#my tenacity is both a blessing and a curse

[local-magpie]

admitted to myself that maybe, possibly, i feel like enough shit to call off today, and lo and behold the instant i allowed myself to feel like shit i realized my body feels like a bag of pears thrown in the wriggler today

[cevansbrat0007]

Merry-Go-Round Magic: Andy's POV

Summary: Told from Andy's POV. Andy and Reader’s finally have their first date, but what happens when things don't quite go as planned? Andy Barber x Black!Reader 

Read the original Merry-Go-Round Magic.

Read Morning After Magic.

*Warnings: Fluff, Slightly Insecure Andy Barber, Andy Barber Cuddles, Annoyed Reader, Confident Reader, Second Chances, First Date Floof, Cursing, Pet Names, Minors DNI

A/N: Please give me your feedback on this one! This is part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series.  As always, please let me know what you think. Semi-proofread. Not beta’d. All mistakes are my own.

—

“Come on, man.” Andy mutters under his breath as he takes another sip of his whiskey. “Fucking talk to her before she leaves.” Trying his best not to be too obvious, his eyes stray yet again to the ebony haired pixie who was chatting animatedly with a friend less than fifteen feet away from him. 

Known for his tenacity In the courtroom Andrew Barber was a force to be reckoned with, but for some reason he couldn’t get his feet to move. Letting out a resigned sigh, he turns his attention back to his drink, only to be surprised a few moments later when he feels a small hand on his shoulder. 

“Hi there.” Her tinkling voice sounds even lovelier than she looks. “You look like you could use another one of those.” She gestures towards his now empty glass. “If you wanna be my friend, you’ll let me take care of that for you.”

Andy can’t help the smile that breaks out across his features. “Well, beautiful, If you want to be my friend then you’ll tell me your name and maybe have a drink with me. What do you say?”

“It’s Y/N. And yours?”

“Andrew. Andrew Barber, actually. But please, call me Andy.” 

“Okay, Andy.” 

The two continue to chat briefly before Andrew asks if he can maybe take her out some time. 

“You know, my life has been kind of like a merry-go-round lately, but sure. Why not? I think I’m up for one more ride.” She grins, blessing him once again with her sweet smile.

“I promise you won’t regret it.” He assures her, his hand reaching for her own.  

They thankfully manage to exchange numbers before her friend comes over to drag her away. And even though he doesn’t want to, he lets her go. He stares at her retreating form, silently noting how good her ass looks in that champagne colored dress. Then he tucks her number into his pocket and promises himself that he’ll reach out tomorrow. 

You see, Andy was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d felt the zing between them. There was no way he was going to pass this up, because if anyone deserved to feel a little magic…it was him. 

Over the next two weeks, the two chat off and on via text. There was also the occasional phone call, but since they were both busy people, those didn’t happen often. And to be honest, he finds himself grinning like a little schoolboy every time his phone pings. 

Tonight, the two were going on their first official date and he could not fucking wait. Time seemed to drag on and on. All he wanted was to fast forward through the day. The man cared about virtually little else. 

He’d even offered to pick her up tonight but she had declined, opting to catch a cab instead. It was kind of a bummer, but he understood. He was a stranger and she wanted to ensure her safety. Frankly, he was proud of her for being cautious.  

Even if it meant that he had to wait a little bit longer to be in her presence...

—

Later that day…

Andy patiently stands outside of Cibo Matto, a new downtown hotspot. Reservations were booked out at least a month ahead of time, but he knew a guy who owed him a favor. And tonight it was time to collect. This girl deserved only the best, and if he wanted a shot at a second date then he was seriously going to have to sweep her off her delicate little feet.

He bounces on his heels as he waits for her to arrive. She was close, he knew that much from her last text. But he’d been on pins and needles all day. He just wanted to see her, talk to her, hear her laugh…

Was that too much too soon? Maybe.

Did he care? Not really. 

When her cab finally pulls up to the curb he jogs over to grab her door before she can, taking a moment to help her out of the vehicle. And then he motions for her to put her clutch away before leaning inside the passenger window to hand the cabbie a fifty dollar bill. 

“Thanks for getting her here safely.” Andrew tells him. “Keep the change and have a good night.” 

“Um, Andrew, thank you, but you didn’t have to do that. Let me pay you back –”

He cuts her off with a mock glare. “Don’t even think about it, Y/N.” He kisses her hand and then her cheek, before stepping back to get a good look at his date. Which, in turn, allows her to get a good look at him as well. God, this woman was spectacular. 

“You look gorgeous, baby.” Andrew murmurs softly. “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight. I’m pretty sure I overloaded my poor interns today due to my lack of concentration, but damn was it worth it to see you like this.” His eyes roam over every inch of her, making her giggle. 

“Let’s get you inside, hmm.” He offers up his arm. “And please, Y/N, call me Andy.” She offers him a dazzling smile for his trouble. 

“Okay, Andy.” His responding grin is enough to make her heart stutter. “I’d, um, be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to tonight as well. It was maybe kinda all I could think about.”

Andy grabs the restaurant door and ushers her inside. “Good.” He leans down to whisper in her ear. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.” 

Having anticipated their arrival, the maître d' is quick to lead them to their table. After handing over the menus, he promises that their waiter will be with them shortly. Ever the gentleman, Andy pulls out her chair before seating himself. 

Say something, man. Don’t fuck this up.

“Ah, um, Andy…” She coughs, feeling her cheeks heat all over again. “You’re staring.”

Shit!

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not trying to be rude, I just, uh…” One hand reaches back to rub the nape of his neck. “You’re just so beautiful that I get kind of lost, you know? It’s like I lose all train of thought.” He gives her a sheepish look. 

She reaches over to grab his hand and gives it a playful squeeze. “I didn’t think you were trying to be rude. I was more concerned that maybe there was a spider in my hair or something and you were too afraid to tell me.”

“No, Y/N. No spiders, I promise. Now tell me, have you been here before?”

“Nope. I’ve heard good things though.” The waiter picks that moment to stop by the table. He introduces himself, only to leave and then return with a basket of fresh, warm bread and two dishes of infused olive oil. 

“Ladies first. Go on and grab a piece, Y/N - their bread is fantastic.” Andy nudges the basket towards her. “You like it?” He asks, his eyes shining with amusement at the unconscious moan that escapes her lips. 

“It’s so good, Andy. Like, nothing should be this good. I’m going to apologize in advance, but you’re going to need to get your own bread. This basket is mine.” She giggles before tilting the basket towards him.

He opens his mouth to say something when a man approaches the table. “Well if it isn’t Andy Barber! Good to see you!” Andy offers his date an apologetic look before standing and extending his hand to greet the other man. “Nice to see you, Dale.”

Now please kindly fuck off. 

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your most recent victory in court. I didn’t see all of it, but I heard you were impressive as always.” The short, slightly balding man vigorously shakes his hand. 

“I appreciate that.” Andy responds, looking mildly uncomfortable. “It was a tough case. But it wasn’t just me, a lot of folks were involved. A lot of hard work went into –”

“Ahh, nonsense!” Dale interjects. “Come with me for a moment. I’ve got a few people I need you to meet.” Andy’s eyes once again glance back to his date’s big brown ones. 

“Look, Dale. Ordinarily I would, but as you can see, I’m on a date right now.” He gestures towards her way. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you two. Dale Matthews, this is Y/N, my lovely companion for the evening.” She smiles and waves.  

“Nice to meet you, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to borrow our District Attorney for a moment. You understand.” He says dismissively, offering her a placating smile.

No, you pompous jackass. Not tonight. Andy thinks to himself. Tonight is supposed to be all mine. 

“Dale, it’s just going to have to wait. I’m with this stunning young lady tonight and she’s my priority so –” Andy is once again cut off when another man joins them at their table. 

What the fuck? Were they blind? Couldn’t they see that he was fucking busy trying to woo this beautiful woman?

“Hey there, Barber!” 

Argh! If there was ever a time to forget my name, now would be it.

“I’ve been trying to find some time on your calendar to meet with you, but you’ve been booked solid. Dale and I have a couple folks we’d like to introduce you to. They’re right over there.” He points to a table located somewhere in the back, which is partially obscured from view.

Andy lets out a weary sigh. “I’m on a date, guys. Another time.” 

“Nonsense.” The other man waves off his protests. “It’ll be quick. You understand, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

No, she doesn’t. And neither do I. These douchebags don’t know when to leave well enough alone. But he did have a meeting with the Mayor coming up soon, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt if he just stepped away for the quickest of seconds. 

Andy looks over at the woman across from him, clearly torn. “Y/N, I’ll be quick. I swear.” She nods, trying to hide her irritation. “I’m sorry, okay? Two minutes. That’s it.” Accepting her polite acquiescence for what it is, he leaves the table and walks off with the men. 

She leans back in her seat as she feels the magic that had once surrounded the night begin to dwindle. The waiter stops by to ask if she has any questions about the menu, or if she wants to hear the specials, only for her to shrug and politely explain that her date had to momentarily step away. 

As he leaves, she grabs another piece of bread and aggressively dips it into the oil, downing it in three bites. And then she picks up another. Once that slice is gone, she glances at her phone. She patiently waits another five minutes before getting up to go to the bathroom as she contemplates her next move.

—

Ten minutes later…

The longer Andy waits by the empty table, the more his feelings of panic grow. How long did a woman normally spend in a restaurant bathroom? She couldn’t have left, right? He stops their waiter as he goes to brush by him. 

“I’m sorry, Francois, but did you happen to see the woman I came in here with? Beautiful, short, wearing a black blazer and pink blouse with –”

“Of course.” The gentleman clears his throat. “Apologies for interrupting, but the woman you’re describing spoke with Georgio before taking her leave a few moments ago. Would you like to keep the table?”

No, dipshit. Not unless it comes with my fucking date.

“No. No, I wouldn’t. Thanks.”  

Picking up his phone, he gives into temptation and shoots her a text. So what if he ended up looking stupid? He was a desperate man willing to do whatever it took to salvage what was left of this fucking shitshow. 

Andy: Shit, Y/N. Where’d you go?

Y/N: You seemed busy and my time is precious. Good night, Andrew.

Had she gone home already? No, no, no!  

Andy: Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Please believe me. Just tell me where you are. 

She couldn’t have gotten far. He might still be able to catch her. Andy thinks to himself as he hits the “call” button. 

Y/N: Keep your apologies because I don’t need them 

Fuck! She’d sent him straight to voicemail.  

Andy: Please answer, baby. At least let me know that you’re safe. 

You: I’m a big girl who can take care of herself, Andrew. Now, in case you didn’t catch it the first time: Good Night.

That was it. He was going to track down his woman and demand that she give him a chance to make things right. Andy didn’t care if it took all night. In fact, he would almost prefer that it did. Because he wasn’t ready to give up on the evening just yet. 

Now, where the hell could she have gone?

His eyes stray to Georgio, the maître d'. Yep, he’d start with him. He thinks as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket before striding over to the older man. 

It was time to make some magic happen… 

—

Fifteen minutes later, Andy strolls into Obsidian. His intense blue eyes searching the spot for his little Y/N. His heart begins hammering in his chest when he finally spots her tiny form sitting at the bar waiting to cash out. 

“Put her drinks on here, thanks.” He says, leaning over her shoulder to hand the bartender his card. She turns to face him, not bothering to disguise her fury. Yes, he’d pissed her off, but he could work with that.

He’d take anger over indifference any day.

“Y/N…” He breathes, looking down at her. “I -”

“What do you want, Andrew?” She huffs. “Better yet, how’d you even find me?” 

He shrugs his big shoulders. “I might have bribed Georgio.” And he had, with a crisp $100 bill. His hair is all mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Which he had been. Constantly. Ever since he’d realized she’d up and left the restaurant.

She blinks up at him.”Well, good for you. I can’t believe I have to say this for yet a third time, but goodnight, Andrew.”

“It’s Andy, baby.” His hand grabs her wrist as she turns to leave. “And I meant what I said. I’m sorry. I screwed up, okay? I tracked you down to ask you for a do-over. And…” He trails off when he gets a good look at her face. “Oh, Y/N, please tell me you weren’t crying.”

She tries to pull away. “I most certainly was not.” She tugs again but his grip, while gentle, remains steady. “And even if I did, it certainly wasn’t because of your stupid face, Andy.”

He lets out a deep sigh and uses just a fraction of his strength to pull her stiff body against his own so he can wrap his arms around her. “I’m sorry that you maybe, most likely, definitely did not cry because of me.” Her perfume smells like orchids and sunshine. “Let me fix this. I’m asking for a do-over. No, I take that back, I’m demanding it.” 

This time he allows her to pull away. “You demand it? Is that right?” Her hands go to her hips as she gifts him with her most intimidating glare. Which he finds adorable by the way. 

“That’s what I said, gorgeous.” He crosses his arms. “Any man worth his salt can and will acknowledge when they’ve fucked up, which is what I’m doing now. And in return, you’re going to let me feed you and show you the night I had planned for us before things went off the rails.”

She continues to glare at him for a moment as she weighs her options.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“Which shin I should kick you in.” She grumbles.

“Why choose?” He responds, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll offer up both of ‘em. The pain will be a small price to pay if it means having you back on my arm again.” Andy responds, wiggling his eyebrows.

Come on, sweet girl. Give me a smile. Just one. 

She tries not to smile and fails. For now, she decides to blame it on the alcohol, not the big man’s charming personality or his swagger. “Argh, fine. But I don’t want to go back to where we were before.” 

Andy offers her his arm, which she hesitantly accepts. “That’s not where I’m taking you, Y/N. I initially took you to that restaurant because I wanted to impress you, but I see I went about it all wrong. The point of a date is to get to know someone, so I want to take you to a place I go when I need to get back to my roots.” His large, slightly calloused hand briefly cups her face, his thumb stroking its way across her brow. “You game?”

Her eyes flutter closed as she nods. “Yes, Andy.” She breathes. “I want you to show me the real you.”

“Then let’s go.”

And just like that, magic had returned once again.

—

Arm in arm, a giddy Andy leads his lady down the street. He had a lot of making up to do, and he couldn’t afford to fuck up. He hoped to God he was making the right decision by taking her to his favorite place… 

“Andy?” He looks down at her with a combination of relief and contentment on his face. “I think I should let you know now that these boots weren’t really made for walking.”

“Huh?” What did she mean? Her shoes looked perfectly fine.

“I mean that, while they’re nice shoes, they’re not necessarily the best when it comes to, uh, traveling long distances on foot.” 

“Ahh, I see.” He chuckles. “Are they hurting you now?”

“Not yet.” She responds. “But I figured I’d put it out there ahead of time.”

Andy pauses mid-step to wrap his arms around her again. God, how he loved holding her. It was like she fit perfectly in his arms. “We’re almost there, but thank you for telling me. If it gets too bad at any point tonight, I suppose I’ll just have to carry you.” His eyes zero in on her lips, as if mesmerized. “I’ll settle for any excuse to hold you, baby.” Her flushed cheeks make him smile. 

Honestly, it was good to know that she was just as affected by his presence as he was hers.  

After another moment of heated silence, the two resume walking, eventually coming to a halt in front of a little hole-in-the-wall joint called Enzo’s. “This is it.” He murmurs in her ear, barely resisting the urge to nip the tempting flesh. “Let’s get you fed.”

The inside of the place is nicer than the exterior lets on. It’s clean and well lit, and it doesn’t stink of stale beer like some bars do. It’s busy, but not overly packed. Andy waves to the bartender, who happily greets him by name. 

“Hey, Mitch. Good to see you, buddy.” He holds out his hand to the dark-haired man. 

“Always a pleasure, Andy. It’s been too long. You gotta start coming around here more often, otherwise Camilla and Enzo are going to start thinking you don’t love them anymore.”

“Ah, well, we can’t have that.” Andy chuckles. 

“And speaking of love…” Mitch trails off, his gaze straying to the woman at his side. “Who is this fine looking lady and what in the hell is she doing with you?”

“I’m Y/N.” She says, introducing yourself before holding out your hand. “Give me just a second, dove.” They both watch as he quickly washes and dries his hands. “Don’t want even an ounce of filth to touch you.” He responds when he returns to shake her hand. “Him I don’t care about.” That makes his lady laugh, a little harder than she probably should.

A little harder than Andy likes.    

Andy just rolls his eyes and tries to keep the tendrils of jealousy at bay. “Speaking of Enzo and Camilla, are they here tonight? I need the works, especially since I already struck out once and really can’t afford to screw up again.” He winks down at her. 

“Yeah, I’ll let ‘em know you’re here. Your favorite booth is available in the back. I’ll bring you over a couple of menus in a moment.” 

“No need.” Andy tells him. Mitch nods before turning to look at you. “And Y/N, if this man even steps so much as a toe out of line, you come let me know and I’ll throw his ass out the back door.”

“Thank you.” She murmurs with an amused grin. “But if he screws up again I’ll do it myself.”

“Oooh…I like her.” Mitch mumbles to himself.

So do I, pal. Now take your eyes off my girl already.    

“Yeah, well that’s not happening. Let’s go, sweetheart.” He ushers her towards the back and into a booth.

Once they’re settled across from one another, she gives him a smile. A real, genuine smile. “I, um, I like this place much better, Andy. Now what are you feeding me, mister we don’t need menus?”

He reaches for her hand, intertwining your fingers. “Tell me, baby. Do you like lasagna?”

“Of course I do.” She responds eagerly.

“Good, because while it may not look like it, this place has the best lasagna in town. I’ll get two orders if you want, but one is generally big enough to split.” When the waitress comes over, Andy takes the liberty of ordering a bottle of Chianti, as well as the lasagna, the homemade meatballs, and an order of stuffed mushrooms as an appetizer.

“You should have led with this, Andy.” She tells him, her voice suffused with warmth. “This right here is the man that I wanted to meet.” 

He lets his head hang for a moment. It was time for this hotshot attorney, the Bad Boy of Boston, to be honest here. “Y/N…I…I’m not good at this. It’s been a long time. It’s not an excuse, it just is what it is.”

“Hey.” She leans across the table to take his face in her hands. “It’s been a long time for me too. I don’t know what you’ve been through, and maybe if this goes somewhere one day you’ll tell me, but you’re doing fine.” She leans in to kiss his forehead. “I’m here with you, aren’t I? And it’s not because you demanded it, you ogre. It’s because I want to be, alright?”

He smiles at her then, one of the brightest she’s ever seen. And just like that, he could feel his confidence begin to return. He had this in the bag, all he had to do was be himself. 

Y/N settles back in her seat just as the mushrooms and a set of plates are delivered to the table. Andy is quick to spoon some of the cheesy, sausage filled, bread crumby delights onto a dish. He cuts into one and softly blows on it before bringing the fork to her lips. 

Her eyes never leave his own as she accepts the bite. The bread at Cibo Matto was good, but it had nothing on these mushrooms. She lets out an audible moan as her eyes roll to the back of her head. 

“Good?” He murmurs as he offers her another taste, which she happily accepts.   

“Better, Andy. This is fucking bliss.” He laughs at that. “Just wait for the meatballs, baby. If you’re not addicted to me yet, one bite of those and you will be.” He goes to feed her another piece of mushroom, only for her to refuse it under the pretense of wanting him to eat some too. Which was too bad, because Andy would happily feed his girl whatever she wanted for the rest of the night.

And the meatballs, when they finally arrived, were positively sinful.  

While they waited for the next course, they talk about…pretty much everything. Their work, their families, what they liked to do on weekends. She talks about her love of cooking and trying new recipes, while he shares that he was hopeless in the kitchen. He confides to her about his love of musicals, while she tells him she prefers plays. 

Andy casually mentions that he had been married once, and that he’d lost a child. He doesn’t go into it too deeply, not wanting to sour the mood. Thankfully, she doesn’t press him on it, but she senses his pain nonetheless.   

They talk about the last books they’ve read. He finds it adorable the way she describes her favorite urban fantasy novel to him, almost as if she’s recounting it page by page. Honestly, if he had his way, he’d listen to her all night. 

She shares her love of corny jokes, her irrational fear of birds, and her fascination with horror movies. Andy winces at that last part, muttering that he much rather preferred a good action flick or a comedy. But inwardly he resolves himself to the fact that if his lady liked horror, he would power through as long as it meant he got to hold her in his lap. 

Why was he suddenly thinking so far ahead? 

And then came the lasagna. Between the two of them, they manage to clean the whole damn plate. 

Stuffed to the brim, Y/N leans her head back against the booth. “Oh Andy…” She moans before she can catch herself. 

He looked forward to one day hearing her say his name like that over and over again…in bed.

After he pays the bill, he smiles and helps her out of the booth. “C’mon, Princess. There’s still one more stop left on this tour.” That has you groaning. 

“Andy, I’m so stuffed I don’t know if I’m gonna make it.” Her hand goes to rub her belly before throwing her arms around him and pulling him close. “Thank you for dinner, darling. It was fabulous. Almost as fabulous as my dinner companion.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Now I guess I’ll try to power through. Where to next, Mr. Barber?”     

—

Andy was having the fucking time of his life giving his girl a fucking piggyback ride…all because she told him her feet hurt. And he certainly couldn’t have that. Not on his watch. 

“Andy.” She whines softly. “Are you sure, I’m not too heavy? I ate a lot of food back there…”

“Hush, baby.” He admonishes gently. “First of all you weigh practically nothing, and secondly, I ate just as much as you did. But let me tell you right now, I love a girl who can eat.” 

She tickles his ears in response. “Stop that! I should never have told you I was ticklish.” What the hell did he care? If tickling him made her laugh, then she could damn well do it all night.

“You’re so strong, Andy. Bet you could bench press me.” She lets out another drunken giggle.

I sure as fuck could, beautiful. Please ask me to try.

“I’d be happy to try that on our next date, Y/N.” He can’t hold back the laugh that rumbles in his chest.    

“Oh? You assume there’s gonna be a second date?” She goes to tickle his ears again, which prompts him to try to shake off her hands. “If I have my way, yes there will be. Now behave or you won’t get your surprise.” 

Oh, who was he kidding? He was going to give her this regardless. He loved that she acted like a little brat when she was drunk. 

