#I’ve never been able to draw him properly before

[allthedrugsforcreativity]

[vetteltea]

Green Eyes [CL16 Ending]

Those green eyes. The ones you had married.

Charles visibly breathes out when he sees you, sitting up, blinking towards him. He wants to rush to you, to cradle you in his arms and tell you to your face how much he loves you, cherishes you more than anything else the universe has ever or will ever create.

The moment is more visualized in his head. In reality, Charles’ knees buckle, crouching by the door, tears flowing freely from his eyes. The flowers he had picked up from the giftshop are still in his grasp, almost on the floor as he tries to compose himself, to make his legs strong again. 

“Charles.” You speak softly. “It’s okay.” 

That seems to be enough to draw him further, to stand him up and get to her bedside, placing himself in the plastic chair, hands abandoning the bouquet of flowers and holding your face, a hand pressed to either of your cheeks as the tears pool around his lower lash line. His breathing is erratic, he’s scared. It’s like you’ll be pulled away from him at any moment, he doesn't want that. He cannot have that. 

“Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you still hurt?” His mind can’t catch up with his mouth, a barrage of questions which will surely send him into a spiral. Your heart is racing, you were certain if connected to a monitor, they would think you’re spinning out of control. This time, your actions overtake you, resting a hand on either side of Charles’ rambling face and pulling him to mesh your lips together.

This time, you kiss Charles Leclerc. 

His words immediately cease, a tiny whine leaving his lips as he presses back against you, hands freezing on your face and pulling you closer. He tells himself that if he lets go, you’ll be gone. You’ll stop kissing him. 

The idea of somebody else, of Carlos, is immediately wiped from your mind. He’s not Charles. He’s not your husband. 

Eventually, you have to for the sole reason that you need air. You gently remove yourself, foreheads pressing against one another, the only sounds radiating around the room being the soft catch of breath from yourself and your husband’s racing heartbeat. 

“I’m okay.” You whisper. The quietness sounds unusual, clearing your throat and trying again. “They said it’s a precaution. Dehydration, Stress, that sort of-” 

“-Stress?” Charles cuts you off. The guilt begins to settle in his stomach. Stress. Following him around each weekend. Stress. Wondering whether he’s going to come home to you each and every night. He was the one who had- who was-

“I’m sorry.” Charles murmurs, he’s not able to form his sentences properly. Your mind isn’t configuring correctly, convinced he’s still talking about not being there when you had been taken to hospital, about your current health. You don’t think as you shrug, letting him apologize before you start to speak again.

“Charles. It’s okay. You were in media with Joris-”

“Merde. No, that isn’t what I'm apologizing for.” He freezes, the pregnant pause in the room only growing by the moment. Is he really going to do this? Right here, right now. His wife- your eyes are wide, waiting for him to continue speaking. 

When your hand reaches out to overlay his, he feels the fingers, the lack of your cool wedding band on your ring finger, instead it rests in his pocket. It’s as if your contact has flipped a switch, remoting him to continue speaking. 

“I’m sorry.” He pauses, making sure you didn’t interrupt with an immediate acceptance. “I’m sorry for what I’ve made you go through for the past year.” His second hand rests atop of yours, he’s so cold, it sends a shiver through your arms. “I didn’t want to be married, I didn’t want to be settled but…it was for the best. It was for my career. I never- I never thought about how you must have felt the same way.”

He’s correct; when you had been told by your father of the arrangement, it was the last thing you had ever desired. Being married to a Formula One driver may have been a dream, but not at the expense of finding love. 

“I didn’t give you a chance. You looked-” He pauses changing the past tense. “You look after me. On my best and worst days, you were there. And what did I do? I kept pushing you away, pushing myself towards women who were not my wife.” 

“Charles.” You try to speak, images of his mistress flickering through your mind. “You loved her-”

“-I didn’t love her.” It was true. “I desired her. She was something which reminded me of when I was single. I kept…I wanted to hold onto what I had previously been, that I was single, fun and free.”

You shrug, looking down to where his hands interlocked over your own, careful not to nudge or injure you. “Charles, I get it. It was an arranged marriage, I never should have caught feelings. Not when-”

“I’m not finished.” Charles shakes his head, smiling now. “You were there. You stayed there, you were always there with a kind word and a warm heart. And the entire time that you were there…I ignored it.” He shakes his head. “And it took me so long to realize that what I wanted was a marriage.“ 

“It took-” You pause, you’re not able to be cruel. Your husband isn’t stupid, he knows what you were about to say. 

“-It took him. Yes.” He pauses. “To realize that all I want is you. That all I want is to come home to your arms, to take you for dinner at all the places I should have. To take you for boat rides and tell you how beautiful you look with wet hair and that perfect grin.” 

By this point, your mouth hangs ajar, your heart swelling. He’d never spoken so…honestly to you before. Eyes flicker down to his fingers, how they reach around for his right-hand pocket, sliding out a pocket square, the blue fabric which was ever-present at your wedding all those months ago. 

“I know you will never be able to forgive me for what I did.” He lets the fabric fall away, revealing your own wedding band. Immediately, your eyes snap down to your fingers, only just realizing that the ring had been removed. It wasn’t uncommon; after the six month mark, you had only worn the ring when appearing in public. Even now, it rests away from your finger, instead in your husband’s grasp.

“You can tell me to go right now.” His tone has raised, he’s clearly terrified that is what you’ll want. “I’ll go. You can have the house, the cars, everything. You’ll never see me again and I promise that.” Tears are pooling at his eyes again and you feel your stomach drop. He doesn't want that, of course he does not, but the fact he’s willing to let you go if it will make you happy burns through your heart. 

“But.” He lifts the ring, holding it just over your hand, letting the glistening band reflect across the hospital lights. “I want you to stay. I want to stay with you.” He sighs, his shoulders still so tense. “I promise you. I will do everything in my power to make you happy, to make you feel loved forever. I- I love you.” 

Your heart skyrockets; if it was possible for an organ to spontaneously combust and heal itself in a split second, you were certain it had happened to you. Your husband lifts the ring further, taking your left hand in his own, eyes still full of hope, of tears, of love. 

“Will you marry me, again?” His voice is so quiet. You’re so overwhelmed. “We can do it again. Our wedding. Just us, whatever we want.” It flickers through your mind; somewhere quiet, intimate. A soft white dress that is completely different from your original; rings slid onto one another's' fingers as you promised love all over again. But this time, it could be real. He would look you in the eye to say it, not off to the side, clearly refuting his role in the deal. 

This time, he looks into your eyes. 

“I promise.” 

This time, you can’t hold back the tears in your own eyes, nodding as the ring is slid back onto your finger. You can’t describe it, the way the cool band belongs there, it’s a part of you. 

No. The man sliding the finger onto your finger is the part of you. Wordlessly, Charles pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to every inch of your face, soft lips caressing each part, letting your head fall to his shoulder, breathing synchronized as a hand trails up your back, keeping his wife oh-so-close to him. 

“Let’s go back to the house.” He murmurs. “Let’s go back home.”

[thatanimeramenchick]

Yandere Vox x Secretary Reader Part One

No one asked for this, but whatever. Bite me. I’ll get to the asks, I swear

3,516 words

Part Two - Part Three

–-

The last thing you wanted was to draw attention to yourself. In a place like hell, where the worst of society sunk together and only somehow seemed to get worse, it was a good idea to not catch other people’s eyes. If their eyes were on you, it was almost never for a good reason.

So when you decided to start working, it made sense you would do something quiet and in the background like data filing for a large media company. While there were many more unsavory jobs that paid more, you wanted to avoid the obvious and dangerous crime life of hell as much as possible in your daily life. You had had enough of being unwillingly tied up in that kind of stuff when you were alive. You might as well spend your eternity in some type of peace, or at least as much as someone in hell can get.

So, you made sure you were presentable as you walked into Voxtekk on your first day to work, dressed simple business attire and keeping a quiet demeanor.

“There you are!” said who you presumed was your new boss, a short man with glasses and a blue hair dye, “Was wondering if you were going to show up!”

“Sorry,” you said, “The traffic was bad.”

“Well, you better get used to leaving early,” he said, “Traffic is always a bitch in this part of Pentagram City.”

He continued to speak as he led you to the elevator.

“So, I’ve been told you have a lot of experience with this sort of thing on earth,” he said.

“Yes, I did library work while I was alive,” you said.

And some smuggling. Especially with weapons.

You didn’t think it would be necessary to tell him that though. The job had come in handy though by giving you a knack for remembering where things were.

“Good, good,” he said, “I expect you’ll be able to figure out how to do this on your own then.”

He led you to a room that was filled with file drawers as well as a large computer off to the side.

“There’s thousands, if not millions, of files in here, both physically and digitally. It’ll be your responsibility to make sure that everything new brought in gets put in its proper place, as well as that anything that is requested can be easily found,” he said, “As the biggest media company in hell, it’s important that we know at all times where every piece of information or media can be located.”

It was overwhelming, like the world’s largest and most complicated library. It made your head spin a little looking at it all, but you always liked a challenge.

“You think you can handle it?” he asked.

You nod with some confidence, though you don’t quite feel it. This was going to take some getting used to.

“I hope for both our sakes you’re right,” he said, “Last filer I hired couldn’t tell left from right and Vox fried me to a crisp. Took me a good week before I was able to regenerate properly.”

Crap, that sounded bad. Note to self, don’t let that happen to you.

“I think I’ll be all right,” you said.

---

It was a bit overwhelming the first few weeks. You were competent enough to keep things in order though. Your experience was paying off, and you weren’t hearing any complaints or news about any assistants getting fried, so you supposed you were doing your job well enough.

Within two months of starting your job, you finally met the rumored big man himself. He had come in one day, visibly in a bad mood as he walked over to your desk, a man trailing behind him.

“I don’t know why I even pay you morons,” he said, “I have to hear important information secondhand from fucking Valentino because you can’t be bothered to keep up with what’s happening in hell.”

“Look, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to not tell you,” he said, “I just didn’t think you’d care.”

Vox had stormed over to your desk.

“So you KNEW and thought it would be a good idea to just not tell me at all?” he said.

“T-that’s not it! I just-”

Vox held up a hand to interrupt him before turning to you.

“I want the file we have in here on Alastor,” he said, a static buzz of irritation on the last word, “Now.”

“Of course, sir,” you said.

You hurried over to the file cabinet and quickly located it.

“See, not everyone around here is as useless as you are,” Vox said to his other employee.

You saw the hapless employee mutter something under his breath out of the corner of your eye, and before you knew it a chain had appeared and Vox yanked him closer.

“What was that?” he said

“N-nothing, sir!” said the now visibly sweating employee.

A shock went through the poor guy before Vox released him.

“Useless,” he said, “You know what? I think you need some time learning exactly who is in charge around here.”

Vox pointed a clawed finger at you.

“You,” he said, “It’s your lucky day, kid. You wanna promotion?”

“Um… yes?” you said.

“Great. Samuel, have fun in janitorial work for the next decade,” he said, “You’re being replaced. What’s your name?”

“F/N,” you said.

“Hope you have customer service experience as well as filing,” he said, “You’re moving up to my office. Need someone with a functioning brain to run the front desk. Pack up!”

You hesitated for a minute before grabbing the stuff under your desk. You figured the last thing you wanted to do was piss this guy off more than he already looked.

---

Despite him being in such a bad mood that first day, you soon found that most of the time Vox was relatively calm, at least compared to what you heard about the other employers in this building. While he at times could get pretty irritated with things, especially if a certain never-to-be-named demon was brought up by an idiot intern, he rarely took it out on you. He usually took the daily bothers of running the company in stride.

Besides that, running a front desk of an office wasn’t too different than running the front desk at the library. You didn’t have to do near as much organizing in terms of files, but you still did spend a lot of time making sure that everything in Vox’s life was organized from his meetings to when he had lunch.

He didn’t talk much with you outside of work related stuff, which is why you were so surprised when you found out what he was doing one day.

It was a nice enough morning, at least as much as a nice morning can be in hell. You took a sip of your coffee briefly as you stretched and looked out your office window. While you missed the blue sky of earth, the red sky of hell had its own sort of charm you supposed. You glanced down, looking at the people walking back and forth, small as ants. Running around willy nilly. Someone was moving into the building that afternoon, a common occurrence here, as you had heard talk that Valentino liked to keep his employees in close quarters. Seems like they had a similar taste in furniture to your own. Almost frighteningly so.

Except… wait. Was that your sofa? And your dresser? Your bookshelves? You lowered your coffee to the windowsill as you squinted down at your entire catalog of furniture being moved into the building. Something wasn’t right.

You knocked on your boss’s door and entered in a bit of a rush as you heard him say to come in.

“Vox, what on earth is going on?” you asked, trying not to sound panicked.

“F/N, that could be ten different things. I need you to be more specific,” he asked, his tone nonchalant as he didn’t even look up from his phone.

“I just saw what I’m pretty sure was all my belongings being moved into the building,” you said.

“Oh yes, that. Well, I had wanted to surprise you, but I guess it’s too late for that,” he said, somewhat absently, “I hate that you have to take such a long commute to the other side of town. And I know all the apartments there are so run down, I figured I’d just move you into the studio like a lot of our other valued staff.”

What? While it was true your apartment was kind of rinky dinky, it was yours. And you liked the privacy and soft solitude it offered after work. Besides, you didn’t like the idea of your boss just moving you willy nilly without your permission. Still, you didn’t want to show him you were upset.

“Vox, you don’t have to do this,” you said, “I’m ok with where I’m at. I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Think of it as a courtesy as my secretary,” he said.

You could feel your entire face tighten as you got more frustrated. Some of it was probably starting to show, despite your best efforts.

“I never asked for this though,” you said, trying to tread carefully, “and I like my old apartment. I… I don’t really want this...”

“But you do want this,” he said, finally looking up at you, “You want to be in a nicer apartment, closer to work, safer, don’t you? You always want to be here.”

That… You supposed that was true. Something about his tone soothed you, sent a pleasant lull through your skull and made your body relax as he looked in your eyes. Your protests now seemed a bit foolish and childish. In all honesty, you supposed it just made sense that you move in to the studio. Everything you needed was here, truly, why would you want to live away from here? You did want a nicer apartment without the stressful commute.

“O-ok,” you said, a small uncomfortable feeling of doubt still in your stomach, “Yeah. That’s true. I do want to be here more… closer to the office...”

He smiled at that and walked over to you. He placed an arm around you, guiding you back to your own office.

“Of course you do! And besides I already had them move everything here, so why don’t you just go back to work, and they’ll have finished moving everything in by the time your shift is done,” Vox said, “I guarantee once you’ve had time to think it through you’ll be glad we did it.”

“If you say so,” you said.

As he walked you back to your desk, he continued his calming chatter.

“That’s a good girl. You and I both have a lot of work today, anyway, so I think we can agree that you should just focus on that for now,” he said as he nudged over to your desk.

You sat down and turned to the planner on your desk as you heard your boss walk into his personal office and closed the door. You just stare blankly for a good minute, feeling a little light, like you were on Zoloft before shaking your head back and forth. Might as well just go back to work. You could think more about this later.

---

It had been happening so slowly. One day, week, month at a time, Vox was implementing himself into your life inch by inch, despite the fact that the two of you weren’t bound on paper. He had moved you into the building, where you knew that you were almost constantly on camera. He kept you so loaded down with work you barely had a social life anymore, with no time to hang out with friends or date. The pay was ok, you supposed, but it felt minuscule compared to the amount of work he was expecting you to do on a daily basis.

And then there was the… weirder things that had been happening. Whenever you tried to talk to him, he had a way of getting you to forget about whatever it was you were upset about, at least for a little while. But it would always come back eventually, and as you thought about it more, it irritating you that he was dismissing your concerns.

You hadn’t really noticed it until he had gone on vacation for a week with the other Vees. You had been quite busy with work, but without him there to calm you down whenever your “concerns” came up, you realized that maybe you had let your priorities get a little askew. You needed a career change.

So, perhaps against your better judgment, a few days after he had returned, you had left a two weeks notice on his desk before he came in. It only took about fifteen minutes after he came in for him to summon you to his office.

“F/N? What is this?” he asked, holding out the letter.

“It’s my resignation,” you said, trying to sound steady and confident.

“I’m sorry… your what?” he said

“I-I regret to inform you that I will be moving out and relocating to the Doomsday Sector in two weeks,” you said, “I appreciate all that you’ve done here for me as I worked here, but I am making a career change.”

He looked baffled for a second, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying before chuckling a little.

“No, you’re not,” he said, “You don’t want to leave he-”

“Stop!” you yelled out with more force than you intended.

As soon as he had started speaking that familiar fuzzy feeling had entered your mind, and you had closed your eyes, shaking your head. You didn’t want him talking you out of this.

“I-I’m sorry,” you said, as you reopened your eyes, but didn’t really look at him, “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

It was awkwardly silent for a minute.

“Is it a pay thing?” he finally asked, “Because that can be adjusted. You do good work. I certainly wouldn’t mind paying you more.”

“It’s not a pay thing,” you said, “It’s not anything. I-I don’t want to talk about this, so I’m going to go-”

“You’re not leaving!” he said, slamming his fist on his desk.

You jumped, a little surprised at his reaction. While you knew he wouldn’t be thrilled, you hadn’t expected him to be so volatile. He was always so calm and collected that this kind of reaction to something so minuscule confused you.

“Vox, I know you like my work, but I think you’re overreacting a little bit,” you said.

“Overreacting?” he said, looking pissed, “Overreacting?!”

He grasped at the air, a look of surprise entering his face when no chain appeared. You look at him bewildered. Had he really just tried to…?

“Vox, we don’t have a contract?” you said, “Did you forget that?”

Had he really gotten so comfy with you that he thought that you were another one of his little pets? To hell with the two week notice, you were going today.

“I think I should go back to work,” you said.

He didn’t say anything as you went back to your desk. You finished filing information extra fast that day, doing a bit of a sloppy job. As soon as it was noon, you left for what appeared to be a lunch break, but you had decided was actually going to be your escape.

This situation was getting uncomfortable. You hurried to your room and haphazardly threw clothes and necessities into your suitcase. Anything you left behind on accident you would just have to replace. On a final note, you shoved your wallet into your back pocket and walked over to the door.

Except it didn’t open. The nob didn’t even turn when you yanked on it. You tried it a few times, to no avail.

“Dammit,” you murmured under your breath, and you pounded your fist on the door.

You were about ready to start kicking it when you heard a burst of static behind you. You turned to see your boss coming in through the camera system. While it had always been an eerie feature to your arrangements, it was a million more times so to see Vox using it to his full advantage.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked.

“I should be the one asking that,” he said, “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“None of your damn business!” you said, “I don’t know what security you have on this door, but you better take it off now or-”

“Or?” he asked.

Now it was your turn to look tense as he gave you a self-satisfied smirk. You could feel your face flushing in a quiet rage as he spoke. Though you were hiding them behind your back, you could feel your fists clenching, as well as the shape of you mouth hardening.

“Vox, you are being ridiculous! We don’t even have a contract! I’m not bound to you, so you can’t keep me here,” you said.

He cocked his head at you, raising an eyebrow, “Oh really now?”

Something about the nonchalance in his tone only pissed you off more.

“Yes, really!” you yelled, “I’m not staying here. I’m leaving whether you want me to or not.”

“And just how do you expect to do that?” asked Vox, “Jump out the window? I mean you could splatter yourself on the ground, but it’d be a bit rude considering I’ll have to send some unlucky interns to scrape you off the pavement and put you back in your room until you regenerate.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in and clenching and unclenching your hands with an unnecessary amount of force. You tried to calm your voice down.

“Vox, I understand that you like the work I do for you, but you’re being ridiculous,” you said.

“You think this about work?” he said, “F/N, don’t act stupid. I can get a new secretary anytime I want, ten secretaries. You and I both know that’s not what this is about.”

You looked at him confused. It wasn’t?

“For someone who is so smart with data, you are being so unbelievably slow right now.”

He advanced on you, causing you to shrink against the frame of the door as he leaned over you. He pushed you against the wall and gripped your chin in his hand, forcing you to look him in the eye. It all happened in a flash, too fast to register, and before you could realize it, he was pulling you into a rough kiss.

It wasn’t what you had expected, though it wasn’t as if you had thought a lot about what kissing your boss would feel like. On the rare occasions when you had wondered about it, you had assumed kissing Vox would be like kissing the screen of a laptop. Apparently though, he had a literal working mouth as you could clearly tell from the sensation of his tongue and even teeth connecting with your own. Your chin ached in his firm grip, which could have been more tender if it didn’t feel like he was keeping you from turning your face away. You tried to do so, but he didn’t even seem to notice it, he was so preoccupied.

He held you like this for a good two or three minutes, his saliva coating your mouth. Though it was barely there, you could feel a slight buzz to it, as if some of his electricity was in his fluids. He finally released you though, some of his spit getting on your lips as he removed himself. A sigh filled the air as your lips parted.

“Even better than I thought it would be,” he murmured

He shifted a bit and was leaning in for another kiss when you kicked him in the shins.

“Ow!” he said, releasing you and giving you time to dart away.

You had moved in a burst to the other side of the room, glaring at him with what you hoped was resentment. There was also something else though. A feeling of deep rooted anxiety and fear was stirring in full force, despite the fact that over the past few months you had been pushing it down as much as possible. You hoped he couldn’t see the weakness in you.

Whether he did or not though, you could tell he was visibly pissed for a minute. He finally got his features under control, but as he spoke his tone held all of the avarice that had left his face.

“Whatever,” he said, “Contract or not, you’re still mine, and you’re not going anywhere until you accept that. Throw a tantrum if you want to, but you’re stuck here.”

You watched as he went back into the camera system as easily as he had come. You curled up on the floor, burying your face in your arms.

[anyarose011]

"Crawling Back to You" {Aemond x Reader}

Summary: It started with a night out in King's Landing, then a fake name, and then a disagreement. Some time after cooling off, and after a job gone wrong, you and the one-eyed prince come to...an understanding in the rain.

Part 2 of 3 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Oral sex (f and m receiving), nudity, groping, talk of death, swearing, canon-typical injury, sexual harassment (not done by Aemond), and mention of past child SA

Heyyyyyy pookies. So I just started my senior year and it's been hectic. BUT I hope this long ass chapter (it took me forever) makes up for it! I'm also not sure how accurately I'm writing Aemond. I mean, I know HBO is making him into the edgiest edge lord, but I'm taking creative liberties i guess. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 8.5k

 “It’s a pleasure to finally put a name to your face. One that fits its beauty.” He smiled.

You lowered your gaze, fighting the smile on your lips. It was a stupid compliment, one that you had heard several variations of the rare times men would flirt with you those days. But…it felt different from him.

Still, you merely scoffed, setting the jug on your hip. “Do you want to lead the way, or should I?”

“Go ahead; considering you believe I’ll harm you somehow.”

“See?” You decided to tease instead of defy as you began to walk up the cobbled hill. “You are funny.”

Aemond scoffed, following you. “Did I ever deny it?”

“How you reacted when I first said it never gave me a clear answer.”

“Shouldn’t you change?”

You looked back at him. “What?”

Unashamedly, his eye trailed over your body and yours soon followed. Your nipples were perking through the thin material of the dress.

“Seven Hells.” You cursed, bringing the jug in front of yours.

Aemond came to your side, a hand on your back and leading you up the hill. “You don’t wear a corset?”

“Not with this. I’m meant to lure lustful men, remember?”

“Perhaps you can tell me where you tailor so we can get more appropriate clothing?”

Hell no.

“Or,” you suggested. “I could teach you how to properly steal something?”

“You need to be able to not draw attention to yourself to do that.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“I have no doubt, but the clothing off a man’s back?”

You paused for a moment before replying. “Yes, actually; I even managed all of one’s undergarments.”

Aemond shook his head, pulling his hood farther up to hide his smile. “I mean more so with that dress.”

“It might surprise you, but that is how I robbed him blind.”

“I mean in the sense that-.”

“-I understand.” You shut him up, but not aggressively. The two of you passed by more and more people through the many alleys of King’s Landing. When you got to the main roads, you would’ve lost Aemond in the crowd if it weren’t for the fact his hand had traveled from your back to your arm.

Maybe it was because he was paying you, or maybe it was because you didn’t know how touch starved you had been until it felt like his hand was simultaneously burning and soothing you; but you welcomed his touch.

As you continued to brave through the busyness of the city, you managed to spot a hobbling man wearing a long cloak with a drink in his hand. You smirked at your companion.

“Are you watching?”

He nodded, and how he looked you up and down briefly didn’t escape you. “I’m watching.”

You handed him the jug of water and approached the slightly incapacitated man. You pitched your voice up when you asked. “Ser?”

The man glanced up at you through hooded eyes, and he grunted in response.

“Are you alright?” You feigned concern, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to hold him up.

“Aye.” He sighed. “Much better now that you’re here.”

You giggled, leading him. “You’re too kind.”

“If it’s possible, could that kindness be repaid?”

“Let me at least have your name first,” you turned him down a spacious alleyway where there were less people. “Then I will know what to scream.”

“Gaius. You may-oi!”

You snatched the cloak right off his shoulders and took off in a mad dash down the rest of the alley. Turning your head over your shoulder for merely a second, you were graced to watch as the drunk man stumbled over his own footing before two hands in front of you grabbed your arms. Once you were pulled around the corner, you raised your hands to strike your assailant; to which he caught both of them.

