that dazzling smile once more as the music began up again.

“I hope you are too sir.” You felt the flush creep up your cheeks as the two of you started to dance. Your eyes glued to his as he led you across the floor, his never once leaving yours. You finally got what he meant that morning. While this was a surprise, you’d help him play the part for as long as it took to get your Wonwoo back.

[skzhocomments]

The Rising Empress (Bang Chan) - Chapter 2 - The Wedding

General Masterlist

Story masterlist - please consult it for the summary of the story, trigger warnings etc.

Wattpad | AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

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Chapter 2 - The Wedding

Chapter word count: 6.4k words

~present day~

The road to the Capital of the Empire of the Sun is long and unpleasant for Aristia, who’s never had to travel outside the castle before. The carriage is small and uncomfortable, only having enough space to accommodate two people: herself, and one of her maids. She has motion sickness and is on the verge of throwing up multiple times throughout the journey, to everyone’s displeasure, who don’t shy away from scowling at her whenever she asks for a little break.

Not many people are inconvenienced by her, as she’s not accompanied by too many anyway: only a handful of knights and a few maids. With how small their convoy is, no one would assume a princess is travelling in one of the carriages. Still, they condemn her for being sent away from the Kingdom to accompany her, as if it was her fault.

She makes a mental note to send everyone back as soon as she’s settled in the Empire.

However unpleasant the atmosphere in the convoy is, Aristia tries to enjoy the unfamiliar sightseeing of meadows and mountains and streams as she moves across her Kingdom. She smiles gleefully as she is able to point out the names of the rivers and the small towns she briefly passes through on the way to her new home; after all, she memorised the maps in her geography books by heart. If someone dropped her in the middle of nowhere, chances are she’d figure out her location with ease. The maid in her carriage smiles at her and shows some curious expressions when Aristia tells her about the history of the places they’re going through, or what each village and town is known for, and she is grateful to have a partner to converse with until the maid loses interest and falls asleep.

With so many breaks along the way, the journey lasts almost two weeks, and with each passing day, Aristia’s heart beats louder in her chest. She wishes she could escape the inevitable, run away somehow and start a new life far away from the Kingdom and the Empire.

She knows she can’t. The cards fate dealt her seem to ensure that she’d be hated wherever she goes, anyway.

She’s heard that the Emperor of the Sun is a kind man; perhaps he would be kind to her as well, even if their nations are enemies. He’s the one who asked for her hand in marriage, after all.

And if not kind, perhaps at least indifferent. She hopes he won’t abuse her like her father did. She hopes he won’t hit her until she’s sore and has difficulty moving the next day.

That’s not too much to ask for, is it?

When she arrives, a knight opens her carriage and helps her step down. Not that she needs much help, anyway. She’s dressed modestly. Unlike a rightful princess, her dress is not big and elaborate, and she has no difficulty moving herself. It seems unsuited for the Capital. There are a lot of people waiting for her, and despite the contempt in their eyes at the sight of her – which she expected – she can’t help but feel they are disappointed by what little things her father sent her with.

A couple carriages, a few servants and a modest dress, totally inappropriate for the grandeur of the Empire. This thought only gets reinforced when she watches the intricate embroideries of jewels on the knight’s clothes. He looks like a princess more than she does.

She wants to laugh thinking about it, but she keeps a straight face as the man bows to her.

“Future Moon of our Empire, welcome to Your new home.” He says respectfully, but his words are empty, and his eyes cold.

Aristia smiles in return, trying to think of this as a warm welcome. It is anything but. “Thank you. What is your name?”

“Lee Know, Your Highness.”

“Nice to meet you, Lee Know. Would you be so kind to show my attendants to their temporary residence for the night, and assure they are well fed? Please talk to the cooks and prepare enough food for them to pack tomorrow, as they have a long way back to the Kingdom.” Aristia commands like a true princess, just as her maid taught her. She keeps her head high, even if the words feel foreign on her tongue.

“Your Highness?” Lee Know tilts his head. He was definitely not expecting this. Doesn’t the princess know that she has no allies in the castle? Why would she send everyone back home?

“Hm?” Aristia forces a smile. A knight should always respect her commands, her maid made sure she remembered this.

“My apologies, I was just assuming His Excellency The Emperor should know of this beforehand.”

“Oh, is that so? I don’t see him around, though? Unless I’m mistaken.”

“Unfortunately, His Highness had some urgent matters to attend to and was not able to come meet Your Grace.”

“I guess it can’t be helped, then.” Aristia smiles again. “Since the Emperor is not here, I am the highest authority.” She challenges him. She notices he has something he’d like to say, but he bites his tongue back, much to her pleasure. The power is indeed delicious, and it gives her a little rush, even though the command is not difficult. She doubts the Emperor would have much to object anyway, as he most definitely considers everyone in the Kingdom an enemy.

“But Princess, how could we go back-” Her maid starts but shuts up instantly, a look of panic crossing her face, that only intensifies once Aristia turns to her. She has no authority to speak before the princess, unless explicitly given permission to, and the fact that she ignored these customs in front of all the maids, butlers and knights of the Empire that came to welcome her shows just how little everyone in the Kingdom respects her. She knew she needed to cut her losses, but this blatant disrespect only intensifies the burning wish she has to get rid of everyone that ever looked down on her.

God knows she’s going to have a lot more people showing her the same disrespect in the Empire. She doesn’t need anyone from the Kingdom to do so as well.

The maid immediately avoids her gaze and bows, so Aristia ignores her and starts walking towards her chambers, guided by Lee Know. She gets introduced to a couple of maids as well, who are supposed to assist her going further.

Spies, Aristia thinks. She knows that every move she makes will be tracked and reported to the Emperor.

She also gets introduced to a dress maker who hastily takes her measurements for her wedding dress, who throws her nasty looks for refusing to take off all her garments. How could she, when her back has such ugly scars from the abuse she endured?

When every appointment for the day is done, she asks one of her new maids to prepare a bath for her. The maid bows in her direction, but Aristia can already sense the disdain coming from her. Her suspicions are verified as soon as she checks the bath water.

It’s freezing cold.

~

“They are really brave for this move.” Jisung chuckles and shakes his head, amusement plastered on his face.

“They must think we are fools.” Chan laughs along. “I can’t believe they only sent 100 gold as dowry. What kind of princess marries with such a laughable amount?”

“Right? Besides, isn’t the King rumoured to adore his daughter? What is going on?”

“We won’t forget this for sure when the time comes.” Seungmin shakes his head.

The council formed of him, Jisung and the Emperor is currently seated around a table, together with Lee Know, one of Bang Chan’s most trusted knights.

“How did she seem to you, Minho?” Chan asks.

“Mhm, quite unpredictable. I told you already that she asked me to send all of her attendants home.”

“Foolish girl.” Seungmin shakes his head. “Doesn’t she know she has no allies here?”

“She didn’t seem particularly close to the people in the Kingdom either.” Lee Know shrugs.

“Maybe it’s all a façade to gain our trust.” Jisung suggests. “If we let our guard down now, she could find out that we’re planning to uncover the documents for the mine and start a war in two years.”

“We’ll see.” Chan replies. “Anything else about her, Minho?”

“Yes. I received word that she had her measurements taken yesterday, and apparently made quite a fuss about not wanting anyone to see her naked. She didn’t let the maids assist her washing either.”

Chan chuckled. “What, is she shy?”

“Quite unusual for a princess to wash herself.” Seungmin observes. “When are you planning to meet her?”

“I’d say never. But realistically, during our wedding.”

“What, you won’t go see her even once?” Jisung’s eyes grow large. “I knew you were cruel, but that’s another level, Chan.”

“Don’t call me cruel, I’ll have your head cut off for treason.” The Emperor threatens jokingly. When it’s just them in the secrecy of the council room, they don’t have to keep appearances. Sure, Bang Chan is the Emperor of the Sun, but he’s grown up with a handful of loyal people around him he considers as close as family, so he allowed them to drop the honorifics when in private settings. “Felix keeps beating around the bush to go meet her, he’s quite curious.”

“Dangerously curious.” Seungmin adds.

“I’m also curious.” Jisung admits.

“She’s just a spoilt rotten princess of our enemies. What is there to be curious of?” Lee Know asks the men around the table.

“I agree. Nothing good about getting acquainted with someone like her. Our original plan of ignoring her completely seems to be the best to ensure nothing unwanted gets to her ears.” Seungmin says.

“All I know is that I’m not looking forward to the wedding.” Bang Chan remarks.

~

“Your Highness, may we enter now?” The attendants softly open the door to Aristia’s chambers, keeping their heads down.

“Yes, come help me.” She commands. She managed to put on the large wedding dress on her own, making sure to cover her back completely before allowing the attendants to come finish dressing her.

The wedding dress is the most beautiful garment Aristia’s ever seen. It’s white, embellished with beautiful green and golden jewels and white pearls all over; its sleeves are puffy, made of a soft, see-through organza that is not so heavy on her arms, and looking in the mirror, she’s barely able to recognise herself. Her train is so long, she is sure it’s going to catch everyone’s attention as soon as she steps in the room.

Dressed in the white and golden colours of the Empire, she notices, as if for the first time, that she is really beautiful. She looks like a true princess, like the future Empress. Her garments are also adorned with green emeralds, much like her wrists and neck, a symbol of her former Kingdom, which she finds quite ironic.

‘The jewellery has been chosen by the Sun Himself’, as one of her attendants said.

Why would he want her to wear green, and not gold?

Is this his way of welcoming her, somehow telling her that she should feel as if she’s still home, or is this some sort of threat informing her that she’s never going to be accepted fully?

The green emeralds all over the dress also make this last thought a bit more obvious to her, but she decides not to ponder on it.

Maybe I’m overthinking. Aristia shakes her head and informs the maids that she’s ready.

As she gets out of her rooms, two knights bow in her direction and start escorting her towards the church. One of them she recognises. She even remembers his name: Lee Know, the first face she’s seen when she stepped out of the carriage, the man who first welcomed her into the Empire. It’s the first time she sees the second one, though. He’s a bit shorter than Lee Know, and his arms are a bit buffer too. His expression seems softer.

Since he came to escort her, he must also be an important knight.

Once they reach the church, Aristia tries to not look too much around. She’s curious, but she keeps her eyes from searching the faces of the people looking at her, following her every move. She breathes in and makes her way towards the Altar, where a man dressed in the same colours as her - only without the green emeralds - is waiting with his back turned.

The Emperor, she thinks as she steps up next to him. He doesn’t spare her even one glance, and she refrains from turning her head to watch him. Instead, she side-eyes him and notices a sharp jaw as if he’s clenching it, a perfectly sculpted nose and brown eyes. She averts her gaze a few seconds later, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing she’s curious about him.

Still, isn’t curiosity normal? He’s never come visit her ever since she got to the Empire, not even once, and before they officially get married, she doesn’t have a high enough authority to go see him first, unless he asks for her, or unless she requests an audience.

Every muscle in Chan’s body gives him away. He is displeased to be at the Altar next to a bride he doesn’t like one bit, nor want, nor even need.

Well, the last bit is false, even if just a tad, and he knows it. He does need her for this marriage, giving him an easy temporary alliance to her nation, but he’s counting the days until he’d be able to get rid of her, even if they haven’t shared one word so far. He knows he dislikes her without having to talk to her. The fact that she hasn’t looked for him or even asked someone if she can see him tells him how arrogant the princess is, too.

Tsk. He almost clicks his tongue out loud in annoyance.

He is not the only one displeased to be there, though. Aristia is as well, and so is everybody in the church. The only delighted ones are the people of the Empire whose sons have been drafted to join the army at a young age for wars that seem to be without end.

Aristia is discontented with this situation; she’s the daughter of a King who didn’t want her, sent over like a sacrificial lamb to his enemy, a man who doesn’t want her either, who won’t even cast a look at her. She decides she won’t look at him either. Two can play this game.

Let’s just look at these flowers and not think. She repeats in her head as she admires the bouquet of white peonies.

The priest begins talking, spewing nonsense about eternal love and about how they will always have each other’s back. As if for the first time, Aristia realises that even though they are a fake couple, the marriage is very much real. What a shuddering thought, to be forever tied to this man she knows nothing about.

By the end of the priest’s long speech, it’s traditional for the couple to kiss, so Chan turns his body towards the princess, and she is able to see him properly for the first time.

The Emperor is good looking, she notices, but his gaze pierces, pulling at Aristia’s heart strings. She doesn’t know how someone can throw her such a malevolent stare, and she almost shakes when he firmly rests his right hand on her neck right under her jaw, his thumb gently brushing her cheek. He uses that same hand to lift her head up, their eyes fighting a silent battle.

She expects a kiss and closes her eyes instinctively, but instead, she feels him remove his hand from under her jaw, and moments later, her head is weighted heavily by what she assumes is the Empress’ crown. Her left hand moves towards the foreign object on her head and touches it unsurely, but the darkness in the Emperor’s eyes tells her she is indeed wearing the crown of the Empire, matching his golden one.

She is only able to see her own reflection in his eyes, and she tries her hardest to keep her composure and show him that she can also be Empress, not a simple toy he brought over from the Kingdom.

The next time his hand rests under her jaw, she decides against closing her eyes. She will no longer be taken by surprise. He hesitates for a bit when seeing the new-found determination in her orbs, but eventually moves closer and presses his plum lips against her decisively, and people start clapping, for the Sun of the Empire has finally welcomed his Moon.

~

Following the church service, a great ball takes place in one of the rooms of the castle. The atmosphere is radiant, filled with chatter and laughter and sounds of glasses clinking against one another as people get drunker and drunker, celebrating the union between The Kingdom of the South and The Empire of the Sun. In earnest, everyone is toasting for the beginning of a time of peace and tranquillity, as the Empire has always been at war due to the large ambitions of the previous Emperor, Chan’s father, who wanted nothing more than to see their Empire conquer all that used to belong to them centuries ago.

Chan has much of the same ambitions, and even after his father’s sudden passing, he’s managed to fulfil his wishes and brought the Empire to the largest it’s ever been. Despite this being a good thing in terms of the Empire’s prosperity, it’s also been tiring on its people, who’ve seen their sons, husbands and fathers sent off to war, to never return back home.

The Sun and the Moon are seated together at a table overviewing the banquet hall, sitting in silence. He doesn’t address her any words, so she doesn’t bother to strike up a conversation either.

What a lonely place this is, up on a throne with no one by your side but a betrothed that doesn’t want you, while everyone else is having fun right in front of you.

Even during their first dance, Chan barely looked at Aristia, and he hadn't spoken to her at all. The disgust plastered on his face during their first dance was obvious, and his indifference now regarding her presence is, too.

Truly, she was nervous during their first dance, but she realised quickly that Chris was at best unconcerned about their wedding and the dance. He simply took the lead, as men must do during a dance, and she followed him, but they didn't say a word, nor did they smile or show any kind of expression signalling they at least get along. She assumes they looked like those rigid, stiff wooden figures in the music boxes, and she dreads the plays that will inevitably get written about them and the royal wedding.

Aristia starts wondering if the people in the room are also able to notice the height of the wall between them but realises it’s a pointless thought to have. She focuses on the chalice of wine in her hand instead, that’s already been emptied and refilled a couple of times. She can’t help but feel how uncomfortable the crown is on her head, how it’s making her scalp hurt.

She wishes she could take it off, throw it across the room and run away.

The ridiculously large dress would make it hard to do so. She thinks, and almost lets a chuckle escape past her lips.

The alcohol is getting to her head and it’s getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open, which is exactly what she is hoping for. She hopes she’ll pass out as soon as she gets into the Emperor’s chambers. Like any woman on her wedding night, she is expected to offer herself wholly to her husband, and hopefully bear his children as soon as possible. She doesn’t want it, but it’s her duty as a married woman, and even more so as the Empress. If she’s drunk enough, the man next to her can do whatever he wants to her body, and she won’t feel a thing during the deed. She almost winces imagining the horrendous pain she’s going to be faced with tomorrow after The Emperor has had his fun, but her many years of training to be a respectable Crown Princess aid her in keeping a straight face.

Besides, whatever he does to her can’t be worse than what her father’s done up until this point, can it? A beating must certainly hurt way worse than sexual intercourse. That’s what she hopes for, anyway, burying all the books on marriage etiquette she had to read deep in her head, trying not to think of the lines describing the numbing pain women feel under their partner the first time, and, if they’re unlucky, during every intercourse.

“Sun and Moon of the Empire, I congratulate you on your marriage. May you live happily ever after together and be blessed with many children.” A young blonde approaches the table and bows respectfully, and Chan starts smiling.

“Felix, no need to be so formal.” He says but doesn’t bother introducing Felix to Aristia or explaining who he is.

She can guess, though, since Felix is also wearing white and gold, the colours of the royal family, and his head is adorned by a crown, albeit smaller than Chan’s. Considering the fact that he also addressed them first, without waiting for permission to speak, he must be the younger prince.

“Are you having fun, brother? You haven’t even gotten up since the first dance. I’m sure Her Highness must be bored.” He says, looking expectantly at Aristia.

“Not at all, His Highness is great company.” She replies in an almost mocking tone, concentrating hard to not slur her words.

“I must apologise for interrupting you two, I’m sure there’s a lot to talk about as you get to know each other. However, I’d really love it if Her Highness would join me for a dance.” He offers Aristia his hand.

“Oh, I’m afraid I might step on your toes. I’m not a good dancer, and I’ve quite enjoyed the wine from the northern region this evening.” She chuckles and tries to play it off and politely decline his invitation, but Felix doesn’t back down.

“Not to worry, Your Highness, I am quite strong and an excellent dancer.”

To that, Aristia can’t object anymore, and so she places her hand in his and stands up with his help, rearranging the uncomfortably large dress and instinctively placing her hand on her crown, making sure it stays in place.

Felix guides her to the dance floor and places his left hand firmly around her waist, keeping her right hand in a strong hold.

They start spinning to the music, looking elegant under the delightful gazes of all the people in attendance. Despite being quite intoxicated, Aristia matches Felix’ lead perfectly.