His words make her settle down so that she rests her head atop his. 

“Okay, Andy. I’ll be good.” Yep. He thinks to himself. Little brat. 

A few moments later, he comes to a stop in front of what looks like an amusement park graveyard. 

“Andy..?” Her pretty voice trails off.

“Shh, sweetheart. Wait for it.” Thirty seconds later, there’s a loud click and then a buzz as one of the rides comes to life. The merry-go-round is suddenly ablaze with lights, filling the park with a dazzling array of colors and music. And then the ride starts to spin, the differently decorated horses moving up and down.  

“Andy…” Y/N slides off his back, her eyes glued to the spectacle taking place in front of them. “What is this?”

“It’s uh…I uh…” He strokes a heavy hand over his beard. Oh, God. Had his lame ass just screwed up again? “It’s just that when we first met, you mentioned that your life had been kind of like a merry-go-round lately, and not in a good way. And, um, I don’t know…I just thought maybe I would try to give you the fun kind.” He shrugs and looks away. “I’m sorry, it’s corny, I know.”

She continues to stare at him in disbelief, her eyes occasionally darting from him to the amusement ride. And then you look back at the lights. “You planned this…for me?”

“Yes, Y/N.” He lets out a deep breath. “For you.”

You had one shot, man. And you just blew it. What the hell had he been thinking –?

Andy’s forced out of his thoughts when he feels a pair of small hands take hold of his face. “You did this for me?” He nods, her thumbs briefly going to massage his temples.  

“Andrew Barber.” She says with conviction. “I am going to kiss you now. I hope that’s not a problem.”

What did she just say?

“Why would that be -?”

She slants his mouth over his, doing her best to convey all of her appreciation and gratitude with every curve of her lips, every flick of her tongue. It’s not long before a stunned Andy takes over, cupping the back of her head, just in case she thinks about running off again. Briefly gathering his wits about it, he  makes it clear that she is no longer in charge.

His tongue dominates her own, tasting and exploring every inch of her sweet mouth. They both moan into the kiss as she clutches at his shirt. His eager hands go to her ass, lifting her up so that she can wrap her legs around his trim waist.

She pulls away to whisper kisses along his face, his jaw, his throat -  any part of exposed skin her mouth can reach. He pulls her back to his lips again, mumbling something about this being the best “thank you” he’s ever received in his life. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispers when he finally lets her up for air. “That was aggressive and -”

“Don’t you dare fucking apologize.” He growls, his breathing heavy. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night. Now how about we go have some fun?” Andy lets out a whoop as she all but drags him over to the ride. 

Together, they spend at least a good hour running round the platform, jumping on different horses - sometimes separately, sometimes together. And Andy is always right by her side, just in case. He’s there for every yip, every giggle, and every “oof”. He’s quick to learn that his lady can be kind of clumsy. 

They dance and sway to the music, laughing as if they don’t have a care in the world. Because right now they don’t. It’s just him, Y/N, and a slew of ornately painted creatures. 

“Andy, come on! Just one more ride before we go home!” Her laughter is infectious. 

“It’s not going up and down.” She grumbles when he joins her on one last horse. 

“It’s because the two of us together are too heavy, Princess. Let me get off so –”

“No, Andy. You stay on. Hold me and I’ll just pretend.”. 

“As you wish, baby.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck and just enjoys the sound of her joyful giggles. 

Eventually it’s time to go. One again, Andy hoists his now exhausted date onto his back. “Thanks, Al!” He calls over his shoulder to someone you couldn’t see. “I owe you one, pal!”

With that, he trots off towards the street where there’s a cab waiting. Andy hustles her inside, barely holding back a smile when she snuggles up against him. “Thank you, Andy.” Feeling possessive, he holds her head against his chest as if she were the most precious thing in the world. 

And to him she was. 

“Thank you for giving me a second chance, Y/N. Now let me get you home. What’s your address? Tell the driver.” She quickly rattles it off to the man behind the wheel. Andy also makes a note of it as well.

She falls asleep halfway through the ride back to her place, not that he minds. He hadn’t been joking earlier about looking for any excuse to hold her. Andy gently nudges her awake when they finally pull up in front of her brownstone. Once again, Andy pays her fare, shutting down all protests as he does. “Give me a second.” He tells the driver as he goes to escort her out of the vehicle and up the stairs of her home. 

“Andy, tonight was amazing. Thank you. And I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. I didn’t realize how tired I was between the wine and the pasta and the horses.” She offers him an apologetic look. He lightly tugs on one of her curls in response. 

“Thank you for giving me a chance. This was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.” He looks a little nervous now. “Can I see you again?”

She pretends to think for a moment, resting the side of her head against the ront door. “That depends.”

“On what?” His brow furrows, his eyes darkening with confusion and a hint of frustration while her hands go to his shirtfront. “Do you like to cuddle?”

What kind of game was this lovely creature playing?

“I fucking love it. Haven’t done it in a long time.” His voice is so serious it momentarily takes her aback.

“Settle down, Teddy Bear. You wanna come up?” 

“Seriously?” He asks, his voice filled with surprise. 

“Yep. You wanna cuddle…and only cuddle, you follow me. But that’s all we’re doing so -” Before she can finish, Andy turns to the cab driver. “Bye, buddy! Thanks for the ride - I’m gonna go cuddle with my girl!” 

“Oh my god, you are ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes at him before holding out her hand, which he readily accepts. “Come on. We can discuss the possibility of a second date tomorrow. Depending on how good you snuggle with me.”

“Challenge accepted, baby.” Andy mutters under his breath as you lead him inside. 

Challenge accepted.

—

Andy can barely contain his grin as she leads him up the stairs to her apartment. Tonight had been one hell of a whirlwind for sure. In a matter of hours, he had somehow managed to have the worst, followed by the best, date of his life. And now the little pixie with wild curls had invited him to stay the night. 

Sure she had said that she only wanted to cuddle, and he respected that. But if she changed her mind, well…he respected that too.

As long as he got to spend time with Y/N he did not give a fuck.

“Well,” she says as she unlocks the door and gestures inside. “This is me, Andrew. Enter at your own risk. Oops - sorry. I mean, Andy. Enter at your own risk, Andy.” She throws him a playful wink over her shoulder.

Her place is a little on the small side and is tastefully decorated in shades of gray and pink. Closing the door behind him, an ever-curious Andy follows his date into the kitchen before gratefully accepting a bottle of cold water she pulls from the fridge.

He can tell she’s nervous. And truth be told, so is he.

“Remember,” she tells him, her determined although slightly shaking hand  goes to rest on her hip. “Snuggles only, Big Man.” She quirks one dark brow as if daring him to protest. “This cookie is off limits until I say otherwise. You good with that?”

“Fuck yeah, I am. If it’s cuddles you want, then it’s cuddles you shall have.” Now it’s his turn to wink. 

“Good.” The tiny sprite mumbles to herself. “So far so good.” But her hand is still shaking.

“Baby girl.” Andy coos softly. “Y/N, are you okay?” She clears her throat and then takes a long sip of her drink. “Just say the word and I’ll go.” Closing the distance between them, Andy reaches out to gently cup her jaw, the slightly roughened pad of his thumb stroking over the curve of her cheek. “So long as you let me come back in oh, I dunno, say five or six hours so I can take your beautiful self out for breakfast.” 

At least give me that much, sweetheart. Please.

He’s relieved when he receives a blush and a giggle for his trouble. 

“I want to do this, I do. I wouldn’t have invited you up if I didn’t want you here. I’m just protective of my space is all. This is my sanctuary, so you should feel lucky to have received an invitation, even though you’re not getting lucky tonight, handsome.”

“I’m a lucky man, indeed, Y/N.” He is quick to agree, lest he accidentally give her the wrong idea. 

“Would you like another drink, Mr. Barber? Or perhaps the private tour of Casa Y/N/L/N? It’s kinda late, so I’m afraid this tour is going to have to start and end with my bedroom.” 

“Water is fine, sweet girl.” He pulls her close, wrapping one brawny arm around her waist. “Let’s get you to bed.”

—

Fifteen Minutes Later…

After stripping off his shirt and pants, Andy sits on the edge of the bed to wait for his girl. Yeah, it was early, probably way too early for him to be thinking the way he was, but so what? Maybe if he played his cards right then his wish would be granted.  

Now clad in only a pair of black boxers, he takes a moment to survey the cozy room, colored in various shades of pink and purples, complete with a matching wicker papasan chair in the corner. A few moments later she emerges from the bathroom wearing a pair of adorable Winnie the Pooh pajama shorts and a cami. 

“Woah,” she breathes. Andy would have to be blind to miss the way she was checking him out. His confidence at an all-time high, he puffs out his chest a little allowing her to get a good, long look at his tattoo-covered torso. 

“Like what you see, baby?”

“Yes. I mean wow. I mean hi.” She clears her throat. “Sorry, Andy. Your tattoos threw me off, I mean, I just didn’t expect you to have them, err, so many of them that is. Not that there’s anything wrong with – oh God. “It’s – they make you look unbelievably hot. Can I say that to you? Ahh, crap. I just said that part out loud didn’t I?”

He watches in amusement as she keeps going without showing any signs of slowing down.

“I have a tattoo too. I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours. But you don’t have to. They just look so intricate and – did that one hurt? Fuck, I can’t seem to shut up. Sorry, shutting up and –”

“Baby, breathe.” Andy is suddenly in front of her, his big, warm hands going to gently grip her biceps. “There you go. Good girl.” He praises as he pulls her down onto the bed. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, unconsciously burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

“Don’t be, Y/N.” He coos softly before repositioning their bodies so that they’re relaxing comfortably. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Hell, I’ll even talk you to sleep if you want…”

Pulling away slightly, she gives him a soft look. “Did you just offer to tell me a bedtime story, Andy?”

“I did, so get comfy and I’ll tell you all about this one right here.” Gripping her much smaller hand in his, he helps her fingers trace the artwork marking his right pectoral. Her eyelids droop as he begins to speak. “So, I got this one when I traveled to…” Andy allows his own fingers to thread themselves through her curls as he soothes her to sleep. 

“Good night, Big Man.” She murmurs as she drifts off. 

“Good night, Sweet Girl.” He whispers back. 

END  

[beneathashadytree]

DARK HORSE - KIRO ZHOU X READER

Warnings : erotic dancing, dirty talk, suggestive gestures, grinding, groping, practically lap-dancing, dom!Kiro, sub!reader, making out, biting, scratching (kinda), one brief mention of nipple play, dry-humping, hickeys, marking, ig this kinda counts as mirror sex?, implied corruption kink, implied overstimulation, lots of cursing and vulgarity, Kiro has a big cock in this, non-penetrative orgasm, cumming in pants, implied joint shower, reader is mostly gender-neutral but kinda alluded to be female!

Genre : smut; I can't help it afagsjks

Word count : 2.1K words

Synopsis : With Kiro's endless stamina, a break from dancing can be used for other activities too.

Additional notes : The song used for this fic is Dark Horse by Katy Perry ft. Juicy J; old I know, but the lyrics and beat fit the mood perfectly.

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp!

Masterlist

Passing by the dance studio and finding Kiro completely and entirely immersed in his dancing to the point where he took zero notice of his surroundings was a rather common occurrence in our house. He'd often lock himself up for hours on end, working himself to the bone until he nearly passed out from sheer exhaustion, having paid no mind to how much time had actually passed.

That was the main reason why I took it upon me to check in on him every once in a while and make sure he's staying hydrated and not skipping out on meals, because the perfectionist performer in him would not rest until he'd nailed every dance according to the image he pictured in his head, his endless stamina both a blessing and a curse. A real craftsman, but one that could get himself killed if I wasn't around to keep him in check.

So it wasn't unusual that I did pass by to remind him it was time for lunch and found him with his eyes squeezed shut, barefoot and shirt drenched in sweat as his lithe body moved across the mat to the music blaring from the speakers set on the walls. The beat was hard and heavy, every thrum of the bass resonating in my throat and causing his abdominal muscles to ripple with each swift turn of his body.

Leaning against the doorframe, I watched in awe as he seductively gyrated his hips for a half-second, before his movements returned to their graceful tenacity. I held back a smirk; it was so like the blonde to be a terrible tease for a moment and a divine being the next. Even as I stepped into the room and stood right where his phone was located on the small table, he was completely oblivious to my presence, the music filling up every inch of his body and muting the world around him.

Internally chuckling maliciously at my intent, I picked up his phone and began scrolling through his music library. There was one song I was a particular fan of, and I wanted to treat him to something special to grab his attention just the way I liked it. Finding it, I pressed play, the switch between songs anything but seemless and causing him to halt his steps abruptly.

Fluttering his eyelashes in a way that was almost seductive (but I knew was only second nature to him), Kiro's eyes slowly blinked open, ocean blue and intense as they trained on me while walking to the center of the room.

I knew you were

You were gonna come to me

Leaning back a little with my feet planted firmly to the ground, I slowly slid a hand down my chest, barely touching the flimsy shirt I was wearing. Kiro's eyes followed my palm as it barely rested above my body, before slipping away to continue tracking the way my waist dipped ever-so-slightly. My eyes, though lidded, trained on his reflection in the mirror in front of me.

And here you are

But you better choose carefully

With a dramatic sway of my hips and throwing my arm up above my head, half of me wanted to mouth the words while the other half wanted to enjoy the way the silence built up the tension evident in the way his chest was rising and falling, the cause not being exhaustion. Twirling my body a little so I could see him directly in front of me, bit by bit I lowered my arm before teasingly pointing at him and dragging my finger towards me.

Turbulent emotions I couldn't decipher swam in his eyes, and with a huff, he reached out to push back his fringe, hair damp with sweat and now restyled back. My boyfriend seemed to be having an internal battle of some sorts, and I only wanted one feeling to reign victor over others.

Cause I

I'm capable of anything

Of anything

And everything

In a second, my hands were swiftly wrapped around my body, gliding down gracefully as I tensed my thighs, palms kneading sensually at my own plush skin, hips rolling with every beat that reverberated through the room. His gaze on me was alarmingly fierce, and I knew that Kiro didn't have it in him to hold back much longer. Self-restraint had never been a forte of his, and it inflated my ego knowing that I would soon be the reason behind his unraveling. I felt my eyes slip shut of their own accord, and then the next words came through.

Make me your Aphrodite

Make me your one and only

I could barely comprehend it, but that very same instant, two large hands made their presence known on my body. Wrapped around me from behind, one hand covered the entire expanse of my thigh, while the other arm was pressed firmly against my chest with the hand clutching my opposite shoulder. His grip was almost bruising, and I had to fight back a delighted whimper at his forceful but oh-so-welcome hold on me.

The man behind me looked so beautiful when I dared to open my eyes and peek at the view in the mirror. Almost feral-looking, his teeth were gritted and his tug on my body brought me far too close to him than I thought he'd dare to do so suddenly.

"Fuck," he growled, his own hips pressing up against my ass, pushing me down ontop of him so I was almost half-seated.

A familiar warmth bloomed into the pit of my stomach, and I could feel my knees getting weaker by the second as his hands began to wander.

Palming the soft skin, kneading, groping as much as he liked much to my pleasured whines, staking his claim as I tried to maintain the rhythm in my body but failed. His presence was too overwhelming; he wasn't just behind me, but all over me and even permeating my skin. It was all too much for me, and I could feel myself buckling against his body.

"Kiro," I moaned weakly, completely forgoing any plans I'd had to tease him when I was putty in his hands, with him holding up my entire weight, "Touch me. Missed this."

And he could only ever comply, having never been able to resist any of my pleas, "There we go," he mumbled into my ear, lowering us to the ground, flipping himself so he was right on top of me, and his eyes seemed almost black with how wide his pupils were blown, shining like the most enticing gems, "Wanna take off your clothes?" he asked, voice soft, though his cock pressing into the inside of my thighs was anything but.

I shook my head, whimpering as I bit my lips, "N-no, want you like this."

He hummed, before finally capturing my lips in his. It was messy, his tongue tasting every crevice of my mouth, uncaring if it was more teeth and tongue than lips, nipping at my bottom lip and licking the ache away, one hand grabbing the back of my neck with certain force, while the other too busy flicking my sensitive nipple. I arched my back into his touch, my core bumping into his cock. The split-second of contact felt too good, even with the layers of clothing between us, that I couldn't help but groan in frustration.

Stilling his movements for a moment, a wicked smile crossed his face for a moment, and he pressed against me once again. Taking the way my body trembled as approval, he began to fully grind his cock against me. The friction felt amazing, having his entire body pressed ontop of mine, his hands now clutching at my shoulders so he could pull me impossibly close.

My core was pulsing with every heated stroke against my sensitive nerves. So hard and hot; he was all I could feel. My mind was clouded, and my wanton moans and desperate humping against him was only half of what I was currently feeling. Skin heating up and hands clinging to his shirt like a lifeline, I could feel myself get closer with every thrust of his hips against mine. Kiro looked so lewd like that, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut, focusing on chasing his high the same way I was meeting every grind of his like a bitch in heat.

"Shit, babe, you're gonna make me cum in my pants like a fucking pathetic teenager," he groaned, voice so much deeper and gravelly than I was accustomed to.

Picking up the pace of his rutting, his lips landed on my neck as soon as I turned my face the other way. Daring to look at ourselves in the mirror, I gasped, clamping my thighs almost shut and squeezing his cock in a way that had him shuddering. The sight in front of me was borderline pornographic; the mirror was already starting to fog up, and the hickeys already littering my throat were prominent against my skin. His thrusts were nearly erratic now, and with every brush against my core, my body jerked, far too sensitive from the combined feeling of the clothes and his cock pressing against my wetness. Mouth dropped into an O, he looked like no less than a fallen angel.

"'M gonna cum," I cried, grip tightening on him but unable to look away from our reflection, "Fuck, Kiro, you look so fucking sexy when you're fucking me without even being inside me, want you to cum with me too, just like we are right fucking now, look at this, shit," I was a babbling mess, unable to comprehend the words falling from my mouth as I met his every grind.

Humping against each other like uncontrollable animals like that had my toes curling, and I had to press my fingers against the fogged glass from how hard my body was shaking.

His eyes snapped open, and when they met mine in the mirror, his entire form jerked, before his hips began snapping at an unimaginably fast pace; like he was trying to fuck me into the exercise mattress underneath us.

"Do you have any fucking idea how much I want to take you when you look so hungry for me like this?" he dug his nails into my shoulder, burying his head there and inhaling my scent sharply, "Can't ever fucking hold back when I see you. You make me want to fuck you on every surface," he grinned for a moment, and I wasn't sure why but the coil in my belly grew tighter at the sight, "Look at you, all fucked out and I haven't even put my cock inside you. Just like how it feels when I'm all over you, huh?"

I nodded, not even bothering to say anything, too lost in how good it felt. One more stroke against my sensitive core, and I was trembling in his hold, shaking as the cord in my stomach snapped, gushing around nothing and whining so pathetically as I came from just dry-humping him.

"Oh fuck," Kiro groaned, taking in the sight with darkened eyes, his hips jerking for a couple of thrusts before he came with a cry of my name, stilling his movements as he collapsed against me, panting.

I could barely catch my breath too and only just began realizing that the music had long came to an abrupt stop, but I only shifted because of the growing discomfort of having completely soaked my pants and underwear.

"Babe."

He only hummed in response, tugging me into his chest closer, pressing a loving kiss to my forehead that was now damp with sweat.

"We really need to get up and shower. I feel disgusting, and I'm sure you do too."

"Mmmm, just a bit please," I could hear the adorable pout in his voice, as if he wasn't rutting against me just moments ago, "I don't like letting you go after we're done having sex."

"We didn't even have time to get to have sex," I chortled, pushing his golden mop of hair back, meeting his sweet eyes looking down at me so sadly, trying to get me to give in, "Don't try the cute act with me, your EVOL doesn't work on me. Plus, we're going to shower together anyways."

Perking up within a half-second, Kiro jumped up, "Why didn't you say so from the start---ugh," he grumbled for a moment, grin falling and shifting on his feet as he helped me up, "Can we go now? I'm so sticky all over and I hate this."

"Babe, that's literally what I just told you---"

Taglist: @thispersoniscrazy

[spentfaith-moved]

@gerichteter​ said :  [ SECURE ] for one muse to carry the other to bed after they fell asleep.

Gabi Braun may have been many, many things… but a quitter was not one. Her resume was decorated with both positives and negatives, but her tenacity to simply keep going until the job was done was in bold atop the list. She’d fight until her knuckles bleed, run until her knees gave out and if needed,  die to make sure that the job was done.  It was a curse just as much as it was a blessing. The reason why she was miles ahead of everyone in the class and the same reason why she was sprawled across a textbook, head against the pages as her eyes wanted nothing more than to close.

Magath had them training from sunrise to sundown today, stopping only for a brief lunch before settling in again for the next gruelling task. But Falco’s nagging had gotten the better of her, and his newfound push of necessity to get a titan forced her to stay on her toes even more. Gabi barely even knew what she was looking at in the book, the same sentence having been read at least a dozen times now, she still hadn’t taken in a word of it. You need to start studying Gabi! You’re going to fall behind!  The phrase swirled around over and over in her head before it got the better of her, before it grew teeth and sank into the flesh of her leg and refused to let go.

With a blow of air, the dust that had apparently collected along the spine of her notebook flitted into the air. Enough dust for it to tickle the back of her throat and cause her to cough. She’d managed to scrawl out some messy handwritten notes onto the parchment before her head started to dip and eyes close in exhaustion. One more paragraph, one more. You can’t let him beat you. Unfortunately for Gabi’s ego, but fortunately for her body, her tenacity didn’t always win. Her head had finally hit the table, body going limp against it and if anyone was to listen close enough, they would hear her snoring.