“Is it truly that easy to rob Smallfolk?” Aemond asked, not letting go of your wrists.

Snickering, you pulled away from him. “I thought you said you were watching me?”

“I was.”

“Clearly not.” You slipped the cloak over your body, tying it. “You were lurking in the shadows.”

“I still saw you.” He retorted.

Shaking your head, you bent down and picked up your jug of water on the ground. Then, you stuck your hands into the pockets of the cloak. Your face lit up, and your retracted your hand, holding four pennies in your palm.

“Come with me.” Was all you said before walking past him and continuing down the street.

Aemond was by your side once more. “And where exactly are you taking me to?”

“Are you fond of sweets?”

“I enjoy them, but rarely indulge.”

“Then I will be more of a temptress tonight without having to show any of my skin.” You said excitedly.

All the prince did was smile; somehow trusting your ‘madness’. It was a short walk from where you were to a small stand in one of the several market corners of King’s Landing. Despite the long line, you pushed to the front, ignoring all of the comments and curses from the people.

“Evening, Marija.” You greeted the older woman. “Oh my, has someone bewitched you? You look younger!”

“What do you want?” She sighed your name tiredly, but a pleasant smile was on her features.

Sliding the four pennies onto the counter, you said. “Two dishes of Northern Snow.”

“Do you have two other pennies?”

“This was all I was paid.” You sighed. “You know how short everyone is on coin.”

“Precisely why I need every bit of what is owed to me.”

Shaking your head, you lowered your voice. “Do you see the man lingering behind me? The one with one eye.”

She glanced over your shoulder for just a moment, long enough for it to look like an accident and not a stare. “Yes?”

“He’s a rich lord from Essos,” You began the lie with a truth. “and he has fallen in love with me.”

“You have always told marvelous tales, but even for you-.”

“-Marija…I have a good feeling about him.” You spoke with more insistence. “You know that doesn’t happen very often.”

The older woman looked at you for a little longer, as if to try and pick apart your deceit. Then, when she could find no trace of it, she sighed heavily. Still, she brought out two small vanilla cakes and laid them on the counter, then brought out the bowl of puffy cream.

“You better invite me to this extravagant wedding of yours.” She frosted the cakes with the cream, creating a fluffy topping that looked as if it was true snow itself. Marija then drizzled melted chocolate over both cakes before handing them to you. “Considering this handsome stranger is wealthy.”

“He is strange.” You chuckled. “A bit arrogant too, but I shall live.”

“All men are arrogant.”

“You have not met this one. Thank you, Marija.”

“Sure, sure,” she scoffed. “Give me your water as well; I’m parched.”

“Only if you give me the jug back. I need it.”

“I’ll come around tomorrow and visit Yelena in the meantime, is that alright?”

Your smile fell for just a moment, before forcing it back. “Sounds great!”

Rushing away, you could barely hear her goodbye before you soon found Aemond again, handing him the dish. His nose wrinkled as you immediately sunk your fork into the pastry. “What is this?”

“Northern Snow.” Your answer was somewhat muffled by the amount of food in your mouth. “Marija’s traveled across the realms and has been popular for her desserts. The snow is just whipped cream with sugar and some rosewater.”

“The brown parts?” He poked the treat.

“Chocolate, but it’s meant to look like horse droppings.”

“I believe I’ll pass.”

You shook your head. “I’m meant to be showing you around the joys of the city that is not just brothels. Trust me.”

He matched your seriousness. “And if I find it revolting?”

“Then you may know where I tailor.”

Humming, he smiled as he dug his fork into the cake and then into his mouth. He pursed his lips together as you watched him ponder the taste. Then, he shook his head, taking another bite.

“You must be a witch to have known I would favor it.”

Smiling victoriously, the two of you walked a short while through the congested market until you managed to find two chairs and a table.

“What did you tell her?” He asked as you sat. “The woman who made this?”

“That you were Prince Aemond and would have my head if I did not serve you a Smallfolk delicacy.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” You agreed, taking a bite of your treat. You hesitated on your next words. “I…she’s a romantic, and I didn’t have enough for the cakes, so I told her you were a rich lord courting me.”

It was nice you didn’t immediately expect him to lash out or condemn you to your death; he seemed genuinely composed every time you were with him, and he stuck to that.

“And what was my name?” He humored.

“I didn’t tell her one.” You teased. “If you were not yourself, what would you have wanted to be called?”

He hummed, taking time for an answer before settling on. “Ciarán.”

“I’ve met one or two of those.” You nodded. “It’s a good name.”

“Might I ask you a question now?”

“Of course.”

“Do you summon your knife out of thin air, or do you hide it in your cunt?”

Choking on your food, you placed your hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Once you were alright, you finally looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“The rumors I’ve heard of you isn’t just about your beauty.” He grinned, knowing the effect on you. “It’s known that you assault men with a blade, but I’ve heard conflicting accounts.”

You stared at him for a little longer before shaking your head, snorting. “Inside of my thigh, like a normal person. You nearly grazed it the first night.”

“Did I?” He tilted his head to the side.

Nodding, you smirked as you took another bite. It was then that his eye darkened just a hint. “What?”

Aemond didn’t verbally respond. Instead, he bunched up the sleeve of his shirt, reached over to take your face into his free hand, and wiped the corner of your lip with his sleeve. “You had something white on your face.”

It was your turn to hum at his statement, continuing to eat; yet, you would glance at him more often while you slid the fork into your mouth, tongue trying to lick the utensil clean of the whipped cream. You both finished up in silence between each other, yet the people around you only chatted excitedly, laughed boldly, or moaned and fucked one another in the dingiest of places nearby.

“Is it fun to be a prince?” You asked, pushing in your chair when you bother stood to leave.

“I wouldn’t call it such.” Aemond shrugged, following suite, and the two of you were wandering aimlessly once again.

“Then what is it you do for fun?”

“I find myself in the library often; reading, studying the history.” He listed. “I train with Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the Hand of the king.”

“You sound like you enjoy his company.”

“I enjoy making him falter as we spar.” He looked at you. “You mustn’t be so horrible in combat. On account of you supposedly taking men’s lives for bounties.”

Shaking your head, you place your hands in the pockets of the cloak. “I don’t take pride in it. I’ve also had my fair share of bruises and broken bones.”

“How many have you killed?”

“How many have you?”

Your response would’ve only worked if it had not been for the well-known fact he had killed Lucerys; something you had forgotten when you saw him again. Now, there you both were, your pace slowing equally in the silence that was the discomfort you had created.

Still, he responded. “Only one; and I assume you along with the rest of Westeros knows who by now.”

Nodding, you kept your eyes down on the road in front of you.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I did it?” He questioned.

You shook your head. “It’s not my place. If you wish to tell me, then tell me. If not, then I believe it’s your turn to ask something about me.”

Humming, he prodded. “Again, how many men have you killed?”

“The same as you.” You stood closer to him as a crew of rowdy men began to pass by. “He was an angry man; a ratcatcher fired from his profession, and to my luck, with no family or anyone to miss him.”

“It must have been his luck as well, considering what happened to all of them merely a week ago.”

You didn’t want to acknowledge the gate into that conversation. “I had only done the luring and thievery for a single moon; the worst I had come across was a bloodied nose and a bruised rib. This night…Chansey had warned me not to pursue him, but I was young and ignorant. I didn’t even get to the well before he came up behind me and…”

This was far too intimate of a story to tell someone you had only met twice; nonetheless, one of the princes of Westeros. You decided to end it as soon as possible. “He didn’t hurt me in the way you’re thinking. We struggled against one another, I had no knife with me at the time, but he did. He dropped it as we fought, we both reached for the blade, and I got it first.”

The two of you had somehow wandered into a small, quiet square; perhaps only a few other people resting from a drunken bender. Aemond, with his hands behind his back, simply inquired.

“Did he have anything of value on him?”

Shaking your head, you grinned. “Three pennies, a half-penny, and a surprisingly clean red scarf.”

“And the scarf was the most priceless.”

“Of course. I would’ve died in the winter without it.”

You both chuckled, and it was him who halted the walking. You stopped in front of him a few places.

 “I hadn’t meant to kill Luke.” Aemond admitted softly.

“Lucerys?” You clarified.

“Yes; only frighten him.” He sighed. “It…it was an unfortunate outcome to what I had intended.”

If he were not himself (perhaps the rich Lord Ciarán he wished to be for that one night), then you would have told him it did not matter what he intended. A boy was dead and that put all of Westeros at risk. Still, whilst your anger was present, you understood you would never know what happened that day. You also understood his regret above all; you had no right to act like a saint.

“Is there anything I can do?”

You genuinely had no idea how to respond to him. So, you did what your mother had done for you whenever you were upset as a child: Ask what you needed from her.

His eye met yours, and you somehow found the courage to not look away from him. After what felt like a lifetime, he approached you suddenly and gradually wrapped his arms around you. Your body was akin to a corpse with how frozen you had become. Still, it didn’t last for long as you found yourself easing into his hold, your own arms around his neck. The night was so quiet, you could hear his shallow breaths in your ear.

Then, his hand slipped into your pocket.

At the sudden change of touch, you flinched out of his touch, but he merely shushed you, pulling away fully. You reached into the pocket and pulled out what he had promised you; three silver moons.

Swallowing thickly, you looked up at him and saw…an array of emotions you could not describe. So, you spoke first.

“I…I hope tonight was enough for you. I’m not sure what else I-.”

“-It was nice.” He interrupted, his gaze still on you. “Lovely, even.”

Nodding, you pocketed the moons and kept your hands at your side. “I bid you a goodnight, Little Prince.”

He rose his brow. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to call me that.”

“Will you have my head then, your grace?” You taunted.

“I should.” He walked closer to you. “But I won’t. What direction is your house?”

Your heart leapt; yet, not in the way it should have after an attractive man (you would later admit) made a forward remark.

“Oh no, I will not bother you.”

“It is not a bother if I desire to see you home safely.” He argued.

“Aemond,” you stepped back, not wanting to play a game. “I don’t want you to walk with me for the rest of the night.”

The quietness returned; but, not one of comfort. He didn’t look angry, and that was what frightened you. He merely stood tall like a man.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean to say it so-.”

“-Yet you said it.”

Shaking your head, you tried again. “I offended you, and I’m sorry. My house is no place for anyone other than myself and-, not even other smallfolk.”

“I wouldn’t go inside if that is what worries you. I am merely curious.”

“Look,” you approached him again, only for him to step away. “if you wish to see me again, I wouldn’t mind at all-.”

“-As long as I have coin.”

Your face went blank for a few seconds you had been so shocked by his words, and soon formed a scowl. “You had offered.”

“You didn’t reject it.”

All you could do was laugh. “You-!”

He wasn’t the one to cut you off, it had been yourself. Taking a deep breath, you folded your hands over your mouth to ponder your next words. You were tired, frustrated, and wanted to go home. So, you did exactly that.

“Be safe on your journey back to the Red Keep.” Was all you said, and you brushed past him, expecting him to call you a nasty name, or chase after you again.

But, like the first night you had met him: He did nothing.

A week later, you were back where you’d always been at night: Sylvi’s brothel. As you prettied yourself, the girls were restless; not with enthusiasm for the clients, but for the talk of war. Whether it was the fear of death it would bring, or the lust for strong men to take comfort inside of a woman.

You were a part of the former. Not as horrible as some girls (you found one vomiting up her dinner after the discussion), but you had to admit you were judgmental of those excited about it. You yourself had never experienced war…but if it was just a smidge like the violence you and other women had ever suffered multiplied by a thousand…it wasn’t something you were looking forward to.

Later, you waited in Sylvi’s private quarters (the one place no one is allowed to go during work hours unless she permitted it) until it was Chansey who came, saying she had quarry for you.

She had been with an older, retired member of the Lannister guards. He was three and fifty, she told you; fucked like an animal, but when it was over, while he desired to do it again, his body ached so horribly he could only walk.

It was meant to be easy…but for any reason at all, it wasn’t that night.

You stumbled as you brought your knife out, and he unsheathed a dagger from his side. You fought and fought, it almost being like a twisted dance; he’d strike, you’d doge, and vice versa. He swiped against your side, and it stung but you had no time to even seethe in pain as he brought his blade up to stab you again.

He’d gotten tired sooner than you imagined, and you grabbed onto his sleeve, then dragging him into a handful of barrels nearby. He landed in a crash, and he wasn’t getting up. He was still breathing as you looted him. A few Coppers and a silver Stag.

It was only then, as you pushed your way through the boisterous crowds, that you felt your head begin to lighten, and your side grow heavy. Looking down at the gnawing pain, you saw crimson soak your thin gown. Oh…you were wounded.

“Chansey?” You called out over the groaning of whores and their patrons once you made it back to the brothel. The lights seemed dimmer than usual, and with one hand keeping pressure on your wound, you used your other to tap the shoulder of the nearest server.

She gasped upon seeing you. “What happened?”

“Where’s Chansey?” You asked.

“She-she’s with someone.”

“Seven Hells, already?!” Sighing, you took one of the chalices off her tray. “Fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”

And you took it in one gulp. The server gaped at you as you took another one, also downing it like it was water. “Thank you.”

Her voices of worry were once again drowned out by the sound of constant pleasure from every corner of the brothel. Now, what the server did not tell you, was that it wasn’t the cheap wine usually served to the common payer; no…it was incredibly rich, and incredibly strong.

It also didn’t help you barely ate or drank water that day. So, to no one’s surprise but yours, you were stumbling through the entire pleasure house.

“Needle and thread?” You slurred, pulling open one of the curtains abruptly only to see five naked women lying next to two men. “Sorry.”

You felt the blood begin to seep through the small cracks of your fingers and your pressure wavering as you made your way to the next curtained area.

“Do you have a needle and thread?” You asked again, being welcomed by Valda laying on her back with a man’s head between her legs.

She screamed at your intrusion and cried your name. “What the fuck?!”

“Hey,” in your haze, you found it amusing. “do you know where Chansey is?”

“Get out!”

“Okay, okay.” you whistled at the man. “Good ser, I do declare that you are a gift from The Seven because only They know how many men actually come here to-.”

“-Wait, are you bleeding?!” She sat up in alarm.

You left immediately, taking deep breaths to try and remain upright as you continued your search. A hand grazed your shoulder.

“Are you alright, girl?”

A putrid looking man questioned with a toothy grin as you turned briefly to see who touched you. You nodded. “I’m fine, go away.”

“Hey now,” he tried to make a grab for you again, but you shoved him off. “don’t be like that.”

“I’m dying, I think I can be.”

“Let me give you a little death.” He flirted.

You grabbed the nearest curtain, tossing it aside. “For fuck’s sake, does anyone have a-?!”

Words failed as you gazed upon Madame Sylvi sucking the cock of a standing man. It was then that your eyes traveled up his body, and saw a familiar, silver-haired prince.

A prince with one eye shut, and a sapphire where an eye-patch should have been.

Your mouth ran dry at the sight of him falling apart in whimpers, and it dropped once his eye opened and immediately went to yours.

Aemond released a loud groan, tossing his head back as cum dripped through the creases of Sylvi’s mouth. She drew herself away from him, still on her knees, wiping her mouth and looking over at your interruption.

“What in the devil’s name are you doing here?!”

Your words fell into syllables as you genuinely had no idea what to say. Then, in the corner of your eye, you saw the man that had been following retreat.

“Hey!” You yelled, hobbling after him. “You sheep fucker, get back here!”

Two hands grabbed your shoulders and turned you around sharply, causing a reminder of the wound in your side. You hissed, clutching it and trying to smother a cry. You kept your head low as the person who had manhandled you led you back into Sylvi’s small room. You were laying on the pillows and thin mattress. It was then you saw Aemond Targaryen hovering above you.

“No-!” You tried to push him away.

“-Calm down.” He insisted, restraining you. “You’re going to make it worse.”

“If you touch me, I’ll carve out your other eye and feed it to your mother.” You slurred.

Instead of killing you right there, he thinned his lips. “While I don’t doubt that, you shouldn’t need to worry; I’m well spent.”

You gagged, shutting your eyes in disgust and tossing your head further into the pillow you rested on. You felt a presence soon beside you, and you opened your eyes to see Sylvi.

“My prince,” she turned to Aemond. “please wait in my personal quarters and I’ll-.”

“-I’ll hold her down.” He interrupted. “She’s a fighter, if you don’t know.”

“Believe me,” she unscrewed a bottle of alcohol. “I do.”

Sylvi hiked up your dress, completely exposing you from the waist down, and poured liquid over your side, causing a squeal to escape your throat. In an attempt to not just remain calm for yourself and everyone else in the building, you did your best to stifle your cries. It only became harder to do once Sylvi stuck a needle in your skin.

That was when you instinctively rose yourself up, only for Aemond to force you back down, putting his entire weight upon you. Your hands traveled up to his bare shoulders, sinking your nails into his skin and even scratching in an animalistic attempt to get him off of you.

Tears welled in your eyes as you took in quivering breaths and suppressed your grunts in pain. It looked like everything was underwater, and you could barely make out the face of the man above you. You only saw the shimmering jewel where his left eye should’ve been.

Then, the pain was over.

Your heartbeat began to slow down, and it was no longer the only sound in your ears. Your body rose momentarily as you felt bandages being wrapped around your waist, and your dress finally lowered, covering your nakedness. You felt a warm hand brush your face gently before it pulled away abruptly.

“What did you do now?” Sylvi sighed, tossing her materials away.

You groaned, unable to move. “Bad job.”

“And so, you decided to come and bother me?”

“Chansey was fucking someone and I-.”

“-Watch your words!” She lightly slapped your face and whispered fiercely. “Prince Aemond is here, and I will not have you speak like that.”

You laughed, glancing over at Aemond, who had put his pants on, and was working on his shirt. “Do you hear that, Aemond? I can’t say ‘fuck’!”

“Are you drunk?” She hissed.

“Nooooo.” You trailed off before giggling.

Sylvi stood, placing her head in her hands and shaking her head. Now noticing how strange the whole situation was, you pushed yourself up. Your body was scalding, but you would rather die walking away from embarrassment than in the heat of it.

“He had some coin.” you sat up. “I don’t know where it went, but I’ll find it. I have to go home now.”

“You are not walking out like this.” She pushed you back down.

“I’m not sleeping here.”

“I’ll take her back.”

The prince stood tall, slipping his patch over the sapphire. Sylvi shook her head. “No.”

“Are you questioning my authority, Madame?” He challenged.

You watched her flinch. Then, taking a breath she explained. “You needn’t bother with her; she’s a humble, little thing that doesn’t listen to anyone other than herself. Besides, you requested and paid for two hours, yet you have only used twenty min-.”

“-I will gladly spend the rest of it escorting her home.”

Again, the only sounds being heard was skin slapping alongside loud moans outside. You looked in between the prince and the Madame as if you were a child being fought over. So, coughing, you sat up again.

“Can I wear my own clothes, please?”

Sylvi, for the first time that night, coddled you. “Of course. Aemond, could you tell the first girl you see to fetch her clothes from my quarters, please?”

He nodded, leaving you two alone. When he was out of sight, she brushed the hair sticking against your sweaty face.

“Tell him you changed your mind, and you’re too weak to walk.” She begged.

“And if he says he’ll carry me?”

She scoffed. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Sylvi kissed your cheek as if to soothe you. “I don’t want you to be alone with him.”

“He told me he already had his fill of cunt.”

“Men can still hurt little girls without their cock.”

“Take a look at me,” you sassed. “don’t you think I already know that?”

She said your name softly. “He’s not as kind as he seems.”

“No, he’s not. He acts like he’s been born out of an ass’ ass. I mean…how you feel about the Dowager Queen-.”

Slamming a hand over your mouth, she spoke in your ear. “-Not another word from you. You listen to me; I’ve come to know him for the years I’ve spent with him longer than the weeks you have had with him.”

“If he’s so horrible,” you took her hand away. “then tell me what he has done.”

“He-.”

“-Never mind, I don’t care.”

Instead of stepping into the room, Aemond had tossed your set of clothes through the curtains, landing on the floor. Without words, but with looks that could kill, Sylvi helped dress you and then led you out of the brothel.

It was downpouring, and while your clothes thankfully covered almost every inch of your skin, save for your face, you weren’t in the mood to be bathed in rainwater. Sylvi hadn’t even wished you a proper goodbye; just nodded to a hooded Aemond beside you and went back inside.

“I assume you can walk?” He asked, almost annoyed at his own idea to walk you home.

“You’re not going to carry me?” You teased.

“No.”

Sighing dramatically, you took a few steps out into the rain, and immediately felt agonizing pain. Well, not as bad as earlier, but it hurt. Still, you decided to follow the best given advice: Walk it off.

“Stop, stop.” Aemond shook his head after you limped four more steps, coming to your side. “Lean against me.”

You didn’t argue, draping your arm over his shoulders. You both walked as quick as you could in the rain, you giving him directions the best you could (he had to turn around twice to go back to the same fork in the road) until you tapped his shoulder.

“Wait-wait, I don’t feel good.”

“Seven Hells.” He cursed, pulling you over to the side of the street. Grabbing your hands he placed them on the nearest wall, standing behind you to guide you.

“Hey, hey!” You rose your voice. “Don’t-don’t you even think of hiking my skirt up!”

“You’re going to smell like death in a moment, why would I ever-?”

“-Because men are…are…”

You gagged, and Aemond’s hands immediately vanished as you threw up what little you had eaten that day. Your throat was on fire the whole time, making the chill of the rain even more apparent.

“Oi!” An older man yelled. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

You nodded, wiping your mouth and turning over to look at him standing in a doorway of his shop. “Yes, thank you!”

“Do you know that man with you?”

Before Aemond could say anything, you pat his shoulder affectionately. “I’ll have you know, this is Lord Ciarán of House…Strong…Man, Strongman. He’s one of the richest men in Westeros.”

“Is that so?” He nodded, then looked at your companion. “Lad, do yourself a favor and put your old lady to bed.”

Aemond forced a smile, taking your arm and returning it back to its proper place over his shoulder. The two of you were on the road again, you leading him blindly throughout the streets. The rain felt nice at this point; not exactly, but your throat had been parched, so most of the time, you were holding your mouth up and tongue out like a child to catch the rainwater.

At one point, he hissed in pain, his hand coming up to his eyepatch.

“What is it, what’s wrong?!” You gasped.

“Nothing.” He cursed. “’Just keep going.”

Reluctantly, you carried on through King’s Landing until you reached your home.

“Okay, we’re here.” You stopped him a few minutes later.

Aemond looked at the building before him; it was a bouchère. “Here?”

“No, down there.”

He followed your gaze, and sure enough, there was a set of stairs to the side leading down. Carefully, you both scaled down the steps, and entered your home.

There was no leaking anywhere, to your surprise. With only the little amount of light within the sitting room, you knew Aemond (even with one eye) could see just how much dust there was on the furniture.

“Hells,” he sighed heavily, slipping off his cloak before you could stop him. “how do you live in this humidity? I can barely breathe.”

“I-.”

“-Vivi.” A sweet, tired voice called for you.

In the corner of the room, in her usual chair, was your grandmother. Her eyes drew up to the door once you entered, and they were alight.

“I thought you were out for too long.” She stood.

“Evening, Gigi.” You staggered over, embracing her. “And how was holding down the fort?”

“Some mice almost came in, but I showed them who was the boss around here.”

“I’m sure you did.”

It was only then did she fully realize there was someone else with you; a man. A man with silver hair. She gasped, turning back to you.

“Siobhan, you didn’t tell me the king was visiting!”

You cackled. “Gigi no, this is my friend-.”

She gently took his hand into hers, kissing it. “-Your grace, you must forgive my dear girl; she has a knack for getting into trouble, but not for telling me things.”

And then, Aemond did something you weren’t expecting. He placed his other hand over your grandmother’s, smiling.

“All is forgiven.”

Her grin was contagious as she pulled her hand away to hike her long skirt up, walking to the kitchen. “Oh, I shall make tea! Imagine what Cassian would think?” She chuckled. “Jaehaerys himself in our house!”

The name she uttered sobered you up; not all of you, but enough for terror to return into your body. Once she was out of sight, with a growing fear in your eyes, you looked at Aemond.

“You-you must understand, she hasn’t been herself since I was a child. I don’t think she’s even aware there is-was another-.”

“-I’m not a fool.” He stopped you. Noticing you had the face of someone who would vomit for the second time that night, he said. “I told you; I enjoyed reading the histories. I’m well aware the king before my father was Jaehareys.”

Feeling as if you could breathe again, you rested against the wall. “Thank you.”

Aemond hummed. “Why ‘Gigi’?”

“She never liked me calling her ‘Grandmama’.”

“And who’s Siobhan?”

Your eyes drew to the ground. No mice were in the house, but a few spiders had made their way in. “My mother.”

“Ah.” Was all he could manage.

“She uh, she died when I was one and ten; that’s when Gigi…”

“How?”

“What?”

“How did she die?”

Something clogged your throat, and your head felt heavy all over again. Swallowing the lump, you tried to find the words to-.

“-Forgive me. “Aemond spoke. “I shouldn’t have prodded.”

“No, you-.” You shook your head. “I understand your curiosity.”

And there you two were, against the wall in silence. Sighing you finally said.

