justagirl

Still smiling, the deputy loosens the noose around your neck before raising it over your head as if it's nothing but a mere necklace rather than the item that, until moments ago, was supposed to bring about your demise. It doesn't make it any easier to breathe. You're still choking on your terror as the man offers you a gloved hand. You don't have the capacity within your mind to deny him, so you accept his help as he assists you down the stairs on your lubberly legs.

The world spins as you feel the tangible suffocation of the divergence of time—of what should have happened to you. In another universe, you are swinging from that rope with all eyes on your corpse, left to hang and rot as a warning to others to not cross The Law in Blackpeak. Knowing your luck, you wouldn't have died right away. You'd be left strangling, legs kicking helplessly in a pitiful attempt to release the pressure around your throat, blood shunting away from your brain until your life fades just as meaningless as it began. Maybe someone would have taken pity on you. Maybe some brave or stupid person would have pulled on your legs until you stopped squirming.

Instead, you're slicing through the crowd that was so eager to witness your demise. Their gazes haven't changed much. They're more sour now, like dough left to rise for too long. The deputy keeps a sharp hold of your hand like you're his wallet, a valuable he can't afford to lose. You suppose that you are of some importance to this man; a tool turned into a weapon to be aimed and fired at John Price, though you're not sure what the nature of your destruction might be.

As you have learned, lawmen aren't always above the law.

"On behalf of my men, I apologize for their actions," the deputy says once you're out of eavesdropping distance of the crowd. His drawl is thick like honey but there is something about his tone that leaves your tongue dry and not at all interested in the faux sweetness he attempts to sell you. "You must understand that any mention of John Price has everyone up in arms. I'm sure you're aware of what him and his boys did in the mines. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost for such a selfish reason."

It's easy for his words to flow into your skull and directly out again. Every thought that attempts to spark in your brain fizzles out before you have the moment to fully grasp it. Pain throbs in your bones, burrowing deeper than you can cradle in your arms.

You forget that the deputy is holding your hand until he's pulling you to a stop next to a lean horse. Pressure builds behind your eyes as you stare up at him with his flaring nostrils and beady eyes. This horse lacks the quiet stupidity Jester had. A tall, stupid brute that knew how to do nothing other than eat things he shouldn't and make a fool out of you, but he was your fool of a horse.

Was.

"Climb on up, miss," he prompts. "We've got a walk before we reach the sheriff's."

Getting up on the horse feels like second nature to you now, but the deputy refuses to allow you to hold the reins. Wary of your instability, he guides the horse for you, spurs jingling with each step he takes. All you can do is hold onto the saddle horn and keep your head low in what you tell yourself is to keep the sun out of your eyes, but it feels more like shame.

You hold onto the saddle horn as you're paraded through the streets of Blackpeak like an oddity for everyone to behold. You expect to see another mob staring at you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike you, already bloodied and wounded, except there is no one. Insignificant, you're a speck of dirt. Flickering eyes search for someone still, despite the pain. Eyes of blue like a cooling lake for you to dive into, to ease each scrape and swelling mound that plagues your skin and body—John Price is nowhere to be found.

Buildings begin to thin until—much like Penmosa—farm land crosshatches with private town dwellings like a dusty chessboard. Cows moo in verdant pastures while geese honk overhead as they soar through the air in the burning light of the sunset. All beauty is lost on you as the deputy guides you to a dark timbered home with a fat porch and the redolence of cooked meat wafting around it. It's a home that looks like a God-made structure against the backdrop of mountains behind it, blending into the faraway trees and carved stone.

The deputy offers you his hand to help you off of his horse but you refuse to take it in a silent sort of revolution. You climb off without aid, but everything moves beneath you as your feet hit the ground, earth tearing right out from the treads of your shoes.

"Now, now," the man chuckles. When he catches your unsteady frame, he pulls your back against his chest, bracing your body against his. It feels wrong. Not because Daddy would disapprove, but because he's not John. "Take it easy."

"M-My head," you whine, back arching, arms flailing in an attempt to push him away, but your body is broken, and the deputy is having too much fun to let go. "Please."

"What do you think I'm trying to do, sugar? Quit your fussing and I'll take care of that head of yours," he goads.

Though you're released from the confines of his body, the deputy ensures you stay close by with his hand resting on your lower back while a gentle amount of pressure leads you towards the porch and up the steps to the door. He knocks on the door and shushes you when you wince at the sudden sound, noise reverberating in your brain until you're certain more of your skull has cracked.

A woman with pale lips and greying hair answers the door with a huff, and her gaze only grows more severe as she wipes her hands on her apron. "Phillip Graves, what have I told you about badgering my husband while he's at home?"

"Sorry Mrs. Shepherd. You know I try and keep my nose clean, but I think I've managed to wrangle someone who likes to get into trouble more often than I do," the deputy—this Phillip Graves—humors. "This sweet thing here seems to have gotten herself involved with John Price."

The woman's gaze lands on you and something overcomes the frustration that she held for Phillip Graves. If you didn't know any better, you'd confuse it for concern with the way her eyes soften and brows raise at the sight of you, blouse stained with your own blood, skirt tattered from the brawl, body littered with scrapes you can't soothe.

"Well, alright. You might as well stay for dinner, too," she begrudgingly accepts.

Phillip Graves keeps his hand on your back as you're led inside, but he ensures that he takes his hat off at the door and sets it on one of various pegs nailed into the wall for such a purpose. Though the outside of the house is rough-hewn with raw wood and sun bleached material, the inside is neatly polished with smooth walls painted a delicate cream. The brightness only makes the pounding in your head worse and you find your eyes focusing on the floor as you're brought to the dining room.

Mrs. Shepherd instructs you to grab a seat while she fetches the rest of dinner and her husband. The table is intimate with only enough room for four people to sit comfortably along the round perimeter. Various food items already sprawl out. Ham, a bowl of beans and bread rolls. Phillip Graves pulls a chair out for you before taking the seat next to you.

It's as if you've been transported back in time, shrinking inside of yourself until your body has no choice but to follow, leaving you as nothing but a pitiful girl once again trying to make it through the violence of another meal with your father. Tight lips, only speaking when spoken to, eyes never wandering where they shouldn't lest you inadvertently poke the beast waiting to roar within his throat.

The silence doesn't save you here. Phillip Graves leans back in his chair, wood creaking beneath him in time with his spurs ringing as he stretches his legs with a groan. You note the distinct glint of his six shooter resting on his hip and you can't help but think of the one John gave you to protect yourself—the one that's now sitting in the middle of the street, or more likely, in the possession of one of the men who beat you.

"I'll get you cleaned up after supper," he tells you. "I know it's more proper to wash up before a meal, but I think the sheriff will forgive us given the circumstances."

"That's fine." You sound like your mother, voice even and unwavering yet tinged with that underline whisper of pain that you can't quite get rid of.

In an attempt to comfort yourself, you reach for your neck in search for her necklace only to be met with your own feverish skin.

"If you wanted a free meal, you could have just asked, Phillip."

A new voice bleeds into the room. With slow movements, you look up from your lap and into the doorway to find a sickly looking man with white hair cropped so short he nearly looks bald. His leather vest looks freshly polished and his feet hit heavy on the floor as he approaches the table. The aura of authority wafting off of him is enough for you to know exactly who he is. The man of the house, the keeper of the peace—Sheriff Shepherd of Blackpeak.

"You know me, sheriff. Always here to keep things interesting," Phillip shrugs.

"Interesting, and a pain in my rear."

Mrs. Shepherd sneaks out from behind her husband with one hand occupied with plates, cups and cutlery and the other with a pitcher of water. The men dive into quaint conversation while she sets everything up, even going as far as to ask you what you'd like and serving up your plate when you can only offer pitiful nods and thank yous in response.

Once everyone is settled, the conversation dies and you find that there are more eyes on you than you'd care to have ever perceive you. When you meet Sheriff Shepherd's gaze you note the hue of his eyes—pale blue—and how they're sickly like the rest of him. Withered away and moments away from shattering. They lack the youth and vigor of John's. A pale imitation of a man he could only ever hope to be a fraction of.

"And who do we have the pleasure of welcoming to our table tonight?" he asks.

Knowing that there's no use in lying, you give him your true name, though the nickname Lamb is truly growing on you. Or rather, perhaps it's just the man who coined it in the first place.

"Very good," he hums, somehow pleased with himself. "Let's pray."

It's the first time that you have ever neglected to bow your head and fold your hands at the dinner table before a meal, especially after those words have been muttered. You watch as they all lower themselves, make themselves smaller, near cower as they're lead through quiet mutterings of praise and thanks. The sheriff speaks with such reverence you're almost convinced he's a true man of God until he opens his eyes to look at you before the prayer has even finished.

Once done, Mrs. Shepherd and Phillip Graves waste no time diving into their food, and while the sheriff does begin to eat, he seems much more interested in something else. "Not one for praying?"

You swallow the lead weight in your throat. "I don't know."

"She has been spending time with John Price," Phillip Graves reasons. "He's always been something of an atheist."

"Corrupted the poor girl's mind, no doubt," Shepherd agrees. "Is that how you found yourself here, girl?"

You nod. "Yes."

Quiet deliberation clouds the man's mind as he takes a few more bites of his food. You consider doing the same, but the pain that ripples throughout your body forces you to rethink. Instead, you go for a sip of water.

"And what business was he having you conduct here on his behalf?"

Your head spins. Vision swirling like a whirl pool, you dig the pad of your thumb briefly into the apple of your cheek, allowing the pain to ground you. "He needed money from the bank."

Phillip Grave's chuckle is warm but sharp. "Must be hard finding an honest job when you're such a criminal like he is."

You bite your tongue so hard it bleeds, but it tastes no different from the ichor that's already stained your mouth after the abuse you were subjected to today. Instead, you keep your head lowered and mouth sewn shut, just like you always have.

"What did he need this money for?" Shepherd questions.

"I don't know," you say.

He raises a brow. "You don't know?" he asks incredulously.

"He didn't say. I just… I just do what he tells me."

Something of a pained sigh leaves Mrs. Shepherd as she places her palm over her chest as if to quell an aching heart. When you glance at her, you note the pity in her gaze. It's comforting to know you're fooling someone at least. You're in too much pain to put together anything more complex.

He allows silence to settle over the table to give himself the opportunity to at least marginally enjoy his meal. You allow yourself to try a bit of the beans, but there's too much salt and it nearly causes your tongue to shrivel up. The bread is the only thing you can truly get yourself to stomach. Plain enough to not upset the unstable balance of your stomach, yet still filling at the same time, you eat your roll then leave your hands folded in your lap, done with what you think is the most violent meal you've experienced since you left Penmosa.

"Are you not enjoying your food, girl?" Shepherd asks. As you meet his gaze, you wonder why he even bothered to learn your name if he was going to demean you with such a term—verbiage he shares with your father.

"I'm not hungry," you truthfully admit.

He scoffs as he sets his silverware on his emptied plate. "You insult my wife."

"Oh, Herschel, look at her!" Mrs. Shepherd says. "Poor thing, can you blame her for not being hungry? Getting beaten over something John Price coerced her into doing? It's no insult at all. The poor girl needs help and a place to rest."

Washing his dinner down with a healthy gulp of water, Phillip Graves gives a thoughtful hum as his cup hits the table. "There's a few free cells open down at the jail we could keep her in."

Mrs. Shepherd's eyes go wider than the plate she's eaten off of. "You would keep her in the jail?"

Sheriff Shepherd's patience wears thin. You see it in the deepening creases on his forehead and the dusting of pink that begins in his cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears. His ovular head looks as if it's an egg ready to crack open due to heat and pressure alone.

"Dear," he says almost as if it's a warning. "Why don't you tidy up our guest room? She can stay there for the night under Phillip's supervision."

Content with the compromise, she nods before clearing the plates from the table and vanishing back into the kitchen to clean up. You're left alone with the two men and you find yourself scrambling for something else to look at. Anything else. The wallpaper, a knick in the side of the table, the sunset burning up through the window. A part of you wishes you'd see John riding over the hill through the glass, hat set low as he speeds towards the house with a pistol in hand.

You get nothing but the squeak of Shepherd's chair as he stands. "Get her cleaned up once the room is ready," he orders. "I'll get everything at the jail in order for her."

It doesn't take Mrs. Shepherd long to tidy up the bedroom-turned-cell that is to be yours for the foreseeable future. She fetches you immediately once it's finished, bringing both you and Phillip Graves down two short hallways to a room that has a single twin-sized bed with a lily patterned quilt smothering the mattress. You don't realize that the house has electricity until you note the sconces on the inside of the door. They sport the same glass covering as candles would, but they lack the signature flicker of warm flame that you're used to.

She brings your attention to a makeshift vanity. Really, it's an old worn desk with a mirror nailed to the wall, but for all intents and purposes, it works just fine with a freshly filled water bowl, clean rags, and a jar of something that Mrs. Shepherd says is a salve meant to help your cuts and scrapes. She leaves you after telling you that if you need anything else to find her and ask for it. The door is open.

Phillip Graves closes it.

"Alright sugar," he prompts. His head tilts to the side as he sucks on his teeth, chin jutting out towards the bed. "Grab a seat."

His order makes the contents of your stomach curdle but you know you're not in a position to argue or reason. It's as if that noose is around your neck again, pulling tight around your throat, eager to cut into your skin as you march to the bed and sink into the rocky mattress. The jingling of his spurs sound too akin to church bells, or perhaps the toll of a death march.

Rag into water, he turns to you with glistening hands and wordlessly presses it to your skin without prompt or warning. It's frigid, freshly pumped from the well, biting into your skin like the mountain air John kept you warm through. Your bottom lip begins to tremble at the thought of it while Phillip Graves wipes the space above your lip, scratching away the dried blood around your nostrils as if you are a child incapable of cleaning herself.

With each pass he makes, you watch as the rag comes away from your skin tinged pink and brown, body marred with the earth and the demise you were supposed to face. He wipes everywhere, but when he gets to the bridge of your nose you gasp enough to make him recoil. Instead of leaving you be, he pokes and prods the area until you're hissing with tears in your eyes.

"Got some mighty fine swelling, sugar," he tells you, finally no longer subjugating you to his torturous interest. "Wouldn't be surprised if you broke something in there."

Furiously blinking, you wipe at the stray tears but keep your eyes cast towards the floor. "What am I to do with that?"

"Wait and pray it doesn't heal crooked," he chuckles.

Huffing at his response, you keep quiet as he continues. He moves down to your chin and jaw where you feel the stale blood pull at the hair of your skin, pinching like you've got your finger caught in the door again. He doesn't sit next to you as he cleans you, he stands in front of you towering over you like a human does an ant, belittling you until you feel just as small as he wants you to feel.

His hand wanders down to your throat and you wince with anticipatory pain only to realize it doesn't come. The rope never quite snapped around your neck. That lever was never pulled. Though it feels like you died in that moment, you are still very much alive, kept on God's green earth and made to suffer all his terrible creations.

Philip's hand dips lower and your breath catches in your throat, forcing your chest to cease its movements as you stop breathing. You remember the letter shoved into your blouse hiding in your slip, the only place you could think to stow it away where it wouldn't be knocked free from your pockets or torn with the wind. You feel his hot gaze on your body and the smirk on his lips and you think of what he might do to you. You know this story well. The raping of women before their murder—their final good use all used up before they're disposed of.

Then what of John and the others? You broken and their only piece of evidence ripped to shreds, forever to live the lives of wild men.

When his hand reaches the top of your breast just under your collarbones, you grab his wrist and cover yourself with your free arm. You finally bring yourself to look up at him and though you are infuriated, you aren't surprised to see that wide-eyed joy on his face as if the fish he has on his line is finally decided to make the reel more interesting.

"What kind of man do you take me for, sugar?" he asks.

You bite your tongue for only a moment before you decide to let it free. "A greedy kind."

Leaning away from you, he yanks his wrist free from your grasp before inspecting the bloodied rag he clutches in his fingers. "Is that so? Think a greedy man would've saved you from the gallows? Think a greedy man would dedicate his life to protecting the interests of the people in this town? I serve Blackpeak, little lady. There ain't a greedy bone in my body."

"Blackpeak?" you repeat. For the first time all day, you allow the rage to envelope you. You allow it to raise your chin, to narrow your eyes, to curl your upper lip into a snarl. "Or just Makarov?"

It's the first time you've seen him waiver in his otherwise infuriating ability to seem impermeable. Still, he only leans back, tongue clacking against the back of his teeth as he shakes his head. "I see John Price has poisoned your mind with that, too." When you don't fight back, Phillip huffs and tosses the rag at you, allowing the sodden mess to fall into your lap, adding to the various stains that bleed into your skirt. "Clean yourself up then, if that's what you want, but don't say I never did you any favors, sugar."

With that, he leaves you and you are finally alone. Your sore fingers curl around the damp cloth and you are overwhelmed with a sudden grief that disguises itself as fury. You feel your face contort as you stand from the bed, fist clenching around the rag before you drown it in the water bowl at the desk with a strangled growl. Droplets splatter through the air like rain falling backwards, gathering across the wooden surface of the desk and the now muddled shine of the mirror.

You force yourself to view yourself through the mess and it's the first thing that prompts you to slow down. You look so much like your mother, you realize. Tired eyes, swollen face, angry tears giving your cheeks the kisses your father never would. You bear her resemblance in your quiet anger. It was the last thing she left you with on this earth—the frustrating will to endure where others would refuse.

Wiping your face, you make the quiet decision to not destroy yourself and instead take care to blot the stains of your dress and care for the scrapes on your legs. When you're finished you dip your fingers into your blouse where you feel the comforting scratch of paper against your skin, warmed by your body heat and bending to the curve of your body.

In the morning when your head is clear, you'll come up with a plan. John Price wouldn't abandon you. He's out there somewhere waiting for you.

Phillip Graves returns with a rocking chair that he sets up in the far corner of the room, giving himself a perfect view of the bed, door, and window. He chuckles at your bewildered look before settling into the chair with an old book in hand and a candle lamp to read with. Realizing that you will be getting no privacy tonight, you leave your overdress on before burrowing deep beneath the blankets like you could hide the way rabbits do in their burrows.

He does not speak throughout the night—the rhythmic turning of the pages of his book and the creaking of the chair do enough chatter for the both of you. Even as night falls, you do not sleep. You lay on your side with your back to Phillip as you stare at the wall where the darkness morphs shadowy shapes before your eyes as if you've had too much communion wine.

When your bladder stirs you awake in the middle of the night, he follows you there too, only letting you out of his sight long enough for you to relieve yourself and wash up before leading you back to bed. Not even dawn chases him away. Stirring from your restless slumber, you wake to the smell of hotcakes and the view of him still in the corner of the room, seemingly finished with his book with the way he has it folded in his lap.

"Mornin' sugar."

Mrs. Shepherd serves both you and Phillip for breakfast. Pancakes, sausage and some freshly brewed tea she made for the meal. You are wary of the glaring lack of her husband's presence, but she informs you he wandered in town to the jail earlier in the morning with the order for Phillip Graves to take you there once you were finished with your meal.

Anxiety fills up your stomach too much for you to eat much of anything, but just like the night before she doesn't say much about it as she takes your plate and wishes you luck on your journey into town.

Phillip Graves doesn't offer you his horse this time as the two of you make the walk back towards the main section of town, but he doesn't take the ride for himself either. Each step you take is excruciating. The swelling has overwhelmed your body, rendering each joint achy as you travel beneath the heavy weight of the sun and your shame. Each figure that you pass prompts you to raise your head to look at their face, eager to find familiar blue eyes.

You begin to fear John might not be coming for you at all.

Unlike the other buildings that surround it, the jail is made of brick. Dust settles heavy on the red stone giving it a pink appearance like the rag you stained with your blood last night. On the outside just beyond the porch there is a wooden posting board filled with legal notices like local laws and changes within the town, but most notably there is that drawing of John's wanted poster again.

This time, it's not just him, but the others as well, each earning their own poster and matching bounties, a band of bothers kept together with a long string of hatred. As you walk up the stairs, you note the graffiti scribbled on the parchment in graphite and ink. Some people have scribbled out the word alive on dead or alive while others have drawn nooses around their throats. The violence of this town is so deeply sewn you're not sure how you survived such contempt—the more time you spend with Phillip Graves, the more you feel as if the reason he saved you wasn't purely out of mercy.

He opens the door for you, allowing you inside of the jail where you're met with a wide room that seems like a cell morphed into an office. Two sets of jail bars section off the back corners of the room with nothing inside but a bench, but they both lay empty. The only other door besides the entrance is one on your left, cracked open just enough for you to find a set of stairs that descend down into what you assume must be the basement and the place where they keep a majority of their inmates.

Sheriff Shepherd sits at a desk full of papers and envelopes both torn open and fresh ones waiting to be filled and mailed off. His eyes were on you the moment you stepped foot into his jail, pale and dead as they were last night when he all but interrogated you at his dinner table. Having something more interesting to do than paperwork, he points at the wooden chair across from him.

"Take a seat, girl," he commands as if you are a dog.

You make no fuss in following his orders. As far as you're concerned, the less time you spend with this man, the better. He stares at you in silence for a long moment as if contemplating how he should gut you. His gaze is uncanny. Even when you believed John to be nothing more than a cold blooded murderer he never gave off such an algid aura. This pale, sickly man looks like death—or a creature who enjoys toying with it.

"I've arranged for a ride to bring you back home," he finally admits after a moment. "It would be faster by train, but we don't have any passenger trains that come through here. Just the engines that lug coal to the cities. A few of my lawmen will take you by carriage to the next town over and you can hop on one there. It'll take you over the gorge and right on home."

You blink at him. He must be lying. "That's… That's it?"

"I don't want you in my town. This is better for both of us," he says bluntly.

Gears begin to twist in your brain as ideas sprout; dark, conniving ones you never would have thought before leaving Penmosa. You think of Kate and Lottie, of Grand Hollow and its train station, of the hotel, the place John wanted to keep you because it was safe. You could go back, you realize. Back to them all with the letter hiding safe in your blouse and wait for John to come find you.

It could all be over. This mess. The lies.

"You mean, you'll take me back to Grand Hollow?" you question cautiously, throwing your line into the water to see if anything bites.

The sheriff raises a brow. "Is that where you're from?"

"Yes sir," you nod.

He stares at you for so long you fear he might see through you. "You're not lying to me, are you, girl?"

"No, sir. I'd never," you insist.

Humming, he nods. With a sigh, he begins to sort through some papers on his desk. You note a letter already sealed and stamped with his name and address on it, but you don't get the chance to look at the recipient before it's covered by tickets for a train company you don't recognize. He holds them out for Phillip Graves to take, who shoves it into the pocket of his vest with a chuckle.

"Tell me, girl," Sheriff Shepherd says. He retrieves one last piece of paper before setting it flat on the desk for you to view. "Why do I have this, then?"

Your blood runs cold as you're faced with a drawing of your exact likeness. Every line is correct, all the way from the curve of your nose to the pull of your lips. Your name is stamped in dark, inky letters underneath the photo with a description that reads:

WANTED: MISSING GIRL TO BE RETURNED BACK TO HER FATHER IN PENMOSA REWARD: 25$

John's under the sink when you float into the kitchen. Resting on his side with one hand while the other twists a wrench, he makes quick work with the finishing touches on the leaking pipe before he ducks his head out from under the cabinet to take a gander at you.

You've grown so much over these last few weeks since he's moved in with you—or rather, the baby has. Rounded stomach and swelling breasts, the most comfortable thing for you to wear these days is a dress. It doesn't have the constricting waistband like your garden jeans do, and John has to admit that it's very easy on the eyes. The way your stomach is put on display when you rest your hands just below the crux of your hips leaves John's mouth extra watery.

"You look amazing," he says breathlessly.

Your smile is small with teeth hidden behind tense lips. You watch with curious eyes as John rises from the floor with a grunt, and though his fingers twitch as if to reach out and hold you, he restrains himself from ruining the fresh color of your dress with the grease on his hands.

"You're sure? I don't look like… an anamorphic blob, or something?" you say, half in jest. Dressing yourself has been a challenge these days. Your body is changing so quickly that once you figure out a fix, it seems to break itself all over again. Swollen feet, bra sizes growing—becoming a woman has turned you into a girl all over again. A gauche thing that can scarcely remember how to take care of herself.

"Darling," John says in a chuckle. "You're beautiful. Dressed perfectly for an afternoon of sweet rolls and—what is it?—that sweet tea Lottie always makes."

"Oh, don't remind me," you groan. "She promised she'd make me cookies. I think I'm going through withdrawals."

John hums. "Sounds like I should get washed up then."

With a farewell kiss on the cheek, John vanishes into the bathroom, leaving you by yourself long enough to wander back into the living room to ponder your gift to the Laswells.

Though you feel selfish to admit it—even to yourself—you've been dreading the baby shower all day. It's hard to decipher why. All you know is that when you think of arriving at their rental with their friends and family from the States, your stomach flips like the baby's attempting to rearrange your insides. This feeling grows from a dull ache into a piercing bite the moment you peek beneath blue tissue paper to view those baby-sized cowboy boots you and John bought at the market.

Today, you're a little over thirty-two weeks. You can't tell if your due date scares you because of the birth, or because you're not quite ready to say goodbye.

John assists you into the passenger's seat once he's finished cleaning himself up from yet another chore. You haven't been asking him to do any of these things, but you've gathered the idea he's not a man who likes to stay stagnant. Things are fixed in your crumbling cottage long before you ever realize they're broken in the first place.

The seatbelt sits odd on your body. Shoving the lab restraint beneath your belly, you shift uncomfortably in your seat the entire ride to the Laswells'. Sitting too long hurts your tailbone, standing too long hurts your feet, laying too long hurts your hips—you question what part of all this is supposed to be nature's great engineering, but you do well enough to forget about it long enough to get you to the rental.

Though the weather has grown colder, the windows are cracked just enough for the pleasant silage of Lottie's cooking to waft around the front door as John knocks. Chatter punctuates the scent with jovial laughter and the quiet hum of a television for background noise.

Lottie's first instinct is to smother you in one of her famous, bone crushing hugs, but she doesn't make it very far before your stomach gets in the way. "Oh, goodness me, look at you! You're just glowing."

While her compliment gets the apples of your cheeks warm, it's the gaze of strangers that really ignites the flame that threatens to melt you into mush.

Though there is by no means a crowd, there is still enough people to turn the living room into an oven. Lottie jovially introduces you to her family—mum, dad, and a gaggle of sisters who all somehow seem to be the same being split into several women—and you ensure that you steal the seat closest to the open window, lest you sweat through the thin cotton of your dress.

You're grateful for John. You have been for the last few weeks that he's moved in with you. What had been awkward at first—tip toeing around one another like virgins in the dark—has now blossomed into something stable. A rigid rock that refuses to sway even as the earth moves beneath your feet. He does most of the talking for you. Sharing updates about the baby that you nod along with, the pressure eases off of your chest. You breathe in the late year air and for once things don't feel so intimidating.

The festivities for the baby shower are relaxed, unlike the stories you've read in your work's online chatrooms for remote workers. Horror stories seeped into your brain of embarrassing games meant to fluster everyone and ungrateful mothers-to-be who belittled gifts, but there's nothing of the sort here.

To begin, Lottie serves food. Delicious picky bits and airy pastries that lead into a conversation of baking techniques that then spiral into into stories about her time in Georgia. Kate is more quiet than usual. A wallflower on the sofa next to her wife, she keeps a kind smile as the family gushes over one another, filling the room with laughter.

When the conversation topic lands on you, John slips his hand into yours as you explain your work, your hobbies—this decision. A surrogate. What does your family think? Is your mum going to be there for the birth?

Your throat goes dry and the twitch of John's fingers grows stronger with your silence.

"How about we open some presents?" Kate suggests.

As soon as the pain arrives, it subsides. Tissue paper and discarded bags soon litter the floor as Kate and Lottie rip into the gifts given to them by family and friends alike. There are useful items there, like bottles and brushes, noise machines, diapers, wipes, and bath supplies, as well as fun things—clothes, nursery decorations, and coffee for late nights.

There's a small, red flannel onesie that looks more like a shirt when paired with a set of faux blue jeans that John nudges you when he sees. "Those'll look great with the boots you picked out."

The pride you feel carries on for a short moment as Lottie unravels the last present, an expensive baby monitor equipped with a camera and large screen. She's in the middle of thanking everyone for their gifts when Kate nudges her arm and raises her brows in a silent question.

"Oh! I almost forgot," Lottie perks up, standing from the couch. "I'll be right back."

She vanishes from the room long enough for small talk to take place. Your mind begins to wander to house projects. Winters are always drafty, so you'll need to replace the stripping on the windows to keep the heat in. All this will be easier after the birth, of course. When the baby is born and you're compensated by the Laswells—so then why must your brain give you images of a nursery?

"Here we are!" Lottie enters the living room again with a large box covered in iridescent lavender wrapping paper. She huffs as she approaches you with it, setting it on the floor so she doesn't bump your stomach. "This is from Kate and I."

All you can do is blink at it. Despite the sweet tea still lingering on your tongue, your teeth feel dry enough to stick to your lips. "This is for me?"

"Of course! Go on, open it," she urges.

The paper is gossamer beneath your fingertips. It feels like a crime ripping it open like this, but your curiosity gets the best of you anyway—what could you have possibly done to deserve this?

They've left the cardboard box untaped, allowing for easy opening as you peel back the lips to reveal an assortment of self-care items. Perineum ice packs and bottles, period diapers for after-birth bleeding, boxes of soothing tea, face masks, a new bath robe, a doughnut pillow. There's enough in here to make your head spin.

The baby kicks against your stomach and your vision begins to blur. Brine and water. The rims begin to sting.

"You alright, darling?" John asks, hand slipping behind your back to rest between your shoulders.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you nod, but the action feels like a lie. A betrayal. Even your smile cracks along your lips, reaching far enough to threaten the mask you've curated and glued to your face.

"Those pregnancy hormones are no joke!" Lottie's mum hums.

You're thankful for the distraction, even though it's only half the truth.

There's not much left to do after the presentation of your gift. You linger for a little while longer with wet eyes and trembling smiles, but it doesn't take John too long to put you out of your misery and offer to drive you home.

He loads your box of gifts into the back seat of the car before helping you into the passenger's seat and taking off for the cottage. A wave of enervation slams into you, knocking you against the seat as you watch the city fade into something softer. You're too exhausted to cry but the grey cloud looming over your head doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright, darling?" he asks, repeating his question from earlier.

You nod, but it's too quick. Clearing your throat, you go slower this time. "Yeah, just tired."

Rough hands slide over the steering wheel, but he doesn't reach for you. "Are you sure? I'm always here if you need to talk."

"It's… just a lot. But I'm fine, I swear. I'll be much better after a nap when we get home," you assure.