“ Huh? ” Her eyes creaked open, unsure of how she’d gotten from point a to point b, she blinked herself into more of a consciousness.  “ Mr Huber? It’s okay… You don’t have to carry me... Jus’ resting...”  Her voice was croaky and hoarse in her near-sleep state, the blurred vision of the man becoming more clear as her eyes focused more. The angle was strange, his face seeming so closer than what her usual view of him was.  She didn’t care. He felt more comfortable than he ought to have. Gabi held so much respect for Bertholdt, it was almost unfair to her Reiner. She hoped her favouritism wasn’t too obvious. Though those letters she made Reiner deliver all those months ago would speak otherwise. Eyes closing again, Gabi settles herself further into the hold he had on her tiny frame. Her head falling against his chest as she lets herself dip into another light bout of sleep. Her body was practically begging for her to rest it, knowing that tomorrow was going to be yet another long day, and he was awfully comfortable.

When she wakes again, she’s being lowered into what she assumes is her bed. By this point, Gabi would have been content with a bit of carpet atop concrete. Hell, her body would have even taken the concrete.  “ Mr Huber? ”  She repeats again, a little more conscious than she had been the last time.  “ I have to study. ” She mumbles, still very much coaxed by the sleep she had just been in, she tries to fight against the duvet as it’s pulled up to cover her small body.  “ can’t rest, gotta read. ” She’s monotonous, if nothing else, but her body is betraying her as her legs refuse to move and her arms don’t react to the message for them to push the blankets off. “ I gotta beat Falco. Protect my parents. ”  It’s classed as garble now, her eyes barely able to even stay open. Gabi is hardly even sure Bertholdt would be able to hear what’s being said by this point. She was fading and fast, body sinking into the soft bedding and her entire body felt like lead to move.

“ I’ve got to be the best… ”  She trails, sleep near inebriating her at this point, she fights it off for one last moment, a last ditch effort that she wasn't entirely sure would even be audible to the Warrior before her.  “ Just one more paragraph… ”

[fancifulwhump]

i’m a simple bitch who likes seeing jaskier get kidnapped and geralt having to rescue him lmao

AN:   as you ask, so shall you recieve.   protective geralt going from beast-mode to soft??  that’s my jam, dude

In Geralt’s complete defense, the risks of leaving Jaskier unattended — of which past experience had proven were many — really paled in comparison to a Devourer attack.

Rather, an attack by multiple Devourers, at the same bloody time, with the tenacity of a pack of wild wolves. The flesh-craving beasts showed little interest in a Witcher’s mutated blood. They wanted human flesh, and human alone. A reign of terror stretching on for weeks before Geralt happened upon the poor mining village in the mountains made that clear enough. People could no longer venture from their homes without risk of being torn to bits by a sulking monster. Geralt’s arrival was a blessing to them. Jaskier’s presence — for, having hit a creative dry spell, he'd been following Geralt for the last few weeks, to “fan the flames of inspiration” — was just convenient. 

Geralt never liked using the bard as bait. This had nothing to do with any moral qualms; any time Jaskier involved himself in a kill, things got complicated. He simple had a talent for getting in the way. Trouble was drawn to him like a magnet; rather than avoid it, the idiot almost seemed to invite it. Geralt tried to keep Jaskier out of the way during jobs because bailing him out of danger was more trouble than any amount of coin was worth.

That, and he’d rather not see his companion be mauled or swallowed whole by a monster. 

Sometimes, however, Jaskier’s presence during a job could actually be useful. Like it or not, Geralt had to put him to work.

“This isn’t my first time playing irresistibly seductive meat-sack, you know,” huffed the meat-sack in question, carefully fastening his lute to a pack strung along Roach’s side. When Jaskier looked up at Geralt, his eyes glittered. Whatever thrill he got from being in mortal peril, it was probably worrying. “Practically used to it by now. Could make it a profession. Thank the gods I’m here, too, or what else would you have done? Picked up a nice, juicy steak from the market, and dressed it up like a toddler?”

Geralt snorted, unsheathing a dagger from his belt. It was a small, silver-bladed thing — better for throwing than stabbing, though it could be useful at close range. The hilt was almost too small for his hands. In Jaskier’s, it fit perfectly.

“Only if you need it,” he said. Jaskier gripped the blade, eyes wide with fascination, before nodding and tucking it into his own belt. “Quick slashes. If you have to stab, stab deep.”

Of course, Jaskier couldn’t fight, and he certainly didn’t stand a chance against a monster… but at least he wouldn’t be completely helpless.

So, Jaskier was sent on ahead, and did what he did best — played the oblivious fool. Only when he’d blustered along the mountainside for about ten minutes, leading Roach along as the Witcher silently trailed them both, did their plan show signs of success. In the distance, a few rocks shifted. Pebbles rolled down the mountainside. The faint trill of birdsong went quiet.

Jaskier had been humming to himself, but his voice cut off abruptly. His head raised; he glanced around. That was all he had time to do before a blur suddenly shot out of the cave, launching itself at him.

And another, and another — more than Geralt expected.

In a few swift bounds, he was in the middle of the fray, cutting Devourers down in midair. This was just enough time for the bait to make his escape. With the battle begun, Jaskier leapt on top of Roach and sped off — “somewhere safe”, Geralt had told him.

So maybe Geralt was the fool, for assuming the hapless bard could look after himself. At any rate, he trusted Roach to keep Jaskier out of trouble; the horse always had more sense than he did, anyhow. 

An hour, maybe, or less — that’s how long it took for Geralt, covered in Devourer blood and a few new scratches, to follow the trail his horse and companion left, only to come up empty handed. Not being able to hear Jaskier’s annoying caterwaul was the first sign of trouble. Coming across a lute in the bushes, smashed and abandoned, was the second.

Picking up the remnants of the familiar instrument, Geralt’s hands tightened around the wood; he sighed through his nose, barely able to restrain his own frustration.

Served him right for letting Jaskier near his bloody horse... and letting them both out of his sight.

Witcher senses were better honed for tracking than even the most astute hunter. It also helped that the bandits didn’t bother to cover their tracks well. The left a trail of broken twigs, snapped branches, and footprints behind them. However much of a head start the group — Geralt counted five sets of footprints, maybe six — had on him, it didn’t take long to track them down.

Even so, it took long enough. Too long.

He could smell the blood before the noises reached his ears. Perhaps the senses hit at the same time, and he just didn’t register; as soon as that metallic tang hit his nose, all-too-familiar, Geralt saw red. Blood meant nothing on its own, but this blood held a familiar scent — he’d recognize it anywhere. It was as familiar to him as that annoying voice, or that smirk any time Jaskier said something he thought was particularly funny. Blood could belong to anyone, but Jaskier’s blood was his, and Geralt could smell a lot of it.

Blood, and noise, and shouting — not Jaskier’s voice, but a stranger’s rough tone, spitting venom in a language Geralt faintly recognizes. A horse’s frustrated wail. Sharpening blades. And underneath it all… a strangled whimper.

Geralt found the bandits’ campsite.

As for whatever happened at the campsite… well, he couldn’t be held responsible.

By the time the last of the thieves took off running into the forest, stumbling over himself in horror, the bandits’ camp was utterly quiet. Before his body hit the tree, the big one had been making an awful lot of noise. So was the quick one, when he hissed at Geralt and tried to draw his sword; thankfully, Geralt was quicker. Now, in the silence, with nothing but his heavy breathing as he came back to awareness, Geralt could see everything.

Roach was unharmed, tied to a tree. She stomped her feet as Geralt came closer, as if applauding his quick work… but Geralt’s attention turned in a second, from her to the other side of the clearing. Silence reigned there as well, and it was unnerving. 

Jaskier was never silent. Jaskier didn’t know how to be silent. 

The figure slumped against the base of the tree, chest bound with rope and head bowed, did not make a sound.

The stench of blood grew overwhelming the closer Geralt got. He had to force himself not to focus on it. Instead, he honed in on Jaskier’s heart, beating a steady rhythm in his chest. Not faltering, not stuttering — he was alive, then. Unconsciously, a sigh of relief escaped Geralt, loud in the silent woods.

Then he saw the blood staining a head of dark hair, trailing down Jaskier’s jaw.

“Shit.” Immediately, he dropped to one knee, hand finding his companion’s shoulder. The battered captive’s face scrunched you in pain when Geralt gripped it. “Jaskier. Hey! Jaskier.” Unwilling to hurt him any further, Geralt shook his companion lightly. “Wake up.”

It was just enough — or maybe the pain from Geralt’s touch pulled him back into wakefulness. Jaskier stirred, head sluggishly rolling on his shoulders. For a moment, he struggled to lift it, as though his skull were filled with lead rather than gray matter. When he finally managed, he blinked sluggishly up at Geralt, pupils blown wide. Concussion, then, Geralt thought, and had to bite back another curse.

“Ah hah — the mighty Witcher!” Jaskier’s head fell back like a doll’s; still, he offered Geralt a wide grin. His teeth were stained with blood, from the busted corner of his lip. “Knew you’d come for me. It was only a matter of time. Caught about half that fight, I think. Just half. Til you threw that one lad down the hill.”

Was it any surprise that even half-senseless, Jaskier still didn’t know how to shut up? Geralt just took it as a good sign that he was talking. While the bard blathered on, he busied himself checking Jaskier over for further injuries. His shoulder was probably dislocated; he’d have some colorful bruises in the morning; there were a few deep scratches along his face and bare forearms, like he’d been dragged through brush…

“Mmm. Geralt. Hey.” Jaskier’s movement was sudden — like a marionette unable to control his own limbs, his arm raised, landing heavily on Geralt’s shoulder. When Geralt looked up, Jaskier’s head was lolling to the side. He seemed to be putting in a valiant effort to stay awake. Half opened eyes remained trained on Geralt, warm with an emotion Geralt could not name, but left him feeling immensely guilty. He should have gotten here sooner. He shouldn’t have let Jaskier out of his sight in the first place.

“Look,” said Jaskier — and, very deliberately, nodded towards the thug still crumpled at the base of a nearby tree. The tree’s trunk had a dent in it. Geralt wished he’d thrown him harder. “In the pockets,” insisted Jaskier, giving Geralt a weak push of encouragement.

Bemused, Geralt made his way over; hoisting the thug’s body up by the back of his jacket, he shook him out for any spare bits. A shower of gold pieces greeted him, along with a pair of rings… and a silver-bladed dagger, stained with blood. Geralt lifted the familiar blade, frowning at it. When his gaze turned to Jaskier again, a grin, bleary but proud, greeted him.

“Jus’ like you said,” Jaskier slurred, then let out a dry crackle of laughter. “I stabbed ‘im deep. And they did not appreciate that, let me tell you —“

“Damn it, Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, hand tightening around the blade.

Yet another mistake to tally for the day. Giving Jaskier a weapon was supposed to keep him out of trouble, not damn him deeper.

Without bothering to clean it off, Geralt rounded on Jaskier, blade clutched in his hands. Jaskier’s unfocused gaze tracked his approach with obvious effort. However hard he was trying to stay awake, he was fighting a losing battle. Even so, not a flicker of fear crossed Jaskier’s face at the sight of a hulking Witcher, advancing with a blade in hand.

Geralt cut Jaskier’s bonds in a few quick strokes. As soon as he was no longer bound to the tree, Jaskier slumped forward. It took Geralt’s quickest reflexes to lurch sideways, catching him before he could hit the ground. A dead weight in his arms, Jaskier let out a small moan.

“What is it?” Geralt demanded. As he shifted the injured man into an easier position, Jaskier inhaled sharply, face twisting up in pain. Another groan sounded through clenched teeth, but a second later Jaskier forced a strained smile.

“Kicked me in the chest — more than once.”

Geralt didn’t need to test the statement any further. As gently as he was capable of being, he eased Jaskier back against the tree. Broken ribs would be more of a headache than all of Jaskier’s other injuries combined, but hopefully he didn’t shatter so easily. Human bodies were so fragile; Geralt saw it every day, of course, in the remains of men torn apart by monsters. Seeing it firsthand was different. Seeing Jaskier, of all people, wounded and in pain… something in Geralt’s chest was drawn tight, like a clenched fist, and the more his companion swallowed back sounds of pain, the tighter it got.

“Better get you up, then,” he muttered. Jaskier nodded, face still screwed up. A long moment passed before his hand tightened on Geralt’s shoulder, and it took yet another moment before he managed to hoist himself upright.

Finding his feet was another challenge. Geralt did his best to offer support without brutalizing Jaskier’s injuries further. No sooner did he pull himself up, however, than Jaskier began to teeter. When his gaze slipped out of focus, Geralt’s arm twined around him. He caught him just as Jaskier’s knees began to buckle.

A yell shattered the illusion of quiet around them, ripping through Jaskier’s body like a physical attack. As fresh pain rippled through his chest, he shoved away from Geralt, who released him without protest. For a moment, it seemed certain that Jaskier would topple. His breathing heavy, each gasp an effort that nearly knocked him sideways, he finally managed to find his feet. Wide eyed, he gazed at Geralt, twisting a protective arm around his chest.

“I’m — I’m okay.” Jaskier put a hand up. “I’m fine. But next time — next time I fall, Geralt, don’t bother catching me.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. In response, Jaskier shook his head. “I can manage on my own.”

And to his credit, he did. He managed to get on Roach, at least, and the horse carried him back the rest of the way. Jaskier didn’t lose consciousness once, no matter how his head lolled or his senses drifted. Geralt didn’t mind the slurred ramblings, weaving their way through utter nonsense. Only when Jaskier went silent did he worry. Each time, he looked up to find his friend fading, blue eyes half-shut, head falling against his shoulder. Geralt gave a bruising pinch to the flesh of his arm, and Jaskier awoke again.

The nearest inn was a night’s ride from their campsite, and it was getting dark already. By the time they made it back, there seemed little sense going any further, especially with Jaskier in his state. He fell into his bed as soon as Geralt had it laid out on the ground, and did not have the energy to raise his head, even when Geralt offered him a sip of much-needed water.

“‘M fine,” Jaskier muttered. His muted tone suggested he was anything but; Geralt wouldn’t argue, though, if rest was really what Jaskier needed. 

“We need to set your shoulder,” he remarked, keeping his voice low for Jaskier’s benefit. “And clean the blood from your head. That wound ought to be bandaged.”

Jaskier nodded along slowly, as thought everything Geralt was saying made perfect sense. His eyes were closed, expression unchanging, so however much he really understood was anyone’s guess. Frowning, Geralt took the liberty of wetting a cloth himself. Hesitating for just long enough to wonder which decisions in his life brought him to this point — to caring so deeply for someone so easily breakable, so human — he set the cloth against Jaskier’s bloodied face. As the grime was sponged away, Jaskier could not help but sigh in relief.

“That’s the stuff,” he muttered. “All I need. Just… rest, Geralt? Can we? Is that okay?”

Geralt considered him for a moment. “Yes, Jaskier. We can rest awhile.”

This was all he needed to hear. Jaskier smiled, setting his head back down on his pack once more; as his eyes drifted shut, Geralt fought off an instinctive flash of worry. Hand tightening around the damp cloth, he brought it back to Jaskier’s face, and continued cleaning the remnants of that bloody encounter.

Next time they faced down monsters, he might think twice about letting Jaskier out of his sight… but no matter what trouble he fell into, Geralt would always be there to pull him out.

[pyrewriter]

Back to the Front Part 2

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The early hours of the night were quiet with only the sound of our movements and the wind surrounding us. Any that could walk were put to work moving the wounded while those with superficial injuries ,Brykis and I included, were on dig duty. As Barron Pyrrhaks had taken charge of the Eliksni left behind to protect and guide them through the trial before them. This was his duty to take in the absence of our Arkon but regardless of father’s station I believe him more than worthy.

It took longer than father wanted for the digging to complete and noncombatants being moved into the rusted hull of an aircraft. Most of our spare Ether was used to stabilize the wounded or fed to those that had over exerted and collapsed, the latter of which joined the effort once able. No time could be spent resting our aching hands however as everyone that could shoot was told to grab their arms and take posts. "I stay with non-fighters, where you go?" Brykis asked me as he grabbed his weapons.

"Trench, with others, need capable fighters" I replied checking my own weapons, the shock pistol and rifle Erysa had gifted me as her final request. Loading fully charged arc cells I holstered my pistol and slung my rifle "Keep safe" I told my brother, placing a hand on his shoulder before we separated to head for our respective posts. Should the Risen ever push beyond our trench an extremely angry father would be right there to greet them so I doubted Brykis would see much action beyond a particularly stealthy Risen. 

Dropping into the trench we had spent hours digging I hunkered down with the others, they were under my charge as per father's orders. "Wait, listen, let pass if can" I chittered with a hushed tone.

"What if fall inside" one dreg asked shakily, their head darted at every little sound the wind brought to his ears. I shuffled over to them while staying down and gently grabbed them by both shoulders to get them to calm, they looked into my eyes.

I gave them a light squeeze "Have advantage, we kill quiet, if found, fight" I said with an affirmed click. "Sit" I guided them down, placing their back against the cold dirt wall "Calm, fight when need, stay when don't. Scared, most would be, not weak, stay but be ready". The atmosphere in the trench that felt as though it would snap under the tension loosened as I spoke. 

The dreg took a deep breath and held it for a moment "Thank you, understand, ready for command" they said letting out their breath. Standing I walked across from one end of the trench to the other placing a hand on everyone's shoulder while looking them in the eye to give an affirming nod that they would make it through. We were the first line, we had to be ready to take a face full of whatever they threw at us. Considering how everyone checked their equipment and hunkered down waiting for my call as I passed by each of them we were more than prepared. This trench would not be these Eliksni's grave.

It was my hope that there would be minimal contact from the Risen but my hopes were quickly quashed as it was a short wait for trouble to come. The sound of footsteps ,heavy and deliberate, along with the noxious smell of ozone carried by the downwind alerted us to Risen. Ozone meant they had high energy weapons or wielded the Great Machines blessing of Arc currents, possibly both from how potent the odor was. Unintelligible murmurs from 4 distinct voices followed the scent as they wandered closer, eventually coming into porper earshot.

"I thought there were supposed to be some easy prey out here, I need to blow of some steam after that stupid Crucible Match. Damn Trials farmers always putting me down before I can get close".

"Can it lead-for-brains, yer the one who got us 'spended from matches fer a week cause ya can't aim and wacked some poor lads ghost. And stop actin like Fallen are animals fer ya to put down on whim cause yer pissy".

"He's kind of right you know, the Fallen out here are pretty easy prey at night thanks to their lack of activity and they are a problem being this close to the City. By the way, you still haven't told us why you decided to join us on our little jaunt through these moth yards".

"...There are certain Eliksni who seem to be of greater importance to the group these salvage parties belong to. I had located and watched them for quite some time and they seemed to notice but not care about my presence. Their movements had stagnated for a time and I was ordered elsewhere ,then, today reports of extreme aggression from a trio lasting from dawn to dusk flooded the channels. I don't know about you but I do not believe this to be a simple coincidence so...here I am".

It was also evident that there was mild conflict between the Risen’s reason for hunting us but their end goal was the same: us becoming corpses. As quietly as possible I clicked to the others, "Keep low, no move" from what I understood they were looking for us but still didn't know where we were. But of course the world seemed to always be conspiring in one way or another and the Risen spotted a flicker of light from beyond the trench. 

"Oi 'id any-yah see that just now" one said in a more hushed tone than before.

There was an odd sound, something similar to a gust of air as another spoke "looks like we found our quarry heheh". Another gust like sound was heard before ,like the belligerent fool their tone implied them to be, a Risen fell directly into our trench with a thud. Multiple Dregs and a Vandal pounced slitting their throat quietly and releasing the tiny machine, one of the dregs grabbed it trying to smother the soft blue it emits. Two...maybe four moments passed in dead silence, everyone in the trench myself included holding their breath. 

"....Hey Numb Skull, you there" One of the Risen shouted, trying to call for the one that had dropped into our midst. Struggling hard the tiny machine broke free from the dreg that held it. 

Flying up and out of the trench it's high-pitched voice shouted "FALLEN IN A TRENCH 20 YARDS AHEAD". After it's call I let out a war cry in anger at how soon they had discovered our position and the stupidity by which it was found. But if we could at least hold them at the trench we would not let them pass to slaughter fellow Eliksni that posed no threat. The cracks and flashes of weapons fire filled the otherwise calm night's air. All the commotion was surely signaling to every Risen in the area exactly where we were but such thoughts were far from my mind as we fought. Though younger Dregs ,most of whom this was their first mission, filled the trench on either side of me it was relieving to see such tenacity to protect our own     

An energy bolt struck a dreg beside me in the head knocking them to the floor, cursing I threw an explosive and barked orders to concentrate fire on the larger Risen that was barreling toward us. My explosive knocked them off-kilter allowing the others to bring it down before it came into melee distance. Ducking into the trench I checked over the Dreg, there was no flash so there was still hope they were alive. Blinking at me while I looked them over they shook their head before standing once more and taking up their dropped weapon.Thankfully they survived with no real injury other than mild head pain and being shaken from a brush with the end but there was no time for reflection. Following their lead I rejoined the exchange of energy bolts and bullets, the exchange dragged on into a dead stalemate that lasted for hours with neither side giving in inch. 

Weapons fire was nonstop through the night, our bodies ached from lack of rest, small wounds from glancing shots and explosion shrapnel sealed shut with dried blood. We had felled the Risen at least a dozen times with only minor casualties from injuries on our side but still held the disadvantage. Low on Ether and arc cells I made a judgement call "Throw everything!" I shouted, at my command all those in the trench ceased firing and lobbed all their explosives. As the detonations forced our enemy to hunker down I leaped from the Trench shock pistol drawn and dagger in hand. Charging them I howled in pain from my wounds tore open with the effort but dared not let it stop me. 

Discharging what remained in my weapons arc cell with the special modification I disintegrated the first Risen stupid enough to pop it's head over cover. The drained cell ejected itself as I holstered the pistol without breaking stride, I was close enough to smell them through the haze of dust, weapon smoke, and ozone. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Vandal from the trench wielding jagged scrap for weapons in each hand. My mind flashed back to the scene of Erysa and her final moments, "None Witness!!" I rasped as we reached the Risen. Armor saved them from falling immediately ,but they were surprised, our follow up dispatched each of them with a slash or caving their helms with a sufficiently large stone.      