“She forgets what she was meant to do when she enters a room with a purpose.” You explained. “I guarantee you, she’s doing a puzzle instead of making tea. We don’t have the best leaves anyway.”

He nodded. “Do you wish for me to leave, then?”

Your eyes went to one of the only windows in the house; the long, thin panel at the top where you could see the feet of everyone in King Landing if it were a nice day. The rain came down harsher, the spattering of water being almost too loud.

“You can stay until the storm eases,” you answered. “if you want.”

“I would prefer it.”

Nodding, the heaviness of your head did not cease, and your eyes drifted to the doorway in the back of sitting room. You made your way through it, glancing back at Aemond.

“If I may be candid, I’m quite exhausted. So…unless you’d prefer being called ‘Your Grace’ by my grandmother, then you’re more than welcome to talk with me in my room.”

“Hm, the former sounds tempting.” Despite his words, he followed close behind you.

You pushed open your door, took a few steps towards your bed, and lowered yourself to lie down with a sharp wince. The prince took his time observing your room, taking in every little detail. From the residue of a mess being pushed under your bed, to old childhood art pieces up on the wall.

One piece had caught his eye the most. A sketch of a woman’s face; a haunting gaze in her eyes that would make anyone believe she was watching them.

Much like yours…

“This is Siobhan?”

Better to use your mother’s name as if she were a stranger instead of calling her ‘your mother’.

“Gigi drew that.” You smiled lightly. “It was on one of her namedays.”

“It’s beautiful.”

His compliment unnerved you before it flattered you. You deflected with a joke. “Beautiful enough to have her paint the Targaryens the next time they so desire it?”

“If she cannot remember to boil tea-?”

“-She is herself again when she does or speak of things she loves.” You sat farther up against the wall behind your bed “Even if they’re things that no longer are with us.”

He sat at the edge of the mattress. “And what are some of those things?”

Oh, where to start? As your mind rattled over what exactly to say first, you truly looked over Aemond for the first time. It was strange; you had acknowledged his attractiveness for just a moment, but never delved more into it.

Then, as you stared at him, you knew exactly what to tell him.

Giggling, you began. “Cassian was my grandfather; I hadn’t known him, he died before I was born. Still, if it’s not him she speaks about being in love with, it’s ‘Elio’; a Dornish man, her first love.”

“Some might say they are far greater than the one you marry.” He shrugged.

“She’s never told me his real name.” You leaned forward. “She said that he had to keep it secret from her for a long time, and he only told her after she got drunk, and he thought she wouldn’t remember.”

The two of you laughed lightly, and you kept going through your giggles. “He-he was only in King’s Landing for a year and went back to Sunspear. They would send ravens to each other, but then he stopped one day. She married my grandfather, had my mother, he died, and that was life.”

“And then there was you.”

You nodded, thinning your lips. “And then there was me.”

“You’ve talked about your mother, but you haven’t mentioned your father yet.”

Sighing, you rubbed your finger into the blanket you rested upon, looking away from him. “When my grandfather’s heart gave out, Gigi had to take on more work at the tailor’s and they still weren’t making enough for food. So…my mother took up working with Sylvi. She was fifteen, and Sylvi only let her cook and clean. When she was of age, she let her go to bed with the men for her coin. I could’ve walked past my father, and I wouldn’t be able to know.”

Aemond stared at her, nodding. “You’re a bastard.”

“It’s the one time I enjoy being smallfolk.” You shrugged. “I can just as easily lie and say my father died while married to my mother.”

“No one else knows?”

“Sylvi and Marija; the woman who gave us Winter Snow.” You scoffed. “Some old neighbors who’ve thankfully died, but I still remember their insults as I passed by them when I was just a child.”

He hummed, and you did not blame him for not saying anything after you. The two of you just existed in your childhood bedroom, the rain still beating against the roof, but not quite as hard this time.

“What were you like when you were a boy?” You questioned.

“Not like my brother or nephews.” He answered right away. “They…teased me a lot.”

“I’ve never had brothers or sisters, but aren’t they meant to?”

“Not like how they did.”

Oh…so it was bad. You wouldn’t ask him how horrible it was, knowing that there are some things no one would ever want to speak of.

“I’m sorry they did.”

He shook his head. “No need, it was years ago.”

“It was still wrong.”

Aemond didn’t say anything; didn’t even look at you. Then, for some reason…you felt compelled (maybe even okay) to tell him. “My mother she…died the same way my grandfather did.”

“His heart.”

“We-we think so. It’s strange though; she was so young, and just one night we were eating dinner, she stands to go tend to the fire…and she fell. It…it was as if her soul had been sucked away from her and all that was left was her body.”

“And you think you’ll die like her.”

Swallowing thickly, you had hoped he didn’t see right through you about that; but at the same time…how freeing it felt to be seen even in the most shameful and terrifying moments of life.

“She was the main provider for our house.” You went into more detail. “Gigi tried her best, but it wasn’t enough. My mother…Sylvi hasn’t told me everything she did to earn enough coin, and I don’t think I want to know. Many healers have said that people dying from a bad heart at such a young age is due to stress. I don’t know if they’re right, and even when I was one and ten, I did everything in my power not to feel so, but Gigi would wander around King’s Landing late at night, or we couldn’t afford food for days on end…”

You were vomiting all of your troubles onto him, it was disgusting; but, once you started, you couldn’t stop. The storm had picked up again, and from how the wind shook the walls of your room, you thought they would all crumble.

“Sylvi knew of us struggling, and she paid for our meals. I was to become an indentured servant to her, like how my mother was; cooking, cleaning, running odd errands…but she paid me in coin as well. I think-I think she thought I was going to follow in my mother’s footsteps when I was of age, but I refused. That’s when some of the girls and I came up with a way for me to make extra coin, and here we are.”

“She never let anyone younger than seventeen be a whore?”

For a moment, you pondered how that was the one thing he got from your nervous ramblings. Still, you decided it wasn’t best to think about it. “She didn’t want men bedding little girls.”

“I suppose it’s different for girls.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It was my thirteenth nameday when my brother brought me to Sylvi’s pleasure house.” He said it as if it was common knowledge. “He said I needed to know everything there was about women. Your Madame certainly taught me well. It makes sense I suppose; girls are taught to be more ashamed about it.”

Even with the storm still going outside, the only sound you could hear was the beating of your own heart. “…What?”

You remembered what it was like when you were that age. Your body felt strange, you bled between your legs for the first time, you wanted a husband right away one moment, and then wanted to be a child forever the next. You were good at talking to men who were older than you…but…being intimate? No…and Sylvi had…Sylvi had-?

“Is something wrong?”

If you were delusional, you would say he seemed concerned. Still, if you were to tell him that what Sylvi had done was hypocritical and despicable of her, you would go red in the face with tears, and he would only spit on you and say you wouldn’t understand, and-.

“-Your hair.” You said, having been staring at it whilst your mind rushed. “Has…has it always been curly?”

Aemond scowled, not in scorn, but in puzzlement. It must’ve started to dry as he spent time in the house; it must’ve been frizzy and horrible as well. “Yes.”

You forced a smile. “And here I thought only the ladies of the night burned their hair since men favor it straight.”

“Mothers too.” He sighed when he saw the look you gave him. “It curled more by the time I was fourteen. She had the servants straighten it for me ever since; I believe she hates anything about me that is a reminder that she is my mother.”

“Aemond…”

“I don’t need your pity. I’ve been with her since I was born, it is nothing new and I have-.”

You don’t know why you reached forward and combed a strand of his hair between two of your fingers. Maybe it was because you were still tipsy, or maybe it’s because you just wanted to. He flinched upon your touch, and so did you.

“For-forgive me,” you backed farther up your bed. “I-I forgot myself and I-.”

He brought himself forward, taking both of your hands. Without looking at you, he brought both of them into his hair. Almost like it was second nature, you began to gently run your fingers over his scalp. He shut his eye, his hands traveling to drape along your waste, and he bent his head to rest upon your chest.

It was strange. Strange but nice. You were holding him, but just to have the illusion of you also being cared for…not even your grandmother had done something like this for years.

“I like your hair just how it is.” You whispered after a minute. “If it matters at all.”

He merely hummed, his hand travelling under your shirt. Your breath hitched when you felt his finger caress the skin above your wound. Your hands did not still, continuing to comb through his hair softly.

His finger traveled farther up, circling the swell of your breast. You made a noise you hadn’t made before, and you thought you sounded ridiculous. He hummed against your chest, and…

And…

Something between your legs felt like it was beating; like your heart, but it wasn’t that.

“I’m going to touch you there.” He mumbled against the fabric of your shirt. “Alright?”

No, no it wasn’t alright, but it was at the same time.

It wasn’t okay because you’ve only heard stories about this from the girls at the brothel, but it was okay because-because you liked him, and he was-

and you were-

and everything feels warm-

and the way he talked to you-

and the way you-!

“Get off!” You whispered once you heard just the lightest of footsteps outside your door. He listened, backing away quickly to the edge of the bed. An almost silent knock came from your door, and you smiled. “Come in!”

Gigi pushed herself in, holding a tray with two steaming mugs, setting it on the bed. “I’m so sorry, your grace. We do not have tea leaves, so is milk alright?”

Aemond nodded. “It is.”

“How have the both of you been?”

You wore a thin grin. “Fine.”

She nodded, looking in between the two of you. As if she knew what had just taken place, she gave a wry smile and turned to leave. “Well, the rain is dying down now. Let me know if you two need anything else.”

“Thank you, Gigi.” You said without another thought.

She didn’t shut the door when she left. You picked up the mug, took a sip and immediately felt your body heal just a little. Warm milk does numbers on a soul.

“I should take my leave now.” The prince stood up abruptly, dusting himself off.

You tried to stand. “I’ll walk you out.”

The wound at your side burned every inch you moved, and you did a horrible job concealing it. Aemond gently took your shoulders, pushing you back down.

“Rest.” He commanded. “You’re injured, and it’s late.”

“And when have you ever cared?” You teased

“Perhaps just now.” He matched your tone.

“Do you know what I hate?”

“Me? Life itself? Men?”

“Yes, to the last two.” You feel your chest constrict at what you would say next. “I hate that you told Sylvi you would spend time with me because you paid her for…other things previously.”

Aemond tilted his head to the side. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “You…you no longer have to pay for my company. You’ve seen me in turmoil, and I’ve seen you naked.”

He laughed…he laughed in a way you’d never heard him laugh before. “Is that what makes us allies?”

“Friends?” You reworded. “You understand the meaning, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” He scoffed.

“So…are we friends now?”

Friends who touch each other in ways they usually don’t.

A hint of a smile spread across his lips. He took your hand and kissed your knuckles. “Friends.”

You dropped your face, hopefully to avoid him seeing how you blushed. The damage was done though. Regaining yourself, you took a deep breath and looked at him.

“And…I’m aware I won’t be the first person you’ll seek if you’re in distress, but please know I will help if you need it.”

“Do not call yourself inadequate.” He shook his head. “I might have some use for you.”

You scoffed. “How considerate of you.”

“Rest now.” He repeated, turning to leave without a proper goodbye.

You sat up. “Wait!” Aemond did not turn to look at you, but he stopped. “Your eye. When you were walking me home, you were in pain. Does it still hurt?”

He was silent. For a moment, you thought it was to come up with a lie, then you assumed it was to find the words to tell you the truth…you had too much faith in him for either.

“It’s late.” He said your name softly and walked out of your bedroom. You heard the front door open then shut.

And there you were, on your bed, alone with an undrunk mug of milk.

The rain had completely stopped.

[mwahmimi]

I don't want to bother you, but can you please do one for Eddie where reader is really clumsy? Like, she trips on her on foot, loses balance and falls even when just standing still, always has bruises all over her body because she is simply an air-head and ends up hitting her face on a closed door, her knee on the corner of the table and falling in all the stupidest ways possible.

Bambi. Clumsy!Reader x Eddie Munson. Fluff. Blurb.

(You’re never bothering me. I love writing your requests! I hope this is okay!<3)

“You okay there Bambi? You’re walking like you’re on wheels, need a hand?” Eddie teases, chuckling as you clasp your arm around his. He’s not the strongest of guys but his arm does offer you support. You’re clumsy, always have been. Your dad used to say you ran before you learnt how to walk, that you’d never really been able to stand upright on your own two feet without wobbling. He wasn’t wrong. Your parents had gotten you tested for dyspraxia, but the test results came back negative. Put simply, you were just a klutz, in medical terms? You’re just a little unbalanced.

“I know, I know.” You sigh, lifting your pants up to your thighs, letting the air brush against your shins. “Look at my legs Teddy, three new ones and a grazed knee” Muttering the last of your words under your breath, ‘three new ones’ refers to the three bruises scattered across your right shin. Eddie has a tendency to draw lines around your bruised skin and make the blue-yellowish stains look like Saturn, sometimes drawing smiley faces of the Nirvana logo.

He peered down, analysing the new shiners. “Seriously, you gotta be more careful. We’ve spoken about this before, eyes where you’re going, not where you were.” He exaggerated, speaking in a sing-song tone as he chuckles again. “Remember that time you ran face first into the glass door when we were kids? You split your lip and I cried because you were bleeding. Wayne had to deal with you bleeding on carpet and I was in hysterics because I was so sure you were gonna die. From a split lip no less.” Eddie’s mouth twitches up into a smirk as he begins to let out a full belly laugh. He screws his face up, as bubbly giggles escape him lips from reminiscing, “yeah, Wayne said you felt the pain for me cus I didn’t shed a single tear.” You confessed, joining Eddie in the melody of laughter.

“What can I say? I’m weak for a damsel in distress.” Eddie tilts his head and bows theatrically, standing up and opening the top cupboard. He places his box full of first aid supplies from the medicine cupboard onto the floor, opening up the first aid kit. “Let’s get this graze cleaned up shall we? Can’t leave it, will get infected and puss will spurt out. Will be so gross.” He speaks, pouring antiseptic liquid onto a clean rag. “Okay! Okay, I know.” You chime in, clearly disturbed by the imagery. “Just be gentle Eds, please.” You pout a little, hiding behind your hands.

“You know me Bambi, I have magic hands. I’m practically your personal nurse.” Eddie joked, gently patting the rag over your grazed skin being sure to wipe out any dirt and debris. “Hands of an old woman more like.” You tease, stifling your giggles from behind your hands, not wanting to see your wound.

“If you say so, but so you know. I’ll always be here to patch you up. Our little klutz.” He smiles, beaming from ear to ear. Choosing to ignore your cheeky comment, because “you’ve been in the wars.” He gently slaps a band aid over your kneecap and rubs his palm over it to make sure it sticks to you properly. Eddie leans over and pries your hands apart so he can see your face properly. “All done. You’re all fixed up.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over your cheek.

“Thanks Eds, good time to mention I’ve decided to take up ice skating?” You giggle, watching his face drop into the most shocked expression you’ve ever seen. “Kidding!” You tease, throwing yourself at his chest and starting to wrestle each other on Wayne’s living room floor. You are always gonna be looked after by Eddie, your chosen big brother.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted. 

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left. 

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace… 

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

“Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[stellar-skyy]

ONE WITH THE FOREST! - Platonic Tighnari & reader

i. SUMMARY: Tighnari teaches his trainee how to shoot a bow. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Very brief mentions of fighting. iii. NOTES: Fluff, forest ranger!reader, gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 0.8k words. iv. A/N: :D

“Straighten your back.” Tighnari chided light-heartedly. He tapped on (Name)’s spine until they adjusted their posture to stand up properly, his hands then moving to poke between their shoulder-blades. “And untense your shoulders. You’re far too stiff to shoot properly.”

They huffed, forcing their body to relax away the tension building up in their muscles. Proper stance was important when it came to archery—or so Tighnari kept saying.

“Good,” he praised, a smile finally appearing on his lips. “Do you think you’re ready to finally practice with a bow?”

An eager nod, and a snort of laughter at their unconcealed enthusiasm. “Perfect. Now, what’s first?”

“Safety first,” They roll their eyes, reciting the two words that Tighnari had drilled into their skull long before he agreed to teach them.

His insistence on safety was one of the reasons it took him so long to agree to tutor them on how to properly shoot an arrow. He knew as a trainee Forest Ranger they needed a way to defend themselves—and some of the older Rangers were more than happy to teach them how to fight using the wooden practice swords—but despite being a long-ranged fighting style, archery could be a hazard. It left a person vulnerable to attacks from behind, or out of their peripheral vision, and a beginner archer facing against a crowd of monsters was a promised death. It was safer to stick with a weapon they were more comfortable with, and save learning a new one for another day.

But they would keep asking, and Tighnari knew it was a useful skill to have, so he agreed to put aside his duties for an afternoon and teach them how to properly use a bow.

“Here,” Tighnari hummed, passing over the arm guard. It was a simple leather strap, with adjustable belt buckles, worn down with years of use.

“Why do I have to use this?” (Name) asked with a huff. “You and Collei never do.”

“I’ve been using my bow for a long time. And Collei used one for months when she started learning.” Tighnari said, helping slide the guard across their forearm and adjusting the fastenings so it fit snugly across their skin. “You can wear it until I think you’re experienced enough not to snap the string across your arm when you release it. I’ve done that plenty of times when I was a beginner, and I can promise you it is not a pleasant experience.”

“Alright,” They sigh, fiddling with the arm guard until it was completely covering the inside of their arm. Tighnari picked up the bow—a simple practice bow that he had dug up from who-knows-where.

“Okay, hold up your non-dominant hand.” They held up their hand, and he grabbed it and pushed the bow into their grasp. “Hold the grip with this hand. See this notch?” He tapped on the slight protrusion just above where their hand was. “That’s the arrow rest. When you nock the arrow, it’s going to be held there. Now hold out your arm, straight in front of you—a little to the left… that’s it—and stand with your body facing away from the target.”

With Tighnari’s careful prodding in the right direction, they moved so their feet were firmly planted in the correct stance, one arm holding out the bow with the other hand drawing back the string. Tighnari slotted the arrow into the drawn bow, placing atop the arrow rest and tucking the end between the string. “Now, as you grow quicker with the bow, you’ll be able to nock it much faster than this. For now, you’re still finding your balance, so I’ll be here to help.”

The string was taut in their hands. There was a slight ache in their wrist from pulling it back, but they ignored it in favour of keeping their eye on the target about fifteen feet in front of them. It was a tree, identical to the ones around it, save for a red circle painted across the trunk. They took a deep breath in, letting the air fill every corner of their lungs—

And let go.

The arrow flew swiftly through the air, cutting across the forest in a wide arc that narrowly missed low hanging branches and ended firmly stuck in the centre of the target.

“I did it!” They cheered, turning to look at their mentor with unbridled excitement sweeping across their features. Tighnari grinned back at them, reaching over to ruffle the top of their hair like a proud parent.

“Yes, you did!” He cheered.

“It got in the target!”

“It did,” Tighnari nodded approvingly. “You did so well for your first time. I’m proud of you.”

They looked away, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’ at his words. Tighnari took the bow from them and set it back down on the ground, before turning to his mentee and clasping his hands together.

“Now! Grab that arrow from the tree, and let’s have another go.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[laspocelliere]

Day Twenty: Duel

A lifetime in Ishgard had prepared Aymeric for colossal, impressive rooms. When he stepped into the palace of the Dawnservant, however, he couldn’t help the way he looked up, and up, and up, the enormous receiving chambers seeming to have no ceiling at all for how high it went. Torchlight flickered against the warm stone walls, and at the far end, the Dawnservant himself had sat, comfortable and patient, waiting for his invited guest to approach.

Gulool Ja Ja was a calm, authoritative figure on his throne, fingers drumming absently on the armrests, waiting with a bemused, parental smile as Aymeric came forward. A far cry, to be sure, from the cold, ultimate power that his father had once held in Ishgard, and the long, sharp shadows that he cast upon his unwanted son.

The Dawnservant, by contrast, seemed to look at him fondly, even without knowing him.

“So, stranger,” Gulool Ja Ja began, spreading his hands out in welcome. “I hear you have come to our shores in search of my daughter’s champion.”

How strange, to have her referred to in that way, Aymeric thought to himself as he tried to collect his words properly. The woman he had devoted life and limb to, the one who had his sword and his heart in equal measure, summed up in a manner that addressed neither her accomplishments nor her life at all. A handful of words that had nothing to do with her, and the impossibility that she was, and yet – it was all that anyone here knew her as. 

That, at least, was by design. Before she’d left for Tural, they’d discussed it at length. There was a new danger that came with her reputation after Ultima Thule; in particular, her apparent resurrection following the deliverance of the Star. Threats may have been eliminated, but that type of legendary status meant an open door for another instance to try and eliminate her now that she had, in theory, ‘let her guard down’. 

She would go, but she wouldn’t fight. She would watch, but she wouldn’t interfere. She needed to keep an eye on proceedings, that much they agreed; but nothing in Tural was worth the risk of drawing attention to what – and what – she really was.

Aymeric met the Dawnservant’s discerning gaze, and didn’t falter. “I am.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, like sunlight breaking over the sea, the Head of Resolve’s face broke out into a toothy, crooked, delighted grin.

“I see you, stranger,” he said, laughing merrily around his words. “No stranger at all! You are her consort.”

Bemused, Aymeric bowed before Tural’s exalted ruler. “I don’t think I’ve quite heard it put that way before,” he said, straightening. Amusement danced in his bright blue eyes. “I don’t dislike it.”

“She never said a word!” The Dawnservant slapped his knees happily, pushing himself to his feet. “I would have had a proper welcome for you, had I known.”

Aymeric’s smile softened, and the expression that had given him away to the sharp-eyed ruler was back when he spoke of his wife. “She’s not one to speak of her personal life.”

“Nor you either, I reckon!” Gulool Ja Ja looked down at the elezen man, seeming to size him up anew. “I am very curious to meet the man who our lauded champion has aligned me with.” With the light of a new idea, the Dawnservant’s toothy smile twisted ever-wider. “You know, I got to know her by challenging her to a duel.”

“Is that so?” Aymeric took stock of the leader before him; his power, his legacy, his considerable strength. “And did she land you on your back?”

The Dawnservant’s laughing guffaw was so boisterous, it nearly hit the rafters high above. 

“She did at that!” He admitted cheerily. “Not in my lifetime have I come across such a worthy opponent. She is strong and capable, your warrior.”

“Wife.” Aymeric’s correction was quiet, but the pride he held at being able to hold such a word in his mouth was something he couldn’t hide. “She’s my wife.”

Gulool Ja Ja’s smile didn’t falter, for all that it softened.

“Well then,” he said, slamming his fist into his opposite palm decisively. “If that is the case, I think you and I will need to duel as well, stranger. I have grown rather fond of our champion, you see. I would need to see that she has chosen herself a worthy consort.”

The delight in the Dawnservant’s tone was contagious, and Aymeric found himself smiling. “I would be honoured.”

“Wonderful! I will summon you again, and mind you bring everything you have; I will be holding you to a very high standard, stranger.”

“Aymeric,” he offered, bowing once more, Ishgardian courtesy running deep in his veins. The Dawnservant chuckled, and ducked his head reverently in return.

“Until we meet again, Aymeric.”

[tinydeskwriter]

Safe Harbor in a Storm (Dirty Trick. Part II)

A/n: I tried🤷🏻‍♀️

word count: 1473

2023 Grammy’s Award Night

The cameras flashes were blinding. Tonight especially, it seemed brighter than usual.

The frantic photographers screaming her name and asking for a new pose. She gave them her million dollars smile and posed to the camera, relaxing a little feeling her husband’s hand in her small back, drawing circles with his finger against the black lace of her naked dress. His hands eventually found hers against her growing belly—something that happens often since she announced her pregnancy the year before, it had been almost impossible to keep it a secret with her protective, affectionate husband always putting his hands on her, caressing ‘their’ bump— camera flashes fire more aggressively.     

The award season was their last ‘work related commitments’ before their baby birth in late may, they planned to welcome their lil nugget in London, close to his family and their closest friends—after a month long babymoon in Italy, full hours under the sun by the beach, delicious pastries and pastas— she would have three months of recover and then they would be on the road again—with their newborn—, going from one country to another.

Y/n loved how dedicated her husband was to her and their growing little family. 

Her heart felt ready to burst with love at the sight of the handsome Brit she had married a year and a half ago. 

Andrew was truly her dream man. All she ever wished a husband would be. It was like she had dreamed her perfect man he be became true.

They met through mutual friends a month after her painful break up with Harry. She went out with friends to celebrate that her ex had just take the rest of his stuff from her house. It had been hard, even with her ultimatum, Harry went forward with what Jeff though better, and for some reason the man had convinced himself that he would be able to sweet talk his way out of losing her. He failed to understand that Y/n Y/l/n was no man’s pretty little fool, she was no weakling and would never band to his wills, he wanted the PR stunt? Fine, she wouldn’t be the fool waiting for him to come home after he spent the day making out with his geriatric director.

As she prophetically old him: in a month, she’ll have moved on. 

Harry showed up to pick the rest of his shit as she was getting ready for a night out, he bagged and nearly cried, but she was unmovable. 

After she only wanted a strong drink and to forget, and that was the night she met Andrew… properly. They had met before over the years in award shows and mutual friends house parties, but never had been properly introduced. That night they talked… for hours. And by the end of the night Andrew had asked her out. She had wanted to say ‘no’, but something in his honest brown eyes made her give him her number. 