The lies seeping through your teeth burrow into your jaw and pang throughout your skull. You've never liked doing this, whether blatantly committing the action, or through omission—still, you refuse to name the envy that eats through your chest.

It would destroy you; naming the truth that as time draws closer to your due date, the less you want to give up this little miracle of life.

You're thinking of those cookies. Terrible, awful things packed in individual plastic wrap and packed with more chunks of chocolate chips than they are full of dough. Each time you bite into them you can taste the preservatives. That slightly synthetic sugar that screams it'll eat a hole through your stomach and teeth, yet your tongue attempts to feign the taste that you nearly cry.

This is by far the worst part of pregnancy, you decide. Spewing your guts for a little while in the morning is one thing, but this insatiable desire to have something you can't immediately have does something terrible to your already fragile balance of changing hormones. You're mentally cataloguing the items you have in the kitchen. Flour, eggs, sugar—you tell yourself you could make the cookies but you know it won't be the same. The texture, the brand of chocolate; it's something you can't mimic.

Sighing, you sit up with a grunt. Your little man makes even the simplest of movements difficult these days, but you push through it as you slip your feet into your shoes and shoulder on a jumper over your pyjamas.

If you leave now, you can be back home and in bed within an hour.

There's no traffic to speak of this late at night, and with all this freedom you find your foot laying heavier on the accelerator because of it. With each traffic light you pass, the taste of those cookies only grows stronger. Grainy sugar dissolving on your tongue, chunks of chocolate settling deep in your stomach; your mouth waters so heavily saliva is nearly spilling past your lips by the time you pull up to the convenience store.

The door announces your arrival with a dull clink and chime of ancient bells. Florescent lights brutally flicker above you as you politely eye the clerk. She's young. University age most likely working this job for a couple extra quid a month between classes. She's scribbling away at work sheets, but allows herself to become distracted for a moment to greet you with a gauche smile before returning to her work.

Skipping the small talk, you make a beeline for the aisle that holds the cure to this madness of decaying hormones and a gurgling stomach. Your beloved cookies sit in a neat like one after another, splayed out like a line of cards for a trick. Your fingers twitch. The urge to scoop all of them into your arms is strong enough to swallow you, but you bite it back in favor of grabbing a mere handful instead. You silently pray the clerk won't judge you too terribly for the five you have shoved in your fist.

It's hard for your eyes not to wander. Clouded with fatigue, you stare at the fridge and tap your foot in thought. Chocolate and strawberry milk, green tea, bubbly water and electrolytes—your greed could kill you. Sandpaper throat and all.

Choosing to indulge in the strawberry milk (and the upset stomach it's sure to give you later), you begin to wander back through the aisles just as those rusty bells sing once more. Just in time, you turn to see another customer enter. Clad in black, hood snug over his head, hands in his pockets, you don't think twice about it as he approaches the counter. The clerk sets aside her work and offers the man a smile just for it to fade the moment she sees the knife in his hand.

"Everything in the register. Now."

He doesn't sound confident. Syllables shaking, hand hardly gripping what looks like a simple kitchen knife—still, the clerk refuses to call out any bluff he might have. She punches a few buttons and pulls out the till without fuss. She's calm. Steps back away from the man with her hands up as if to say I'm not a threat.

You don't feel even a fraction as strong. Cookies slip out of your hand and tumble on the floor, rich dough crushed as your milk topples along with him. It's enough to make the robber turn towards you, knife raised, eyes wide and wild. All you can think to do is to place your hands on your stomach. He's moving—the baby. Kicking and playing like he's unaware of what's happening outside the safety of your womb.

The connective tissue of your ribs ache. You breathe, but it isn't enough. Too fast and shallow. Your vision tunnels. Pressure builds on your bladder to the point you're certain you're about to wet yourself. You take a step back. Your knee buckles.

When the world goes black, all you can think about is John.

Warm hand on your stomach, lips on the back of your neck—always gentle despite the tight cords of muscle that lie beneath his skin. You wish he was here now to catch you. Instead, you have nothing to save you but the cement floor at your feet.

"John?"

It's your voice waking him up sometime after five in the morning. Phone buzzing violently on his nightstand, calls don't usually wake him up like this. He silences every notification except for ones that come from a certain few people—you being one of them.

There's something in the tone of your voice that scares him. A calculated attempt at evening out your words scream at him through the line as if he's staring at a hole in the wall poorly covered by bumpy plaster. He sits up in bed, legs already swinging over the edge, any thought of sleep and good rest vanishing as he stands.

"What's wrong, darling?" His voice is gruff. The old him is slipping through. That calm but rough captain who needs all the details so he can make a plan; so he can figure out which skulls he needs to crack open.

"I had an… accident, of sorts," you explain. He's stripping himself out of his night clothes and shoving his legs through a pair of jeans. No matter how fast he moves, it doesn't seem like it's enough. "I'm at the hospital and it sounds like they're getting ready to let me go soon, but I don't have anyway to get home and, I just- I'm sorry, John, I just-"

"It's alright, darling," he shushes, though it feels like a lie. His thoughts swim with visions of you in the hospital, gown swallowing your body, cheeks stained with tears and arm throbbing at the site of your IV. The lip of his shoe gets caught on his heel and he has to hold back a curse as he shoves the rest of his foot in despite it. "What hospital are you at? I'm coming right over."

The world wakes with a sputtering yawn as cotton candy clouds dust the sky while John weaves through the flowing traffic. Vehicles seem to come out of the wood work, cutting him off at every possible opportunity while he slices through the city as fast as he can without drawing the unwanted attention of any radars.

By the time he pulls next to the hospital, the sunrise is in full bloom. Ichor red and angry orange, it bathes him in flames as he marches into the building and grabbing the attention of the first person who dares to look at him. A slip of his tongue makes him ask for his wife—the fuzzy feeling in his stomach doesn't allow him to correct himself.

He finds you in the OB department, body shrouded in a pale blue gown with various cords and tubes connected to your skin as if you are some terrible amalgamation of flesh and machine. The bones in his knees turn to jelly as he cuts across the room, hands already reaching for you as he sits in the chair next to your bed. Agita eats away at his stomach at the tight lipped smile you give him, and he has to hold back his discontent in favor of pressing your fingers to his mouth instead. He breathes you in as he studies you, eyes scanning for anything that proves harm came your way.

"I'm okay." You pause and watch the tender skin of his lips and how they seem to curl around your fingers as he embraces them. Swallowing, you correct yourself. "We're okay."

"You said you had an accident?" He's cutting right to the chase, skipping over the fine details, attempting to see the bigger picture first before squinting at the minuscule strokes. "What happened?"

Already, he can see the tears swelling in your eyes. You're dipping into a never-ending pool of them judging by the irritation that surrounds your irises with bright pinks and reds. One of the monitors quietly beeps and you go still. Pneumatic humming sounds as the blood pressure cuff on your arm expands, then slowly deflates with a hiss. Once the reading is over, you finally speak.

"I had a really bad craving for cookies," you begin. As if hearing yourself and the absurdity of your story, you chuckle. "Middle of the night, woke up with this insatiable urge for them. John, I don't know how to explain it. Wanting something so bad that you're crying over it like a kid. I couldn't stand it, so I left to get them."

"Was it a car accident?" John asks, already attempting to connect the dots.

"No, no nothing of the sort," you assure.

His shoulders curl forward, head bowing close to you. "Why didn't you call me? I would've gotten them for you."

"I dunno I… I wasn't thinking. I was only thinking about those cookies and how badly I wanted them. But then when I got to the store…" Pausing, you slip a hand out of John's in favor of wiping your eyes off with the backs of your fingers. Patiently, he waits. Watches as you gather up your thoughts and control your breathing. "Someone was robbing the clerk at knife point, and I was- fuck, I've never been so scared in my entire life, John."

As you explain the events, he can see everything play before him like some twisted movie. You, alone in a dangerous situation, someplace he doesn't know, and he isn't aware of any of it. John doesn't doubt your strength. He's seen your fortitude—how much time and effort you put into the things you love. Still, he should've been there. It's only right.

"I passed out. Hit my head on the way down," you continue with a sniffle. "When I came to, I was on the floor with the clerk crouching over me while she was calling for help. I guess the guy ran off without taking any money when he saw me collapse. An ambulance came to check on me, and they took me here because the medic didn't like how low my blood pressure was."

"Must've been what made you pass out," John theorizes.

"Most likely," you nod. "They did a scan to make sure I was alright. No concussion, just a bump and a headache. Baby's fine. I'm fine. The doctor said they're going to let me go once they get the discharge paperwork done, but my car is still at the store so I was hoping that maybe you could take me home…"

"Whatever you need." His answer is quick. It spews out of his mouth without a second thought. Already he's leaning closer to you as if ready to scoop you into his embrace and drag you home no matter how hard it is on his back. "We'll go home."

John can't get out of that hospital fast enough once those discharge papers are in hand. You're sent home with the strict orders to keep upping your fluid intake and to take things easy to prevent another event and to keep your stress levels low for the sake of the baby. You rot in the passenger's seat. What are you going to say to Kate and Lottie?

Hi there, I nearly got your unborn child killed, sorry about that.

As you twist your fingers together, your stomach mimics the action until you're nauseous, like morning sickness on steroids. You can't help but feel as if you've made a fool of yourself. You're going to make a further one of yourself the moment you gather up the courage to spill your sins to the women who trusted you with such a terrifyingly important task.

Neither you nor John speak the entire ride home. Already emotionally and mentally exhausted with your day despite its fresh beginning, you instead focus on the changing views outside of the window as you get further out of town and closer to your hidden slice of paradise. That old siding and freshly cleaned chimney are a sight for sore eyes, and you're nearly breaking out of the car before John has the time to open the door for you.

You collapse on the couch. Hands resting on your stomach, you allow the cushions to mold around you as you lean back with a defeated sigh. Enervation seeps into your bones like a curse, and you don't realize the effect it has on you until John's kneeling before you with a hand resting on your knee.

"You look tired, darling. You should rest," he encourages.

A part of you wants to tell him that he should never tell a pregnant woman she looks tired, but the other part of you knows he's right. Weight lingers on your eyes, only growing heavier once more tears spring forth of their own volition.

"I know, I just…" Teeth sinking into your lips, you wipe at your eyes.

"Just what?" he prompts.

You sigh. "I… never got those stupid cookies."

For what feels like the first time in an eternity, John smiles before pointing a cautionary finger at you. "Stay here. I'll go get your cookies."

His orders aren't difficult to follow. Decrepitude sneaks up on you like a ghost, and soon you're collapsed on your side, curled up on the couch fast asleep where nothing in the world could wake you. Birds chirp in the trees as the wind toys with their leaves and you remember why you moved out here in the first place; to slow down. To not worry about the rush of the city or the way it snuffs out the stars in the sky.

A quiet life, perhaps. One with fresh picked berries after a day working in your office. Letting the sun warm your skin while the ground is soft, and the flames in the fireplace when the frost lines the windows in winter. For some reason, John is in this dream.

Someone smaller is, too.

You wake with a hand on your shoulder—it's too small to be John's. When you open your eyes, you're met with Kate Laswell's face. Seeing her jars you into a sitting position with your hand on your chest, a reaction to which she only chuckles to before steadying you.

"Alright killer, we don't need you passing out on us again," she chides.

"What're you doing here?" you ask. Suddenly self conscious of your appearance, your hands begin to smooth over your clothes and face, hoping to erase any remnants of sleep. Behind her, John stands with his arms crossed and a simper on his face.

"Lottie and I helped play musical chairs to get your car back from the store. It's going to do you much better here than it would there."

A pang cuts through your chest, slicing straight through your breast bone and down your stomach. You weren't expecting to have to face them so soon—to apologize for your stupid mistake. Already you can feel the words writhing on your tongue, tangling up together and tripping you up as you attempt to fish for anything that might make sense.

As if reading your mind, Kate raises her hand to silence your mess of thoughts. "John told me everything, and I don't want you worrying about a thing. It could've happened to anyone. We're just glad you're safe."

She doesn't linger long, and she doesn't take your apologies either. With a reassuring squeeze, she leaves with the orders to be kind to yourself before the hum of her car is taking both her and Lottie far away from your cottage.

Still groggy, you lean forward and press your fingers to the goose egg on the back of your neck. The swelling has already gone down, but the tenderness remains like a persistent wound. Before you can anger it too much, John slips his hand into yours and pulls it away to prevent you from doing any more harm. In exchange, he presses a cookie into your palm.

"Oh my god." You're ripping into it like a ravenous beast. Plastic crinkles and shreds until the alluring aroma of soft dough and sweet chocolate fills your nose. You slow down just enough to savor the flavor on your tongue. "I could die happy."

"I'd prefer if you didn't die at all, if it's all the same to you," John teases.

You finish your cookie within a minute, then quickly devour a second one, savoring each bite and the way the chips roll and melt along your tongue. Finally, that dissonance within you quells. Insatiable desire grows quiet, and you lean back into the sofa, content.

When you complain of your fatigue, John easily convinces you to sleep again, this time in the comfort of your bed. He tucks you in, pulling the blankets over your body, ensuring you have enough pillows to support your body and to prevent that twinge you get in your hips from the extra pressure you carry these days.

It isn't until you're comfortable that you see it—the bags. Dark green in color, they're stacked in the corner of your room. Travel bags. Pillows and blankets. They're all neat and even but painfully out of place. Squinting, you motion towards the new arrivals.

"What's all that?" you ask.

John doesn't need to glance over his shoulder to know what you're talking about. "My bags."

"Why'd you bring them here?"

Kneeling on the floor, he rests his hands on the edge of your bed as his head tilts to the side. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you," he humors.

Something spirals in you. A bouncing ball skipping down a twisting staircase. Shaking your head, you would sit up if it weren't for the weight of your stomach keeping you down. "What? No, you don't have to do that, John, that's-"

"No more solo runs to the store in the middle of the night," he chastises.

"Yeah, well but- I'm sure you have a life outside of this, John. Really, you don't need to stay here, I'll be fine."

He silences you with a hand to your cheek. Soft and warm. A thumb rubs over your lips and he looks at you with such intensity you feel as if you're about to combust. Chin lowered, brows raised, lines crinkling in his forehead—your tongue turns to lead.

"You're my life right now, darling," he mutters. "Taking care of you and this baby is all I care about."

For the millionth time today, you feel like you might cry. Trembling lips pull into a smile, one small enough for John to smother completely with a kiss. He tastes warm like summer time trips to the ocean. You decide it's much better than the cookies that you had craved so viciously before.

"Get some rest," he whispers.

Your head falls heavy against your pillow. Before he leaves, John draws the curtains tight and keeps the door cracked just wide enough for him to hear you should you call for him. You sigh as your body melts into the mattress. Sleep comes easy and quick. There is a delicious sort of comfort that comes in knowing that when you wake up, John will be here waiting for you.

It gets trapped half way, choking you until you and the teller are staring wide eyed at one another with terrifying realization. The mere mention of John's name garners more attention than you're comfortable with.

Laughing, you fold the bills in your hand as you scramble for an excuse; anything that might throw them off of the trail you've been dragged down for the last few weeks. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing that would be believable. The rug pulls out from beneath your feet and you're floundering for something to save you.

The clerk cautiously eyes you and the way your feet continue to awkwardly stumble backward too clumsily to be clandestine. He holds a hand out as if the mere motion alone is meant to stop you, but you're too scared of that look in his eyes. He harbors the same fury that your father does. Maybe all men do.

So you do what you did the last time Daddy ever got mad at you—you run.

You burst through the doors like an angry bull. The doors swing so far that they nearly smack into the face of the guard standing at the entrance, leaving his only saving grace to be his quick reflexes. He looks at you as if you're a stumbling lamb; like you could never be responsible for anything worth punishing. Your feet hardly seem to hit the ground as you sprint to Jester who warily eyes you as you tug on the saddle horn and lift yourself up into the seat.

Pulling on the reins, you ignore the clerk's demands to stop and the orders he barks for the guards to chase you. Blackpeak suddenly feels too big. A vast, unfamiliar valley waiting to wrap its fingers around you and hold you down. You push through the suffocating feeling as Jester's hooves dig into the earth as he switches from a canter to a gallop.

Though you know you shouldn't, you glance behind you. It hasn't taken the guards long at all to mount their own steeds to chase after you. The wind catches their hats, sending them flying off into the streets to get trampled, but they don't seem the least bit concerned as they holler for you to stop.

The distance between you and John Price has never felt so large before. Not until now.

You don't turn back to face the front until gunshots ring through the air. The bullets piercing scream as they shoot through the air is familiar, but it's too compressed. Sound waves bouncing off the homes and storefronts around you, it closes in on you. A ricochet. A twirl. The ringing in your ears plagues you worse than church bells.

A shot fires, and Jester cries. His galloping slows. He's limping hard enough to nearly buck you off, but you keep as steady as you can.

"Come on, boy," you urge, but your voice lacks the resolve. "It's okay, keep pushing."

Another shot. Jester goes down, and you go with him.

He trips on his front feet, sending you flying forward into the dust. The money you retrieved from John's safe goes flying like leaves in autumn as Jester's head lands on your chest, temporarily knocking the air from your lungs. His breath is rancid, but more concerning than that it's labored. Legs thrashing, chest heaving—you think he'd scream if it weren't for the hole piercing through his chest.

"What? No, no!" It's as if you're the one who was shot. Scrambling out from underneath Jester's head, you gently hold him as you stare at the way ichor mixes with the earth. It clumps like rain water, but the scent of his offals is not nearly as sweet as a summer storm. Bottom lip trembling, you look down at him and try not to sob at his wide eyed gaze at the sky. "I'm so sorry…"

Grief is spliced with fear the moment the men chasing you halt their horses and dismount. Red in the face, they scream at you to stay where you are as they both raise their six shooters in unison, fingers already on the trigger as they march up to you like they've already decided your fate.

You scramble for your skirt. The strength at which you claw the fabric up your legs should be able to rip them to shreds, but they stay intact as you pull it over your thigh, revealing John's pistol. Either the straps have loosened, or your fear has given you the strength of God; either way, it's an easy task to grip the item and point it at the one closest to you.

It's not an easy task to pull the trigger.

You stare, lips parted, soil caking your tongue, fear piercing through your heart. John told you a gun is not a weapon, but a tool. A means of protection. A means of living. Still, your father's rambling is scarred too deep into your skin.

Thou shalt not kill.

When you can't pull the trigger, the gun is viciously kicked out of your hand by one of the guards. You don't know why you scramble for it. Turning on your side, your arms go bloody as you reach for it, crawling through Jester's blood, but you don't make it far before a thick-soled boot digs into your spine.

Like a bug crushed beneath an unforgiving foot, you can't do anything but squeal as the man presses too much weight into you. You feel the breath escape your lungs, pushed free from your chest until you can't get them to expand anymore.

The tears begin when you hear the cock of his hammer. You close your eyes and rest your cheek into the earth as you breathe in the scent of this place that has always nurtured you. Slightly moist, it smells of home. Like your mom's sourdough starter and Mr. Beckett's chicken coop. You try to memorize it in your last moments before you become a corpse in the middle of the street.

The gun discharges and you jump. As silent tears adhere dust onto your face, you patiently await the pain. When it doesn't come, you open your eyes expecting to see an all blinding light like your father always promised would await you after death, but instead you see Jester's quiet face and empty eyes as more blood flows through a new bullet hole in his head, putting him out of his misery.

A dark chuckle precedes the weight of the guard being lifted off of you as he kicks you over onto your back. Gasping, you stare up at him. The look in his eyes promises you that he will not be nearly as kind to you as he was to your horse.

"Oh," he croons, shoving his six shooter into his holster. "The townsfolk are gonna love you."

Pain blossoms in your skull as the first punch rips through your cheek and you're reminded of your mother. Your memories transcend time as you're forcefully shoved into your younger self. Too small to understand the world but still big enough to know that what you're witnessing is something worth remembering.

There's a stranger with a funny accent that your father always notes as being a sign of greed. High society people with more money than they should have. Tan cloth creases around his elbow as his arm wraps around your mother's waist. Slender fingers with a glistening wedding ring dig deep into her skin, and you don't know why but the sight makes your stomach feel upset—like you might be sick.

Always the zenith of politeness, she tries to gently push him away but he refuses to hear any of it. She begs in the middle of the general market for him not to do something so horrifying here in front of her daughter. She cries for mercy like sinners do in church.

This horror doesn't stop until your father marches up with his billfold clutched in his fingers like he might rip a hole through the leather. Yanking you by your wrist, you stumble on your little legs and look up at the adults while your father spits for your mother to stop wasting time and to follow him home. It's getting late, and dinner needs to be made.

That night, he beats her.

It's the first time he's ever done it in front of you. Sitting on the floor, your ankles hurt as you watch her collapse against the wall to keep herself up as he thumps the side of his bible against her face. You fear that if he does it too hard, the scriptures will be ingrained in her skin forever. Raised scars lingering on her cheeks and against her palms as she attempts to protect herself. Perhaps that's what your father wants—for her to never be able to forget.

While his violence endures, he speaks as if giving a sermon. The words are too large for you to comprehend. Infidelity. Vow breaking whore. Still, the tone is sharp enough for you to start crying just as your mother does.

"I saved you from sin!" he chides. "I saved you from a life of wretched sin!"

His blows pause. You lock eyes with your mother. Her tears cease like God has choked every river on earth.

The second punch reminds you of your father.

You're nine years old and your mother lies beneath freshly tilled soil and a headstone that still has the dust from its engravings. Her body isn't even cold yet, and still your father claims there is no time for sorrow, for she is in the Lord's hands now and He will not be swayed by mortal tears. Besides, dinner still has to be made. With your mother now dead, that chore falls upon you.

Weights pull at your shoulders as you run a knife over potatoes, skinning them and saving them to feed any small peckish creatures you happen across in nature. Your father grunts outside, hunched over with his knees on the ground as he yanks your mother's favorite flowers from the earth. He's been out there for so long that you're no longer convinced he was merely picking them to lay upon her grave.

You don't realize you've forgotten about the bread baking in the oven until you're coughing. Dark swirling smoke fills your lungs and tickles the back of your throat until you're wheezing, and it only worsens as you go to retrieve the smoldering hunk of dough. In the process of tossing the tray onto the counter, you've knocked over a handful of freshly peeled potatoes onto the floor.

Tears wet your cheeks the moment your knees hit the ground to retrieve the items. The door squeaks as it opens then quickly slams shut.

"What's burning?" your father demands.

He stops in the doorway of the kitchen when he sees you. Dirt marks the deep crevasses of his fingernails and sweat slicks his brow until you can see the deep set wrinkles on his forehead. There is no justification for the mess that your father wants to hear. Your tongue shrivels up with the raising of his hand.

Deft fingers reach for his belt buckle. The motion he makes to whip it free from his belt loops is so fluid you're nearly entranced, but his beckoning fingers may as well be wrapped around your throat.

"What am I gonna do with you, girl?" he asks rhetorically. "You're too much like your mother."

It's the first day he hits you on the face. No longer forced to bend over his knee, he instead has you kneel at the dinner table where he smacks his belt over your knuckles. He makes you count each one out loud. When he's finally finished with you and your knuckles are cracked beyond recognition and he decides your crying is too irksome, he lands a slap to your cheek.

Stunning you into silence, it gives him what he wants.

The third punch reminds you of Mr. Beckett's daughter.

Adelaide Beckett was a beautiful woman with hair like wild roses and a gap in her teeth so wide she could whistle through it. When you were younger, you always called her marmalade on account of not knowing any better, and she was just as sweet so it only made sense. Even when you were old enough to say her name correctly you still called her that because it made her laugh, and your mother always seemed to smile more when Adelaide laughed.

She was often found doing things many people considered inappropriate for a woman. Something unbecoming. One autumn, you watched her string up and dress an elk all by herself, and you figured half of Penmosa did too as it was all anyone could talk about at church that following Sunday. Whispering about her behind her back as if she wasn't the first to volunteer for services and lend her voice during hymns.

One year, for your birthday, Adelaide gifted you a photo—a real photo. One taken with a camera. She told you all about how it was made and developed, but all you could do was gawk at the image. It was of a buffalo. A huge creature that reminded you of an overgrown cow with hunched shoulders. With its head bowing low, it chewed on the grass at its feet, seemingly disinterested with the photographer, who certainly took this picture much too close to be safe.

You only got to hold onto her gift for a few minutes before your father's ripping it out of your hand, all while barking at Adelaide to stay away from you.

"I don't want some sexual deviant anywhere near my daughter," he spits.

When you get home, your father uses Adelaide's gift to start a fire. When you dare to ask him why, he says it's because man should not attempt to recreate or capture God's glorious creations.

Still, both you and your mother find quiet ways to interact with Adelaide. She's your mother's only friend. Your mother never smiles this much at home, nor does she ever receive such tenderness from your father as she does from her. Gentle hugs, a pat on the back, a gift of an unsuspecting rock or flower.

When your mother falls sick, Adelaide visits.

She comes when your father is running errands in town and you are in your bedroom—a child trying to swallow the thought that her mother is dying just beyond the wall and she's forbidden to see her. Adelaide marches through the house without fear or care. You stare at her with wide eyes as she greets you and approaches your parent's bedroom. When you tell her that your father doesn't want anyone seeing her, she only chuckles.

"Well, if your daddy has an issue with it, he's more than welcome to talk to me."

Adelaide closes the door behind her, and though you know you shouldn't, you can't help but linger. Wet coughs cut through the wood clear as day, just as they have been for the last few weeks, but their conversation only reaches your ears in fractured lines.

"There's a doctor up north. I've heard good things about him," Adelaide whispers.

"Delly, you know I can't go. I can't leave her here with her father." Your mother sounds broken. A mere husk of the woman you always knew her to be.

"We'll take her with!"

"We won't make it."

"But we can try. I wanna try. For you. He's killing you! I can't stand…" Adelaide coughs as if her allergies have suddenly acted up. "I can't stand the thought of losing you."

They argue like this for some time. Your ears strain with how hard you listen, but eventually things grow silent at one point except for sniffling from both your mother and Adelaide.

Eventually, Adelaide exits the room and shuts the door tight behind her. Her face is wet, like dew on rose petals, but she smiles anyway when she catches you standing in the hallway. You half expect her to chastise you for listening when you shouldn't.

"You know your mama loves you very much, don't you?" All you can give her in response is a nod. "Good. Because she does. More than you know."

The moment she leaves, you rush into your bedroom and toss yourself onto your bed. Knees digging into the mattress, you knock on the wall that separates you from your mother. It's a made up pattern. A half forgotten song. She echoes it back to you.

Three months after your mother died of consumption, Adelaide Beckett perishes from the same disease. Your father does not allow you to go to her funeral. He reminds you some sinners don't earn redemption.

When they bury her, they lay her to rest on the opposite side of the graveyard from your mother where the distance separates them like a yawning pit.

Blood hits your tongue and you are brutally shoved back into your adult body, but your mind has yet to catch up. Still a child underneath this mess of flesh, you groan as something sharp scrapes along your legs.

Opening your eyes hurts. Everything hurts. A deep ache radiates from your skull and tunnels through every bone until they've reached the distant lands of your fingers and toes. When you can squint past the swelling in your face, you realize that you're being dragged. Jester's body still lies in the distance, body cooling in the fresh mountain air as several strangers tug on your arms.

You dig your heels into the earth in an attempt to stand and relieve the pressure they're putting on your shoulders, but you stumble. More people gather around. Men in cowboy hats with stern brows and clenching jaws. Women in freshly pressed dresses daring to get close enough to the fray to watch you squirm. People begin chanting. Cheering. You've never heard such a ruckus of human voices squealing through the air before. They laugh, smile, growl—hungry dogs who can't decide between toying with or enjoying their first meal.

Adrenaline doesn't bother to course through you until your body hits grass.

Lush green stains the tattered skirt of your dress where you're dragged for a few more yards before you're dumped completely on the ground. Abrasions litter the newly exposed flesh of your legs, worsening around your knees and shins. Pinpricks of blood seep out where they're quickly welcomed by the sun and breeze.

A child speaks and you look up from yourself. A young girl with pigtails points you out to her mother. She does not look afraid, but rather, excited.

"Up," one of the men demand, yanking on the collar of your dress.

You obey, but you stand too fast. Head spinning, more blood gushes out of your face, seeping into your mouth and along your chin. The crinkling of those letters rub against your sweat slicked skin from the inside of your blouse.

All the contents in your stomach run sour as you're turned around to face the gallows. You cry out as someone yanks your hands behind your back before your wrists are met with the unforgiving bite of unconditioned rope. As you're pushed up the creaky wooden stairs, you note that the crowd has turned into half the town. Rows of people look on in excited agony as you're made to stand right over a trapdoor.

A noose is placed over your head. It feels like Mama's necklace. You sniffle as you turn to the man who seems to be leading this all—a man who has no sympathy for your tears.

"Wait, please sir." The words are heavy on your tongue. It isn't until your tongue darts out of your mouth to wet your lips that you realize it's split right down the middle. "Just let me explain."

"Quiet," he barks. His palm is wide enough to engulf the back of your head as he forces you to look away from him and back at the crowd.

The speech begins. Wild, slanderous claims of your character. John Price's whore sent to do his bidding, ready to plague Blackpeak with another tragedy. People call out for your end. Pull the lever and end your life as pitifully as it began.

You don't think of the words they spew at you—you can only think of Daddy and how you're glad your knuckles aren't split wide open this time. You think about John Price and how you can still taste a hint of his lips through the ichor in your mouth. Head tilting back, rope biting into your throat, you look at the sky and for once you can't compare it to another one of God's creative works. You only think about how the deep color that spans between clouds is a near perfect match with John's eyes.

John. Where is he? He said he would come.

You think of Mama and Adelaide. You think of their graves and the distance that spans between them, and you hope that when they kill you, they put you next to John Price.

"Whoa, boys! Quite the party you've got goin' on here!"

Though there are still occasional cheers, the crowd has gone significantly quiet as a new voice chuckles behind you. With your left eye beginning to swell further, you can't bring yourself to look anywhere other than the wooden trapdoor that outlines your feet.

"Quite the party, and you didn't even bother to invite me."

"Sir, she's with Price," one of the men explain.

"John Price?" the new man confirms, as if there could ever be anyone else with that last name. "Sounds like she's gotten herself into a bit of trouble."

The two men converse for a short while about your crimes. The bank, you running, Jester's death—the new man chuckles too much. There's not enough humor in your pain for him to be laughing like this.

"I understand, but I can't let you hang this woman."

A scoff cuts through the air just as confusion settles in the crowd. "Why not?"

Heavy boots fall along the wood as crisp spurs jingle while the man walks around you. The first thing you notice as he bleeds into your vision is his pristine vest and large silver belt buckle. Your gaze rises to his face where you find faint stubble and a long healed gash on his ear that reminds you of a wild tomcat. A savvy smile pulls at his lips as he sucks on his teeth, but you find any comfort dissipating as your eyes land on the deputy's badge glistening on his chest.