Standing over the bodies of the Risen I flinched as a beam of light shone in my eye triggering my instinct to drop low and slide out from line of sight. When I turned to face what I thought to be a sniper I realized it was the earliest rays of light from over the horizon peering through the holes in a wing rusted through. We had made it through the night, the fight was over, our job was done and I more than had my fill of excitement. Relaxing myself the pain along with fatigue from pushing my body from sunrise to moon-set began to set in all at once, I winced slightly. While I was basking in the light as it crept over the landscape the Vandal that joined my mad charge had returned to the trench to inform the others. 

A short time later a Wretch I'd seen among the injured approached ,wrapped in bandages and using their spear as support, they came bearing good news. "First day crews coming, arrive soon, worse wounded, taken first" I nodded silently in acknowledgement. Looking around us at the husks of the Risen they spotted one of the little machines he let out a rasping click at the floating blue light. "Stop stare, Risen maker" they spat bitterly, raising their spear with intent to strike the machine...every Eliksni knew what happens when they are destroyed. The spear bore down on the small machine, it flinched in a vain attempt to shield itself using its outer shell like a youngling putting their hands in front of themselves to hide.            

The blade stopped hardly an inch from the tiny machine's eye, my hand clasped firmly around the shaft of the Wretches weapon. "Battle done, let dead rest, if only a while" I chattered, a cold edge present in my tired voice. 

Wrenching their weapon from my blood-slicked hand they clicked disparagingly "let Risen return, hunt Eliksni, sport, attack wounded". They turned and started toward the others to prepare for the first day crew's arrival. As they moved away I heard them spit under breath "Weak". 

"Honor!" I shot back with a glare, my voice assertive and commanding of the respect of my station. Casting my gaze down I saw the diode eyes of each Risen's machine looking up at me from the small congregation around the one that had nearly been destroyed. Pivoting I turned away with a huffing sigh and half limp back to the others.

Previous Chapter   Next Chapter   Chapter Guide

[shemakesmusic-uk]

PREMIERE: Natalie Oaks releases stunning debut EP Keeping Up Appearances

Natalie Oaks is a name you’ll soon be familiar with, as she heads for the big time amongst R&B’s finest, both in the UK and beyond. After a wonderful response to her debut single ‘One of a Kind’, Natalie is returning with her first-class EP Keeping Up Appearances and you can listen to it here first on SMM before it’s release tomorrow.

The 4 song collection focuses on the journey through 2020’s COVID lockdown, exploring the relationships and loneliness that engulfed us all. Blissful and dreamy, Keeping Up Appearances forgoes a comforting, melodic warmth that prompts you to contemplate. An effortless and pure authenticity leaps from each of the EP’s gems, as their stories act as a helping hand to guide us through life’s obstacles. Natalie’s fresh musical nuance signifies her arrival as an impressive new talent, as you find yourself captivated by her innate, poetic lyricism and soothing vocal performance.

Originally from Gloucester and currently based in Bristol, Natalie showcases her unique brand of alternative hip-hop, R&B, neo-soul and lo-fidelity. Her music takes inspiration from Loyle Carner’s tenacity, Ms. Lauryn Hill’s flow and Frank Ocean’s lyricism.

Through a heavily musical upbringing, Natalie’s love of writing started at the age of 10, where her attraction to words became apparent to everyone. Majorly influenced by Lauryn Hill’s album ‘Miseducation’, Natalie describes it as “the first album that launched my dream to pursue music”. Natalie’s main objective in her craft is being able to connect with an audience, and create something you can completely immerse yourself in.

We asked Natalie to take us through Keeping Up Appearances track by track to gain more insight into what the EP is about. Read the breakdown below.

Contraband

This opening track sets the tone for the whole EP. Sometimes I find it quite hard to hang on to the lyrics of songs I listen to so I knew I wanted to make whatever I wrote uncomplicated. It’s easy for young people like myself to get swept up by their thoughts, dreams and emotions, and this was the inspiration for this project. Feelings completely take over, and I especially found this to be the case when I was writing. It was almost debilitating, because I knew what I wanted but I couldn’t do anything about how the other person felt. Peak. So yeah, the same phrase is repeated cos the message is simple. I’m straight forward with things. A lot of the time I struggle because I forget others may not be on the same page as me. ‘Contraband’ deals with a kind of yearning to be on the same wavelength as the person you want most.

One of A Kind

Sometimes you spend so much time trying to make others feel better, but it ends up eating away at yourself. This is the way my brain has always seemed to work, and this provides the backdrop ‘One of A Kind’. I don’t really like writing about individual people. At the end of the day, I think a lot of our experiences are similar, even though we’re all completely different. I think I just realised how much time I invested in others. I also just wanted to make a super vibey song that you could listen to whilst skating or sat in the park with someone in mind. Everyone always has someone in mind.

Poison Ivy

This is my favourite track from the project. I actually took inspiration from ‘Loose Ends’ by Loyle Carner, featuring Jorja Smith. The lyrics portray love, heartbreak and the mine-field of emotions felt in a difficult relationship. I’m still super young so have a long way to go, but even at this age, I – we – feel everything so strongly. There are people I’d go to the ends of the world for, and actually care for more than myself. I’ve steadily come to the realisation that this is a blessing and a curse, and this song acknowledges trying to balance on that fine line. It’s so easy to lose yourself in your thoughts and desires. ‘Poison Ivy’ confronts this struggle between reality and complete absorption. Apart from that it’s also just a reminder to put things into perspective. What you think you love most can be worst for you. Take care of yourself!

Eden

Stepping back and looking at things in perspective. I wrote this EP in a week over the lockdown. By the time I was on this last song, I realised I’d spent so much time thinking and writing about other people. It’s a common theme I find when listening to a lot of other music, so I wanted to make myself more visible. It’s a bit more of a return to reality and being aware of how difficult I’m actually finding things on a day-to-day basis. I’m in a really weird place at the moment, so this last track doesn’t really signal completion, but rather the start of trying to figure out what the heck is going on. Hence ‘Eden’ – Garden of Eden – in the beginning – but it’s at the end of the EP cos this is just the beginning – lol, get it?

nat oaks · Keeping Up Appearances

Photo credit: Khali Ackford

[leggomylino]

au ceo / trope unrequited love / prompt 8 or 10 / like joshua from svt or yoongi from bts !! 💓💓

au trope + prompt requests! Send me a trope, prompt, etc. and I’ll write a short story or drabble!!

AU Type: ceo!au

Trope: Unrequited Love (I think I did okay- I’ve never written this type of romance so I’m sorry if I failed :c)

Prompt: #8: “Wait, wait. Say that again, please.”

K-pop Boy: Joshua, Seventeen (+ Yoongi, BTS)

~

Genre: ceo!au, angst, comedy, nostalgic

Pairing: ceo!joshua x fem!reader (x ceo!yoongi?)

Word count: ~2.4k

Warning(s): angst, I kinda rushed this one so sorry if I left out any important details…also it’s a bit cheesy and unrealistic lol ^^”

A/N: requests are open~ | Masterlist in BIO! | aaaaaaaaaand as always, yeehaw

~

“Excuse me, Mr. Hong. If you would just sign here, please…”

“Mr. Hong, there’s a call waiting for you on Line Four.”

“Mr. Hong! Mr. Hong, do you have a moment?”

Being swarmed with papers and phone calls and never ending crowds was the life of a CEO. But it was never the life that Joshua Hong wanted.

In his mind he was living a small, peaceful life by the sea within his means, the love of his life at his side and within an absence of the means of time. And he would achieve that, one day.

For now he just had to wait, and continue to play the game. 

As the crowd grew thicker and less transparent, completely blocking his way down the golden-railed hallway ‘til he could no longer move, Joshua halted his pace, took a quick breath, and graced everyone with the usual-plastered smile they’d all been waiting for, addressing his underlings one by one.

“Yes, sign here? Okay…and Janice, you said there’s a call on Line Four? I’ll take it momentarily, tell them I’ll be with them shortly? And Shawn, why don’t we talk during lunch? I’ll have Seungkwan make a reservation–”

One by one he went through them, each and every employee and sales’ person and random fan or citizen that had managed to make their way to the 48th floor of GameOn! Headquarters, handling each concern and care with kindness and as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

The entire act was draining. Thirty minutes later, he needed a nap.

But the moment the mahogany doors opened, the gold-plated doorknob flinching back as he released it to reveal the initials “J.H.” on the cover, yet another face was waiting for him. Sort of.

Hay and wood chips covered the entire room– the delicate swirl-colored carpet in shades of deep blues and cascading velvet, the beach-toned walls that really didn’t match but reminded him of the dream he was pursuing, the crystalline chandelier where a telephone hung among the masses.

“Just so we’re clear,” Seungkwa said, visibly sweating at the seams, “Dokyeom–”

Joshua wasn’t listening. He was too busy scouring the room for whatever had happened to his pet rabbit Mina, who just…jumped…onto the balcony.

Screaming in unison both boys rushed beyond the double french doors, Seungkwa nervously gathering the speckled ball of fluff before shyly passing it to his superior.

“Ha…hahaha…” He bowed. “Sorry?”

“……” His boss looked back inside at the chaotic mess before letting out a sigh, his gentle strokes against Mina’s backside attempting to soothe the terrified creature…and calm his own nerves. “…It’s fine…just call someone to clean this up. Do I wanna know what…?”

His assistant shook his head. “Probably not. I’m blaming Dokyeom. The snake was his idea.”

“Snake?!”

“What? Snake? I don’t know a snake. Unless his name is DK? Haha…ha?”

“…” Another sigh. He stepped back into the office, the brunette boy at his heels. “…I need you to make a reservation for lunch in an hour. I was thinking maybe–”

“Oh! Reservation!”

Seeing as Seungkwan had stopped and cried out with such sudden tenacity, Joshua blinked behind him. “Yes…?”

“Um…” Seungkwan smiled sheepishly. “There’s someone waiting for you in the lobby. After Seokmin dropped by and Mina got loose I sorta forgot about it. She said her name was…y/n?”

Joshua’s face paled. Every motion in his body froze, save his beating heart and racing thoughts.

He gulped. The last time he’d spoken to anyone by that name was…you. Three years ago. “………”

“…Joshua? Are you okay?”

The snapping and abrupt clapping in his face pulled him out of a one-way ticket to Memory Lane. He quickly smiled shyly to avoid any confrontation.

“Yes. I’m fine. Has she been waiting long?” He lifted the fallen plush pin from the ground, resetting it with one hand and placing Mina back into her luxury Barbie Dream home. “What’s her last name?”

Seungkwan thought a moment, picking random wood chips off the floor as he simultaneously flipped through a phonebook for room service. “I don’t think so…and her name was, uh, y/n…l/n?”

Another gulp. Crap. It was you.

He knew what this was going to be about. The same thing, every two to three years. You show up on his doorstep and tell him how you feel without actually saying anything. And everytime, he has to push you away.

Because he knows you. And he can’t have you getting mixed up in this “extravagant” lifestyle. It wasn’t just luxury cars and homes and country clubs and maxing out however many credit cards you wanted. It was busy, and messy, and chaotic. The opposite of you. Often times it got downright evil, shady, and sinful…blackmailings, mindgames, having to uphold an image and reputation. It definitely wasn’t the life he wanted, and he refused to drag you down into it as well.

At least not until after he’d done enough. After he could fall back on an early retirement that would please his family and make everyone happy.

He’d spaced out again. When he came to, Seungwkan was glaring up at him with curiously round brown eyes.

“So should I tell her to come in or…?”

After flinching back and shaking his head (once to recover from shock and once to clear the despondent memory of you), he took a look around and gestured with his hand.

“What do you think?”

Seungkwan looked over his shoulder, up at the ceiling, down at the floor. “Hmmm…probably not. I can–”

The door suddenly opened. “Mr. Hong? Animation Studio’s is still on Line Four and I don’t think they’ll hold much longer…”

Joshua clenched his jaw, closing his eyes a moment. “Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His eyes shifted to his accomplice. “Keep them busy,” he said.

Seungkwan shook his head. “You want me to handle an important business call?! But–”

The door had already shut, the echo muffled by scattered woodchip and torn featherdown from a certain rabbit-tailored Barbie Dreamhouse. 

A groan overtook the following silence.

~

“Wait, wait. Say that again, please…”

It was no use. This year’s visit was going terribly wrong. Just like all the other visits.

But it wasn’t for the same reason as before. 

“I came to get your blessing. If that’s okay…? Oh, and I wanted to drop off this thank you gift. For my birthday? I know it’s a little late, but I’ve been so preoccupied with the wedding invitations and the planning and…sheesh, you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get Yoongi to go anywhere on his days off.” Y/n shook her head, hands clutching a rosary-gold picture frame with her latest masterpiece scribbled within its contents. “He’s always so tired so we usually just end up staying in and watching Netflix all day. But sometimes I’m able to convince him to do a little shopping with me. If I ask nicely and lure him out with cookies…er, that doesn’t always work, though…”

He couldn’t believe it. Here he was thinking he was going to have to let you down easy again, thinking up a basic speech plan to go over so things wouldn’t get messy or sidetracked, and your feelings would be spared, and he could go back to tackling another day in the life of Joshua Hong while trying to make the best of things and stay as cheerful and bright as possible, but…

It was his feelings that were on the line now. And dangerously close to the fire.

Things were not cheerful and bright. They were a desolate wasteland.

“You’re…getting married?”

Those words had cast a curse over every last straw of bliss he had left to grasp onto, and yet they’d brought the brightest smile Joshua had ever seen to cross your face, brighter than the sun and the moon and all the stars he was suddenly wishing he’d paid more attention to, stars he would chase to the ends of the earth for you…

But they were too far now. They were no longer a part of his universe. They were a part of yours…and someone else.

He found it adorable the way you bounced lightly in place at his question, nodding ecstatically. “Yes! I met someone…about a year ago, Yoongi. And he’s recently asked me to marry him.” 

Your eyes dipped down to the cerulean rug lining the large office table Joshua currently had to lean against for support, and a film of sadness fell over the atmosphere like a veil of mist or fog.

“So…I wanted to ask for your blessing. You know, since we grew up together and all…and well, I know we’ve kind of had a..history…but I also wanted to know, you won’t have to worry about me bothering you anymore. Haha,” You scratched the back of your head, turning away sheepishly to enlong the avoidance of eye contact. “I know you’ve always seen my yearly or semi-biyearly…tri-yearly?…visits as sort of an…inconvenience. And I told myself if you really felt that way, I should just get over it all and stop coming around anymore. But…” You smiled. “I know how hard this world of yours is. And that it’s not something you ever wanted. So I promised myself I’d just check in every now and then and make sure you were okay, because I really care about you, Josh.” 

This was it. His world was crumbling.

“But you know, now that I’m getting hitched and all, I probably won’t be able to come around anymore as often.”

Why? Why was his world falling apart?

“I’d be really nice if we could still keep in touch though? That is, if you want to…”

Why did any of this matter to him? He’d wanted you to move on. He’d wanted you to stop coming around, and he was finally getting his wish. So why…?

His grip tightened on the chair beside him. On the corner of the table he was propping himself against.

“…Anyway, that’s enough about me and Memory Lane. Here,” you held out the portrait in your gloved hands, the one’s he’d always see you show up in during the Holiday Season from years past. They’d been sewn and patched over a few times, a stark contrast to the Tiffany diamond and quartz watch around your right wrist. 

You glanced down at it as he took the painting from you, eyebrows raising with a smirk. “Ah, I’m going to be late for lunch. We’re almost finished watching (insert favorite series here). I promised I’d try making dinner tonight, too…”

The two of you shared a look. A look that only lasted mere seconds, but to him felt like twenty more years had gone by.

You gripped his wrists, giving him a tearful smile. “I don’t want to say this is goodbye, so…I hope to see you at the wedding? Or at least hear from you soon.” A content giggle chimed from your lips, the means of an afterthought following. “Oh, and…thanks for putting up with me all these years. You know I’ve meant well, right?”

“……” He felt lost. The only thing he could do was nod.

You beamed. “I’m glad. Again, I always knew I kind of annoyed you or that maybe you got the wrong idea but…you know, I just, wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Anyway,” you let go, and he wished you hadn’t so. Every step back was one he wanted to take forward. “I should get going. Don’t worry if you can’t make it, or if…you know, you’re just, too busy, I understand. I honestly should have stopped coming around so much, but I just…couldn’t help myself.” 

And for a moment, just one moment, Joshua could have sworn he saw a flick of regret. A wavering longing of nostalgia, of something so deeply internalized he didn’t have the time to reach down and discover its true nature, for it was gone just as soon as it had come.

And then so were you. As if you’d never existed at all. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt like he’d lost something; or that maybe you were never real to begin with. Which was blasphemy, absolutely ridiculous, he had known you since you were six.

He observed the painting you’d left for him, lips parting just slightly.

It was a portrait of a long forgotten photograph, one your parents had taken of the two of you when you were twelve, fishing for frogs and bugs and rainbow-colored rocks down by the riverbed of your hometown. The sky was the clearest blue it had ever been that day, the fluffiest of clouds providing the perfect shade along with thick blankets of willow trees, and Joshua was smiling while displaying a handful of crystallized rocks he’d found buried in a pile of mud (which he’d detested having to get dirty for but did so anyway), you proudly swinging a silver-colored fish that gleamed in a spectrum of colors beneath the soft peaks of sunlight.

The portrait was signed at the bottom: “To my best friend Joshua, with love - y/n ❤”

And then everything just…clicked. It was strange, but all those unscheduled yearly visits, the bi-yearly and tri-yearly, and all the time the two of you had spent together before that…everything came crashing down like a whirlwind that suddenly ceased, dropping everything it had been lugging and spinning around. It fell like a sudden ton of bricks.

He studied the painting for hours, locking himself away and politely going through the motions of the day on autopilot. Even when he was away from it, it was fresh in his mind, and the moment he had finished one task he would come back to it, even if it was just for a few minutes. At the end of the day, when everyone else had gone home for the night, he found himself staring at it, preferably you, and your smile. The gleam in your eyes.

He’d always thought you’d been squinting at the camera with the sun in your eyes. But really, you’d been squinting gleefully at him.

And he’d always known, deep down. This was all a carefully hazardous game he’d orchestrated to keep you at bay, telling himself he was protecting you and doing the right thing, but now…

Now, the game was over. He’d won.

But he’d truly lost you.

[thenexusofsouls]

Former Muse: Marya Maximoff

MARYA MAXIMOFF (Biological aunt and adoptive mother of twins Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.)

Type of Character & Fandom/Source Material: Canon-divergent character in the Marvel fandom based loosely from concepts in MCU’s Age of Ultron, some 616 influences, and a large amount of my own development and interpretation of this character. Basically, I am trying to create an MCU version of her, and since we know next to nothing about her in Ultron, I will be adding a lot of my own original elements in fleshing her out. So her background will have some core ideas taken from 616, especially about her relation to the twins, but changed to fit the teeny bit we know about her from Ultron. After that it’s just me running amok with the character and fleshing her out in original ways, haha.

FC: Noomi Rapace, specifically in Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

Race: Human, but a genetic mutant like the twins

Age: Currently mid 40s... exact age would depend on the ages of related muses in threads and details of background

Occupation: Usually as a baker or cook in a bakery or tavern type setting. Fortune teller and tarot card reader on the side.

Potential Triggering Material in Threads: Well... Marya deals with a hefty dose of racism, criticism, and/or mockery on an almost daily basis for her nomadic lifestyle and culture (Romani), her religion (Jewish-Polytheistic), and if she’s in the United States, her thick accent and imperfect grammar when speaking non-native languages like Sokovian or English (her native tongue is a Romani dialect). Also, other potential trigger warnings for things like severe head injuries and amnesia.

Negative Personality Traits: Haughtiness and tending to be overly forgiving of people simply because she knows/likes them or is related to them.

Positive Personality Traits: Tenacity, thick skin, but also kindness, empathy, and strong motherly instincts.

Background: Get ready for me to walk all over the comics here, haha, but as I said I’m creating my own largely movie-compliant version of Marya Maximoff. She is a Romani witch in a family in which mutant genes and the ability to successfully engage in witchcraft are somewhat hereditary, especially among females. She and her sister Natalya both had magical abilities, albeit different ones. Marya has dreams that are premonitions of the future, but they are often vague and she may not fully understand the meaning of them until it is too late. She can also glean images or emotions from touching objects or people, a talent she shares with her niece, Wanda. Although the twins believe that she is their mother, Marya is actually their biological aunt. Her sister Natalya is actually their mother, but not long after giving birth, she gave her children to Marya and her husband Django and went into hiding as Magda Eisenhardt in an attempt to throw off the twins’ dangerous father, known as Magneto. At the time, Marya and Django had lost their own son and daughter, and so they welcomed the twins readily. They officially adopted them, and the twins have never been told that their parents were not actually their parents.

Marya’s husband Django was not a mutant, but he was an accomplished pickpocket and thief. Think of that what you will, but what he did helped to support his family and put food on the table when work was scarce, and he taught his adopted son Pietro his skills. This was something Pietro continued to do well into his teenage years in order to support himself and Wanda while they were living on the streets following the bombing they believed killed both of their parents. He also used his skills to assist the poor, disadvantaged, elderly, and sick citizens of Sokovia, a community he and his sister had come to call home. Marya saw stealing in a different way than most, and there was a code to it. Never steal from those who have less than you have. Never steal from family or trusted friends. And in her mind, the Romani people had been placed at an inherent disadvantage simply by virtue of the fact that they were seen as lesser by many European communities, mostly White or at least believing themselves entitled. Because of that, Marya saw Django’s stealing as efforts towards the balancing of wealth and resources back in their family’s direction.

Marya was a kind and loving mother, but she was not afraid to set boundaries for the twins or discipline them the same as their father. However, she did her best to understand, nurture, and accommodate their individual personalities as they grew older. Wanda was shy, quiet, and often obedient, whereas Pietro misbehaved a lot, had trouble focusing on a single task, and had endless amounts of energy. Because the twins were so different, Marya recognized that they needed to be cared for and encouraged in different ways. They didn’t learn the same way or respond to criticism the same way either. Marya always thought it was very important that the twins be nurtured in ways that best suited their personalities and needs, but also helped them grow and improve as people. She did her best to do that, and to make sure Django did the same.