Their first date happened in LA, she arrived one and a half hours late,  he was patiently—and anxiously—waiting for her in a booth, and when he smiled at her and ignored her tardiness, that’s when she new that he was something special.

He was patient and gentle and kind, and less than a year after their first date they tied the knot in a small ceremony at Islington Town Hall, North London.

She had loved Harry, but Andrew had been game-changer.

He made an afford. He made time. He went out of his way to visit her on set in Australia and pretended that it was nothing ‘I’ve been wanting to try the waves around here’ he told her with a smile as he delivered a bouquet of sunflowers and her favorite chocolates that were found only in a particular little store in LA.

She proposed to him the same night Harry had drunken called her, and she realized that all the butterflies she had once felt hearing his voice were now death, but Andrew? His gentle soft gaze and raspy sleepy voice was able to wake a whole zoo in her stomach. She proposed in bed, no ring, nothing, they’re half sleeping, and he answer with ‘yes, sure’.

The very next day he gave her the yellow gold with sustainable diamonds engagement ring he had bought weeks before. They spent two months living together in Sydney, before moving in together and New York, before agreeing that London would be the best place to grow a family in the future.

They got married in the Spring in London, only two witnesses and no paparazzi in sight—they had a jewish ceremony two days later—. The newly wedded A-list couple shocked the world, no one knew they are a couple to begin with.

Fans shipped them. Haters criticized the fifteen years age gap. Media emphasized how odd a couple they made: Glam Hollywood Siren, Y/n Y/l/n and dorky, adorable, Andrew Garfield.

Harry called again after finding out, he was clearly drunk and probably on something else, ‘You’re really that delusional that you thought that I would wait around for you?’she had stated with refinements of cruelty when he finished his rambling. He asked her if she had married ‘that guy’—Andrew was always that guy to Harry— to spite him, to which she honestly told him ‘My directional debut was to spite you. You’re the last thing on my mind when I married Andrew, you killed the butterflies, and he woke the zoo…Andrew is in his own category, his own brand of masculinity, he’s far too amazing to be compared, and I love him, I love him, and he loves me back, he puts me first, he takes me into consideration in his decisions, he never hurt me, and I never doubt him.’

You were a hurricane, but he’s the safe harbor during a storm I always craved for. She never tells him. 

That was the last time they talked, and it has been almost two and a half years since she last saw him.

“You’re the most gorgeous women in this event, and I am the luckiest men.”Andrew said in her ear, making her blush and smile. 

“No need to sweet talk me, luv, we’re married already, and I am carrying your glorious spawn.” She joked, making him throw his head back and laugh.

She smiled bigger and turned her head to look at him. She was truly a lucky woman.

Y/n turned her head after hearing the screams in the red carpet. 

Her smile falter a little, their eyes met for a second—of course he would be here, he was nominated to seven awards—, for a moment she can swear she sees sadness and regret in his green eyes as he takes her in. She smiles brighter—a fake smile, but no one apart from the two men in the red carpet knows— and greets him from a distance, like they were never more than old acquaintances, like they never were engaged, like they never loved each other.

He made his choice. She made hers.

Life moves on.

She left him in her past. Harry Styles was a sentence in the book of her life. 

Andrew is her present and her future.

Harry was jus the guy that wrote songs about her but were never man enough to go against his management and claim her public.

She looks ahead as Andrew and her are guided through the carpet by a assistent.

[evilasiangenius]

“From here the stars are all obscured,” Aziraphale said, disappointed. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I know you wanted to see the stars.”

“Eh, it’s fine.” Crowley shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if there are stars or no stars. I just like being with you.” He reached out to touch the downward pointing lapel of Aziraphale’s pale overcoat, gently brushing off a little moth that had alighted upon the pale creamy fabric; before they left the apartment, they had changed miraculously from their evening wear to some ordinary clothing.

Aziraphale smiled at him, in that way that was not one of his polite customer service smiles, fictional and vague, but with a genuine and deep warmth that Crowley could clearly see even in the shifting light of a passing delivery truck’s headlights that almost obscured the angel’s expression.

“I like being with you too. I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea but…” Aziraphale looked around. “You know, it’s one thing to do the ordinary day-to-day work of miracles and blessings, but when it’s an official thing, sometimes I get nervous. Well, all right, I am always nervous.”

“Nervous? Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m not capable of blessings or divine inspiration, but-” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley waited patiently for him to continue. “It just seems that I...I’m afraid that somehow I’ll make a mistake. That I’ll somehow mess it up, when it’s an official thing. That when it matters, maybe I can’t do it properly.”

“Oh.” Crowley glanced at the angel, who was hugging himself, and then he put his arms around Aziraphale, drawing them to a halt in the deep shadow of a building, his chin upon the angel’s head. “I know you. You always do the right thing. Even...when you don’t want to.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s arms moved about Crowley with a vague hesitation before closing tight around him. “I suppose you’re right.” His words were muffled against the black fabric of Crowley’s suit, but Crowley heard him clearly.

“I know you don’t make mistakes when it comes to important things,” Crowley said softly. “And I believe in you. You’re much stronger and more able than you think.”

“I wish I would believe that too, my dear. You know, I’m so glad that…” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sorry that I ruined our vacation-”

“No, no, it’s fine. Let’s just get this over with so we can go have some breakfast on the ship. Oh, and before dinner, could we go for a cocktail in the Observation Lounge? And I want to try the camel riding machine in the gymnasium. Never heard of such a thing; I want to know if it bites and spits properly like a real camel.”

“Yes, let’s do that. All of those things. And sit in the library together – I’ll read you something if you like, there’s a book that I’ve been reading that I think you might enjoy and we should try the Verandah Grill for lunch sometime, and oh! let’s go window-shopping, there are supposed to be many shops on the Promenade Deck. And if you don’t mind, my dear, let’s also go to the writing room.”

“The writing room?”

“I want to write a letter.”

“To whom?” Crowley wondered. “After all, I’m here-”

“Oh, to you, my dear.”

“Even though I’m here?”

“I just like writing letters.” Aziraphale tightened his grip around Crowley in a spontaneous moment of joy, wiggling them about to and fro and surprised, Crowley laughed.

“Then write me a letter. A long one. Tell me how much you’re enjoying our vacation.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promised, and then without warning the angel stepped back, letting go reluctantly. “Sorry, my dear. Look at the time, we had best hurry.”

x

[nightghoul381]

Silvio 3rd Anniversary Event

A Beast's Dream Realized by Beauty

Chapter 1

(…ngh)

I woke up before the sun had risen to the air caressing my skin.

When I saw the back of Prince Silvio who had just finished getting dressed, I unconsciously felt relieved.

(Good thing I woke up before he went out to sea.)

Prince Silvio turned around at the sound of rustling sheets.

Silvio: “Did I wake you up?”

Emma: “No, I woke up because I missed someone’s warmth.”

Silvio: “Ah…yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Emma: “Fufu, Prince Silvio, you look embarrassed.”

Silvio: “Shut up, you’re just as bad.”

Silvio turned his face away to hide his embarrassment, and I tried to get off the bed because I wanted to see him more closely.

(Whoa…!)

But I couldn’t get my legs to work properly, my staggering body was caught by strong arms.

Silvio: “Did you forget how much I held you just a little while ago?”

Emma: “I-I didn’t forget about it, but… I’m sorry.”

(That’s embarrassing, and my body feels a little hot.)

(That’s right…Since Prince Silvio won’t be back from the sea for a few days, I’ve been asking for him a lot of things.)

Silvio: “You’ve been asking for me so much, there’s no way you could forget.”

Emma: “Wow! Why are you trying to remind me?”

Silvio: “Because you’re so obviously embarrassed.”

Silvio: “…I won’t be able to see you making that face for a few days. Serve me a little.”

(That’s a cunning way of saying it.)

Emma: “…My services are quite expensive, yeah?”

Silvio: “Ha, do you know who you’re talkin’ to?”

(The richest man on the continent.)

I was held gently and laid on the bed.

The way he touched me, like I was something fragile, made my heart beat involuntarily.

As tyrannical as he is, the power of his casual kindness is greater.

When I grab his sleeve in my hand as he tried to leave, Prince Silvio got down on one knee beside the bed.

Silvio: “Sorry, I can’t take you with me this time either.”

Emma: “I’m not angry or upset, so please don’t apologize.”

Emma: “I know you judged it was too high-level of a voyage for someone as inexperienced as me.”

When I deliberately flashed a proud smile, he patted me on the head, ruffling my hair.

I felt uncomfortable, as though he were expressing both gratitude and apology.

Silvio: “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Look forward to it.”

(So you’re telling me not to miss you.)

I nod my head, smiling at the unhelpful words.

Silvio: “And don’t be hanging around that fucking dog just because I’m not around.”

Emma: “You trust me, don’t you?”

Silvio: “…… I can’t help it.”

Even the slightest hesitation seems to be filled with Silvio’s love.

We stare at each other and our lips meet in an involuntary kiss.

(Be careful, Prince Silvio.)

The loneliness of seeing him off was now sweetly tightening my heart.

(Although…)

(My desire to sail with Silvio continues to grow.)

Prince Silvio comes to mind just from seeing the word ‘voyage’ written in the book I was reading in between work.

(Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen him at sea.)

(When you fall in love with someone, you want to learn everything about them.)

Even if it’s something trivial, anything related to Prince Silvio is a treasure to me.

Emma: “Hm…?”

Something fell out of the book on my lap.

(What’s this folded paper?)

It was thinner than it should have been, perhaps having been sandwiched between books for a considerable number of years, and the corners were faded.

(What’s on the paper… oh, it’s a map.)

When I unfolded the paper, it was a map of the area around Benitoite, with several small islands close to the port.

One of the islands draws my attention.

Emma: “Only this isolated island is marked with an X. Oh, there’s another map.”

The second sheet of paper appears to be a map of the entire isolated island that was presumably marked.

There, too, an X is marked on a cave-like picture, which causes my heart to flutter.

(This may or may not be…!)

--Silvio’s Room—

Silvio: “…”

Silvio: “…”

Silvio: “A treasure map…”

Emma: “The fading, the marks left by the book,”

Emma: “Perhaps someone from the old court wanted someone to find his treasure and left a map—”

Silvio: “You’ve been reading too many books; you’re mixing up reality and fantasy.”

Emma: “Aah, don’t mess up my hair, please…!”

A few days later, I showed the map to Silvio, who had returned from his voyage much earlier than planned.

As expected, he had a suspicious expression, eyebrows raised.

Silvio: “Since the number and position of the islands match, it’s not a random map.”

Silvio: “…”

Silvio: “But was there any treasure on that island?”

Emma: “Prince Silvio, have you been there?”

Silvio: “This is the first island I sailed to by myself.”

(Oh, I see…!)

Silvio: “I went a few times as a kid, but the fact that I don’t remember it means there wasn’t anything worthwhile.”

Emma: “Is that so…”

(If Silvio says so, I’m sure there’s no treasure.)

(It’s not that I didn’t expect it, it’s a map someone drew for fun, after all...)

I thought that we could go on a treasure hunt, of course, and if we did, we could sail together, but the possibility disappeared and my shoulders dropped.

But apart from that, one desire began to grow.

(I…)

(It may be a fake map, but I want to know what the X is pointing to.)

(Above all, I want to go to the island Silvio first sailed to!)

(It doesn’t have to be right now, just someday…)

Silvio: “Do you wanna go to the island?”

Emma: “What, is that okay? I really want to go!”

Silvio: “How refreshingly honest of you.”

Silvio: “It’s about as far as a kid can go. It’s not a dangerous island or far enough away to cross the sun.”

Silvio: “It’s just right for an inexperienced voyager like you.”

Emma: “Silvio, I love you!”

Silvio: “Hey, I always tell you not to hug me outta nowhere like that.”

Emma: “I know you’re secretly happy inside!”

Silvio: “If you know, don’t go out of your way to tell me!”

Emma: “Wha… mmm, Prince Silvio…”

Silvio, cheeks red and eyebrows raised, rolled me back on the bed and kissed me deeply.

The unreserved, intense kissing immediately is making my head feel like it’s starting to melt.

Silvio: “Even though it’s not a dangerous voyage, just being on board for an hour will be pretty hard for you.”

Silvio: “Try too hard like you usually do and I’ll turn the ship around without question.”

Emma: “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Emma: “Thank you for listening to my request!”

(I hope you���re looking forward to sailing with me, Silvio.)

As if to answer my question, his sea-colored eyes became heated, and I couldn’t resist his deep kisses.

From the day it was decided that I would take my first voyage with Prince Silvio, things were hectic.

I had to procure the necessities on board, and carefully read a book full of precautions to be taken at sea,

Then, to start each day, I received Silvio’s lecture on the danger and splendor of the sea…

They day finally arrived—

(… I knew what to expect.)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

[solitaireships]

Makeup Help

So I think that Neuvillette wears makeup, and then I had the thought of him helping me do my makeup, specifically eyeliner bcs I have a weird thing about my eyes. Which now leads us to this fic lol

Rating: Gen

Genre: Fluff

Words: 1255 words

Divider by saradika

“Neuvi, could you help me out with my makeup?” Andromeda asks, looking over herself in the mirror. 

Neuvillette turns to look at her through the open doorway to his bedroom, part way through getting dressed for the day. Andromeda thinks that he looks handsome in just his shirt and pants, his hair not tied back with its usual ribbon yet, though she knows that he’d never be seen in public dressed down like this. It only makes him letting her see him like this all the sweeter of a view— it’s a sign of just how close they’ve gotten over the past month.

“What would you need me to help with? Your makeup always looks lovely,” he says.

“I’m good with lipstick and eyeshadow, but I can’t do eyeliner,” Andromeda says. “You’re good at that, though.”

Though Neuvillette is good at makeup in general. Andromeda knows that he prefers a subtle look, with a small bit of eyeshadow you can only notice if you’re close enough to him, but she also knows from some of his looks when the two have gone out on dates that he can do more than just that. His more dramatic looks might be reserved for special occasions, but they're nonetheless impressive.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use eyeliner before,” Neuvillette notes as Andromeda steps out of the bathroom with an eyeliner pencil in hand.

“You haven’t because I’m not good at putting it on. My hand always gets too shaky,” she says. 

She doesn’t mention that the reason her hands get shaky is the pencil being so close to her eye terrifies her. She tried to teach herself how to properly do her eyeliner in the past, but every time she’d see someone else doing it she’d have to look away as the tip of the eyeliner got closer to the inner crease of the eye, flinching as if she were hit. The thought of anything even somewhat sharp being close to her eyes is a terrifying one, and she’s always too nervous about accidentally stabbing herself to be able to line anything up straight. 

Still, she wishes that she could put some eyeliner on. It’s always something she appreciates in other people’s makeup, and she wishes that she didn’t have to get so nervous that she can’t even make a straight line. And as much as it’s nerve wracking to think of anyone doing her eyeliner for her, she finds the thought of Neuvillette of all people doing it far more soothing.

“I don’t have much experience doing makeup for other people,” Neuvillette says.

Andromeda notes that’s not a no. “That’s okay. I’m sure it’d still come out better than anything that I could do.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. You haven’t seen my past attempts at eyeliner.”

Neuvillette looks at Andromeda as she closes the distance between them, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He looks her over, as if assessing whether or not he could do what she’s asking. Then he says, “Is there a particular style you’d like?”

“Nothing fancy. Maybe just some simple stuff with a little bit of a wing?” Andromeda says. 

“I can do that,” Neuvillette replies.

He takes the eyeliner pencil from her hand, kneeling down to be at eye level with her. When he looks at her, Andromeda gets the feeling that he’s mapping out her face. It’s simultaneously odd and flattering to think of how he seems like he’s trying to memorize every detail, first imagining what he’s planning to do before he draws the eyeliner on. Andromeda’s never been the type of person who likes much attention, but capturing the attention of the Iudex like this feels uniquely special. 

“May I?” Neuvillette prompts, nodding towards her lap. 

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure,” she says. 

Neuvillette carefully lowers himself to sit on Andromeda’s lap, as if he’s worried he’ll be too much to fit properly on her. But for as much as he’s taller and heavier than she is, she can’t help but think they fit perfectly together with how his knees bracket either side of her hips. Him doing her makeup already felt intimate, but their increased proximity now only heightens that. 

“Sorry if I flinch or anything,” Andromeda says. “I… I don’t like pointy things by my eyes.”

“Ah. Well, I can promise you that I will be as careful as possible,” Neuvillette assures. 

“Thank you.”

Neuvillette starts with her right eye, drawing from the outer corner of her eye upwards in the shape of a wing. He keeps the pressure of the eyeliner pencil just strong enough to draw it on, but still his touch is gentle. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, and that’s something that she can’t help but adore him even more for. 

Neuvillette is careful as he draws along her lash line, though Andromeda still tenses as he gets close to the inner corner of her eye. She trusts him, and she knows that he’d never do anything to hurt her, but still it’s intimidating having the tip of the pencil so close to her eyes.

“You’re doing wonderfully, my love,” Neuvillette says as if picking up on her nervousness. Andromeda supposes it would be hard for him to miss with how close they are right now. “It’ll be just a moment longer.”

“Okay,” she says as he moves to draw the wing along her other eye.

Andromeda tries to focus just on Neuvillette instead of the feeling of the eyeliner pencil along the edge of her eyelid. It’s hard for her to make out the fine details of his face without her glasses, but she can still see the focused look on his face by the set of his jaw and the furrowing of his eyebrows. She focuses on his hand on her cheek, and his stomach brushing against her as he draws himself closer to her. 

Andromeda thinks that she’s lucky. She doesn’t think there’s anyone else that could say that they’re in a relationship with a dragon sovereign, and even beyond that she can’t imagine being with a more gentle and caring partner. 

It’s nice having someone that she knows she can completely trust. It’s hard for Andromeda to let her guard down, and even though she knows she’s not completely doing that now as Neuvillette does her eyeliner, she still has enough faith in him to even ask him for help like this. 

Neuvillette lifts the pencil from Andromeda’s eye, looking her over. “You look lovely, mon coeur.”

“Only thanks to your help,” Andromeda says, reaching up to stroke his hair with one hand. 

“You’re beautiful with or without makeup,” he states. He presses a quick kiss to her forehead as he gets up, bracing himself with one hand on her shoulder. “If you don’t like how it looks, though, just let me know. I can do it differently if you’d like me too.”

Andromeda gets up, taking the eyeliner pencil back from Neuvillette. “Okay. I’m sure it looks great, though.”

Her hand brushes against his as she makes her way back into the bathroom, taking a look at herself in the mirror. Neuvillette did well— it’s a subtle look, but still she likes the way the wings show off her eyes. She calls another thanks towards him as she takes her eyeshadow palette from the drawer. She has a little more work to do getting ready for the day, but she’s glad to have a little help with things from her boyfriend.

[amandacanwrite]

Summoning Serotonin by Amanda Cessor

Content Warnings|| Heavy themes around depression, loneliness, failure. Mentions of suicide. Please let me know if there are any I missed. Summary|| A desperate human summons a demon in the hopes that they can trade their soul away for a neurotypical brain and a break from their depression. A/n|| I very intentionally wrote this story without anything that identifies the narrator's gender. Please imagine who you see fit there, whether that be you or someone else.

Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal

So, I’ve decided to sell my soul to a demon.

I know what you’re thinking, that seems a little extreme, but, hear me out.

I have spent so much time, money and energy trying to fix myself. I’ve tried and tried and tried to rid myself of my myriad of mental illnesses, only to watch my life fall apart around me again and again and again.

At this point, I’m either going to sell my soul or off myself. Either way, I wind up burning in Hell. I might as well make the most of the years I have left on this dumpy planet before I spend eternity swimming in a lake of fire.

So, here I sit — on a Friday — that way I have the weekend to enjoy my newfound neurotypical brain. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take a shower.

Big plans, you know?

Honestly, I’m really surprised by how little is required to summon a lord of night? A little sulfur, some graveyard dirt, a few black candles, and a couple drops of my blood. Considering the state of things, it isn’t hard to part with.

I start by drawing a pentagram in chalk on a clearing I’ve made in the clutter and mess on my coffee table, using my sleeve to buff out a coffee ring on the cheap furniture. I place a black candle on one corner for fire, graveyard dirt on another to symbolize earth, sulfur on another for the element of air, a glass of red wine on yet another corner for water. Finally, at the very top, I prick my finger and smear a fat glob of blood to link the spell to me and to represent the fifth element of the soul.

“Hear me, O, knights of Hell,” I say, my voice warbling with my own embarrassment. “Rise from your fiery pit and heed my call!”

This is all the ritual said to say, but once done, I only catch the faint whiff of the sulfur and watch as black wax trickles down onto my already-ruined coffee table. I run a hand through my oily hair and sigh. I’m stupid to think this would work. I’m stupid for even trying it.

I’m about to head back to bed and sleep the day away when the doorbell rings. I jump at the sound — I have visitors so infrequently that I have long forgotten what it even sounded like.

I stand up and go to the door, peeking through the grimy, smudged peephole. Outside of my door, I see a vaguely person-shaped blob. I figure it’s a neighbor that’s come to complain about the smell of rotten eggs. I unlock the door and open it, finding a smartly dressed man with black hair.

And … horns?

Oh.

“You called a demon?” he asks.

“Uhh …”

“May I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” I scramble as I step out of the way.

He lets himself in and strides to my sofa where he sits and wrinkles his nose at the lingering odor of the sulfur I had used to call him. Then again, I haven’t been able to clean the apartment in the last two months. So, maybe he’s reacting to that.

I shift between my feet awkwardly, and he pats the seat next to him, beckoning me over.

I come sit with him, and he snaps his fingers, producing a manila folder with my name on it. He opens it. A pen materializes and drops into his hand, and he jots something down.

I can’t see what he’s writing.

“Alright, so why did you summon me today?” he asks.

“Uhm — I was hoping to make a trade.”

“Mhm — and what are your proposed terms?”

“My soul? For uh —” I sputter, “a properly functioning brain and ample neurotransmitters?”

He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes scanning from my greasy hair to my stained T-shirt to the sweatpants I never bother to wash.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Hell is rather overpopulated right now,” he says as he sets my file off to the side. “We aren’t really trading for souls unless the soul in question is rather remarkable.”

I stare at him for a solid fifteen seconds.

“Are you telling me,” I say, “that I’m such a mess that I can’t even trade my soul away for some peace?”

“I’m telling you,” he responds, “that between all the politicians, the billionaires, and the mega-corporate CEOs, we don’t have much space for anyone else. And, to be quite honest with you, your soul is worth more than a trade for mental health.”

I let out a laugh. It sounds unhinged.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you when I work up the gumption to end it,” I retort.

“Unlikely, we don’t take suicides anymore either.”

He scans my apartment again and then looks at me.

“You’re not in treatment.”

It’s not a question.

“What’s the point if it can’t fix my broken brain chemistry?”

“It isn’t about fixing you, there’s nothing to fix.”

“I can’t get out of bed before one in the afternoon. I haven’t showered in five days. I have no friends, and I can’t keep a tidy home. How can you say there’s nothing to fix?”

“Those are just symptoms of an illness.”

“Yes — the illness I’d liked to cure,” I say. “I just want to be normal.”

“What is normal? Who’s to say that I grant you the cure for your depression, your anxiety, and your ADHD and you don’t later wind up with some other problem down the line that you can’t control? Illnesses just require a little management.”

“I don’t want to manage it. I want to cure it. I can’t be happy until I fix it.”

My tone is getting more and more angry. Tears burn my eyes. The demon sighs and looks around my apartment again. He stands and begins to gather garbage in his hands. Empty instant noodle cups, candy wrappers, soda cans.

“Do you know anyone with diabetes?” he asks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

He goes into my kitchen and grabs a trash bag and starts filling it with garbage. Anything he can find.

“You don’t see diabetics giving up on life because their bodies can no longer process sugar the way everyone else’s can. They take medicine, they find alternative sweeteners, they learn how to work around their malfunctioning pancreas.”

I watch as he continues to clean my apartment, waving his hand like he’s Mary Poppins and levitating a stack of my books onto my bookshelf. I wince as he opens my blinds and my windows. A breeze flows into the room and I realize just how stuffy it’s been lately.

“Why should your mental health be treated any differently?” he continues.

“Diabetes doesn’t ruin friendships?” I say, almost annoyed with the comparison.

“Says who? Alcohol metabolizes as sugar. What if your friends only like to drink and party? What do you do when you can’t drink anymore?” he points out.

“Those don’t sound like very healthy friends," I say.

As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, he sets me with a deadpan look. One perfect brow arched as if to say you’re proving my point, you idiot.

“Losing friends because of your mental health is more of a reflection of those friends, not you," he tells me, just incase I can't put it together myself..

“But, I get so clingy and needy. I lose my mind with people.”

“Because you’re not in treatment. Those things get better when you go to therapy and start taking medication for your poorly functioning synapses. You learn tools to regulate your emotions, and you find people who understand you when you can’t regulate.”

He tosses a dishrag at me and starts doing my mountain of dishes. I stand up and join him at the sink and a quiet falls between us as we work away at the stinking pile. I put them away as I dry them. When the pile is nearly done, I finally ask him.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks at me before looking back to the dish he’s rinsing.