"Well kid," the man hums. He reaches forward and gathers a glob of coagulated blood from your chin onto his thumb before wiping it off on your blouse. "I've got plans for this one."

“Um… Ma’am…” You start to say, awkward and stilted, but she raises a hand to stop you.

You shut up immediately, cowed.

Ardmore flicks through whatever it is she’s reading for another minute. In the silence of her sparse, impersonal office, it feels like an eternity.

Finally, she lifts her head and fixes you with a stern look.

“You know, I’m trying to figure out just what it is you do, exactly.” She says, and her voice is just as cold as her eyes. 

You swear it feels as though the temperature in the office drops.

“Oh.” You say. You’re trying to keep your voice light, but it just comes out strained. “I, um. Well, I suppose I manage the–”

“The purpose of the Recombinant Support Team,” Ardmore cuts across you cleanly, as though you had no voice at all. “Was to handle the administration for the unit so that they could focus on their missions.”

There’s a slight pause.

“Yes.” You say weakly, though you’re not sure if she was actually waiting on a response or not.

“As far as I can see, you do very little of that.” Ardmore is staring at you with an impassive expression. “You seem to spend most of your time doing their laundry.”

You feel your skin get hot and prickly with embarrassment. You don’t always do their laundry. Just… just a handful of times. But you don’t get a chance to defend yourself before she’s continuing.

“You have no experience, no real skills. I can’t rightly see how you got hired in the first place. You should have been reassigned when the useful members of your team were killed.” She huffs, the first edge of irritation beginning to creep into her tone. “But Quaritch has always liked a pretty young face.”

The prickling humiliation gets worse. Your shoulders are hunched, and you can’t meet her eyes.

What she’s getting at is something that you have been aware of on some level, despite your attempts at denial. You know that you were always the least efficient member of the team, but you had thought that you had worked with enough enthusiasm to make up the difference. And even when you were the only one left, no one had ever complained.

But you weren’t completely stupid. You know that the Colonel didn’t treat you like just any assistant.

“I–” You start to say, but she interrupts you yet again.

“I’m going to give you a choice.” She says, folding her hands in front of her.

There’s a pause, but this time you don’t speak. You just wait, your tummy clenching anxiously. This doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good. Are you being fired? Or demoted? Or finally reassigned? You suppose it was just a matter of time.

“The Colonel has become increasingly difficult to handle of late,” Ardmore says, setting the datapad down in a way that comes across as too casual. “He’s unruly, resistant to command. Seems to think he knows how to deal with the Na’vi insurgents better than anyone else.”

You blink. You had been aware on some level that there had been tensions between Quaritch and Ardmore, but you don’t know why or what happened. No one tells you anything around here, and you’re too focused on just getting by to really worry about the bigger picture of the RDA’s long-term goals on the planet.

“You’re aware that he left the city, unsanctioned, three days ago?’

That makes you tense. It’s an accusation, really. 

Of course you knew – there had been some kind of disagreement. You knew that Quaritch had asked for a ship and been denied, but not the particulars. You also knew that they had received some intel about Sully’s whereabouts, and had disappeared on their ikran mounts before anyone even knew they had gone.

You’re aware of all of this because you’ve already been chewed out by the higher ups in SecOps. You’re meant to be up to date with the Recoms every move, after all, so it’s easy to drop the blame in your lap.

“Y-yes,” You say, guilty and anxious all at once. “I didn’t sanction that–”

Ardmore continues over you, once again completely ignoring your attempt at speaking. It doesn’t seem like she cares much if you know what she’s talking about; you get the impression that she’s off-loading some of this onto you like this is a stopgap therapy session.

“The reason he was brought back was to complete a specific mission, and he has failed that mission several times.”

Retrieving or killing the betrayer and insurgent, Jake Sully. You know this one. It’s hard to miss the holovids shimmering all over Bridgehead, declaring him an enemy of humanity.

“So… is the Colonel being recalled, or something?” You ask.

Ardmore looks as though she’s stopping herself from rolling her eyes through sheer will power.

“The Recoms represent a significant investment by the company, so no, they’re not ‘being recalled, or something.’” Her voice is harsh in a way that makes you sit up straighter, your stomach curdling. “But they do need some… incentive to ensure they stay in line.”

You nod dumbly. “An incentive.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

Truthfully, you haven’t been following along with her reasoning very well in the first place, but now you’re flummoxed.

“Me, ma’am?” Despite your confusion, you work to keep your voice as even as possible. Ardmore is clearly already irritated about your very existence; you don’t want to give her a reason to hate you even more.

Your caution goes to waste, because Ardmore’s eyes flash in aggravation anyway. You suspect that there’s nothing you can do to please her, and it makes your spine go stiff. Your knees are watery, too – if you were standing, you might have gone weak.

“Yes, you.” Ardmore says sharply. “Next time the Recoms are sent out, you’re going with them.”

The order falls between you two like a lead balloon. You blink at her, turning the words over in your head. It takes you a moment to parse their meaning, and then another moment to discern that she’s one hundred percent serious. The General isn’t the type of woman to make jokes, but the statement is so bizarre that you honestly can’t quite get your head around it.

“Out.” You say at last. “Into… into the field?”

The General’s nostrils flare slightly as she takes an inhale, like she’s trying to regulate her patience. Then she forces a smile.

“That’s right.” She says. “Quaritch has been reckless recently. Let’s see if he takes the same type of risks when he’s toting you around behind him.”

You gape at her. You understand the basic premise. Quaritch has become a pain in her ass, so she’s decided to shackle a weight to his ankle to ensure he doesn’t go rogue like he’d done before. 

But why does that ankle weight have to be you?

Your mouth is dry when you swallow. “Uh… I don’t… I don’t know if that… I don’t think the Colonel would care too much if I got killed in the field, ma’am.”

Ardmore snorts a little, which isn’t a reaction you had been expecting.

“Right,” She murmurs, glancing at the datapad. “You were on sick leave the day we rolled out against the Metkayina. The rest of the Support team were with the Recoms, but not you.”

You blink, picking anxiously at a hangnail on your thumb. “Uh… Yes, ma’am. I had a cold.”

You swear her cold blue eyes actually flash at that.

“A cold.” She says the words slowly, as though tasting them. “A bad cold, was it?”

You hesitate, because no, it hadn’t been a bad cold. It was really little more than a case of the sniffles, but Quaritch had looked at you with such an expression of disgust when you had blown your nose near him that you had thought he was going to have you quarantined. Instead, he had ordered you to take a few sick days.

You hadn’t thought about it too much at the time; you had been all too happy to take the excuse to skip what you had thought was going to be the straightforward arrest of Jake Sully. But now, you can recognise that it’s a little strange that you were pulled off duty just for a runny nose, especially by a hard-ass like Quaritch.

“It could have been contagious.” You say weakly.

Ardmore ignores that.

“Pack a bag. Keep it light.” She says bluntly. “They want to head out tomorrow.”

There’s any number of reasons you could give to illustrate how this is a bad idea. You’ve never been outside Bridgehead, you have no combat training, you aren’t even very good at the job you have! The Recoms may not have complained, and Quaritch may not have demanded your reassignment, but that doesn’t mean that he actually wants you around. In the last few months, you’ve hardly seen him at all!

But you’re stressed and confused and not thinking clearly, because the only thing you blurt is; “Tomorrow? But they just got back!”

“Quaritch has a fire under his ass at the moment.” Ardmore grunts, already picking up her datapad again. “But that isn’t much good if he fails again.”

She redirects her attention to her datapad and it’s clear that you’re dismissed. But you’re not quite ready to go.

This is the stupidest plan you’ve ever heard. You’re not the smartest around, but even you can tell that this is irresponsible, ridiculous. Why send a civilian out with two Recoms, who have been engineered to fight back against the nine feet tall, vicious hostiles that want all humans dead?

“You said there was a choice.” You manage to say without your voice trembling. “What… what’s the other option?”

Ardmore’s eyes flick up to you.

“Other option.” She repeats without inflection. She sets the datapad aside again, then clasps her hands to look over you properly.

The once-over is brief, and you get the distinct impression that you’ve been found wanting.

“If you choose not to go, then there is no need for you on this planet.” Ardmore says after a pause. “Your presence here is superfluous. With only two Recombinants left, there’s not much need for a Support Team as they now report to me directly.”

“So–” You begin, blinking.

“So,” Ardmore cuts across you again. “You’ll be sent back to Earth.”

The words land like a suckerpunch to the chest. Your breath hitches, and you stare at Ardmore with wide eyes.

You’ll be sent back to Earth.

You can’t let that happen. There’s nothing for you back on Earth. Your city is a wasteland, buckling under the weight of a population that it doesn’t have the resources to sustain. Pandora had been a new start for you – signing up for the RDA had been an act of desperation. The thick smog of the cities had begun choking up your lungs, the oppressive atmosphere of the dying planet contributing to your chronic migraines, and you had known in that instinctive, bone-deep way that if you didn’t get off-world soon you would die in that dark, mouldy apartment that you were spending most of your paycheck renting.

You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t. 

And judging from the way Ardmore is looking at you right now, she knows it.

“I’ll go pack my bag then, ma’am.” You say, defeated and dull.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

The jungles of Pandora are beautiful. You’ve only ever seen photographs, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. It pulses with energy and life, vast swathes of lush greenery stretching up towards the sky like hands. When you stare down from the Samson aircarrier, you can see the lines of rivers criss-crossing like veins. Up here, you really can almost subscribe to the idea of the planet as one big living entity, like the native Na’vi believe.

It’s so different to the decaying atmosphere of Earth and the industrial hellhole of Bridgehead, but you don’t really get the opportunity to admire it properly because you’re so focused on the fact that Quaritch is angry with you.

It’s not necessarily obvious, but you’re rather embarrassed to admit that you’re incredibly attuned to Quaritch’s moods. It’s partly a survival instinct; Quaritch can be a scary motherfucker, and you feel a certain pressure to ensure that he’s kept happy. You tell yourself it’s because you’re the last member of the Support Team, but that doesn’t quite ring true.

The truth is, you have a big fat embarrassing crush on the Colonel.

You tamp it down the best you can, but Quaritch doesn’t help things. You know that he’s aware of your crush; it’s obvious in every interaction he has with you. He calls you pet names – baby, honey, cupcake – he pats your rump when you walk by, his hands linger all over you.

You’ve become so accustomed to his attention that when he turns surly, you swear to god you turn into a sad wilting houseplant taken away from the sun. 

You know you’re acting like a total loser, but it’s like you can’t quite help yourself. Quaritch’s attention is intense, and it feels all consuming in the most exciting way, so when it’s taken away it feels like a shock to the system.

It’s not that he’s ignoring you or anything, but for the few days after you’re first assigned to follow him and Wainfleet, he’s cold. He doesn’t engage much in conversation, just grunting at you, and there’s no head pats or even little ass slaps. You pretend it’s not completely pitiful to be so affected by his irritation, and you pretend not to see the sympathetic looks Wainfleet sends you when you gaze after the Colonel.

You’re good at pretending.

But one day, maybe four days after you first set out, he softens again. You’re not sure what the trigger is, but you’re so relieved that you’re not about to question anything.

And that brings you to… whatever this is. The unconventional part of your dynamic with your boss.

His cot on the air transport is tiny and narrow by Recom standards, but you fit on it just fine. With Quaritch on it too it’s a narrow squeeze, but neither of you mind. The low hum of the Samson engines thrums through the metal floor of the cargo hold, a steady rhythm beneath the quiet creak of the cot’s frame and the slick wet sounds of your mouths moving together.

Quaritch is massive even in repose, resting heavily on his back. You’re curled against his chest, one of his big arms looped around your waist to keep you anchored against him. His lips are much bigger than yours, but you’ve done this so often now that the honeyed slide of your mouths together fall into an easy, languid rhythm.

The dim red standby lights paint Quaritch’s broad Na’vi features in warm contrast, the little freckles on his face incandescent in the gloom. His golden eyes are heavy-lidded – you’re not sure if it's from arousal or fatigue. It’s the end of a long-day, and he and Lyle had been trekking around various tribes all day. He hadn’t said anything when they’d gotten back, so you had assumed that it hadn’t gone well. 

When he’d tugged you into the small room where the cots are held, the only compartment on the transport where the air is regulated for humans, that only confirmed it. Lyle had watched the two of you go, rolling his eyes.

Your breath catches as his tongue slips against yours, dominant even in leisure. One large hand slides down from your neck, tracing the curve of your spine before settling firmly on your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you squeak.

His mouth moves over yours with practiced ease, coaxing you to open, to sigh, to melt. And you do, instantly. Your hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers tangling into the knot of his braid at the base of his skull, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat.

When he pulls his big head back, breaking the kiss, a thin string of saliva pulls taut, creating a bridge between your swollen mouths.

“Damn, you’re messy,” he huffs, thumb swiping over your glistening mouth, smearing moisture. 

His gaze darkens, but he doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Instead his broad nose nuzzles at the side of your neck, placing slow wet kisses to your jaw. Your body is quivering under his attention at his hot breath huffs against your sensitized skin.

“I gotta favour to ask, sweetpea,” He murmurs, tongue lashing just under your ear.

“A-a favour?” You repeat, shivering. 

“Mhm,” He hums, reaching up to prod a thumb at your lower lip again just to watch the soft flesh give. “Just a small one.”

You blink, trying to collect yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, feeling every point of contact between you and your boss right now. God, this is so inappropriate. You’re pretty certain that if Ardmore were to learn of this little routine, where you make out with the Colonel every damn evening as a fucked up form of stress relief, you’d be reassigned to work in the onbase McDonalds so fast your head would spin.

“Uh… yeah.” You say, sounding completely fucking stupid. “A favour. Mm. What is it?”

There’s a soft huff of breath against your damp throat, and it takes a moment to recognise it as a laugh.

“Need you to approve a weapons requisition for me.”

You’re still feeling a little damn slow on the uptake, but you nod anyway. That’s not really a favour, is it? That’s part of your job. Weapons requisition forms are pretty standard, and he usually just leaves any paperwork he wants you to sign on your desk. Maybe he’s only asking because you’re out in the bush, and there’s nowhere for him to drop it off or something. 

“Of course I can do that.” You say breathily, already leaning up to him in the hopes of getting another kiss. You’re so relieved that he’s not angry with you anymore that you think you’d agree to anything.

God, you know you’re pathetic, but when he gives you that sharp, arrogant smile, sharp canines gleaming, you feel your stomach give a sharp lurch. You try not to squirm too obviously, but your thighs press together instinctively.

“That’s my good girl,” He purrs, his chest rumbling as he leans down once more. “Keepin’ the team goin’, aintcha?”

It’s so obviously not true, just a bone he’s throwing you, but you nod your head anyway. It’s good to feel wanted, to feel useful. It’s not a feeling that you’re used to here on Pandora, always living with the heavy awareness that you’re only here because Quaritch has taken a liking to you on a whim. Even then, you’re not stupid enough to think that just because he likes to make out with you whenever he’s had a hard day, that he’s sweet on you. 

The Colonel is a man on a mission, and you’ve never been under any illusion of where your place with him is. It’s just… stress relief. When the Colonel has a mad day, he often seeks you out for lazy make out sessions, fingering, a little groping. Never any more than that, no matter how you writhe and beg.

“You gonna get that?” He murmurs against your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse point.

“Huh?” You pant, mind hazy and a little stupid. 

Your conscious awareness has narrowed down to his mouth on your neck, the suckling motions of his tongue as he licks over the marks he’s leaving. A prey instinct in the back of your mind has kicked in and is screaming at you for allowing such an enormous predator to pin you down and press his sharp teeth to your throat, but you’re so horny and dazed that you stuff that survival impulse down deep.

“I said,” He nips at your earlobe, pulling a breathy squeal from you, “Are you gonna get that?”

At first you don’t notice the beeping, too busy chasing his mouth again, lips parting eagerly. But then he pulls back to look down at you, cat-like eyes darting over your sweaty, dazed expression, and you begin to come back to yourself.

Your head snaps around, your eyes falling on your datapad where it sits across the room on your own cot. The screen is lit up as it vibrates, emitting steady beeps.

General Ardmore calling.

You let out a startled shriek, scrambling out of the cot.

Quaritch lets out a low huff, falling back onto the standard issue bunk and lazily pillowing his head with his two arms. He watches you with darkened eyes, looking both amused and annoyed. 

You scramble to straighten your uniform—it’s wrinkled, blouse misbuttoned, one strap of your bra peeking out near your shoulder. You yank it back in place, flustered.

“Oh, god,” You hiss, panicked. “Shit.”

You ignore the low rumbling chuckle from behind you as you grab the datapad. Low-level panic is causing your fingers to tremble, but you clear your throat and affect a pleasant expression as you answer the call.

The connection is a little spotty this far out, and the video feed flickers as Ardmore’s familiar scowl appears on-screen.

“Ma’am.” You greet, attempting to surreptitiously smooth down your hair.

Even through the fuzzy video, you can see her cold eyes narrow.

“Sitrep.” She barks, audio crackling.

You clear your throat, struggling to gather your thoughts. “Yes. Um. The… the Recom unit scoped out another one of the Reef clans–”

“Any sign of the kid?”

Behind you, the cot creaks as Quaritch shifts, listening in.

“Not yet, ma’am.” You say, fighting the urge to glance over your shoulder.

Even through the shitty videofeed, you can feel Ardmore eyeing you, assessing you. You’re hyperaware now of the rumpled clothes, you’re messy hair. Can she see the hickeys Quaritch’s sharp teeth have no doubt left on your throat? All you can do is pray that the connection is too bad for her to see details.

“And Quaritch?” She asks.

You hesitate, just briefly.

“He’s conducting interrogations with the clan.” You say. “Within mission parameters.”

Truthfully, you don’t have much of an idea of what goes on when Quaritch and Wainfleet move out into the wild. They leave you on the transport with the other humans, mounting their ikran and flying off to intensify the search for Quaritch’s son. When they get back they smell of gasoline and ash, and neither will offer any information about what they’ve done.

“That wasn’t my question.” Ardmore’s voice crackles, but you can hear the undertone of impatience.

You steady your voice. “He’s focused, ma’am.”

You don’t look behind you, afraid of what you might see on Quaritch’s face. He knows that Ardmore calls every night for a sitrep, he knows that she’s using you to check up on him, but you’ve never talked about it. It’s probably part of the reason he’s so reticent with information, why he keeps you in the dark on his plans.

But Ardmore doesn’t seem happy.

“Have you been out in the field with them?” She demands. “That’s what you’re there for.”

There’s no point in lying. You can tell by the look on her face that she already knows the answer, and you know where this is going.

“Um… no, ma’am.” You say hesitantly. “It was deemed too dangerous for a non-combatant–”

“I want you out there with them tomorrow.” She barks, as you had suspected.

You deflate a little, anxiety curdling in your stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes flick briefly past the camera, then back to you, calculating.

“And you are not to involve yourself beyond observation,” she adds. “No heroics. No fraternisation.”

Your cheeks burn, hearing the unspoken accusation. “Understood.”

There’s another pause, during which Ardmore studies you like a pawn on a board she hasn’t quite decided how to use.

“Keep the channel open,” she says finally. “If anything changes, I expect to hear it immediately.”

You’ve barely begun to answer when she hangs up, the videofeed going dead. In the ensuing quiet, the hum of the air carrier and the low hiss of the oxygen tanks only seem to emphasise Quaritch’s silence.

Finally, you turn, and as soon as you catch sight of Quaritch you flush. He’s still stretched out on the cot, right where you’d left him, but what you hadn’t noticed was the unmistakable bulge in his cargo pants. God, you’re glad you hadn’t glanced behind you in the middle of that call – you’re certain you would have lost your train of thought and humiliated yourself in front of Ardmore.

But then your eyes lift to his face, and the warm simmer of arousal that had started in your belly is tempered. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark – no longer in arousal, but now in unmistakable annoyance.

“I guess I’m coming with you two tomorrow,” You say, keeping your voice as light as possible as you stand. “Where did you say you were going?”

Instead of answering you, Quaritch stands up. He fixes his vest, ignoring his hard-on. His ears are flattened against his skull, and your stomach sinks as you realise that he’s angry.

“Next time,” he says, voice rough, “you tell her less.”

“Oh.” You say, voice small. “Right. I’m sorry. I just–”

But he’s not interested in speaking to you, because he doesn’t wait for you to finish speaking. He just grunts, stepping past you and heading for the door. 

You watch him leave, lip trembling.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Quaritch and Wainfleet are keeping their plans from you again.

It’s obvious in the way that Quaritch doesn’t look up from his datapad once, even with you sitting by his side jabbering away. He towers over you, enormous even when sitting, with his broad shoulders and lithe waist. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he stabs a big finger at the holodisplay. He’s not the best with technology, and his ears are pinned flat against his skull in irritation.

The transport judders, an air pocket causing the small aircraft to lurch, but it barely puts a pause in your story as you lean into his side.

“But Elena said that if Kyle was going to keep sleeping around on her, then she may as well…” You trail off slowly, realising that the only one listening to you is Lyle. 

Quaritch is still frowning at something at the datapad. You squint and crane your neck, but can’t quite catch a glimpse of what he’s looking at. 

“Do you want help with that?” You ask.

You’re already reaching for the pad, used to helping him with whatever he needs, but this time he lifts it up out of your reach.

“No,” he grunts. “Leave it.”

You blink, surprised. He never usually refuses your help. If anything, he usually shoves whatever piece of tech he’s messing around with into your hands and leaves you to sort it. But this time, he angles the datapad out of sight so you can’t see what he’s doing.

It shouldn’t be surprising at this stage, but you still feel the little sting of hurt.

Lyle leans forward. “What did Elena do next?”

“Huh?” You blink, distracted now.

 Lyle is watching you, tail coiling impatiently, waiting for you to finish your story. 

“Oh, right.” You clear your throat, gathering yourself. If Quaritch is going to be like that, fine. You’ll just ignore him for a while until he decides to act right again.

“Right. So, Elena said that if he was going to keep sleeping around, they may as well just open the relationship.”

Lyle gasps, letting out a low cackle of delight. 

The rest of the flight is quiet, the silence only broken by you and Lyle murmuring together. Quaritch is distant, focusing on whatever is on his datapad. His huge hulking body is pressed right against yours, but he may as well be miles away.

It’s not until later that you really regret not asking more questions, demanding answers.

It’s late by the time the air carrier landed at a sort of village, and you’re forced to rely on the too-bright artificial floodlights to illuminate the surroundings. It’s some sort of Na’vi settlement, though it doesn’t look like any that you’ve seen photos of. It’s built between the roots of what had once been an enormous tree though its surroundings are sparse, as though the plantlife has been purposely burned back to create an ashy expanse of dirt on which they’ve constructed their raw-hide tents and wooden yurts.

The people, too, come as a shock. You’ve never actually seen a Na’vi before – the Recombinants don’t count, too human in nature to really count as alien – and you’re a little taken aback by how… different they look. It’s not just the red and black paint, or the shaved heads, or the near nudity. It’s the way they move; catlike, crouching low to the ground, hissing at each other.

Mangkwan, Lyle had muttered to you lowly.

Crates are hauled off the carrier and dropped into the dirt with heavy, final thuds. The Mangkwan swarm the crates immediately. Someone laughs, sharp and breathless. Another lets out a shriek of delight when a crate is cracked open and the contents revealed. Long blue fingers drag over dark metal like it’s something holy. The rifles are lifted, weighed, admired, before being passed hand to hand with reverence that tips quickly into glee.

You watch with a dry mouth, feeling sick to your stomach. You’re not sure what you’ve agreed to be a party to by ordering those damn weapons, but watching the exhilaration in those strange alien faces has you feeling an irrepressible feeling of sinking dread.

And then there’s the woman.

Nine feet tall, slender in that muscular Na’vi way, she towers over you. She moves like a panther, as though she’s aware of every inch of her body as she saunters around, her face lit up with a dangerous sort of delight.

You can only assume that this is the leader of the clan. Her skin is ash-streaked like the others, but unlike the others her body modifications are minimal, and she hasn’t shaved her head. Her tight braids are crowned with a headpiece that fans out in a way that reminds you a little of a frill-necked lizard you’d seen once in a nature doc.

She’s a little bit terrifying. It’s difficult not to stare.

Quaritch is sauntering around. Ostensibly, he’s overseeing the weapons drop, but to you it seems like he’s… showing off. Peacocking, almost, displaying how powerful he is, how strong, how he keeps his promises. It’s important to emphasise those things to his new allies, you know this, but the way he looks at the woman makes you… edgy.

He had pulled you in front of her, his enormous hands cupping your shoulders and pinning you in place for her perusal. The way the Na’vi around you treat her with nothing short of obeisance only solidifies your initial impression that she was the leader of the clan.

“Here she is,” He says, his chest all puffed out. “The little girl who organised all these weapons for you.”

He says it in English, then repeats it in Na’vi. You bristle at being called little girl, but don’t dare to correct him. Not while the woman is staring at you, mouth parted, like she wants to eat you alive.

You’re pretty sure you’re the first human she’s seen up close, though admittedly she doesn’t seem too interested in the human soldiers behind you who are unloading the crates. She stares at your face and features, your hair, the dimensions of your body, as though she’s trying to unravel you with her eyes alone.

When Quaritch shows the strange Na’vi woman – Varang, he had called her – the FT-M3A1 Flamethrower, he stands so close to her that he’s practically pressed up against her back. His hands linger in a way that you’re so familiar with, because it’s usually your body that they’re lingering on. 

And Varang leans back into him as they press the trigger together, hungry flames spraying out and catching onto the raw hides that they use for the village tents. Her girlish laughter rents the air as she watches the fire catch and spread across her own village.

“Booyah!” Quaritch booms, grinning wide as he watches Varang torch one of her own people’s tents.

“Booyah!” Varang echoes, almost girlish with excitement, hollering it like a war cry.

The smell of gasoline is choking even through the breathing mask, and you have to tamp down your nausea as you watch her spin on one foot, grabbing at Quaritch’s hand as the other Mangkwan descend on the shipment. 

Quaritch disappears into the tent after Varang, the beaded curtain parting just long enough to swallow his broad shoulders before falling closed again.

Your stomach clenches so hard you thought you might be sick, though you try to brush your instinctive panic away. You tell yourself that he’s just gone to talk strategy, to negotiate, to do whatever it is he does when he’s being the Colonel instead of… whatever he’s been to you. 

But the way Varang had smiled at him, so thrilled and coy, the way the curtain settles behind them, the finality of it, makes something ugly twist in your gut.

You wait for them to come back out, flinching as a Mangkwan man lets off a spray of gunfire behind you. But the curtain remains still, and no one returns.

An hour later, you’re still sitting by the cookfire in the Mangkwan camp, with Wainfleet tense at your side. Your fingers fiddle constantly with the pack at your side, the one keeping breathable air flowing steadily to your mask.

“Stop messing with that.” Wainfleet grunts without looking at you.

His eyes are fixed on that stupid beaded curtain hanging over the entrance of Varang’s tent. He’s barely looked away since the Colonel had disappeared inside.

You had realised pretty quickly that the leader of this tribe, Varang, was crazy. Like, clinically fucking insane.

It was the way she had laughed, high and girlish and totally incongruous with the way she had wrought destruction on her own village. Her eyes had glinted wildly in the reflection of the inferno, and when she had turned to Quaritch you had seen desire there. Admiration, even.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Wainfleet finally tears his eyes away from the beaded curtain, only to give you a look of disbelief.

“What do I think they’re doing?” He repeats. 

Under his disbelief, there’s the unmistakable thread of sympathy. God, he feels sorry for you.

You wince, then turn away again. Probably best not to think too much about it, or you might be ill.

Behind you, the air is rent with sporadic gunfire and ululations from the triumphant Mangkwan who are still messing around with the brand new shiny weapons. You don’t even flinch anymore; they’ve been like this for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop anytime soon.

Wainfleet barks something at them in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is poor; you’d taken a few classes when you were new and idealistic, but it was tough. Still, you know enough to know that he’s ordering them to stop wasting ammo. You doubt it’ll make a difference though – the only person they seem to respect enough to take orders from is Varang herself.

Sure enough, the two causing the ruckus merely sneer at Wainfleet, hissing.

The ones that aren’t shooting into the sky are dancing around the fire, their movements rough and hypnotic. When the fire spits sparks, they cheer. The atmosphere is charged, celebratory. You’re not sure what the weapons mean to them, but it doesn’t feel good.

A few are sitting near you and Wainfleet at the fire. They’re staring at you, hard. Anytime you make eye contact with them, they hiss at you, chuckling throatily when you flinch. Again, you suspect you’re the first human they’ve seen up this close. Or maybe it’s just that they usually kill your kind when they’re this close. It certainly looks as though they’re thinking about it.

Ever since you stepped foot on Pandora, the RDA had been impressing upon you how dangerous the Na’vi were, how vicious and bloodthirsty. Looking at these people before you, you can believe it. The relish that they wield the weapons with is alarming, and you feel a seed of panic in your stomach. 

You had done this, even if you didn’t realise it. It was you who had ordered the weapons, it was your signature on all those forms.

“Fuck,” You moan, burying your face in your hands. “Ardmore is going to kill me.”

Wainfleet doesn’t bother reassuring you. He just keeps watching the curtain.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Varang has taken to watching you. A lot.

It feels… challenging. Or appraising, maybe.

You avoid her to the best of your ability. You can’t look at her without thinking of the way she and Quaritch have gotten so much closer recently. They spend most of the day together; ostensibly talking strategy, but you see the way their touches linger. Even the way they look at each other like they’re the only two people in the world, as though everything else is just background noise. When she laughs at something he says, his mouth quirks in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s pleased. Really pleased.

It makes your chest ache.

But as the days pass, you realise something. When she’s not watching Quaritch with those bright, lamp-like eyes, she’s watching you.

It had been easy enough to ignore at first. You’ve taken to avoiding Varang, and by association Quaritch, since that night the weapons had been delivered. Perhaps part of you had been hoping that Quaritch might notice and come looking for you, leaving Varang’s side just to ensure that you are okay, but you were destined to be disappointed on that front.

You only make it two days without seeing them. You had hoped that you would be returning to Bridgehead after dropping the weapons off, convinced that your little excursion out into the wilds of Pandora had come to an end.

 But instead, Quaritch insisted that you were staying.

You’d been too flustered and bewildered to argue, simply retreating back to the aircarrier. 

It was big enough to comfortably transport everyone it needed to transport along with its cargo, but it wasn’t built for staying on longterm. The bunks are narrow and cramped, and highly uncomfortable. The only net positive was that you could take that stupid mask off and breathe the stale processed air.