When the twins were six, little Wanda was assaulted by a boy her own age, and the child had cursed him impulsively in her panic and rage. Unfortunately, the budding witch had no idea her curses carried real power, and the boy had a fatal accident the following morning. The boy’s death, rumors of Wanda’s witchcraft, and rumors of Django being a thief are the main reasons why the Maximoff family had to leave Transia and the village they had been living in. They traveled alone in their vardo for a while, joining up with Roma caravans as times. Settling ultimately in Sokovia, they worked toward having a permanent home and were able to purchase an apartment. Everything seemed to be going well for them, until the wars raging around them caught up to them. When the twins were ten, a shell was dropped on their apartment building. Marya and Django fell through the floor, while Wanda and Pietro hid under a bed, ultimately being trapped for two days. Django was crushed and killed by falling rubble, and Marya suffered a severe head injury among other things. This caused her to have amnesia, not remembering who she was beyond her first name.

The twins were saved after two days, but Marya lingered in the rubble for almost four. By the time she was able to crawl out on her own, she was dazed, malnourished, and badly injured. Not remembering herself in her amnesia, she wandered the streets and was taken in by a family who didn’t know who she was. Meanwhile, the twins were taken as wards of the government and were ultimately placed in foster homes that didn’t work out. Marya, once she was at least physically healed, left Sokovia, not realizing that she had a reason to stay. She returned to the nomadic lifestyle she knew, even if she didn’t remember the people she had spent it with.

From here she can go wherever a thread needs her to. She can remain in Eastern Europe, travel to Western Europe, or even make her way to the U.S. Those are the likely places she would end up. After three years, she began to remember who she was, and did attempt to look for her husband and adopted children. She was told that her husband died in the bombing and that the twins survived, but she was never able to locate them. Not many were willing to help her, either because they couldn’t or because they were prejudiced against her way of life and thought the twins were better off in foster care. If they only knew where the twins actually ended up... It breaks her heart that they were never found, because she loved Wanda and Pietro very much, like her own children. She still holds out hope that she will find them someday.

Potential Starter Ideas:

Well, certainly finding out she was still alive would be an interesting plot for a Wanda or Pietro muse, whether before or after the events of Age of Ultron.

What if she saw video on the news of what happened with Ultron in Sokovia and recognized the twins?

She can also be a stand-alone muse for Marvel or non-Marvel muses to interact with, just in her own life. She’s an enigmatic and adventurous sort.

Fun facts: Marya’s innate mutant powers with regard to premonition and gleaning information about people and objects she touches or is near to help her a great deal with her fortune telling and tarot card reading businesses. Perhaps she misleads people doing this, but she sees it as infinitely more authentic than outright playing them without any knowledge of them whatsoever. Also, she feels that if done via tarot cards, palm readings, or other such avenues, the information she does convey to them is better received than it would be if she revealed herself as a witch. She actually does not know anything herself about being a mutant, what that means, or that her witchcraft is something genetic that she is able to do, she only knows that magic runs in the blood of her family, whether it takes the forms that hers and Wanda’s magic does, or more physical forms like Pietro’s. She believes that “the blood of the Old Gods runs in their veins,” which basically means that their bloodline is believed to be an ancient one blessed with favor by various gods of the natural world, some of the same ones they still worship today within the polytheistic part of their religion.

[spartanguard]

to trust someone else

Summary: Emma's wondering if maybe she judged Hook too quickly when the man himself stumbles out of the forest—bleeding profusely. “I...I didn't know where else to go,” he murmurs. She has to decide if she'll trust in him, or continue to write him off as nothing but a villain. (Canon-divergent from 2x08)

rated T | 3.6k | AO3

A/N: Here’s my contribution to @csseptembersunshine!!  Thanks to the organizers of this event for putting it on!! This story was inspired by this tumblr post, but watered down a bit to hopefully avoid triggers. It’s still fairly whumpy though. Title comes from “Trust” by Christina Perri.

Despite the heat of the fire, Emma shivered; she still wasn’t used to the noise—or better yet, lack thereof—of the forest. The Enchanted Forest. She shook her head; seriously, who had named this place? Even once she’d finally believed in it, she had to admit that it was contrite.

Anyways. It was too quiet—no cars, no people. While that might be a blessing—that she’d be able to hear any intruders immediately—it also meant that there was little else to fill the time but her own thoughts, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be left with them at the moment.

What Aurora said was haunting her: “I think he may have feelings for you.” There was still something odd about the princess’s sudden reappearance, and odder still that it was Hook, of all people, who let her go.

Maybe she was right; maybe Emma should have trusted him. But aside from Henry and maybe her da—David, there weren’t a whole lot of guys she was ready to do that with.

Over the crackle of the fire and the gentle snoring of her companions, her last interaction with Hook played in her head.

“Have I told you a lie?” His voice had been shaking—with rage or shock, she couldn't tell. 

“I can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you,” she told him, trying to rationalize what was easily a dick move on her part. But he was a pirate, wasn’t he? Surely, he’d committed his fair share of those.

Or maybe there really had been something there? He wasn’t entirely wrong when he’d suggested they made a good team, and it was unnerving how easily he seemed to read and understand her—more than anyone had since Neal. She still didn’t know why she was so scared when that pile of rocks fell on him, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to analyze why.

But maybe that had something to do with the pang of remorse she felt when she turned her back on him and the utter betrayal in the way he was shouting her name.

Was it too late to go back? Find him wherever he was hiding and team up?

Or was it just another ruse by him and Cora?

Odds were good on both.

Thankfully, she couldn’t dwell on it any longer because there was finally some noise—even if the sound of someone stumbling through the forest wasn’t the most welcome of interruptions. If it was another one of those zombie things, she was never going to watch The Walking Dead again.

As silently as she could manage—grace was never her strong suit, but she managed it well enough—she stood, grabbed Mulan's sword, and held it aloft, ready to decapitate whatever was coming towards them.

The body lumbered into their tiny clearing, unsteady on its feet. Emma tightened her grip.

But then it collapsed at her feet, a lanky pile of dark leather and mussed hair who coughed a bit and then rolled onto its back.

“Hook?” she whisper-yelled.

“Hey, beautiful,” he wheezed with an attempt at a flirty smile, then grimaced and curled into the hand that was pressed to his chest.

She really hoped her eyes were playing tricks on her. Because in the glow of the firelight, it looked like his hand was covered in blood.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He took a deep breath, but then winced again. “I...I didn't know where else to go,” he murmured, then let his hand fall away from his chest.

Emma gasped at the sight: his shirt was pulled away, revealing even more of his chest than normal, but his skin was indeed covered with his own blood, seeping from a handful of puncture wounds around his heart. He’d clearly lost a lot of blood and was struggling to breathe and keep eye contact. 

She dropped to the ground next to him. “What—what happened?”

“Cora,” he spat. “Who else?”

“Was she trying to take your heart?” Admittedly, Emma didn't quite know how that whole thing worked.

He snorted—at least, she thought he did; it could have been another cough. “No; she's not that merciful. Thought it'd be more fun to watch me bleed out, apparently.” 

“Jesus,” Emma cursed, trying to inspect the damage in the dim light, but also not wanting to touch him and make anything worse. “Why?”

“Help me tend this and I’ll tell you.”

Oh, right—he was bleeding. Fuck, this was not covered in her high school first aid class. “I don't know—what—”

“Get pressure on it, please; I can’t—I’m too—”

“Got it.” She still had his scarf wrapped around her hand, but that cut was mostly healed. So she quickly unwrapped it, folded it, and placed it over the wounds. Gently, but firmly, she pressed down.

He bit back a cry, and she thought she saw a tear at the corner of his eye, but then he exhaled. “Thank you, love. That helps.”

“Okay. Now tell me what happened.”

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

Cora strode into the cave with confidence, not casting a glance in his direction—but her expression quickly faded to confusion when she realized her prisoner was gone.

“Looking for someone?” Hook asked, turning up the charm as he stepped from the shadows.

Cora was momentarily taken aback, but then scoffed. “Don't tell me you were dumb enough to let her go.”

He sauntered forward. “She was never going to give you what you wanted, anyway.” But now, he could—and work his way back into Cora’s good graces at the same time.

“So you freed her. And stuck around for the petty satisfaction of seeing me suffer.”

In any other situation, that would have been the case; there were plenty of people he’d likely do that with—particularly the Crocodile. But he’d have to play nice with Cora if he ever wanted to reach that goal. “Watching you is a tempting motivation, but it wasn't that.”

“Well then, you must have a death wish.” Suddenly, he was flying backwards, slamming into the stone wall of the cave; that was definitely going to leave him a headache. When he’d shaken the stars from his vision, he realized she’d manipulated the rock into cuffs around his wrists, both restraining him and holding him upright. He struggled against them, but there were no fissures or weak spots; it wouldn't give. Then she was in front of him, unlocking his hook from his brace, and pressing the tip of it against his chest. “You know I have to kill you,” she purred.

Oh, if only she knew. “You should try thanking me.”

That took her by surprise. “Oh, really? Why is that?” But she still had steel pressed against his skin and was dragging it over where his heart was rapidly beating.

He didn’t make it this far by cowering to intimidation, though. “Because I brought you a gift. It's in the satchel,” he explained as casually as he could, nodding down at the bag slung across his body.

“What is it?” she demanded. He had her interest.

“Customarily, surprise is part of the fun of gift giving. Open it.”

She tugged it off, ripping the weak leather strap, and opened the pouch. Her expression morphed from confusion to disbelief. “Is that...?”

He nodded. “Indeed, it is. And with it you'll get everything you want.”

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

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Emma nearly yelled. “You took her fucking heart?”

“Aye,” he replied, but in a tone that implied he was at least slightly remorseful for it. “So if you could keep it down and not wake the sleeping beauty, lest Cora know I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”

“Why should I help you after you did that?”

“Because I want to help you get it back and get home. You’re the only person I trust in this bloody realm.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe you have a tendency to burn bridges and that’s why you have so many enemies?”

“Oh, and you haven't done anything similar lately, have you?”

Emma was silent at that; she couldn't exactly refute it, especially to him. “Yeah, but the more you talk, the more I’m confident in my decision.”

“Then let me finish.”

“Fine.”

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

“It was Hook. He let me go.” There was an odd novelty to watching Cora pretend to mimic the princess’s voice as she dictated through her heart. It wasn’t the most convincing thing, if he was being honest, but he’d certainly seen worse.

He wasn’t close enough to the heart to hear what was happening on the other end of the conversation, chained as he still was to the wall, but given that Cora was calm, he had to assume they were buying it.

“Because of you,” Cora said. “He said he wanted to prove to you that you should have trusted him. That if you had trusted him…” Cora smirked and threw a glance his way. “...you could have defeated Cora together. That the two of you could have gotten the remains of the wardrobe. Without him, you'll have to go up against her all by yourself. He only wants to help. I...I think he might care for you.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue, honestly. Emma had impressed him right away with her tenacity and intolerance to his bullshit; very few had seen through him so easily and it was oddly refreshing to not have to put up a front with someone. Her subsequent betrayal stung more that he was willing to let on—just another reminder of why he closed himself off.

But he couldn’t let Cora know she was right. So he settled with a casual, “Nice touch, that.”

She dropped her arm that held the heart and turned back to him. “You know, she won't trust you.”

He was already well aware of that. “She doesn't have to. All I need is her to believe that I was genuine letting the girl go. Which, in a way, she does now. You're welcome.”

She pocketed the heart and came closer, then pulled his hook back from the other side of her skirts, where she’d stashed it earlier. He couldn't tell, though, if she meant to give it back or not.

Fine, then, He could start things. “Now, can we go on with the business going to Storybrooke? Together?” He attempted to lean forward, but the restraints held fast.

“Alas, I’m afraid I still can’t do that, Hook.”

His heart fell into his stomach. “Why the bloody hell not?”

“You think this proved anything?” she countered. “All it did was show me you’re a good lap dog to whoever will give you the most. Tell me truthfully: were you actually going to team up with her and leave me behind?”

“No,” he answered, but even he didn't believe his lie. He had been honest when he told them they were better—and safer—company; the present situation was proof enough.

She got closer and started swinging his hook on her finger, and he was noting the gleam of malice in her dark eyes. 

“There's no room for error, here, Hook, and I'm afraid you’ve committed one too many now. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a bootlicker.”

Rage ran through his veins. “That's what you think I am? A kiss-arse?”

“Something along those lines. It’s pathetic, really.”

“I’ll show you pathetic,” he snarled, trying again to spring free but the binds held firm. Those words may have described him once, but that was a lifetime ago. 

Cora just laughed at him. “Tell you what: how about I just put you out of your misery now and save you the embarrassment?”

“What?” 

Before he could think further, sharp pain erupted in his chest. She’d stabbed him—with his own hook. Briefly, she twisted it in his flesh, drawing an involuntary yell, before yanking it out; immediately, he felt blood seeping from the fresh wound.

Then she did it again. And again. And again, twice more, in a circle above his heart, cutting deeper each time into the muscle of his chest and extracting deeper screams and more blood with every one. He tried to slump to the floor, to relieve any of the pain, but the stone cuffs wouldn’t let him.

“Please,” he panted. “If you want to kill me, just crush my heart.” He’d asked for that once and been denied; maybe this time would be different.

“But where's the fun in that? You’ll bleed out so much slower this way.”

“Witch,” he cursed.

“Yes, that’s accurate,” she agreed. “But they don't call me the Queen of Hearts for nothing. Each of these stab points is just outside the heart—not enough to kill you outright, but able to draw the most pain.”

She stabbed him once more, right above the heart—not as deep, but she dragged this one a bit. “And they do bleed an awful lot.”

With a wave of her hand, the restraints finally disappeared, and he fell to the floor in a graceless heap. She tossed his hook on the ground, where it landed a few feet away.

“Well, it's been nice knowing you. Sorry about the revenge thing, but surely you understand where I'm coming from.”

The sad thing was: he did. He wouldn't let her have the last word. “I hope you fail,” he panted out, even though every word sent a searing pain through his chest. “I hope they manage to get the better of you and you never see your daughter again.”

“Unlikely,” she answered. “See you in the Underworld someday.” Then she disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

He gave himself one long moment to dwell on the pain, which got worse with each heartbeat. He placed his hand on his chest and his fingers came back dripping red.

He had two options here: let death come, which would be easiest, but certainly the least fulfilling. Or.

Or.

He could seek out the band of princesses and pray they'd take pity on him. Emma would believe him—she’d know right away if he was lying, and despite what she might believe, he’d been truthful with her thus far. But that was the only way he could think of to survive this, and his only chance now of getting his revenge.

It took far more effort than he cared to expend, but after a few staggering tries, he was upright, leaning on a wall and panting with his hand clinging to his chest, pressing on it as much as he could to staunch the flow. “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself as he took a step forward, then another, and kept going until he was out in the dusky forest. 

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

“And here I am now,” he breathed, but his breaths were getting more and more labored.

“Why should I believe any of that?” Emma asked, pressing just a bit harder on his wounds. What kind of fool did he take her for? How did she know he didn't stab himself?

“Am I lying?” he asked, his voice getting weaker.

She wanted to confirm that he was, but nowhere in that tall tale had her bullshit detector gone off. Dammit. “No,” she conceded.

“I promise, I want to help.”

She swallowed. “So you were telling the truth when you said that to Aurora?”

His brow furrowed. “I wasn't then, but I am now.”

Still true.

“Please, Swan; help me here, and I promise I'll do everything I can to get you back to your boy.”

Even in the shadows, she could see the sincerity in his blue eyes. And really, it was her fault Cora did this in the first place; the least she could do was make sure he didn’t die. 

“Okay,” she said with a nod.

He gave her half a smile, but that was the most he seemed to be able to muster. And then he winced again, but he also gave a low groan.

“Alright, what do we need to do?”

“He needs stitches.” Emma nearly jumped; Mary Margaret was standing over her shoulder, looking down on both of them.

“Oh my god, how long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” she answered, then knelt next to them. “We need to clean and disinfect the wounds, then stitch them up. I should have a needle somewhere, but I'm low on thread, unless you're okay with powder blue, Hook.”

“Sounds lovely, milady,” he answered, oddly politely.

“Okay. I’ll get that; not sure how we can disinfect it, though.”

Emma winced at her own memory, but she knew what they had to do. “He’s got rum.”

“That'll have to work.”

Hook groaned, but she wasn't sure it was in general, or at what was about to come.

Mary Margaret ran to her bag quietly to get supplies, and Emma turned her attention back to Hook. “Where's your flask?” 

His hand began searching, eventually pulling it out of a hidden pocket in his vest. “I suppose this will be payback, eh?”

“I guess.” She uncorked the flask—with her hand, even though the memory of him using his mouth was something she wouldn’t admit to finding attractive—and pulled back her other hand from his chest. His blood had soaked through the scarf and was definitely all over her palm, but she had to set it aside and pushed back his shirt the rest of the way, fully exposing that half of his (very nice) chest. “Okay; think you can keep the volume down?”

He gave a curt nod. “I’ll try.”

She took a deep breath and then, before she could think about it any longer, poured. His entire face clenched in pain, but he didn't let out any more than a high-pitched whimper as she sanitized the area. She didn’t miss the tears now running down his cheeks, but she wouldn’t say a thing about it. She definitely knew a thing or two about dealing with pain on your own.

She found a clean corner of the blood-soaked rag and managed to get the punctures as clear as possible just as her mother was threading the needle. “Yeah, those are deep,” Mary Margaret said. “This may take a bit. Don’t pass out on me, Hook.”

“I’ll try.”

He was pretty brave as the needle first went in. But it became obvious that he was putting on a brave face as they continued on. His hand was in a fist so tight that she could see the white of his knuckles even in the dark.

She’d been there—she totally had, especially when she’d given birth to Henry. She’d had a death grip on the edge of the hospital bed and would have given anything for a hand to hold. 

Even if that was a significantly more painful experience, and surely Hook had dealt with worse when he lost his hand, it still wasn't a pain she’d wish on anything. So she placed her hand on top of his fist, working her fingers into his grip until he loosened it enough for them to slip in.

Once he realized what she was doing, his gaze darted up to hers—definitely in surprise. She gave him a small smile back and squeezed his hand.

His face relaxed and he gave a light squeeze back.

It didn't take very long for Mary Margaret to get him stitched up; Emma expected it to take all night, but clearly, her mother had first aid experience beyond whatever was required of an elementary school teacher. But that—and all of her mother's survival skills—were a conversation for another day.

“That should do it,” she said softly, gently patting the last suture. “Thanks for being a good patient.”

“Are you a healer or something in this other realm?” he asked, clearly feeling a bit better now that he wasn’t losing blood.

“Nope. I learned all that here. Now get some rest. You too, Emma.”

Emma was going to protest, but a yawn betrayed her. “You've got next watch?”

“I'm on it. And I'll try to head the other two off in the morning.”

Oh, thank God; Emma did not want to be the one to explain this recent change in allegiances—or the present location of Aurora’s heart; hopefully her mother also knew diplomatic ways to hold off an assasination attempt by Mulan.

“Sleep tight,” Mary Margaret said as she stood, then bent down to place a kiss on Emma’s head. The warmth she felt from it was foreign, but also something shed craved her entire life.

But, as Mary Margaret walked away, Emma suddenly felt awkward now that it was just her and Hook. And she needed sleep. 

“Okay, I’ll just hop over there—”

“Stay?” Hook interrupted, quietly and so innocently, a softness in his blue eyes she hadn't seen before.

Well, fuck. How could she say no to that?

“O-okay,” she said, nodding like a bobblehead, and shifted down to lay next to him. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Don't die tonight, alright?”

“I shouldn’t,” he said, sincerely.

“Good.”

She settled on her back, staring up at the unfamiliar stars through the trees.

“What, no good night kiss?” he teased; she could feel his eyes on her.

“Go to sleep,” she tossed back, but turned her head away from him so he couldn't see her smirk. It was probably a good sign that he was already back to his annoying flirtatious ways.

It didn't take long for his gentle snores to sound out. And as she too drifted off, all she could think was that, maybe someday, he’d get that kiss.

But first, they had to get home. 

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

thanks for reading! tagging some friends: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis

[theawkwardterrier]

Beneath the Flap

Steggy Week 2k19, day 4 Prompt: AUs and crossovers

Summary: The serum doesn’t work out as planned. Steve gets a new role in the SSR.

AO3 link here.

With Dr. Erskine dead, no one can entirely explain why the serum worked, or why Steve woke up the next morning to find that it had entirely stopped working and left him just as he had been before. The vein in Colonel Phillips’ neck gets a worryingly energetic workout as he moves between yelling at Steve (again) for getting himself on the front page, and yelling at Howard for having created a single super soldier for about twelve hours and now not even that.

“What’s done,” Agent Carter says firmly from her place against the wall behind the desk, “is done. And I think, sir, that we all just need to move forward. We’re still meant to fly to London, I presume?” She doesn’t give Steve more than a casual glance, but he still appreciates her speaking up on his behalf.

“The three of us are,” Phillips says, moving on to a more businesslike crabbiness. “But now I don’t have many options for what to do with this one.”

Steve stands as straight as he can now that his scoliosis is back. “Sir, I’d like to reiterate my request to come to London with you.”

Phillips gives a snorting little laugh. “‘Reiterate your request.’ Son, I’d like to remind you that I turned you down yesterday during your fifteen minutes of being Charles Atlas. Now you’re back to being a shrimpy little thing who barely survived basic? I’m sorry, but the senator doesn’t want you on his plate, and neither do I. We’ll just have to see if the lab boys will still take you.”

Stark steps forward. “Actually, I’d like to keep looking at him. At this point, I’m the most familiar with the process. Maybe by figuring out what went wrong here, I can figure out how to get it working again.” Phillips still looks dubious, so he adds, “Might be able to make it more broadly applicable, get the whole program working like we had wanted.”

There’s a split second where Steve thinks the answer will be no, but then Phillips says gruffly, “Alright, pack your bags. But Stark, this had absolutely better not interfere with your other work.”