“You’re in a bad way. You just need a little stepping stone. A clean flat is a good start. Then, maybe after a long shower, we’ll call some doctors and schedule you an appointment so you can get the treatment you need,” he says. “If you don’t feel better after getting the help you need, I’ll take your soul. But you better think of something more fun to trade for than curing your depression. Give me a challenge, for God’s sake.”

I laugh first.

And then I cry.

The kind of crying that seems endless — streams and streams of tears that seem to come from some bottomless reservoir. He pats my back, and I feel catharsis for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

Is this what it’s like when someone understands you? When someone can see your pain and can speak directly to it?

“I can’t believe I had to summon a demon to get something so small as help cleaning my apartment and scheduling a doctor’s appointment,” I say.

“I bet there are people around you that would have been happy to help you — I bet you struggle with asking.”

“It’s hard,” I say through hitching tears. “I’m so ashamed.”

He nods and offers me a black handkerchief; I take it and wipe the wetness from my face.

“It gets easier once you get the help you need. Medication, therapy — those are stepping stones too. And once you’re well enough to do these basic care tasks, then you can tackle finding friends that care about you, curating goals and dreams you want to accomplish,” he says. “Living is a lot easier when you have something to live for.”

I have no idea how he reads me to filth, but I appreciate it.

“Now into the shower with you — I’ll get the flat cleaned in the meanwhile," he says with doting fussiness.

When the demon is ready to leave about four hours later, my apartment is spotless. It smells like peaches (he gave me some scented candles), and I have both a therapy and psychiatrist appointment booked for the following week. It has been a long time since I felt hopeful. For once, I see light at the end of the tunnel.

When he stands to leave, I don’t want him to go. He seems to sense this because he sighs and looks at me.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay, but you know where to find me. I’m your caseworker now, so if you have need something — and I do mean desperately need —” He holds out his hand, and I watch curiously as a wisp of black smoke spins there, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, until it solidifies into a band of black stone, “use this. Spin it on your left index finger three times counterclockwise, and I’ll come to your aid.”

He holds it between his elegant fingers and drops it into my hand. I slide it onto my index finger, and it fits perfectly. Made just for me.

“How do I repay you for everything?” I ask.

“The sulfur and blood will do. I’ll check in after a few months and see how you’re faring,” he says.

I nod and smile at him. “Thank you, again, for everything.”

His lips curve slightly in an enigmatic smile.

And, then, he is gone.

____________________________________________________

I hope you enjoyed this little short story. It's one that is very near and dear to my heart and represents conversations I've had with heartbroken friends and also, myself. Sometimes things are hard and we need a helping hand. If you are thinking of harming yourself, please call or text 988 (if in the US) or find your local crisis hotline here.

Tagging a few people who stated interest in reading this: @carrotsinnovember @whateverwarrior @lightningsrikes @a-crystallen-author @jessicagailwrites @artbyeloquent @csdarkfantasy @dyrewrites @dru-reads-writeblr

(PS I'm blown away that of you were excited for this little story, I really hope you liked it and that it didn't disappoint.)

[googleitlol]

Now I wanna share more so here’s another blurb from my jttw x reader, thinking of calling it Little Dove but that’s just a placeholder rn

I’ve never rlly written a dynamic that begins so… aggressively before, so it’s been rlly fun writing the beginning bits where Reader straight up despises Sun Wukong. I’ll probably do another post for this fic explaining why Reader (or Dove) hates him so much, so if anyone wants to know more, lmk!

(This takes place just after SWK has been freed)

Dove Masterlist:

This river would be perfect for finding the right materials. Once you can see a suitable clump of reeds by the river, you turn back to begin your harvest. Alone at last, you're finally able to feel a semblance of peace. The moon reflecting over the great body of water, a soft breeze carrying through the air, tonight might prove to be the first calm night in weeks of travel.

The family that let you and your traveling companions stay the night truly seem to be kind people, they were quite considerate when realizing your group are strictly vegetarian. It also felt amazing when you were able to properly bathe yourself again. Not that you aren't used to spending days in the wilderness, but it was certainly a welcome change of pace to have proper shelter for the night.

You start snapping the reeds out of the ground, checking the first one to see if it was the right width for an arrow before continuing your harvest. You carried no extra arrowheads, but you were certain you could worry about that later. For now, these reeds would work as good arrow shafts.

Normally, you would collect your own arrows after a fight. But that just wasn't possible in the midst of the chaos of that demon attack. There were too many of them to kill them all, and with Tripitaka's horse taking off with the monk, all you could do was leave the arrows behind. Luckily, you still have a few left over, but it isn't enough.

After taking a sizeable amount of reeds, you follow the river downstream for some time. It didn't take long for you to find a rock large enough to sit on while you work. Setting the reeds by your feet, you take out your bow to help measure how long to make the arrows. Taking a seat, you take one of the reeds in your hold, drawing the soon-to-be-shaft and taking mental note of the length.

"Do you ever sleep?"

The voice from behind makes you jump out of your skin, though the following snicker quickly helps to ground you.

Turning back, you see Sun Wukong leaning against one of the trees lining the shore of the river. "I mean, you've made it very clear that you're mortal. Rest is important for those of you that can die, right?" One might think his words came from actual concern if not for the smirk on his face stretching from ear to ear. "I wouldn't know, seeing as I'm immortal. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

He has no idea how infuriating he is.

You swiftly turn back to face the river after seeing who's with you. "Done showing off your new garments to your master?"

"Can’t I accompany you? You’re not the only one who can become a bird." His reply was casual, as though he didn't sense your blatant hostility. You know he does, but he acts oblivious to it. Maybe that's the point, a method to aggravate you further. So much for that peaceful alone time.

Now with more annoyance than before, you begin snapping the reeds to the length needed. Silence falls over the two of you as you work, which you might almost be grateful for… if not for the monkey's overbearing presence that had moved to be just over your shoulder.

Taking out your knife, you begin notching the arrows shafts, doing your best to ignore the occasional brush of a tail over your arm. It was easy at first to call them accidental little grazes as his tail never seemed to stop swaying. However, it was starting to grow harder when it kept happening. Tapping your nose was the final straw.

"Can I help you?!" Your head swivels back to face the monkey, the same shit-eating grin resting on his face.

Despite the clear aggression in your tone, a laugh is his first response. "What are you doing?"

The question makes you roll your eyes. His tone is condescending, his smile doing nothing to hide the mock in his voice. "I need arrows, what does it look like I'm doing?" Part of you can’t help but wonder, would his teeth get replaced if you knocked them out? If he's immortal, would they come back or would he remain teeth-less? One could only wish for the latter.

The Monkey King strolls over to face you now, his hands behind his back. "Oh, I know. What I meant to say is, why? Didn’t you hear what I told Master? Don’t you know how powerful I am?” He gestures to himself, getting much too close as he continues to blabber. “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head anymore. Just curse me out from the safety of Master’s shoulder. Your insults will keep me entertained.”

“You pompous—!” You stop yourself before you can go any further, the iron grip on you knife tightening as it points towards the ape. The smug look on his face tells you all you need to know. He wants you to get riled up, like he said. He has to be bored out of his mind, being ‘converted’ and forced to help Tripitaka. So instead of plundering villages or whatever it is that he did before his punishment under the mountain, he’s playing with you.

Closing you eyes, you let out a deep sigh. If that’s how he wants to play it, then so be it. “Why are you here, Sun Wukong?” You ask, your expression returning to its neutral state from before.

The demon raises a playful brow, finally stepping back to allow for some of your personal space back as he hummed in faux thought. “Master seems to like you— I don’t really see why— but when you left, I thought what a shame it’d be if you were snatched or eaten in the middle of the night.” He shrugs absentmindedly before his eyes narrow. “Then again, who knows? It might be fun to watch.”

You let out a dry chuckle at that, inspecting your handiwork as he turns to look out over the water. “Trust me, simian, I am plenty capable of caring for myself.”

“Is that how you ended up under me that day in the Jade Palace?” He snickers, and it takes everything not to snap at the comment.

“You mean how I distracted you long enough for the thunder deities to arrive, and eventually the Buddha himself?” Collecting your arrow shafts, you rise to your feet. “It was never my goal to beat you. I’ve been taught to know the difference between fights I can and cannot win. Your power is the only reason I can stomach you being here.”

Laughter ripples from his chest, the monkey turning to approach you once more. “Aww, what a good little student you are. Is that why you’re so uptight all the time? You’re a teacher’s pet?” Despite his demeanour and mocking tone, you stand tall as he circles to your other side, his back now facing the woods that line the river.

With an uncaring expression, you study the monkey’s face. Brow raised cockily, smile accompanied with teeth that are bared. His body language, arms crossed and posture tall. “You may be immortal, Sun Wukong, but everything is temporary.”

He lets out another huff of amusement. “Is that a threat, Dove?”

“A lesson I’ve been taught again and again.” You raise your brows with an uncaring smile. “You might have eternal life, monkey, but you won’t last on this journey.” You lean closer, voice just a whisper. “So I’ll be there to watch the moment you mess up.”

With a little hmmph, you move past the Monkey King. “And I’ll enjoy it.”

With your final words, you take your materials to work elsewhere, leaving the Monkey King by the water to digest your words. He turns to watch you stalk off into the woods, frowning with a smile. One could only know it was forced if they noticed the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“…Bitch.”

[katnissmellarkkk]

Alright girls, I got a request a bit ago for some Katniss / Mrs. Everdeen content and as I’ve never written their relationship before I wasn’t sure if I liked it at first! But I’ve finally gotten around to actually editing it so I hope it’s good and it feels in character and y’all like it! I don’t know if I’ll write a oneshot focused on their relationship again but this was actually pretty fun! I hope y’all who read it have a blessed day and enjoy yourselves 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-

summary : katniss and her mother bond a few days after she comes home from the games. set between the hunger games and catching fire 💕.

-

I’m never getting used to nightmares.

It’s been two days since the cameras left and I’ve found little relief in their absence. For some reason I assumed once they were gone, the terrors would follow behind them, chasing after the shiny lenses and bright lights, all the way back to the Capitol.

But as it turns out, that couldn’t be further from reality.

Instead the lack of limelight has led to an uptick in nightmare. Not all equal in vigor but all too severe to be properly described by the word dreams.

Sometimes it’s Thresh, chasing me in the woods. Other times Cato tosses me off the Cornucopia to be eaten by the mutts. Occasionally I see Glimmer actually make it up the tree without the branches breaking beneath her feet, grabbing me by the braid and yanking me to the ground where the entire Career pack closes in on me like a pack of wild dogs.

Today though, it’s Clove dangling her knife above my head, taunting me, drawing out the kill. I can’t make out her words, the pulsating in my ears far too loud to understand just about anything, but she says something and then cracks up laughing, as if she’s the funniest person in the whole entire world, ecstatic to be the one to kill the girl on fire.

The dream ends when she plunges the knife into my heart. I don’t actually feel anything but it shocks me awake all the same.

It shocks me awake with such a start that it takes a moment to gather my bearings. It takes a moment to realize I’m alive and safe, in my new house, in District Twelve.

In Victor’s Village, to be exact.

The new home that I was gifted over a week ago, already ready to go with furniture and all, as a reward for my efforts in the games.

If I’m being honest, I feel like it’s taking just as much effort to battle these nightmares as it took to survive the arena.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration but it feels true. For the last couple of weeks I’ve been fighting almost every second of the day to come to terms with what occurred in the games.

To come to terms with all the things I did. All the things I did, with the sole purpose of surviving. All the people I hurt — all the people I killed, directly or indirectly — in effort to stay alive and come home to my mother and sister.

Every choices I made to save my own life has been playing on repeat inside my head every waking second since I woke up in the hospital in the Capitol and I feel like it’s finally going to drive me insane. It’s finally going to push me over the edge, right here, right now, in my new luxurious bedroom with my mother and sister none the wiser.

Of course, the nightmares have been a nice break from thinking of the one choice I made to save someone else’s life.

The one choice that may have disastrous consequences. The one choice I likely will never be able to escape.

Thinking about Peeta and the berries and the arena in those final moments and Cato’s mutilated body as the mutts gnawed away at him — and the look of heartbreak etched across blue eyes — does absolutely nothing to help my current state of mind and everything to exacerbate it.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until my mother’s voice sounds on the other side of the door.

“Katniss?” She calls lightly and I make an immediate effort to wipe my face and keep my voice even.

“I’m fine!” I swallow, hard, choking down the tears still fighting to come out. “Sorry, I just had a bad dream. Go back to bed.”

But she’s already opening the door before I’m even finished speaking. And I suppose I look even worse than I feel. “I know,” she says softly, looking at me with a compassion I would have rejected a couple months ago. “I heard you from down the hall.”

On the ride back to Twelve, between breaking Peeta’s heart and worrying about what President Snow may do to me or my family, I made a serious promise to myself that I would try and make things right between me and my mother.

I know she didn’t choose to be locked away in some far away, dark world after my father’s death. And I know she wishes she could take it all back.

And I know that I could have died in the games. The idea of leaving this world with my relationship with my mother still fractured and tense almost makes me cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” I say now, forcing myself to smile in a way that I hope is reassuring but am aware enough to know it probably looks pitiful at best. My tears refuse to stop and until then, none of my placating will have an effect. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you start breakfast and I’ll be down in a moment.”

My mother nods, letting me take all initiative in our relationship. Just as she’s done for the last four years.

She turns as if to leave, as if to give me the space I’m so clearly wanting. The space I have all but verbally asked for.

But instead, as if making a split second decision, she surprises me. She spins around and makes a sudden beeline in my direction.

Both her arms wrap around me, holding me protectively, as if she could even begin to keep me safe from the horrors playing inside my head. Still though, her embrace isn’t the most startling thing.

It’s the fact that I instinctively return it.

I hugged her on the train platform in front of the cameras when arriving back in Twelve and I hugged her again yesterday at some point but this is the first time since I was eleven — since I was a child — that I readily accept her embrace. That I go as far as returning it.

That I willingly dive into her arms, just like I would have years ago, letting her comfort me instead of getting angry and defensive and mean.

It takes a moment for her to get over her evident shock, obviously not anticipating that I would even allow her to hold me, let alone clinging onto her like a needy kitten. But when she does, she sits down on the edge of my bed and pulls me into her arms, stroking my hair and rubbing my back in soft circles.

“It’s okay,” she whispers when my cries grow louder. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here now.”

I’m not your baby, I’d shouted at her years ago. I was so angry with her. I was so angry and so righteous and for what? For something she couldn’t control and couldn’t take back? For something she clearly needed help to manage?

I thought I knew everything when I was twelve. I thought I was the strongest person on earth.

Not now apparently, I think to myself as I wail into my mother’s neck, almost surprised that I still fit in her arms after all this time.

I don’t know how long I stay against her, letting her smooth back my sweat soaked hair and breathing in the scent of lavender I didn’t even know I missed while in the Capitol. It’s got to be close to an hour before my sobs die down and even then they threaten to start back up again.

“You’re home and safe,” she promises gently, rubbing my back again. “You will never go back to the games for as long as you live. You’re never going to see another arena. You’re going to live a long life here in Twelve.” Her voice is light and soft, almost like a hum. The way she speaks to Prim after a nightmare. The way she used to speak to me before my father died.

“Where’s Prim?” I croak, becoming more and more aware of how disgusting I feel. The nightmare left me covered in perspiration and I would feel sorry for my mother having to be so close to me if it wasn’t for the fact that she deals with much worse on a daily basis as a healer.

“At school,” she says, pulling back a little to wipe my leftover tears with her thumb. “You slept in late today.”

Right. Prim is starting school again now. It’s almost autumn. Gale is working in the mines six days a week. My mother is beginning to treat people for colds and croup again.

And I have to now decide how to spend my days as a happy little victor.

I suppose today isn’t the day to make that decision though. My head hurts from all the crying and my body feels weak with exhaustion despite the fact that I just woke up.

Before really thinking about it, I lean my head against my mother’s shoulder again, already seeing Clove with her knives reappear as soon as I shut my eyes.

“Are you hungry?” My mother asks, leaning down kissing my hair as she folds me back into her arms. I can tell she’s almost overjoyed that I’m allowing her to console me.

Almost. Because there’s no way she would have ever wished for this to be the reason I let her back in.

“No.” I shake my head, my stomach turning at the mere thought of eating right now.

“Then why don’t we get you cleaned up? Hmm?” She waits for my nod before standing up and taking my hand.

I let her lead me into our new bathroom, where the sinks are white and porcelain and the toilet feels too expensive to use. And the giant tub in the middle of the room makes the bucket we used to use in the Seam feel like a foot bath.

I watch as she moves the knobs around, already having gotten the hang of the appliance, and adds soothing, sweet smelling oils into the water.

Once the tub is halfway full she helps me undress and tosses my damp pajamas into a laundry basket by the door.

I sink to the bottom of the bath, feeling the blazing hot water relax my sore, achy muscles and encase me like a wool blanket in wintertime.

My mother lets me soak for a moment before kneeling down to the right of the tub and getting to work. She washes me up with rose scented soaps and cleans my hair with something that foams when you rub it between your hands and reminds me distantly of Effie Trinket.

“You’d be a good hair washer if we lived in the Capitol,” I murmur as she scrubs my scalp lightly with her fingernails.

She snorts and tips my chin up to rinse my locks. “In another life, I suppose.”

After double conditioning she expertly rings my hair out and then pulls the drain. I sit in the tub until it’s completely empty, having never actually seen huge swirls of water rushing down a drain before. It’s so fascinating that for a moment I consider refilling the tub just to pull the drain all over again.

Afterwards I sit on my bed silently, feeling worn and depleted, wrapped in a towel while she combs out the tangles from my hair, before pulling it into a simple braid.

“Mama,” I whisper as she grabs a silk shirt from my dresser.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so tired.”

My words are plain but the meaning behind them is loaded and she intrinsically understands my true intent.

I’m so tired. It’s only been two days since it all officially ended and I feel exhausted. I feel like I haven’t slept in a hundred years. I feel like I’ll never sleep again. I feel so much older than sixteen and at the same time so much younger and I don’t understand and you can’t understand but I just want to sleep. I just want to go to bed and actually sleep through the night without the panic and the fear.

Wordlessly, she turns back to the dresser and pulls out a nightgown instead. “Then you should go back to sleep,” she says simply, pulling away the towel and tugging the nightgown over my head, rightening my braid and moving back the covers to my bed.

And I crawl between sheets without hesitation and let her tuck me in, let her care for me, let her mother me again, in a way I’ve rejected for so long now. I lay there and let her rub my back, comforting me the same way she does when I’m too sick to push her away.

I’m almost asleep when she leans down and kisses me goodnight. “I love you, Katniss Sienna,” she whispers, standing to pull the blankets up to my chin. “I love you. And I’m so happy that my baby’s home safe.”

“Goodnight,” I mumble into the covers as she starts closing the door behind her. “Thank you,” I add as sleep grabs ahold of me again, but I doubt she catches it. “Thank you, Mama.”

-

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

They don’t care about you.

Quick summary: She gets the call, and she’s back to work. The reader faces a crisis of morality on her first job back.

Word count: 17.8K (quite tame)

Warnings: Depictions of violence and injury; themes of assassination (yes, we are the assassin here); the IMF being manipulative and disgusting; lots of longing with Ethan that will be frustrating for you; some allusions to smut 😩😩; lots of swearing, but you know that’s a given by now 🫶.

A/N: Yayyyy, another chapter. You think this is gonna be a happier one? Think again. Yes, they do fuck a little, but I’m greatly sorry for the angst I am going to put them through. Side note: I am fucking beyond excited for autumn, oh, my God. Time to binge Gilmore Girls WOO!!

Chapters: Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten.

***

We would have a place in some other country – not the US. Some other country, where the predominant language isn’t English and where no-one we know or care about lives. When I imagine it, of course, there are things that I want – I let myself imagine the things that I want. Hardwood floors. Photographs of us. A mid-century modern feel to the interior decoration. Stuff I want. But honestly, I don’t really care about any of it. I’d probably be happy living in a dumpster with him. As long as—the dumpster was—away from everything.

It’s a midnight thought. Not spoken out loud—ever. Definitely not communicated to him. It’s just for myself to have at midnight, sometimes just to entertain myself, sometimes to calm myself down, but mostly just to get myself to sleep. It’s nice. I used to do it when I was a kid: replay a good memory over and over, one perfect one, until I fell into a black sleep. Useful technique. A little bit slow, but useful for good dreams. The only part I can never get rid of is all of the—logistics.

It’s midnight, vaguely, and I think of our place that’s not in the US, with hardwood floors and pictures of us and a mid-century modern feel to the interior decoration. But then I realise that our place is quite small, because, even between us, we don’t have enough money to get anything bigger than a two bedroom. Which is enough, technically. Or would be. I imagine. We’re both able to compartmentalise our entire personal lives into a small square. But the entire point of our place is that we don’t have to do that – our personal lives will be ours. I don’t know what Ethan wants, but I’d like a cat. I miss my cat. He seems like a dog person, but I know he’s good with animals in general. Green flag. I don’t know what Ethan wants, but I want a garden, a place to plant flowers and trim hedges and do all these mundane things that I always watched retired people do in movies. I have so many things I’ve wanted to try, to do, that I didn’t. I used to like crosswords. I used to like running. I used to like drawing. Now, it seems like the only thing I have time to like is work. And I can’t even like that properly anymore.

The place is small, and it also has a stash, weapons and passports and money. Even when speculating, my mind considers logistics. IMF field agents don’t have a long life expectancy. Excusing survival rates, nobody retires at a normal age anyway. It’s either early, or they work themselves old. I have a feeling which one Ethan is. I don’t know which one I am anymore. Nobody retires at the normal age. If we got out, we wouldn’t be really out. Both specialists. With Ethan’s reputation, he’d certainly be called back at some point. He’d be worked till he dropped dead. In a way, I’m luckier than him. If he didn’t die, we’d live in a constant state of paralysis, like living on a thin sheet of ice balancing on the surface of a dark, horrible abyss below. We’ve been in plenty of abysses together before, but I wouldn’t want to be in anymore. We’d live in paralysis, anticipating, and we’d have a stash. A planned route of escape. Ready to go. Probably new identities, new lives. Even if IMF field agents survive and manage to retire, someone usually comes for them. Could be from the agency, could be a past wrongdoing. Actually, I don’t think it’s humane to call people wrongdoings.

But when have I ever stopped to think about what was humane? Never when it mattered.

Horrible—how quickly I latch onto things. The IMF, I guess, is one of them. Benji, Almada. My cat. Books, now. Jo. A cluster of rings I bought at a flea market a few months ago and now wear religiously, even when I’m not going out anywhere. And Ethan. I hate how readily I’m letting myself accept that he’s the centre of my thoughts these days. It makes me feel a lot of things. Ashamed, embarrassed. A lot of bad things, which isn’t to say it’s his fault, because it’s not. He’s always thinking things are his fault when they’re just not. Between us, things are usually my fault. I push him away, I snap at him, I use him, I purposefully don’t call him, I purposefully ignore him. Usually my fault. He always tries to fix things, which is infuriating. Shameful and embarrassing to see him do. He tries to string me back together even though he’s barely hanging on himself. I have no idea if I have the same effect on him as I do. When I touch his shoulder or squeeze his hand, does he feel good? Does he know that I want to help him? I’m not sure how to show him.

It’s midnight, and it’s been several midnights since I’ve last seen him. I recently got a nightlight so that I wouldn’t have to lie in complete darkness – it’s Scooby Doo. Literally. Scooby Doo glows at the foot of my bed, his blue collar shining all over the wall.

I don’t know what’s happening to him. It’s a horrible feeling, because he contractually cannot tell me anything about it, and I will never force him to, and it’s horrible. Like a weight pressing constantly down on my chest, crushing my lungs. If I think about it too hard, think about all the ways I’ve killed people that could kill him, it turns to a stabbing pain, right along my sternum. Stabbing. A knife twisting deeper and carving flesh and bone with it. Not phantom pain, because I’ve never been injured there before. If I had been, I’d be dead. Could be heartburn—if heartburn is related to pining dreadfully for someone who is far too ready to bargain their own life for something futile.

Also, I don’t sleep much. Could be heartburn.

I don’t even know where he is. I know he’s abroad, but I don’t know where. It’s—horrible. A month-long mission probably means he’s bringing a team along with him. Benji’s there, if I had to guess. Almada—well, I don’t know what’s happening with Almada. I could’ve been with Ethan if I agreed to be with him when he asked me when we got back from six months of running. Would I like it? No – seeing him throw himself across buildings is not something that’s beneficial for my nerves.

Anyway. My quality as a field agent is decreasing – I probably wouldn’t be classed as fit to work with him. My eyesight is deteriorating. My psych, nine times out of ten, would come back shaky. Endurance training isn’t something I’ve been compelled to do over the past year, so I’ll be behind. I can trust my reflexes, though. Aside from panic attacks and the occasional tremors and spasms that take over my hands, I can control what my body does and when, and sometimes it knows before I do. If I was called in today to pass a physical, I could probably do it out of memory. Out of necessity.

It’s not something I enjoy: sitting around in this one city like I’m supposed to be out—but I know that, any second, I’ll be back. Even if I’m never called back, Ethan’s already gone. Benji’s gone. Almada’s gone. They’re all back. The people I care about are back there, and I’m stuck behind to worry about them constantly. It’s not something I enjoy.