“My sister-in-law said she’s a bad dancer, but it doesn’t look like it.” He remarks, and Aristia can’t help herself but joke around a bit, and steps on his foot.

“Oops.” She smiles, and Felix starts laughing brightly. Aristia thinks the title of ‘Sun of the Empire’ would be better fitted for him, with how radiant his smile is, compared to his brother’s piercing gaze that’s been throwing daggers in her back ever since she stood up from the throne.

“Why are you trying to get drunk?” He asks all of a sudden.

“Oh, I’m not just trying to. I’m also succeeding.” She chuckles, and Felix laughs again warmly.

She is a beautiful woman, and he can’t help but feel bad for her; all alone, in an unfamiliar nation, married by force to someone she doesn’t know, who hasn’t spoken to her at all since the night began. He can’t imagine how suffocating that must be. She must also feel intimidated by his brother, since she’s also quite young. If he’s not wrong, she’s 2 years younger than himself, which means she’s 5 years younger than Chris.

“I’m Felix, by the way. Chan’s younger brother. He hasn’t introduced us, that rude rascal.”

“Rascal?” Aristia chuckles again. “Isn’t it treason to talk like that about the Emperor?”

“He’s a quite forgiving man.”

“He doesn’t strike me as such, but what do I know?” She fakes another smile as she hints at the fact that today is the first time she’s ever meeting the Emperor. “My name is Aristia.”

“I love your name. Rising Empress. How fitting!”

He exclaims, and she just smiles. Fake, fake, fake, fake. She always thought balls are tiring, but since her father hasn’t allowed her to join too many, it’s hard to get used to this.

She misses the confines of her room back in the Kingdom, the shelves with books to keep her company, and most of all, her loyal maid, taken away by sickness too long ago.

There is no sense of familiarity for Aristia in this place, no refuge. Only the suffocating dress, the heavy crown, the way too crowded ballroom, and a dagger stabbed in her back by her own husband, that’s making it hard to breathe and almost impossible to focus on the smiling man in front of her.

“He hasn’t talked to you much, has he?” Felix asks, as if he’s only now figuring out her earlier allusions.

“I enjoy silence.” She retorts.

“I’m sorry…” Felix smiles sympathetically. “So… back to my original question, is his company that bad that you have to be drunk to be in his presence?”

“Such is the fate of a bride. There’ll be plenty of time for us to spend together without knowing each other, and I feel woefully unprepared.”

She confesses, and Felix hums, barely audible over the loud music. Just as he wants to say something comforting, the music briefly stops as the musical ensemble prepares itself for a next song, and people come to compliment the two on their perfect dancing. They surround Aristia and start asking her all sorts of questions, definitely curious about her, and it’s becoming a bit too overwhelming, and she’s getting dizzy.

It’s too hot, and she’s had too much wine, and her corset is way too tight, and her head can’t seem to get used to the weight of the crown; it hurts. Aristia finds herself missing the tranquillity and comfort of loneliness that her throne provides, far away from everyone. She just wants to excuse herself and go back on her throne so she can breathe, but there are customs to be respected, and she doesn’t want to come across as rude and leave in the middle of a conversation. She starts scanning the room with her eyes, until they finally fall on the bulky guard that escorted her with Lee Know in the morning.

He’s not too far away from her; he’s there for her protection, and his gaze is also stuck on her. As soon as they make eye contact, it’s as if he understands that something is wrong; he sees the urgency in her eyes and instantly begins moving towards Aristia, asking everyone else to step aside.

“His Majesty requested The Moon’s presence, please excuse us.” He says with a bow and begins guiding the Empress away, ignoring the protests of the disappointed crowd, and she’s never been more thankful.

“Thank you.” She whispers as soon as they are a bit further away.

“I apologise, but… Are you feeling sick? You seem pale… if I may.” He whispers back, and Aristia nods.

“Just needed some air. What’s your name?”

“It’s Changbin, Your Highness.” He bows again as soon as Aristia reaches the steps to the two thrones and the table where only she and her husband are sat. She avoids looking into Chan’s eyes as he scans her face, and simply nods towards Changbin and goes to sit down.

For the first time ever, someone noticed her discomfort, and actively did something to help, and she is truly grateful. She hopes the banquet will end on a positive note at least, although it seems far from over, and just rests comfortably against the backrest of her throne, wishing for time to pass quicker.

After about an hour, a young woman approaches their table and bows respectfully, waiting for her or the Emperor to say something first. Being the highest authority in the Empire, unless the Empress or Emperor addresses you first, you are unable to speak to them.

“Arabella.” Chan says as soon as he notices her, a large smile plastered on his face, which makes Aristia involuntarily raise an eyebrow.

“I greet the Sun of the Empire and congratulate you for your marriage.” She says respectfully, almost making Aristia scoff.

She is the Empress now, but this girl – Arabella – hasn’t even bowed towards her, nor addressed her in the salutation. This in itself would be considered inexcusable behaviour, but Chris doesn’t seem to regard her as his wife either, so he doesn’t bat an eye at the ignorance.

“You may raise your head.”

“You look as healthy as ever.” She bows again, shorter this time, with an intoxicating giggle that is quick to reach Chan’s ears, and Aristia doesn’t fail to notice the way her husband’s cheeks receive prominent dimples as he smiles at the compliment.

“And you as well. Your father must be pleased to be able to pride himself with such a beautiful jewel.”

“Your Majesty, I am unworthy of your praises.”

My ass. Aristia thinks briefly and stops herself from rolling her eyes at this exchange. How blatantly rude, to flirt in front of her so openly. Does Chris want a concubine already?

“The night sky is truly beautiful tonight, Your Majesty. I wish you could see it as well.”

“If I weren’t confined in this ballroom, I would. You, however, should go and dance and enjoy yourself.”

Arabella. Aristia observes the girl walk away. I shall not forget this name.

~

The banquet lasts for a few more hours, which Aristia uses wisely to drink a bit more wine to the point where walking towards her room to change from the dress is almost impossible without the help of the maids.

When she gets there, she almost lets them undress her, until she remembers about the scars on her back. She doesn’t want anyone else to know about them. The Emperor would probably see them tonight, but that’s something Aristia could deal with, since he is unlikely to spread any rumours about her. He still has a reputation to keep, and marrying a broken princess of the enemy kingdom would not be a flattering appeal.

The maids are, however, a different story entirely. They feed on the insecurities of their masters and whisper between themselves late at night about all the affairs of the house. She knew it all too well, for she’s heard them many times before, when she was still living in the Kingdom.

So, she sends them away and begins taking off her garments excruciatingly slowly. After getting undressed from the large dress, Aristia is quick to discard it somewhere on the floor and begins changing into tonight’s outfit, which consists of garments that leave little to the imagination. Beautifully delicate lace lingerie, ruffled garters and a flimsy night robe hug her body, and on top of it, a fur coat she should wear until she reaches The Emperor’s chambers. Everything is easily discardable, but she tries not to linger on it for too long.

Before exiting the room, she places the crown firmly against her head, as she shouldn’t be seen anywhere without it. Even if she’s worn it for hours already, she simply can’t get used to the heaviness on her scalp, and she can already feel the impending headache. She’s never had to wear any crowns in the Kingdom; her father wouldn’t allow it, not wanting to recognise her status as the Crown Princess.

The knight who’s helped her earlier, Changbin, comes to escort her to Chris, and she can’t help but feel yet again like a sacrificial lamb served on a platter for her husband to devour. Changbin bows at The Moon briefly and avoids her eyes at all costs.

Is it embarrassing, knowing you’re escorting a half-naked Empress to your master, so she could be fucked like a whore for the whole night? Aristia almost wants to ask but keeps it to herself once again.

The wine is making me have foul thoughts. She rationalises in her head, for it’s way easier to blame alcohol than to blame the actual problem: a vulgar personality that comes out anytime she feels like fighting the whole world for dealing her a bad hand.

Once she enters the room, she is quite pleased to find it empty. This means a bit more time to prepare, and she suddenly doesn’t feel drunk enough.

She scans the table for more wine but is unsuccessful to find any until the door opens, revealing The Emperor.

“You’re here.” He states, as if surprised.

Aristia nods.

“Of course you are.” He mumbles. “Unfortunately.”

“Yeah, it’s truly a misfortune.” She replies, and he lets out a short, mocking laugh. She involuntarily hugs the fur coat tighter, as if to protect her body from his sight.

“You see, it’s quite funny that you’re here, actually. Wanna know why?”

“… Why?”

“Because I asked them not to bring you.” He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is that so? I shall take my leave, then.” She starts going towards the door, hoping he’d just let her pass. She brushes past him, and as soon as she raises her hand to open the door, she hears him curse under his breath.

“Fucking whore.”

She stops, her hand on the handle, as if she’s frozen. Anger is boiling up inside of her, but the rational side of her knows it would be better to simply get out and not look back. He doesn’t want to sleep with her, so she’s free to go and end the day without having to go through any abuse.

She should go.

Simple enough.

But how dare he?

How dare he not address her one word the whole night, and once he does, it’s to affront her?

“What did you just say to me?” She turns around, anger lacing her tone, and watches him right in the eyes.

“I said,” he smiles again, this time larger and more menacing, “fucking whore.”

“Whore?” Aristia chuckles. “Is that what you think of me? God, how ironic this is. You don’t know anything about who I am, but still dare to call me names.”

“Listen up, I can call you whatever the fuck I want. So, whore, kindly get out of my room before I also treat you like one.”

“No. You listen up. You might be Emperor, but you married me, so now I am your Empress. Act like it.”

“How daring.” He chuckles again, but then his face turns serious all of a sudden, and he starts aggressively walking towards Aristia, taking the crown off her head in one swift motion and throwing it across the room. He then grabs her wrist tightly and drags her away from the door, throwing her on the bed.

She freezes, just as she always did whenever her father would grab and hit her.

As soon as her back is against the mattress, the fur coat separates in the middle and lies flat on the bed, exposing Aristia’s body under the flimsy nightgown. She wants to cover herself from Chan’s sight, but he gets on top of her and pins her hands apart, looking sharply into her eyes.

“The temerity you have.” He starts, this time no longer smiling, and a chill makes its way towards Aristia’s spine. She’s scared of him, she’s sure of it now, and she’s crossed the line. “Do you think you’re truly an Empress? Let me break it to you: you’re not, and you’ll never be. Never. So, just stay somewhere, quietly and out of my sight, and I’ll leave you be as well. Is that clear?”

Will he hit me like my dad if I oppose him?

“You asked for my hand-”

“No. What I asked for was peace, so don’t flatter yourself. You and that father of yours who claims to be King are only thieves, stealing away our gems and claiming them as yours. But for the sake of peace for my people, I’m willing to turn a blind eye. That’s why you’re here. Of course, a foolish girl like you would have no way of knowing such things.” He spits out. “Do you have any idea how much you disgust me? Kissing you in that church today has easily been the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“You must’ve had an easy life, then.” She blurts out, annoyed with the way he’s patronising her, and something shifts in Chan’s gaze.

“You must be extremely intoxicated to keep talking back to me.”

“Tsk. Not enough.”

“Still keeping your head up after all I’ve said? Fine. Want me to show you that you’re nothing in this place?”

He aggressively rips away her nightgown and her bralette, leaving her exposed under him, and then presses his body on hers, his lips mere centimetres away from her neck.

“You mean nothing to me. You are nothing. I can do whatever the fuck I want with you, and no one would bat an eye. You know why?” He whispers in her ear. “Because I am the Emperor, and you’re merely a tool.”

Aristia doesn’t say anything, her body trembling in fear when Chan separates himself from her.

“Didn’t you notice that I didn’t even let you wear golden jewels today? You are not part of my family. Is that clear to you now? Get the fuck out of my rooms, and don’t come back.”

She listens this time, hugging the fur coat as tightly as possible around her and sprinting to the door, opening it in a rush. She doesn’t even notice that she’s forgotten to pick the crown back up, not that she knew where it fell, anyway.

On the other side, Lee Know and Changbin are guarding the door. As soon as he sees her, Changbin’s expression changes to surprise, while Lee Know’s stays neutral.

Aristia musters up the last bit of dignity she has left, and looks into Changbin’s eyes, commanding him.

“Take me back to my rooms.”

It’s hard to fight back the tears that want to spill from her eyes, but she does so successfully until she’s alone. She heads towards the small balcony attached to her room and glances outside, hugging the fur coat tighter than ever, but doesn’t open the door. She simply looks outside, crying in silence, and tries to focus on something else – anything to take her mind away from her husband who loathes her and the reality of the fact that she’ll have to wake up in this Empire from now on.

Her eyes fall on the countless stars above, that give her a sense of peace. It’s always a humbling experience to watch the Universe and realise how small you are in the grand scheme of things. So, that’s what Aristia does. She just watches the stars dance and sparkle in front of her eyes, mesmerised by their grandeur.

That Arabella bitch was right. The night sky is truly beautiful tonight.

~

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

[areiacannaid]

Frozen Clearing

Summary:

“Never be too quick to rush into things.” The memory of Halt’s warning rang in his ears with all the condemnation of regret—regret he hadn’t heeded it when it mattered most. And now, stranded and alone with Halt’s life in the balance, it was already far too late. And what was worse was that he had no idea how he could fix it or make it right.

Read on AO3

Next chapter

Chapter 1

“I finished my studies!” Gilan announced as he practically bounded into the main room of the cabin. He placed a stack of finished geography papers on the table near where Halt sat. “May I go to Redmont Castle?” he asked excitedly, already heading to the door to fetch his cloak.

Halt grumbled in answer and Gilan smiled to himself; he knew the reason why. It was because he’d just thwarted Halt’s usage of one of his favorite retorts with his deliberate wording of ‘may I’ instead of ‘can I’. It had taken him a few times of bitter experience but, lately, he usually managed to steer clear of ‘can I’—unless he wasn’t paying enough attention.

“Can I go to Wensly Village, Halt?” he remembered asking once without thinking.  

Halt had nodded immediately, before adding dryly, “Yes, of course you can go to Wensly Village, but will I let you? No.”

Even as Gilan thought on it, Halt glanced around the neat little cabin as if in the hopes of finding some undone chore that would provide a good excuse to say no. He found nothing.

Gilan grinned visibly this time.

Halt, looking slightly disappointed, eventually seemed to shrug.

 “Fine by me,” he said finally, “Though it beats me why you’d want to be going anywhere on a day like today; snow’s almost a quarter of a meter deep already, and still coming down.”

“I know,” Gilan said happily. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“That’s not the word I would use.”

“No, I suppose not; considering that you are… well… you, after all.” Gilan inclined his head solemnly, trying his best to hide a smile.

“Perhaps you’d like to expand on that point?” Halt asked dangerously.

Gilan, suddenly seeing what was left of his afternoon off on the verge of being cut short, realized that it would be best to do some hasty back-paddling. He made a quick negative gesture.

“I only meant it as the highest of compliments…” he tried. Then, apparently possessed by a much more daring and foolhardy version of himself, couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to make your condition worse.”

“Condition, is it?” Halt asked blankly, the glare nearing its full intensity.

There was a moment of silence as Gilan shifted slightly, trying to think on how to turn that last bit around. Halt spoke again before he had the chance.

“You know, the rug appears to have suddenly gotten very dirty. I think it could use a good cleaning.”

Gilan’s face fell, his cloak only half on. “Please, Halt—today’s my only chance.”

“Your only chance to… what?”

“Sir Ian is clearing out the Redmont Armory today. He’ll be finished by tomorrow.”

Halt raised an eyebrow. “You want to help Sir Ian clean out and organize the Redmont armory?” When Gilan nodded, he continued, “If you want to clean and organize that badly, you don’t have to go all the way to Redmont Castle to do it. I’m sure I can find plenty of that kind of work right here.”

“Oh, believe me, I know that,” Gilan said, grinning and shaking his head. “No. It’s not that I want to help him clean. It’s just that he promised that, if I helped him, he’d give me that old circular shield that hangs on the south-facing wall of the armory; do you know it?”

“No,” Halt said flatly. “I usually don’t make a habit out of memorizing every piece of armor in the Redmont armory. But, more to the point, what in the name of Tír na nÓg do you want with a shield?” Halt asked, colorfully citing a place known in Hibernian legend. “They are too cumbersome for Rangers to carry around with their standard gear—or have you suddenly forgotten that?”

“I don’t want it to fight with,” Gilan said.

A heavy moment of silence greeted that announcement.

“Perhaps you can tell me what exactly the point of having a shield is if you’re not going to use it to fight with?” Halt asked incredulously, fixing his apprentice with his best scathing look.

Enthusiasm allowed Gilan to weather the look unscathed. In truth, he couldn’t temper the sense of admittedly mischievous excitement that had been building inside him all day even if he wanted to—which, of course, he didn’t. That would simply be no fun at all.           

“I need it for a project,” he said enigmatically. Then, before Halt could make any more scathing comments about the exact nature of this project or anything else, he added, “Please, may I go?”

Halt sighed but eventually nodded. “Try not to be back too long after dark.”

Gilan grinned. “Thanks Halt.”

He turned to leave. He had just opened the door to step outside when Halt called after him.

“By the way, you’re not going to be hanging that shield on your wall.”

Gilan turned back, genuinely puzzled. “Why would I want to hang a shield on my wall?”

“How should I know?” Halt snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time today that you haven’t made any sort of sense.”

Gilan only laughed at that and waved farewell to Halt before closing the door and jogging happily over to the stables to fetch Blaze.

~x~X~x~

True to his word, Gilan came back shortly after dark, grinning happily with the shield in hand. Halt glanced at the object in question, silently scrutinizing it. It was circular in shape and convex, bowing outward slightly. It was wooden but the front had been plated with polished metal. In short, it was a typical circular shield; and he could see no reason why it had interested his student so much. Halt shrugged to himself in resignation, knowing he’d probably find out sooner or later.