“It’ll be a side project,” Stark swears, raising a hand.

“And perhaps when Private Rogers is not being a test subject, we could find him some other duties,” adds Agent Carter, and while it’s phrased as a suggestion, it borders on an order. Phillips looks amused so briefly Steve isn’t entirely sure he saw right, but then points a finger at Agent Carter.

“You’re right, Agent. I suppose I can find him something else to take care of.”

“Like I said, most people are pretty good by now about keeping it clean,” says Private Allen, “but if you catch something…” She snips her scissors through the air over the shared square desk in their back office in demonstration.

Steve eyes his pair warily. Sure, he’s had his own mail censored, he knows that. But being the censor is different. Time of war, he reminds himself, and winces at what a slippery slope that is.

Once he gets started, though, he finds that it is pretty easy, just as Private Allen had said. Most of the folks detailed to the SSR know how to keep a secret, and the stuff they write to siblings or sweethearts or fellow soldiers is pedestrian - about the food, or how they're feeling, or the guy in the next bunk who talks in his sleep. Steve snorts reading through the half dozen letters Corporal Daniels has copied out exactly to different girls at different addresses, and rolls his eyes at the way Private Ellerby describes his duties to his mother with a sort of loftiness that is entirely unearned by the guy in charge of divvying out new boots.

He hasn't even touched his scissors, and hasn't entirely realized the morning has passed when Allen says, "One more each and then we'll go have some lunch?" and he agrees.

Dear Kitty, says the letter that he opens next

The weather isn't exactly welcoming, but it is nice to see familiar scenery again. I know things might wear for you a bit, seeing the inside of the same four walls most of the time, but it wears on me sometimes not to always know where I'm going to hang my hat from one night to the next.

(Not that I wear my uniform hat very often - it gives me a bit too much of a jaunty recruitment poster look - but you'll forgive a turn of phrase, I hope?)

Steve laughs a little, and Allen, not looking up from her own letter, asks, "Is that one of Patterson's? If he's trying to hint again about what he’s packing down below, I'll tell you that he's certainly exaggerating." Steve waves her off and continues.

Things haven't been going quite as smoothly as I'd wished - we lost an excellent man recently, and in some senses more - but we go on. I'll be travelling a bit and I'm not sure where, but I'm sure the service will do its best to make sure that your letters find me. I know that you enjoy a good chat more than sitting down to compose a letter, but I'll ask your favor in continuing to write. Since Michael— the writer censors herself, a thick black line drawn through whatever she had written next. Steve refrains from holding it up to the light to try to identify the words.

Hearing news from old friends always brings a smile to my face, and reminds me that we aren't fighting alone. And, of course, your care packages are always appreciated. The one you sent last time was a treat. The Body in the Library and a pair of your hoarded Dairy Milks were just what I needed - bless you, and twice again!

As for the issue we spoke about last time we were together, I'd ask that you remember to speak up. I know you think that you were brought on only because you are excellent at adding numbers together in your head, but I'll remind you that the skill is more than that and I wasn't the only one who noticed. Mr. G can certainly build a head of steam, but steam is simply the venting of heat and we’ll all be better off if you hold your ground, wait for it to dissipate, and make sure that he understands what you're saying. I appreciate knowing that people like you are helping us work through our problems, and I'll sleep even better at night if you would push through the stubbornness of others and allow your solutions to truly shine. You are brilliant, you've been right more often than nearly anyone, and if they aren't going to listen, you must make them.

I'll leave off my scolding here (I am still holding out for something sweet next time, after all) but remember that I'm thinking of you even through everything else. Speak out, Kit!

Much love,

Peggy

When he comes to the signature, something in him isn't surprised. It isn't that he and Agent Carter are best friends - little could be further from the truth - but the letter shows the tenacity and intelligence and subversive bits of humor that he has already noticed in her. The handwriting is clear and readable, although there's a bit of a patchwork quality to its composition, a smudging to the ink in some places, that makes him think that it was dashed off in odd moments, pieced together as she found the time, and that touches him too: the thought of her remembering to jot down advice and comfort to a friend even with everything he’s seen her taking care of. He notices the places where she'd done her job for him too - "the issue we spoke about last time," “Mr. G” - and his eyes move again to the thick black slash in the center of the page. There's still a place or two where he should probably do a bit of a snip (the reference to Erskine's death is on the borderline), but he decides to let it slide. Steve was chosen for this job, as much as Phillips had chosen him for anything, because he had knowledge of some of the SSR's most top secret work and would be able to pick up references to it. Someone without that knowledge, though, wouldn't understand what was truly being said.

Or at least that's what Steve tells himself as he slips the letter, whole and untouched, back into its envelope, marks it with his censor’s label, and places it in the box set aside for mailing.

"Time for lunch?" Allen asks, getting to her feet, and Steve, considering whether he’ll have time to eat and still run out to find a bookshop with Agatha Christie, agrees.

Kitty -

Just a brief note to wish you a happy birthday. Imagine me singing if you’d like, though I think we both know that it isn’t truly a strong point of mine.

Considering geography, weather, battle lines, the whims of fate, etc., I’m not entirely certain that this will reach you before your next birthday, but hopefully my gift will arrive in a timelier manner (it needs some more particular handling than a letter; you’ll understand my meaning when you receive it).

I hope everyone there is planning to celebrate you properly. And if they’re still reluctant to have a real party there after the one they threw for me and Fred, please pass on from me that I don’t actually consider what happened between us a tragedy and that things in fact are looking even better for me now than they were then - in more ways than one, actually.

I know it seems a bit defensive, but speaking honestly, Kit, I look back on the person I was then and it’s as if I only dreamed being her.

Anyway, you can pass on my official lifting of the curse, along with my greetings to everyone (except Noreen - we both know why). But many happy returns mostly to you, Kitty. I hope things look even better at this time next year for all of us.

Best, Peg

“So why did they pick you for this detail?” Steve asks as they sit at their traditional table in the mess.

“I’m usually in the secretarial pool,” says Rainy. Maybe it’s not professional and he should still be calling her Private Allen, but she’d told him her nickname and he figures they’re friends now. “It was in my file that I speak French, and after the last girl who did got married, they asked me to step in. You know that we can’t just pass through letters because there’s no one to understand them.” Steve is meant to be taking a similar role for the SSR’s secret and science-related assignments - last week he’d finally been given some heightened clearance, and several encyclopedias worth of classified files to read - but sometimes he wonders if assigning him the letters not actually written in English would be more effective.

Rainy pushes away her plate, the little leftover lump of stew, with its approximate meat and perhaps once potatoes, jiggling slightly. She examines her bread, crinkling her mouth, but butters it anyway. Steve doesn’t take any such issue. Meals here are served on time and in what he considers plentiful quantities. Plus the doctor who’d done his physical when he’d arrived had put him on some sort of extra milk ration in an attempt to “get some heft on these bones of yours” (and given him the glasses he’d known for years he’d needed and also known he couldn’t afford). Steve can still sometimes grasp the feeling of those hours of having been taller, broader, of not struggling to breathe, of having a straight spine and eyes that just worked. But even without all that magical science he had hoped would change things, being a little guy in the army he’s in some ways better off than he’s ever been.

“Everyone from secretarial who has the night off is going to the pictures after supper, if you want to come,” offers Rainy. “They want to see Mrs. Miniver, but I have the feeling I’ll end up crying. I’d much rather see Yankee Doodle Dandy, but I’ve been outvoted again.” She puts on a little pout, which makes Steve laugh.

“Getting your performance ready?” he asks, and Rainy sticks her tongue out at him.

“The girls are much harder to convince than boys ever were,” she reflects, sighing as she tosses hair that Steve can now see clearly is a bouncy and beautiful blonde wave. With the glasses to help him actually pick up on details, he itches for his sketchbook and pencils more than ever. Rainy really does have a fascinating face, beautiful if not classically so, brimming with confidence and a bit of mystery. He wonders if he could get her to sit for him.

“Steve, are you going to answer the question, or are you just going to stare?”

“Sorry.” He decides to ask her later, maybe after the film and the inevitable follow-up visit to a pub. “I’d love to come. Thanks for asking me.”

She stands to clear her dishes. “Well, everyone’s been wondering about you, so coming out tonight and meeting them might settle the questions.”

He knew that he stuck out among the staff here. The only surprise is that no one’s confronted him yet about how he’d gotten in. “So what’s everyone been saying?” He gulps down the last of his prescription milk and stands too.

“Top theory is that you’re the secret son of some higher up,” she tells him seriously, and he almost drops his tray.

“Which one?”

“Most people are split between Marshall and Nimitz, and there are some who are sure it’s actually Phillips, but I think Hap Arnold’s the best looking, so that’s where my money is.” She elbows him as they finish scraping and sorting their plates. “Want to give a pal the real story so I can get a jump on things?”

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable even as he’s amused by her matter-of-fact tone. “Someone took pity on me, I guess. Not a general though, and certainly not Phillips.”

There’s that theatrical nature again: Rainy looks disappointed only for a beat before she perks back up again, says, “We’ve got to come up with something better than that by tonight,” and starts proposing stories as they walk back to the censorship office.

Agent Carter is seated at a table by the back wall. For a second, Steve thinks he sees her eyes following him, and actually considers waving to her although they haven’t spoken since he’s been here. But then he blinks and she is just eating absently while paging through a file on the table in front of her.

Maybe the glasses just don’t work as well as he thought they did. He goes back to work, trying to forget the moment that he had apparently just imagined.

Steve starts saving her letters until the end of the day. He knows that it isn’t exactly professional of him, but he can't help but want to savor them. He tells himself it's alright - he doesn't give special treatment to all her letters, only those to Kit. The dutiful missives to her parents, those that go to the other relatives and acquaintances with whom she occasionally corresponds - they are all read and processed in the order he comes across them, just as he does with all the rest of his load. But when he comes across one addressed in her now-familiar handwriting to Katherine Moore, he tucks it aside, uses it as an incentive to get through another day of the work that wears and weighs on him more and more.

He is angry at himself, that all he wanted to do was make a real contribution to the war effort and here he is in the heart of it all and still it isn't enough for him. He is angrier that he has given up asking Phillips for more that it seems he will never receive. And he lies guiltily in his bunk at night thinking about how much he loves reading over Peggy's writing, hating that he thinks of her as Peggy now only because he's listened in on her talking to a friend. Sure, it's his job, and sure, she must know that someone would be doing it, but it doesn't give him the right to take so much joy in it. No one else would give them more than a cursory glance - they're perfectly ordinary letters on the face of it; whoever reads Kit's letters on the other end probably doesn't remember them by the time they're through - but Steve can't help it. When he forgets himself, he wonders what she is going to say the next time, what little turn of phrase will make him laugh, what observation will make him think, what detail she will reveal about her life that will only make him fall for her further.

Dear Kitty,

When I said that you should speak out, I had no idea that I would be encouraging you to do so against me. I am proud of you, however. Excellent preparation for the next time someone tries to speak over one of your ideas (and we both know there will come a next time).

You say that you're ashamed that I'm happier now during wartime than I would have been otherwise. Sometimes I'm ashamed at it myself. But then I remember that it is not my choice to make it better for many women in Britain now than it was when we were at peace. Yes, the franchise has been extended by a lordly and reluctant hand, but I'll remind you that it was through strenuous efforts on the parts of our mothers (well, not mine, perhaps) both in civil protest and in another time of war. Do you truly think you would have been allowed to learn higher maths, the advanced calculus over which I despair and in which you so revel, to truly exercise your brilliant mind, had the opportunity at B— (she's blacked out the name, although Steve has read enough of his classified files to insert "Bletchley Park"; he snips carefully to take out the redaction completely) not been opened to you? Do you think that I would have been allowed to show what I was truly made of in a world where women were meant to aspire only to a man, home, and family - and where a nice man, a fitting man, was neither required, nor encouraged in developing?

This war has devastated me, Kit. I've seen its ravages more closely than you can imagine and they terrify and sicken me, and make me even more determined. I am doing absolutely everything in my power to make sure it comes to as clean, fast, and righteous an end as can be hoped for at this point. But I would make myself a liar to my own mind and to you if I ignored the ways that it has given me things that I never would have had, showed me things I might not have discovered until too late otherwise.

I would trade my life for the war to be over. I would trade my life for it to never have started. But it has, it is here, and it has opened doors that would have remained firmly shut - and I know not only for me.

Peggy

P.S. Had a report from Hew that you're in high spirits, and that you were very thankful for the birthday gift - I will politely refrain from imagining how you might have showed your appreciation. Don't worry, it wasn't hard to have him reassigned to courier duty in line with your special day, and I’m sure I’ll have another urgent message to send along with him. Perhaps just around New Year’s?

“What are you sighing about?” Rainy asks, eyes almost crossing as she focuses on cutting out some single incriminating word inconsiderately placed in the exact center of the page.

Steve hadn’t even realized he had been sighing. “It’s nothing,” he says, thinking about how Peggy had so perfectly, so precisely and vehemently, expressed something he had felt himself and felt terrible for feeling, something he had never been quite sure how to say.

It made him feel a little less lonely. He wonders what she would say if he went up to her and said, “That strange and awful kind of lucky feeling? I understand it too.” Probably she wouldn’t say anything, just wonder who in the hell he was and get him shipped back home.

It might be worth it, though, just to see her in real life again, instead of the vague paper outline he has to conjure up every time he reads her words.

“Now I’m not calling this a solution,” Stark says as Steve buttons up his shirt and smiles at the nurse slipping out of the exam room. “But I’ll comfortably consider it a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough that came totally by accident,” Steve points out.

“So did X-rays and the Toll House cookie.” Howard grins unconcernedly and claps his hands together. Steve’s been coming to see him every week or two for the last three months and he’s never looked this delighted with the progress. And it wasn’t even Howard who did anything: apparently a lab tech had brought one of the portable sun lamps which are so popular at headquarters over to his work station where he had a couple of vials of Steve’s blood.

“And you’re sure the ultraviolet in there caused some sort of reaction?” Steve asks.

“That’s the theory as of now. We’ll keep running isolation tests but,” Howard smacks a file gleefully against his palm, “the samples that were exposed to the UV look almost identical to the ones we had taken right after the procedure.”

“And you think you’ll really be able to get things back to how they were?”

For a minute, Howard looks more cautious. “I don’t want to get your hopes too far up, pal. It’s looking good, real good, but this really was Erskine’s baby and I’m just the understudy here. I don’t want to make any promises.”

“How much longer are you looking at for testing?”

“If it goes well, maybe another month and we’d be ready to try again. You still willing?”

Steve tries to give a simple nod, nothing overeager, nothing to jinx it. Last time had turned out to be too good to be true, but maybe this time… “Come find me when you’re ready.”

“Good enough.” The door opens, and Howard’s secretary enters. “Good to see you, sweetheart,” Howard tells her in that smarmy tone of his as she hands him a stack of papers to sign with a smile. He nods to Steve, who says, “Hi, Millie,” and sees himself out.

He’d told Rainy a couple of weeks back that he didn’t understand why girls like Millie put up with that kind of stuff from people like Howard or worse, and she’d just laughed and said, “Of course you don’t. The thing of it is, Steve, when this war finally gets done, most of us are going to have to go back to the way things were, which means that this is a perfect time to find a half decent husband. You have to keep smiling to keep the options open, even with the beasts around base.”

“Why would you want to settle for half decent?”

Her smile turned slightly brittle at the corners. “It’s not really about want, more about what’s going to have to happen. There aren’t as many nice men as you might think. I have standards - I keep my ear to the ground, so never anyone with a wife or a fiancee or a steady, and no one who’s given another girl a problem - but I have to jump on it, or I’ll be back home with a dud or everyone whispering about what I might have gotten up to with all these men here.”

Steve didn’t even feel overly affronted by the remark - he’d spent his whole life firmly in the dud category when it came to women, and at least Rainy was his friend - but something must have shown in his face because she’d pointed a finger and said, “You’re lucky I haven’t jumped you, honestly, but it’s pretty obvious that you’re taken, considering all the sighing and mooning you do when her letters come through here.”

“What do you—I’m not—I don’t moon.” But she was already grabbing a letter off her desk and staring at it with big dopey blinks, heaving her shoulders about and taking in huge, dramatic breaths, occasionally letting out a little ha-ha-ha chuckle. He guessed that it was probably a pretty decent impression of him reading one of Peggy’s letters, but he wished he wasn’t so obvious about it.

He’s not exactly being subtle now, but he never is on the way back from his appointments with Howard. He doesn’t get many other opportunities to wander around with his eyes casually peeled - usually he’s meant to either be working, at chow, or in his bunk, not moving through the more essential and top-secret SSR areas where people like Howard and Phillips and Agent Carter do their work.

He’s distracted from thoughts of getting a glimpse of her when he comes across the huge map that dominates the tactical room. He tries to just peep from the corners of his eyes as he strolls through, but even with his new glasses he can’t see quite that well. Then again, no one’s around at the moment, the last of the SSR personnel striding out with a stack of folders and not even a glance at Steve. He takes advantage, placing his hands at the edge of the massive model as his gaze sweeps over the little markers that represent troops and bases. He frowns, and not only because those little wooden figures are too insignificant for what they’re meant to stand in for: Bucky and his friends, people who Steve grew up with, millions of exhausted and foolish and jubilant soldiers, each with their own past and future. How can a war ever end when all the people fighting it are reduced to game pieces? How can a war ever end when the people in charge are overlooking something so major?

“That’s not right,” he mutters to himself.

“What isn’t right, Private?”

He spins, not quite believing that she is here, that he didn’t sense her behind him or at least hear her heels approaching.

“Your map’s wrong,” he blurts, thinking of the way Bucky would cover his face in embarrassment because even after all that tutelage Steve still couldn’t get a simple sentence out to impress a lady.

Her mouth twitches upward, just the left side, and she lifts a meaningful brow at him. “I did well at geography and I’m fairly certain that we’ve labeled everything correctly.”

“It’s not that.” He gestures to the Alps between Italy and Austria. “Why isn’t there a fortress marked there?”

“Why should there be?”

She is studying him intently now and he stumbles a bit with his words before getting back on track. “You’ve got a half dozen units which have encountered Hydra troops in a pretty small area and a short time span. They have to be coming from somewhere, and I’d say the likeliest place given the information is about here.”

“I’ve been informed by experts in six different disciplines that it’s absolutely impossible for someone to build anything there because of the bloody great mountains on either side. And until we can get further aerial surveillance of the site, it’s known around here as Agent Carter’s magical base theory,” she says with a wry bit of challenge in her eye. He just shrugs.

“I don’t know about magic, but I do know that logic dictates an enemy base around that location. And besides, isn’t this a rogue Nazi science operation we’re talking about? Maybe they could come up with a way around the problem of...what was that? ‘Bloody great mountains?’”

"Cheeky," she says quietly, but she's smiling as she does, and the affection in her tone startles him and turns something sour in his belly. Because she's here talking to him as an equal without knowing that he's been peering into her private thoughts, mulling over and coveting them in a way he doesn't with anyone else's feelings. If she knew that, she would probably never look at him with politeness much less friendliness.

"I should get back," he says abruptly, and he shoves his hands into his uniform pockets and finds the first exit he can.

Kit!

The news came through the grapevine before Hew arrived back - I should have known that soldiers would be such massive gossips, but honestly - which is how I've gotten this letter out in the early post.

Congratulations to the both of you. I know you have that lovely rose-covered church back home that will make the perfect spot for the ceremony - even if you decide on a winter wedding, everything will look absolutely picturesque all draped in snow. And while Hew might argue for Edinburgh, I do encourage you - as always - to put your foot down. Although goodness knows you would merely have to think about a trinket you saw on holiday as a child and the man would already be crawling on his knees over the ocean to fetch it for you. He really is a darling where you're concerned, and I say you couldn't be luckier.

I certainly have no wish to intrude on your happiness, but you did ask about my own romantic prospects, and I'm afraid to report that they're a bit stalled at the moment. (I don't wish to ruin things further, but "grim" might be putting it better, if I'm to be frank.) I wasn't actively seeking a single thing in that area, and I think you’re well aware how thin on the ground suitable prospects are, especially someone who would find me suitable in return. (If Fred was frightened off by a bit of light introductory work, he would barely give me the time of day in my current position.)

But then the man I’ve been writing about came across my path and I could suddenly think of little else. Do you recall the letter your sister sent years back describing the Ideal Man, the one we all laughed over that night until we couldn't breathe? I know it’s a silly old thing, but I keep thinking to myself that he ticks each box: kindness and compassion, intelligence, respect for who I am and what I stand for, looks (it must be mentioned), and that special something that works its magic on you in particular...Things are a bit sticky, given our relative positions, and he seems rather dense about the whole thing, but those factors could be overcome. We had a conversation recently that made me think he thought of me in the same way. However, it ended with a definite rejection, and I have seen him many times in close company with a woman, so I wonder if he is perhaps very privately spoken for. I'm nearly ready to give up, if you'd like the truth.

I know. You're the romantic of the two of us, Kitty, and I can practically hear you telling me to seize the day and not rest until I've properly done the job.

I suppose that attitude is why you are the once announcing an engagement and I'm the one moping over people who don't seem to notice a thing.

I'll take the advice, if I can. After all, I would never want to upset the bride before her nuptials.

All my love and best wishes,

Peggy

Well, Steve thinks, swallowing hard as he sets the letter down. That's that. She's had her eye on someone else this entire time and he was a fool to think he ever had a chance. This man is a fool, too, for not seeing the chance he has.

He still finds a smile for Kit: he's never met her, never even read one of her letters, but Peggy's warmth for her has sparked the same within himself. He hopes that she and Hew are happy, that they both make it through and have a chance at a life together.

"Take a walk, Rogers," Rainy tells him kindly. "You're going to fog up the windows with all your sighing, and it's still first thing in the morning."

"No," Steve says, biting down on the wave of sadness inside of himself. Even the letters, illicit as they were, aren't safe anymore. "I can work." He’ll have to get used to it sooner or later.