I’d go back in an instant. If I was asked now, I would go back just like that. When Ethan came to me and told me he’d accepted, I struggled to get my head around it. For him, it’s been twenty-so years of working himself to the bone—literally, sometimes—and being cast aside and marginalised and painted as expendable and all these terrible, unjust things. And he accepted right there, right then in that phone booth. Didn’t understand it. As much as I hate to admit, I do now. When it comes to myself, I can always make the harder decision, the wrong decision. It’s a million times easier to hurt myself than to let Ethan hurt himself.

The IMF provides—security. Not physically, because, no matter how many countermeasures and mitigation efforts are implemented, agents still die even when they’re off jobs. Emotional security. It’s a secret language that only we speak. It’s access to a world that nobody else understands. In the beginning, it makes you feel special. In the middle, it makes you feel gravely important. I think I’m well past the gravely important stage – I am replaceable, and it’s a hard truth everybody has to come to terms with in this business. I’m not twitching for grave importance now. Not anymore. This is more of a quiet desperation. A need. I don’t know why my hands crave to hold a gun in a mission setting. I don’t know why I want to feel the rippling sensation down my body when I lay a good punch against an enemy. Security, maybe. Security in the sense that it’s familiar.

I’d go back, accept, no questions asked.

***

“He’s back in the field,” I state simply. Even at the mention of his name, I have to bring it up. I can’t talk to Jo about it, and Brandt’s not exactly a friend, but he’s the next best thing.

“Yes,” he replies, equally as plain. “Why are you asking about it?”

I fight the urge to scoff, roll my eyes, curl my lip. “I didn’t ask about it. I stated something. I stated a statement. Acknowledgement.”

“So, you don’t want me to tell you how he’s doing.” I’ve only met the smug bastard twice, but I can just tell he’s doing that flat thing with his face, raising his eyebrow condescendingly and everything, dripping with sarcasm. Prick. Brandt knows exactly how much I care about him, somehow.

My mind instantly arrives at the memory of Ethan’s body tangled with mine, in my bed, in my apartment, and I heat up furiously. I still remember what he smells like. I still remember the way something shifted in him when we were together like that. We’re close in a way that I don’t know how to define anymore. Nothing simple—reaches what it feels like. I am not going to attempt to reach a description for Brandt if that’s what he’s looking for.

It’s like he can sense my panic through the phone. “You don’t have to tell me about your relationship with him – I know he cares about you; I know you care about him.”

I don’t say anything to that.

Brandt sighs. “He’s perfectly fine, intact, no lost limbs, no fatal injuries. No death-defying stunts—that I know about. I can’t tell you what he’s doing. You happy with that?”

“Who’s with him?”

“Luther and Benji.”

Luther and Benji. Could have guessed as much, but it’s nice to have a confirmation. They’ll take care of him as best as they can, but Ethan always seems to ignore people’s efforts for him and does stupid shit anyway as an effort for them instead. He’s such a pain in the ass. It’s probably a good thing I never took his offer to be a part of his team. I’d probably have to watch him get killed over one of us.

I clear my throat. “How’s Almada?”

“Good.”

“He’s working?”

“Yes.”

Exasperation tears through my body like a wildfire. “Brandt,” I say sharply, “stop giving me these one-word answers. I don’t want it clipped down. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t give you what you want, kid,” he shoots back, just as pointed. “Word of advice: don’t want anything, don’t get disappointed.” I quietly seethe. “Glad to hear you’re alright.”

The call ends.

***

Jo is unwaveringly dedicated to her family. I don’t see why. She seems to think that her blood tie to them is an obligation. She never speaks ill of them, never complains about what she does for them, is always humble about her efforts. It’s like she disappears into a spiral whenever they’re brought up, and I watch her eyes glaze over as she rambled about how her mother is very dedicated and loving but just can’t afford to talk to her much because she’s such a tentative nurse to her father.

“You know, she used to be a receptionist before. She used to work at the school me and all my siblings attended, and we used to see her when we got in trouble or needed to sign out. Stuff like that.” I observe the way her lips quirk up in a reminiscent smile. She seems to be doing better, now, thankfully. I spend a ridiculous amount worrying over her. She’s stupid in the way Ethan’s stupid, except she’s entirely more acute with it than he is. Jo is so—conditional. I’ll tell you if. I’ll come with you if. I’ll accept help from you if. I have a feeling the only “if” that’s keeping her around me is that I let her talk to me about her family, about herself. She came here to the museum with me today—not because she really enjoys my company, but because she enjoys how I listen. I don’t mind. I don’t think she’s had anyone listen to her in a while. I let her talk. “I used to ignore her when she tried to talk to me about home stuff at school. Everyone knew she was my mother, but I was still embarrassed to speak with her. When I got home, though, I’d speak with her for hours.”

My eyes drift away from her and to the painting in the corner of this room where Ethan found me again. The girl and the boy with the flowing cloth and the wall of honeysuckle.

Jo notices. “What are you thinking about?” Her voice, even though it’s lowered, echoes lightly through the expansive room.

“Nothing.” The answer is instinctive. Unless I’m required to think of one, I don’t bother. Usually, people get the idea from the finality in my voice. But Jo doesn’t settle for final. She’s frustrating like Ethan in that aspect. So, when I catch her glaring sceptically at the side of my head, I think of him again. Twitchingly, disgustingly insistent. Twitchingly, disgustingly compassionate.

“What are you thinking about?”

I look over again to the painting. “I think I’m gonna go back to work soon.”

Jo furrows her brow and recoils a little. “You haven’t been working? I thought you came here to work.”

Every time the subject of work gets brought up with her, I run from it. One-word answers. How’s work? Good. What do you do? Sales. What do you do in sales? Sell stuff. Okay, maybe two-word answers from time to time. I tell her, “I did.” There you go: two words.

Jo’s mouth hardens. “Would a croissant make you tell me?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s a no, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She must think I’m excruciating. I can feel the irritation radiating off of her. To think I thought she was a soft, sweet girl with no faults at first. I suppose she is: soft and sweet. Then the layers fold back to something rougher and older that she doesn’t like to show people. But once it’s out, it’s out. She doesn’t try to mask her expressions with a charming smile and warm eyes. Jo is charming and warm when she is, not before and not after, only in the moment. I’ve seen a low point of hers, and she recognises that there’s no point trying to cover it anymore. She doesn’t mask it. The irritation shows on her face—clearly.

Jo tilts her chin ever so slightly upwards. “Ethan’s working, isn’t he?”

Alarm sparks up like flint and flame. I start walking towards the painting, my boots clicking neatly against the floor. I used to hate it when boots clicked. Now, it’s soothing. Like a metronome, to keep time, to keep pace. Jo drifts close behind.

“Yeah,” I mumble, anger already biting at my gut. I always want to talk about him. It’s getting annoying. “Real estate and—stuff.”

Real estate. That’s what he told Jo.

“Is that why you want to go back to work?”

My hands start to shake a little – I stick them deep into my trouser pockets and grasp at the fabric there. “Not want, necessarily.” The painting towers above the two of us. The pearl at the base of my throat suddenly grows heavy, constricting my breath, narrowing it all. “When they call me, I’ll go.”

***

Tension eases its grip on my muscles like it’s finally as tired as I am. My body melts into the contours of my armchair at the drawl of his voice. He’s exhausted – I can tell. His voice, it scrapes along his throat like it’s raw, and his words slow from time to time, until he takes a break at my prompt and lets us sit in quiet for a few seconds. “You don’t know how much I miss you,” he tells me, soft, delicate. My spine quivers all the way up. 

“You sound tired,” I state. 

“So do you.”

I’d rest better if I could see him. “What time is it where you are?”

He hesitates. Jesus. I knew this mission was under wraps, but how many “wraps” are really wrapped around it? After a few moments, he replies, “It’s early.” 

“You suck.”

“Of course.”

I feel like crying, suddenly. There are no tears in my eyes, and I don’t feel short of breath, but there’s a hollowness in my chest. “You should sleep.” All those sleepless nights together in precarious, potentially unsafe safe houses – I know how he is. Borderline insomniac. He won’t sleep, but I try to tell him he should. Useless, but perhaps he’ll understand how much I want him to take care of himself. Hell, what am I doing? Ethan’s perfectly capable of reading in between the lines, and he chooses to ignore things on purpose. He's clever. He ignores the need to take care of himself on purpose. I tell him outright: “I need you to take care of yourself, Ethan. Actually, properly take care of yourself.”

There’s a laugh in his words as he tells me, “I’m doing just fine, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t call me sweetheart when I’m saying this to you.” I slip my forefinger’s nail under the one of my thumb and dig down into the sensitive skin there. 

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

He’s quieter – it hurts to hear him retract like that.

“You don’t have to apologise,” I rush quickly – whatever I do, I’m not going to make him fucking sad anymore because that’s just—not nice. I feel like I’ve made him sad—a lot in the time that I’ve known him. Angry, frustrated. Sometimes, I feel like—the bad outweighs the good. I don’t want there to be any more bad. Determined, I cross my legs up onto the armchair and tuck myself close, leaning in towards the yellow light of the table lamp that illuminates the entire apartment. Determine, I push my glasses up my nose. Determined, I say firmly to him, urgent, “I need you to take care of yourself. Eat regularly, shower, sleep, all that stuff. Come back in one piece.” Short, to the point – that’s all I can manage. Nothing elaborate like my midnight thoughts.

I can hear his smile even through the phone. “I will.”

Okay. The smile seems less endearing than it does amused. He’s amused at me telling him to put himself first for once. Doesn’t even have to be first – just not last. “Ethan,” I say sternly.

He echoes my own name back to me with that similar serious quality.

Hot with aggravation, I twist the thick, gold ring on my right forefinger. I dug it up from underneath my mattress when I was cleaning this morning, a little trinket to remember my wintertime depression.

I push: “I want you to come back in one piece.”

“I will,” he repeats, but he’s still got that awful hitch to his voice like he’s internally laughing at my words. My words are a plea. Me begging. I just—refuse to sound pathetic when I’m begging right now. If I were to start crying and pleading with him and pleading with him, he wouldn’t be internally laughing then, would he? Just because I’m not going to that degree—crying, that is—it doesn’t mean I care any less. I just have a better sort of idea where to channel it, is all. But for once, he hasn’t got it all figured out – only halfway. “Why don’t you believe me?” he asks.

There’s no genuine curiosity to back his question – it’s more accusatory than anything. Why is he accusing me? “Dick,” I grumble lowly, wishing I could just punch his arm right about now.

He snorts, then replies in a saccharine voice: “Honey.”

I can’t help it – I smile. I smile, and that smile blossoms slowly into a grin. I stop fidgeting with my ring and raise a hand to cover my face, even though there’s no-one around to see me beaming like an idiot.

He called me honey.

Twisted bedsheets and his breath on my skin – it rushes through my mind like a wildfire. I know he’s thinking about it, too. I shift in my chair, trying to remove the pressure between my legs before it starts to affect my voice, the way I’m talking to him. We haven’t spoken about it. There’s just an understanding that—it happened. That I know what his fingers feel like on my skin, that I know how his eyes rolled back just slightly when he pushed into me. That he knows what it’s like to kiss me, that he knows what I look like on my knees for him. An understanding. It felt necessary in the moment. Now, it just—makes me crave him again, in a selfish way.

I ask him, “You care about me, right?” before sense can tap back into my mind. My heel presses right where I want his hand to be. I rock slightly into it at the sound of his voice.

“I care about you.”

He’s lovely. “Then take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Ethan promises, and I believe him this time. “And you? You care about me?”

More than anything. “I care about you.”

***

It happens.

I get the call.

It doesn’t happen under the same—I don’t know, extent?—it doesn’t happen under the same extent that Ethan’s return did. There’s no elaborate trail of phones ringing behind me as I walk down the street unassuming until I take the time to walk into the phone booth and see what the fuck is going on. No, there’s nothing like that. My call is simple. My call is Brandt.

“I need you back in the States as soon as possible,” he tells me unceremoniously, the stingy, little bastard.

Even at the mention of it, of America, makes my shoulders clench and tighten up instantly. After a second of collecting myself up again, processing his words, I ask, “Why?” because, even after all this thought of, yes, I would go back to work in a heartbeat, I’m not so sure about going back to the States yet. I just—wouldn’t trust it. Not after being shoved aside like that.

“Brassel wants you back in the field. Important job. I’m your handler, now.”

Alright, now I properly freeze. Handler. Brandt is my handler. I—don’t want another handler. My last handler cared jackshite about me, and it was—horrible. Knowing that even if I survived a dangerous mission, all I would come home to is an indifferent face, someone who was entirely preoccupied with other matters, whether it be his coffee or the fact that Rihanna needs to release another album. When I did things right—fine, that’s what you’re supposed to do anyway. When I did things wrong—fuck off, you’re useless, how am I supposed to work with this? And Brandt’s been nothing but nice—and fairly assholish (on occasion)—to me. Handler. Handlers aren’t all that nice. I don’t want to have known him like this and then slowly see how he transitions into something else. Every frustration I cause him, every disappointment, could make him different. And then he won’t want to look out for me anymore. 

I swallow all my fears down, attempting to subtly cure my rapidly drying mouth and throat, and ask him with as much of my old spunk as possible: “What’s—what’s the job?” The hesitation in my sentence doesn’t do me any favours with Brandt.

“Not-so-simple hit,” he replies dryly.

“Quick?”

“I’ll tell you more once we have you in person.”

So, it’s complicated. Probably involves a third party somewhere. Whether they’re going to disclose that to me or not, I don’t know. I tell him, “Okay.” Now—what I do know is that the mark is dangerous, capable, and possible intelligence or former intelligence. Not-so-simple hit. They never describe a hit unless they’re former intelligence. And I’ve done a fair share of those—jobs. Even when the mark is an arms dealer or whatever, the initial job description is reduced to “hit”. If they elaborate further, it’s done on paper.

“So, you’re in?” Well, yeah, I suppose so. This is what I’ve wanted. I open my mouth to confirm, but, before the words can leave me, Brandt is wedging in with, “Don’t say yes right away,” his voice sharp and carrying a certain urgency. I furrow my brows. “I know you were about to. Think it through.”

I smile at his words. What a trick. “Aren’t you supposed to be convincing me to stay with the IMF?”

There’s a short pause – he’s thinking. Then, “I know you’re tired.”

Oh.

Brandt and I aren’t friends. Now that he’s my handler, I don’t think we’ll ever really go there. What do I know about him? He’s high up. Brassel trusts him. He was a field agent, an analyst, a field agent again. He’s Ethan’s superior. He’s relatively—a middle man. I have no idea what he’s like when he’s not in this diplomatic, indifferent sort of mode. But he’s smart and he’s sensible and respectable, and, most importantly, Ethan and Benji trust him. They’ve been through some shit, and they trust him.

I flick under my nails. His first name curls oddly under my tongue: “Will—”

“Yes?”

I sigh. “You’ll—make sure it’s—better there?”

“At the agency?”

Think about it. “Yeah.”

The agency that made everything miserable. The agency that pushed me down a route I didn’t want to go down, where I’m stuck now. Not-so-simple hit – that’s all I’m good for at the IMF. I don’t know—when my morals got erased, but they did, somehow, along the way. There’s no good and bad there. It can get scary when that melds into your life away from it. You can’t have a life away from it. But I’m beating with want for it: a life. A normal job. If I can’t have those things, I at least expect something better. If they want me back, I must have some kind of value to them. Is it wrong for me to want to exercise that value? To ask for boundaries? I don’t want to be alone there. I don’t want to be the only one taking care of me. It’s exhausting and lonely and dark and cold and painful. Nobody cares. Nobody notices. I don’t want that. Now, I don’t want to be famous at the IMF anymore. No, I’ve seen what Ethan’s like, and it isn’t any better. He’s lonely in a different way, but it’s all the same. I just want a few people to really look out for me. Make sure I don’t get lost. And I can help them in the same way. If they get buried in everything, I’ll dedicate myself to digging them back out again. I want that. I want someone to make sure it’s better there. 

Brandt tells me, his voice resolute, “I’ll take care of you. You won’t be alone.” Please mean it. Please mean it. He’ll try his best. “They’re not gonna throw you around.”

“And you won’t throw me around either?”

He snorts. “Depends how much of a prick you are, I dunno.”

I shrug. “Hard to beat you in that category, I guess.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. I’m crying with laughter,” he quips back flatly, and a smile flutters up onto my face. “You’ve got a flight first thing tomorrow. I’ll send you the details.”

“Thanks, Brandt.”

He says my name softly. “Think it through. You don’t have to go back.”

Jesus. Stop telling me that. If he keeps telling me to stay away, what am I supposed to do with myself? It’s either the IMF again, or spending time with myself like this for the rest of my life. I don’t know which is worse. When he promises that it won’t be the same, I don’t doubt he’ll try to follow through – I just—don’t think he’ll succeed. I’m bracing myself for it again. If he keeps telling me to stay away, I actually might. I’ve already made up my mind: “I am going back,” I tell him firmly.

***

“Back to work?”

My eyes dart around her face, charting her reaction. “Yeah.”

Jo screws her mouth up bitterly and leans back in her chair abruptly, forcing a short screech along the tile. A few of the other customers out here turn to glare at the horrible noise, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care – she stares me down with a burning intensity in her dark eyes. “Who am I gonna talk to all day?”

I laugh airily – she sounds like a goddamn toddler. After my amusement bubbles down to a gentle hiccup in my lungs, I reach down and take another sip from my coffee, smiling into the drink as my peering eyes catch Jo rolling her eyes at me over the rim of my cup. I snicker again, and hot coffee nearly shoots right up my nose. “Make some friends your own age,” I tell her, sputtering and coughing through a smile. Where’s the polite girl who recommended me Emma all those months ago, hmm?

“But you’re funnier,” she protests. 

I tilt my head in thought. “I guess I am pretty heroic like that.”

“It’s not a long trip, right?”

The quiet tremble in her voice makes my eyes snap back strong to her. Of course, it’s occurred to me that I’m essentially her closest friend here. Jo is unreasonably busy all the time, doing all these things under the reasoning that she has to be exceptional all the time, all day, everywhere, all at once. I’m pretty sure she’s working on about five software projects at once when she doesn’t even need to. And when she’s not doing her school stuff, she’s waitressing. If I leave, she only has those things left. The realisation leaves a pang throbbing through my chest, leaves me feeling infected. She’s one of the only steady, normal aspects of my life, and I’m the same for her.

I pick a crusted layer of pastry off of my croissant, watching. “I don’t know. Depends.”

She seems to settle for that: “Okay.” Good.

“Ethan’ll be back soon.” Only three days, four days more – I’ve been paying attention. I’m less upset than I thought I’d be over the fact I won’t be there to greet him when he gets back. What happened with us before he went?—that was good. If he comes back and I say the wrong thing, that good thing doesn’t mean anything. Oh, well. Jo’s friendly with him, I think. He’s always fussing over her, buying any book she so much as looks at, paying her rent while she gets back on her feet. I smile, tell her, “He can keep you company.” 

She groans playfully, grinning. “I know, but he’s such a nerd.”

I bark out a laugh. “He is, isn’t he? No more nerd than you, though, Computer Science major.”

After pushing her wild hair as best she can behind her ears, her shoulders, she tugs my plate over between her arms and promptly shoves the rest of my croissant in her mouth. “He’s nice,” she says through a mouthful of flaky pastry. Her eyes glint brightly. 

“Yeah,” I agree, side-eyeing her suspiciously, and not just because she’s eating my goddamn croissant. Why is she looking at me like that? I’m careful not to buffer in front of her.

“Can we all go for a dinner when you get back?”

I nod. “Uh, yeah. Any occasion?”

“I just like spending time with you.”

My heart swells to my throat. I clear it, taking another sip of coffee. “Who doesn’t?” She likes spending time with me. But the elation quickly trickles back to earth when I stick my hands back into my pockets to stop their trembling and one clenches around a slip of paper. Right. Right, I forgot. I retrieve the crumpled paper and slide it on over the table to Jo. She raises a quizzical brow. “You call this number if you need anything,” I tell her. “Make sure it’s important. Technically, I’m not supposed to be in contact with anyone outside work during this.”

She wipes off her hands and takes the slip, black numbers scrawled neatly there on the white – one of my burner phones. “If I just want to talk to you?”

I roll my jaw slightly. “Don’t. It needs to be important.”

“So, life or death?” she asks with a smile.

I’m not smiling. “Let’s hope not.” Dread knots in my stomach. Maybe it’s a good thing she took my croissant. “If it’s life or death, Ethan’ll deal with it.”

***

They must’ve updated this room. Last I saw it, it was a neutral grey, bridging right between cool and warm so you could never really decide whether your eyes were bad or not. I’ve put in contacts for today, and I know they’ll put that on my updated file, and I know that my value will go down. I can’t tell whether the new interior is good or bad: bright, white, wide. They’ve painted the walls—white. An asylum sort of white. A little distracting but also so stark that it might actually do well for my aim when it comes down to that. If anything, it’s white so that they can adjust the light intensity to see how well I fare in the dark with a gun.

Numerous people are here to oversee my evaluation, with clipboards and charts and kits and all, but the only two I recognise are Brandt and Brassel. The first is watching me closely with steely blue eyes, face tough-set and refusing to give away anything. Now, I’ve only met the guy a few times in person, but they were fairly excruciating times – all in all, those lines on his forehead give away everything. Forever on edge. I can see the slight sunken quality of grief in his eyes: he’s sad to watch me enter. Brassel, on the hand, is smiling faintly. He’ll do everything to get me back in the field, and Brandt will try to keep me out. I can’t decide who I side with. Both of their attentions prickle down my spine like a ghost has just walked through me, cold, sickly, rotten. I don’t like Brandt looking at me like I’m already dead. I don’t like Brassel looking at me like I’m a shiny coin.

I approach them both with a neutral expression, more tired than anything. The flight was long, I’m jet-lagged as hell, and now I have to do this. My eyes heavy, my skin stuffy with oil and sweat, I stand respectfully in front of them both. The Secretary—and my handler. What a pair.

Searching my mind for something to say, I realise I don’t have anything at all. Nothing smart or polite or funny. I let Brassel say the first words:

“It’s good to have you here, agent,” he states in a way that’s hollow with fake genuineness. I nod nonetheless. “I trust you had a safe journey.”

“I did.”

Brandt stirs next to him, raising his brow and adjusting his grey suit jacket as he gestures over to the equipment in the room. “We’ll start with basic fitness and move on to your skill set, alright?” His mouth is set in a hard line.

“Fine by me.” My limbs ache.

The Secretary clears his throat, and I look over at him again. Despite his appearance, there’s nothing soft in the way he is. Nothing soft about how he speaks, he stares, he carries himself. It’s all sharp edges and calculated moves. Frigid bitch.

He tells me, “The psych evaluation is last.”

I nod.

“It’s not one or the other – it’s both. You’re not going in unless you pass—”

“Both,” I finish for him, nodding sporadically, itching to just get everything over and done with. “Gotta pass both. No problem, bossman, just hook me up and let’s go.” I glance over my shoulder at the treadmill and the ECG. Ethan went through this just a month ago.

The physical test is okay. Emphasis on okay – there’s nothing exceptional nor horrifying about any of the checks I’m put through. Endurance training is easy enough. At first, of course, all the equipment they attach to you is off-putting, and going through months of not running consistently at all has an effect on your performance—but then I focus my mind on the making of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I’m fine. If I just keep thinking about the costume design and production, I can run. And so, I run and run and run and just fantasise about Eowyn’s white dress. My body feels light and nothing feels real anymore, and it’s alright. In my peripheral vision, some of the observers scribble down notes or results on their little clipboards. Brassel has left somewhere. Brandt is watching me with the same anxious air about him. Eowyn’s dress, Eowyn’s dress. I wonder how they made Arwen’s coronation headdress. I used to want to be her so bad.

The running is up before too long. When they increase the speed, increase the humidity in this room, I don’t really realise it. But then everything is up and finished and I’m doing sit-ups and press-ups and pull-ups and planking until I’m struggling to breathe. I’m passing this test. Breathing is optional compared to that goal.

My skin is drenched with sweat, running slickly down my back and soaking my sports bra and my leggings. This sucks. This sucks. I’m careful to keep my mouth shut, though – none of those sharp quips or flurries of curses that always escape me when training with Ethan. Just a perfect silence, interjected only by regular breath control and responding to any stupid questions the observers throw my way.

“Struggling?” asks Brandt as I sit up after a five-minute plank, my lungs quivering.

I glare at him. “What’s next?”

A gun is offered to me – it slides into my hand like home, and my mind eases instantly. It’s a comfort and also—incredibly discerning. How the thoughts in my head go quiet. How the muscles release tension. How my eyes seem to focus a little better.

Aim is no trouble. Each shot I fire hits the target, and everything is accurate to anatomy, even though what I’m shooting at is a man-shaped shadow with nothing else to it. Sternum. Head, between the eyes. Quick deaths.

It’s no trouble.

After, they direct me to a separate room that looks like those interrogation rooms you see in cop shows. I’ve never been in one of these rooms. When I need to interrogate someone, it’s not done as politely. When someone is interrogating me, it’s not as clean. The neatest it gets for me is with the IMF – someone will invite you to dinner and poke harder and harder where it hurts with pointed questions and cold stares until you end up slipping something you didn’t mean to, and then they call for the bill and smile and tell you good night. Oh, well. That’s only when you do something wrong.