That’s where you are, all curled up on the bunk that Quaritch had been sleeping in before he met… her. The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but despite yourself you still find his scent comforting.

You’re trying to catch up on reports, but your mind is buzzing and you job at the datapad more violently than you should. You’ve never been very good at keeping your paperwork in order, and you know that your quality has slipped even further since all this started.

You’re currently struggling through a report for Ardmore, chewing absently on your lower lip as you try to find a neutral way to word your explanation for just what’s happened over the last few days. Things had spiralled out of control so quickly, and it’s hard to ignore the hard knot of anxiety in your tummy when you think about it.

Apparently, Quaritch had met Varang before, on the Recoms last excursion into the forest. She had connected their neural queues together and performed some kind of freaky alien connection, and now Quaritch seems to be obsessed with her. 

At least, you’d like to blame the freaky alien connection; Wainfleet certainly did. He’d told you all about the connection, all about what Spider had told them. The first connection for a Na’vi baby was their mother, then father, then the trees. You’d be lying if you said that you understood it all, but Wainfleet speaks with such grim gravity about it. You know the only connection he’s ever performed is with his ikran, and the idea of connecting with another person seems to unnerve him. He also seems convinced that the reason Quaritch is so… enamoured with Varang is because she’s taken the place of the first connection.

You’re not so sure. You’re not blind, after all. You can see that Varang is one of the hottest women you’ve ever seen in your life. She might stare at you, but when she’s not looking you stare right back.

You had been fascinated by the Colonel’s Na’vi form, no matter how you’d tried to hide it, but despite the new body his body had still very much been human. But Varang? She’s so alien to you. Your eyes trace her narrow waist, her small bound breasts, the way her hips sway like a metronome when she walks.

How could you blame the Colonel for being so enchanted with her? You can see why. They both have the same wildness to them, like their sharp edges fit together. 

You’re so lost in your miserable thoughts, that you barely notice the door sliding open or the heavy footsteps approaching.

“The hell you doin’ in here, kid?”

The Colonel’s voice has you jolting, looking up in surprise. And the sight of him standing there, breathing mask around his neck, with Varang at his side? Oh, that has you bolting upright.

Quaritch approaches with the ease of navigating familiar surroundings, and normally the sight of him coming to seek you out might have your heart thrumming. But instead, your attention is drawn to the woman following behind. 

Varang’s big golden eyes are flicking around the bunks, curious about the surroundings but clearly finding them wanting. Within seconds, her eyes land on you and stay there. 

“Sir,” You blurt, your voice pitched higher than is entirely natural. “I– The General wants a report.”

He lets out a low, unimpressed rumble.

“She’ll survive without one for the next few days,” he says. “We’ll report to her when we’ve got something to report.”

That makes you hesitate. You absolutely do have something to report. Several things, in fact; starting with Quaritch’s new infatuation with the tsahík of the Mangkwan. You had also been hoping to do a bit of damage control before Ardmore learned through the grapevine that the weapons that had been requisitioned by you had been gifted straight to a hostile Na’vi tribe.

“I don’t want to get in trouble.” You murmur, frowning.

That makes Quaritch laugh, the familiar low chuckle that has the hair on your arms standing up. Up to this point Varang had been standing quietly by his side, eyes fixed on you. It feels like being under the watchful gaze of a predator, and you’re afraid to make any sudden movements. In this environment, in the air carrier with its sleek metal walls and artificial air, she seems more naked than ever. 

Next to Quaritch in his fatigues and vest, and you in a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, her long legs and lean waist draw your eyes like they’ve been magnetised.

You look away from her, flustered.

Quaritch turns to say something to Varang in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is still weak, but you catch the gist of it. Something along the lines of; ‘Such a good girl, isn’t she?’

You’re not sure if you understand all the nuances, but Varang finally looks away from you. She raises her eyes to Quaritch, and her mouth splits into a wide, fanged smile. She looks wild and fierce under her paint, and you feel gooseflesh beak out on your skin. If she wanted to, she could split your spine up the middle with one hand. And with the way she looks at you, sometimes you think she does want to.

You feel distinctly humiliated. They’re talking about you in another language as if you’re not right in front of them, and Varang’s eye contact feels predatory and feline. You don’t miss how Quaritch’s big fingers coast over her waist, or how she coyly sways into him.

Quaritch turns back to you then. “Pack your things. You’re staying in the village.”

You double take.

“In the– what?”

Quaritch isn’t waiting around for you to wrap your head around that new order. He’s already stepping back, heading back to the main control centre of the aircarrier, but he speaks over his shoulder.

“The air carrier is rolling out tomorrow alongside the Mangkwan.” He says. “Varang here has so kindly agreed to help us with our search for Sully.”

“Oh.” You say, determinedly not looking in Varang’s direction. “Okay. But why do I–”

“You’re staying here.” Quaritch says firmly. “Don’t need you out there gettin’ in the way, or gettin’ yourself hurt.”

Getting in the way? 

You stare at him in disbelief.

“But–” You begin, “Sir, my job is to–”

“Your job is to do what I tell you to do.” Quaritch barks. “Ain’t much good to me if you get yourself killed in the field.”

And with that he’s gone, already yelling orders at some of the soldiers in the control centre. You’re left alone with Varang, who isn’t even blinking as she looks at you.

You simmer with rage, feeling like a pot that’s about to boil over. This is such bullshit. You’ve done nothing wrong! Why have you been sidelined like this? It’s true that you’ve never been an essential member of the team, but you’ve received direct orders from Ardmore to stick with him. And besides that, you were hoping that he wanted you to stick with him.

It’s not like you and Quaritch were ever in a relationship. He never struck you as the type, anyway. If anyone had bothered to ask, you would’ve said he didn’t want strings, didn’t want expectations, didn’t want to answer to anyone. You’d never talked about what the two of you were doing. You’d just fallen into it, assumed there was some kind of unspoken understanding there. It hadn’t been serious, but it had been consistent. He’d pulled you into dark corners of his office for quick kisses, his hands always finding your ass when you walked past, and you’d spent too many long evenings pressed against him, making out like it was nothing more than stress relief. Something easy. Something contained.

And now he’s found some local tail to occupy himself with, and you’ve been quietly shuffled out of the picture like you were never more than a convenience to begin with.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

And even worse is that fact that even though he’d walked off without a second glance, Varang is still there.

Her braids are pulled tight to her head, and with her ash-painted skin and black-rimmed eyes, there’s nothing to soften her features. But her eyes are what unsettle you the most. They’re such a clear shade of honey-gold, but there’s nothing bright about them. They’re dark, always sharp. You don’t know how to place the look she gives you.

 There’s no open hostility, no contempt, but you can’t help but feel as though she hates you. There’s too much energy in her stare to be anything else.

She’s a full foot shorter than Quaritch’s towering frame, but her presence is palpable. Ignoring her is impossible; it feels like she’s sucked all of the air out of the room.

When she steps closer, you don’t manage to stifle your flinch. She crouches, peering closer at you, and you feel like you’re a bug under a magnifying glass.

You keep your eyes fixed on her face, wary and on guard. Her tail coils behind her, slow and undulating like a rattlesnake.

And when she speaks, her voice is almost menacing in its softness. You’re a little distracted by how close she is, so your attention isn’t solely on her words, but you’re pretty sure you catch the gist of it.

“I will take your mate.”

Your spine stiffens, and your eyes dart to the door Quaritch had disappeared out of. There’s no chance that he had heard her, of course.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Did she think that Quaritch was your mate? And if so, she was planning on taking him from you? To steal him for herself?

Maybe you were overreacting. It’s not stealing if he was never really yours. But you’re shocked by her boldness. There’s not an ounce of apology in her smug gaze as it flickers over your face, watching you carefully. Her tail is coiled and pleased. She seems confident, as though she doesn’t have an ounce of doubt in her ability to do so.

And you hate to admit it, but you don’t doubt she could take him from you, either. You’ve seen the way he looks at her, the way he wants to please her. You can’t really blame him, either. She’s… well, she’s alluring as fuck. Even now, with her in your space and vaguely threatening you, your body strains towards her like you’re entranced.

She’s still staring at you, as though waiting for an answer.

There’s nothing you can do but muster up your best glare, then gather up the scraps of your dignity and stalk past her. You don’t look back once as you flee, unwilling to spend one more second under her golden-eyed scrutiny.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Varang’s tent is one of the most solid structures in the village, with stitched animal hide reinforced and anchored into the ashy ground with wooden posts that have no doubt come from the remains of the enormous burnt tree that this village is nestled under. You hadn’t thought that Na’vi built with wood – something about not upsetting the flow of nature – but every dealing you have with the Mangkwan makes you think that you know nothing about the Na’vi at all. 

Maybe you need to break out that little Pandora for Beginners book you had downloaded on your datapad back when you first arrived here.

Quaritch had left you here hours ago, saying something about staying out of trouble and seeing you when he got back, but he was distracted. His mind was clearly elsewhere, taken up with hunting Sully and retrieving Spider. And, you suspect, taken up with Varang, too.

So now you wander around this weird little yurt, unsettled by the… decor. There are bones everywhere, threaded into hanging decorations like windchimes and suspended from the tent ceiling, or carved into strange little bowls containing all sorts of powders and ointments. There are other decorations made from woven plant fibres that you can only assume have been stolen from other clans, as they don’t match the style of anything else. It seems cluttered on first glance, but as you look around, trying not to feel as though the strange skins overhead are about to fall down on you, you begin to see that everything is arranged with some kind of order.

You step around the various decorations hanging from the animal hide ceiling – narrowly avoiding what you think may be a spine – and continue your exploration.

At the back of the dwelling, past yet another beaded curtain, is what you can only assume to be the sleeping area. It looks… cosy. The floor is lined with plush furs, providing a soft-to-the-touch cushion that you’re sure would be very comfortable, if you could stop imagining Varang coiled around Quaritch upon them.

You’re trying not to feel too bitter about whatever the hell it is that’s going on between them. You think you’ve been doing a decent job, but watching the Mangkwan mount up on their ikran and take off after the air carrier, leaving you behind like a spare part, is kind of doing a number on you.

She’s my Jolene, you think miserably.

You spend the day in the tent. You finish a preliminary report to Ardmore that you don’t send, and then you just… lounge around, lost in your thoughts. There’s nothing to do but think – you don’t even nose around, because you’re terrified of disrupting something of Varang’s that might cause her to come back and eat your head off.

Quaritch has always sort of treated you like a little pet. The worst part though, was the way you kind of liked it.

As the least competent person on the Recom Support Team, hired last and trusted with the least amount of work, you’ve always been aware that the Colonel hired you because he thought that you were soft and pretty to look at. You had thought that you would be offended by that, but instead you’re… kind of flattered. No one else had ever seen anything worth remarking upon when it came to you.

You liked the head pats, the pet names, the way he’d guide you by the elbow or keep you tucked just behind him like something fragile but owned. It was humiliating, if you thought about it too long. It was also intoxicating. Being useful was nice, even if you knew he was only indulging you.

It’s stupid and humiliating to admit, even to yourself, but you miss the attention, the casual possessiveness, the way he used to keep a hand on you like he was absentmindedly checking you were still there. You miss being noticed, being managed. Being indulged. Now his focus slips past you too easily, caught by something sharper and louder and far more interesting than you ever were, and it leaves you painfully aware of how conditional your place with him has always been.

And why were you being kept in Varang’s tent anyway?! It felt like salt being rubbed into an already raw wound.

‘I will take your mate’, she had said. There was nothing ambiguous about that.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

To your bewilderment, even when Quaritch and the Mangkwan return from their outing, you’re not permitted to return to the air carrier.

It feels like the worst kind of joke, having to share a tent with the two of them. Quaritch had returned with a supply of spare masks for you, but there had been no conversation about it. It’s like he had just assumed you’d be happy to move in with him and his weird witchy alien girlfriend. 

God, it boils your blood.

Varang had even set up a tiny little sleeping area for you, right next to theirs! She had maintained eye contact with you as she had done it, arranging those small plush furs so close to theirs that it was impossible to take it as anything other than mockery. Why the hell did she want you so close if not to wave in your face what you couldn’t have?

And then to watch you so closely for a reaction! God, she’s the worst.

You refuse to give her the reaction she’s so clearly hoping for. You just turn up your nose, and move the furs immediately to the other side of the yurt. 

She watches you set up your new sleeping station, scowling, and you feel a rush of triumph. She’s not going to get to you that easily.

You’re so used to having Quaritch’s attention all to yourself, but now it’s split. He doesn’t even really ask you to do anything anymore. Now, it’s like you’re a pet for real. You spend most of the ensuing days lounging in the furs, bored out of your mind. 

When Quaritch had first come back to the tent and seen your new bedding set up on the opposite side of the tent, he had rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation.

“Sulkin’ don’t suit you, baby,” He warns even as he steps past you. “Gotta adapt.”

You scowl, and don’t bother answering.

Quaritch is always busy, either planning with Wainfleet or whispering and grinning with Varang. When they come back to the tent, you make yourself scarce. You really don’t want to see whatever goes on between them when they’ve got privacy. The scenes that your imagination offers up when you finally sneak back into your little furs at night to sleep are bad enough.

One good thing that comes of your strange little stint in the Mangkwan village is that your grasp on the Na’vi language improves drastically by being so immersed in it.

During the times that you’re avoiding Quaritch and Varang, you wander around the Mangkwan. They’re not as scary as they had initially seemed to you. They don’t bother you when you walk by them, at least, and some even exchange some words with you. You assume it’s down to your proximity to Quaritch, or maybe the fact that you’re currently staying in their tsahìk’s tent. 

But their tolerance doesn’t extend to Wainfleet, who they often brush off, hissing at him.

You’ve spent the day wandering the village, eager to escape Varang’s relentless staring. You swear that her scrutiny has gotten worse recently, or maybe it’s just because now that you’re sharing the tent with them, it’s difficult to escape her attention unless it’s fixed on Quaritch.

By evening time, you end up sitting with Wainfleet for a while, watching while the Mangkwan eat and dance and wrestle with each other. Sometimes you can’t tell if they’re playing or fighting – everything just seems so violent, enough that you flinch into Wainfleet’s side every time they clash.

At your side, Wainfleet is cleaning his sniper rifle. His eyes are watchful, darting around the gathering in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t trust anyone around him. On your other side is Zari, a Mangkwan woman who has taken to the human-style weapons with great relish. She’s learning how to use a rifle just like Wainfleet’s, and she’s watching him and trying to copy his cleaning motions with her own gun.

A few days this week you’ve tagged along with Wainfleet to watch him train the Mangkwan with the weaponry, just to get out of the damn tent. Zari is one of the few that deign to exchange some conversation with you in Na’vi, so that you can improve. She was injured in a raid, so she seems to find extra enjoyment out of training with the guns, and she has plenty of time to speak with you.

As you hold a fairly clumsy conversation with Zari, you struggle to ignore the stare piercing into the side of your head.

You’ve begun to get a little better at pretending you don’t notice Varang’s ceaseless staring, but Zari is quite clearly affected by it. She’s tense at your side, ears pinned to the side of her head and tail held very still at her side. Occasionally her eyes dart towards her tsahìk, before glancing quickly away again.

You simply refuse to look in Quaritch and Varang’s attention. You know that they’re sitting together, probably leaning all into each other’s space, tails entwined like usual. Watching them like this makes you feel a little crazy. Bad enough you need to share a sleeping space with them, listening to them whisper and giggle like goddamn teenagers at a sleepover. You don’t need to watch them playing footsie over dinner, too.

Zari is shifty enough under Varang’s watchful eye that your stilted conversation doesn’t last very long. You huff quietly when she ducks her head to return her full attention to her gun again.

Varang is doing this on purpose, you know it. At first the staring had felt like a challenge, like she was mocking you. But now it feels as though she’s trying to be intimidating, like she doesn’t want you making friends around the village or getting too comfortable. But then why invite you to stay in her tent? 

Sighing, you turn to Lyle to speak in English.

“I still don’t get why I’m not allowed to stay on the air carrier with the rest of the humans.”

Wainfleet just grunts. “Boss doesn’t want you staying with the soldiers.”

You frown. There’s a kernel of logic there, you suppose. As the only civilian woman on this mission, it could be argued that you were removed for your own safety. But that argument fell apart when you considered that you had been moved into a tent with an alien woman that hated you and probably wanted you dead for being previously entwined with your boss.

“I don’t like staying in the tent,” You complain, feeling like a petulant child. “Why can’t I just stay in your tent? You know I don’t take up much space.”

Wainfleet doesn’t answer, his attention taken up with oiling the bolt on his rifle.

You scowl, irritation settling heavily over you. Around you, the Mangkwan are still eating or dancing, shoving each other and issuing challenges, or yipping in victory. While a few of them still side-eye Wainfleet, not fully happy with his presence, you don’t even seem to register to them. Quaritch, at the other side of the fire, is the subject of reluctantly admiring glances.

As eclipse approaches and the sky darkens into a deep burnt umber, Zari pauses her cleaning in favour of turning to you.

“Tsahìk will want you to return to tent before dark.” She says, speaking slowly for you.

Despite yourself, you like Zari. She’s been nice enough to you, though her shaved head, bone piercings, and war paint is still alien enough to you to give you pause. But just like all the Mangkwan, she has that weird, almost worshipful reverence towards Varang.

You hum to show her that you’ve heard, but make no move to return to the tent. Why the hell would Varang care if you were back before dark?

 Instead, you look at Wainfleet with a pout.

“I hate her.” You grumble, kicking your feet. 

Wainfleet just grunts.

Irritated, you turn your scowl on him. “Seriously? Is that all you have to say?”

“Kid,” he says tiredly, finally looking around at you. “I ain’t stupid enough to get all twisted up in… whatever this is.”

He makes a vague hand gesture that seems to encompass you, and Quaritch and Varang, and the tent behind the gathering. 

You bristle instinctively. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wainfleet finally sets the gun down, giving up the pretense of distraction. When he turns to you, he looks a little bit pained.

“Look, I didn’t really get what was between you and the boss even before this,” He says lowly. “But whatever the hell is going on between you two and the witch lady really ain’t my business.”

You gape at him, mouth open and stunned.

“Nothing is going on between us!” You say when you finally manage to regain your senses. “I thought that maybe the Colonel– that maybe– I don’t know! But there’s certainly nothing now that he’s with her.”

Wainfleet gives you the kind of look that suggests he thinks you’re an idiot.

“You sleep in their tent with them.” He points out.

“Not with them!” You snap reflexively. You feel like a prickly cat, overdefensive. “That’s just– that’s where the Colonel put me!”

He just huffs, shaking his head, and turns away.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Whatever. If you wanna get fucked nasty by them, I’m pretty sure all you gotta do is spread yourself out in that crazy lady’s stupid furs and wait for them to pounce.”

Once again, you’re struck dumb. Wainfleet has never spoken to you so bluntly. You’ve seen him in action mode, intimidatingly serious and quiet, but most of the time around you he’s been pretty light-hearted. He plays up the stereotype of stupid army grunt, but he’s wicked sharp and unfailingly loyal. 

He’s been stressed lately, on edge around the Mangkwan and tense ever since they’ve been armed, but this is the first time he’s directed any of that stress towards you.

“I– I don’t–” You say stiffly, but you can’t even bring yourself to finish.

God, this is embarrassing. Do you want to be fucked nasty by them? You’d been so distracted by your changing circumstances that you haven’t thought anything of the sort. At least, not really. Nothing that you’d be willing to admit to.

Wainfleet has picked up his gun, finishing cleaning and oiling it with quick, jerky moments. The conversation is clearly over.

Humiliation simmers in your belly as you gather yourself up, refusing to look Wainfleet’s way. To your immense frustration, you feel tears pricking at your eyes.

Since you came to Pandora, you’ve been so damn lonely. You’d been a bit of an outcast within the Support Team, with such an obvious gap between capability and experience. The way that Quaritch had treated you had set you apart from them, and you’d never managed to make any friends even after they had been wiped out in the battle with the Metkayina. 

You weren’t friends with Wainfleet exactly, but there had been a sort of camaraderie you’d had with him that you’d taken comfort in. Now, you’re embarrassed as hell.

What had you been thinking, dumping all your problems onto Wainfleet? He’s a soldier, and he’s currently got much bigger problems with the ongoing conflict – he doesn’t have time to listen to you whine.

You slink away from the cookfire like a kicked dog. 

The idea of returning to Varang’s tent and having to watch her and Quaritch curl up close whispering to each other feels like way too much for you to deal with right now. So you decide instead to return to the air carrier. You doubt Quaritch will even notice that you’re missing.

As you slip out of the village, you garner a few curious looks from the Na’vi you pass. Thankfully, no one tries to stop you.

The huge shining metal frame of the Samson air carrier is tucked into the sparse vegetation a short walk from the village. It sticks out like a sore thumb; the Mangkwan avoid it, and the human soldiers avoid approaching the clan without Quaritch’s directive.

It feels like it’s been an age since you’ve been to the Samson, though it can’t be more than a week since you’ve arrived with Quaritch and he’d struck the deal with Varang. So much has happened in the last week, but at the same time you’ve been doing hardly anything other than stewing in your own thoughts.

Still, you’re eager to get inside the carrier, looking forward to the opportunity to remove the damn breathing mask and get some sleep. The cots are austere and uncomfortable, but at least you’ll get a break from Varang’s stupid yurt.

As you approach the Samson, you see some of the soldiers gathered around outside, guns in hand. You think for a moment that they’re just practicing their shooting, though it strikes you as off that they’re doing so as dark falls.

Then you get closer and hear the sloppy laughter, and see the glassy eyes, and you realise that these morons are drunk. They have their guns, but they’re just shooting at some of the glowing mushrooms that are growing in the underbrush. They’re not hitting much, either, their shots going wide and spraying dirt up.

The sound of their slurred goading and snickers has your steps faltering.

Shit. 

You know exactly what these guys are like when they’re drunk, and you know it’s not a good idea to go anywhere near them. It’s an even worse idea to go near them without either of the Recoms near you – their enormous stature is usually enough to scare off even the most persistent of creeps.

You think of the way Quaritch had insisted that it was safer to stay in Varang’s tent, how he had been insistent that you weren’t to stay on the Samson. As much as you hate to admit it, he might have been right.

But you’ve already stormed away from the village, and the air carrier is right there. Maybe you can slip by without them noticing.

You aim for nonchalance as you attempt to skirt around them, giving them a wide berth. You figure if you don’t look at them, if you don’t acknowledge them, there’s a chance they’ll stay in their own little orbit of stupidity and leave you alone.

The ramp to the air carrier is within a stone’s throw when one of them staggers back, laughing, and catches sight of you.

“Hey,” he calls, voice thick and sloppy. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond. You pretend you didn’t hear it, your feet crunching softly over ash and dead leaves as you keep walking. When Quaritch had started going around barefoot, you had copied him without thinking too much about it. You regret that now – if you have to run, it’s going to be harder.

There’s snickering behind you, and even without looking you’re unnerved to find that they sound like they’re closer now.

“C’mon,” another man says. “Don’t be like that.”

A shot cracks through the air, close enough that you flinch despite yourself. Dirt sprays up a few feet ahead of you, glowing faintly where some bioluminescent spores are disturbed. The laughter spikes, ugly and filled with macho overconfidence.

You freeze, shoulders tense. Jesus Christ. 

“Whoa, she jumped,” the first guy snickers. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at them, keeping your body angled away. There are three of them. Maybe four. It’s hard to tell in the low light, as they’re still standing in a loose group. You can’t see their faces all that well behind their masks, but their weapons are loose in their hands and their posture is sloppy in that particular way that means they think they’re untouchable.

The moment feels fragile, and you have a distinct awareness that these men are drunk and reckless enough to snowball things well past the point of no return.

“I’m just heading back to the carrier,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “You guys should probably pack it in. It’s, uh, getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for one wild and naive moment you actually think they might listen. But then they share a look, and burst into ugly, snickering laughter.

​​“Jesus,” one of them says. “Hear that? She’s givin’ orders now.”

Another takes a step closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “You ain’t supposed to be out here alone, are you?”

Your pulse starts to thud in your ears, acidic panic rising up your throat. 

“I– the Colonel knows I’m here.” You lie.

“Oh, yeah?” He grins, slow and ugly. “‘S the Colonel able to look beyond that little blue piece of ass he’s been hangin’ out of?”

“He’s–” You start to say, but cut yourself off when they start to move.

They don’t move quickly or anything, but there’s nowhere for you to go as they start spreading out. They box you in, so there’s no way to slip past them.

“I don’t want any trouble,” you say, hating the way it comes out smaller than you intended.

“That’s good,” the first man says, grinning as he steps forward. “Neither do we.”

“Just thought maybe you’d keep us company for a minute,” the second man adds. “Gets lonely out here.”

You swallow thickly, and your dry throat clicks in the silence. “No, I– I should be getting back to Quaritch– actually.”

A few of their expressions change at that, smiles dropping into something unfriendlier. The two at the front keep their sloppy drunk grins plastered on, though irritation flickers over their faces. You know you’re dealing with the fragile egos of men who aren't used to being told no, and they feel unpredictable.

“You need to relax,” One of them says with the air of imparting sound advice. “You’re wound tight as hell. You been neglected, huh?”

Your skin prickles as he steps forward, and you tense.

You stiffen as he closes the distance, every instinct in your body screaming at you to move, to run, but there’s nowhere left to go. The Samson ramp is behind them now, blocked by broad shoulders. Their size is nothing compared to the towering Na’vi you’ve been spending so much time around recently, but they’re still big bulky military men. You know you don’t stand a chance against them.

The third one laughs, low and ugly. “Bet she’s bored stiff. All alone in that ash pit with the freaks.” He steps forward, reaching for your arm. “Want a good time, sweetheart?”

Your jaw tightens. You can feel your heart hammering, loud enough you’re half-convinced they can hear it too.

“I said no,” You say, your voice thin but sharp. “Back the fuck off.”

That finally wipes the grin off his face. Not completely, but enough. His eyes harden, the drunken amusement souring into something resentful.

“Watch your mouth,” he snaps. “You ain’t in Bridgehead anymore.”

You’re so busy running through scenarios in your head – which way you’ll dodge, how you’ll escape, how you’ll lose them if they follow, how you’ll scream – that when they actually make a grab for you it catches you totally by surprise.

You squeal, attempting to twist out of his grip, but several things happen in quick succession.

In your panic, your mind registers the low hissing sound as being akin to air being let out of a pressurised container. It’s low, steady, accompanied by an odd snarling rumble.

Nearly in the same moment, the man who had grabbed her is town roughly away. You yelp as his blunt fingernails leave scratches on your arm, though it’s more from shock than pain.

Everything happens so fast that your mind barely keeps up. The men are yelling, and then one of them staggers back and knocks into you, hand cracking across your mask hard enough to rattle your skull. You go down hard, sprawling in the dirt and knocking your head on the way down.

By the time you pick your head up, your eyes are watering and two of the three guys are unconscious on the ground. The last, the one who had grabbed you, is the only one left standing, though it doesn’t look like he will be for long.

Towering over you all, face contorted in a look of poisonous rage, is Varang. But you’ve never seen her like this.

She seems impossibly tall, her spine curved as she bares her teeth at the man cowering below her. Her red headpiece flares over her head, giving the impression of a threat display as if her wickedly sharp canines aren’t enough. In the dark, she looks like some sort of vengeful demon.

The man is babbling something, panicked and frantic, but it falls on deaf ears. Varang doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, nor does she seem interested.

She brings her hand down on him in one hard, brutal slap, and he hits the ground with an ominous crack. He doesn’t get back up again. In fact, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh god,” You babble, scrambling to try and get to your feet again. “Jesus, fuck–”

Varang turns on you then, and for a wild moment you’re certain that you’re next. You flinch when she steps forward, whimpering.

But no blow comes. She crouches in front of you, that familiar stare darting over you, assessing. She’s angry – you can feel it rolling off of her in waves.

Ridiculously, your eyes begin to sting, welling up with tears. Maybe it’s delayed shock from that horrible encounter, or maybe it’s the fact that Varang is angry with you, but it all suddenly feels like too much.

The first sob that escapes you is so loud that it hurts your chest, jarring your whole body. 

Varang stiffens.

A large hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to your feet. Bizarrely, you think she’s actually trying to be gentle, but she’s twice your size and doesn’t seem to really understand how much stronger she is. 

You yelp once when she yanks you after her, and she seems to make some attempt to slow, but the pace she keeps is clipped and rushed. You stumble after her, sobs melting into anxious gasps as you try to keep up with her. She’s holding your wrist, and you end up toddling clumsily alongside her like a child.

She leads you back to the village quickly, hissing at a few Na’vi who are in her path. They scramble aside, their large eyes watching curiously as you stumble alongside their tsahìk. Some of them call after her, asking questions, but you’re too distracted to parse the words and Varang isn’t stopping to answer.

For the first time since you’ve gotten to this place, you’re relieved when you make it to the tent. Sometime during the walk you’d started clinging to Varang’s hand, and she’s not shy about towing you behind her.

Inside the tent, Quaritch lounges shirtless in the furs. To your surprised bewilderment, all he’s wearing is a loincloth, same as the other Na’vi you’ve seen. He’s scrolling through a datapad of his own, his tail curling languidly at his side.

He glances up when Varang appears, shoving aside hanging hides and bone decorations, but you don’t think he really registers the expression of fury on her face or the tears on yours. His eyes have instead fallen on your joined hands, and a pleased smirk spreads across his face.

“You finished throwin’ your hissy fit then, sweetheart?” He drawls, setting the datapad aside so he can lean back lazily. “Good to see you’ve finally come around to–”

But then he catches sight of your faces, and he sits up again. His sanguine grin disappears, replaced by a furrowed brow as his Colonel personal falls down like a curtain.

“What the hell happened?” He barks, and his eyes linger on your tear-streaked cheeks under mask.  

Varang finally releases your hand; to your surprise, it’s you that clings to her. When she lets out a little rumbling noise you snatch your hand back, but there’s no time for shame to set in before she plants one of her large hands between your shoulderblades and starts pushing you towards the furs.

All the fight in you has gone, because you simply allow yourself to be pushed. 

She says something to Quaritch, but it’s fast and angry and you only catch a handful of words; ‘man’, ‘take’, ‘mine’, ‘slap’.

Quaritch’s back is stiff as he listens to her, frowning. His eyes fall on you then, and he reaches an arm and quirks two fingers at you, the command clear: ‘come here’.

You don’t even hesitate. You practically fall into the furs, clambering on your hands and knees like a whimpering little kid as you crawl toward him. You’re vaguely cognisant of Varang crawling after you, twice your size and still emanating waves of irritation.

Quaritch’s big hand cups your jaw just beneath the mask, tilting her head back so he can take a look at your face. You’re still sniffling, eyes red and puffy, and your nostrils are beginning to itch where the blood is drying and crumbling.