That night he could hear Gilan staying up late in his bedroom: fiddling with the shield, Halt supposed. The grizzled Ranger had seen Gilan take it, some rope, and leather strips into his room right after their evening meal after all.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Halt learned the nature of Gilan’s ‘project’. After morning chores and lessons, Halt decided to give his apprentice until noon to shovel the path to the cabin free of snow. A few hours in, Halt became aware of the distinct lack of shoveling sounds coming from outside. He stepped out then to see that the walk had been shoveled completely clear. He saw also that much of the missing snow had been piled in the middle of the yard instead of neatly set to either side of the path. At first, he thought they were several isolated humps, but as he looked closer, he realized that they were shaped more like ramps. Halt raised an eyebrow at the haphazard piles littering the yard before realizing that they were not quite as random as he’d previously thought.

Even as he came to the realization, he heard the sounds of hoof beets churning up the snow. He turned towards the sound and the other eyebrow went up to join the first.

Blaze was galloping across the yard and dragging Gilan behind her. He was balanced on the metal shield, a rope that was tied to Blaze’s saddle in one hand, and another rope that he had tied to her bridle like extra-long reins in the other.

Even as Halt watched, the pair turned towards the first snow ramp. Blaze cleared it to the side and, milliseconds later, Gilan angled his body slightly as he stood, roughly steering his craft towards the left so that he went over the ramp. He launched off the end of it, hanging in the air for a few seconds before plunging back to earth. He somehow managed to keep his feet. He landed fairly gracefully, actually, and then continued forwards as Blaze kept on galloping. Soon he was over another ramp. Once again, he easily kept his feet as he landed, careering towards, and then over, the third ramp within seconds.

This jump was much higher than the other two and he didn’t manage to keep his balance as well after he landed it. He teetered dangerously for a moment before crashing off his makeshift sled, letting go of the pull rope and the guide rope as he fell. He tumbled into the snow, sending it flying in a burst of powder.

The shield, without Gilan on it to keep it going, slid along the top of the snow for several paces before gradually coming to a stop. Blaze also came to a stop and then turned to circle around and see exactly what had become of her master. Halt had unconsciously been following nearly parallel, though slightly behind, his mad-cap student’s progress, and arrived at the indentation Gilan had made in the snow at about the same time as the horse.

Gilan had stayed where he’d landed for a moment, slightly winded, but unharmed. He rolled onto his back, still caught up in the breathtaking exhilaration of the speed and moments of near flight and weightlessness. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face—a smile which grew into helpless laughter as he tilted his head back and saw two faces looking solemnly down at him: Blaze curiously, snuffling slightly, and Halt blank faced with a raised eyebrow.

“Interesting use of a shield; I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before,” Halt said dryly, “Though considering how you ended up, I think I can see why. Most people don’t usually enjoy such close personal relationships with snow.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Gilan said, chuckling. He rose easily to his feet, and then dusting himself off. “I think I can get the hang of it.”

“Of course you can,” Halt said, nodding once. “The question is: will it be before or after you wind up in the infirmary?”

Gilan only grinned as we went to fetch the circular shield.

Then curiosity got the better of Halt and he asked, “how did you manage to get Blaze to pull you like that?”

Halt knew that most horses would sooner spook than drag a person on a makeshift sled behind and slightly to the side of them. Ranger horses were better disciplined and more intelligent than most horses, but the fact remained.

Gilan’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “I’ve been training her to get used to it every now and then when I had some free time for these past few months.”

“You mean you’ve been planning this for months?” Halt said in disbelief.

Gilan seemed unfazed by that or the scathing tone and nodded seriously.

“I actually had the idea last winter. I thought it might be fun.”

“Your idea of fun is beginning to get a little worrisome, Gilan.”

“Well at least it’s better than being no fun at all,” Gilan shot back.

“No fun at all? Forgive me for enjoying staying alive. It beats me how you still happen to be around sometimes.”

Halt was about to say more when Blaze let out a horsey sounding call. It was more of a greeting than a warning. Sure enough, Halt looked up to see none other than a castle messenger riding down the path to the cabin.

The young page pulled his horse up sharply as he reached them, taking a few moments to catch his breath before he addressed them. Since the sky had been clear for some time now, the snow that had accumulated on the youth’s hat and cloak had likely come from brushing against the foliage that grew out into the forest path leading to the cabin. That he had not taken the time to avoid the snow laden lower hanging branches only spoke to his haste. This made the nature of the harried words he spoke unsurprising.

“The Baron needs to see you right away Sir… um Ranger Halt! He says it’s a right emergency, it is!”

“I’ll get our kits,” Gilan offered with a quick smile and without being asked. Halt inclined his head, not sparing his student a glance as he made for the cabin. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the messenger.

“Did the Baron say what the emergency was?” Halt pressed, hoping to glean as much information as he could.

But the young page shook his head, dislodging some of the snow from his hat in the process.

“He just said that you were needed right away and that I should come and fetch you as quick as I can.”

Halt nodded once with a sigh, making a gesture of acknowledgement, knowing he would likely get nothing more from the youth.

“Tell the Baron we will be there as soon as we can.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the youth touched a hand to his cap, causing another small cascade of snow, before turning his horse and speeding off as quickly as he had come.

By then, Gilan had returned with their kits and the two of them set off for the stable to saddle Blaze and Warren. Abelard had recently suffered a stone bruise and so was resting at the castle under the care of the horse master and farrier. Because of this, Halt had borrowed Warren from the Baron. He was a sturdy little palfrey that was good tempered and not easily spooked. Though nowhere near the level of a Ranger horse, he was dependable enough.

Whenever a Ranger horse suffered a serious injury, they were usually taken to Old Bob, the Ranger horse breeder to be tended, and given a retired Ranger horse to use in the interim. But since Abelard’s injury hadn’t been that serious of one, nor one that would take a long time to heal, he had opted to simply take the little horse to Redmont instead while he recovered.

As soon as he had Warren saddled, he turned to his apprentice.

“Ready?” he asked.

Gilan grinned at him, after two years together, he well knew their routines. 

~x~X~x~

It didn’t take long before they reached Redmont. Gilan easily followed Halt up the winding set of stairs to the Baron’s office. It was a route that had well worn itself into familiarity over the course of his apprenticeship so far. Once through the door, Martin, the Baron’s secretary, hardly hassled them. Instead, he waved them through immediately before wringing his hands together. Gilan felt his eyebrows raise in mild surprise at that incongruity. It added to the growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as to the potentially serious nature of this emergency.

“Halt, you’re here!” Baron Arald stood to greet them as soon as they stepped foot in his office.

Gilan turned sharp ascertaining eyes on Baron, attempting to glean… something, anything at all. Though, for the most part, Arald’s expression gave nothing away, there was a tightness around his eyes and to the set of his mouth.

“Has something happened?” Halt asked immediately—likely as not, he had also noted Martin’s uncharacteristic behavior and had seen the same signs of stress on Arald’s face that Gilan had. “The page said there was an emergency.”

Baron Arald inclined his head, gesturing for them to take a seat on the other side of his desk.

“Yes, and a troubling one at that.” His expression now openly showed concern. “An entire patrol of knights has gone missing. They were due back last night and still haven’t arrived. It’s not entirely uncommon for a patrol to be a little late, but…” he glanced out the window to the snow shrouded outdoors and his shoulders slumped. “With the weather being what it is I must admit I am concerned. The storm yesterday came on fast and without much warning.

“It could be that they have simply been delayed by the storm, or it could be something much worse. To make matters worse, their route took them by Fernan woods. I don’t need to tell you about the frequent bandit activity there. It is even possible that they could have been attacked or ambushed.”

“And you’d rather not leave it up to chance either way,” Halt finished for him. “How many were in the patrol?”

“Four: Sir James, Alban, Godwin, and young Kenric too.”

Gilan winced inwardly, concern causing him to glance at his mentor. Gilan knew Kenric. The young man had just recently been knighted and Gilan had sparred with him more than a few times over the past two years when he went to the Redmont Battleschool to practice his bladework. The three others he did not know as well—other than having seen them around the castle and at the Battleschool a few times in passing. They were all good men and accomplished knights. 

Halt was frowning deeply, troubled too. Gilan knew the implications were not good any way it was looked at. If it was bandits, there would have to have been a very large and very bold group to take down four fully trained knights. Having all of them lost or trapped because of the potentially deadly weather was precious little better. He looked back as the Baron spoke again.

“I had Rodney prepare a copy of their route map for you. Hopefully, following it will get you close enough to find some kind of trail or indication.”

Halt took the map he offered before standing. “We’ll leave right away. I saw more snow clouds on the horizon as we rode in. If these are like the ones yesterday, we’ll need to move quickly before we lose the trail.”

“Thank you,” The Baron said, expression still tight. The barest edge of pleading came into his words as he continued to intercede for the sake of his soldiers. “They are all good men, good knights. Find them, Halt. Find them and bring them back home.”

Halt said nothing but nodded once in acknowledgment. Map in hand, he turned and headed for the door. Gilan was up right after him, urgency and anticipation making him restless to be off. Four lives were at stake after all.  

[entishramblings]

Fuck The Forbidden [Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

AO3 | WATTPAD | MASTERLIST

Links to chapters:

Fuck The Forbidden Pt. 1

Fuck The Forbidden Pt. 2

Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 3

Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.

She lifted her head from the man’s form and bit her lip as a strange guilt flooded through her heart. Despite her relief, apprehension crept into her mind as she dreaded the potential consequences from the gods—and her father. She understood deep down that she should not have intervened. Just coming to the surface was bad enough. But this? Saving a man? Surely that was an extreme that shouldn’t have been trifled with. The mere glimpse of her tail, by even a single human, would forever rekindle the forgotten war between the races. It would seal the fate of the merfolk, burying them in their ocean.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/

Status: complete

Total Word Count: 23k

Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it), physical assault, creepy men that gets what’s coming to them, shirtless boromir

[heartfulselkie]

1, 6, 9, 10 for Citrus and Lavender and Bell The Cat

Give a 5-word summary of this chapter/fic.

Hmm since these are both long fics I decided to do a summary of the upcoming chapters I've been working on. 5 words really isn't a lot lol

Bell the Cat: Chat has nightmares. Ladybug's tired.

Citrus and Lavender: Adrien really needs to eat.

6. Does this chapter/fic have any twists that you’re proud of?

I think that the "twists" of these fics are fairly predictable for the readers. I'm still really excited about them though and hope my readers can enjoy them too even if they can see what's going on before the characters do.

9. What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far?

Hmm i did have to think about this but for Citrus and Lavender it has to be this scene from Ch. 34:

Marinette almost choked on the gasp that escaped her. Her hand instinctively clutched Chat Noir’s at his side, hiding his ring under her grasp as she squeezed. “We can’t do that! This Miraculous belongs to Chat just as much as the earrings belong to me! No one else is more suited to it!” She glared at Master Fu as tears threatened to return to her eyes. “You said that Chat Noir had the makings of a hero, he only needed a chance to make that choice. Well he made it! He chose to save me! More than once! Maybe now we can finally be the Ladybug and Chat Noir you intended us to be! And I want to give him that opportunity."

Marinette still can't admit what feelings she may or may not have toward Chat Noir, but she can't deny the lengths he has gone through. As much as she's tried to remain stubborn about his "villainy", she now fully believes in his potential to be a hero and is ready to fight tooth and nail to defend him for that.

Meanwhile for Bell the Cat one of my favourite dialogues is completely opposite in tone. I just love this exchange between Ladybug and Chloe in Ch. 2:

"Your map is wrong,” Chloe cut in abruptly. Ladybug blinked. “Pardon?” Tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the paper terrain before her, Chloe pointed out the ink that formed the city. “This is wrong. Gaul is in the wrong place.” She gave a haughty laugh. “Everyone knows Gaul is the centre of Gallia.”

It's just so very "Chloe" to me that she's the princess, but has no idea on the actual geography of her own country. Meanwhile Ladybug is both horrified and baffled by this because surely Chloe isn't that dumb. But Chloe thinks the world revolves around her so where she lives has to be the centre of the universe.

10. What is the last line of dialogue you’ve written?

My Citrus and Lavender WIP doc is a little messy currently but I think this was the last dialogue I added into it?

"Adrien," Emilie cooed. Her hand left his head, instead moving to lift his chin so that he was forced to look at her. "You want to stay with me, don't you? You wouldn't leave me here by myself." A sharp pain continued to throb behind his eyes. He knew he wanted to go out, but he found that desire becoming quickly stifled. It felt like his lungs were quickly filled with a viscous mud, closing his throat off to any and all words except his weakly uttered, "Okay, Maman." Emilie's features finally warmed as she smiled at him. "That's my boy."

My Bell the Cat WIP doc is also a mess lol but I think this is technically the last dialogue I added even though its somewhere in the middle of the chapter

"I saved your life today!" Ladybug snapped. Chat Blanc's lips curled in a mocking smirk, but his voice was nothing but a snarl. "I have nine lives and you want me to thank you for saving one of them?" "A normal person would be at least a little grateful!" "Am I a normal person?" Ladybug hesitated at his blunt question. She stared into the frozen depth of his eyes as he glared at her, and any words she might have had were bitten away by his frost. He took her silence as answer enough. "I thought so," he hissed.

wip ask game

[beeeinyourbonnet]

Covetous | Chapter 1

Rating: E

Pairing: Macelle (Father MacAvoy x Belle) or Nostelle (Nosty x Belle), who is to say which

Summary: Father Joseph MacAvoy wakes up in a library across town with no idea of how he got there. When the kind librarian doesn't kick him out immediately, he considers that maybe there's more to life than alcohol.

[read on ao3]

Notes: I'm setting this as though The Tournament never took place and MacAvoy just contined on his downward spiral. This will not have spoilers for The Tournament but it will have spoilers for Safe, kind of. It does NOT require watching Safe to understand! I know Safe can be somewhat harrowing and also difficult to find.

Also, I'm sorry for my poor geography. Pretend anything geographic that doesn't make sense makes sense :') Also, this contains Nosty from Safe!

tws: alcoholism, homelessness. If I missed a warning, I'm so sorry--please let me know and I will add it ASAP!

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

It was a new bar this time. Father MacAvoy had finally been kicked out of  his usual pub, so he’d had to find another one, one that didn’t know about his reputation. The only one he could find had been The Rabbit Hole, and he considered removing his collarino before walking in, but he was too unsteady to do anything near his neck. 

That was how he’d ended up kicked out at closing time with hazy memories of being told that every pub in Greenwich was locking its doors to him. He staggered along the streets, vomiting occasionally—sometimes even into bins—until he had to stop and sag against a wall. Was the church even in this direction? 

Didn’t matter. He’d either make it home or die on the way, and at this point, he didn’t care which. 

****

The floor he woke up on was hard, but it didn’t feel like concrete. Had he made it back to the church? No, because the light he could see through his eyelids felt florescent, and there was no florescent lighting there. 

He curled up, bringing his knees to his chest, and tried to press his face closer to the floor. When he heard the click-click of footsteps, though, he lifted his head, prying his eyelids open.

Flooded with light, his head felt raw and tender, and he pressed his hands over his eyes with a mousy whimper he hadn’t intended to make. There was a sigh, and then more click-steps, and then silence until the light was gone. Hesitant, he opened his eyes again, and it was dark enough that he could look around. 

The first thing he saw was a bookshelf, and when the dizziness faded and he could move his eyes again, he saw more bookshelves. The dividers between sections told him this was a library, not a shop. The only library he ever went to was in the church, and he wasn’t even sure where this library could have been. The only places he went were people’s homes, the grocery, and the pub. 

A pair of legs wandered into view, and he almost choked on his tongue. Did it count as lust if the legs surprised him? 

“Are you awake?” a voice said, and he curled up. Why did she have to shout? “I’ll get you some water, then. I don’t know if you saw, but there’s a bin by your head, just in case.” 

He made a noise, and the legs disappeared in a series of clicks that reverberated around his skull. There was no vomit around him, so at least that hadn’t been the reason she’d left the bin—unless it was somewhere behind him. He could have been anywhere in the library. 

He couldn’t lie here forever. It was only a matter of time until the librarian kicked him out like all of the diners did, or called the police to carry him out. Maybe if he spent the afternoon sobering up in a jail cell, he’d stop drinking.

Ha. Fat chance of that. 

With a groan, he wriggled across the floor like a snake that hadn’t yet digested its last meal. When his forehead touched the bookshelf, he stopped to start the long process of heaving himself into a sit. By the time the legs got back, he was hunched over with his back pressed to the books and his arm around the bin. 

“You’re sitting up. Good.” 

He tried to nod, but his head was too heavy to move, so he grunted. Above the legs was a red and white dress that came to a rest at the knee, cinched around a curvy waist. If he tilted his head just a bit, he could see a face, too, but it was too pretty and twisted in disappointment, so he focused on her knees. 

“Here. Drink some water.” She knelt, and his stomach lurched, but he reached a quaking hand toward the cup she held anyway. 

“Thank you,” he managed before pressing the cup to his dry lips. His throat wanted him to chug, but his stomach did not, so he tried to half-gulp, tongue lapping against the water like a dog. When he drained the whole cup, he started to throw it away, but cool hands stopped him. 

“Do you want more?” she asked. 

He wanted to lie, to deny the fact that he was both intruding in her space and taking advantage of her hospitality, but he was too thirsty. “Yes. Please.” 

****

By the time she returned, he was retching into the bin, so she left the water glass and disappeared. It must have been almost time for the library to open, though even if there had been a clock near him, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on it. 

He hung over the bin, clutching it to his chest like a lover, but he was mostly just dry heaving by the time she came back with a plate of toast. 

“Eat,” she said when he tried to wiggle away, sounding like a long-ago memory of nuns during Sunday school.

“Oh, no, I—you’ve been too kind already.” 

“Then don’t think of it as kindness,” she said, setting the plate down next to him. “Eat so that you don’t throw up all over my floor.” 

She produced a paper towel from behind her, and started mopping off his mouth. He wasn’t so scummy as to let a strange librarian wipe off his sick, and he gripped the paper towel to do it for her. 