Doctor Lawlor is very polite. Curt, clipped, neat. Everything from the way her black hair is slicked back into a bun, the sharpness of her nails, to the way she smiles at me when I sit down in the chair opposite her.

She asks me how I feel about being called back.

“So excited,” I answer, nestling back into my chair and shooting her a grin.

Truth is, I’ve never felt more boxed in. I feel like a trinket, all foggy and scratched, at the bottom of a box. Every once in a while, someone will reach inside and turn me over, and, when I don’t gleam and smile, they put me back. I think I want back in. I don’t even know anymore. All I know is I don’t want to stay at home anymore. I need something different. Whenever I think of being forced to live what I’m living like now, I grow heavy and tired and sick of myself. At least this is different.

Lawlor glances at some kind of checklist on her lap. When she catches me looking too, she tilts it back and hides it from view. “Shall we start with some simple word associations, then?”

There’s no grin on my face now. “Yeah, sure.”

That familiar tiredness returns to my muscles, dragging, pulling. Slump. Can’t do that right now. Later. Right now, right here, this is work. Yeah, sure, the way she clears her throat makes me want to gouge my ears out of my head, but this is work. You’re not—supposed—to like it. It—drags you down. Puts you in a slump.

I meet Lawlor’s analytical stare with dead eyes.

It begins: “Cigarette.”

Miller. “Smoke.”

Brassel will be watching behind the “mirror” here. Lawlor keeps a neutral expression, which I’m thankful for – I can base my own off of hers.

“Boy,” she reads out.

“Corrupted.”

“Almada.”

My body hardens – what? I blink at her for her heartbeat, then glance over at my reflection in the mirror over my shoulder, and I make it quietly clear I’m angry. They shouldn’t’ve brought him up. What has Brandt told the IMF about our calls? Was his friendly nature over the phone all tailored? I seal off. I swallow it down before answering neatly, the same: “Corrupted.”

Lawlor writes something down before resuming. “Girl.”

“Woman.”

“Day.”

I grin. “Tired.” The skin on my arms prickles from the cold.

Lawlor doesn’t grin, and the smile soon falls from my face. “Ocean,” she says simply.

“Lost.”

“Hunt.”

Ethan, I think instantly. I don’t make any notion of looking angry or glancing over at the mirror. “Prey,” I answer solemnly. I would rather me die than they ever know the extent I would go to for him, that I would literally burn everything down so that nothing would happen to him. Of course, things are happening to him, have happened, will happen, and I’m a bit useless in that sector. Strongest thing I could do is leave. But I’m returning to this—room. This agency. Brassel.

I’m not left enough time to finish my thought. “Glass,” the doctor prompts.

“Shatter.”

“Order.”

“Subjective.”

“Colour.”

I smile. “Pink.”

***

It’s almost like I’m living an entirely different life. It’s not even that it’s—cut down the middle. Everything has formed separately: two worlds that never, ever cross and never, ever overlap. Usually. Being out of it—that side is like being in a pot of warm water and the temperature slowly increasing, until you don’t even realise you’re getting boiled alive. And then there’s this, being in it, where everything is on fire all the time.

I feel like a goddamn video game character. Wearing this khaki utility suit, carrying all these weapons, Brandt’s voice in my ear, in the middle of goddamn nowhere – I feel fake. Like I’m in a book or a movie.

I’ve never been to Portugal before. I won’t be seeing any of the major cities, or any cities, in fact, or towns or villages or whatever other places, landmarks and shit, because what I’m supposed to have my sights on is that house right over there: that lonely, white house nestled comfortably near the cliff’s edge. If you take a look at it from where the tourists are permitted, it’s small and far away and yet just defined enough for you to probably think to yourself that you’d love to live somewhere like that. Pretty spot, away from view. Nice weather—mostly. As of now, grey clouds crowd overhead, snuffing out any chance of sunlight. That’s okay – less distracting for me. It does make everything just a little uglier, though. The grass is more grey and yellow than green, and the sea is grey as well, and, well, I guess it’s sort of like one of those old noir films about murder and stalking or whatever noir films are about. Isolated, moody. That’s super noir, right? I dunno. That’s what Jo would probably tell me if she could see this. It’s beautiful—in a dangerous-looking sort of way. Crashing waves bring back crashing memories of the ferry in Ukraine. A storm’s rolling in.

“You’re in place?” says Brandt through my ear. After so long of not hearing anything through my right ear, to now have my earpiece shoved in there is more than a little strange. Bordering overstimulation, because I seem to be a little sensitive there, still recovering, but not to the point where I break down in tears, choke on my snot, et cetera, et cetera.

I take a look up at the tree beside me, the spindly, dry, little thing, and tell him, “Yup, I’m in place.” He could tell for himself anyway – I’m wearing a body cam – but whatever. If he wants to be pissy like that, I’ll let him.

“Stand by.”

I’ve been “standing by” for thirty bloody minutes.

“She is alone, yes?” I ask, because, sometimes (a lot of the time), they’re not clear about these things, not transparent, and then I’m made to do more than I’m actually paid for. Kill two—or three, four, five—birds with one stone, as they say.

Brandt responds flatly, “She’s alone.”

So much for taking care of each other at the agency. But I can’t blame him – he’s probably living two entirely different lives as well; they can’t overlap. I just—can’t believe the shift sometimes. No jokes, no quips, no jokingly condescending “kid”; just straight, simple information, orders for me to follow. And the fact that he probably approved Lawlor’s list of prompts at the beginning of that painstaking, forty-three-minute psych eval. She brought up Almada. Brandt approved Almada.

He’s fluent in Portuguese, Almada is.

I’ll probably never be allowed to see him again. I’m too afraid to ask.

“Start heading down, keep in the grass.” I obey, starting down the hill and leaving behind that spindly tree. Due to the sudden bout of consistent rain down here, the coarse, rat-hair grass has grown thicker and longer, almost brushing my stomach. It won’t cover me completely, but I’ll be able to duck down if she takes a look around. “This is a very important mark, agent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

“Good.”

She is ex-intelligence, just like I guessed. No-one takes the extra time to describe a mark unless it’s ex-intelligence, from what I’ve experienced. Maybe it’s guilt, that they got out and now someone is being sent to kill them. Or maybe it’s spite – they left, they deserve it. I try convincing myself that this woman, Georgia Fitzgerald, is heinous. Despicable. A menace. Love that word: menace. Fitzgerald was IMF. Like me. Oh, well. Retirement isn’t really retirement ever, is it? If I left, what if they sent somebody to kill me, too? I don’t ever know why I’m killing her. All I know is her name, her address, and that she is a hostile ex-IMF agent. I’m being taken advantage of – I know that, I’m totally aware of it, and Brassel should be ashamed of himself, but I’m also completely allowing it because I need to—to get back into the groove anyway. I roll my shoulders because I forgot how upright this holster makes your back.

Thankfully, I’m encased all the way up to my neck – this grass would probably give me sores all over my skin if I wasn’t wearing this. It sways and pulls erratically around me as the wind worsens and thunder crackles overhead. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Couldn’t use a sniper here. If the wind was lighter, if Fitzgerald actually ever dared to walk outside every now and then, or even past a window, then maybe. She’s cautious—as she should be, I suppose.

I try not to humanise her.

She’s a bad, bad woman who’s done horrible things, and I try my best not to humanise her.

My braid stabs at my scalp in a couple places that make it very painful to move my head, so I reach up a hand and try to loosen it a little.

First job back, and it’s a solo mission. First job back, and it’s a hit. I’m right where I started.

I wonder what Ethan’s doing.

“Yo, Brandt,” I start, dutifully continuing on through the long, so-far dry grass, “who else is there with you?”

“Hmm?”

“Who else is with you? In the little control room.”

If this is an important mark, Brassel must care a lot. The implicit gravity of this mission is starting to set in my body ever so slightly. I perform well under pressure—from what I can remember—but, then again, it’s been more than a year. I haven’t been like this in a year. No hits, no marks, no weight on my shoulders. Something I should have enjoyed existing as but obviously couldn’t quite take well.

Brandt clears his throat. “Focus on the task at hand, please, or I’ll have to call radio silence.”

“No more questions?”

“No.” His forehead’s probably gone all wrinkly.

I enter through the sunroom at the side of the house, gliding my gloved hands over the glass and studying the wide variety of plants all cooped up inside, green and vivid and bright compared to everything else about this place. I pick the lock, and, to my surprise, there’s not even an alarm system. Nothing goes off, nothing blares in my ears. There was no alarm system according to the file, but missions never go the way you planned. I step up from the patio into Fitzgerald’s home.

For a second, it really does just feel like visiting a friend’s house. Early memories, normal ones, of going over for Thanksgiving, of entering a house you’ve never entered before and being absolutely intrigued and slightly intimidated by everything around you. It’s a nice house. The sunroom is, at least. It’s humid and packed with potted plants along the floor, and plants hanging from the ceiling, mounted on the wall, a small, curated forest of thick leaves and thin leaves and small, blooming flowers. A strange Thanksgiving home, but I don’t really class this as—dangerous. I just—stand there and admire the room a little longer.

“Agent,” comes the voice in my head.

I don’t say anything, but I perk up immediately. Right. Right, we’re not normal anymore; we’re a government agent literally on a job to assassinate somebody.

“Proceed with caution.”

It’s then I realise that this room absolutely sucks when it comes to stealth: the humidity settles real quick under my suit, thick and warm but also stifling and horrible; the plants on the floor crowd wherever I go to step, and, if Fitzgerald were to just waltz in, she’d be able to kill me just like that. Suppose I could camp out here. No—she might have cameras, be watching me right now, be packing a bag, grabbing her stash, right now. I have to find her quick. I have to kill her quick. And then I can forget this ever happened and pretend I don’t do work like this and imagine I just went to my friend’s house for Thanksgiving and convince myself that this was all some weird, vivid dream. And then I guess I’ll—have these weird, vivid dreams over and over again because—because I went back. I chose this. I chose this again, even after everything. I think of Brandt on the other side of this camera, of my earpiece. He told me to think about it, that maybe I shouldn’t come back. And I did anyway. Maybe he thinks I’m lost, beyond salvation, beyond his help, and he’s closing himself off because he thinks I’m going to die eventually, so what’s the point? Why try to be friends with anyone when they’re gonna end up dead? “Pick up the pace, agent,” he orders, and I smile. What a guy. I hop deftly over plants and sidle on through the French doors into a different room, cringing at the noise they make.

“Melia!”

My body clenches. That’s not Brandt. Brandt is in my ear, and that’s not Brandt. Distinctly feminine, a little rough, a little deeper than average—that’s Fitzgerald. I think. Georgia Fitzgerald. Not—

“Amelia!”

It doesn’t seem to carry any urgency to it—the cry. But it also means there is more than one person in this house. It means that the IMF’s data either wasn’t correct or that they redacted information from what was probably necessary for me to know. I stand in the shadowed room and listen carefully, my hand moving at a snail’s pace as I retrieve my handgun out of its holster.

A voice calls back: “Ma?”

My face drops at its pitch.

That’s a kid. Squeaky, high pitched, that’s a kid. My eyes harden in horror and nausea slides in my stomach. What are they having me do? What do they want me to do? Two birds with one stone? Is this—are these the two birds? My hands twitch to grab at something, but I’m in the middle of the room, so I have to settle on grasping my gun.

“Continue with the mission, please.” That’s Brassel. “Fitzgerald is the only one that’s necessary. You can forget about the third party.”

Third party? That’s hardly a third party. She sounds—Amelia sounds—really young. When I looked at Fitzgerald’s file, when I looked at her face, I don’t—she had a hollowness to her that I thought could never harbour anything gentle or mundane. And I’m listening to her tell—her daughter—to clean up her room.

Oh, Jesus. Please let this not be real. Please let this be fake.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray. Please, please, please, please—

Footsteps. There are footsteps on the hardwood floor, just a room away. I try not to breathe; I try not to cry. Jesus. “You’ve got till the end of the day, baby. I’ve been telling you for weeks, and I’m serious this time: I want it clean. I am not stepping on any more o’ your Legos.”

Legos. Jesus Christ.

This is fake, this is fake, this is Thanksgiving, this is fake.

“‘kay, Ma!” the little voice cries back. Amelia.

Up above, there’s a clammering as the little girl runs around up there. She sounds—really young. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What am I fucking doing here? I’m holding a fucking gun, I’m in her fucking house, and I’m supposed to fucking kill her. And Brassel and Brandt and God knows who else is watching it all over a camera.

No. I don’t want to do this.

I make to turn around, stumbling back the way I came, but there’s a fucking side table and it knocks hard against the wall, and, as I try to make a run for it back to the door, there are the stupid potted plants. Jesus Christ – the crash it makes is legendary.

I watch as Georgia Fitzgerald peers into the room. I watch as her face falls, as fear consumes her eyes, and a part of me deadens. She dashes away around the wall, and I hear the clatter of things most likely from the kitchen, that metallic cluster of spoons and forks and—knives. I hasten my dash, uncaring for these fucking flowers, try to run outside.

“What are you doing?” Brassel presses. Oh, my God.

I think for a second, shoving my way outside and fumbling off the patio and back into the long-grass. The rain has yet to fall. Everything is so loud – the thunder, the wind, the lashing of the grass, the waves. I want to scream.

Fitzgerald comes hurtling out of the sunroom with a small kitchen knife in her hand, crazed, her dark skin a stark contrast to the white of the house. She almost fits perfectly into the greyscale of the place.

“Agent, what are you doing?”

Right. “I’m not doing it in the house,” I tell him, praying that that’ll settle him. If I let myself fall while running, just the right way, I could smuggle off my body cam and smash it clean, and my earpiece, and then I could be free of them. If I did it just the right way, I could fake my own death. If I let Fitzgerald catch up to me, I could be gone from the IMF.

Not that that’s an issue for her. The catching up part, I mean. Because she is a fully trained IMF field agent, just like me, better, even, if the agency cares so much whether she lives or dies. She’s killed people, she’s hurt people, she’s trained. And she’s storming towards me.

I’m perfectly frozen – she can see this, she knows this, she’s using this.

Before I know it, I’m raising my gun, sort of praying she kills me. Faking your death requires intricacies I haven’t prepared for yet – being killed is much more efficient.

And when she grabs the barrel of my gun and yanks it to the side, no shots go off because I don’t fire in the first place, and I’m sort of praying she kills me. Ethan—Ethan can move on. He’s flexible like that. Even if—it would hurt him a little. That I didn’t even try.

With her other hand, Fitzgerald swipes the knife around, and I’m fully accepting that it’s going to slash my neck and that I am going to die.

But my body has been through a lot. I’ve trained with knives a lot. I’ve fought with knives a lot. It’s not a choice when I dart my head back and narrowly miss the singing blade as it wipes past me – it’s an instinct. Practice.

I grab her armed side with a frightening grip, nearly crushing her wrist with the force, and promptly thrust my forehead right over at her face, as hard as I can. As she’s reeling from her nose being crushed, I beat the knife out of her hands with the hilt of my gun, again and again and again.

The knife is lost in the grass.

Crying out with a rawness I haven’t ever heard in my life, Fitzgerald whips her elbow back into my face, snaps a punch under my chin. She has something to fight for. But I don’t even want any of this. I want to leave, want to leave her alone and all of this shit. This was a mistake, I realise as I cough wildly, vomit rising in my throat. She knees me in my stomach, then punches there, and another, and another, and then I’m shoving her away, spinning around and retching up onto the grass.

Christ. Wonder what control thinks, seeing this.

Fitzgerald claws into my back and yanks me right back, curling an arm around my neck and squeezing me tight in a lock. “Why are you at my house?” she growls, deadly. I respond with a squeak and a wheeze, my mouth and tongue bitter. “Won’t fucking leave me alone. Where’s your transmitter?” She shoves me to the ground, hard, and I fall into grass smattered with my own sick. Fat raindrops start to hail around me, matting my hair down as Fitzgerald’s knee presses between my shoulder blades. She yanks my head up, and this time I’m sure she’s going to kill me, snap my neck.

She doesn’t. One hand gripping my hair, the other tears out my earpiece as she screams, “Fuck off!” into it and tosses it far, far away. I cry out with pain as she twists my hair meanly, sobbing and blubbering as the air around me turns to water. She roughly flips me over, jamming my shoulder into the ground. Erratic, she searches for my body cam, her knees pinning my legs down, her eyes frantically scanning my body. When she finds it she yanks it off, crushes it into the grass. I cry and whimper up at the sky.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” Fitzgerald snarls at me, hitting me across the face.

This blows.

Say I don’t want to die. Say I want to go home and spend time with Jo and listen to her complain about her coursework. Say I want to eat take-out with Ethan and practice our Japanese.

Okay. Okay, maybe I don’t want to die.

I hit Fitzgerald back—really, really hard, right in the jaw. I roll her over, pin her down, and I hit her really hard over and over. I want to go home. I want this to be fake, but it’s not fake, it’s real, and I’m just gonna have to fucking deal with it. Fucking sucks. When Fitzgerald reels her legs up and kicks me back in the stomach, I get back up, ready, drenched, dripping, struggling to breathe in this goddamn weather. When she takes advantage of my misplaced punch and crunches my arm right down on her knee, it hurts like hell, sure, but I also couldn’t give a shit. I beat to her knees in a combination of blind panic and blind rage, completely forgetting all that guilt I felt earlier. I want to go home and I want this to be over. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t give a shit how I get there.

Her face is blurred through the onslaught of rain. I can barely hear anything over the sound of it all, the crashing, the lashing, the roaring. All of it.

“They don’t care about you,” Fitzgerald rasps, voice grating painfully against her throat. Her nose is broken, and blood is smeared all over her bitter face. She’s not in the position to lecture me, not with the gun I have pressed against her forehead. “You’re just a cog in their machine,” she goes on, accepting her fate. “And once you’re not useful to them anymore, you’re gone.”

“Okay,” I say.

And then I pull the trigger.

Her body falls flat, her limbs flopping right down over my shoes – I kick them off of me, and I walk away from the edge of the cliff.

Job done. Messy, sure, but it’s over. I want to go home.

In the doorway of the sunroom, a little shadow stands, watching from afar. For a second there, I actually think about waving to little Amelia. Maybe the disconnect between work and personal life is—a little more worrying that I let on.

In the end, I just kind of stand there, watching right back, just a few paces away from her mother’s shadowy slump of a corpse. I have no idea whether she has anyone else in life or not. Georgia Fitzgerald retired only to get killed. She settled down only to get killed, to be parted from her family. I guess it was inevitable – I was only a catalyst. That’s me being polite to myself: catalyst. Catalyst, my ass. I killed her so that I could go home. I killed her so that I could go play big sister with Jo. I killed so that I could see Ethan again. Worst part is, I don’t really feel guilty about it anymore. I feel reassured – I am going back, I am allowed to see them. In order to do that, I just had to—take away Fitzgerald’s ability to do all that stuff herself. Her or me. That’s it – it was her or me. 

Little Amelia’s shadow edges out little by little into the rain as I start to walk away from the scene of it, start to make my way back up the hill. Once I’m far enough away, she strolls on over to where her mother is sleeping, crouches down by her body. I don’t look back anymore after that. I couldn’t take care of her, so I don’t know why that thought enters my mind. I killed her mother. I can’t cancel that out. Ever. So, I leave, my boots muddied, my socks soaked through, my scalp sodden with water. 

I disappear into the grey rain. 

***

The small motel room I’ve been instructed to go to is resoundingly similar to the one I shared with the others in Brazil, except it’s colder and somehow shittier and the walls are painted an atrocious shade of orange-red in a weak attempt to hide the many imperfections in the plaster. I don’t bother with looking, around, though, because I’ll only be using this space for an hour or two – transport’s already ready, and all I have to do is get there in one piece.

Oh, the shower – the place where I’ve had some of my lowest moments ever in life. It’s hard not to step foot in any bathroom and instantly become aware of the aching in my chest. It’s the same here. Skin clammy from rainwater and blood and sweat, pain throbbing up from underneath like something’s living there, eating me from the inside.

As I peel the suit from my body, my eyes well up with involuntary tears, and I whimper up at the bulbous, flickering, yellow light up on the ceiling, almost biting right through my lip. A pained whimper leaves me, a low, shuddering moan, as I delicately remove the dense fabric from my right arm. Thank God I’m ambidextrous – they drill it into you at the academy. But for now, everything burns. Everything burns with a bright pain, leaving my body quaking and writhing with it as I cradle the crooked limb. Ew. Gross. It’s—disgusting to look at. Not so much worrying, because I’m not a stranger to broken bones and gashes and cuts and bruises and so on. I know how to take care of it—for now. It’s just—disgusting. Swollen, jagged. I prod and squeeze gingerly at my upper arm, curling myself up on the floor with my back against the bathtub. Humerus fracture. I don’t know how severe, but, when she did it, it felt like she snapped it clean.

I cry up at the light again. Fat tears roll down my dirt-streaked face, and I swallow my sorrow.

She really put up a fight. My body is littered with cloudy bruises and ugly welts. My muscles are sore with effort. This is horrible. Why did I put myself through this again?

I cradle my arm gently, making sure my upper arm hangs straight down. I have to shower with this. I’m gonna have to take the rest of my clothes off and then shower with this. And then I’ll have to make it to transport, injuries and all, and then get on a plane back to America, and then sit through a fucking debrief, let Brassel yell at me for compromising the job. I hate him. I hate Brassel so much it hurts.

It’ll be so long before I’m home in Tokyo. I don’t even know if they’ll let me go back right away, or if they’ll throw me around like they do with Almada. One more job, one more hit – we all know how that story goes.

***

“What are you doing here?”

As he swivels around in a panic, I find myself transfixed. He’s what I fought for. He’s why I wanted to stay alive.

And just look at him: he’s so nice. Ethan looks at me the way he did after I broke into de Melo’s house and lost contact, like I’m not real, like I’m some ghost, like I should be dead. His cheeks are flushed slightly from the cold, and his breath leaves him in delicate, little, white wisps. His green eyes glitter, and I meet them, slightly ashamed. He’s been waiting on my doorstep. I went to go get groceries instead of calling him, and he’s waiting on my doorstep. I say nothing else, because I’m still deciding whether I should apologise or drop to my knees and ask him to run away with me, and neither does he. 

My left hand is straining with the effort of two, very full bags, my shoulders jarred to one side. “Let me take those,” Ethan offers, and he relieves me of their weight. 

His voice almost sets me off into hysterics right then and there, but, lo and behold, I manage to hold on.

Both back from a mission. Both different. I try to decipher whether things are the same between us or if they’re entirely changed, but I—don’t know. There are too many factors. Everything is changing, so fast, so quickly, and I don’t seem to have a say in it, and it’s driving me insane. Everything is changing, but I just hope that Ethan and I can stay constant. I don’t care about anything else. 

“You left,” he says, seemingly unable to look away from me, even despite the chaotic traffic blaring up in a series of police sirens and honking cars and rumbling tires.

The back of my neck prickles. “Yeah—?”

“You went back.”

I narrow my eyes. Is he angry with me? I went back, sure, but so did he. Suppressing a frown, I sidle past him and open up the door. “Help me with the bags?” I mutter, extending an invitation for him to come up. He hums his agreement and follows me inside. As I hold the door open for him, I see his eyes catch the white of my cast as my sleeve rides up. 

He can’t be angry with me. No more than I’m angry at him, I guess. He went back to a lifetime of suffering. I did, too, but I at least understand a little bit of why – it’s all I’m good at, good for. I couldn’t be—good anywhere else. But Ethan’s good at a lot of things, but, most specifically, he’s good at people. He’d survive if he were to just go into civilian life forever. I—couldn’t. Not anymore. So, I understand why I went back, even if I also understand that it’s bad for me (I can understand two conflicting things at once, alright?), but I don’t think Ethan should’ve done it. He’s better than all of it, than the whole IMF put together. I’m pretty sure he's just better than everyone everywhere who’s ever lived – he’s at the very top of my list. 

Ethan rambles quietly to me that it’s not good for me to go back to the agency, that I should stay here in Tokyo and try to be normal from now on, that literally anywhere else would be better. 

As we climb the stairs, he remains in the corner of my eye. He’s so cute when he rambles. Doesn’t happen often, but I like to watch and smile and just listen whenever he does. 

When he catches me staring, he tells me, “Don’t go in next time. Please. Just tell Will that you don’t want to go back and then just don’t.”

I pause my ascent, coming to a stop on the next step and looking curiously down at him. He slows as well, just below me, eyes up wide and puzzled. Quickly, I press my left hand to the side of his face and kiss him, my nose pressing into his cheek. He’s warm. If I could, I’d wrap both of my arms around him, but I can’t (damn cast). 

Ethan crumples just a little. His hands are occupied with the bags. 

When I pull away, he leaves his previous thought and says, “I was waiting for you to do that,” and drops the shopping carefully on a step before gently wrapping his arms around me and kissing me again.

Nothing really comes close to it, to the feeling of him wanting to be near me like this. It feels nice. It feels warm, like nothing could ever go wrong. Present. The smell of his dry-cleaning, his light laundry detergent, his shampoo. Nothing discernible, but it’s so him, and it wreathes all around me, and there’s nothing better. His hands are rough like mine, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Callouses, some from his farm-boy days as a kid, most from handling weapons as an adult, grate softly against my skin as he kisses me deeper, closer, sighing like he’s content. I like it when he’s close. We should do this—all the time. We should do this more often.