He starts looking out for the man who has Peggy’s heart. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until he catches himself staring with furrowed brow at a letter from Corporal Lewis, who he thinks he’s seen talking to her a couple of times. He tries to recall whether he’d noticed between them that particular magic she’d mentioned. He imagines he’d know what it looks like: it’s what he’s felt looking at her, all the way back to Camp Lehigh. With a precision that surprises him, he can recall the quiet amusement, the perfect red upturn of her mouth as she’d smiled at him when he’d climbed into the back of her jeep. The memory of it still makes him smile now, even as he knows that it’s the sort of thing that will have to keep him going from now on.

“Private Rogers.”

He snaps to attention, dropping the letter and saluting from the crisp, commanding tone even before he quite registers who’s addressing him.

“Agent Carter.” He flounders for a minute. “This is Rainy. Private Lorraine. Private Allen, I mean.”

“Private.” Peggy nods at her, but Rainy is too busy letting her eyebrows climb into her hair and mouthing “Is that her?!” at Steve as he tries to subtly wave her off. Unbelievable that he once thought her sophisticated and composed.

“Perhaps we might speak in the corridor? I wouldn’t want to distract Private Allen from her work.”

Steve can practically feel Rainy’s wide eyes on his back as he holds the door for Agent Carter and follows her out into the hallway. He expects that his friend will have her thumbscrews waiting when he comes back.

“Rainy would have let you distract her all day,” he says, trying for a laugh as they find a quiet place around the corner, but Peggy only presses her lips together and says, “Indeed.”

After a space of silence, still waiting for her to speak, he suddenly has an inkling of why he’s been called out here. She’s smart, Agent Carter, and she’s somehow figured out that reading her letters is the best part of any given day, that he sometimes reads them through two or three times before sending them on. She’s probably letting him stew in it, waiting for him to confess. “Was there something you wanted to speak with me about?” he asks through the clenching of his lungs and throat. He stands very straight even as a thread of sweat slides slowly between his uniformed shoulder blades.

“I did.” She gathers something within herself and starts, “Steve—” before he cuts her off.

“Yes, I’ve been reading your letters,” he blurts, barely registering the use of his first name. “It’s my job, but just doing your job is no excuse, and it certainly doesn’t let me off the hook for the way I read them. So I understand if you won’t ever trust me, but I just wanted us to both know.” He lets the last of his breath go as he trails off and faces her like a firing squad.

“Of course you’ve been reading my letters,” she says with what he thinks is a little smile on her face. “All of the higher level SSR correspondence is distributed to you.”

“You knew?” It feels as if he’s six steps behind and he doesn’t quite know how to make his brain catch up.

“Yes. Just as I know that you aren’t particularly good at the job. Agnes who empties your wastepaper basket says that the others in the department are full while you barely ever seem to have anything thrown away.”

“People don’t speak out of turn too often,” he says uncomfortably, but then adds with a bit more fire, “And there’s also the little matter of free speech, unless we just decided to hell with the whole Constitution around the same time we locked up all the Japanese folks.”

“Not quite,” and she’s certainly smiling now, eyes softened at the corners. “It sounds, however, as if you aren’t entirely satisfied in your current position. I was wondering whether we might put your skills to better use elsewhere.” She holds up a file folder he hadn’t even noticed before and flips it open to show far off shots of snow and dirt and trees and an incongruous steel fortress. “The surveillance flights came back. The Hydra base in the Alps is no longer simply my pet theory.”

He can’t help the way his voice picks up, turns serious and strangely professional, as if he’s really part of it all. “So you’re formulating an attack plan?”

“We have something in the works,” she says briefly. “And I actually— Well, I was here to offer you a chance to be involved.”

“In strategy? With you?”

“It would be nice,” she says slowly, “to work with someone with a mind of his own. Someone who can listen.”

Steve’s instinct is to glance around to make sure there’s no one else there she could be referring to. He smothers it, but ends up pointing stupidly to his own chest, which isn’t much better. “Are you sure—Do you really mean me?”

“Who would I be speaking of otherwise?” She tilts her head at him, a bit of hesitance to the motion. That’s not like Peggy, he thinks, and it’s so strange that he knows that she is cautious only in a tactical way when this is one of a bare handful of conversations between them. “Steve, you have been reading my letters, haven’t you? Even the most recent ones?”

A disbelieving little snort escapes him. “You can go back and ask Rainy that question and she’ll laugh herself sick.”

“Is she—Are you...in a relationship?”

“No,” he says in careful confusion, and then adds recklessly, “She says she wouldn’t even take a chance on a guy as hung up as I am on...someone else.”

He remembers the way that remade body of his had reacted, careening around corners, rushing too fast for control. That’s how he feels now, on an edge too rapidly, recklessly, approached. He’d always accepted that he wasn’t exactly a catch for any girl, no matter what Bucky had insisted, and he’d made himself stop caring about it all, given up reaching. Except for now, apparently. Except for her.

She says, “If you’ve read the letters, why would you assume I meant anyone else? Unless—” and something is dawning on him, terrifying and bright and impossible: the idea that she is reaching back.

“Why wouldn’t you just say something?” It’s bewildering to even ask the question, to even be entertaining the possibility that this is what she meant, but she acts as if it isn’t.

“I thought I was, after a fashion,” and he thinks he sees a bit of a blush rising in her cheeks. “Apparently I hadn’t taken into account your obtuseness.”

“And you still want someone that obtuse on your team?” The words contain too much yearning hope for them to simply be about a new army assignment.

“A little obtuseness can be charming, under the correct circumstances,” she says, and he hadn’t noticed that they were so close until a door slams down the hall and they shift apart as if they’re being chaperoned.

“Why don’t we say you report to me at 0800 tomorrow?” She folds the file against her chest with one arm. He has a sudden, delightful image of Peggy as she would have been at school. “I’ll have you officially reassigned by then.”

He nods. “Rainy’s going to be furious. She says it took long enough to break me in, she’s not going to be pleased to have to do it to someone else.”

“Yes, well, I think it’s someone else’s turn to break you in.” Even with her bland, businesslike tone, he feels the tips of his ears glowing from the insinuation.

“Just so I’m aware, how does—” He clears his throat. “How does Colonel Phillips feel about his people becoming...friendly under his watch?”

“Oh, he takes it about as well as you’d expect,” she says casually. “If he finds out about it.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky to have a crack SSR agent on my side.”

Her eyes meet his, and he sees his foolish grin echoed in hers for the moment she allows it. Watching her tuck it away and become professional again only makes him smile wider.

“I’ll see you in a timely manner tomorrow, Private, or I’ll be sending you a strongly worded letter.”

“That doesn’t give me much incentive,” he tells her honestly. “I’d love any kind of letter of my own from you.”

A week later he gets back to his bunk and finds an envelope tucked beneath the blanket addressed in familiar handwriting. He doesn’t even know how she got it there - he’d just left her after a strategy session and her announcement that they would be traveling to visit troops on the continent - but he sits and tears it open before he can think of anything else.

Dear Steve...

[efrmellifer]

Solicitude

“Gods be merciful, make this quick,” Etien murmured as she opened her eyes to the Crystarium.

It was, blessedly, a simple trip into Lakeland, to the dwelling of that reclusive Nu Mou, attempting to convince them to come to the Crystarium after proving herself worthy of aid in battle yet again.

In some ways, she tired of it. Once she had been a girl who hunted only to subsist, preferring to take single clean shots and come home carrying dinner, rather than hunting large game and firing shot after shot until it came down in some desire to make some sort of statement about herself.

Another way she differed from Renda-Rae, she supposed. She had been thinking about it since Lue-Reeq told her the stories.

In many ways, they were similar. Just a matched pair of Mystel (well, here she was ‘a Mystel’) archers with gifts even other than the Echo—Renda’s hearing, and Etien’s… Etien-ness, some mix of excess empathy and unshakable tenacity that made her hard to stop.

But in this, they differed. Renda-Rae liked the notches on her belt of bigger game. Etien followed instructions and used her abilities to aid those who couldn’t do what she did. Ah, well.

She took a brief nap after returning to the Crystarium from her assorted errands in Eulmore, though the sleep wasn’t deep. More like, she laid in her bed in the Pendants with the proper amount of sunshine streaming through the window and dozed as her brain continued turning thoughts over.

She half-thought, half-dreamed about the elves she’d seen, ghost-like, in Beq Lugg’s halls, the tree branches swaying outside, her prior thoughts about Renda-Rae, and the obvious… Aymeric.

The thoughts of him were the most pleasant of her half-asleep daydreams, if for no other reason than thoughts of him were always the most comforting. Thoughts of him had gotten her through much less pleasant moments in her life.

She made her way to the Ocular at a casual pace. She didn’t want to arrive late and make people wait—people anywhere, of course—but she did want, for once in her recent memory, to do things at a pace that was comfortable for her with no pressure to be somewhere other than where she was.

Hadn’t Feo Ul told her to do something like that anyway? She could have sworn they did. Wouldn’t they be proud of her for remembering to do it on her own?

Now that she thought about it, she missed Feo Ul. She’d have to pay them a visit… or was that impossible, in case that counted as storming the castle? Either way, she would have to call for the little shard that carried her letters and had come to reassure her that day after taking down Vauthry.

In any event, Etien was let into the Ocular, clearing her throat softly to announce herself. She tried not to be too obviously disappointed by the fact that they had hit another bump in the road to bringing everyone but herself home to the Source.

She must have done a good job keeping a lid on the feeling, because everyone cheerily insisted they would keep searching for answers.

And that was good! Etien just felt worse every time a delay came up, because she knew that they all had people they might like to get home to. She wanted the same thing—for them, and for herself long-term.

Though she was still grateful enough to weep that everyone had given her permission to take her time during her visits to the Source. If she’d had to keep sneaking off just to see Aymeric one night at a time, she would have broken down long ago.

But she was being ushered back again, to fill Krile and Tataru in on the First’s affairs as they currently stood, with another little wink from Y’shtola-- who was going to argue with her?

So off Etien went again, heading for the Rising Stones.

“You sure are encouraging her to spend a lot of time there,” Alphinaud mused once Etien was gone.

Alisaie shot him a look out of the corner of her eye.

“Perhaps,” Y’shtola replied, just a bit slowly, as if she had been thinking about it. “I worry I scared her before, regarding her aether. We ought to avoid making our friend and hero cry in fear, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alphinaud considered that. “And I suppose she ought to enjoy her health and freedom while she has it.”

“Exactly,” Y’shtola concurred. “I consider my encouragement a bit like making it up to her, as best I can.”

“I would imagine she appreciates it,” Alisaie finally added. “She looked so much happier this time, didn’t she?”

Alphinaud and Y’shtola both nodded, and Y’shtola added, “But now we have work to do, instead of gossiping about Etien. So I shall take my leave and see you again soon.”

With a wave, they all went their own ways.

Tataru was almost surprised to see Etien, though she didn’t hesitate to fill her in on what had gone on while Etien was otherwise occupied, whether in Ishgard or on the First.

Before Etien could begin to unload her stories, however, she was encouraged to wait for Krile.

So she did, flopping down in a chair.

It wasn’t exactly encouraging to hear that neither the souls nor the bodies of Etien’s friends were having an easy time trying to return to being one piece, but at least what could have been degradation had been slowed enough they had time to get things sorted out.

Though, Etien couldn’t shake the feeling both teams got things done better without her hanging around, and suddenly, being the go-between felt less important and more like busywork. She was still more than happy to do it, because it was what she could do to help, but that didn’t make her feel any less like a hovering child. And that was not to mention how much better it was, then, when she was in Ishgard, sure to be safe and not bothering anyone. Well, other than Aymeric, maybe.

The person who came in was a welcome interruption from the dark cloud of those thoughts beginning to settle in her head, even more welcome when she registered who it was by his voice saying “Oh. You’re back.”

She yelled before she could stop herself, “Estinien!” She nearly reached out to hug him, too, but retracted her hands. He had his own sort of affectionate greetings, and it would be unfair of her to monopolize his attention when Krile and Tataru seemed to be just as excited to see him.

“And none the worse for wear, I see.” He added.

Fair enough. He had probably been too hungover to remember the last time he’d seen her (or even still somewhat drunk), and the time before that, she’d been still a little sick during Starlight.

So yes, much better now. She gave him a nod, eyes sparkling. Gods, she’d missed him and not realized it.

He too had catching-up to do, reporting on his journey in Garlemald and the apparent return of Zenos. The tell-tale headache was brewing above her eyebrows, and just as she lifted her hand there to allay the pressure, she was viewing the end of Estinien’s most recent time in the empire.

Oh, the Echo, blessing and curse and thing that made her friends feel odd about her seeing their memories since she’d started this little adventure.

When it was over, she shook her head, as if shaking Estinien’s thoughts out of it and back into his own.

He asked her if she’d looked into the past, and all she could do was give him a sheepish yes.

She felt bad that he didn’t know how to feel about the Echo’s effect, but it wasn’t like she wanted to be painfully forced into watching the trials and tribulations of the people close or only just relevant to her.

But at least the Empire was easing back on Eorzea for now.

At the end of that whole exchange, Estinien—gently as he could, it had to be said in his favor—refused to renew his little agreement with the two Lalafell who had hired him. He said, mysterious as he ever could be, that he had business to handle, and then quartet broke.

Estinien left, and Etien said her quick goodbyes to Tataru and Krile, being encouraged even by them to “get some rest,” then she took off after him.

Coming to a stop and panting just off the Aetheryte, she managed to snag his coat. “Are you going to Ishgard?”

Estinien gave her a look. “Obviously.”

“Well, one can never be too sure! Can I come with you? I think there’s room on my bike; unless you want to travel by Aetheryte.”

He blinked down at her. “All right.”

They went by Aetheryte, and Estinien immediately walked off, before Etien had fully gotten her bearings.

That was… fine; she was a grown woman and very familiar with Ishgard (though her mental map was centered on Saint Valeroyant’s Forum for Foundation and The Last Vigil for the Pillars), so it wasn’t like she needed help getting around.

And it was extra-fine because she had fully intended to let Estinien have a reunion with Aymeric alone. So she wasn’t sure why she had suddenly wanted to tag along. But just as well he’d taken off.

Should she even go to the Congregation? Or just kill some time elsewhere? Maybe she would see what was going on in the Firmament. Oh, but she didn’t want to go to the Brume. She could admit that she was too sensitive, but she didn’t take kindly to the matters of her heart being a source of ridicule, her “chumminess” with nobility an affront to the people in the Brume or not. Old habits died hard, she guessed.

It was none of their business, and she wasn’t going to give them the opportunity. So no Firmament.

She would just walk around the forums. The fresh air might be good for her, anyway.

She was watching water trickle through the stonework of the fountain when she heard her name, and turned to find Aymeric opening his arms for her. She bounded into them with no other prompting, content hum bubbling from her chest as soon as she was pressed against him.

She chanced a look over Aymeric’s shoulder to see Estinien still on the Congregation steps, looking a little out of sorts.

...like he had been all day. He wasn’t being mean to her; he just seemed to vacillate between his usual dry but friendly comments and being just a bit cooler with her than normal.

In truth, it was that he’d been thinking recently, and it was in no way constant, but he had been thinking about the fact that there were times that he watched Aymeric and Etien slot perfectly into each other’s arms and he wasn’t sure which of them he envied.

Etien had earned Aymeric’s interest to the point of bordering on fascination, so Estinien had already heard a great deal about her before they had ever officially met… and then when they did, she was already so infatuated with (and on the way to truly loving) Aymeric that even if Estinien had been interested, he wouldn’t have had a chance.

But she was pretty, and he liked her, and he had been glad to see her returned safe… and despite her excitement to see him, she had been more eager to see Aymeric.

He didn’t know, of course, that Etien had been home before today, and even now was wondering “why?”

The why she was asking was why she was the one wrapped up in Aymeric’s arms right now. On a base level, she knew why, of course she did. He loved her, and she loved him, and she had kept her promise and he was thrilled to see her. Obvious.

But why had he chosen her, all that time ago? Granted, it may not have been… typical, but he and Estinien were in high enough positions and good enough standing they could have done something with their relationship, and she could have been—well, just the Warrior of Light.

A weapon.

Now, she didn’t want that, but sometimes she was to the point of guilt that she may have split them up and made one or both of them very sad, when all she wanted was to make them happy. Sometimes, any way she could.

She still hadn’t figured out what exactly she felt for Estinien, which made her Echo trips into his memories or trips she took in front of him especially uncomfortable. All she knew was him looking so unhappy while she was clinging to Aymeric was breaking her heart.

She shut her eyes, leaning into Aymeric with more of her weight. Unfortunately, the thing that was hurting was the only thing that could make her feel better. “Just like I said,” she murmured, “back as fast as I could manage.”

“I see you brought Estinien with you,” Aymeric commented. “What a lucky find.”

“Oh, he found me at the Rising Stones,” she confessed, not wanting to take any credit from him.

“I see. Still, a lucky find for him, then!”

Etien giggled nervously, and Estinien looked at his boots, responding, “You could say that.”

Once she was on the ground again, though, Etien wandered over to him, end of her tail flicking in an odd, irritated rhythm.

“Can I… can I hug you, Estinien?” she asked, voice quiet in a way he wasn’t sure he had heard before.

He sighed, shoulders sinking. “I suppose so.”

Her tail stilled as her arms came around him with minimal hesitation, and she started up a purr. Oh, he could see why Aymeric loved this so much. He stroked her hair just before he froze at hearing her say, “I missed you a lot, you know.”

Aymeric had come over to the embracing duo, laying his hand over Estinien’s on the back of Etien’s head. “I missed both of you.”

Etien looped him into the hug, but stayed pressed closer to Estinien, which almost made him blush (and warmed Aymeric’s heart). “We missed you, too. Didn’t we?”

Estinien had to agree. Still, public displays of affection may have been the habit of the Lord Commander and the Warrior of Light, but it was not for the Azure Dragoon, so he groused “Now let me go.”

She did, and let Aymeric go too, for a moment. They both looked at him with such happiness in their eyes that he—well, he didn’t forget the upset, but it faded away, eclipsed by the fondness he had for them, and was seeing reflected back at him. “It’s good to be back,” he admitted. “And I’m glad we’re all… in our proper places.”

“For now,” Etien added. “Gods, hopefully for a while.”

Again, he couldn’t disagree. Maybe running into Etien was a lucky find. Coming back alone would have been a little less warm, that was for sure.

[bakusquadup]

can i get kiribaku and kacchako for the ship ask game thingy just to mess with that anon from before? 😈

Lol, sure you can. I guess this is becoming a whole thing now

KiriBaku

When I started shipping it if I did: After the kidnapping arc, when Midoriya goes into that whole speech about how it “has to be Kirishima”

My thoughts: Just some good manly guys being gay for each other

What makes me happy about them: Kirishima managed to make the guy who is an ass to literally everybody like him

What makes me sad about them: It’ll never be canon

Things done in fanfic that annoy me: Bakugou sometimes gets turned into a pushover. Like, sure, he would be nice to Kiri, but he’s not gonna stop cursing and yelling and being Bakugou

Things I look for in fanfic: Bakugou not being abusive, but also not being a wimp (he’s not a “soft boy” y’all)

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Ochako for Bakugou and Mina for Kirishima

My happily ever after for them: They get to spend the rest of their lives together and maybe start a hero agency together

Who is the big spoon/little spoon: You know, I would say that Bakugou is the little spoon, but Kirishima moves too much in his sleep for anybody to be any kind of spoon

What is their favorite non-sexual activity: Kirishima likes to make them lift weights together

Kacchako

When I started shipping it if I did: After the sports festival, when the two of them fight and Bakugou calls Ochako by her name

My thoughts: I’ve just been blessed by two strong kids

What makes me happy about them: It really takes a lot for Bakugou to respect someone, so I love that he likes Ochako’s tenacity. Also, she’s one of like 5 people that isn’t scared of him

What makes me sad about them: It’ll never be canon

Things done in fanfic that annoy me: Sometimes, in aged-up fics, Ochako is written as a home-maker and Bakugou is off being a hero. That completely misses the point of Ochako’s whole character

Things I look for in fanfic: Bakugou not being abusive and Izuku not making it a love-triangle

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Obviously, Ochako is gonna end up with Izuku, even if I don’t really want it, and Kirishima for Bakugou

My happily ever after for them: They have two little kids that see the both of them out as heroes and it just inspires them to be heroes in the future, too

Who is the big spoon/little spoon: Ochako is little most of the time, but sometimes she’ll insist on being big and Bakugou just accepts it

What is their favorite non-sexual activity: Sparring!

-Shelley

Send me a ship, character, or list of characters!

[mithologism]

mythologist and others -...

Every hope and effort of man has interested me as an ENGINEERING form, as in the mathematical, physical and chemical sciences, aimed at improving moral, linguistic, ascetic, healthy, security, monetary, love etc. of the human. Those who are better than me, because they teach History of Religions or similar subjects, do not place this small volume as a challenge or superior wisdom to any ancient or recent text, neither essay nor person, but only to summarize and compare the ancient writings, to the order to find a common point that can Enlighten us, so to speak. For curious readers and even for the less curious, this reading could be interesting, while for the less interested or for whom such lessons may be bloody, forgive me, they do not have the energy to absorb these transformations induced by such energies and information. , then if refrain from it; that they give the book, for example, that they burn it, without bothering other people, who humbly study with tenacity and constancy and risk their lives, the criminal record in some way, attacks by people and powerful spirits. Instead of accusing scholars and onlookers, both of the human mind, as well as of the unknown and of the possible dimensions and of how, if anything, to repair some trouble, in this already difficult life, which already seems like Hell. Everything can be improved, with the use of 'Magic', a System, to improve oneself and the world. And from this idea, the human has created or conceived, of various kinds, all similar, with common but different characteristics. However, even in a 'satanic' System, aimed at strengthening, at escaping from YHWH, the human creature has tried to escape to a Prison, to an incorporation into an Energy System that holds it entangled, since it does not have sufficient energy. to escape. Therefore the 'Force', with which man is endowed, which characteristics already possessed, together with a better management of It / and, would carry out his salvation, compared to the impostors and profiteers, evil spirits endowed with more energy ('divinity '). Or in any case of unclean beings who use our energy to survive (from vampires, to ghosts, to some 'demons', etc.). So that the human conceived Magic, as something close and possible, simply with a thought, ACTUATOR of his will, expressed precisely through the WORD, as a vibrating energy. From here, the history of Magic seems to have begun, for me, in my world, in my energy, in my illusory world and in the profane world, between studies and prayers, spells and curses, between miracles and blessings. Enjoy the reading

[childeapologist]

Omfg!! Thank you for thinking of me lol Oddly enough I feel like my luck is weird because a lot got eh times, if I don’t aim for something, I end up getting something good lol (or noelle on albedos banner but i ended up winning 50/50 with albedo lol). My zhongli atm is with 2pc tenacity and archaic which is doing its job atm lol I have my Favonius lance on Thoma but the catch on zhongli (which I’m saving for Raiden 🥺🥺). I want to pull for zhongli’s weapon BUT like …. I don’t wanna spend too much lol I may switch it and give it a go just to see lol. So far he’s PERFECT with xiao I mean holy crap I getting to build xiao right but wow his shield makes a difference lol. Is it weird that I want Qiqi? My only healer is Bennett atm (and noelle) but i heard qiqi is a good healer too. Who’s your de facto healer? [also HIGHKEY manifesting Raiden for the both of us!!]