“Your hands are shaking,” she said, leaning back onto her heels. The thought of even trying to balance like that made his throbbing head ache more. 

“Just need a little pick me up,” he said, folding the towel up when he was finished with it. 

“Unfortunately, this is a library, and we are fresh out of alcohol, so you’ll have to settle for water.”

She looked at him, face set in a hard line, and he swallowed. Water it was, then. 

****

He laid on the floor, legs propped against the wall, and drank water half upside-down. The librarian said this would help his headache, and it was making his stomach feel a little better too. 

“Thank you,” he said, blinking up at her. At this angle, he should have had to work hard not to look up her skirt, but the thick fabric blocked his view every time. Maybe this was God easing up on punishing him for the drink by not making him exert effort to preserve this woman’s modesty. 

“Are you feeling up to standing yet? Maybe making it to a chair?” she asked. “The library was supposed to open half an hour ago.” 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, and then his stomach lurched. His stupid mouth—he should have died last night. “I’ll get out—if I could just take some water?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll never make it far. I just want to move you to my office.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead of speaking, he thanked God for guiding him to collapse in the library where there was a sympathetic miracle, and started to shift to his feet.

****

Her office was cluttered and the chairs were uncomfortable, but it was quiet and softly lit, and anything was better than the dirty floor. He nibbled on toast and sipped water while she opened the library up, grateful that he wouldn’t have to sit in some diner with the knowledge that he couldn’t pay for anything they served him. 

There were books all over the tiny room—and not library books, either, but books that he was sure belonged just to the librarian. Why she needed a second room of them just for her was beyond him, but then, so were most intellectual endeavors right now.  

He was starting to feel like he might be able to leave soon as long as he could look at a map first and figure out how to get back to the church from here. A taxi would be nice, but he couldn’t pay for one, so a bus would have to do. 

The librarian popped her head in, and he almost up-ended his water cup in surprise. “How are you feeling, Father?” 

“Better. Good enough to go home, I think.” It wasn’t lying if he didn’t pretend to be positive about it. 

“Do you work at St. Rita’s?” She jerked her thumb toward the side wall, indicating that it must have been near, and in that direction.

Had he really made it all the way to St. Rita’s? How had he gotten this turned around? “No—St. Joseph’s.” 

The woman snorted, and his instinct was to bow his head and make himself look smaller. “I don’t think you can make it yet, Father. I don’t want you dying on the way. You can stay here all afternoon, I don’t mind.” 

He took a bite of toast, too overcome in his hung over state to speak. God had sent him a blessing—or guided him to a blessing, really—and he couldn’t even string two words together. He was a joke. 

****

“My name is Belle,” she said, popping her head in. “Do you need anything other than toast?” 

Belle was a pretty name. He should probably say something in response to her, instead of staring in disbelief at the fact that pretty Belle the librarian was offering him things other than toast. He was lucky if he was offered use of a free water fountain usually. 

“Uh—MacAvoy. Father Joseph MacAvoy.” 

“Father Joseph and St. Joseph’s?” She chuckled to herself, then shook her head. “Sorry, you probably get that all the time.” 

“It was one of the reasons I picked it, actually,” he said, feeling his stomach lurch with the extra talking. “Couldn’t make a decision, so I figured it was a sign.” 

“Seems as good a reason as any.” She walked around the desk and took a seat in the swivel-chair, big and plush enough to dwarf her tiny frame. “Do you live on this side of the city?” 

He shook his head, then squeezed his eyes shut when he grew to regret the action. “I don’t really know how I got here.” 

She made a noise, and he wasn’t sure if it was disapproval or sympathy. Disapproval was more likely, but at least she wasn’t looking at him like the waitresses did at all his usual diners. 

“Do you usually drink like this?” 

He could have lied. The thought fluttered across his mind, but the thought of lying made him anxious—he wasn’t particularly good at it. She would know. “Yes.”

“Why?” 

He finished his toast, and took a tiny sip of water. Maybe a confession would be good for his soul—a confession not bleated to the middle of his bathroom with his head in the toilet. “I don’t know. It’s easier than dealing with my failures, I guess.” 

“What failures?” 

He looked down at his water cup, and gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’ve let my church fall into disrepair. No one comes to mass anymore. I don’t even hold mass anymore. I drink too much. I have no money. I wind up in places across town that I didn’t even know existed.” He shook his head, slowly this time. “I’m worthless.” 

Belle stood up, and he wanted to sink into his chair. She was going to insist that he leave now, that he take his sorry arse out of her library and go muck up some other building. 

Instead, she stopped behind him and ruffled his hair as if he were a young boy who’d done something precious. “You’re not worthless. You’re just a little lost.”

‘A little lost’ was an understatement, but MacAvoy didn’t protest, just closed his eyes and leaned against her hand. It had been so long since someone had handled him without being rough and even longer since someone had touched his hair. 

“I’ll be back in a bit, okay? I have to go set up a reading room for a school visit. There’s more bread in the cupboard, and I think there might be some jam in the fridge.” 

“Okay,” he said, stomach sinking at the thought of her leaving. He never wanted her hand removed from his head. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem.” 

****

It should have been a problem. There was a lavatory connected to Belle’s office, and five minutes after she left saw him curled around her toilet, heaving up the toast he’d just finished. He needed more whiskey, but the bottle he kept in his jacket had disappeared. He suspected that it had had help. 

When he was certain that he had nothing left in him to lose, he flushed the toilet and went to rinse his mouth, wobbling on sweat-slicked legs. Maybe he would die here in this library. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it wasn’t an alleyway. 

“Father?” Belle’s voice was followed by two short raps on the door. “Are you all right?” 

“I am now,” he muttered, glaring at himself in the mirror. He looked gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and ghostly cheeks. “I think that was the worst of it.” 

“I have some mouthwash in the lower cupboard, and paper cups as well. You’re welcome to use it.” 

“Thanks.” He lowered himself inch by inch until he was eye-level with the door, then opened it. Inside was all manner of things—toilet rolls, tissue boxes, jugs of soap to refill the dispensers, a first aid kit. He retrieved the mouth wash with shaking hands, then a paper cup, and his stomach lurched at the idea of harsh mint. 

He managed to swish it around in his mouth for fifteen of the suggested thirty seconds, spitting it out when he felt a gag coming up. When he finally stumbled back into Belle’s office, she was sitting in her chair with a bottle of cleaner.

“Do you want to shower?” she asked, and he almost fell back into the lavatory. 

“What?”

“There’s a shower in that far stall. You’re welcome to use whatever soap and shampoo is in there.” 

It would be nice to be clean, but all of his clothes would still be grimy. Maybe he should just wash them in the shower too. Maybe he should stay in Belle’s shower for the rest of his meager, pitiful life. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

“I’ll spray your clothes.” She held up the cleaner. “It’s not a wash, but it’s better than nothing. It’ll disinfect, at least.” 

“Thank you.” He wobbled back toward the bathroom, but paused in the doorway. ‘Thank you’ felt so inadequate. 

“It’s amazing, what you’re doing,” he said, trying to draw on the ability to talk that had gotten him into the priesthood. “Not many people would do this.” 

Belle flushed, shaking her head like he’d just told her she had toilet roll stuck to her skirt. “Anyone would. It’s the right thing.” 

He smiled. It was nice knowing there were people who thought that way without having taken any vows. 

****

The shower helped more than anything, and instead of putting on his clothes, he let Belle spray them and hang them outside while he walked around wrapped in a clean towel. It was nice to be clean. 

He made himself another piece of toast and curled back up in the chair. There had been men’s shampoo in the shower, much nicer than the generic that he usually bought for himself. Did that mean there was a man who worked in the library? Someone who shared a shower with Belle? 

Unbidden, the image of Belle sharing a shower with a faceless man—who, from the back, looked a lot like Hugh Grant—sprung to his mind, and he flushed, fumbling to cross himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of anyone like that, much less his savior. Besides, Belle didn’t seem like the type of person to just share showers with her coworkers. 

Maybe she was married. He hadn’t thought to check her hands for a ring, but it would make sense. She was beautiful and kind, with the kind of fluttering eyelashes that could drive a man to buying expensive jewelry and making eternal vows. He would have to look at her hands. 

And maybe ask for coffee. His head was starting to beg for it. 

****

Apparently, there was a coffee carafe in the library, and Belle brought him a cup as soon as he mentioned it. He wanted to be more self-sufficient, but she didn’t want a man in a towel wandering around her library, and truthfully, he didn’t want to wander around. 

Belle didn’t seem to mind taking care of him anyway. It was good for her soul, he reasoned, and it was doing wonders for his as well. 

She wasn’t wearing any rings, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t in a relationship. Maybe she was planning on getting engaged. Maybe he could officiate at the wedding, waive the church-renting fee in repayment of her kindness. 

That’s what he would do. He would get his act together—maybe Belle would allow him to see her once a week or so for a chat—and then the church would understand having to do this. It was perfect. 

****

“Belle,” he said the next time she sat down. His coffee cup was empty and his body ached all over, but he thought he might have been done throwing up.

“Hmm?” She was turned to her computer, probably pulling up a web catalogue or something. 

“I want to thank you, for all of this.” He gestured around, and she looked up from her screen with a frown.

“You did. Several times. And you’re welcome—it’s no trouble at all, really.” 

“I see that—you’re not married,” he began, wishing he had the wood of confession between them so that he would not have seen her startled jump and hurried glance at her ring finger. 

“No, I am very single. Sometimes people think I’m engaged to the library, though.”

A tingly feeling spread along his spine at that confession, but he ignored it. “Well, I can’t officiate at that wedding.” 

“Pardon?” She tilted her head at him. 

This conversation would probably have gone a lot more smoothly had he not been wrapped in a towel. He swallowed, fiddling with the edge of it. 

“That’s really the only thing I can offer you in return. If you wanted to get married in my church, we could do it for free.”

Her smile lit up the whole room, and the knot in his chest eased a little. She didn’t think he was creepy for talking about her future marriage—although a stupid part of him had hoped she might look a little scandalized at the thought of a relationship. 

“That’s very thoughtful of you, but even if I was getting married, I couldn’t accept.” 

He frowned, forehead creasing. “Why not?” Was his kindness less acceptable than hers? 

“I’m not Catholic.” 

There was silence, and then a strange buzzing filled his head. He had not factored this into his thought process. “What?” 

“I’m not Catholic. I’m Protestant.” 

Protestant? He had not foreseen this. 

****

The door slammed open, and MacAvoy jumped, clutching at his towel before it could slip away from his thighs. Was Belle angry now? He turned, but instead of Belle, there was a wild man in a kilt stomping toward the mini-fridge. 

He should say something. Would Belle want a thug who smelled like stale mud rummaging through her things? 

The man whipped around and hunched his shoulders, like a tiger about to pounce, and his bright-eyed gaze froze MacAvoy to his chair. His upper lip lifted in a snarl, and he flipped the mustard jar in his hand as though he meant to stab him with it.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” He threw his shoulders back, swaggering closer like he owned every inch of space around him. MacAvoy could only stare, wishing he was dressed and maybe a little bit drunk to stop his shaking.

“Oi, where are your manners? I asked you a fucking question.” He slapped the mustard onto the desk before grabbing MacAvoy’s chin and yanking his head forward. 

“I—I—” He just wanted to cross himself, but he couldn’t move, and all he could think was please, please, please, please, please. 

“What, are you stupid and naked?” 

“Please,” he wheezed, shaking like a wet dog. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

He tugged harder on his chin, and MacAvoy gulped. “I’ll consider it. Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing in Belle’s office?” 

“F-Father MacAvoy.” He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along his taut throat. 

“A priest, eh? Forsaking your vows for some carnal pleasures?” 

MacAvoy blushed from the roots of his hair to the backs of his knees. “N-no! I passed out a-and Belle found me! That’s—that’s all. I swear.” 

The man tilted his face to the left and then the right, making his eyes water with pain, but then dropped him and backed off. MacAvoy all but melted back into his chair, wishing he could disappear. 

“So a disgraced priest, then?” He picked up the mustard and went back to the fridge. 

“Yes.” The admission hurt, but it was overshadowed by his relief at still having a head, and as soon as he could move his hands again, he rubbed at his throat. “But I’d like to try again.” 

“It’ll never work. You’ll have to change cities. Once everyone knows you’re a fuck-up failure, everyone expects it of you.” 

MacAvoy swallowed, watching the man pull out sliced cheese and ham. “That’s not true,” he said, though there were about fifteen pubs that would contradict him. 

“It is, and the faster you learn that, the better you’ll survive. Take it from me.” 

“And who are you?” He tried to ask gently, so that the man would know he was genuinely curious and not trying to slight him.

He whirled around, kilt belling out in a flash of tartan, and then sank into a bow. “Nosty, at your service.” 

MacAvoy was glad that he was no longer looking like he meant to take a fatal bite out of his neck, but he was still wary. The smile he tried came out as more of a grimace. “It’s very nice to meet you, Nosty.” 

“Oi, don’t fucking lie to me, priest. You don’t want God to smite you.” 

MacAvoy swallowed. It wasn’t a lie, not completely—Nosty seemed like the sort of person he could help, and he wanted to be drawn to help people. On the other hand, Nosty also seemed like the sort of man to bite the hand that feeds him. 

“Here.” Nosty bounded over, sandwich in one hand, and bottle of something red and a spoon in the other. “You’re hung over?”  

“Uh—aye. A bit, yeah.” ‘A bit’ was an understatement. 

“Try this.” He held the sandwich between his teeth, and then poured a measure of the red bottle’s contents into the spoon. 

MacAvoy reached a shaking hand out for it, too terrified to disobey, but even more terrified to actually put it in his mouth. “What is it?” 

“Hot sauce. Eat it, it’ll help.” 

It didn’t occur to MacAvoy that he might have been pulling his leg until the spoon was up against his lips and it was too late to not ingest any. With a quick prayer, he slurped down the spoon’s contents. 

For a few seconds, all was quiet. Then, a fire flared in his throat and he wheezed. 

“Oh, fuck.” He gasped for breath, clawing at his throat like that would somehow relieve the burn. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He coughed, and Nosty thumped him on the back. 

“Just ride it out, Father,” he said, words thick through his lunch. “It’ll be over soon.” 

“Water! Please!” 

“Jesus, for a man whose supposed to be smart, you sure are fucking stupid. Water won’t help.” 

He let out an incoherent whimper that was meant to be another ‘fuck,’ and groped at the air like he could use it to smother the flames in his mouth. Then, the door opened, and Nosty was standing to block him from it before he could even see the swish of Belle’s skirt. 

“Nosty!” 

The delight in Belle’s soft voice froze the fire in MacAvoy’s throat. Belle liked this hellion—she liked him enough that she was happy to see him terrorizing her office. It made his stomach as hot as the rest of him. 

“Hey.” Nosty spread his legs, bony backside in MacAvoy’s face, and crossed his arms. “I see you took in another stray. You turning this into an animal shelter?”

“Neither of you are animals.” She started towards them, stepping around Nosty to see MacAvoy, curled into the chair with red-rimmed eyes and pasty lips. She lurched forward, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Father, are you all right?” 

“Fine,” he wheezed, just proud enough not to tattle on Nosty. 

She stroked his hair back, and then her eyes fell on the bottle of hot sauce. “Nosty, what did you do?” 

“Just trying to cure his hangover, sweetheart.” 

MacAvoy closed his eyes, clutching at his towel, and focused on the feeling of Belle’s hand on his head. He did not want to be in the middle of this anymore. 

****

Belle peeked into the empty office half an hour or so later. MacAvoy had been napping, but it was hard to doze for long when he was naked in a tiny chair, so the sound of the door opening woke him. 

“Sorry,” she said, raising a black bundle in her hand. “Your clothes smell a lot better now, if you want to get dressed.” 

“Thank you.” He accepted the bundle, warm from the sunshine. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. If you want to stay until closing, I’ll drive you to the church.” 

He shook his head, swallowing the bile. “You’ve already done too much for me.” 

“Father.” She leaned against the door, arms folded. “You, of all people, should know how to accept kindness. Let me drive you.” 

He swallowed. She was right—it was his job to teach people to be as kind as Belle, and here he was, not even letting her do what she wanted. “Okay. Thank you.” 

“Great.” She pushed herself off the door.

“Wait, Belle!” 

He hadn’t thought this through, and wasn’t prepared for her to return her attention to him, one eyebrow arched in question. 

“Hmm?” 

“Can I see you again?” 

He was unaccustomed to being smiled at, but Belle was looking like he’d just proposed. He could almost imagine her saying his name the way she’d said Nosty’s—he would gladly be one of her strays, if it meant they could spend time together. 

“Of course. Maybe I’ll even come to you next time.” 

****

It was time to venture out into the library. MacAvoy was dressed, collar in place to dissuade any aggression on Nosty’s part, and he was feeling like he either needed a drink or some air. Since there was no liquor, air would have to do, and the quiet library was the perfect place for his still-sensitive head. 

He wandered around with the care of someone who feared breaking his own legs, shuffling between bookshelves with no direction in mind. Maybe he would find Belle and listen to her talk about the library. 

A wisp of red between two shelves caught his eye, and he was certain that it was Belle’s dress. He shuffled around to the aisle, mouth open in anticipation of a greeting.

When he saw her, he froze. Mouth still open, he could only stare at Belle pressed against the shelves, pinned there by Nosty’s knobby knees. MacAvoy’s first thought was that Nosty was a heathen, forcing himself on Belle—he needed to save her, to protect her. But even someone as inexperienced as MacAvoy couldn’t ignore the way Belle’s hands curled around Nosty’s leather-clad elbows or the possessive tenderness with which Nosty cupped her cheek as he pressed soft kisses into her berry-red lips.