“Got a crack across the face, didja?” He murmurs lowly, thumb stroking over the corner of your jaw and earlobe.

Despite yourself, you bristle. Your shock is beginning to wear off a little, and now you’re getting defensive and angry. How the hell have you ended back up in the one place you were trying to avoid.

“Is that all you have to say?” You ask for the second time that evening. 

God, you’re starting to get seriously sick of military assholes.

He raises a brow, then gestures at Varang. “Well, I’m guessin’ that she took care of ‘em.”

You think of the way she had brutally smacked them into the ground, the sickening crunch of their bodies hitting the ground. You’re pretty certain they hadn’t been moving. Jesus, had she killed him?

Varang sits behind you, her tail swishing lazily like a cat. She has no idea what you two are saying, but her ears had pricked up when Quaritch had gestured at her. Now, she’s looking at you as though she’s expecting something from you.

You glance away. Her stare is even more intimidating up close.

“I was just trying to–” You begin, but to your frustration your voice cracks in upset.

Two twin rumbles erupt, making you flinch a little. Then two big hands land on your hips and suddenly your world flips. You squeak, startled, suddenly finding yourself on your back staring up at the animal hide tent ceiling. But then your vision is filled with Varang’s face as she leans over you, and suddenly she’s all you see.

She begins tugging roughly at your shirt, and you squeal in surprise as the fragile fabric tears with a loud rip.

“Jesus, woman,” Quaritch swears in English, before switching to Na’vi. “Easy! I told you, slow–”

“Have been doing slow!” She hisses back, teeth bared. “Not working!”

You’re startled to see that her canines are a little longer than Quaritch’s. Maybe it’s just a difference between native Na’vi and Recom bodies, but it adds to the wildness of her.

Quaritch huffs, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. He seems… amused?

He turns back to you, grin turned a bit wry. “Sorry, sweetheart. Gonna have to take your clothes off.”

You goggle at him.

“Take my– what?”

Varang is tugging at your trousers now, but they’re proving more of a challenge for her. She seems to be familiar with the mechanism of the button and zip – and there’s a pang that comes with the knowledge that it’s probably from unbuttoning Quaritch’s fatigues – but the belt seems to be an obstacle. She hisses at the buckle, aggravated.

“She don’t like all these clothes,” He says, though he needn’t have bothered. You could see that. “Just take ‘em off while you’re in the furs, yeah? Make life easier for yourself.”

You’re a little annoyed that he capitulates to anything she wants, but with the way she’s so damn insistently tugging at your clothes even you have to admit that it’s the easier option.

“Okay!” You snap at her, unbuckling your own belt and shuffling out of your trousers.

She sits back, pleased, and watches. You try not to tremble under her big yellow unblinking stare as you strip down to your simple, functional cotton underwear. You wish you were wearing nicer panties, then you curse yourself for thinking something so stupid. The underwear issued by the RDA are simple, functional, and unflattering, but it’s not as though either of them were expecting lingerie.

Varang’s eyes dart over you. For a moment you think she’s checking you for injuries and you spare a second of surprise – you hadn’t thought she cared. But then you see her eyes linger on your tits in your ill-fitting bra and the greying cotton clinging to your hips.

“She’s staring.” You whisper to Quaritch, mortified. You raise a hand to press over your chest.

But when you look to Quaritch, he’s staring too.

“She’s been so excited to get to know you,” He drawls without taking his eyes off you. “But I told her to take it slow. That you’re a skittish little thing.”

You stare at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step. 

“...What?”

Varang has nestled herself into the fur now, coiled like a jungle predator. A tiger, maybe, or a lioness. Even at rest, her long grey-blue limbs folded in elegant lines, she gives the impression of latent energy, of danger.

When she reaches out with one long dusky finger and begins to trail a light touch over your bare shoulders, you have no idea how to react.

Up close, her scent floods your senses even through the mask-filtered air—hot earth, cinders, salt, something musky and deep. When you don’t flinch away from her she rolls closer, as though taking your stillness as tacit permission to keep touching.

“What’s happening?” You whisper, and your voice comes out pitched higher in uncertainty.

Quaritch just chuckles. He’s leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, looking for all the world like this is a totally normal occurrence. His interest is betrayed though by the flicking of his tail and the intensity of his eyes as he watches Varang’s fingertips coast over your collarbone.

“We’ve been waitin’ for you to get your damn panties out of the twist you’d knotted in ‘em,” he says. “But Varang ain’t a patient lady.”

“My panties are not in a twist.” You snap reflexively, before actually thinking about what he’d said. “Patient?”

Quaritch huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus, kid,” He says in exasperation. “I know you ain’t always the quickest, but c’mon now.”

You fumble for an answer but before you manage to say anything, there’s a weight in your lap. Varang’s every movement is so quick and sinuous that you barely even see her begin to move – one minute she’s reclining at your side, and the next she’s swung herself to straddle your legs.

“Eep.” You let out the least dignified sound you’ve ever made, staring up at her with wide eyes.

Beside you both, Quaritch lets out a breathy snort. “Like I said, impatient. You've been playin’ hard to get for too long.”

Hard to get?

Varang looms over you, the size difference stark and shocking. She’s so tall but so lithe, her proportions alien and alluring. Her tail flicks behind her as she stares down at you with quiet intensity. Up close like this as she leans over you, you can see the small round bumps from scarification over her hairless brows and the bridge of her nose, down her long abdomen. You had originally thought that she didn’t have as many little glowing freckles as Quaritch did, but now you can see that they’re just covered by the scars or the ashy streaky paint she’s covered in.

She leans down, nostrils flaring slightly as she inhales your warm human scent from your neck. You hold very still, eyes wide. The prey instinct in the back of your mind is screaming – she could so easily bite through tendons and sinew with those sharp teeth, and she’s very close to your throat.

But then she leans back, huffing in a way that sounds pleased.

Her fingers are calloused from archery, and they tickle a little as they slide over your collarbone, pausing at the worn strap of your bra. That strange little half-smile of hers lingers around her lips as she tugs at it just to watch it snap back into space.

Her large thumb brushes over the swell of your breast, lingering on the nub of your hardened nipple through the thin cotton.You squeak, startled, but there’s nowhere to escape to; it feels like Varang’s bulk is encompassing you, like she’s the only thing left in the world.

She tugs at your bra. The fabric strains, stitches popping, but holds firm.

“I do not like this.” She says to Quaritch, her expression turning a little scowly. “How do I remove, Quaritch?”

The way she says his name, accented and all drawn out, is actually a little bit cute. You don’t get much time to think on it though, before Quaritch’s big hands are worming their way under your back.

“Hey–” You start to gasp, but then Varang takes you by the shoulders and pulls you up so that you’re sitting, giving Quaritch more access to your back.

With a practiced hand, he undoes the clasp of your bra in one easy snap.

You gasp as Varang tugs the shitty fabric aside, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder.

You think you should probably be giving at least a token protest, even just to maintain your own dignity, but you’re embarrassed to find that you can’t. It’s been a very long time since you’ve been bare in front of anyone. And even longer since someone has looked at you so hungrily.

Sure, you’ve had your lazy make out sessions with Quaritch in his office, or in the Recom bunks when no one else was around, but you’ve never been unclothed. Even those few times he’s fingered you with those gloriously big long fingers of his, you haven’t been fully naked.

“What’s happening?” You whisper, eyes darting between them uncertainly. 

Quaritch says something to Varang, and she shifts. As she swings her leg over you, moving off of you, you’re distracted by the coiled strength in her thighs. She’s pure muscle, the carbon fibre-infused bones adding even more weight to her, but she moves with an ease that you’re grateful for. One wrong move would probably crush you, but she’s too nimble for any stray hits.

You’re able to sit up now, and you do so slowly. Now that her tall body isn’t curtaining you, you’re more self-conscious than ever. You feel exposed, and you cross your arms over your chest in embarrassment.

“Jesus,” Quaritch says. “Don’t overthink it, kid.”

“Overthink it?” You repeat in disbelief. “She took my clothes off!”

Varang is still smiling; just a coy little curve to her lips. She might not understand your words, but she still looks amused by you. Maybe your human modesty is a novelty to her.

“‘Cause she wants to fuck you.” Quaritch says bluntly. “Thought that was obvious.”

It feels like your world has been turned on its head, again. For a very long moment, all you can do is stare. The words ‘fuck you’ and ‘obvious’ keep replaying in your mind, and you can’t quite decide which element to address first. 

“Fuck me?” You repeat at last, eyes darting anxiously towards Varang and her coiling tail. “You mean… like, fucking me up?”

Varang smiles, a finger reaching out to brush over your nipple. To your mortification, it stiffens further under the attention. You don’t quite have the presence of mind to pull away.

But Quaritch is staring at you, looking stumped and a little irritated.

“What?” He says. “Why would she–”

“She hates me!” You hiss. “I thought–”

“Hates you?” Quaritch has the nerve to look flummoxed. “Kid, she’s groping your tits.”

“I can see that!” You shriek, voice cracking.

That makes Varang pause, her broad brow furrowing in confusion. She looks to Quaritch, clearly seeking an explanation for your distress.

Quaritch just snorts, leaning back. The fact that he’s not taking you seriously only makes you more irritated. You’re sure that you’re stiff like an angry cat, your expression like thunder.

“You’ve been ignoring me all week!” You accuse. You want to sound angry, but you fall just short. Embarrassingly, you sound hurt instead.

You attempt to rally yourself, scowling weakly. “You don’t get to ignore me and then try to drag me into a threesome–”

Quaritch has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Come on, honey. It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then?” You shoot back.

Honestly, you’re a little impressed by your own spine. You usually find the Colonel scary enough to have your knees weakening, and you’ve never managed to work up the courage to express your feelings to him. But this time it’s different; you’ve had a shit day after a shit week which has followed a shit few months. You feel like you’re about to burst. 

“I’ve given you space, sweetheart, but my patience is at its limit.” Quaritch sighs. “Can a man not want his girls to get on?”

His girls? You blink, thrown off. Quaritch doesn’t seem to notice your pause, and Varang is still curled behind you – despite not understanding your conversation, her elegant long fingers are tracing curious patterns over your ears, the sides of your neck, the length of your spine and each knob of your vertebrae.

“Can’t help that we’re mated now,” Quaritch says, his eyes darting over you to Varang. “Not like it was planned, but there’s no gettin’ out of it. These people do it for life, you know.”

 He reaches over your head to brush one of her thin braids behind a pointed ear, and she playfully nips at his finger. You feel a deep throb of envy. 

Mated. You had suspected that they weren’t just fucking, but it hadn’t been confirmed until just now. It feels like a punch to the gut, but Quaritch continues before you can wallow.

“I gave you space to think about things, but you shuttin’ down ain’t helping anything. Varang’s been chewing my ear off all week to get you into the damn furs with us.”

The whole conversation has been one bizarre revelation after another, but this one might actually take the cake. Varang wanted you naked and in their furs? You had thought she wanted you dead.

“She hates me,” You blurt. “She doesn’t want me near you.”

That earns a harsh bark of laughter from Quaritch. You’re aware, of course, that it’s a ridiculous thing to say when you’re all hunched almost naked in her weird witchy tent. They’re both looming over you, practically sandwiching you, and Varang hasn’t taken her hands off of you once since your bra came off.

“Well,” Quaritch drawls, grinning. “As much as I like the idea of havin’ two pretty girls fightin’ over me, I'm not all too sure that’s what was happenin’, baby.”

There’s a beat of silence as that settles over you. The events of the last week begin reshuffling and recontextualising in your head. You had thought that Varang had been mocking you after mating with Quaritch and pulling him away from you, but now you feel stupid and self-obsessed. But why would she want you like that? Just to satisfy a curiosity?

“It’s normal for ‘em,” He continues as though you have any idea what he’s talking about. “They got no hang ups about it.”

You stare at him. Slowly, you’re beginning to put the pieces together. You’re not stupid, but it all seems so silly and unlikely that you’re having a hard time believing it.

“Threesomes?” Even saying it out loud has your body flushing with embarrassed heat. 

God, you’ve never done anything like that before. It feels like a fever dream that this is even being suggested.

Quaritch shrugs, the motion lazy and almost insouciant. “Well, it’s the natural solution, ain’t it?”

Wet heat runs up the side of your neck, and you lose track of the conversation instantly. You jolt, squealing, but Varang’s tail has wrapped around your waist and she’s baring her teeth.

“Too much talk, Quaritch,” She says, her voice low and smokey. “Stop distracting her.”

Quaritch just grins and lies back, outstretched in the furs in just that tiny loincloth. The yurt is dimly lit with small flames in the braziers littered around the place, and the flickering light casts the musculature of his lean Na’vi body into sharp relief. God, he’s so hot. His arrogance should probably be a turn off, but you’re embarrassed to admit that it only adds to the wetness between your legs.

“She screws like she fights,” He whispers like he’s sharing a secret. “Brutal and fiery. But I’ve told her to take it slow and easy.”

And with that he folds his arms lazily behind his head, cushioning his skull with his biceps as he watches the two of you with a grin.

For a moment you just sit there, feeling like a spare part. You’ve never had a threesome before, so you’re not sure what you’re meant to do right now. Are you both meant to suck his dick at once? Do you, like, fight for who goes first? Is there meant to be a weird sort of competition over his dick? You’re not sure you could beat her–

But Varang isn’t moving on Quaritch. She’s moving on you.

All you can do is gasp as she pushes you down. It’s not that she’s rough, but she moves with purpose and she’s so much bigger and stronger that even a light nudge completely flattens you. Now that you’re looking at her in this new light, her smile doesn’t look so mocking. Now it looks pleased, excited even.

Your legs are splayed open and Varang crawls between your thighs. Every move is deliberate, and she’s slowed right down. You think she’s going slow on purpose – obviously, Quaritch’s words have stuck with her. Where she had been forceful earlier, she’s cautious now.

You swallow thickly, and hear your throat click in the quiet.

“Off.” Varang coos, her long fingers hooking into your cheap panties. She’s smiling at you like she thinks you’re a bit stupid.

You glance at Quaritch reflexively. He’s watching the two of you closely. You think, a little uneasily, that he looks like he’s trying to guess her next move.

Still, when she tugs at your panties again, you allow her to pull them off you. She tosses them aside carelessly to join your bra, and then her big eyes fix between your legs.

When she sees you fully naked for the first time, her reaction surprises you. She laughs, high and girlish.

Your legs snap shut so quickly. It doesn’t even matter that she’s still between your thighs, blocking them from shutting fully, because you scramble to get up. The immediate impulse is to flee – you don’t even know where, because it’s not like you have options, but you’re so embarrassed that you almost feel like braving the air carrier despite the soldiers.

“Calm down,” Quaritch hastily, reaching out to place a big hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t exert much pressure, but he’s strong enough to hold you in place. “It’s the hair.”

“What?” You snap, feeling like a cornered animal.

“The hair,” He repeats, gesturing at the thatch of hair between your thighs. “Unclench, sweetheart. It’s new to her, s’all. She did the same to me.”

You really hadn’t thought too much about Na’vi pubic hair, but you suppose it makes sense that they don’t have any given their lack of body hair overall. Equally, hadn’t thought about Quaritch having pubes – maybe a holdover from his human DNA, like his eyebrows.

Varang is looking between you, head tilted. She’s assessing you, trying to figure out what the problem is. She glances down between your legs again, and this time she shifts so that she’s laying on her belly between your legs.

You’re trying to keep your legs closed, but Quaritch shifts so he’s lying behind you now. He pulls you flush against his chest, your back to his front. His arms wrap around your waist, one large hand splayed possessively over your stomach, with the other dropping to ease your legs apart so Varang can have a proper look.

Utterly exposed, all you can do is lay there and try not to melt in embarrassment.

Between your legs, Varang lets out a low, churring rumble. When her nostrils flare and you realise that she’s scenting you, your embarrassment reaches its peak and you simply can’t take anymore.

“Why am I the only one naked?” You practically shriek, wriggling. Then you screw up your bravery and make a stab at using the meagre Na’vi you have. “Clothes off!”

Varang stills, and for a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. This is a woman comfortable in her own authority, who is used to getting things her way. What if she takes badly to you attempting to order her around in her own home?

But then her smile blooms into a sharp, delighted smile. It’s broad enough to crinkle her eyes but with an edge to it, as though you’d offered her a cache of weapons all over again.

“Little Sky Girl speaks Na’vi?” She purrs, leaning down.

She licks a line from your sternum up your throat, and you jolt a little in surprise.

“A little,” You say shakily. “I’ve been learning.”

Without your panties, the wetness between your legs feels completely obscene. Your thighs feel sticky in a way that you really don’t want to examine considering you’ve barely been touched.

“Full of surprises,” Quaritch chuckles. He’s looming behind you, watching you with Varang as if you’re his favourite TV show.

You don’t reply, because your attention is captured by Varang now. She’s reached behind herself, beginning to untie the thin length of animal hide binding her breasts. Every move is a provocation, fluid and intentional – she tosses the binding aside, revealing her small, proud breasts. She starts on her loincloth next. Though you can practically feel the impatience radiating from her, she doesn’t rush.

She maintains eye contact with you as she tosses the loincloth aside next, and your cheeks burn.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, and your eyes stick. 

Jesus.

You’ve never seen a Na’vi pussy before, and you’re a little struck by the sight. It’s both alien and familiar in a way that jars you. The anatomy is similar to yours, except for the fact that it’s… well, blue.

She has a perfect seam of blue, neat and glistening with arousal. Her folds are a few shades darker than the rest of her skin, and to your fascination, the inside of her winks purple, not pink. Her clit peeks out from beneath its hood, glinting almost pearlescent in the dim firelight of the tent.

You feel a little dizzy. You’re naked in Varang’s tent. Varang is sat in front of you, also naked, spreading her legs for you proudly like she wants you to look. 

You should do something. Say something.

You point uncertainly at the indents in her skin from the tightness of the binding that had bound her breasts. “Pain?”

Varang just looks at you. You get the impression that she’s assessing you, like she doesn’t quite know what to make of you. She had undoubtedly been expecting a different reaction from you after showing off her cunt.

Then, she laughs, low and pleased.

“No pain.” She says it as though she thinks you're adorable.

It’s a little condescending, but you feel your nipples tighten anyway, puckering into hardened nubs. Quaritch noticed too; you can hear him chuckle, and then he shifts so that he’s beside you.

“You’re gonna make her real happy, baby.” Quaritch says. His words come out in a low, pleased rumble that you can feel vibrating into your back. “She’s been wantin’ to play with you for a while now.”

“Wanting to–?” 

You’ve barely even gotten your sentence started before Varang decides to lay down on her back, legs spread and cunt exposed. You stare, struck dumb yet again. Fuck, that’s a sight. Her body is long and lithe, small breasts and shifting musculature under her velvety skin. The length of her legs! Have they always been that long?

She’s unself-conscious in a way that makes you sweat. Her eyes are fixed on you again, but now her impatience seems to be simmering at a low boil. 

She barks something at Quaritch, but this time she speaks too fast for you to catch it. Her tone is unmistakable; whatever she said, it was a demand.

You had never pegged Quaritch as a man who would take orders from someone who was once an enemy, but his hands scoop under your armpits and lift you before you can protest. You’re not all too sure where he’s taking you; until he lifts you right over Varang.

You squeak as you’re settled into her lap, your legs slotting right between her much larger ones until you’re settled with your pussies pressed together, slick against slick.

“Oh, now ain’t that a sight.” Quaritch purrs out.

Your breath catches, staring down at where you’re scissoring with an alien. Her powerful thighs bracket your hips and waist, her powerful muscles flexing as she grinds up in slow, rolling motions. With a commanding sort of pressure she pulls you down against her further.

She doesn’t start slow, and she’s certainly not gentle. When her clit glides over yours, aided by the slick slide of your joined arousal, you both moan.

“Jesus,” Quaritch’s voice has dropped huskier as he shifts closer to get a better view. “Look at the two of you, all juiced up. You hear that?”

And you do – as Varang uses her grip on your hips to pull you down as she humps her cunt up against yours, the room fills with the wet, squishy sounds of your aroused cores rubbing.

Every roll of her hips is hypnotic; even on her back below you, there’s not an ounce of submission in her body. She’s grinning, wild and unrestrained with her teeth glinting, as she uses her grip on your hips to set a steady, hungry pace.

There’s no teasing – it’s a straight to the point sort of pleasure that soon has you panting. With an audience that responds to you so vocally, purring and moaning every time you roll your hips of your own accord, you soon find yourself responding eagerly with no real care for how you appear.

The bead of her clit is much larger than yours, serving as a perfect little bump to rub yourself against. It serves the dual purpose of stimulating you until you’re sweating and whimpering, and also satisfying her. Her head is thrown back as she pants, eyes half-lidded as she watches you rub yourself against her. Her long-fingered hands remain on your ass; you may have the illusion of control, but there’s no mistaking who’s really calling the shots.

“Like two cats in heat,” Quaritch says. He’s watching with an amused expression that does a poor job at hiding his avid interest. 

“Ah!” Varang’s back arches as your cunts slot together just right, clits rasping over each other with a friction that has stars flashing before your eyes.

The moan that’s torn out of your mouth is long and low, a little breathless. You don’t think you’ve ever made such a slutty sound before, but you don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed about it because Varang is still moving, her grip on your ass encouraging you to keep humping your pussy into hers.

You’re both so wet that the slide is easy, syrupy and sticky. Pleasure is sparking through your veins, your breath catching every time the eager beads of your clits grind together. It doesn’t take long before your hips are rolling against her with a desperate sort of speed.

It feels so good, enough so that you actually don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. Varang doesn’t seem to care that you’re grinding against her faster now; you’re both panting, sweating.

“Oh god.” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a trembling down deep in your pussy. “I’m–”

You don’t even get the words out before you cum in a convulsive wave. Your cunt clenches in a series of hard spasms, twitching against Varang’s as your clit grinds against hers.

“Fuck!” You shriek, clinging to her blindly.

She bares her teeth in a victorious grin, and doesn’t pause. You ride out your orgasm against her, whimpering as the glide gets wetter and slicker as your pussy grows juicier with release. Varang milks every last shock of sensation out of you, until the catch of your clits together grows too much. 

You shiver, wanting more and less all at once, when suddenly a big four-fingered hand is clasping over your mask.

“I want your mouth.” Varang is saying, her large fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism of the mask.

You’re very horny. That’s the only excuse you have for the way your hips keep rolling lazily, your jaw soft and dropped as you pant. Even in the face of your only source of breathable air being pulled from you, you keep humping against her pussy.

Thankfully, Quaritch still has some firing neurons left. He swoops in quickly, grabbing Varang’s hand away and placing it on your loose breast instead.

“No mouth today,” he says. “Next time, when she has air.”

Varang hisses at him, but it seems more reflexive than anything because she doesn’t appear upset. Her attention has already been captured by your breasts; softer than a Na’vi’s, with more fleshy give to them when compared to the much firmer breasts of Na’vi women. 

“Soft.” She mutters thoughtfully, her thumbs rolling over your beaded nipples with relish.

Quaritch chuckles. 

Then, suddenly, she twists up and pulls you from your perch slotted against her. You yelp, but there’s not much you can do other than go with the flow and allow her to manhandle you. She moves quickly, flipping you onto your back and settling between your thighs on her hands and knees.

“Quaritch.” She says, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone has hardly changed at all, yet it’s clear that this is a demand.

Quaritch, still laying on his side as he watches the two of you, raises a brow. He seems quite content to watch, amused and pleased by the sight of Varang on her hands and knees between your legs. Varang is seemingly always aware of the eyes that follow her, and this time is no different – her back is arched, her narrow hips swaying as her tail undulates playfully in the air.

“Tsahìk.” Quaritch purrs her title lazily, though he doesn’t come closer.

Her title pleases her, you can tell by the way her tail flicks. Still though, she frowns impatiently at him. 

“Come.” She says, a little clipped with impatience. “You will pleasure me, as I pleasure her.”

The steady, practiced amusement on Quaritch’s face breaks, only to be replaced by a genuine grin.

“Oh, will I?” He asks sardonically, though he doesn’t bother maintaining the pretence for a full minute – within fifteen seconds, he’s moving closer to slot himself up behind her.

Varang only arches more, the pert globes of her ass offered up to him like fresh fruit on a platter. She even waves it a little, tauntingly. Quaritch must be used to this sort of taunting, because he just snorts a little and delivers a quick open-handed smack to the side of her ass. It’s not particularly gentle, and the sound rings out in the yurt.

Varang gasps, jolting at the blow, before letting out a sharp laugh and grinding back against him.

You watch with widened eyes and shortened breath as Quaritch reaches down to untie his loincloth. Though he seems collected, the roughness of his movements as he shoves his pants down reveals his restlessness. You take a breath as you crane your neck, eager to see what he’s packing.

But to your bewilderment, there’s nothing but smooth space between Quaritch’s legs. Well, there’s hair, coarse and straight, like he had said. But it doesn’t border anything at all. Where you had expected a cock, there’s nothing at all.

You gape. What the fuck? He’s like a big blue Ken doll with pubes.

“Where’s your dick?” You blurt, unable to control your reaction. 

Quaritch huffs a short laugh, but his ears lower a little. Shit, is he embarrassed? Maybe it was rude to point it out, but… Varang was acting like she wanted to be fucked. Was the Colonel dickless? Jesus, was that why he’s been so angry recently?

But no, that can’t be right. You’d seen the bulge in his pants after long makeout sessions, and you’d felt him the few occasions you’d dry-humped like horny teens.

“It’s still there, smartass.” He grumbles. “Gotta work for it now, though.”

That doesn’t answer your question at all. You frown, embarrassed and confused and too horny for this. Thighs squeezing together lightly, you glance at Varang. She’s already looking at you; her ears had pricked up the moment you spoke, clearly interested by what you have to say.

“Where?” You ask clumsily, pointing at Quaritch’s smooth blue crotch.

Varang tilts her head and for a moment you think she doesn’t understand what you’re asking her. But then her eyes dart to Quaritch’s crotch and she grins, sharp and eager. 

She moves, pushing herself back up so that she can spin round and push him onto his back in the furs.

Quaritch allows himself to be pushed down. He’s rolling his eyes and huffing, but you know it’s for show because his lips are curving into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He looks as though he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Come,” Varang demands, gesturing you closer.

This time, you don’t hesitate at all. You crawl closer until you’re at her side, both of you kneeling between Quaritch’s large, densely muscled thighs. Varang leans into your personal space, confident in the knowledge that you’re not going to be running away any time soon. Her smooth blue skin is hot to the touch against yours, and she maneuvers you closer with ease until you’re right where she wants you; tucked half under her as the two of you lean over Quaritch’s groin.

Now that you’re so close that your breath is brushing his skin, you can see that your initial impression of there being just blank space isn’t entirely correct. Under the light dusting of hair, you can see… Well, you’re not entirely sure what you’re looking at.

It’s not until Varang reaches out to touch him, parting the hair and prodding at the soft mound there, that you realise there’s a small vertical slit.

“What’s that?” You ask curiously. 

Varang says a word that you’ve never heard before, her fingers pressing on either side of the slit and tracing it playfully. She doesn’t quite touch the slit itself; rather, she plays with the slightly swollen flesh on either side.

“Is that a pussy?” You blurt, eyes wide. 

The concept of the Colonel, the scariest man you’ve ever met, with a pussy has you reeling. But just as soon as you’ve voiced the thought, Quaritch is huffing in irritation.

“Don’t be a jackass, kid.” He grunts, his voice a little gravelly. Clearly, whatever Varang is rubbing feels good.

Under her fingers, the slit seems to dilate slightly. The tip of something seems to be poking out from just inside, and when Varang leans in to lick at it, Quaritch throws his head back with a groan.

Under her attentive tongue, what appears to be Quaritch’s cock begins to extend. It doesn’t happen all at once; rather, it distends in increments. Feeling bold, you reach out to stroke your fingers along the squishy blue base of his length. He doesn't seem to have a scrotum; you wonder if it’s internal, same as his cock was.

And his cock is big. Fully proportional, long and thin (but still bigger than any human cock you’ve taken before). Those little glowing freckles are dotted along the underside, forming a pretty little trail all the way up to his purple mushroomed head.

“Shit.” Quaritch picks up his head so that he can watch you and Varang play with his cock at the same time. 

He must like whatever he’s seeing, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s nothing left of his iris but a thin ring of gold. Varang clearly notices too, because she bares her teeth in a grin before licking up the length of his cock. If Quaritch is nervous about her sharp fangs near his delicate bits, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he humps his hips up to get more of himself inside her mouth.

Rather than indulge him though, Varang just gives one teasing suckle to the swollen, purplish tip before pulling away. Quaritch huffs as though he’d been expecting that, though he doesn’t complain. He’s watching her closely, waiting for her next move.

You’re watching her closely too, taking your cues from her. When she takes a hold of your arm and pulls you like a ragdoll onto your back in the furs in front of her, you go easily. Then she settles on her elbows and knees, settling low with her ass in the air. Her tail is held high, swaying coyly in the air in a way that is unmistakably teasing.

Your attention is fixed on her pert little ass, distracted by the way she’s waving it to taunt Quaritch, so when a dextrous, hot wet tongue slides through your sticky folds, you nearly shriek.

“O-ohhh, fuck.” You sigh, spreading your legs eagerly. 

You feel like a bit of a slut with the way your every inhibition has flown out the window, but you refuse to let your mind linger on any shame. It feels too good – you can’t remember the last time someone ate you out, but it feels like a lifetime ago, and it certainly had never felt like this. Your makeout sessions with Quaritch had often ended with his big fingers stuffed down your panties to rub you until you creamed, but while it scratched the itch for a while, the wet heat of Varang’s mouth is making your eyes roll back in your damn head.

It feels like you’re boiling up inside. Your temples are sweat-slick, hair sticking to your forehead in a way that you’re certain can’t be attractive. Your cunt is so wet and sticky that every lap of Varang’s tongue against you makes a squelching sound that is truly mortifying. You don’t even know how much of the wetness is your own arousal or Varang’s saliva.

She’s sloppy about it, which you hadn’t expected. She just always seemed so put together, but she’s tonguing into your cunt like she wants to lick the flesh off your bones. You mewl and arch and wriggle, but her powerful hands keep you pinned so she can mouth at you as she likes. 

You’d almost forgotten about Quaritch until he settles himself behind Varang. He looms over her, even taller than she is, and leans over so he can get a better look at her licking your cunt.

“Slow down,” He drawls, though he sounds amused. “You’re gonna lick her raw.”

He wraps a big hand around the base of Varang’s tail and tugs lightly, playfully. She pulls back from you just so she can hiss over her shoulder at him.