Ugh yesss it's always when you're just kind of whatever and don't REALLY want something that you have the best luck. I had my best luck when I was newest to the game and never really expected much from the banners.

Vortex Vanquisher would be nice but I'm not sure if it's worth it if you want Raiden. The weapons banner is a curse!!! An absolute curse. I put nearly 200 pulls in it trying to get Childe a 5* bow. Thundering pulse at first, and then I tried for Polar Star. NEVER gotten the featured weapon that I was going for. The only blessing was that on Itto's weapon banner, the other one was a Skyharp so I was okay with either weapon and that's when I finally got Childe a 5* bow.

Zhongli IS so good for Xiao. I'd like to get my Xiao a Zhongli as well but that acc doesn't have many pulls and is on 50/50 so idk how that will go...

Bennett is my healer! With a crowned burst and aquila favonia, he's a monster at both healing and buffing the team. I've also got 180% crit dmg on him so when his burst crits it CRITS lmaoo. He's the only one I've got that I am interested in using lmao. I don't have Jean or Qiqi because my main acc has only lost one 50/50 ever and it was to Keqing, and standard has given me Mona and favonia.

I have a c1 Jean on the acc with Diluc and Xiao but Xiao ate all my turquois so Jean gets to stay 20 for a whileeeeeee.

MANIFESTING RAIDEN YESS

[minisception]

The Crimson Eyes

Part Three of my too-much homebrew fluff, don’t mind me

Part One Part Two

***  HAMAL VHILGRAF and the CRIMSON EYES  ***

Survivor of the Sons of Horus Survivor of the Sons of the Eye Member of the Black Legion

Captain of the Condemned Nightmare of Mackan Lord of the Crimson Eyes Favoured of the Despoiler

Apostle of the Fifth Covenant Knight Arietus of the Black Shrine Bearer of Heaven's Bloodstone Host of the Crimson Ram

Once a Captain of the Sons of Horus, and later the Sons of the Eye, Hamal Vhilgraf seemed doomed to an ignoble end after the Sons of the Eye were crushed and absorbed by the Black Legion at the close of the 6th Black Crusade. Vhilgraf and the marines he once led were gathered in a company of Oathbroken, chaos marines who had earned the Despoilers Ire and were consequently found themselves bereft of the blessings of the chaos gods. Such Oathbroken chaos marines are used by Black Legion warlords as expendable cannon fodder, their lives worth little more than that of common cultists. However, through skill and tenacity, Vhilgraf survived the countless meat grinders and suicide missions he was herded into, even as his former command was whittled down to a handful of veterans that came to be mockingly known as 'the Condemned'. It was during this time that Vhilgraf first came into contact with the Follower, the mysterious founder of the Fifth Covenant, who gave him a dull, blood-red stone with a hidden power that would change Vhilgraf's fate forever.

Shortly after, whether as a result of this gift or simply because his former companions had been reduced to only those most skilled in battle and driven to survive, the fortunes of the Condemned began to change. Tasked with ever more impossible, suicidal missions, they would always return victorious. However, it was never enough to lift their cursed status as Oathbroken, mostly because the Black Legion Chaos Lords who commanded them came to see Vhilgraf as a potential rival, and worked to keep his accomplishments beneath the notice of Abaddon and his chief lieutenants.

On the battlefields of Mackan, during the closing acts of the 7th Black Crusade, Vhilgraf finally had the opportunity to catch the Despoiler's eye. There the Condemned were given one final suicide mission, spearheading a feigned attack to lead the Rampagers 6th and 7th companies and a large force of Blood Angels death company away from the point where the Despoiler's own attack would seek to break through the Blood Angel lines. The distraction proved successful, but there was no way a mere handful of Oathbroken marines and dishevelled cultists could hope to survive against the loyalists they were sent to fight, which outnumbered them more than three to one and enjoyed the advantage of defended positions. Even so, Abaddon himself could not help but be impressed when the last remains of the Condemned, covered in the blood of their slain enemies, unholy balefire burning in Vhilgraf's eyes, rejoined the battle mid way through his own assault, slipping in from behind enemy lines to take out key Blood Angels support positions.

That day Vhilgraf and his followers were lifted from the ranks of the Oathbroken by the Abbadon's own command, the favour of the dark gods apparently returning with that of the Warmaster. After the Crusade, Vhilgraf was granted command of his own warband of chaos marines newly formed from stolen loyalist gene seed, mostly Blood Angels, which he named the Crimson Eyes. He was also granted his own ship, the Purity of Flame, a captured Blood Angels strike cruiser. Vhilgraf took the remains of the Condemned as his chosen, and incorporated the survivors of the cultsts, mutants, and feral chaos warriors they had fought alongside into his warship's crew.

Since then, Vhilgraf's warriors have made a name for themselves advancing the Despoiler's interests openly, while covertly spreading the creed of the Fifth Covenant. The Crimson Eyes have spent most of their time between Abaddon's Black Crusades working as mercenaries for other warbands outside of the Black Legion, in exchange for promises of support in the Despoiler's future campaigns. However, following the 12th Black Crusade, the Crimson Eyes disappeared into imperial space instead of returning to the Eye of Terror. They later reappeared during the 'Valatia Incident', which saw a remote Imperial system fallen to chaos and anarchy, the betrayal of the system's governor and the greater part of the White Lions space marine chapter, and the destruction of two other Imperial space marine chapters before reinforcements arrived to defeat and scatter the traitors. After the Valatia incident, the Crimson Eyes returned to the Eye of Terror before participating in Abaddon's assault on Cadia at the outset of Abaddon's 13th Black Crusade

*** CRIMSON EYE ORGANIZATION ***

Hamal Vhilgraf - Warlord, Knight of the Black Shrine. Though once he fought exclusively at the side of this chosen, the Condemned, he is now more often seen riding a daemonic steed into battle alongside the Circle Templar.

Zhalmor Savion - aka 'Savion the Accursed', A Word Bearers apostle who offered his services as a warrior and advisor to the Crimson Eyes when the warband was newly formed. Though nominally still a member of the Word Bearers, and neither a member of the Black Shrine nor privy to their secrets, Savion has none the less been converted by those he sought to convert. The dark apostle has given himself over completely to the Fifth Covenant's teachings. Now Zhalmor leads the Crimson Eyes' Warrior Lodges in their blasphemous rituals, and works the warriors into a frenzy before each battle.

Mathildis Vhilgen - A human woman, Mathildis rose to prominence as a knight in the Faithful's warrior class (see below), and would surely have been chosen as a candidate to be made into a chaos marine, had she been born a man. She carries the injustice of that slight of fate as any other veteran might carry an old war wound. Instead she eventually became the top human commander among the Faithful's warriors, training them, leading them in battle, and pointing out potential marine candidates to the chaos astartes. While not blessed with the might of a space marine, she showed clear (if comparatively subtle and benign) signs of the favourable influence of the Warp, from exceptional size, strength, and speed, to eyes that glowed fiercely during battle. When the Purity of Flame was boarded by Imperial forces during the 12th Black Crusade, she threw herself between Vhilgraf and a loyalist space marine sergeant who had sought to strike him down, deflecting the marine's blade with a well placed shot from her auto-pistol before burying her own power sword in the soft armour of the sergeant's collar. Though it is unlikely that Vhilgraf was in any real danger, he none the less recognized her for her achievement, calling her 'sister', inviting her into his personal counsel, and making her an honorary member of his chosen, the Condemned. He commissioned for her new arms, armour, and physical enhancements - both cybernetic and arcane, and she went on to serve with distinction during the Valatia campaign. The faithful worship her as a living saint, and even many of the astartes treat her with a considerable degree of respect as a sort of mascot or lucky totem, a symbolic embodiment of the Warp's favour. Headstrong and prideful, but with the skill and courage to back it up, Mathildis has become one of Vhilgraf's most valued assets.

Gustav Leitner - Vhilgraf's personal champion, and the captain of his chosen. He possesses a deep loyalty to and admiration for his commander, but is leery and distrustful of the Fifth Covenant and especially the Black Shrine, leading to tensions within the warband.  Sensing the growing influence of Mathildis Vhilgen, with Vhilgraf specifically but also within the Crimson Eyes more generally, Gustav has actively worked to bring himself closer to the living saint, and with Vhilgraf's approval has made her an honorary member of the Condemned. However, though she has taken Gustav's side in a number of conflicts with Savion or the Whispered one, Gustav has also come to see her as a rival for his position as Vhilgraf's personal champion.

The Condemned - Vhilgraf's personal chosen, the surviving members of the Condemned have served at Vhilgraf's side since the Horus Heresy. They prefer brutal lightning assaults, often deploying by dreadclaw into risky, even suicidal positions in order to reach high value enemy targets. Seemingly immortal, they have been reported slain on numerous occasions, only to reappear in later battles, not with new members but seemingly the same individuals that had been confirmed dead.

Warrior Lodges - anywhere between  60 and 120 chaos astartes warriors, most believed to have been created using stolen loyalist gene seed, especially Blood Angels. They are divided into several warrior lodges which vary in exact number and composition with recruitment and losses. These lodges claim various animal totems, the some of the warrior lodges active during the Valatia campaign included Panther and Snake (smaller, mechanized infantry units), Bear (a larger infantry formation), Crow (deployed as jump infantry), and Scorpion (static long range heavy support). The Condemned are officially 'Wolf Lodge', although they do not actively take part in warrior lodge rituals or activities except during formal events involving the entire warband.

The Exalted - The chaos marines of the Crimson Eye warrior lodges are vulnerable to a kind of madness manifesting in berserk rage and fits of violence directed at their fellow traitors, no doubt the result of the stolen loyalist gene seed used to create them rebelling against the evil to which it has been committed. Such warriors are subdued, taken from their lodges, and forcibly possessed by bound daemons in rituals led by Zhalmor and the Whispered One. The result - possessed chaos marines called the Exalted, are used by the warband as shock troops. The Exalted are sometimes called the Ghost Lodge, though they are not an official part of the Crimson Eyes warrior lodge culture.

The Lost - The inevitable final fate for any of the Exalted who do not fall in battle, the Lost are a pack of chaos spawn under the mental domination of the Whispered One. Like the Exalted, the Lost are used as expendable shock troops in battle, but they are also subjected to arcane experimentation by the Whispered One and the warp smith Mojo Jokaero. These experiments usually result in the death of the subject, but occasionally they succeed in producing horrific beasts of extreme size and ferocity, either single spawn bloated to huge proportions or else clusters of spawn surgically and psychically stitched together into a single nightmarish abomination.

The Armoury - Thanks to their connection to the Black Legion, the Crimson Eyes have access to a reasonably stocked armoury of typical astartes vehicles and weaponry, including their strike cruiser, the purity of flame, as well as various landing craft, ground transports, and assorted traitor tanks and artillery. Their infantry have access to the standard array of bolters, bolt pistols, grenades, combat blades, and chain weapons, as well as a variety of power weapons (mostly axes and swords), heavy weapons (especially autocannons), and specialist weapons (particularly melta and plasma weaponry). They have limited access to terminator armour, and have been seen fielding jump troops.

The Faithful - When the Crimson Eye warband was first formed, tribes of feral world chaos cultists, mutants, and barbarians who had fought alongside the Condemned when they were Oathbroken were integrated into the crew of the Purity of Flame. The descendants of these groups came to be called the Faithful, a feudal society blending a warrior code with technical skills necessary to operate a star ship. The Faithful are now divided into a cast system - The highest class being bridge crew, then ship officers in charge of various systems, middle classes of technicians, priests, merchants, and warriors, and a lower labour class who spend their lives in toil. The warriors are trained in contemporary militia weaponry and tactics, but maintain feudal ranks, titles, and culture. A surprising degree of respect is granted to the Faithful by the Crimson Eye warriors they revere and worship. Many of the marines of the Crimson Eye warrior lodges were elevated from the Faithful's warrior caste, and at times Vhilgraf has taken one of their number into his personal counsel (as with Mathildis),  Officers and chief technicians among the Faithful report directly to their Astartes commanders without fear, provided they observe the proper respect. On feast days, Zhalmor leads grand, cannibalistic services for the Faithful, and he personally directs the activities of their priestly caste through their council of bishops. The Faithful, despite the fact that they are mere humans and subhumans, consider themselves members of the Black Legion. The leadership of the Crimson Eyes, Vhilgraf especially, encourages this.

Recent Recruitment

The Warp Lions - A short lived Khorne Daemonkin Warband consisting of the traitors of the White Lions space marine chapter. The Warp Lions were led by the Shrine Knight Prentis Dalcigrad, the former chapter master of the White Lions.  They fought alongside the Crimson Eyes during the Valatia Incident, but were defeated and scattered following the reported death of Dalcigrad towards the end of that campaign.  Survivors of the Warp Lions were incorporated into the Crimson Eyes, swelling their number.

The Poisoned Kiss - A Black Legion warband of Slaaneshi and Nurglish alignment consisting primarily of former members of the Emperor's Children, Death Guard, and Night Lords chaos marine legions, under the command of Vaughan Sharpe, a master of psychological warfare and inciting chaos cult activity.  As with the Warp Lions, the Poisoned Kiss were scattered at the end of the Valatia Incident after the reported death of their warlord, with at least some survivors joining the Crimson Eyes.

Valatia Militarum - the surviving human traitors of the Valatia system, once loyal to the (unconfirmed) slain planetary governor and psychic monstrosity Marquise La Trémoille, which escaped Valatia and fled to the Eye of Terror along Crimson Eyes.  They fight alongside the Faithful, but integration has been slow due to cultural and linguistic barriers.

Black Shrine agents

The Whispered One - A Black Shrine sorcerer and advisor to Vhilgraf, rather than a proper member of the Crimson Eyes. The Whispered One is a beta-level psyker with a broad range of talents from daemonic binding to prognostication to communication. Though not a true chaos marine, the Whispered one does wear a suit of power armour and possesses psychically augmented speed and strength equivalent to that of any astartes. Though the Whispered One is a grim and sombre figure, he is well liked by most of the Crimson Slaughter's important figures. Vhilgraf in particular values the Whispered One's council. As he is a high ranking member of the Black Shrine, Zhalmor considers the Whispered One to be almost as holy as Vhilgraf himself, while the warpsmith Mojo Jokaero, sees the sorcerer as a useful source of raw materials and arcane insight for his experiments on daemonic spirits. Even headstrong Mathildis frequently defers to his words. Only Ghustav, champion of the Condemned, completely distrusts the Whispered One and everything the sorcerer represents.

The Fifth Templar - Black Shrine warriors, rather than proper members of the Crimson Eyes. Their origins unknown, the Fifth Templar appeared at the end of the Valatia Incident. They possess strange, archaic looking power armour bearing defaced sigils of the Blood God, and ride into battle on shadowy daemonic steeds. The Condemned consider them to be rivals for Vhilgraf's favor, leading to tensions within the warband. The Fifth Templar appeared some time after Valatia Incident.

The Bloodless - Warriors of the Black Shrine clad in archaic armour bearing defaced iconography of the blood good. They never speak, but came to be called the Bloodless by warriors of the Crimson Eyes because their bodies do not bleed when injured. They fight with an unspeakable ferocity made all the more unnerving by their absolute silence even in the heat of battle. They frequently act as boddyguards for Savion or the Whispered One. As with the Fifth Templar, the Bloodless appeared some time after the Valatia Incident.

Dark Mechanicus Contract

Mojo Jokaero - A heavily mutated and cybernetically enhanced Jokaero warpsmith, Mojo was the subject of genetic and cybernetic experimentation by a heretical tech priest. He slew his maker and escaped into the Eye of Terror when the experiments were discovered by a group of Sororitas who sought to destroy every trace of the blasphemous work (or, possibly, to cover up their own participation before Inquisitorial agents could obtain evidence of it). In the eye, Mojo quickly found himself in the service of the Dark Mechanicus, where he earned a mixed reputation for his brilliant, inhuman designs but also for his uncontrollable temper that often led to the destruction of his own work. The jokaero warpsmith was assigned as a contract observer for the newly formed Crimson Eyes, and has continued his research and experimentations while maintaining the Eye's armoury and ensuring the proper tithes of souls and salvage are sent back to the Daemon Forges in exchange. Mojo cares nothing for the politics and doctrine of the Fifth Covenant, the mad jokaero is happy as long as the tithes are paid and he is given free reign for his experiments and ample opportunities to test his creations in battle. That said, he has formed a close working relationship with the Whispered One, who provides him with bound daemonic spirits to experiment on, as well as insight into ways those spirits can be torn apart and recombined into new forms.

The Ascendant - a cohort of 3 obliterators serve as Mojo's personal assistants and body guards. In exchange for an additional fee, Mojo sometimes allows Vhilgraf to deploy the Ascendant to battle.

The Astartes Cybernetica - a varying number of fallen Crimson Eyes warriors, too damaged to recover, handed over to Mojo Jokaero to make into servitors or intern within helbrutes. Counted against the salvage owed to the dark mechanicus, their bodies and minds are rebuilt with daemonotech augmentations and slaved either directly to Mojo's will, or to that of the daemonic machine spirits within the engines he builds. The Astartes Cybernetica serve as shock troops, brute labor, vehicle pilots, and operators for field artillery, including a trio of rapier weapons platforms.

Mojo's Myriad Mechanical Monstrosities - Heldrakes, Defilers, Maulerfiends, and more, Mojo is always working on new nightmare abominations of flesh, metal, and daemonic spirit. The service of these war engines makes up the bulk of the value of the Crimson Eye's contract, but their destructive power is worth every ounce of salvage tithed, even if the results of Mojo's experiments - incorporating multiple bound daemonic spirits slaved to heavily augmented human or astartes neural matter - are highly unstable.

Lesser servants - in addition to these potentially battle-worthy elements, Mojo is also served by a work force of Dark Mechanicus servitors, slave technicians, and hereteks. This work force is kept strictly segregated from the Faithful, except when maintenance of the armoury or ship systems makes interaction unavoidable. In concordance with Mojo's wishes, Vhilgraf has ordered that no attempts be made to convert the dark mechanicus slave workers to the teachings of the Fifth Covenant, though Savion chafes at this restriction on his evangelism.

Daemonic Allies

Be'lakor, the Dark Master - As the 13th Black Crusade approached and the Crimson Eyes returned to the Eye of Terror following their campaign in Valatia, the Crimson Eyes were approached by the mercurial fallen prince Be'lakor. The daemon prince displayed knowledge of the Black Shrine's inner workings, secrets he could not possibly know, and claimed to seek an alliance with the Shrine Knights. Unable to judge the daemon's true intentions, Vhilgraf sent word to the Follower, who in turn called all of the shrine knights together for the first time since their founding to weigh the Dark Master's offer.  In the years since, Be'Lakor has been sighted multiple times fighting alongside the Crimson Eyes and other Fifth Covenant warbands.

The Betrayed - As a show of good faith, the Be'Lakor put a force of daemonic spirits he had gathered under the name of the Betrayed at Vhilgraf's disposal.  These include daemons of all alignments who have fallen out of favour with their patrons. Daemonic heralds and spirits rejected by their gods for not serving well enough, or else for serving too well. Spirits that had found loyalty repaid with spite, and instead of begging for forgiveness have chosen the path of rebellion, turning to the First Prince as the symbol and champion of rebellion against the dark gods in ages past. Be'lakor claims this small retinue is only the start of far larger wave, as the dark powers, greedy to reach for new claims following the galaxy's sundering, turn a blind eye to those who have served them for so long.  He promises to lend the power of these wayward daemons to the Fifth Covenant, if only they welcome him into their Black Shrine.

Other Notable Allies

Since the outset of the 13th Black Crusade the Crimson Eyes have been seen fighting alongside a number of warbands, both Black Legion and otherwise.  It is unknown which, if any, of these other warbands have ties to the Fifth Covenant.

The Bleak Angels - a black clad warband, but without Black Legion iconography, employing relatively uncorrupted Heresy-Era equipment, led by an unknown warlord who may be a member of the Black Shrine.  The Bleak Angels have been seen fighting alongside the traitor known as Cypher, and are of particular interest to the Dark Angels and their successor chapters.

The Abyssal Gaze - a Black Legion warband suspected to have adopted the doctrine of the Fifth Covenant

The Doomsworn - a Death Guard warband that accepted aid from the Crimson Eyes in exchange for support during Abaddon's Black Crusade.  Honoring this bargain, they have remained with the main thrust of the assault towards terra even as most other Death Guard forces have followed their primarch in pursuit of his own agenda.

The Abyssal Wolves - a Black Legion warband led by Valerian Karesh, formerly of the Thousand Sons.  It is unknown whether the Fifth Covenant cult has taken root in the Abyssal Wolves, or if Karesh might be the Thousand Sons sorcerer in terminator armour suspected to be one of the Shrine Knights.