[chapter 2]

[loverrofmineee]

The Parting Glass - Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x OC

AO3 | Summary | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Chapter 4- Brothers, Bikes, and Bombs

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Sorcha had barely three hours of sleep before she was needed back in the tower. She had spent the night and early hours of the morning folding maps and putting flight plans into bags for the navigators to prep them for their mission to Trondheim, Norway. She, and the rest of the women, had been woken up at a quarter to five by a sharp knock and call from outside the door. All the women in the bunk quickly assembled themselves, making sure they looked proper before heading out to their desks. Sorcha walked alongside Shiv and Aileen, the latter half carrying the morning conversations, “I have a complaint, and it’s gonna be in vain, but you two can’t make fun of me for it, okay.”

“‘In vain’,” Shiv mocked, putting air quotes as she spoke, “Look at you using big words.”

“Oh piss off Shiv,” Aileen retorted as she made a face at her friend, “I know why we have to get up so early, but could there ever be a possible world where we get possibly an extra half-hour of sleep?”

The younger girl’s words elicited a chuckle from Sorcha, as she quietly agreed with Aileen’s grievance, “In a perfect world, love.”

“God, you sound like my Nan.” groaned Shiv.

“Good,” Sorcha smiled as she wrapped an arm around the less-than-cheerful girl, “Someone has to keep you in line.”

Aileen giggled at Sorcha’s words, while Shiv only grunted in acknowledgment. The trio had arrived at the tower, shaking off the previous mood of playfulness and exhaustion, replacing it with an air of professionalism. They made their way to their desks, words of greeting passing between those they passed, before getting down to work. Since all of Sorcha’s work corresponding to the current mission had already been done, she was relegated to filing reports and flight plans from previous missions. Each plan had been reviewed by higher-up navigation execs, deeming them successful, or unsuccessful. Sorcha’s job at face value was to read the bold text at the top and file each into their respective folders. But the curious girl would spend time reviewing all the annotations made by the air execs, having a great interest in the field.

Sorcha had completed college the year before arriving at Thorpe Abbotts. She had always felt a pull to the studies of history, politics, and geography, wanting to understand the world as a whole. Growing up in a heavily Irish neighborhood, she had been exposed to stories of what life was like across the pond, being the only 5-year-old who actually wanted to listen to an old man’s life story. Once in school, Sorcha excelled in Social Studies and was told she should consider a career in teaching. The Devlin family had always placed importance on education, as both Sorcha’s father and mother had only gone to 6th grade before being pulled out to work. Sorcha’s mother was wary of the idea of her eldest, and first daughter, going to college, having a decent understanding of what life was like for a woman her age. Sorcha had been accepted into Barnard College and was in the midst of her last year when Pearl Harbor occurred. Her plan was to finish out the year, get a job, and then find a way to join the war effort, but her mother pleaded she put her career on hold to accompany her brother overseas. Once everything had settled at home, Sorcha was called to be stationed at Thorpe Abbotts, working as a clerk for navigation execs, fitting right in her wheelhouse. Now, as she read each file, scanning for any bit of information she could find, Sorcha knew she was in the right place, doing the right thing for her family, as well as her country.

—-----------------------------------------—

Once the men had taken off and Sorcha’s piles of paper had dwindled she gave herself a break, going to collect any mail that had come in. Once she arrived, a smile broke across her face, seeing an envelope that had her brothers writing on it. Sorcha made her way to the cafeteria, grabbed her third cup of coffee for the day, and tore open the envelope, excited to see what her brother had written.

Dearest Sister,

I hope you can read the sarcasm in me calling you dearest sister, as we all know that little Caoimhe is the favorite. I appreciate you not freaking out over my last letter, you did ask for details, and I did provide them! The last mission we went on was in the same vein as the one before. My buddy Rubber and I were close to falling a few times, but those German fighters didn’t see the rest of our squadron coming. We lost a couple of good men, but we both know that’s how this whole thing goes. Enough of all this boring war-based talk, I want to hear about how you’re doing.

Per your last letter, I hope that Bucky guy is still giving you grief. Lord knows you need someone to keep you in check, or else you’d be plain boring, and no one needs that. It’s nice that you have a friend over there, and I take the fact that you constantly compare him to me as a compliment. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with a guy like me? I enjoyed reading about your pub excursions. It seems Mom and Dad raised us right since no one’s been able to beat me in any drinking game so far. I know Dad would be proud, not sure about Mom though. Speaking of Mom, I’ve been receiving letters from her biweekly. I think she pre-wrote some in hopes that I wouldn’t get lonely over here, or God forbid, forget about my family. Most of the time she’s writing about how great Caoimhe’s doing in school, or how Dad is working on his next project. I fear that our apartment will be filled with various wooden creations by the time we get home. Mom also writes about you, as if she doesn’t know that we write to each other, but I do enjoy the fact that she gets on the both of us about settling down. She gives me at least twenty names of girls from home in each letter, most of which I already know, but who am I to spoil her fun? I’ve been seeing this local girl for a couple of weeks now. I think you’d like her if those execs would ever let you come and visit. I can practically see you shaking your head at my lack of details, but we both know I’m never one to divulge my relationships, and neither are you. Not to sound like Mom, but I do hope you’re still not staunch on the belief that you don’t need anyone to rely on. I’m sure the girls and Bucky are great friends, but if there’s anything I’ve learned so far, it's that life is short, and we should make the most of it. Who knew I could be so philosophical? But really, I hope you find someone who takes care of you. If I know you as well as I think I do, you’re too busy caring for everyone else and not yourself.

Enough with all the sappy stuff. I have some potential good news! The brass is sending me to a conference in London in a few weeks and was hoping that you’d be able to get a weekend pass to see me. I’ve already written to your Colonel, playing up the sibling sympathy card. You and Mom hate my dramatics, but I think you’ll find this to be a good use for it. Looking forward to (possibly) seeing you soon. Don’t forget to write back!

Love, Your beloved brother, Cormack

—-----------------------------------------—

The mission to Norway was deemed a roaring success, though Curt crash landing in Scotland put somewhat of a sour on Aileens mood. Sorcha, alongside the other girls, were adamant about buying Aileen’s drinks for the evening, as well as attempting to brighten her mood. The four girls were standing by the bar, nursing their drinks as they watched Anika dance with Benny.

“It’s not fair,” Aileen grumbled into her near-empty glass of whiskey. “Look at how cute they are.”

“Curt will be back soon, dear. What matters is that he’s alive and well, and only a few hours from us.” Comforted Lilibet.

Aileen sighed in response as she rested her head on the older woman’s shoulder, “Give me some good news.”

“I got a letter from Cormack today.” Sorcha casually stated, grabbing the girl's attention. Anticipatory looks rested on their face, waiting to hear what she had to say, “Apparently he’s been seeing a local girl.”

“Shut up!”

“Let her go on, Shiv” Lilibet chided.

Sorcha laughed at her friend’s interest as she continued, “I know right? Anyways, he wasn’t in the mood to discuss life on the base I guess, so it was a more casual letter. Lightly complaining about our mother’s worries, how Caoimhe’s doing, and then getting all brotherly on me.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Shiv!” Shouted Lilibet, “Honestly, there are other ways to express confusion.”

“Apologies miss ‘prim and proper’, I just think that’s the most effective way of doing it. Wouldn’t you agree Aileen?”

“She’s not wrong Lils.” Aileen chuckled in agreement.

“All it means is that he’s getting protective I guess,” Sorcha continued, grabbing the girl’s attention once again, “Cormack thinks that I should be branching out. Looking for love.”

The girls pushed aside the sigh in Sorcha’s tone as she spoke, voicing their agreement with the younger Devlin’s ideas, “He’s not wrong, Devs.”

Sorcha suppressed a joking eye-roll at her friend’s words, “I knew you’d agree with him. He’s not entirely wrong…” she trailed off, gaging the looks on her companion's faces at the admission. Each girl’s face held a knowing look, on the verge of ‘we told you so’, causing Sorcha to continue, “I just can’t see myself in that position. I worry enough about Cormack and he’s not even here. Can you imagine how I’d be if I got attached to a pilot on our base?”

Lilibet gave Sorcha a knowing look, “You already have.” As she pointed to Bucky, currently sitting beside Buck, “We all have. This group of men have wormed their way into our hearts, whether we like it or not. Friendship is no different than romance, the only dividers are the excess emotions that come with real love.”

“You’re so annoying when you’re right,” Sorcha grumbled as she finished off her drink. “Did I mention that Cormack will be in London soon? And that he wants me to get a weekend pass to visit?”

“No, you did not!” Aileen exclaimed as she hit Sorcha on the arm, “You’re too good at burying the lead.”

For the first time of the night, Shiv posed an actual question, “Do you think it’ll get approved?”

“I hope so. He said he played some big overdramatic sympathy card in his message to Harding. Knowing him it’ll all work out.”

“That’s amazing, Devs!” Lilibet said with genuine enthusiasm, “It’ll be nice to see him and get away from us lot for a few days.”

Sorcha frowned at her friend’s words, knowing she was joking, “I could never get sick of you. You’re the only ones that keep me sane around here.”

“Speaking of sane,” Shiv pointed to Bucky, who was making his way up to the unattended microphone in front of the band, “Looks like Egan’s lost his mind again.”

Before Sorcha got a chance to defend her friend, the man shouted her name from across the room, beckoning her over to his side. Sorcha shared a sympathetic look with her friends as she made her way over, never being one to turn down a friend’s request. Once she was beside the Major, he made his request known, “Sing with me, Devs.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky’s signature smirk grew on his face as he offered his hand to Sorcha, “Always, my friend.”

Sorcha was about to respond, but Bucky had begun to sing, and boy was he terrible. As he sang the first verse to Sorcha, Bucky danced with the microphone in an attempt to make his friend laugh and join him. Proving Bucky right, Sorcha’s face cracked with a wide smile, gesturing for the man to move over so they could share the mic.

“Never saw the sun shining so bright. Never saw things go oh so right. Noticing the days hurrying by. When you're in love, my my how they fly. Blue days, all of them gone. Nothing but blue skies from now on.”

The voices of the duo mixed as they sang together, Buckys remaining more spoken, while Sorcha took the route of actually singing. Her voice was a shock to those watching, as they had never seen her perform before. Unbeknownst to everyone besides Sorcha’s friends, the woman had a deep background in singing. She had been a part of her church choir since she could talk, growing a passion for performance as she grew older. Singing alongside Bucky, Sorcha felt at home and at ease, not caring about the dozens of eyes on her.

As the band continued to play, Bucky did his best to mimic the conductor. His hands were thrown in the air on every beat and downbeat, making Sorcha keel over in laughter. Bucky then attempted to dance with her, but it was impossible as both were bubbling with playfulness, tripping over each other’s feet and barely being able to grab hands. Once the song had died down, the two exited their makeshift stage to applause from the men and women in the club.

“You two have fun up there?” Buck’s voice broke the two out of their bubble, remembering that they had an audience.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that, Devs!” exclaimed Bucky as he twirled the girl around, once again causing her to burst into laughter.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about our girl.” Lilibet's voice broke into the conversation, standing alongside Aileen.

Sorcha’s cheeks burned bright red from the compliments and the adrenaline flowing through her system. “It was nothing. Really, that was just fun.”

“If that was just fun, I can’t imagine what serious singing would look like.” Buck complimented.

“Maybe if you’re all good, you’ll find out one day.”

Benny and Anika approached the group, the latter more inebriated than the other. Benny’s arm had a strong hold on the girl's waist, doing his best to support her. Anika on the other hand, was seemingly oblivious to her partner’s current state of worry, a drunken smile plastered across her face.

“Kocham cię,” Anika slurred as she gazed up at Benny, her foreign words cueing confused looks from all the men.

“She’s been saying this for the last ten minutes,” DeMarco groaned, “Do any of you speak Polish?”

Sorcha shared a look with her friends, each girl understanding what Anika was saying. “Kocham cię” translated to ‘I love you’ in Polish, something Anika had taught them early in their friendship. The women buzzed happily inside, glad their friend had found love, even if she couldn’t express it in the only language the man knew.

“We’re not at liberty to say anything. Sorry, Benny.” Aileen teased, fake sadness laced in her voice.

“You’re on your own, pal.”

—-----------------------------------------—

After Sorcha’s impromptu performance, she needed some space to herself, finding herself next to a smiling Croz. “You really know how to party, huh?”

“Save the compliments, Croz. It’s me who should be praising you. I heard you ran a stellar mission today.”

A flustered blush spread across Crosby’s face as he shook his head at Sorcha’s words, “I was just doing what was asked of me, nothing special.”

“Leading the wing is not an ordinary task. It’s a lot, especially last minute. I don’t know exactly what happens up there, but I understand it’s a hard thing to do. You’re talented Croz, don’t go telling yourself otherwise.”

“You and Egan sound so similar.”

“Don’t ruin the moment Croz.”

The two shared a moment of laughter, aware of the undertones of their light conversation. They fell into a brief comfortable silence before a voice rang out, grabbing everyone in the club's attention. “Come on, everybody. Bike race in the mess hall! Who’s in?”

Crosby and Sorcha shared a look, eyes narrowed as they gauged who would run to the mess hall first. Much to Sorcha’s surprise, Croz was the first to go, running alongside a few men from his crew. She laughed at his sudden change of pace, trying to find her friends in the moving crowd. Shiv was the first to shoot past, grabbing Sorcha’s arm and pulling her into the group. The other women found each other as they pushed and shoved dozens of men, trying to get a decent view of the race. Giggles were shared between the tower girls, the excitement of those in the hall contagious to even the most serious-faced men.

“Who’s your money on?” Asked Anika, who was starting to sober up.

“Who do you think, Anika?” Aileen spoke with a knowing tone, “If Sorcha was a betting woman, and unfortunately she isn’t, she’d bet on her best friend Bucky any day.”

Sorcha swatted an arm at Aileen, embarrassed by her bluntness, “I wouldn’t say he’s my best friend.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot, that spot goes to Lil.”

The blush on Sorcha’s face only deepened at Shiv’s words, “You two need to stop teasing me. I’m scared of the pair of you.” She pointed between the two girls as she spoke, her words only strengthening their bond.

“Hush, you three. The race is about to start.”

Immediate silence fell upon the group as they awaited the starting signal for the race. Sorcha’s hands covered her mouth as delighted giggles spilled from it, the girl feeling intoxicated with happiness. Before she knew it, the gun had gone off and the officer’s race had started. Buck and Bucky were in the lead, something everyone foresaw, and poor Croz was in the back. The girls continued their laughter as the men raced by, each sending winks or cheers their way. Lilibet’s hands grasped Sorcha’s arm, and the two shared a look of pure jubilation. The atmosphere of the mess hall was electric, men and women shouting for one another, hoping their friend would win the race even though there was no actual prize besides bragging rights. As they approached their final lap, Buck and Bucky flew past the girls, harmless taunts flowing from their mouths. Their verbal sparring fell to a halt as the two men slid on their final turn, causing every man after to do the same. Abandoning their bikes, it had now become a footrace. Each man was crawling over one another in feeble attempts to claim victory.

Once the men were nearing the finish, sirens pierced the air, sucking all life out of the happy moment. Sorcha turned to her friends as Jack Kidd addressed the group, telling everyone to head to the shelters on base.

The tower girls linked arms with one another as they made their way to an open shelter. Silence fell over the group as they walked, too stunned and afraid to say anything. They fell into single file alongside other officers, all sharing in the silence. Sorcha looked to the sky, completely mesmerized by the hues of orange contrasted against the night sky. Her mind cycled through a variety of thoughts, pondering on how terrifying, yet stunning the moment was. Lilibet noticed the look in her friend’s eyes, casting a side glance before speaking, “What’s on your mind, Devs?”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sorcha's eyes didn’t dare move as she spoke, too caught up in the moment to avert them, “It’s so… hauntingly beguiling. I understand the gravity of the situation, but…”

“Oh, Devs.” Lilibet placed an arm on Sorcha’s shoulder, finally grabbing her full attention, “You’re a rarity.”

Sorcha offered a half-smile to Lilibet, eyes welling with tears waiting to be shed. Her friend’s words cut deep, comprehending that it was complimentary. She felt that only Lilibet truly understood her. Having been in the war longer, Lil was sympathetic to Sorcha’s outlook, feeling akin to and understanding her unspoken thoughts.

The group continued to watch in silence, letting thoughts of the future pass through their heads, praying that they would make it through another day.

[chromatic-lamina]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤

OKAY! This was the 3rd one I got, and I thought of making it non-anon when I sent this out to other writers so that it didn't kinda circulate amongst the same circles continuously, but eh!

I'm a lot less tired than I was when I answered number 2, and here's a link to number 1, so

I've got a lot of fics, and I'm gonna do my next fave 5, because it's very hard to decide on faves. And @flyiing-giraffe left a fantastic review on

Taxi, which is very dear to my heart. It's meant to be AceLaw, but it's missing a chapter, and that was the most AceLaw part, but it's still there (the ship). The main idea is that Law drives a taxi and he meets people, and those people are your One Piece faves. Modern AU: summary:

Doflamingo's dementia, Ace's narcolepsy, Cora's death. Law collects vinyl with warps and scratches, and drives a taxi.

Chapters can mostly be read stand alone, and I wouldn't call it a ship fic.

Rated T, 14,392 words.

2. the tibia, the fibula, the regions in between

ZoLaw on the submarine, on the way to Wano. Rated a very soft M, I think, originally T.

Zoro and Law explore the unconformities of personal geography. Practice, distraction, quiet and unquiet minds.

This one is a ship fic on a ship.

3. softening the fall of snow

Law and Chopper in Wano talking about Jolly Rogers and Courage (prompt from @afterdeck-ace)

4. Father Figure

Smoker and Law having that conversation in Punk Hazard! Platonic. The father figure ain't Smoker. (G5 regarded Vergo as a father figure. Law did not).

5. Macrobiotics and Marathons

"Do you always cook like that? Flying scalpels, stabbing daggers, projectiles of fire...?" "Disrespected cabbages," the teacher yelled out, trying to get her body parts together, reordered. "We don't always disrespect the cabbage," Marco said.

Only for the summary. The first story still makes me laugh. The second story is just a bit throwaway!