“She wants it now! You deny her–”

“I am not denying her.” Quaritch rolls his eyes, exasperated. His accent is thick, causing the words to form a little clumsily in his mouth, but you find yourself grateful for it. It’s much easier for you to understand the language when it’s pronounced slow and intentional.

His yellow eyes turn to you then, and he lifts a brow. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt so excited in your life. You’ve been content with Quaritch’s lazy makeout sessions and the clandestine fingering, but that was because you hadn’t dreamed of expecting more. Laying here sandwiched between two enormous bodies that could crush you with ease has you gooey between the legs in a way you couldn’t have expected. 

You nod, breathless.

He gives you a sharp grin, and then drives into Varang in one short roll of his hips. Varang keens, high and drawn out, before it tapers into a moan. You watch her face, enraptured by the way her expression slackens in pleasure. The self-satisfaction that she’s been carrying herself melts away, replaced by raw want.

The thing that so fascinates you about her is that even like this, bent over between you and Quaritch, there’s not an ounce of submission in her. She’s so self-assured in her own desire that it makes you feel small, like you’re blessed and lucky to be allowed so close to her while she allows Quaritch to sink inside her.

But then her eyes fix back on your face, piercing even through the transparent plastic of your mask, and she lowers her mouth to your cunt again, laving over the sticky arousal that has collected in your folds.

Your eyelids flutter as you sigh, finally allowing the last of your tension to melt out of your spine. 

God, that feels good. Maybe it’s okay to just let yourself enjoy this. You’ve never had an illicit encounter like this, and the thrill adds to the airy, electric build up in your cunt. If a nine foot tall sexy alien woman wants to involve you in her sex life with your boss, who the hell are you to deny yourself? Especially when you don’t think you’ll ever experience anything this crazy again in your life.

When Quaritch starts fucking into her, the rhythm of her tongue is disrupted against you. You try not to be too disappointed but you can’t help the whine that slips out of you unbidden. You think that maybe they miss it, considering the air is filled now with the wet slap of skin against skin and Quaritch’s low grunts matched by Varang’s little gasps. 

But then both of their eyes swing around to you, and Quaritch grins. 

“Feeling neglected again, baby?” He asks, a little mocking.

You nod, mortified. Then you wonder why the hell you had nodded at all. Was he making fun of you? It all abruptly feels too overwhelming – you don’t think you’ve ever felt so vulnerable in your whole life. 

He says something, too low and quick for you to catch, and then Varang is grinning. Her head lowers between your legs once more, purring lowly, and begins licking again. Her tongue rasps over your clit and your thoughts evaporate, all higher level thinking disappearing in favour of sheer instinctive desire. 

When you spread your legs wider, breath hitching, Varang’s purring kicks up a notch. The rumbles from her mouth make your eyes roll back in your head – it’s like having a hot, wet vibrator that licks at you. You feel too hot, too overwhelmed, like your skin is several sizes too tight. 

Your eyes slide closed in an effort to block out some of the world before you get sent into sheer sensory overload, but when Varang squeals you snap them back open as if your eyelids were spring-loaded, unwilling to miss a thing. 

Quaritch has taken a grip of Varang’s tail in his hand, pulling her back to meet her every thrust as he sets a brutal pace. 

She’s letting out high, vulgar moans of pure delight. The sounds she makes are absolutely outrageous; completely lewd, wanton, and totally shameless. You don’t think you’ve ever heard sounds like that outside of a porno, but there’s not an ounce of disingenuity in her noises.

There’s no performance at all; just sheer enjoyment. The fact that she’s making those noises into your already sensitised cunt makes you feel like you’re going insane. Each little yip, purr, and moan thrums against your clit whenever she’s not suckling sloppily at it.

Your nerves spark, and your legs convulse without conscious thought. You can feel another release bubbling in your lower belly and the tips of your toes, your mind narrowing down to those points of pleasure as Varang’s rough tongue undulates against your swollen clit. 

“Oh god,” You pant, your hips twitching up into her mouth again. “I’m gonna– I think–”

Quaritch is humping into Varang like a dog in rut, low intense grunts spilling from his lips as his hips move in brutal, near frantic spasms. You think – as much as you can think right now, with your higher-order awareness beginning to slip away from you – that you would love to watch him fucking her properly, from a different angle. 

The thought takes you by surprise even as it floats through your mind. Even earlier that day, such a thought would have had you stewing in a bitter sort of envy. But everything seems softer right now, fuzzier around the edges – encapsulated in their furs, warm and buzzing like a live-wire, you can’t imagine allowing a single negative emotion to touch the sides of you.

You can feel your climax build deep in your belly like a cresting wave, and your toes curl in anticipation of it. 

You orgasm violently. When that pleasure snaps it feels like it ricochets through every nerve and synapse in your body – your legs clamp shut around Varang’s skull hard enough that if she was human, you’re sure it would have hurt. As it is, you think she actually enjoys it, because she starts to lick you harder, faster.

It’s too much almost immediately, but you can’t form the words to tell her to stop. Your hands form fists in her glossy micro braids, though you don’t remember reaching to grasp them. All you can do is cling to her, keening wordlessly as her rough textured tongue works you into a cascade of bliss that feels endless.

You’re a pathetic little puddle of sweat and spit and spasming limbs, hardly able to tell up from down. You’re vaguely aware of Varang squealing in a way that suggests her own orgasm has knocked her out of the running at the same time as that heavenly, too-much tongue pauses in its tireless licking.

“Oh, fuck,” You breathe, your eyes blinking hazily up at the hide ceiling of the yurt.

The wet slap-slap-slap of flesh against flesh is still echoing as Quaritch fucks Varang almost brutally hard. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your head and regain some feeling in your numb buzzy fingers after your orgasm as you watch the two of them.

Varang is loose-limbed and soft, the expression on her face satisfied as she rests her face against your naked belly, panting. She’s clearly already came, small tremors running through her slick thighs, but that doesn’t stop Quaritch from chasing his own end.

“Fuck,” He snarls. “Fuck, fuck–”

His movements turn sloppy, then jerky, then he stiffens with a hissed moan. Your own spent cunt clenches around nothing as you watch his face, drinking in the details as he cums; his pinched brow, slack mouth, glassy eyes. God, he looks good.

Your thoughts are slow and soupy; you wish you had had the presence of mind to watch Varang’s face while she came. You want to be filled. You want to curl up right here and never move again.

Quaritch lets out a low groan of pure male satisfaction, his broad shoulders going lax as he hunches over Varang’s back. She’s still laid out on top of you, her back arches and hips tilted towards him, but once Quaritch pulls out of her she practically collapses onto you, spent.

The weight of her body slumping onto yours forces all the air from your lungs in an exhausted ‘ooof!’, and Quaritch hastily pulls her off. She goes easily, allowing him to settle her gently on the furs next to you.

She curls around you almost immediately, her chainsaw-like purring reminding you of an overlarge sundrunk housecat. It’s almost endearing enough to forget that you thought that she was a total psychopath.

Quaritch reclines next to you. He’s still grinning, no doubt immensely satisfied. It seems like his orgasm has softened some of the tension that’s been running through him like a steel rod in his spine. When he slides down on your other side, there’s a boneless quality to him that certainly wasn’t there before.

You stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and a little stunned. As the feeling comes back into your fingers and toes, reality is sinking in.

Jesus Christ, you just engaged in a threesome with your rogue boss and his new alien mate. 

Varang is sleepily playing with the shell of your ear, one of her long lithe legs is draped over your hips – it’s long enough to reach over to Quaritch, her toes playfully prodding at his thigh. He grunts, grabbing at her ankle and coasting his hand the whole way up her leg before groping at her pert ass.

You’re squashed right in the middle, still a little bewildered about how you managed to get into this situation.

“Should I– go fur?” You ask in badly accented, halting Na’vi. In case it wasn’t clear what you meant, you point over to the small pile of furs that you had dragged over to the other side of the tent.

You’d been sleeping in that sad little pile for the last week, and you just assume that they’ll want you to return now that they’re satiated. You’ve tried to avoid them at night, slinking in after they’ve fallen asleep or curling up with the furs over your head, so you’re not all too sure what their night routine is.

Do they always cuddle like this after fucking? How often do they drag a third person into their furs? Or is this the first time? 

It certainly seems… adventurous to drag you into this considering they’ve only been together a week, you think a little sourly. 

But when you look up at the two of them, they’re both looking at you as though you’re speaking in tongues. 

Had you misspoken? Maybe what you said meant something completely different. You scramble for a moment, working back over your words in your head.

But then–

“Mates sleep together.” Varang says, frowning.

She seems irritated, and the sight of her painted brow pinched in a frown has you nodding swiftly. You pull back, unwilling to linger in the furs when they don’t want you there.

But before you can go anywhere, Varang’s leg tightens over your hip and an arm winds under your waist as she hisses softly. You go very, very still.

“She told you to stay.” Quaritch grunts, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

“No she didn’t,” You whisper back, keeping your voice low as if that might keep Varang soothed. “She said that mates sleep together.”

Quaritch peels one eyelid open just so he can give you a look like you’re a little slow.

“What’s the difference?” He grumbles. 

He’s relaxed enough after his orgasm that he doesn’t seem to be able to work up enough energy to devote to the conversation. As a result, he doesn’t see the way you’re gaping at him blankly.

Admittedly, you’re not always the quickest, and the Na’vi language and their customs are so foreign to you that you don’t understand a lot of it. But it sounds as though Quaritch is including you in the mates statement.

Which is ridiculous, because you’re barely even a situationship to him. At least, you hadn’t thought so. Now, you’re bewildered. You lay still, compressed between their much larger bodies as they curl around you and each other in the most surreal three-way cuddle pile you’ve ever experienced. 

It takes a bit of wriggling to sit up, since neither of them seem all that interested in lifting their heavy limbs to make it easier for you. 

“Did you…” You manage to say, your voice cracking. “Did you sign me up for some kind of weird alien polyamory without asking me?”

“Hah?” Quaritch squints at you through one lazily opened eye, but you don’t wait for him to say anything further.

You smack at his arm. You’re so much smaller than him that it bounces off ineffectually, but it makes you feel a little bit better.

At least, it does before Varang lifts her head, looking between the two of you. You stiffen a little, wondering if she’s going to smack you down for daring to strike her mate the way that she had smacked that soldier outside the air carrier.

But she surprised you by smacking Quaritch instead, a little harder than you had but right over the same place.

This time Quaritch moves, his thickly muscled arms moving to wrap around your waist and Varang’s at once. He hauls you both atop of him, grumbling something about “Two damn women at once… pain in my ass”.

You wriggle, still unsettled, but Varang grins wide, settling down against the length of his body like she belongs there. She purrs, and her tail coils playfully around your upper thigh.

“Not like there were many conversations.” Quaritch mutters. “You mad about it?”

You can feel his words rumble lightly in his chest as you lay against him, and despite yourself you find yourself relaxing against him. The steady thrumming of Quaritch’s voice and Varang’s purring, their velvety skin, their encompassing warmth, has you melting reluctantly against them.

You allow yourself to think. It’s difficult to answer the question. You’re not all too sure what’s happened tonight. One moment you’d been angry with Quaritch for tossing you aside for Varang, the next you’re squashed between them in their furs and they’re talking about mates like it was a given that you were part of that arrangement.

“I… don’t know.” You say slowly. “I’m not sure I really understand.”

Quaritch just snorts. 

“Yeah, me neither.” He grunts, reaching down to scratch at the light thatch of hair above his cock. To your fascination, you see that his length has retracted back into that little internal pouch.

“She said that she was going to take my mate.” You protest, mortified even to be saying it out loud. "As in, you."

Quaritch huffs a lazy, tired laugh. He says something to Varang in her ear, too quick and quiet for you to hear. She grunts, eyelids fluttering, and mumbles something back.

Whatever she said has Quaritch rolling his eyes back to look at you with a single sardonic brow raised.

“You gotta improve the language, honey.” He mutters. “She said she’s gonna take you as a mate.”

You gape at him. Even with it being stated in plain English, your brain cycles around the words without engaging with them fully. 

“What the fuck?” You blurt.

Had they known the whole time that you were involved in this weird little ‘mating’ situation? Was that why they had been so amused with your sulking, your insistence at sleeping apart? 

What you had thought was mockery from Varang might just have been an expression of interest.

“Too much talking.” Varang mumbles in Na’vi.

She’s clearly trying to sleep, her ears twitching in irritation every time someone speaks.

You quiet down, biting your lip. It seems like you’re the only one confused by any of this. They’re certainly not wasting much time having moral quandaries or wondering what this means for your standing among them. 

A little hesitantly, you allow yourself to relax fully against them.

Never in your wildest dreams would you have first imagined this when you came to your pencil-pushing job in Pandora – squashed between two enormous alien bodies, one of them your resurrected boss, in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere filled with Na’vi that are hostile to basically everything.

But the furs are warm and comfortable, and paradoxically you feel small and safe pressed against the bulk of Quaritch and Varang. Everything outside of the tent feels distant and hazy, like the only real thing in the world is right here narrowed down to the palpable heat of your bodies in a post-coital pile.

Just maybe, you could postpone your little meltdown until tomorrow.

Quaritch must feel you surrender to the situation, your body relaxing against his, because you feel his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against the top of your head.

When he leans down to speak in your ear, you shiver lightly.

A brief spike of fear rose within you when you noticed that you were alone. Your crew was nowhere to be found, nor were there any clues as to whether or not you were trapped within another nightmare that had shifted from its usual storyline.

Instinct led you to move, quick to lift the heavy pelt from off your body. Except, when you pulled it off, the first thing you noticed was how little your discomfort was from moving. As a matter of fact, there was none of it at all—only soreness from lying so still for God knows how long.

The crushing pain that you’d been tortured with had ceased to exist, as well as the hairs on your neck no longer standing up as if a shadow had been behind you at all times, lurking.

You lifted a careful hand, slowly inching it to your injury—only to realize it didn’t hurt. Your fingertips brushed against your skin, cool to the touch whereas before it was flush and warm. You dared to even dig your fingers lightly into you, washed over with surprise when nothing bit back at you.

You don’t recall much from when you last fell into sleep to now. It was hazy, like a misty fog was clouding up the chambers of your mind. The only thing that you could sense was that lingering pit of familiarity, as well as a touch of something weary that made your heart beat just a little bit faster.

You threw your legs over the side of the cot, standing on shaky legs that forgot the act of balance for a brief moment. It felt new to stand on your own once again with little struggle after having been trapped in Price’s bed for long enough that it tested your sanity. There was none telling just how long you’d been cooped up on this new, mysterious cot, either.

Testing the waters, you slowly contorted your body into a long, healthy stretch, feelings your tender muscles and rattled bones shift and pop. While you were entirely joyful to be back on your feet, it raised the question of how.

Whatever injury you had that had been injected with a ruthless venom that Graves bestowed to you shouldn’t have you healed so quickly, even with a visit to a medical off shore. You knew how impossible it truly was. Healing would’ve taken weeks, if not months.

So how on Earth were you standing, unharmed?

“You look well.”

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to see an unfamiliar woman stepping into the makeshift hut. She was old and withered, wrinkles lining her face, but her eyes were kind, albeit tired. She was a small thing, almost what one would imagine at the mention of a witch, like stories you’d heard as a child. Silly ones, anyway.

Her shoulders were hefty with a smaller pelt than the one you had around you, its fur as dark as night. Her clothes were otherworldly, as if she’d gathered random fabrics and threw them together on a whim. Nothing about her seemed ordinary. Dare you say, she reminded you of Mary.

She was a stranger, yet you felt compelled to feel at ease.

“Who are you?” you asked, suspicious.

She smiled a toothy grin, gaps staring back at you. “Your boys brought you here to get you fixed up. How do you feel?”

You wiggled your fingers and toes for good measure before responding, “I am alright, but I fear I do not understand.”

The woman stepped further into the room, taking slow paces. Her age was undetectable, but the stark grays in her hair told you she was much, much older.

“There is much I do not understand either,” she replied. She made her way to the cot you were laid upon, taking a seat on the edge.

Your eyes followed her every move, remaining frozen in place. You dared not to move away in fear of offending her, nor closer out of weariness.

“I do not know why you’ve come all this way when this was something you could’ve done yourself. Dove, is it?” she asked.

The name had you tensing, and before you could grow concerned, she stopped you. “That is all they call you. Dove this, dove that—it was not hard to figure out.”

You slowly let your guard fall back down, but only slightly. Price would not allow them to take you to someone they did not trust to leave you alone with. Then again, it rose the question—where were they?

“I am confused,” you muttered, furrowing your eyebrows.

“About which part?” she questioned. The lingering tone felt a bit like a tease, as if she knew she was ruffling a few feathers. “Not to worry. They are resting in beds I’ve prepared for them. You had a long journey, I heard.”

She gave you no reason to doubt, but you could not be blamed for doing so anyway. You were in a strange place, healed far too quickly for normalcy with your crew out of sight. Graves embedded that fear within you, following you everywhere you went like a menace.

“How did you do this?” You gestured to your side, where the dress you wore was torn to reveal the once tarnished skin while the rest hanged loosely off your body. It hurt to know the dress was ruined, but it was the least of your worries. “This is not a possible heal. It would have been a process for me to properly recover. I would like an explanation.”

The woman looked surprised, raising her thin eyebrows and glancing between you and your bare skin. “You do not know?”

“Pardon?” You threw her a just as bewildered look.

“That is why you have come all this way?” she asked. “Because you do not know?”

“I am not quite following,” you confessed, deflating.

“The gift,” she remarked. “You do not feel it?”

“I do not know of this gift you are speaking of,” you retorted. Being hidden in the dark just like Price had done to you before was sparking something in you. You were growing impatient.

The woman tapped her long fingernail against her chin, muttering to herself. The flashy rings adorning her fingers winked back at you. “You feel something, don’t you?” she asked, waggling her finger. “That sense of knowing, like you have been here before. There is something here that seems… familiar. Am I correct?”

Her tone held a touch of accusation, as if she knew she was reading you like a book. You narrowed your eyes at her, setting your jaw taut, just as Price would do when presenting himself as tough.

“I am not a woman who entertains mind games,” you uttered, putting on a brave front. “If you are to explain a thing to me, it should be with haste.”

She smiled, contrasting the soft edges around her eyes that gave them a subtle sweetness. With the gaps in her teeth, they were unkempt, a hint of decay rotting around the edges.

“You have spirit,” she noted, seemingly pleased rather than annoyed. “You will need it if you are to be a healer, of course.”

“How did you know that?” you accused, stiffening.

Though you didn’t know her, she acted like she knew you. As if you’d been friends for ages, reading you like an open page, bookmarking your inner workings inside her head. You didn’t know how to feel, but you knew it didn’t feel great.

“That is what you are,” she said ecstatically. As she spoke, she stood, stepping towards you with her finger jammed in your face. “That is the gift I speak of. The hands of a sorceress, gifted with the God’s will to heal. You are nature’s force, one who shall lead others to the way of fortune. You do not feel it?”

This woman must be crazy. She was speaking of pure sorcery, the very thing had landed you with shattered bones and an infection so malicious, it tore you from the inside out.

You glanced at your hands, stretching your fingers and furling them into fists. They certainly did not look like magic hands, nor ones given a blessing. You weren’t buying it, though, how would you have been healed so quickly?

The more you thought about it, the more the dots connected. Though the idea was outlandish, it wouldn’t be the only odd thing you’d experienced—Graves was a paradox on his own.

The desire you had since childhood to help others, going as far as to be deemed as the outcast of the village in order to venture into the world of medicines and herbs, made sense. The urge to heal more than your ability, though only a mere pupil in the works, was always an overwhelming one, something you wished you could pursue.

Performing your job above and beyond, healing the sick and poor. Just as the prophecy stated.

When the realization hit you, your breath caught in your throat, eyes blowing wide.

Graves targeted you because you were the medic spoken of in the prophecy. Everything Price had thought, down to the day he captured you, was right. Whereas he was searching for a medic, somehow, he knew it was you. Rather than killing you like he’d done many others, he brought you upon his ship and invested his faith in you.

“How?” you asked, choking on a breath. “How has this happened?”

“It does not simply happen, child,” she explained, satisfied. “The Gods choose who they deem fit. It is them who bestow the gift upon us. They seek the ones who hold purity and good. Your soul was bright in your past life, shining the way for others who could never escape a world of darkness. This is what you’ve been given in return.”

You were given the information far too quickly. It was difficult to swallow, knowing others were depending on you. Of course, that’s what you wanted all your life—but the truest part of it was much more heavier than you’d like it to be.

“Us?” you repeated back, confused. “Tell me you do not mean—”

“We are sisters in that aspect, child.”

“That is how I am able to stand right now?” Your fingers grazed your healed skin again, taking in the smoothness. Not a scar or bump left. “It was you?”

“You are not the only one of your kind. There are others, though uncommon. It is not safe times for us, but,” she paused, glancing down at your side, “I see you have already figured that out.”

“You know of Graves?”

She smiled once more, though it looked more like a grimace. “We all know of the Devil of the Seas.”

And a devil he was. He was rotten, his core decayed and filled with maggots.

“I am to cease his plan,” you said, lips turning into a scowl. “It is written in the stars, and I cannot escape. But… I do not know how.”

“Time will only tell, child,” she assured kindly. Her wrinkled hands reached for yours, taking them in her grasp. Her palms covered yours, smoothing over your skin. “You will know. Perhaps you already do.”

You let it sink in, thinking back on everything that had happened thus far. Your nightmare came back to you, feeling the burning heat of towering fires that you’d relived over and over until it was engraved in memory.

There was something in your village, waiting for you to discover it. You knew it, but you could now admit the defeat of having to return to the ruins.

“Your… abilities,” you began, hesitating on the word. You weren’t sure what to refer to it as. Power? Sorcery? It was unclear. “How do you use them?”

“That is for you to learn and adapt,” she said sympathetically. “It would not be much of a gift if they were all the same. Just like your current path, you will also figure out your specialty—with time.”

“And my men? They do not know?”

Her smile turned into a mischievous grin, her chubby cheeks mushing up. “Your secret is yours to tell, my dove.”

“I am happy to see you all resting well.”

You smiled as your crew quickly rustled in their sleep, shooting up in alarm. It was a pitiful sight, really, seeing the four men smushed into uncomfortable cots on the hard floor, all sprawled in different positions that shouldn’t have been good for their necks.

“Dove,” Soap said first, grinning boyishly. “Look at ye.”

He stood immediately, scooping you into a bone-crushing hug. It knocked the air out of your lungs, but you awkwardly returned it, patting his back.

“Thought you were a goner, aye?” Gaz teased, looking over to Ghost beside him and nudging him with an elbow.

Ghost did nothing, only standing to shake off his rattling bones and grunt in response.

The Captain rose as well, appearing much less exhausted than before. The bags under his eyes had fainted enough to where they weren’t screaming at you, though he looked a bit scraggly, his hair strewn about. His endearing appearance did nothing to hide his worry, though.

“You’re feelin’ alright, dove?” he asked, hesitating.

You slowly released your hold on Soap, who took a step back. Stood before them, you could only hope you looked much better than before. Your hair needed care, yes, and your skin was crying out for a warm bathe, but you would stick with that for now. Feeling no more pain was your main concern.

“I am well,” you assured, giving him a small smile.

Your answer brought him the calm he needed, his shoulders visibly relaxing. Gaz seemed to match his relief, though you knew he was trying to hide it. After all, you still didn’t know what to do about… that.

“I’m sure Thea’s cot was not comfortable by any means. We may return to the ship, now that we know things are alright,” Price explained. Ghost seemed rather chipper at the idea, if it wasn’t for the gloomy cloud practically circling him just from being away from his home.

“Thea?” you asked, curious.

“Her name,” Price replied, quirking a brow. “Did she not tell you?”

You sucked your teeth, face showing a tint of displeasure that you attempted not to make noticeable. You owed the poor woman. It wasn’t your fault she shared news you weren’t prepared to hear.

“She has told me plenty,” you murmured. The men mirrored confused expressions. “Captain.”

“Yes, dove?” he answered.

“I requested something from you,” you explained. His confusion grew further before it dawned on him. “I do wish you would do it.”

“What request?” Gaz pitched in. Soap murmured in agreement, Ghost only side eyeing the bunch of you as he silently listened in.

“My request to return to my village,” you replied. Soap opened his mouth to retort. You knew immediately what he was going to say, so before he could, you raised a hand, successfully cutting him off. “I know it is ruins. That’s the point. There is something there that we must see. I believe it’s important.”

“How do you know?” Price pushed. He hadn’t asked you why the first time, but now that you were on your feet and conscious, he felt it was safe to question.

You frowned to yourself, recalling the horrible memory. As if on cue, you could feel your skin warm, like you were still pitted under flickering flames that ate greedily at your flesh and bone until you were nothing but ash.

“I saw it in a dream,” you said quietly.

Ghost scowled, shooting up from his cot. It was the first he’d done anything other than grunt and shift since your return. “This is goin’ on too long, Price. Let me kill the Devil and settle the score. He’s playin’ games I want no part in.”

“It was not Graves!” you exclaimed, hushing Ghost. He threw you a look of confusion, his eyes telling a whole story while he remained concealed away inside his mask. “At least, I do not think so. It was… different. I could not feel Graves with me in those dreams.” You glanced between them, silently pleading. “It was my village’s calling, not him. Please, I must know what it wants.”

“Have we not learned this before, dove? Huh?” Ghost asked, tossing his hands in the air. His body grew tense, tone clipped as he spoke. “He’s foolin’ you just as he has before. There’s nothin’ but fucked up bodies and rubble. That’s somethin’ you want to see again?”

“Ghost, that’s not fair,” Soap tried, frowning.

“It is not due to Graves,” you defended, hands balling by your sides. “Something is leading me back and I believe it is in our best interest to check. What if it has to do with the prophecy?”

“The prophecy?” Ghost laughed, bitterness spilling out of it and spewing at you like toxins. “Best interest? Your best interest is goin’ to get you killed. You were already on the brink of it, mind you.”

“That was not my fault,” you muttered, feeling your irritation growing.

“Of course it’s not your fault, dove,” Gaz assured, but Ghost was quick to wipe it away.

“We’re already pullin’ at strings here. At this rate, you’re goin’ to get yourself a permanent mark on his list, and we won’t be able to save you from it. You need to think,” Ghost continued. His frustration was written all over his body language, the way his hands shook as they furled and unfurled, his shoulders moving with every word.

“That’s enough,” Price snipped, silencing the both of you. “If there’s a slight possibility that somethin’s there to help us with Graves, then it’s a possibility I’m not lettin’ go. This is for dove, and for you, Ghost. Have you forgotten that? It is not only about her. It’s about you, too. You’re in this mess just as much as her, just as much as us.”

Ghost scoffed, turning his head away and crossing his arms. He said nothing, resorting back to his own personal isolation, appearing to have nothing more to add.

“Let us just return to the ship,” Gaz inquired. “Perhaps it will clear our minds to be back at home.”

Soap nodded in agreement, as did you, albeit stubbornly.

Price let out an exhausted sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I want no more bickerin’. This is not a fight between us. Am I clear?”

You only nodded once more, grumbling quietly to yourself. Ghost huffed but agreed nonetheless.

“Then let’s get you back, scrounge up somethin’ to eat, yes?” Price offered, and the sound of a fresh meal had all your anger dissolving.

Everything fell back into normal routine rather quickly. After shoveling down your meal, you were left satisfied with the outcome of what’s transpired, grateful to be alive and walking. Ghost still had a prick in his spine, but he slowly relaxed into his normal(ish) self, calming from the burst at the thought of Graves’ early return.

Soap had been your lap dog since your return, hovering on your heels and following you wherever you went. Though it was a bit ridiculous, you appreciated the care and thought your crew had for you, especially after a near loss.

The only thing able to stop it was Gaz, approaching you after dinner and shooing Soap away like disciplining a child.

“Might it be too much to ask of a few minutes of company tonight?” he asked. It was strange to see that subtle nervousness hiding in his words.

“Joining you to stargaze again?” you asked, feigning disinterest.

“Of course. What else is it I do around here?” he quipped, causing you to snicker. “If you’re not feelin’ your best, you can rest. No pressure, aye?”

You pretended to ponder, pursing your lips and tapping them with a finger. “I suppose I have the energy,” you retorted. “Though, I’m sorry you do not have your telescope anymore. It must not be as fun.”

“It’ll be fun,” he dismissed with a smile. “It is must more fun with you there to observe with me, anyway.”

The subtle chivalry had your heart racing almost immediately. Being bedridden and facing such dark worlds within your head had you nearly losing a piece of you, but Gaz always brought back that mischievous spark.

“I do not think it will be fun while I am looking like this. It may take away from the beauty.”

Gaz snorted, rolling his eyes and gently grabbing your shoulder to lead you along. “Funny.”

You grinned as you followed, approaching the usual spot you always found him in. The day was long, as were the weeks with nothing to stare at but the walls, and you knew a change of scenery would be the real cure.

He plopped down on the deck, and you joined him, dangling your legs over the ledge just as you’d done before. Nothing had changed, and for that, you were grateful.

“There will be no quarrels tonight,” he said lightly. “I believe you need a break from that.”

“Please,” you sighed, relaxing.

Your body felt weightless for the first time in weeks, and you took advantage of the moment, allowing the chilly breeze to glide along your skin. The quietness was welcomed, your mind going mute, void of any thoughts of Graves or a roaring fire that had trapped you in its grasp.

Gaz knew it was what you needed. He always seemed to know.

“You have to open your eyes to enjoy the sky,” Gaz piped in, tease in his tone.

You peeked your eyes open after they’d fallen into rest from the sheer calm of the moment. You glanced over at him, holding back a smile. “I am enjoying the moment. You may enjoy the sky.”

“Tch,” he sounded, returning to stargazing quietly.

Silence fell over you, one that was comforting and stable. It put you completely at ease and you realized how much you missed the peace. Your life was turned into a living hell once Graves stepped into your life, but for the night, he seemed to grant you your moment of clarity. How generous he was.

“Suuure is pretty out,” he murmured to himself. Your smile crept on your lips as you opened tour eyes once more.

“You are trying to tempt me to watch the sky again,” you accused, raising an eyebrow.

“Is it workin’?” he asked, leaning towards you and cocking his head.

“Not very well.”

“Ach, c’mon,” he huffed, nudging your shoulder. “I have done you plenty of favors in the past, yes? Grant me one as well.”

You feigned annoyance, though your smile gave you away. “Just this once.”

Gaz grinned back, seemingly pleased with himself. “Thank you.”

You did as promised and turned to the sky, peering up at the blanket of stars. Just as before, they shined beautifully, and it made you wonder why you hadn’t looked at them before in your village.

“You didn’t let me kiss you last time,” Gaz said suddenly, keeping his eyes trained to the sky.

You stiffened, growing embarrassed at how quickly your heart reacted to his words.