I feel myself being backed up slowly against a wall, hear the faint rustle of something tumbling out of one of the bags and the clunk of it falling on down the stairs, but I don’t really linger too long on any of that. As one of his hands remains laced in my hair, the other slides into my coat, under my sweater, and the iciness of his palm makes me violently jolt up with a sharp yelp, grinning, laughing.

He laughs, too. God, I could recognise his laugh anywhere, in a swarm of voices, in a crowded room.

I pull him back into me by the lapels of his coat, coaxing back into a slow, leisurely kiss, because I feel like it’s been so long, and I want to learn this inch by inch, just in case. You know. Just in case we don’t end up being able to—to do this more often.

I have no idea what this is anymore, what we are. Calling it what I want to call it seems too brash. Calling it what I want to call it seems idealistic, starry-eyed, and I don’t really think I can afford to be those things with the way my life is going. We’re not just friends. Neither of us want to be just friends. But it’s too naïve to call it what I want to call it, because we’re not exactly innocent. Our lives aren’t pretty. This is—pretty good, though, I think to myself as Ethan presses his body against mine and places a kiss under my jaw. I can feel his eyelashes fluttering against my skin. Yeah. Yeah, we’re not just friends.

“Don’t go in next time,” he mumbles against me. “Promise me.”

Who does he think he’s kidding? We can’t keep promises. Can’t afford to make them, and we sure as hell can’t follow through with them.

Choosing to brush over it, I tell him, “I need your help taking my clothes off,” and tug his arm to indicate that I want him to come up to my place again.

Quickly collecting up the bags and the fallen items, he shuffles alongside me up the flight of stairs, laying kisses on my shoulder, his chest right by my back. Antsy, I fiddle with my keys, irritated that the one I need just seems to keep fucking slipping away, for God’s fuckin’ sake.

Ethan reaches over my shoulder and kisses my cheek, repeating, “I’m serious, sweetheart. I don’t want you going back there.” Jesus, he’s lucky I like him so much. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous because, wow, he’s not really doing well at the whole “welcome back, I missed you, and, also, I want to profess my undying love for you and run away and buy a house with hardwood floors where no-one will find us/kill us, and we’ll be happy and normal” thing. He can’t tell me to be careful with myself when he doesn’t give a shit about what happens to him. It’s wrong and it’s horrid and I hate it. But right now, I just grit my teeth down and try to ignore it, shuffling up to my door and shoving my key into the lock.

The door opens, and the two of us rush inside, the groceries quickly forgotten. His hands immediately situate themselves on tugging my scarf a little looser, allowing him to duck down and press his nose, his lips, to my neck. My breath hitches, and I wrap my good arm around his neck.

“D’you have any idea how worried I was about you? You coulda left me a message, anything,” Ethan mutters, carefully helping me out of my jacket. As he lifts his head up to kiss me, his eyes are snagged steadfast on my cast.

I slide his own scarf off, rushing an absent-minded reply: “I know.” It’s with the intent of easing his mind, but you know—of course, it doesn’t.

Irritation ripples through his body – I can feel it. His expression stiffens.

Something shifts slightly: Ethan kisses me again, and it’s so sudden and powerful that our teeth clash right together, that my nose is flattened against him to the point where it’s hard to breathe right. What a dick. What an absolute prick he is. It’s a part of him that becomes easy to overlook sometimes, during these times, when we’re living regular lives, between jobs and all, because this switch in him, this domestic switch, just flicks on and seems to overtake all of that. Those good qualities that just go a little too far sometimes. Fierce loyalty. Stubbornness. Selflessness. Oh, I fucking hate that he’s selfless. Why can’t he just bloody want to look after himself? My hand knots a little too tight in the mess of his brown hair, pulling sharply, and Ethan whimpers into my cheek. “Baby, please,” he begs me softly, but I don’t know what he’s asking for anymore. Me to stay, me to touch him, me to run away with him to our midnight house with hardwood floors – I don’t know. It’s all confusing, it’s all weird, and I don’t know how we ended up in this mess again. I just don’t want him to ask me to leave to a place where he won’t let himself follow.

Abruptly, Ethan grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me off of him. A jolt of pain bites at my right arm – I shake him away from me, glaring daggers.

The heady haze fades away to the narrow foyer of my small, quiet apartment.

My eyes fix on his shoes. I am not looking at his face right now. What a dick. I don’t want to see the fucking pity in his eyes. I don’t want to see regret, worry, pain, any of it. What a dick.

After my racing heartbeat settles to a dangerous rhythm, thrumming with my anger, he tells me, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “I had to find out from Jo.”

Something in my chest goes bitter with a sting.

“Is she okay?” I manage.

If he nods, I wouldn’t know. “She doesn’t know,” he states, but there’s the tiniest hint of a question in his words.

My eyes snap up at his face, burning with a fire he knows all too well. There shouldn’t be a question in his words. I’m a capable agent, just like him, and I’m bound to the government by a contract, just like him, and there shouldn’t be a question. I’m not going to break everything just for a civilian. And definitely not Jo. I’d die before I roped her into this mess. God willing, it’ll never, never, never happen.

So, I glower at him, at his little, imploring gaze, and answer scathingly, “She doesn’t know.”

The tension in his forehead eases slightly. Why? I don’t even fucking know what’s going on in his head anymore. Every time I’m with him, I like to convince myself that I know him like the back of my hand – bla, bla, bla, tick in his jaw, you know what that means – but everything about him is always buried under five fucking thousand layers of half-truths and half-lies. How do you get to know someone who hardly knows himself? Maybe he isn’t serious about me. We haven’t talked about it, sure, but I think about living with the guy, waking up next to him, cooking him breakfast, getting a dog. I want him so badly to be my future, but I don’t know if he’s serious about me. Fucks me before a mission, runs off across the globe, comes back, fucks me—or, at least, that’s where this is going. Am I an outlet? Stress-reliever? Is that what I am to him?

Jesus, what am I talking about? I made this weird. Make up for it, quickly, make up for it. I like him, and, if this continues the way it is, he’s going to leave.

I reach for him, hooking my cold thumb in the hem of his shirt and gliding it up over his stomach.

“No, just—stop,” he presses, waving me away. I lower my hand back. “I thought you—” he looks away, blinking rapidly, “—I thought something happened to you.” I frown. “I didn’t—”

“Nothing happened to me—”

“I know, but I thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong, Hunt. Look—” I flip my arm up as if to show him, offering a peace offering to him in the form of a grin, “—I’m perfectly fine.” Please just let this be forgotten with.

Ethan makes a face at me, laughing disbelievingly, “You’ve got a broken arm!” His face shifts momentarily to something broken, something he then quickly hides with the sleeve of his jacket, his hand scratching at his eye while he fixes it.

He’s not angry; he’s just worried.

“Okay, not perfectly fine,” I admit, rolling my eyes, “but I’m fine generally. How’s that?”

I catch a glimpse of his smile beneath his hand. “You’re impossible.”

“Good thing that’s your specialty, huh?” I tease, eyes glinting, gently resting my hand on his arm and bringing it back down. There he is – there’s that pretty face. His green eyes are warm but tired.

“That—that was actually pretty good,” he whispers as I kiss the inner corner of his eye, slumping his back against the wall.

“Thanks, honey.”

“Don’t.”

My heart tugs. “Why not?” I protest, coming close to him and feeling his body heat slowly illuminate me.

“Because I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Good talk,” I mumble against his lips. I don’t want to be mad at him right now. By the looks of it, by the way he melts into my kisses, he doesn’t want to either, but he’s still hanging on for some reason.

He looks at me forlornly. “I thought you were gone—”

“I’m not gone.”

“I was scared.”

I pause. “I’m back.” I press my palm to his face, my thumb pressing into his cheekbone, my fingers threading into his hair, over his ear. The cold from my skin must be jarring to him, but, if it is, I don’t see it on his face. “See?” He leans into my touch, placing his hand over my own and burying himself into me, looking at me like we’re in some tragedy. My body aches. “I’m back.” I survived that mission because of him.

Ethan sighs a bodily sigh, and the lines of his face deepen as the winter light filtering through my windows quickly disappears behind a thick blanket of clouds.

He rests his forehead against mine. “You didn’t have to go back,” he whispers fiercely.

The corner of my mouth turns down. “And you did?”

He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s hurting. “Don’t do that. You know how I feel about you. You know I don’t want you back there.”

“I didn’t want you back there either.”

His eyes flash. “I asked you—”

“I lied.”

“Then, let’s not lie anymore, please.” Not possible, but the desperation in his voice almost convinces me to pursue a hopeless journey.

There goes my midnight thought of settling down. It seems silly now. It’s all—not the way I want things to be. He wants me—but not enough. Well, that sounds a little selfish – I should be grateful at all that Ethan puts up with me at all. Spends time with me, I mean. We can’t buy a house in a different country, and I can’t have my garden of colourful flowers, and he won’t ever leave this life behind. I’ll settle for sex, for strategic touches to elicit pleasure, because at least they’re not touches to inspire pain. I don’t hate it. It’s just a bit sad. Knowing that there is a set boundary neither of us will cross: yada, yada, yada, let’s fuck each other’s brains out, yada, yada, yada, woah there, don’t go saying you love me because there’s paperwork for that kinda stuff and, before you know it, you’ll be on one of my long-lost enemies’ hitlist. Not love; like. Didn’t mean to say love. Because I don’t love this. I hate this. I hate where we’re being forced. I hate that he’s looking at me like I’m dead. I hate that I want him so much. Not love. Love’s out of the question. Always has been—always will be.

I stare right back at Ethan, challenging the sorrow in his eyes with a strong defiance. He has—really pretty eyes. I don’t know the terms and conditions for what’s going on right now, right here, between us, but I have a pretty good idea. I’d do anything for him, and just sleeping with him isn’t exactly an all-terrible verdict. It’s better than a lot of things.

I tell him firmly, “You’d have gone even if I told you to stay.” I tell him the truth. He looks forlornly at me. “If I asked you to leave with me now, you wouldn’t.” Ethan has nothing to say for a few moments, and I can tell he wants to say that I’m wrong, that he’s entirely capable of doing something like that, of throwing it all away for the sake of one person. Maybe he was in the past – we both remember Julia. But not anymore. No more lies, he said. Defiance still pulses, glowing, through my veins. “You wouldn’t,” I repeat, no attempts to be soft.

Let’s not lie anymore.

“Not now,” comes his anticipated answer. Quiet, honest. I can feel his breath on my cheek, and I’ve never felt so far away from him.

There’s little solace in knowing I’m right. “And why is that again?” I press, hardening.

“Don’t do—”

Urgency sparks up violently in me. “We could leave,” I find myself begging, “and—and go—”

“I don’t want to,” he snaps, and I flinch at the sudden volume, at the brief glimpse of rage that flashes across his face.

It’s like hitting the ground in a dream. Yup – yup, there goes the midnight house. I don’t know what I thought.

He reaches his hands up to my face again, but I bat them away. “Yet,” Ethan adds. I jump forwards and kiss him like my life depends on it, breathing hard. Don’t get me wrong – I know my place now. I’ll be fine with it eventually. When we pull apart for a breath, he rushes, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” A sudden bout of possessiveness flares up in me. The jagged bridge of his nose, the lines around his eyes, the way his head is angled down towards me, still ready, asking. I have his whole image, his whole person, committed to memory by now, but I’m not sure if that person is even genuine. Strategic bouts of happiness and pleasure – what if that’s all this is? Jesus, aren’t we a goddamn pair? I look right into his eyes, searching. Why can’t he just run away with me? Why does everything have to be all wrong? “You’re mine, right?” I ask, gritted, completely immersed in a tunnel.

His eyes meet mine with equal intensity. “Yes.” He means it.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

I kiss him again with bruising force, my body crushing against his, as I unbuckle his belt furiously with a strong, quick hand. My fingers snake into his underwear and wrap around him so that he lets out a strained hiss, gasping and whining pathetically against my neck.

I show him just how mine I want him to be.

***

She and Ethan seem to have gotten closer in my absence. I don’t look, because I haven’t looked at her face directly since we arrived, but I can hear her going off about all of the amazing intricacies of the painting, the colour symbolism, the flower symbolism, all of this stuff, and Ethan is just “really?” and “oh”-ing his way through with a laugh in his voice. What happened to Jo rambling about confusing stuff to me? I’m gone a couple days and suddenly she and Ethan are best friends? Bullshit.

Jo sounds so much younger when she’s talking to Ethan, like she’s a little girl again. It makes me uncomfortable to know she probably sees him as a father figure, because what does that make me? Ethan—Ethan is sort of good at it. Helps her with her coursework because he’s picked a few things up from computer-whiz Benji over the years, ruffles her hair when she teases him, tells her how exactly to fix the broken sink that’s been plaguing her flat for these past few weeks. He’s good at it. I don’t know how he feels about, but, from the look in his eye, it’s nice to play pretend for a couple hours. I don’t even want to try, though. I’m only noticing it now—how so much of how we spend time together could be misinterpreted—and it’s—it’s not good for either of us. Not for Jo, not for me. Me eating the chicken skin off her plate because I know she hates it; me helping her out financially; me glaring at any guy who looks at her funny; telling her to tie her hair up because, if not, she’s gonna irritate her skin and break out. The way we walk on the street – me slightly ahead, placed thoughtfully so I’m on the side that takes the brunt of the winter wind, her following just behind. I dunno. Small things. Not good for us. Don’t want her—getting the wrong idea. Just because her parents are still both in Germany, doesn’t mean—Ethan and I should be seen as substitute parents for her here. Doesn’t work like that.

“You’re really smart, you know?” Ethan says to Jo, nudging her with his shoulder. “You ever think about doing something creative?”

I hear her snort, like the idea is rubbish. “No.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to get money.”

I glance over at Ethan, who’s placed between the two of us like a barricade. I can only see the back of his head, though, and, behind him, the outline of Jo’s curls. “Money isn’t everything,” he tells her.

I pick furiously under my nails. Don’t go giving her advice, I want to say to him. I don’t want her to remember us. This life isn’t permanent, and I don’t want her to look back on this period and think “huh, I kind of miss those guys”. I don’t want her to remember us, this, at all. So, I burn a hole in Ethan’s back and hope he feels it.

The two of them begin to wander away to the doorway to another room, and I trail behind the pair with a deep scowl on my face.

“And what emotional satisfaction do you receive from real estate, Ethan?” she probes with her faux-philosophical voice. I glare at the back of her hair. She needs to tie it back; she’ll irritate her skin.

I watch as Ethan pats her on the back and reaches up to muss her hair. “That’s just something to keep me busy.”

“So, no emotional satisfaction?”

A pause. “I’ve got my sources.”

I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but, as I’m glowering at his dirty suede jacket, I think he takes a glance back at me.

Ethan and his fucking glances. In what world does he think he can glance at me like that? No matter how much I want to connect with him, it’s just not possible. His dedication to work overtakes any dedication I think he has to me. I should be the same. I used to be the same. I used to have it all fucking figured out, perfectly deluded. God, I’d give anything to be deluded again. Reality sucks. The IMF has us killing people, killing mothers and daughters of mothers, and now I can’t fucking look at Jo. I can’t look at her. How can Ethan look at her? How can he lead her on with the promise of a connection he’ll never complete? It’s mean. It’s not good for any of us. How can he want a job like that more than me?

Whatever. I’m not bitter or anything. If I was bitter, would I have slept with him? 

Momentarily, my head dives right back to it. Everything was harsher, rougher, sharper. The first time, everything was soft, with rounded edges, a burst of desperation. I don’t know what he was desperate for, but all I wanted was him. And—the other day, I wanted him so much that I got angry over it. I pushed myself so hard I could barely breathe. 

As we enter the next room, I find myself grinning at the memory: I rode him like I wanted to kill him. Jesus, it’s quite funny, you have to admit. He was squirming and moaning and grinning underneath me, and, with every breathy laugh of pleasure, with every one of his pleas, I fucked him right down into my fucking mattress. What a dick. I like him so much. He deserves to be happy, and I know this job doesn’t make him happy. I kept thinking that, that he'd rather stay at a job that hates him than be with me, someone—who really, really likes him. When he came, I was glaring at him.

I catch Ethan’s eye as he glances back at me again with a smile, and my face heats up. Sinful thoughts, public place, Jo – not a great combo. He narrows his eyes at me slyly before turning back.

Jo snatches my hand up in hers and wraps her arm around mine in a flash. “You’re weirdly quiet,” she remarks, pressing into me and then dragging me over to the first, small painting in the corner of the room, a portrait of a white guy with a pointy chin and a pointy hat.

Stunned, I go along with it, keeping my attention straight ahead. “Just a little tired,” I grumble as an excuse. Silent, Ethan puts his hand on the small of my back. Encased between the two of them, I’m—not sure how to feel.

“I wanted to call you so many times, but, hey-ho, I held out, didn’t I?”

The corduroy material of her jacket presses even through my own jacket – that’s how firmly her arm is curled around me. Which reminds me: I lent her my blue leather jacket last month, and she hasn’t given it back yet. I don’t want her to have—a memento of me. It tugs my heart that—she wanted to call me, that she didn’t because I told her not to, that she listened to me, that she probably gives a lot more than a damn about what I think. I’ve had people depend on me before, and it wasn’t pretty. Almada’s just one piece of evidence of that. The wall’s up, and I realise now that it may not ever come down. My words are dry and cynical as I reply, “Congratulations, I should have your medal here somewhere.”

She snorts – she’s used to me being a little cynical anyways, and she’s a fair amount herself. “You still haven’t told me how you broke your arm,” she prods, leaning down and squinting at the small plaque beneath the painting, mumbling to herself as she reads the name of the artist.

“Oh, it’s not broken – I just wanted a new accessory.”

“Sure.” Smart girl. “How was it?”

“How was what?” And out of the corner of my eye, I see Ethan take a step back away to lean against the wall and look at us. I get that uncomfortable writhing feeling in my gut again—not the good kind. This isn’t my life. Shouldn’t be.

“Work. You know, you went back and everything? Made a big deal over the no contact rule?”

“It was—”

“Yeah?” she says eagerly, a smile in her voice. If I could look at her right now, her eyes would be big and brown and shiny, and then I’d get sad all over again and compare her to Almada. They have nothing do with each other, and yet everything. Almada looked at me just like she did, like I was the best thing in the world at that moment in time. I loved it when he looked at me like that. Well, what good are looks and feeling proud about yourself when you can’t do anything to save your friend from a lifetime of suffering and loneliness? Ha-ha, am I right? I didn’t save Almada. What good are looks? I shouldn’t let Jo need saving. I shouldn’t let her need me. What good are looks?

“—tiring.”

A brief silence. I keep my eyes on the guy in the painting. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.”

“Do I look abhorring or something?”

“No—”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” she exclaims, shoving me slightly. Ethan pushes himself off the wall and tries to guide me behind him – where in any other situation I would’ve fought it, I let him win this time, and let him try and calm Jo down.

I stay silent.

Ethan tells her, “She’s just a little tired,” and Jo is safely slotted out of my view again.

“Yeah, I heard,” she remarks. “Tired.” I really am. If I’d had a better night’s sleep, if I woke up happier, I would’ve been more affected by this, I’m sure – annoyed, upset, regretful, something along those lines. But I’ve been simmering all day, and I’ll continue to simmer for a while after this, not going down, not coming up. She must be trying to catch my eye or something – I can feel her eyes on me. I edge further behind Ethan. “Okay. You know, someone who didn’t know any better might’ve thought she was tired of us, too.” And then she leaves, claiming to go searching for the bathroom.

I think about pressing my forehead to Ethan’s back, but I don’t. He turns around in his own time, harbouring a frown similar to mine. “I’m not tired of her,” I clarify, searching his face for the disappointment I know he feels in me.

He flexes his jaw. “Hope not.”

Dick. “I’m not. I’m just—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, his eyes cutting me, too. “I know.” But, unlike Jo, he really does know. He softens the blow, but he lands it nonetheless. I watch as his eyes shift somewhere far behind me, probably to where Jo’s disappearing into a doorway. Only now do I feel guilt start to gnaw. Not hard, but certainly there. Still simmering. Steady, growing. It was wrong, but it was necessary. In the long run, she’d be better for it. I wouldn’t want her becoming fond of me. Things get dangerous when you care about someone. I think about pressing myself into Ethan again. But I don’t. Instead, I listen to him as he huffs, “She’s a really nice kid. You could try being a little more empathetic.”

“I’m plenty empathetic,” I snort, desperate to fill the space between us. My stomach goes floozy with guilt.

Ethan hardens his gaze. “She misses you.”

“Yeah, well, she shouldn’t. We’re not that close.”

He recoils like he’s been burned. “Don’t say that about her.”

The floozy guilt turns to an explosive anger: who is he to tell me that? Who is he to defend her? Jo would be better off if both of us were gone from her life. Ethan doesn’t belong there any more than I do, and he should know that better than anyone. He doesn’t get to scold me. He doesn’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t say. I scold him right back: “Stop trying to be her dad,” I say scathingly. “You’re not her dad.”

“Well, you’re not her mom!” he combats, laughing. God, I’m just about to shove him when an elderly couple saunters right through the doors and sit themselves down on a bench just by us.

Curling a hand around his arm, I yank him over to the other side of the room, my grip tight. “I’m not trying to be,” I tell him. I mean it. I won’t ever try to be anyone’s mother. The concept is wrong. Always was, and it’s even more wrong now. I think of Fitzgerald, of that little shadow staring from the sunroom as I rose over her dead body. I think of all the people I’ve killed who were parents. I think of all the people I’ve killed who were children who came from parents, who could’ve been parents. No. Someone who takes lives shouldn’t ever raise them. It’s wrong. I won’t ever try to be anyone’s mother. I never want to be Jo’s mother, and I never want to be anyone’s mother.

My fingertips are pressing so tight into Ethan that I realise I may give him bruises; I snatch my hand back away and stuff it into my pocket, grabbing a painful fistful of my keys in there, gritting my teeth down as the metal cuts into the flesh of my palm.

There’s a small pause of understanding as we reach the other end. He knows. I bet he’s gone through the exact same thing. Fertility in men is mad, though – there are seventy-year-olds popping ‘em out like nothing, so, hypothetically, Ethan still has it in for the long run. If he someday manages to find peace, he could hypothetically have that. Probably not with me, though. Even if I wanted to, my body doesn’t work like that. I don’t even know if I can still have kids after everything I’ve put myself through. I don’t know what would work or what wouldn’t work. Ethan, too, I guess. I can’t say that for him. 

When I glance at him again, he’s got this horrible look of pity in his eyes, drenching me, and his voice is horribly soft as he holds me gently at the shoulders and says meaningfully, “She looks up to you.”

Immediately, I bark out a laugh so sharp that it echoes through this large room. “She shouldn’t. I suck! Everything in my life sucks, and she shouldn’t look up to me!”

His expression sours. “Everything in your life sucks?”

“It was a hyperbole, okay?” God, the stuff he says sometimes. I’m not a good role model by any means necessary.  “Jeez, someone failed English Language.”

“I actually got a 5 in AP Lang,” he retorts flatly. 

“O-kay, hotshot, good for you.”

He grips my good hand tightly, rough skin sliding into mine. He squeezes. “Be nice to Jo.”

I have to take a second to make sure my mouth doesn’t. quiver, that my face doesn’t crumble in the way I can feel it twitching to. Be nice to Jo. I love Jo. I think she’s great. But I think she’s much better alive than dead. I think she’s much better when she’s around the version of me that isn’t involved with the IMF, happier. But of course, I can’t really keep up my side of that anymore. I don’t want to have to see her get sadder and more disappointed with every lunch I can’t come to, with every walk around town I can’t take, with every call I miss. I don’t want to have to see her drift away with all these secrets I have to keep. 

Groaning quietly, I press my face into Ethan’s shoulder. His arm comes up to curl around my back, and his hand strokes comfortably over my shoulders, the base of my neck, my hair. “I shouldn’t be around her,” I say into him, like it’s a confession. “I shouldn’t be around her.” 

He holds me close. I could recognise him just by smell, I swear to God. “What happened on your mission?”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

I feel him swallow, his throat bobbing atop my head from where I’m nestled into his neck. “Okay.”

“You irritate me.”

“I think you should stop pushing her away.”

“You really irritate me.” 

Moments like these are so fucking weird. Moments where everything feels absolutely wrong, but then there’s that one second of a good thing that has you thinking it’s all worth putting up with. 

“Don’t go back,” he tells me, voice rumbling in his chest. I can hear his heart beating. 

I nestle closer. “I won’t if you won’t.” And then I chuckle because it’s just all funny.

Okay, so maybe we’re not exactly a usual situation. Maybe this is the best we can get in our individual situations. Not a midnight house, but at least I’m here sharing this moment with him – at least we’re embracing in this cold, wide museum room. But when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll always keep adding to the fantasy. Never possible but always nice to dream about.  “Not yet, but one day,” Ethan says, and I chuckle because it’s funny.

I tell him, “One day isn’t good enough.”

He tells me, “You’re all I look forward to.”

Yeah, well, one day isn’t good enough.