Law and Marco try out a macrobiotics cooking class. Modern AU-ish

MarLaw

Special shoutout to a ton of others. It's really hard to choose. If anyone has a particular theme, or type of writing of mine they'd like me to pinpoint some stories for, drop me an ask! My works.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Bearing the Burden

Summary:

In the aftermath of a bridge’s collapse, General Kirigan stands amidst the ruins as a bastion against the tide of despair, pushing beyond the limits of human endurance. It is Ivan, with unwavering loyalty, who steps in when the cost becomes too great, bearing the weight that Kirigan can no longer carry. In a catastrophe where every second counts, sacrifice and unexpected fragility reveal where true leadership lies—not in command, but in compassion.

Notes:

This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Chapter 1: Collapse

In the hushed ambiance of the Little Palace’s map room, Alina sat a small distance from General Kirigan, her gaze fixed upon his hands. As the early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room, his slender fingers moved with precision and grace, accentuating his words as they danced over the expanse of the map. Each gesture was deliberate, guiding her through the complex tapestry of Ravka’s geography.

The low thrum of Kirigan’s voice filled the quiet room, his explanations weaving through the air like threads of an intricate spell. Alina found herself captivated not just by the knowledge he imparted, but by the man himself. His presence was commanding yet contained, a reservoir of strength that she was only beginning to comprehend.

An abrupt clamour at the door interrupted the quiet study session. Kirigan’s sharp gaze snapped toward the sound, the only sign of his annoyance. But before he could grant permission to enter, the door burst open. His second in command, Ivan, appeared—his usual stoic composure shattered, signalling a grave matter. In that moment, Kirigan’s annoyance dissolved into a look of profound concern. “General,” Ivan said, his voice steady but with an underlying tension, “the great bridge has fallen.”

Alina’s hands flew to her mouth in horror, eyes wide with disbelief. She was well-acquainted with the bridge: a wide stone structure always teeming with life. Each time she had crossed it, she had weaved through a throng of people—merchants calling out to passersby, travellers sharing stories, and locals mingling. It was a place where the pulse of the kingdom could be felt, vibrant and full of energy. The thought of such a cornerstone of community lying in ruins, with the possibility of anyone who had been there caught in the catastrophe, sent a shiver down her spine.

Kirigan’s reaction was immediate, his strategist’s mind already leaping into action. He rose swiftly from his chair, the elegant lines of his body unfolding in graceful determination. “Assemble all available Grisha,” he ordered, his voice now a sharp command that resonated with the urgency of the situation. “We’ll leave in 10 minutes.” As he spoke, he strode towards the door, his long steps resolute. The seamless shift from a contemplative teacher to a decisive leader did not escape Alina's notice. She admired this strength. His deep care for the welfare of the people around him was a trait she found remarkably compelling. Determinedly, Alina rose too, silently vowing to stand with the Grisha and offer her support as best she could in the face of disaster.

In the wake of Ivan’s alarming news, the Little Palace’s courtyard transformed into a scene of controlled chaos. The air was thick with tension, a palpable current that electrified every Grisha present. They congregated with a shared sense of resolve, their faces etched with concern for all those who might have been affected by the tragedy.

General Kirigan stood at the forefront, his demeanor the eye of the storm; calm, collected, and focused. His orders were clear and concise, cutting through the murmur of determined whispers like a knife. "Prepare to move out," he commanded, and like a well-oiled machine, the Grisha sprang into action. Horses were brought forth, their bridles clinking under the swift movements of the stable attendants. Grisha mounted with practiced ease, the urgency of their mission reflected in the quick checks of their gear before turning their mounts towards the gate, poised for departure, all the while listening to Kirigan’s targeted commands. The General briefly orchestrated their roles with precision and foresight, readying each for the specific challenges that lay ahead. And as soon as the last Grisha had taken to the saddle, Kirigan, with a fluid grace, mounted his own steed. He surveyed his assembled force one final time with a critical eye. Then, with a nod, he signalled the readiness to depart.

The massive gates swung open and a thunderous clatter of hooves against cobblestone filled the air as Kirigan led the Grisha out of the Little Palace. The city blurred past them as they galloped through the streets. Alina, clinging to her saddle, felt the rush of wind and the collective determination of the riders. They were a storm of purpose, racing against time to reach the wounded and the waiting.

As they neared the disaster site, the silhouette of the once-magnificent bridge loomed ahead, now a jagged outline against the sky. The broad archway that had curved high over the wild river’s banks was a scene of destruction, its remnants strewn across the churning waters deep below. The proud structure now lay in tatters, with the debris of commerce—overturned carts, scattered goods, and the remains of livelihoods—littering the banks, while the relentless river swept away fragments of the catastrophe.

The air was thick with dust and the cacophony of chaos as the Grisha arrived at the scene of devastation. Amidst the turmoil, soldiers of the Tsar, overwhelmed by the disaster, struggled to find their footing. Their efforts, disjointed and frantic, mirrored the confusion that dominated.

The most acute terror emanated from isolated remnants of the bridge, where children cowered, clutching to the jagged edges, their small figures trembling with fear. Many meters above the raging river, the children’s refuge on a narrow column of debris swayed ominously, a fragile barrier between them and the perilous waters below. Panic reigned supreme, with the cries of their distraught parents piercing the tumult and helpless citizens wringing their hands in despair. General Kirigan’s eyes took in the scene, immediately recognizing that he alone could stabilize this hazardous part of the structure.

With no moment wasted, Kirigan leapt from his horse, his Grisha following suit. As they surged towards the bridge, he locked eyes with Ivan and stated: “You know what to do!” Trusting his second in command implicitly, he then concentrated on the ruins in front of him, his shadows already unfurling. Dark tendrils snaked out to cradle the crumbling masonry, holding it together against the pull of gravity. Meanwhile, Ivan rallied the majority of the Grisha to him with a series of sharp gestures, sending only a select few Durasts to aid Kirigan directly. His understanding of the General’s strategies was evident, ensuring that each Grisha’s exceptional abilities were utilized. They dispersed in a burst of coordinated urgency, each darting off to where their unique powers were needed most.

Without needing a command, Fedyor had moved instinctively towards the riverbank, his heart leading him to the frightened children. Moving as close to the edge as he dared, his voice reached out to them, his tone a gentle reassurance amidst the turmoil. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ he called, his Heartrender abilities subtly at work even from afar. The children’s sobs began to subside while they listened to his steady stream of reassurances, their grips on the bridge’s edge loosening ever so slightly, yet still firm enough to keep them from slipping. The crowd, sensing the Grisha’s influence, felt a flicker of hope ignite within them.

As Kirigans shadows grappled with the forces threatening to tear the bridge apart, his face was a mask of concentration, a rare glimpse of effort in his usually stoic demeanor. With each movement, his darkness stretched further, straining against the weight of the fractured bridge. It was a battle of wills between the General and the relentless force of gravity, each vying for dominance.

From her vantage point, Alina watched the children, their expressions reflecting the stark terror of the moment. Her heart went out to them, their small figures huddled together amidst the chaos. She also felt an enormous empathy for the parents, whose anguished cries had not ceased since she arrived at the scene.

The Durasts were a flurry of activity, their hands deftly manoeuvring debris to form a makeshift plank. With each piece they added, the bridge to safety grew longer, until finally, it spanned the gap. Carefully, they slid the plank across the chasm, securing it against the platform where the children waited. It was a precarious path, but it was a path nonetheless—a chance for escape, a promise of safety. But the children, paralyzed by fear, clung to remnants of the railing, unable to muster the courage to traverse the narrow plank.

It was Alina who provided the solution. Though Kirigan had not yet voiced the need, she stepped forward, her slight frame and gentle nature making her the obvious choice. Despite the fear that clouded her eyes, trust shone through. “I will go,” she declared, and Kirigan’s gaze bore into her, his strain evident as he maintained the integrity of the bridge. “I will not let you fall,” he promised, his voice imbued with an unwavering resolve.

With those words anchoring her courage, Alina began her precarious journey across the remnants of the bridge. Her movements were deliberate, each step a small victory as she inched toward the terrified children. Reaching them, she coaxed and soothed, persuading them to release their death grips on the railing and trust in her. One child clambered onto her back, the other she held tightly in her arms, their bodies tense with fear. The return journey was an ordeal. The onlookers, Grisha and citizens alike, held their collective breath, inching as close to the edge as they dared, ready to receive the precious cargo. The ruin swayed and groaned under the added weight and Alina’s movements, more and more pieces of it plummeting into the abyss below, each one narrowly missing Kirigan, who had been compelled to descend further along the riverbank during the rescue and was now positioned directly beneath the remaining fragment. Drenched in sweat and visibly strained, his figure was almost engulfed by the shadows that fought to keep the structure intact, his physical exertion mirroring the mental strain of his magical efforts.

With each precarious step across the plank, Alina felt the weight of the children clinging to her, their grips so tight it was almost suffocating. The child on her back had their arms wrapped around her neck, squeezing with a fear-fuelled strength, threatening to steal her breath away. The plank wobbled beneath them, a dangerous dance with gravity as debris clattered down, striking the jagged edges of the ravine on its descent. But Alina’s focus was unyielding, her gaze fixated on nothing but the treacherous plank beneath her feet, every breath a silent vow to the children that she would not falter. And then, suddenly, there were hands—Fedyor’s among them, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and awe, as if he had witnessed a miracle. The sobbing parents relieved her of the children, their words lost in choked back tears, but their eyes spoke volumes of gratitude that Alina would carry with her forever. Strangers clapped, and an elderly woman enveloped her in a tearful embrace, overwhelming Alina with a wave of relief and joy so intense her knees nearly buckled. But the moment was fleeting.

As she turned to share a triumphant glance with Kirigan, the world seemed to shudder. With a deafening crash, the remaining bridge fragment gave way, succumbing to gravity and the relentless force of the river below. A cloud of dust and debris mushroomed into the air, and the lingering sense of relief was shattered by screams of terror. For a heartbeat, Alina stood frozen, confusion etching her features as she struggled to comprehend the sudden shift from salvation to catastrophe. A part of her mind whispered that it shouldn’t matter—the children were safe, after all. It was Fedyor’s frantic descent down the steep riverbank, with the Durasts close on his heels, their calls for the General, desperate, and filled with dread, that ignited the stark realization. Alina’s heart plummeted. Kirigan. There was no sign of him, no trace… he must have moved further, beneath the bridge. And now… now he was gone, swallowed by the rubble. The realization hit her like a physical blow, forcing her to grasp for support, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her. Alina’s breath came in ragged gasps, her mind reeling. The General, the man who had promised her safety, who had anchored her with his unwavering resolve, might now be beyond her reach, beyond anyone’s reach. No matter how fervently Fedyor called out, the only answer was a profound silence.

Alina descended slowly, her legs trembling. Tears traced paths down her dust-streaked face as she watched Fedyor, his Durasts, and several men from the crowd above, rush to the rubble with urgency. The air was charged with their frantic energy, each movement a desperate race against time, fuelled by the slim hope that the General still lived beneath the stone. Behind her, the crowd murmured quietly. The Ravkan citizens, marked by concern, stood in shock. Whispers circulated, reflecting the worry for the man who had risked everything to save two children. Fedyor’s hands were relentless, moving with purpose as he tore through the debris. His eyes were desperate, scanning for any sign of Kirigan in the chaos of stone and dust. As soon as they reached the spot where Kirigan was last seen, Fedyor extended his senses, the unique gift of a Heartrender searching for the faintest pulse amidst the silence. The crowd's breath caught, their attention fixed on the Heartrender's every move, their collective hope hanging by a thread. Then, a shout pierced the tense silence, a voice from above, laden with a mix of agitation and hope. "There!" The cry came from a man perched precariously on a pile of debris, pointing towards a stirring beneath a large slab of stone. Fedyor's gaze snapped to the indicated spot, his heart leaping into his throat as he saw the faint movement. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably a sign of life. They rushed towards it and as soon as they converged on the area, their hands worked in unison, lifting and moving with a renewed fervour. The gap in the rubble widened, each stone removed a step closer to their goal. The space Kirigan occupied was a narrow coffin of stone, it was miraculous that he had not been crushed; his left arm was pinned down, the limb so tightly trapped that freeing it was a feat in itself. But finally, enough debris had been removed for Kirigan to extricate himself. As Fedyor extended his arm, their eyes locked in a moment of shared relief. Then the General’s fingers intertwined with Fedyor's, and a few others quickly grasped Kirigan under his arms. With a collective effort, he was hoisted to his feet. He stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, his eyes closing as he took some deep breaths, his lungs greedily pulling in the air that had been so scarce beneath the rubble. Fedyor's gaze, filled with concern, swept over him. His face was bruised, and grime coated his skin. A trickle of blood mixed with dust made its way down his temple, tracing a path along his jawline. The trapped arm looked ghastly, yet Kirigan seemed indifferent to its condition, casually moving his fingers as he stood there, indicating to Fedyor that, at least, it was not broken. His hands, though steady, were marked with the remnants of his struggle. Fedyor reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing away the matted hair at Kirigan’s temple to assess the wound beneath. Kirigan flinched, the pain evident, but he swiftly regained his composure, his expression softening in silent gratitude. His grip on Fedyor's arm tightened briefly, conveying an appreciation that needed no words.

Then, the General turned from Fedyor’s care. Arms immediately reached out to him, offering support as he navigated the uneven rubble, but he acknowledged them only with a brief, yet grateful nod. His attention swept through the crowd, an urgent quest that ended only when he found Alina. She sat on the ground, her strength spent after this tumultuous storm of emotions. Their gazes met, and in his eyes, she saw an apology for the fear he had caused and for his inability to come to her side. She smiled through her tears, a fragile gesture of acknowledgment, and nodded, understanding the unspoken words between them. With a final soft look towards Alina, Kirigan turned away and ascended the riverbank. His eyes quickly sought out Ivan among the ranks, finding him coordinating the Grisha’s efforts amidst the rubble and ruin. Ivan had executed his duties with precision, directing each Grisha with the skill of an experienced strategist. The result was a symphony of power and purpose, each member of the assembly playing their part to mend the chaos wrought by disaster.

The Squallers had initially summoned fierce winds that not only had swept the debris aside but also had dispersed the suffocating dust clouds, clearing the vision for all. Now, they were primarily searching through the rubble for any buried victims.

Durasts focused their attention on the remnants of the bridge, their hands guiding the elements to reshape and remove the wreckage. They were found wherever victims were discovered under the rubble. With careful precision, they manipulated the largest fragments of debris, making them manageable to clear and ensuring the safety of all involved.

The Tidemakers, ever vigilant, continued their dance with the river, their motions a steady rhythm against the current, ensuring no more of the bridge—or its unfortunate victims—were lost to the water’s grasp. They had extended their vigilance beyond the immediate area, scouring the riverbed downstream for those who might have been carried away by the current.

The Inferni had turned their focus to the shore, where their flames provided warmth to those emerging from the icy waters, their controlled fires a beacon of comfort on the banks, keeping the injured as warm and as comfortable as possible.

Healers, their hands aglow with the faintest shimmer of restorative power, moved through the crowds with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. Some were quickly assessing the condition of the injured, determining who was in dire need of immediate attention and who could wait or be tended to by non-healers. The sheer number of injured overwhelmed their capabilities, each touch a race against time to save the dying and bring relief to the suffering.

Heartrenders had divided their efforts. Some were using their unique skills to detect the heartbeats of living victims buried under the rubble. The others were with the healers, prioritizing the sustenance of life for those on the brink of death, regulating the racing pulses of the shocked, and attempting to soothe the injured.

Alchemists provided whatever aid they could, helping in the search for survivors as well as tending to those with less critical injuries. Though still shaken from the recent events, Alina found a new resolve in the knowledge that Kirigan was safe. She rose, steadying herself against the tremor of her own emotions, and set about a new task with focused intent. She began the crucial work of identifying who was missing, gathering names, and tallying those unaccounted for, who might still be trapped under the debris or swept away by the river.

Surveying the frantic efforts around him, Kirigan quickly took stock of the situation. Then his voice, hoarse yet commanding, began to issue a few orders that further honed the efficiency of the ongoing efforts. His elite corps of magic wielders responded with swift precision, each group enhancing their role in the orchestrated chaos of rescue and recovery even more.

Kirigan kept a vigilant eye on everything, present wherever he was needed. He was the pulse of the operation—a quiet yet relentless force countering the tide of destruction. He worked alongside his Grisha, lifting boulders with his shadows, but also guiding and supporting, his directions mostly given with a nod or a look, motivating and comforting in equal measure.

The soldiers of the Tsar and numerous others who had come to help, all found themselves drawn into the fold, their hands and hearts contributing to the cause. Under Kirigan’s guidance, they formed a united front against the tragedy. Even those who had been sceptical of the Grisha, now watched in awe and growing respect as these beings of power fought not against them, but for them. Whispers of gratitude began to weave through the crowd, a murmur of changing hearts.

This was a testament to the Grisha’s adaptability and their unwavering commitment to aid those in need, even as they faced the harrowing reality of their own limitations amidst the catastrophe. But it was Kirigan, at the centre of it all, whose unyielding will power set the rhythm for their efforts.

In a moment of solitude, as he searched through a large pile of debris, his shadows delicately probing every crevice, ensuring no one was trapped beneath, Kirigan leaned heavily against the cool stone of the rubble. He allowed himself a brief respite, his mind drawing back to the moment he had first laid eyes on the collapsed bridge. He had vowed silently then not to rest until every last person was found. Hours had passed since then. Kirigan had ignored the warmth of blood seeping into his tunic, had disregarded the deep bruises that spread across his abdomen and felt as though an invisible bandage, drawn too tightly, constricted his midsection. He even managed to push aside the pain from the cracked ribs he sustained in the collapse, focusing solely on the urgent needs of the living and the search for the missing. Every moment was precious, every second a heartbeat of someone buried beneath the rubble. He felt the weight of each loss deeply, the day’s desperate cries for help echoing as haunting whispers in his heart.