“No chance for a redo, is there?” he continued. He finally turned a side eye to you, glancing at you from his peripheral.

You could tell he was treading carefully while simultaneously going all for it. It was making you both nervous and excited.

You could never deny the way your heart yearned for your crew in its own interesting ways.

“I… have kissed the Captain,” you replied quietly, avoiding his gaze with the stars as your excuse. “Or more so, he has kissed me. I do not know if that will mess things up.”

“Why would it?” he asked, and he seemed so unfazed by it that it made you question if you’d read things wrong. “You’re a silly girl to think it would, dove.”

You briefly recalled Soap encouraging you before you fell into a heavy sleep. You confessed to him the feelings that left your sanity growing slimmer, and he had simply told you there was nothing wrong with having multiple infatuations. You had never heard of it before, only ever seeing the loyalty between two people and never another, yet, Soap would never lie to you for the sake of it.

“It will not mess things up between us, then?” you questioned, growing uncertain.

As if he could sense it, he smiled, easing the pit in your stomach. “I’d be a stupid brute if I ever let it,” he replied calmly.

You hadn’t even realized he’d shifted closer, his right thigh pressed against your left. You felt the heat of his skin radiate from beneath his pants and shift on to yours.

It was hard to deny yourself the pleasure. You’d been stricken with illness that left you weak and vulnerable, loneliness creeping in like a shadow to haunt you while you remained there. In the times there was nobody there to watch you as you slowly grew sicker, you’d find yourself wishing to see one of them, to cure the aching hole in your heart that Price had only begun to fill.

You felt selfish for wanting more.

“Perhaps just one,” you whispered, nearly furling in on yourself in shame.

Gaz could see the gears in your head begin to break down, and he wouldn’t have it. His hand came to rest along your jaw, slowly lifting your head to face him. You had no choice but to meet his gaze, locking eyes.

“Nothin’ will happen,” he murmured softly. “I promise.”

Without a moment to breathe, he leaned in, soft lips locking on to yours as if you were the drug he couldn’t live without. He was warm as he grew closer, his arm coming to wrap around you and press you against him, scared you’d run away.

You wanted to do anything but run. Everything about Gaz was so euphoric, lighting a fire beneath your skin that seemed to burn with a fever. It was absolutely striking, to be kissing the one who granted you nothing but calm in a roaring sea.

Unlike Price, where circumstances were ideal, with Gaz it seemed almost too perfect, and you’d lost track of time, losing yourself in him.

It was only when you were out of breath, lungs screaming for air did you pull away, sucking in little gasps to grant them mercy.

Gaz’s pupils were blown, lips glossed over with your mixed saliva as the moonlight casted a shine over them. It lured you in for more, but you feared too much all at once.

“Soap wanted you to join us tonight, but perhaps you should bed with the Captain,” he breathed, catching his own breath.

You froze, throwing him a concerned look. “Have I done something wrong?”

Gaz’s lips curled into a loose smile. His chest heaved and his cheeks ached, and if you weren’t worried, you would’ve told him he looked downright sinful.

“Not at all,” he assured lightly. “But I do not know if I will be able to stop myself if you’re to sleep in our quarters. I have wanted that for a while, and I fear I’ll get greedy for more if you stay.”

The realization dawned on you, that he was referring to more. As much as the sudden boldness had your stomach rolling somersaults and your mind infecting with temptation, your embarrassment for being so oblivious to it was overpowering it.

“You do not wish for me to room with you?” you asked, eyes darting down to his lips before quickly diverting back to his eyes.

“Oh, that is not it, dove,” he laughed breathlessly. “It is my mind tellin’ me that. I will not be able to sleep beside you, knowing it is anythin’ but what I want to do.”

Your skin warmed up, fighting off the chill in the air. You stared at him, lips parting to reply, yet nothing came out.

Price was gentle with his kiss, which came as a surprise, seeing as he is a brute of a Captain—a warrior, a killer to those at his mercy. Yet, Gaz had been the one to test the waters, dipping his toes in before diving right in. He was being risky, and he didn’t even seem to care, not one bit.

“That…that is dangerous,” you whispered, averting your eyes from him, though it was the last thing you wanted to do.

“I’m a pirate, dove,” he reminded with a grin. “Trust that sleep would be the last thing we’d be doin’.”

You sputtered on your own words, unable to even muster proper ones. Gaz found humor in your shyness, snickering loudly. He released you only when you nearly burst at the seams, brushing a knuckle against your cheek before letting it fall.

“You do things to me, dove,” he said, voice growing softer. “That is what’s dangerous.”

You found the strength to look at him again, noting the tenderness that filled his gaze. He looked at you as if you had captured the stars for him, and it had your heart lurching out of your chest.

“I’ll tell Soap you wanted a quiet night,” he continued, smiling softly. “You’ve had a long few weeks. Perhaps you should get some proper rest, now that you’re well.”

You nodded slowly, stuck in a daze from both the kiss and his words. They stuck to you like glue, trapped in your head in a permanent repeat.

“I… enjoyed your company, Gaz,” you confessed. “I am glad we were able to have a moment to ourselves after so long.”

Gaz looked surprised for a moment before he melted into gratitude. “As am I, dove. Now go on.”

Cursed at himself when he elbowed open his door and was hit in the face with it. Should’ve opened his windows to air it out when he went out to work before dawn. No, instead, he was forced to reckon with the memory of the evening prior as he lumbered into his room and dumped his hat on the end of his bed. 

It filled his sinuses like smog. Inebriating as moonshine. Burned just as badly on the swallow. 

He ran a hand down his face as the pictures he had forced into the back of head came creeping back into forethought. That tiny nightdress you barely covered yourself in, no knickers, no mind paid to the inevitable consequences of your actions. Squeezed through the gap he left in the window just as you squeezed through the gaps in his resolve. 

The gall of you to tell him off for the easily foreseeable ramifications of your behaviour. Couldn’t determine if you had just been playing stupid or if you truly had not anticipated him to do what he did with you. 

That little pussy of yours was a recalcitrant thing, he thought. As tenacious as you were. Drove you right into his bedroom, even if you hadn’t consciously planned for the outcome you were met with. 

He saw it in those shiny little eyes, though. Sparkling in the heart of them. Heavy-lidded and dumb when he put his cock between your legs. It was exactly what you wanted, whether or not you knew it. You were lucky just lucky he didn’t fuck you. That would’ve hurt in the morning. 

He wondered if you understood what you were doing. Not just to him, but to yourself — could you decipher the thrumming between your legs? Could you comprehend the fire you played with, or were you too asinine to realise you might get burned? 

Burned you would get, little lady, if you kept fanning the flames. 

He’d stepped over a line, he knew that. Wasn’t ignorant of the fact he had only encouraged you. 

The fright that glassed over your eyes when he wrestled you to the dresser was maudlin. Self-pity. Affronted that he’d have touched you like that, that he’d dare — John, taciturn old man, no good for you — lay his hands on you. Put his cock — a Price cock at that, Prices are bad news, aren’t they, honey? — anywhere near you. 

Murmured as much through gritted teeth as he fisted his dick under the cold water of his shower. 

That surprised, honey, that he’d have bulldozed through your feeble disputes? That he’d have felt no compunctions stuffing his cock into you the next time you came to try your luck, whether or not you changed your mind?

He huffed as he rested a fist against the shower wall, cold tiles, grout grating under his knuckles. Grip firm and momentum hasty as he imagined it. Savoured it.

Your comeuppance, little animal, sweet thing, if you found yourself underneath him and changed your tune too late. As you tried your damnedest to wriggle away, mousey squeaks and futile kicks — this isn’t what I wanted, Mr Price — sugary refusals that would land on deaf ears, because you knew as well as he did; it was exactly what you wanted. 

Dishonest squealing — I’ll tell my brother on you — because your winsome shame would keep your tongue well-tied. Not that he’d have cared if you did — almost got off on the thought alone, of your prick of a brother stuffing his morals under his boot to keep John in his good graces. Forced to turn a blind eye to how the dirty old neighbour fucked his little sister like the pup in heat she was. 

You’d bleat and whine about it, as he fucked you into the dirt, and your ass would jiggle with each slam of his hips into your behind — but you’d love it, honey, because all the evidence would leak out of you, turn creamy around his shaft, sticky in the heat, slick in its abundance. 

This’s what war does to a man, honey — he’d tell you, when you moaned that he was hurting you, that he was a bad man. Not a man anymore, honey, but something mangled and ugly. Something lurking at the edges of civilisation. Something for whom decency was wasted effort, a fool’s errand. That was what you liked about him, though — isn’t that right? Drawn to the laconic cattleman that your daddy warned you about when you were too young to understand what exactly he warned against? 

Your daddy was to blame. Planted that seed when you were still a little girl. Made the mistake of telling you what you weren’t allowed to have and only fuelled your appetite in so doing. 

Your want oozed out of your skin, milky and sweet, even when you were far too young for him to do anything about it. For the best he was shipped off to the Middle East for the majority of his twenties, when his scruples were starting to crack at the edges; because you’d show up on his porch in daisy dukes, or ride around on your filly in a ridden-up skirt, or curl your hair around your fingers and ask him for some ice water, please, mister  — it’s so hot, and I can’t stop sweating. 

Wove yourself between his legs like a cat, purring for attention, all while you were in high school and wet behind the ears. Could’ve prowled after his younger brothers, the ones who might not have been sent to prison for touching you — no, it was him you wanted. Wanted the meanest one. The one with the thickest calluses and the roughest voice. The one that told you to piss off, girl, and put some pants on, because if he let you hover for too long he’d have broken you open on his cock, and that blood would never have washed out of his sheets. 

He wasn’t so noble anymore. No longer reluctant to teach you the lessons you needed to be taught. 

All woman, now, soft-breasted and wide-hipped. Hair between your legs and under your arms. The faintest of smile lines drawn around the corners of your mouth, because you still wore that puckish little simper every time you looked at him. 

Just as prurient and immature as ever, though. The fatuity of a teenage girl wrapped in the body of a nubile woman. Ripe fruit laying itself between his jaws — an accident, mister, I swear — and somehow surprised that he’d bite down on you. 

And God, could he have bitten you. Could have sunk his teeth into those supple little buttocks, each one, leaving even more indelible marks than his gnarled handprint. 

He was sure you’d taste as sweet as your namesake. Pot of honey between your legs. Enough honey to gorge himself on; felt as much when he slid his finger down the gusset of those fucking knickers, when he dipped the head of his cock between the lips of your pussy. Dripping from you like sap. More of it the meaner he got. 

Sick little girl. 

He bit down on a groan as he finished himself with a final tug, shooting his come down the shower drain and rocking his head against the tiled wall. Not a habit of his — the house had frail old pipes, but they’d seen a lot more of it since you showed up again.  

For the best he got it out of his system before he dragged himself over to your family house, though. 

Just for dinner, Evelyn called it over the phone, no business, only thought it would be nice, we’re neighbours after all! 

Bullshit, obviously. Her attempts at bridge-building were as transparent as her distaste for him. So blatantly hollow that he doubted it was worth the effort; there was obstinate, and then there was John. No amount of sweetness plastered over their intentions made them any more palatable, and they could have thrown him a ten-course feast with you as dessert to the same degree of success. None. 

He could have refused the invitation outright, and the temptation still simmered in the back of his head as he pulled on his blue plaid shirt; but despite their impressions of him, John was a well-raised man. Still had some of his mother’s manners beaten into him, ingrained deep enough that he couldn’t shirk them, even though the Fentons deserved no such courtesy.

There was some degree of amusement, admittedly, in entertaining them. In getting their hopes up by agreeing to olive branches such as this one. In letting them think he would ever change his mind. 

His ranchmen were ready to go, practically raring to, long before he was. 

Not often they were served a nice home-cooked meal, let alone invited to a proper dinner at the neighbours’. John’s fault, for the most part, because if he had any semblance of a neighbourly relationship with the Fentons he was sure they’d have been invited far more often. 

His grandfather’s generation was the last to maintain some civility between the two families. The first time John had ever come around for dinner he was a little boy — long before you were born — sharing a saddle with his grandpa, who told him that them Fenton girls know how to cook, kid, and to make sure he didn’t fool around with them too much or he’d end up fat, just like his pa. 

The ranchers waited on their horses out front for as long as it took John to get dressed, but by the time he had come downstairs to fix himself a drink, Johnny’s fragile patience had worn too thin. 

“C’mon, John, ‘nuff pissing around,” he barked from the porch, hammering on the front door. “I’m gettin’ hungry.” 

John tipped his whisky down his throat, neat, finishing with a gritted sigh. Hoped there’d be more on tap at the Fenton house. 

Kyle had brought John’s stallion from the stable, Fencer, great big beast that he was. A liver chestnut walker, but in the firelight of the evening sun his coat was as rich as burnt honey. He was a kicker as a colt but had grown into something of a gentle giant, though he refused to let anyone but John on his saddle. 

John swung himself up and over, settling into the saddle and rubbing his callused fingers through the horse’s inky black mane. Took the reins from Kyle and thanked him with a nod, and set off towards the Fenton ranch with a kick to Fencer’s side. The ranchmen yarned among themselves, ribs about Evelyn’s gravy and bemoaning that John didn’t have one of his own to cook for them. He didn’t feel much like talking. 

His land was elysian in the sunset; gleaming amber that blanketed over the acres of wheaten summer grass, caught the leaves of his cottonwoods and made them glow citron green. His anguses had emerged from under them and bathed in its gentle warmth, now that the sunlight was cooler than it was in the burning peak of the afternoon. 

“Can’t believe you agreed to this,” Simon said, catching up to John on his mottled gelding, Ghost, a horse as frosty and aloof as his rider. 

John snorted. “Neither.” 

“You know they’re gonna keep at it ‘til you give ‘em a firm no,” Simon muttered, as the four of them sped to a trot, cutting across the fields to shorten the trip. 

“I have,” John grunted. “I’ve told them no six ways from fuckin’ Sunday. They just think if they ask nicely enough I’ll change my mind” 

“Not long ‘til they stop askin’ nicely.” 

“They can bitch all they want. It’s not happening.” 

Simon went quiet, as he often was, but something in his silence felt pointed. 

“What,” John grunted. “Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ soft, Simon.” 

“‘Course not,” he said. “Just don’t trust the cunts.” 

Found himself wondering whether you were included in the cunts he didn’t trust — then quickly reminded himself there was no reason that you wouldn’t be. 

“Y’think they’ll do something?” 

Simon shrugged, letting out an uneasy puff of air. “Dunno. But I doubt they’ll give up easy.”

 Not even John could deny the splendor that was his neighbour’s villa. Still gleaming white after all these years, countless layers of ivory paint slapped over the mould beneath. Much akin to Evelyn’s sunny-sweet greeting as she pushed open the screen door on their arrival, barking that they could leave their horses in the pasture behind the barn, and that the boys were drinkin’ out back until dinner was ready. 

Fortunate that there was no bad blood between his ranchmen and those of the Fenton ranch, groups of men largely removed from the bitterness that festered between their employers — seemed that way, at least, as his boys took quickly to beer and loud banter around the dining table out the back of the manor. 

A quaint outdoor dining area, redecorated since he had last come to see it — which was, admittedly, more than a decade ago. Strings of lights had been hung around the perimeters of the patio, and the wisteria that tangled through the pergola above was thick with purple flowers and drooped low enough to be picked. Sheltered from the direct light of the evening sun, he could instead survey the vista of the Fenton’s farmland up to where the distant mountain peaks glowed red, jersey cows speckling the green hills from the fence to the treeline. 

Miles, the prick, was remorsefully uninterested in discussing any of his business, so he called it. A few beers in and John could almost pretend that the conflict had resolved itself, that he’d never have to hear any more of it. Might be able to stomach more occasions such as this one, men sharing drinks without any topics of conversation more contentious than whether they preferred tits or ass. 

Speaking of — you were nowhere to be seen. 

He couldn’t fathom that you’d be in the kitchen with your sister. Nothing about you gave him the impression of a domestic goddess like Evelyn, and you didn’t exactly get along well with her — certainly not enough to be collaborating on dinner without squawks of your bickering echoing out of the back door. That was a sound he was familiar with, because even when you were a teenager the incessant arguing between you and your older sister could be heard across the entire valley. 

Perhaps you were dolling yourself up. Putting on as sheer and appetising a dress as you had when he caught you with his cherries. Plaiting your hair into kittenish braids, smearing on some berry lip balm, maybe brushing on some mascara, since it was a special occasion. Maybe you were in the shower. Even better. Scrubbing down between your thighs in anticipation of baiting him into parting them again, since he pointedly left you high and dry the last time you tried your luck. 

Pacified the thought with a beer bottle in his lips, until he got a facetious hello from Gaz across the table. 

“You still with us?” He asked, likely because John hadn’t contributed to the conversation in several dry minutes. 

“Mh,” he grunted, sighing as he swallowed the last mouthful of his frothy lager and put it down with a hollow clunk. 

“Here. Down the hatch,” Gaz said, with his distinctively easy smile, popping the cap off an unopened bottle of Budweiser with a beer opener before sliding it across to him. “You need it.” 

John snorted, but accepted the drink when it was handed to him. “Do I?” 

“You look like you’re gonna murder someone,” Gaz jeered. “Few more’ll loosen you up.” 

Hard not to yield to pressure from the boy, charmer that he was. He wouldn’t begrudge the edge in his psyche being dulled, either. He acquiesced with a chuckle and accepted the silent cheers with a clink of their bottles. 

A good fifteen minutes went by before dinner was on its way out, and he heard you before he saw you. 

“Readyyy!” Came your cheery voice, warbled out from the back door as you pottered over with a large oven dish in tow, held carefully between two gingham oven mitts. Leaned between him and Gaz — on fucking purpose, he was sure — with a sweet, “‘Scuse me, careful, it’s really hot.”  

You dropped it on the table with a plonk, its contents concealed by a lid of tinfoil, drippings of whatever meat stuffed within spluttered out of the gaps and stained the tablecloth. You spun on your heel to retreat as quickly as you came, assumedly returning indoors to collect the next serving. Left a cloud of your scent in the air on your departure, so subtle that it may well have been your shampoo, fruity and sweet enough to make his mouth water. 

He took another sip of his beer. Anything to take his mind off your skin. 

The girls made several trips back and forth to bring out every platter of the meal, and he was not ignorant of his bitterly poor manners in not offering to help. If it were only you, perhaps he’d feel inclined to offer a hand, taking the hottest or heaviest dishes so that you didn’t burn those little fingers. 

But Miles’s needling glare was enough to make anger flare in his temples, Evelyn’s unsubtle attempts at flattery fuel on the embers, and no amount of sympathy could cut through his spite. 

“Mind if I sit here?” 

A chirp from his left as a beer was put down beside his, and the empty seat next to him was already filled by your bottom. It seemed you made a concerted effort not to suck your teeth so brazenly when his mark on your rear landed on the wooden seat. 

Took the only empty seat near his end of the table, between him and one of your brother’s ranch hands; a seat that he assumed had been left empty for another man yet to arrive, though until dinner was served it had been occupied by the propped-up boots of the guy beside him. 

Didn’t sit with your siblings, or the men you knew, the ranchers that might have had a hand in raising you — no, you elected to sit next to him. Quite literally a thorn in his side, sitting there with your knees knocked, hands perched on the edges of your seat as you blinked up at him with a calculatedly innocent smile. 

His assumption as to where you had been was wrong. You hadn’t dolled yourself up at all. 

Your hair was unkempt, undone, fluttering in the faint breeze as though you hadn’t even brushed it. Not a drop of makeup on your skin, lips only glossy because you had just licked them, lashes bare and wispy. Didn’t even put on a pretty dress; only a white cotton tank-top — no bra, predictably, its fabric barely thick enough to conceal the shade of your nipples, soft and puffy in the warmth of the evening — and a knee-length skirt, apricot linen with red embroidery, all wrinkled like you had just pulled it out of a drawer it had been stuffed it in. 

Christ. He had been admittedly apprehensive about seeing you dressed up, imagining the effort you had put in to impress him. That you might have gone as far as curling your hair or putting on lipstick as though playing at being a grown woman. So why was this — the profound lack of effort — so much more inebriating? 

Toothsome fucking girl. God, he could eat you. Stupid, stupid of you to sit next to him, brushing that little knee against his thigh. Taunting him in all but words, because he could read in your impish grin that you thought you had figured him out, that you knew exactly how to get under his skin. 

Maybe you do, Honey, because it took a substantial effort not to drag you by the strap of your singlet to somewhere without an audience. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” you hummed, reaching over to grab the tongs from the ranchman beside you before serving up your helpings. 

He hadn’t noticed that the others had already started eating, chatting loudly amongst each other, busy hands all across the table. Get a grip. 

Barbecued pork ribs, by the looks, slathered in sticky sauce, blackened and crispy on the edges. Roast potatoes, fava beans, a salad that the men more interested in meat still took polite piles of. Smelt incredible, though he wasn’t surprised. Eve’s reputation in the kitchen preceded her. 

“You back in the valley for long, Bee?” MacTavish asked from across the table, and John’s glare shot to him. 

You shrugged, diverting your conversation from your own ranchmen to his. “I dunno,” you said, poking a potato with your fork and dumping it on your plate. “Maybe.” 

“Didn’t turn into a city girl, then?” Johnny teased, “what a relief!” 

You scoffed, shaking your head, and taking a sip of your beer. Something off about it, indistinctly wrong, watching you imbibe — an alarm ringing in the back of his head that you were breaking a rule, that he should snatch it from you and clap you over the back of the head like his father did to him, because you were far too young for the stuff. 

You weren’t, of course. He was certain you had done plenty of drinking while you were away at college, tempting those prurient boys as unintentionally and potently as you do him. Gritted his teeth just to picture it. 

“Never,” you spat. “City’s so boring.” 

MacTavish chortled, grin dimpling his cheeks. “We’re much more fun out here, ain’t we?” 

John might have felt more bitter about the boy’s clumsy attempts to flirt with you, had you not turned your head to glance up at him instead. 

“Yeah,” you said through a smile, “duh.”

It took a few more beers for the affair to become vaguely tolerable, for his bitter scruples to give way to unashamed badinage. Same went for the entire table, it seemed, and it wasn’t long until beers were supplanted by rum and cokes, and the volume of six different concurrent conversations was enough to make his ears ring. He eventually regained the capacity to laugh, to talk smack with the Fenton ranchers like they weren’t bitter competition, to look at you without feeling a lynch rope tightening around his throat. 

Once the liquor in his blood had flushed warm under his skin, though, molten beneath the cheeks and hot in the ears, his malice had sloughed off of him and puddled around his boots. Tact, fickle as it was, along with it. 

He caught your eye as you finished off your last rib, sucking off the tips of your fingers to clean off the sauce with your tongue. Meticulous about it, attending to each finger for a few seconds, slurping like you were savouring it. Decidedly unladylike. Shouldn’t have been something that made his cock feel heavy. 

He intended — fuck — swore to himself to leave the matter unaddressed, but all that rum had loosened and slickened his tongue, and he cracked a treacherous grin when you blinked at him, only then noticing his attention. 

The words slid from between his teeth as cruel as he intended them to be. 

“Walk home alright, honey?” 

If only he could have snapped a photograph of how your eyes popped out of your head. 

Aghast that he’d mention such a thing, even hint at it, in the presence of so many — surely, a man as tight-lipped and old-fashioned as John filthy old man Price wouldn’t dare risk sullying your virtue around a table of majority men and your ever-castigating sister. 

You mulled over it for a moment, eyes flicking panicked around the table, ensuring no errant ears had picked up what he had said. 

“Huh?” He insisted, punctuating with a sip of another beer. 

“Not now,” you mumbled, jaw all tight. Flustered, now, disguising it with a petulant squint. He could see in your eyes that the booze had gotten to you, pupils blown out in the lilac gloaming, fuzzy around the edges. 

He chuckled. “Savin’ it for your next break-in, are we?” 

“No,” you hissed. “I’m never coming to your house again.”

Your vitriol was endearing but oh, so hypocritical. Giving him little smiles, sucking on those fingers while you batted those lashes at him — only to get all disgruntled at the mention of your indiscretions. As if your slipping into his house uninvited was a luxury that he had now forsaken by even acknowledging it.

Didn’t like having your turpitude pointed out, did you? Perhaps you were simply in denial, truly incognisant of how much of a slut you were, and being confronted with that fact made you bristle up like a spitting cat. 

“Y’know you’ve never been a good liar, girl,” he murmured, aware of how closely he leaned to you, but distantly uncaring of any spectators. 

“Shut up,” you spat. 

He sucked his teeth. “You watch that mouth of yours.” 

“Or what?” You grumbled. “You gonna smack me in front of everyone?”

“Might have to.” 

You scoffed. “Yeah right.” 

“Wanna try your luck?” 

Scowled at him like you might turn him to stone. “You—”

“Bee!” The shrill call from your sister shot across the long table like a bullet, and you just about choked on your tongue, swivelling around to look at her. “Get dessert out, would you?” 

You squinted vindictively at John, as if to tell him he got off lucky, and all he could do was grin. You pushed yourself up, slipping out from your seat and turning to head indoors, before Evelyn called out again to stop you in your tracks. 

“Take the dishes in first,” she barked, and your head rocked back off your shoulders as you let out a cartoonishly insolent groan. “Oh don’t moan at me, I did all the cooking.” 

You made your displeasure clear as you got to work stacking up all the plates, scraping the picked-clean ribs into the large oven dishes and carting them all back into the kitchen. Bumped him unsubtly when you took his plate, and he chortled through the mouth of his beer bottle. 

Could just as likely have been either hubris or the alcohol that had him believing it had all gone unnoticed, until he got an elbow in the side from Simon on his right. 

“Fuck’s all that about.”

John could only snort, tilting his head as he thought of where to start. No use playing dumb around a man as shrewd as his foreman. 

“Little shit broke into my house last night,” he said, low enough that only Simon would hear, but perhaps not as quiet as he should have been. He was past the point of giving a damn, really. 

Simon fell against the backrest of his seat, brows raised in an amalgam of disbelief and the what the hell have you gotten yourself into? variety of amusement. 

“Broke in?” 

“Must’ve left a window open.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “Reckon the siblings put her up to it?”

In truth, that thought had not once crossed John’s mind. Surely, surely they wouldn’t deign to whore out their little sister in some effort to sweeten their deal. Worse, though, was the notion of you being complicit in such a thing. Knowingly tempting him, distracting him from the matter at hand; that your siblings were so eager to get out of the red that they vied to sell his land out from under him. Privy to their desperation, they would not be unwilling to exhaust every option that availed itself to them. 

“Don’t tell me you fucked her,” Simon nudged, when John only sipped his beer in place of a response, glaring virulently into the distance. 

The answer was no, but that was precariously close to a lie. He only almost fucked you. Only pinned you to the dresser when you tried to run away and stuck his cock between your thighs. Only spilled a load into your knickers and made you walk home in them. 

No, not nearly as egregious as fucking you. 

“Jesus,” Simon chuckled raggedly, because John’s non-response was an answer in itself. 

“She showed up in my bedroom in ‘er nightie with no goddamn panties on,” John grumbled, now finding amusement in the sheer absurdity of it once he spoke it aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The fuck would you have done?” 

Simon blew a long exhale out through pursed lips, drumming the table with his knuckles. Grinning as the image presumably crossed his mind. 

“She sure wouldn’t be walkin’,” he confessed, through a mordant snicker. 

John laughed despite the ugly spur of anger that tightened in his stomach and made his knuckles white. Bitter at the notion that you’d ever find yourself in Simon’s shack in such a predicament. He knew, though, that you would never have given his foreman that same misbehaviour. Knew it with conviction, because you had been coveting the eldest Price since before you were old enough to drive a car. 

It was a long ten minutes since you had left to collect the dessert, but his head was on a swivel when he heard the screen door roll open, and the patter of your bare feet on the patio tile. 

“‘Bout damn time,” Miles called from the other end of the table. 

A drunken cheer from the others at the table followed your arrival, and a sweetly proud grin stretched in your lips as you leaned over your empty seat to place a round dish in the centre of the table. Covered in foil, too. 

“I made dessert, by the way,” you crooned, flicking a glance at your sister who rolled her eyes but proffered a jesting smile. 

“What’ve we got?” Questioned one of your brother’s ranch hands. 

“It’s a surprise,” you said sternly, spinning on your heel to venture back inside. “Don’t touch it, I’m getting the ice cream.” 

A few more trips back and forth from the kitchen to bring out a stack of bowls, pile of spoons, and a tub of french vanilla, and this time he had no excuse for not offering to help. His mother would have smacked him for failing to be up and willing the moment you had stood up from your seat. 

Now it was purely out of pride. You hadn’t earned his help, little missy, because you were an incorrigible thing and you deserved no gentlemanliness from him. What you needed was another hiding. 

Proven further, in fact, as you peeled the foil from the dish on the table, revealing a cross-hatched fruit pie, steam billowing out from between the strips of golden pastry. 

“Cherry pie!” 

Gave him a little smile as you gleefully announced it. 

Little shit. 

How couldn’t he laugh? Find your unfathomable cheek so adorable that it made his cheeks warm and his heart heavy? Had he lost all decency, he might have clapped you on the rear right then, to chastise you for your nerve — saw it in your lips, in that pixie-sharp smile, that they were not your cherries to cook with. Stolen from right under his nose and fed back to him, sweet and sticky and oozing out between the folds of the pie crust. 

You were set to work slicing it up and serving, making a right mess of it — red syrup all over your fingers, pie crumbs all over the table cloth, the scoop for the ice cream left with gooey fingerprints all over the handle. 

Sucked the jam off your thumb as you finally sat down in your seat, glancing devilishly at him, giving him a theatrically innocent shrug. 

“All organic,” you giggled, pushing your fork into the tip of your slice, using your finger to ensure no bits of pastry fell off on its way to your mouth. 

He could only glare at you incredulously, baffled grin smacked across his face. 

“You’re in deep shit, little lady,” he chided, voice lowered to a rumble that went directly into your ear. He watched the goosebumps prick up on the skin of your neck. 

“What for?” You mused, mouth full, licking your lips to clean up the stray flecks of pastry after you swallowed. “I didn’t do anything.” 

“No?” He chortled, “get the cherries at the market, did you?” 

You shrugged. “I found this old orchard,” you sighed. “Looked like nobody was using it, so I just thought, why let them go to waste?” 

Breath caught in your throat when his hand met your thigh, concealed beneath the tablecloth. Fuck, you were warm, velveteen under his calloused palm, pillowy as marshmallow — his grip was tighter than he intended it to be, alcohol and appetite thumping hot in his blood and making his muscles tight and eager. 

You dithered about it, he could see it as your fork hovered over your bowl. Perhaps you’d make a scene, give him a slap and loudly tell him off — don’t touch me like that, Mr Price — your vengeance for how he had treated you the night before, retribution for failing to give you what you wanted. 