But as the chaos slowly subsided, giving way to a grim calm, the adrenaline that had fuelled his relentless drive began to wane. The pain, once held at bay, now surged to the forefront, each breath a sharp stab that nearly brought him to his knees. Yet, despite the searing discomfort that wrapped around his torso like a vice, the thought of leaving his post was inconceivable. Not only did his sense of duty bind him to the site, but the healers themselves remained overwhelmed, continued to face an unrelenting stream of injured. Lives were yet at stake, and some remained unaccounted for. Knowing all too well that the healers still had to prioritize those in more urgent need, he had placed himself at the end of the line, enduring in silence. For a few fleeting seconds, Kirigan closed his eyes, allowing the darkness behind his lids to momentarily shield him from the chaos. He took this pause to steady his breath and muster the strength to continue. But the relative calm was disrupted by a soft whimper—a child’s cry for help. It was faint, yet it resonated above the roar of the nearby rushing river, plaintive and piercing through the din. Startled, Kirigan’s eyes snapped open. The urgency of the child’s need propelled him forward. He hastened towards the sound, as swiftly as his condition would allow, his own distress cast aside once more. There, amidst the wreckage, he noticed a small, limp hand. His heart clenched as he knelt with difficulty beside the nearly unconscious infant. The little one's whimpers were barely audible, their body half-submerged in water, their skin chillingly cold. A quick scan of the surroundings confirmed he was still alone, with no one else in sight to lend aid. With a renewed sense of urgency, he turned back to the task at hand, determined to free them.

But as Kirigan bent down, contorting his body to get a better look at how to safely extract the child without causing further collapse, a piercing agony exploded within him. His vision blurred, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. The world seemed to spin, and he realized with a sinking feeling that the direst of outcomes had unfolded. In a fraction of a second, the grim awareness that his neglect could cost two lives struck him. The unfortunate movement had likely dislodged bone shards and driven them into places they should not be, threatening more than just pain—threatening damage that could be catastrophic. The realization of his disregard, and its disastrous consequences, now screamed in his mind as a grave miscalculation. It wasn’t merely his own life at stake; it was the potential loss of the tiny being before him that weighed heaviest on his heart.

With a clarity born of desperation, Kirigan’s focus narrowed solely to the child. There was no room for pain, no space for hesitation. He knew he had to act swiftly, to extricate the small body before his own strength betrayed him. It was this singular task that consumed all his remaining will, yet, even as his determination held firm, with each breath, Kirigan now felt a disturbing crunch within his chest, his ribs moving in ways they shouldn’t. Nevertheless, he managed to summon his shadows, commanding them to coil around the debris. Their dark embrace lifted and cleared the path, the shadows moving with a life of their own, driven by Kirigan’s indomitable will to save the little one.

Finally, he was able to pull the infant free. Struggling against a severe shortness of breath, he gathered his strength and despite the agony every movement brought, Kirigan awkwardly shed his Kefta. He wrapped the garment securely around the child, its warmth a vital shield against the perilous cold that threatened their small frame. With the child in his arms, he then slowly rose to his feet. But as he straightened, he felt something tear inside him. A choked gasp was wrenched from him as blood bubbled up, and he coughed, the force of it nearly doubling him over. A spatter of crimson escaped, staining the dark cloth that now served as the little one’s shield against the cold. The pain was a white-hot burn, threatening to swallow him into oblivion, but the weight of the helpless body in his arms anchored him to consciousness. With his precious burden cradled against him, he stumbled forward, his vision tunneling, his breaths coming in insufficient, ragged pulls. Each step was a monumental effort, his body teetering on the edge of collapse as his gaze dimmed. The riverbank loomed ahead, a steep climb that seemed insurmountable, but the sight of the groups assembled there spurred him on, compelling him to persevere despite the suffocating grip of his failing lungs.

Climbing the bank, Kirigan’s consciousness began to fray at the edges. Yet, in the haze of his fading awareness, he recognized the figure in red descending swiftly towards him. A profound sense of relief washed over him. ‘Ivan,’ he gasped, the name scarcely a whisper as his knees buckled. He hit the ground with a thud, the impact jarring through his body. The absolute agony that seared through him was overwhelming, narrowing his world to the sound of his own faltering breathing. With the last of his strength, he laid the child down gently; and in the knowledge it was safe in Ivan’s hands, Kirigan stopped fighting. The pain, the struggle, the weight of responsibility—all faded into insignificance. He could no longer bear the burden; his body had nothing more to give. The abyss beckoned, and he let go, surrendering to oblivion. To be continued...

[nessieart]

tooth&claw chapter 1.

Read TEETH first

t&c Masterlist.

Summary: you and Sam Wilson have been following up on intel about old HYDRA bases around North and South America for the last several months, with no sign of Bucky Barnes. Wrapping up your last lead, you and Sam attempt to head back to New York, but are stopped on your way by a few mysterious people. They have more information for you than you bargained for.

WC: 5.7k

Pairings: Tony Stark x Shifter!Reader

Age of Ultron

Warnings: Canon typical violence, language!, blood, mentions of death, alcohol use, fluff, angst. No Y/N used. Use of nicknames(Poppy, Flowers)

You were sitting on Tony’s lab desk, waiting for him to finish maintenance on one of his Iron Man thrusters, so you both could go out to dinner. He said he made reservations at some fancy new restaurant downtown because, of course he did. The black dress you wore was simple, halter tied behind your neck, with an open back, and the tulle skirt flowed just below your knees. Your wedge heels dangled from your toes as you hummed to the music that JARVIS had playing softly in the background.

Just as Tony finished with his last gauntlet, former SHIELD agent Maria Hill, now assistant to one Tony Stark, strolled in. Her heels clicking in a confident stride - you’re sure you’ll never master- towards her boss. Tony raised an eyebrow at her as he set his tools down, safety glasses coming off to be replaced with his normal glasses.

“What's the ‘sitch? Got something new for me?” Tony rolled his chair out from the desk and stood next to your legs, a hand resting on your thigh as he spoke to Maria.

“Just received some intel about a new active HYDRA base, boss,” Maria supplied, she tapped a few things on her StarkPad and a big hologram of what looked like a castle floated in the area around the three of you.

Since the fall of SHIELD, The Avengers have been scoping out old HYDRA bases all across the world. Their main goal was to find Loki's missing scepter - the mind controlling one. Four barren bases down, and 7 months later, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

Tony lets out a low whistle, squeezing your thigh before he circles the hologram projected in the lab. His eyes are calculating, scanning the image with practiced ease as he peers over the top of his glasses. His hands come up, and he manipulates the image, making it smaller and taking layers away. “What am I looking at, exactly? New vacation home, Hill?” He teases.

“A little too cold for my liking,” she says without missing a beat. Her fingers move quickly, and another few images appear in the air. “Intel says this is actually a HYDRA base hidden in the mountains outside of Novi Grad.”

When you make a face, Tony speaks up, “Sokovia, honey,” and you nod. Geography was never your strong suit. “Show me something, JARVIS.”

Suffice it to say, dinner would have to wait.

***

“Another dead end,” Sam sighs, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. He leans back against the railing next to you and adjusts his sunglasses. You scrub a hand down your face, resting your forearms on the railing, and heave a sigh, too.

"This is the fourth city in however many months, Sammy,” your tone is defeated and sad. You can feel him looking at you, but you don’t turn your head. “He's a highly trained ex-assassin. If he doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find any trace of him. Ever.” You chance a glance, and you see his shoulders fall. You know he’s not the biggest fan of Bucky, but he promised Steve he would follow up on the leads they had. No matter where they took you.

And right now, you and Sam were in Cuba, another cold trail of old HYDRA safe houses and small operation locations left to collect dust. Your intel said it was an abandoned barbershop, but nothing stood in front of you but an empty building. The skeletal remains of a barbershop long since packed in.

There aren't many people on this side of town, and even fewer cars. The 1950s-style cars stood out like sore thumbs when you first arrived a few days ago, but now a welcome sight whenever you would pass one by. The red corvette a block away was brighter than the others. A man in a black suit casually leaned against the driver side door, his arms crossed at his chest. You could swear he was looking at you both, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses clouding his eyes. You shook your head and turned back towards Sam.

The evening sun setting did little to lessen the heat, and you ran the back of your hand across your forehead, “We should get back to the jet. They should be back from Sokovia by now.”

Sam could tell you were itching to get home. He put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, “c’mon, let’s get a late dinner, and then we can head home in the morning.” You agreed and went to follow Sam down the sidewalk, glancing one more time behind you toward the corvette, only for it to not be there.

At dinner, the conversation is minimal. You and Sam could sit in companionable silence for a while, getting lost in your own heads.

You haven't given up looking for your brother, Leon, but his trail was as cold as Bucky's. Everything ends in a dead-end no matter where you searched.

The streets of Havana were alive and thriving as music flowed from bars up and down the street. It brought a smile to your face as you glanced up and down the road.

“I've noticed him, too,” Sam says abruptly, pulling you from your thoughts. When you look up at him, he's staring down the street, and you follow his gaze. You see the same man from earlier. His hands in his slack pockets and leaning against the cherry red corvette.

“Since when?” You ask without taking your eyes off the stranger.

“When we arrived,” and your head whips around to Sam, eyes wide and brows furrowed. How haven't you noticed? Some guy has been tailing you both for 3 days, and you were completely oblivious.

Sam places a few hundred pesos on the table and gets up, and you follow his lead. As you both make your way down the street opposite of your mystery man, you can't help but glance over your shoulder to check if he's still there. It isn't until you round the corner that you stop, you feel it, then; the eyes on you like you're under a microscope. It makes the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stand on end.

Sam notices you stopped, and before he can question it, a woman steps out from behind a car. Her stance says nonchalance, but you've been around for a long time to not judge a book by its cover. Peggy Carter taught you that.

You step in front of Sam, sticking your arm out to stop him from advancing. The woman rounds her shoulders when you take the step forward, and a rumble fills your chest.

“What do you want?” You shout over to her, her lips curl up into a smirk, and she tilts her head. She steps into the streetlight, and you get a better look at her. She's Asian and maybe in her late 30s, her hands are balled into fists, and you think she seems ready to enjoy fighting you.

Out of the shadows behind the woman, the man from earlier steps into the light, “We just want to talk,” you didn't even know he was there. What is it with this guy? He gives you a reassuring smile, hands still stuffed in his finely pressed suit pants.

Of course. You scoff, “SHIELD died in the ashes along with HYDRA, I don't think we can help you, man.”

“SHIELD?” Sam asks, so only you hear, his hand goes to your shoulder, “Maybe we should hear them out.”

“If you believed that,” he continued, “The Avengers wouldn't be out there clearing out active bases or getting Loki's Scepter from Sokovia.” He brings his hand to his chest and rubs at a spot absent-mindedly. The woman next to him gives him a concerned sideways glance before he nods and returns his hands to his pockets.

“How do you know about all that?” Sam asks, and when he goes to step around you, you grab his wrist to stop him.

“Who do you think Maria Hill was getting her information from?” The man gives a simpering smile, like you should know better.

“We don't have anything to give you. Like I said, we can't help you,” you go to push Sam behind you so you both could leave. A heavy sigh stops you. The woman takes another step closer to you and looks over her shoulder.

“Sir?” She asks, and when he hums in affirmation, the woman lunges to get to you.

“Sam, go!” You push him, and in the next movement, you're blocking a punch to your face with your forearm. You push the woman back by her chest and send her flying back to the man's feet.

His eyebrows raise, “you good, May?”

The woman, May, grunts in frustration and climbs to her feet, offensive stance ready to lunge at you again.

“Get to the jet,” you tell Sam. He goes to protest, but you cut him off, “I'll be fine, i'll meet you at the rendezvous point.” You look over your shoulder at him when he doesn't move, “Sammy go!”

Sam stumbles back to get ready to run, “you better show up, or Stark will have my head,” and he turns on his heel and runs, leaving you with May and the mystery man in the alley.

As soon as Sam is out of sight and earshot, the man in the suit steps towards you. You growl, it fills your chest, and the man puts up both hands in surrender.

“Whatever you have to say, say it from over there,” you tell him, but he takes another few steps to put himself between you and his friend.

He gives you an easy-going smile, eyebrows creased in worry, “it's not that simple, Agent Jones.” You scoff a laugh and pace away from him. “It's about your brother,” he says hesitantly when you don't stop.

You go rigid, skin rippling, and claws threatening to come out, “what did you say?” When he doesn't answer, you turn to face him, eyes shining blue as you growl at him and his companion.

They don't seem at all surprised by your appearance, “Please, come with us. We have a good idea of where he is. It's more complicated than you think it is,” he tries to placate you again. He gives you a reassuring smile, and when you look at his companion, she crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises an unamused eyebrow at you.

You heave a heavy sigh and drop your head, “Fine,” you mumble out, “I'll go with you.”

***

One phone call to Sam, and an hour later, you stood in an empty field with Agents May and Coulson. After the earful you got from Sammy when you told him to head home without you, the two former Agents of SHIELD told you about what they've been doing behind the scenes -give or take a few details.

Sam was adamant about you not going, but he also didn't want you to miss out on an opportunity to find your brother. Even if the chances were low, there was still a chance.

Agent Coulson, or Phil as he introduced himself, had told you him and his team had been chasing down a group called Centipede for the last few years. He had said he thinks it's finally come to an end with the fall of HYDRA and a man named John Garrett. Who apparently was an evil Mastermind who had his fingers in a lot of pies, so to speak.

They led you to an empty lot, seemingly nothing in the vicinity until Phil pulled a small fob out of his pocket and a quinjet shimmered into existence.

“Should I be concerned about a missing jet, Phil?” You asked. He gave you a sidelong glance and a smirk to match. He shrugged and led the way on board. May insisted you go before her before she closed the hatch after you all entered.

It was a short few minute flight to a larger aircraft that shimmered into existence as the quintet approached and landed on top. A hatch opened on the floor leading down into the aircraft below. As your feet touched the soft carpet at the bottom of the stairs, your gaze landed on a multitude of people around the lounge-like area.

“Welcome to the Bus,” Phil informed you, coming to your side and laying a hand on your lower back. “Skye,” he called out, and a young woman - maybe in her 20s - stood up from the couch with a laptop in hand and followed. Phil ushered you away from curious gazes to another room filled with monitors and computers.

Doors slid shut behind you as the three of you occupied the space. The glass walls did little to stop the prying eyes of those on board from sharing glances and hushed words with each other.

Coulson introduced you to Skye, giving her your name and the reason you were here. He praised Skye at being a veritable genius when it came to computers and her hacking abilities, a proud glint in his eye. She ducked her head a little with a small smile.

Her fingers worked fast over her keyboard, only glancing up at you once or twice while you waited.

Who do you think she is?

Obviously, the agent Coulson told us about.

Yeah, but who is she?

Not sure, why don't you go in an’ ask, Trip?

Oh, don't tease him, Fitz. She's obviously here for the information Skye was asked to gather.

But, do you think she's really an agent?

You smirked, “you told them I was an agent?” Gesturing out at the group of people huddled in low conversation.

And when Coulson looked over at the group, they dispersed with hurried chatter. Phil smirked.

“Aren't you?” The girl, Skye asked as she arched an eyebrow at you, then looked to Coulson. He smiled in return. “Isn't she?”

“I haven't been part of SHIELD for a very long time,” you leaned a hip against the desk and crossed your arms over your chest. You took a whiff around the small space, not coming up with anything. Your brows furrowed as you looked between Phil and Skye.

You thought you were imagining it, Phil not smelling like anything. Thinking maybe the wind carried it away. But now, with him standing so close, you were positive there wasn't anything there. You stepped closer to him, picking up his hand and scenting the inside of his wrist. There was something faint, like a long forgotten book or newspaper, leather bound and dusty, ink fading with time, and the hint of vanilla. Soft and subtle. And you wouldn't have smelled it if you didn't lean into his wrist more.

“Uh,” he eyed you, a frown pulling at his lips when you let him go. “What was that for?”

“I can barely smell you,” you stared at him, head tilting to the side, “either of you. What happened?” concern filling your voice as you stared at him.

He cleared his throat, hand smoothing down the tie around his neck, “I died; is what happened,” Your eyes must have been the size of saucers because he gave you a sympathetic smile. “I'm fine, really.”

“And you? Did you die, too?” You asked Skye. She avoided your gaze and made a noncommittal noise. “Must be something in the water..” You tried to lighten the mood a little.

Skye finished her tapping and turned towards the big monitor in the room, “This is what I've found so far,” she cleared her throat a little, looking back at you as you scanned the screen.

There was an older man, relatively handsome, his shoulder leaning against the side of a building. His hands stuffed in his slacks, the trench coat he wore billowing in the wind, frozen in time. The picture was taken from a cell phone, most likely accidently catching the image of the mystery man. His eyes seemed to glow as the shadows cast the upper portion of his body in darkness.

His hair was dirty blond, gray at the temples, and slicked back in a nice coif. His beard was littered with gray hair, but it didn't take away from his attractiveness.

Another image popped up next. The mystery man had his back to the camera now, glancing back over his shoulder as his eyes glowed more. Next to him now was none other than Leon, eyes shining in adoration as he leaned into the touch of the man with his hand on his face.

You felt your hackles raise, a low growl escaping your lips when another photo appeared. Another photo popped up next to that one. They kissed, which isn't new for you, but the very visible bite mark on Leons neck was enough for you to snap.

“His name is Deacon Frost,” Skye began, “current residence is some plantation his family owned - in Louisiana. It goes back at least 100 years. According to the records I found, he has a whole load of people living there. Whether it's staff or otherwi-”

“Vampires,” you cut her off. Another growl sounds deep in your chest.

Skye looked back at you, eyes wide, “No way. Seriously, vampires? They don't exist,” she scoffed. When she looked at Coulson, he was already looking at you.

“You knew,” you told him.

He pursed his lips, “I had my suspensions. Theories,” and when you raised your eyebrow at him, he sighed. “OK, ok. I wasn't one hundred percent sure until you confirmed it.”

“Wait, you're serious?”

“I'm always serious.”

“Coulson!”

You pursed your lips, “I normally don't do this to new people but,” the skin on your arm rippled from your shoulder to your fingertips, claws coming out as the fur made its way down your arm like a wave.

You wiggled your fingers, knuckles cracking with a roll of your wrist. It was always harder to Shift during a new moon. It definitely hurt more.

You looked from Coulson to Skye. The former's expression filled with delight and a small smile. But Skye.

“What the hell? What the hell are you?” She all but shrieked and stepped away to the far corner as fast as she could.

“Welcome to the world of the Supernatural,” you shrugged, shaking Your arm out as the fur along it reseeded and flesh took over once more. “There's more than just vampires out there.”

***

With Coulson's instructions, Skye put everything she had onto a flash drive for you. You'd figure out more when you got home, and JARVIS could give it another once over. When she was finished, she slid it across the table top, not wanting to step closer to you. You sighed and pocketed the USB stick, gave a curt nod in thanks.

“Thanks for this,” you said, “but you could have called. You do know where I live,” you smirked at Coulson.

Coulson guided you out of the room, leading you through the lounge and up a spiral staircase, and into another room. It was a spacious office, Coulson's name plate gleamed on the desk.

He sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms over his chest, “it's hard to come calling when the majority of your housemates think I'm still dead.”

You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing several times. “What do you mean they think you're dead?”

“Fury thought it best to never tell anyone,” he shrugged. “That included all of SHIELD and the Avengers.”

“What about the people that cared about you?”

Phil shrugged again, “Anyone that used to be in my life, outside of SHIELD or otherwise, knows I died. And will always know it.”

He gave you a leveling stare. It made your hair stand on end.

“You can't expect me to keep this from Tony,” you shook your head. “If you know what I am, and I think you do, you know what he means to me. I can't - you can't ask me to keep this from him.”

“You're right, I can't. Just don't go out of your way to bring me up,” Phil gives you a sad smile and paces toward you to put a hand on your shoulder. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your brother. I know you'll find him,” he gave your shoulder a squeeze.

You returned his sad smile and gave a shirt nod. After a moment, you cleared your throat, “ok, well, how am I supposed to get home? Don't suppose you're going to drop me off at the front door.”

Coulson laughed, and nodded his head towards the door, “C'mon.”

“Sir, we're ready,” May's voice came through the intercom as you went to leave the office. Coulson led you back down to the lounge and then another spiral staircase to the loading bay.

You pass between a van and the same red corvette from earlier in the day, running a finger down the body and coming to a stop next to Coulson. He hits a button, and the bay doors open, wind whips through the garage violently, and when the door fully opens, you see a quinjet hover a few dozen feet away.

Sam stands at the opening of the quinjets ramp, his hand gripping a handle so he doesn't fly out. He gives a nod, and Coulson returns it.

“It was nice to meet you, Phil, but I think my rides here,” you shout over the roaring wind. You go to take a step back to get a running start, but he calls your name, and you stop.

“You'll find him, I know you will,” he gives you a smile, and you place your hand on his arm and give a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you,” when you look back, you can see his team standing behind some glass and on top of the mezzanine, and you look to Phil again, “it was nice to meet you.”

You take a few steps back to get a running start, you sprint, leaping from the edge of the Bus. weightlessness filling you as the harsh winds carry your body from one place to another. And just when you think you start to free fall, your hand grips Sam's arm, and he catches you in his grip, bringing you in for a one-armed hug.

“You're crazy, you know that?” He huffs a big laugh into your hair as you hug him back.

Your forehead rests on his chest, “I'm just keeping you on your toes, Fly Guy,” you chuckle. He gives you another squeeze, and when you both look back out into the sky, the Bus shimmers from existence and disappears.

“C'mon, Baby Girl, let's go home.”

***

"’Boom! Are you looking…’ why do I even talk to you guys?” Rhodey is met with silence, and he sighs, “Everywhere else that story kills.”

“That's the whole story?” Point Break smirks over his beer.

Poor Rhodey, he tries. “Yeah, it's a War Machine story.”

“Well, it's very good then,” Thor laughs, “It's impressive.”

“Quality save. So, no Pepper? She's not coming?”

Pepper? Why on earth would he bring her up? Rhodey has met you multiple times. He seemed to love you. At least that's the impression Tony got. He hasn't talked to Pepper in a while. He knows you two talk all the time.

It's not weird. Don't make it weird.

“No,” simple. Smooth Tony.

“Hey, what about Jane? Poppy? Where are the ladies, gentlemen?” Maria cuts in. Now Tony knows for a fact you and Hill get along.

“Well, Miss Potts has a company to run,” smoothing his tie down a bit, “And Poppy is chasing ghosts in…um..” Where did you and Wilson go off to this time?

Thor shifts from foot to foot, “Yes, I'm not even sure what country Jane's in, either. Her work on the Convergence has made her the world's foremost astronomer.”

Tony hums.

“There's even talk of Jane getting a... um, uh... Nobel prize.”

“Yeah, they...they must be busy because they'd hate missing you guys get together.” She fakes a sneeze, what is this, the early 2000s? “Oh, excuse me.”

“Want a lozenge?” Rhodey fake comforts her as she nods. They both share a quiet chuckle, “Let's go.”

“But Jane's better,” Thor says into his mug.

Tony's eye twitches, Thor hasn't even met you yet. What does he know?

Nothing.

He looks around the party, avoiding eye contact to not further this conversation with Thor at all costs. He notices Sam Wilson ascending the stairs and meeting up with Steve.

Where the hell were you? Fashionably late was his thing. Surely you were around here somewhere.

***

“You go on up, Sammy. I need to change out of this, and I'll see you up there,” you wave him off as you step off the elevator to your and Tony's floor. Sam waved a ‘see you later’ as the doors closed.

He was smart and packed extra clothes, just in case.

You needed a moment for yourself anyway. The last few days are taking a toll on you mentally. Not finding any sign of Bucky after months of searching, and now new information about your brother, Leon, have surfaced. You just needed a quiet few minutes to yourself.

You dug the flash drive from your pocket as you passed the Smart Table in the room.

“Hey, JARVIS, I've got something I'd like you to take a look at when you have the time,” you said as you plugged it into the top USB port. The holographic keyboard and display came to life as you did. “It's got info about my brother on it. I can check back in later with you about it, ok?”

You retreated to the bedroom as you talked to JARVIS, shedding your boots and tactical outfit as you went.

The shower was heavenly. Rinsing the day off yourself always felt nice. But you had a party to attend, at least that's what the message from Tony had said a few days ago when they got back from Sokovia.

On the bed were two outfits, one you're sure Nat had picked for you, and the other Tony. Smirking, you put on your go-to.

A pair of dark, high waisted slacks and an oversized burgundy turtleneck. Your combat boots would have to do. No way were you wearing heels just to go upstairs and see your friends.

Once ready, you made your way back towards the elevators. Checking one last time at the progress JARVIS was making. You noticed a bunch of files open, more information being downloaded than before.

“Thanks, J! I'll go through all that with you later,” you call out as you enter the lift. You hit the button for the right floor and wait. The soft chime of the lift stopping, has you straightening.

The music wasn't as loud as you'd thought it would. Only a few people noticed you stepping off the elevator. No one you knew, however.

As you scanned the large lounge, you noticed Sam and Steve on the loft. They lifted their hands in greeting, and you gave a small wave.

“There she is!” Called a voice to your right, Maria and Rhodes met you halfway, and you gave them a hug.

“Maria, James. Good to see you,” you looked around a little, trying to find the man you came home to see.

“He's at the bar,” Maria nudged your arm. You gave her a grateful smile and excused yourself.

Tony wasn't paying attention when you found yourself standing behind him, his hands fidgeting with the glass in front of him.

“This seat taken, handsome?”

He straightened, glancing over his shoulder slightly, “Actually, I was just waiting for my girlfriend,” he turned fully to face you, eyes lighting up as he looked at you. “She's very possessive, y’know. Gets pretty bite-y when she doesn't get her way.”

You hummed as you stepped closer to him, fingers lightly running up his tie, “Think I can handle myself,” you step closer and one of Tony's hands finds your waist, pulling you in more. You pout up at him, peaking through your lashes, “And I don't get bite-y when I don't get my way.”

He chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you, his free hand coming up to your face, and his thumb rubs across your cheek.

“I missed you, Pretty Girl,” Tony's hand cups your face and you lean into the touch. He leans in and runs his nose along yours, and a sigh leaves your chest.

“Missed you too, Tones.”

“Ahem,” a voice loudly calls from behind the bar. “OK, love birds, you're making everyone else jealous.”

Natasha smirks at you when you look over Tony's shoulder at her. He pulls you into his side as he turns to face her and reaches into his suit jacket pocket, placing a one hundred dollar bill on the countertop.

Nat's perfectly manicured fingers land on the bill, and she slides it over and places it inside of her blouse.

“Bet him you'd wear my outfit tonight,” She's still smirking. “I'll make you a drink.”

Tony, you and Natasha talked for a while, losing time while catching up and sharing drinks. They told you about what went down in Sokovia, from the advanced HYDRA weapons to Strucker's experimenting on humans with Loki's Scepter. Down in Strucker's lab, there was advanced robotics work, scraps, and heaps of salvaged material from the Battle of New York.

And a few more small details as well.

“Wait, wait,” you gasped between laughs, hand clutching Tony's arm to keep yourself upright. “He really said that? Language! Like you're 5?” You giggled again when Nat and Tony both nodded.

Tony pursed his lips, trying to hide the smile that spread across his face, hand resting on the back of your chair.

Bruce came over shortly after, his eyes only seeing Natasha, so you and Tony excused yourselves and made the rounds.

You met a few new people, including Dr. Helen Cho, who was in town for a conference, from South Korea.

***

Hours later, you were sitting in the loveseat between Tony and Rhodey. A casual and easy conversation flowed as everyone wound down from the evening's festivities.

You placed your finished Chinese food container on the coffee table in front of you. A sigh of contentment left you as you settled back in the seat.

“But, it's a trick!” Clint yells out, pulling you and Rhodey from conversation.

Thor chuckles from his spot next to Steve on the couch, “Oh, no. It's much more than that.”

“Uh, ‘Whosoever be he worthy shall haveth the power!’ Whatever, man! It's a trick,” Clint snarks.

“Well please, be my guest.”

Tony places his arm behind you on the chair, “Come on.”

Clint raises his eyebrows, “Really?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh this is gonna be beautiful,” Rhodey says from beside you.

“Clint, you've had a tough week, we won't hold it against you if you can't get it up,” Tony's comment makes everyone around chuckle.

Clint struggles for a moment as he tries to lift Thor's hammer, “I still don't know how you do it.”

“Smell the silent judgment?”

“Please, Stark, by all means,” Clint places his hands on his hips as he challenges Tony.

You roll your eyes as Tony makes a show of getting up and peeling off his suit jacket. You willingly take it and drape it over your shoulders, letting his scent fill your nose.

Tony tries and fails to lift Mjolnir. Even with the help of Rhodes and their gauntlets.

Next was Bruce, and he fails, pretending to Hulk out in the process. You give him a sympathetic smile at his attempt.

Steve was next, and you swore you thought it budged, but he relents and sits back down next to Thor.

Thor sighs in relief, and he looks to you, and all eyes land on you after.

“No way, I have enough things to worry about, thank you,” your hands come up in defense.

“Widow?” Bruce asks, and she leans back, taking a sip of her beer.

“Oh, no, no. That's not a question I need answered.”

Tony picks you up bridal style and places you on his lap as he takes your seat, “All deference to the man who wouldn't be king, but it's rigged.”

Clint nods, “You bet your ass.”

“Steve, he said a bad language word,” Maria mocks and points to Clint. Everyone chuckles.

Steve gives Tony an exasperated glare, “Did you tell everyone about that?” You giggle from your spot on Tony's lap, and Steve shakes his head.

Thor gets up and easily flips the hammer around in his grip, grinning as he scans around the group, “You're all not worthy.”

There's a chorus of boos and disagreement as Thor just chuckles at everyone.

Then there's a loud screeching noise, like microphone feedback, but ten times worse, and everyone covers their ears. You let out a whine as it stops, and Tony runs his hands up and down your arms.

As the screeching fades, there's a thumping coming from the hall, a metallic voice fills the air, and Steve stands on high alert.

“Worthy... No, how could you be worthy?” it's a beat-up Legion suit. An arm is missing and leaking fluid. There's parts missing from its body, and the face is scratched and marred. “You're all killers.”

“Stark,” Steve says in his Captain voice, his stance wide.

Tony sets you down on your feet, placing himself in front of you as he pulls out his phone, “JARVIS.”

The metallic voice of the Legionnaire continues, “I'm sorry, I was asleep. Or... I was a-dream?”

Tony starts tapping at his phone, “Reboot, Legionnaire OS, we got a buggy suit.”

“There was a terrible noise…” the Legionnaire says, “and I was tangled in... in... strings. I had to kill the other guy. He was a good guy.”

Steve takes a step closer, “You killed someone?”

“Wouldn't have been my first call. But, down in the real world, we're faced with ugly choices.”

“Who sent you?” Thor's voice booms.

A recording of Tonys voice plays from the suit, "I see a suit of armor around the world."

Bruce looks at Tony, shock on his face, “Ultron!”

“In the flesh,” the suit - Ultron - says, "Or, no, not yet. Not this... chrysalis. But I'm ready. I'm on a mission.

“What mission?” Nat asks.

“Peace in our time.”

***

Next>

AN: boy!! This took so long for me to finish. I knew where I wanted to go, but I just couldn't get it out there! Thank you for reading, it means so much to me!! More to come soon!

[steverogersistheguy]

dark!Thor x innocent!fem! reader~The song of the waves Ch.1

A/N: This fic is DARK, so proceed with caution. DMs, and comments are welcomed about this fic, but be kind! Also, thank you for stopping by and reading my shit. REMEMBER: These characters are made-up, they are NOT based on real life people.

Warnings: some heavy language, swearing, hints of misogynism BUT things will get darker every chapter.

Chapter summary: Your friends decide to break the usual routine and have a runaway on an island. Little do you know what time has in store for you there.

ENJOY!!!

Your friends were nothing like you, but you loved them, if you were honest.

Everyone called them, and implicitly, you, degradating nicknames in school, like sluts, whores, gold-diggers and the list could go on. Amy, Tamara, Leslie and Tyler were your best friends since high school started. The girls were your room-mates, and they liked your "innocent" and sweet nature, so they immediately took you in their group.

Amy was the girl that couldn't think of a day without her make-up kit. She always had to have lipstick, eye-liner and foundation on. Amy told you make-up is indispensable for her, just like the headphones or books were for you. Amy tried to get you to wear all those layers of make-up, but you only liked to wear some mascara and chapstick. Amy was the one that never failed to cheer you up. She was so sweet, you couldn't understand why everyone called her a "moody bitch"

Leslie was the girl that dated three guys in a week. Her mother always left her alone in that big house of them, because she had to meet some old rich guys...Leslie was raised like that, so she did the exact thing: dated every single guy. For Leslie, it didn't matter it was her middle-aged Geography teacher, the principal's son, or the hot guy that worked at Starbucks. She only screwed them, and then ghosted them...Everyone called her a slut, but you knew she suffered a lot because of her mother and you felt sorry for her. Poor rich girl.

Tamara was that one girl. She had thick black hair, she had the perfect body and her father was also filthy rich...He owned the greatest company in your state and he was extremely unbothered by Tamara's problems. Tam was always in depression or always crying until she got sick of it. She started drinking, partying, but deep inside, she was also broken. Then, she met Tyler.

Tyler was Tam's boyfriend and he adored to be in your company. He was kind, he always protected you from the mean words. His mother died when he was fifteen, and his father just...disappeared after, so all the money and the houses were his now.

These amazing friends of yours decided to go on a vacation, just...running away from freaking school, from the gossips. They wanted it and they actually could do this, and they wanted to take you with them, of course. Yo knew they wouldn't accept a refuse, so you started packing.

The details Tam gave you about the island where you were going weren't actually detailed...She just threw at you some phrases like: "...pack many swim suits." (yeah, like you really had that many) "...a peaceful island..." "...I've spoken to your aunt already..." (The aunt that didn't give a shit about you or your life) and some other stupid words thrown in the air.

When you arrived home from classes, you packed your pastel-colored dresses, an ash-colored swimsuit and some sneakers: your favorite Converse pair made of peachy material and the plain black ones. You also put in your travel bag the perfume Tyler gave you for your birthday, your mascara tube and your favorite chapstick flavor: strawberry pop-tarts. You also put three books (your favorites actually, even though you knew the girls won't let you read) and...that was all. You climbed in your small bed and covered yourself with your fluffy blanket. Tomorrow, you were leaving for the very first time in such an important trip. But, instead of excitement, your tummy filled with a weird, actually frightening feeling.

Meanwhile, on the Tavarua Island:

Thor was all wet, his shiny swimsuit thrown on the sand. He was only in his shorts, his godly designed, tanned figure looking deliciously good in the sun. He caught some good waves and now, he was cleaning his board on the beach.

Thor quit trying to be a hero...his loved-ones died, and now he felt...surprisingly free. He retired on this island, building himself a brand new life. He was daily surfing, he loved the ocean. His mind wandered to Jane, to her last days...He also thought about the Avengers, his once-friends.

Suddenly, Thor was pushed out from his thoughtful world by some annoying laughs. When he turned his head, he saw a bunch of girls having some drinks at the local bar. He clenched his jaw, sick of all these "whores". They were all throwing themselves at any men, all-plastic, make-up too intense. They even failed at making him hard, at least.

Thor picked up his board furiously and headed back to his house. He was sick of these plastic dolls, and he swore to himself again that he will never get one like those.

Oh, if he'll only find a sweet, natural woman, he would take her all to himself, to protect her like she would have been a very rare flower.

And he will, soon...

Chapter 2 ->