Maybe, though, you’d let him venture higher uninhibited. Lips a little slack when the tips of his fingers shifted under your skirt, even warmer under there, humid between the thighs. Eyes wide and worried at first, bouncing between the others at the table — all so engrossed in their raucous conversation that not one of them looked at you, at how your eyelids grew heavy, at how your shoulders bunched up, at how your knees unconsciously parted just a touch. 

That fucking desperate, honey, that you’d let him do this to you? Let him slide his fingers under the tight hem of your knickers while you were shoulder-to-shoulder with family, friends, men who you had known since girlhood? 

The lips of your pussy were molten, slick, he could just about feel your heartbeat through your skin. Found your clit with the palps of his fingers, seizing up when he brushed it as though shy about the intrusion.

Made his mouth water, rabid, at the thought that he had turned you into such a concupiscent little animal. Brain turned to such mush by unslaked thirst that you’d allow him to touch your pussy under your skirt, in spite of so many familiar onlookers. 

And then he looked at the pie. 

Cheeky bitch, acting the victim when you had been collecting his cherries for so long, in enough quantity to bake him a god-damned pie. Daring to taunt him about your misdeed, as though your clinical kleptomania was not the root cause of every punishment he had inflicted upon you. Perhaps your transgressions had exceeded even that, as he was reminded of Simon’s warning — the possibility you were a honeypot, purposefully baiting him on behalf of your machiavellian siblings. 

No, he decided, you hadn’t earned it. 

So with his thumb and forefinger on either side of your little bud, he pinched it. 

The yelp you let out was loud enough to set birds aflight, entire body jolting like he had sent an electric shot up through the middle of you — by the time everyone’s heads had spun to look, his hand had retreated, and he turned his attention to his pie. 

“Fuck’s sake, Bee,” barked Miles, plainly exasperated. 

Seemed you had sucked a bit of pastry down the wrong hole with the gasp, erupting into a spluttering coughing fit, hands over your mouth as you buckled over the table. What had been satisfied amusement was dampened by the sight, and then he felt guilty — because you kept coughing, and your eyes started watering, and he felt compelled to hammer the midline of your back with a flat hand in fear of you choking. 

“You’re alright, honey,” he urged, thuds smoothing to a circular stroke across your back, but you indignantly flicked him off with your shoulder. 

“Jesus, Bee, do you always have to be the centre of attention?” Evelyn growled from across the table, “Go walk it off, for God’s sake.” 

You stood yourself up with a squeaking breath, just about knocking over your chair as you belligerently pushed it out of the way, before storming off into the grass and disappearing into the night where the glow of the string lights didn’t reach you. 

Contrition fell heavy in his stomach as he stared in the direction you had vanished in. 

While you had been utterly intractable, so unruly that he scarcely knew how to adequately reprimand you — you didn’t deserve that. Certainly not humiliation or pain to that degree. His spite had gotten the better of him, and he felt sick with it. 

The smarter thing to do would have been to remain seated, to let one of your siblings tend to you, or maybe one of your father’s old ranchmen; but nobody stood. Drunken discourse continued unimpeded, bar the sly look his foreman shot him. 

So he set out to follow you. 

He found you by the fence. 

Leaning on your elbows atop the lichen-speckled railing, surveying the moonlit landscape out east. Picking apart blades of grass and sprinkling them over the other side of the fenceposts. You perked up when you heard his approach, the clumsy crunching of his boots through grass and dried leaves; head flicked over your shoulder to glare at him. 

“Go away,” you mumbled vindictively.

He leaned on the fence beside you, propped up by a single elbow so that he could face you. You didn’t look at him. Kept your eyes pinned to the grass between your toes. 

He suspired remorsefully. “You okay?” 

“What do you think?” You spat. 

“Just about choked to death, eh?” 

You scoffed, tilting your head just enough to glower at him out of the corner of your eyes, peeling apart the grass in your fingers more viciously than before. “Whose fault is that?” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Voice sounded alien on its way out. 

You glared at him for a beat, before making up your mind and spinning to walk away from him. “I don’t want to talk to you.” 

His decision to reach out and grab you by the wrist wasn’t made by choice. It happened on reflex, as he reeled you back towards him like a fish on a hook, until your back was flush with his stomach and your head knocked against his sternum. 

Coiled his arms around you to keep you there, but you didn’t fight or dispute. Soft, compliant thing, so malleable in his grip; settling in the valleys of his body like you were made to fit against him, an interlocking puzzle piece, a key to a lock. His nose was against the top of your head,, soaking in your scent like he could imbibe it, and he could taste its sweetness on his tongue. 

“Don’t need to talk, sweetheart,” he murmured, muffled by your hair, as his hands slid down your front and began clawing at your skirt. 

You let out a puff of air as he hiked the light fabric up to your belly, shifting his weight so he could lean against the fence behind him, resting your weight in him. By turn hurried and measured, because he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want you flustered and confused by what he was doing to you — but Christ was it hard to move slowly, let alone cautiously, when he felt your legs rub together in apprehension, and your head rock back against his chest. 

He pushed a hand down the front of your panties, dutifully this time, pads of his fingers sliding along your unshaven slit, a few uninvasive swipes before he parted them. Kept his other hand planted firmly in the flesh of your belly. 

Should have figured you’d be sodden. Nothing like his particular cruelty to milk you of your slick, and he tried not to let it get to his head. His mouth was on your temple, heartbeat pulsing beneath his lips, wrestling the compulsion to sink his teeth in your soft cheek as you let out a bitten whimper. 

Quietly as you could, because the dinner continued on a hairsbreadth away, the muted conversation still very much audible from where he had you in the dark. 

“That feel better?” He purred into the side of your head, as he worked your clit with the tips of his fingers; tenderly as he could muster, though clemency did not come naturally to him. 

You gathered the strength for a feeble nod, little hands clawing at his forearms as though holding on for dear life, fingernails leaving welts in his leathery skin. Tiny moans rolled off your tongue as he quickened his pace, kneading in a circle with a light enough pressure so as not to overwhelm you. 

He mightn’t be so merciful next time, nor so generous — but this was his expiation. 

Atonement for being overly — though not unjustly — harsh in his treatment of you. Not a gift you had earned by seeking forgiveness for your many transgressions, but an olive branch he saw fit to offer you, an apology for his own lapse in restraint. 

You’d earn it again quickly, though, with those sounds you made. Whines all breathy and lilted, hiccups when he pushed on your clit too hard, stifled as though biting your tongue so you didn’t make too much noise. He got drunker on that music than he did on the rum. 

Even they were nothing compared to the buttery cry you let out when you came, harried and shrill, keeling over in convulsions as he rubbed your clit unimpeded in spite of how you clamped your thighs together to stop him. Knees buckled, you were kept upright by the arms he constricted around you, and he only halted the work of his fingers when you began to kick and wriggle to get out of his grip. 

You stilled when he relented, slumping back against him like a sack of flour, breathless and sweaty. Couldn’t believe your little body could burn so hot, a furnace in his arms, almost worried you were running a fever. 

“Don’t you get used to that,” he murmured, stroking your belly as his fingers retreated from your knickers, lacquered in your slick. 

“Why not,” you breathed, a doleful moan. 

“Y’only get it again if you fix your behaviour,” he lectured, low and hoarse. “You hear me?” 

Only replied with a weak nod and a puff of air. 

“Say it,” he grumbled, “that you’ll be a good girl.” 

“I’ll be a good girl,” you whined contemptuously, no doubt spurning every syllable on its way out of your mouth. 

“Good,” he grunted, clearing his throat as he released her, nudging her forward. “Now go finish your damn pie.” 

You keep repeating it over and over in your head.

It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just the grocery store.

No matter how many times you say it, the nerves in your stomach still thrash, twisting until you feel sick.

Just the grocery store.

Ollie wriggles in her stroller. Blissfully asleep, her little legs curl and relax, small furrow of her brow smoothing out just below the thick knit of her hat.

“Ready mum?” Simon’s hand settles on the small of your back over your coat, so warm you can feel it through the layers. His voice grounds you, and you breathe a little easier once you realize he’s right there with you. You nod, but the words don’t come. They get stuck in your throat with your fear. “Hey,” his hand slides up your spine and down again. “It’s alright.”

You don’t know where this fear came from. Before, you had no problems leaving the house, even when you were with Dylan. You looked forward to leaving the house, even if it was only for a few minutes.

But now you’re different. Every second you’re away from the cottage, panic tries to crawl up your throat to suffocate you.

“Angel,” Simon’s moved now, standing in front of you, a thumb and finger on your chin, tilting your face to his. “I’m right here with you. You’re safe.” You suck in a breath, trying to bring as much oxygen as you can into your lungs.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shame faced. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with you.” He squeezes your shoulder. “You’re doin’ just fine angel.”

“It’s just… a lot.” You finally manage, your panic and anxiety already wearing you down, sinking into your bones. You hadn’t even noticed him moving you forward, and the automatic doors squeak open, warm air rolling out of the market in a wave of coffee beans and lemon polish. It’s too bright, too loud. Too exposed.

“We’ll go slow.” His fingers tap the stroller’s handle gently. “An’ stay together, alright?” Your throat works around the knot lodged there, the one trying to suffocate you. “Flower,” his hand slips into the crook of your elbow. “Deep breath.”

“I shouldn’t be like this.” You whisper to your shoes, shamefaced. “I can’t even go to the grocery store, you have to take me, it’s so stupid.”

“You think I mind bein’ here with you? You think it bothers me, bein’ needed?” His hand lifts, hesitates in the air for a moment before cupping your cheek with the gentlest pressure. “I’ve got you, flower. It’s you an’ me.” He glances at the baby, small smile lifting his lips. “And Ollie girl.”

Your chest caves, relief, grief, it’s impossible to tell, and you turn into him, giving in. His arms come around you protectively, and you breathe him in, cedar and cold air, hint of motor oil and baby shampoo.

“I’m scared,” you admit into his jacket, voice unsteady.

“I know,” he answers, low and sure. Steadfast as always. “It won’t always feel like this, I promise.” Promises from him feel different, they dig deeper, set up roots. They feel real.

When you finally pull back, Simon keeps one hand on your lower back and one hand on the stroller. “Let’s just get what we need and get out, yeah? We’ll make it quick.”

“Okay.” You blow out a breath, and he rubs your back.

“That’s my girl.”

You’re running.

Down the hall of the hospital, gown falling off your shoulder, lights too bright overhead.

Where’s Ollie?

The sounds of her cries echo off the walls, shrill and terrified, and your throat closes. You stumble, fall face first, swinging down towards the floor-

“Flower.”

Your eyes snap open.

Cold sweat clings to you, ribs closing in on themselves, lungs struggling, stuttering, trying to expand. You curl in on yourself, blanket tangled around your legs, pillow clenched between your fingers.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” A warm hand lays over your shoulder, rolls you onto your back. “You’re okay, you’re safe.” You tremble, whole body shaking, and then there’s no distance, nothing between the two of you. He’s pulling you up into his chest, a hand curved around the back of your head. “Shh, you’re alright, I’ve got you angel, I’m here.”

“Simon,” you sob, and his hold tightens. You can’t stop the tears, the way they pour out of you, all of it falling apart, your fear, your exhaustion, your guilt. The mountain of agony you’ve been carrying around in your chest.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs, a hand rubbing up and down your spine, “I’m here. You’re safe.” It’s an anchor, a lifeline, and you cling to it, to him, as he holds you through it, mouth against your ear, steady words filling that horrible space in your head, the one full of nightmares. He doesn’t let go, and you don’t want him to.

A tiny whimper pulls you, Ollie’s small but urgent noises making your stomach lurch, and Simon squeezes your hand, getting up without having to be asked to scoop her into his arms.

“I know I know, you want your mum,” he keeps his voice low as he moves towards you, eyes searching yours, looking for something, something you don’t know. “She’s right here.” He’s waiting for you, you realize, waiting for you to say it’s okay, to tell him you’ll take her. He’s giving you time, space. Your heart swells, and you hold your arms out.

“Hi baby,” you smooth a hand over the top of your head once she’s settled against you, “it’s okay, come on.” You fidget with your shirt, and Simon stands, turns to leave. Just losing the weight of his body on the mattress is enough to make you tense up. “Wait...” Your hand shoots out, latches onto his, and he looks down at you with soft, patient eyes. You suck in a big breath, and then glance at the empty side of the bed. “Can you… stay?” He smiles.

“Of course angel.”

The morning sun is soft.

You feel in on your skin, it’s glow slowly easing you awake, your lashes fluttering as you crack an eye.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You remember feeding Ollie, burping her, listening to her fuss, but you can’t place anything after that.

The only thing you know, you feel, now is the warm weight at your back. A heavy arm folded across your belly, the solid strength of Simon.

Oh my god.

There’s a steady rise and fall of a chest behind you, the thud of a heart against your spine.

And Ollie is asleep in front of you. The three of you in a line, all spoons.

You don’t know what to do. Should you slide out? Try to sneak out of the room? Should you-

“Morning.” Oh god.

“Morning.” You squeak, eyes closed like it will save you the embarrassment. You actually asked him to stay with you last night like you’re some child. “Sorry.” You croak, not even sure what you’re apologizing for because that’s what you do. Apologize for existing. “I didn’t mean to…” you lose your words until he nudges you forward, big hand trailing over your hip with squeeze.

“You didn’t mean to what, flower?”

“Fall asleep, um, or ask you to… stay…” He sighs and tugs you closer. Your eyes widen.

“I wanted to stay.” His breath ghosts over your skin, your ear.

“Oh.” You can’t find the words you need, and Ollie squirms, little legs stretching out like a frog’s. He leans, warmth bleeding against your back as he peers over your shoulder.

“G’morning to you too.” Your heart melts, turns molten and practically drips out of you. She lets out a little cry, and you push yourself up on your elbow, stiff, sore muscles immediately protesting.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Easy, angel. I’ve got ‘er.” It’s as simple as that, as simple as him reaching over and scooping her into his arm, bringing her across your body as you roll to your back to watch him. Them.

“Thanks.” You whisper, and he nods.

“I can get her changed, fed. You should get a shower.” You shake your head.

“I can do it, I-”

“Hey.” He pins you with an unflinching gaze, and you can’t look away. “You had a rough night, go get in the shower, take your time. I’ve got her.” You relent.

“Okay.” You peel yourself out of bed slowly, fully aware of how rumpled, how messy you probably look. Embarrassment heats your blood, and you risk looking over at him, only to find him staring. Not with disgust, but something else, something that borders on soft but heated, heavy lidded and gentle, all at once. You swallow.

“Go on sweetheart. We’ll meet you downstairs when you’re done.” He encourages, rising to full height with your baby against his chest. You stare at them, your baby so content in his arms, happy. He makes her happy. He makes you happy, and you trust him with her, with yourself. Your fear and guilt, your shame, it doesn’t feel so heavy when he’s around. This space he’s carved out for you, this life in this little cabin in the woods, it doesn’t feel so temporary anymore.

You gather her hair as her stomach expels more of the water she inhaled. When her gags cease, you grapple for the canteen of water and press it to her puffy lip. 

"Swish, don't swallow."

She does as instructed, until her mouth is clear of mud, then she spits it out. You grab her by the elbow and guide her upstream a few paces to avoid the darkened water, then sit her at the edge and splash some on her face, neck, and arms, ridding it of grime to check for signs of bites. She was under the water for half a minute, more than enough time for one to graze its teeth. It doesn't matter how deep the bite is. As long as it skin is broken, the infection spreads.

"Lift your shirt. I'll be quick."

There is a delay in her hands' movement, as though she hears your words but doesn't process them, but then she finally peels up the sticky fabric to her collarbones. You keep your touch clinical despite the fear pooling in the tips of your fingers, cold and heavy, but nothing of concerns mars her fair skin except the bloom of gooseflesh as she shivers, wet.

"Good," you breathe out. She yanks the shirt back down. "Just your legs now."

You don't bother taking her jeans off when the fabric is thick enough to protect her, but you roll up the hem and scan her ankles, then brush your touch over her thighs and calves in search for any holes their teeth might've snagged. Nothing. Relief is palpable, and a fractured exhale spills from your mouth, only for the next breath to hitch at the dark stain you catch between the apex of her thighs, darker even than the soaked denim. 

"Twix." She stiffens. "What is it?"

"It's not..." The timing feels sick. Wrong. She's dirty, with you. Not in a clean bathroom with Sara. But fairness is never on your side. Words fail you. You try to grab for them in the cloud of heady adrenaline in your brain, glancing up at her. "You have your period."

"My—what?" She looks down herself, panic twitching in her hands as she grabs at her jeans. "I'm bleeding!"

"It's not a wound," you cut off her thoughts before they can fester. Focus. Rag. You swing of your backpack and dig around for one, ignoring the fact that half of your things got wet when you rushed to her through the water. "This is something your body does... it's natural. You're alright, okay?"

You place the rag in her palm and close her fingers over it, trying to think of what needs to be said. Does she even know what this is? 

"Did Ghost ever tell you?" The words slip out under your breath.

Her grip tightens on the rag. "I... I remember once. He said to tell him. If I ever..." Her thighs clamp shut, "Bled down there." Her molars grind together. "That's all he said."

"It happens to me, too," is all you can think to say. 

The panic in her expression drains, leaving her cheeks white as you explain what to do in fragments. 

"They smelled me, didn't they?"

"Nereida has herbs. They help." You retrieve the second pair of clothes from her backpack. "Change and we can ask her for it. Do you want me to, or you can—"

"I got it."

The only thing that offers some comfort is that when you turn to let her change, this truly seems to be the end of the marsh. Through the trees, you make out distant telephone wires. Once you find shelter, you can properly assess what the marsh ruined in your backpack. The deer meat is on top, so it should be fine. You can't remember what you had stuffed into the bottom. Whatever food Ghost and Blue had in theirs will be soiled.

When she's done changing, you ask if she's alright, and she nods once. Returning to the others a step behind her, you announce that she's clear. Kyle is out of sight, only to reappear through the brush a minute later.

"Intact houses not far off. No smell of Greys."

The shelter Prices decides on for the night is close enough to Hirson for you to see all the abandoned cars pointing out of the city in attempt to flee, but deep enough in the outskirts to feel isolated. It's a small house with a greenhouse beside it, though all that remains inside are flies and maggots and unkempt weeds. There is only one bathroom for everyone to take turns changing into clean clothes, but Blue first uses it to add the rosemary Nereida tucks into her palm. 

In the last bit of light, you and Kyle collect water from the stream to wash out the clothes. Ghost digs two shallow holes with a tunnel to manage the smoke of a fire, and when Nereida is done scrubbing the clothes you help her drape them over the embers for the night to dry. 

It was the seeds.

The small pouch of seeds that got the wettest in the bottom of your backpack.

Your hand closes around them, then releases, dumping what was left discreetly outside. 

It's your turn to take watch.

"Wake Simon up in a few hours," Price says.

There are no beds, only blankets on the floor. It’s no summer home, but it beats the windmill. You take post by the greenhouse with a handgun from Price. Half your arrows are lost to the marsh, so you cut a handful of shoots from an ash tree by the greenhouse, and lean against the glass as you whittle them down.

His appearance, cross-armed at the corner of the green house, is far from a surprise. Your knife pauses, and you meet his stare. A minute of silence before he closes the gap and grabs your wrist to lower the knife.

"Talk to me."

You keep your voice low. "She started her period." 

Surprise flickers across his face, shortly muted by understanding. 

"Her scent."

"Herbs. Covers it some." You press your wrist free from his hold. "We shouldn't go straight through Hirson with her. It'll draw out any Greys."

"Going around eats time."

"You heard Price. We can afford it."

His jaw flexes in the process of his thoughts.

"I'll talk to him." A deep breath flares at his nose and you can feel the raw worry in the warm exhalation that brushes your face. "What does she need?"

He's not asking about her period. 

"She almost lost you... twice, really. She needs space to breathe."

"I'm trying to give it."

"You're trying to take away the one thing that makes her feel normal."

"I'm not taking it away." He looks away a moment. "She's starting to think she's older than she is."

"Well, isn't she now?"

Your words stiffen him.

When silence ensues, you inch back, placing a hand on his chest. He looks down at it, then watches you return the blade to your half-formed arrow. This time it's a rough palm to your jaw that stops you, pulling your gaze back to his. 

"There's something else you're not telling me."

You manage a neutral expression. "Nothing." 

"I can't fix it if you don't tell me." 

"I don't need you to fix anything." 

"Twix."

"Ghost." His gaze pins you, and your stubbornness wanes. You offer a piece of truth between your teeth. "Nereida gave me seeds that help with... keeping us safe. But they got wet. I mean, I was running out anyway."

"Seeds," he repeats, slow, and you look down. "You're worried, still."

"Of course I am."

"I've been careful."

"It's not certain."

"It's unlikely."

Your eyes flit back to his. "Is that what you thought the first time around?"

Fatigue delays your realization of what you've just said.

Christ.

You're not sure what you expect, maybe him to get angry. But instead, his lips twitch. "Mouthy." He lifts his forehead from yours, a long, tired inhale through his chest. "No more sex, then."

Your palm drags over your eyelids. "Well, I mean, for now, at least."

"For now."

He doesn’t press further, but he keeps you there, irises sweeping over your face. When he looks at you like this, it itches—like he can see every grain of dirt caught in your creases, each one you still feel grinding into your skin. Does he know what you looked at? Did you not put it back exactly how it was before? You refuse to bring it up, not when there are far more important things both of you need to focus on. 

Then his hand lowers and wraps around the handle of your knife, easily taking it. 

"Go sleep."

"It's my turn. I haven't—"

"I'll go first. Wake you before dawn to take over." When you reach for the knife, he lifts it out of reach, adding, "She'll sleep better tonight if you're next to her."

Defeat softens you. 

"Fine. Finish these." You tuck the rest of the sticks in his hand. 

Deciphering which sleeping lump is Blue is difficult at first, until you find the one that is curled alone by the entrance to an empty bedroom. She might've appeared asleep if not for the finger poking under her blanket, picking at grains in the wood floor. You lower beside her, not bothering to take out your blanket. You don't want to wake everyone. Instead you shrug off the jacket and drape it over yourself. 

"What did you two talk about?"

The question freezes your head on its way down to the floor.

She shifts to face you. 

"The plan for tomorrow," you quietly answer, laying on your side toward her. She's so close her breath hits your chin, much colder than her dad's. 

"You told him about my... my period. Didn't you?"

You tuck clumped hair behind her ear, whispering, "I had to."

"Guys don't get it, do they?"

"No. They don't."

"Seems unfair."

"Very." Your chin tucks to look down at her. "Is it hurting at all?"

She shakes her head. "Is it supposed to?"

"Sometimes."

"Is this how you have a baby?"

You swallow. "That comes when you're an adult."

There is quiet save the shifting of her blanket when she reaches for something: her wrist. The faded scab there. Tracing it. She still never fully explained what those had been for, but you connected enough of the pieces, and haven't pushed her to tell more. 

Her voice is barely there when she suddenly asks, "Do you trust him?"

You can't be sure what is going on in her head, not with how little of her face you can see, but the question lands wrong between your ribs. 

"Yes," you reply anyway, "I trust him with our lives."

"I think he lies, Twix."

"You're mad at him—"

"No, it's not that." Blue eyes slide up. "He just—he says things."

Your mouth feels full of gravel. "What things?"

"Things that don't make sense." Her hand rests back on the floor, knuckles slack. "Nevermind."

She rolls flat on her back, and goes quiet. 

Ghost never makes you switch with him.

You know this because you're still awake by dawn, and only manage a thin sleep just before everyone rustles awake. His heroic attempt at giving you a night of rest was in vain. Now both of you are tired. 

Trying to keep your eyes closed a moment longer as light burns the backs of them red fails quickly, and you peel yourself up to find Price outside, speaking with Ghost. You start toward them before even shaking the fatigue off, but stall when you see Blue lingering by the bathroom door.

"I think I—I need another rag," she whispers, fingers clutching your sleeve. 

You don't have another clean one, but you get one from Nereida along with a fresh clump of rosemary. 

"We'll need to find more," she murmurs. "That's the last I have on me."

You wash the soiled rag as she changes, and overhear Price speaking to Kyle.

“We’re going around Hirson."

“What? I thought we were taking the short way through—reach the A26 again.”

“We will,” Price says. “Just not straight on. There are train tracks running west."

It turns out less than a quarter of the deer meat got soiled. You have a light breakfast of jerky and burdock then leave. 

The rail tracks are elevated on a manmade embankment covered in ballast. The crushed rock pokes at a thin, worn patch on the sole of your boot, giving you a blister within an hour. Hirson is sprawled to the left of you, just close enough to detect the tops of buildings still intact. No doubt ridden with Greys. The ones stuck in the marsh probably wandered out of there.

The morning air is thick, heavy in a way heat alone doesn’t explain. You sip at your canteen methodically, swishing it by your ear each time to hear for empty space. Sweat cools quick on your neck. Oddly, the mosquitos are quiet. You would've had three new bites already any other day. 

A squinted scan of the sky confirms what the insects knew first. Swollen clouds gather to the east. You wouldn’t think much of them at this distance, but the last summer storm came fast enough to teach you better.

“It’s going to rain. We need cover,” you call, pitching your voice forward to Price.

Nereida catches his arm. “The food, John.”

Everyone pauses on the tracks. Quiet, empty land surrounds you. Hirson is out—not with her—and backtracking to the house would take too long.

Price tips his chin toward another set of rails cutting through the grass, a rusted switchbox hunched beside them.

“Station close,” he says. “Should have cover.”

His prediction rises soon in the distance: a mid-sized rural station, the tracks running parallel now between empty platforms. Thick ivy swallows the bricks archways. Blue-and-white cars still sit abandoned on the tracks, marred with black graffiti. A large sign reads TER, but the city names are scratched out below. The place is quiet, but you draw an arrow on habit just before the first stroke of thunder. It reverberates in the iron bars beneath your feet, then the drizzle begins.

"Move," Ghost calls, and you start running when the heavier rain starts not a minute later, swinging your backpacks to your chests in attempt to cover where the food is. Wet hair clings to your forehead by the time you reach the platform. Ghost grabs Blue by the arm to help her up, but she shakes him off and lifts onto the concrete. You have no choice but to stow the arrow and bow as you leverage yourself up.

The place smells like wet iron and old oil. Heady rust. A flat sheet of steel canopies overhead, but trickles of water leak through. Ghost motions his rifle to a door, a ticket office that should keep you dryer, but you make not even a step towards it before hearing the faint scrap of metal.

Ghost hears it too, pulling Blue behind him. You turn toward the sound. Boarded-up windows and chained sliding doors stare back at you, the train car still. Then it comes again from inside, a distinctive rattle with the note of rot bleeding through the rain.

"They're in there," the realization forms aloud. 

Price poises his rifle. "They're trapped."

The chains are thick and locked despite being heavily corroded. Secure. Then they can't reach her. You lower your bow a fraction and turn back toward the ticket office, where Ghost begins ramming his shoulder against the door.

The hinges start to give, groaning, when there is another sound you barely catch beneath it all—a sharp clatter skirting across concrete. The platform jolts. Then the world turns white. A distinct, shouted, "Down!" But the strong arm that reaches for you does little against the concussive blast.

You're thrown back, cheek scraping concrete, and a heavy weight crashing on top of your arm. For a moment, there’s nothing but ringing—no sight, no feeling, no sound beyond it. Then you're being hauled up, forced onto legs you can't control, and pressed down. A hand patting your face and chest. Ghost crouched before you, Blue at your side. Your vision returns in specks of color. His face, lips moving, shelves and a register snapping into place behind him. You're in the ticket office. A cloud of dust fogging the window.

Only when the shock wears off do you notice it, the deep pain in your skull—no blood on your fingers when you touch there, but enough throbbing to make your vision double unless you blink hard.

Blue.

She’s clutching her arm where shrapnel has buried itself in the flesh.

It’s just the three of you in there until Kyle shoves Ari inside.

“Price,” he says, breathless. “I couldn’t see—”

Price appears in the doorway with Nereida in his arms. She’s limp, head lolled against his shoulder. Blood curtains from her ear, dark against her neck.

"They know we're in here. Kyle—smoke."

The smoke bomb ignites with a hiss and is tossed through the doorway. Black floods the platform, thicker than the dust still drifting from the pipe bomb. It steals your vision. One hand grips Blue’s shirt, the other Ghost’s, as you force your legs to follow. A misfired round clangs off metal. Another door. Hands pulling you through.

It's a maintenance closet, cramped with seven bodies and electrical panels. Price kicks a mop and bucket over to lay Nereida down, cradling the back of her neck. Two bloody fingers press beneath her jaw and you kneel without thinking, ripping the backpack from her shoulders. 

"Alive," he says, gritted.

Somehow you manage coherence. "Keep her head up. Turn it to the side." 

You tear gauze and hold it against her ear, not packing it. 

“Price. Stay with them.” Ghost drops his pack, shoving cartridges into his pockets. Kyle mirrors him. “Three smokes left.”

Your brain catches up, blood-slick fingers snatching up a gun. "You can't go just the two of you." 

"Stay."

His voice, rough and final, and he's already slipping out the door. 

Then it's the five of you left behind.

You stash the gun at your waist and act on what you can. Blue. Her arm. You peel her fingers up. Blood, but not much. Ari. He leans on one leg. There's a shard of glass sticking out of his right calf. It's impossible to tell how large or deep, only that blood stains his jeans around it. You have him sit down with his leg up on a shelf the best you can in the small space, and tuck a wad of gauze in Blue's hand.

"Keep pressure on it."

She does. Back to Nereida. Price is speaking to her low, keeping her head off the floor. The blood from her ear has stalled some, but not enough to rule out the worst. At best, it's just her eardrum. When her eyelids flutter, he chokes on a breath and strokes her cheek, but then she's jerking, coughing, and vomiting onto his thigh.

He turns her head to the side and keeps it there while she retches.

“Duchess. Stay with me.” The faintest tremor in his jaw. “Look at me. Can you hear me?”

Her body goes slack. Her eyes slide, searching air that is not there.

“It’s quiet,” she whispers.

The gunfire outside comes sporadically. Single shots. Isolated. They found whoever it is. How many? Bombs—do they still have bombs? Your mind swims, struggling to latch onto anything solid. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been since they left, harder still to know if anyone has realized you’re hidden in here.

You slide, silent on your knees, to the door. It’s slightly warped around the hinges, just enough to give a crack to look through. You catch a sliver of the clearing smoke, rain cutting through it, debris scattered across the platform, and the train car sitting beyond it. No visible movement, except the deepened rattle inside its windows.

A crack of thunder. Then a faint, distant grunt snaps your vision up to the steel pedestrian overpass spanning above the train.

Boots.

Sliding in a struggle.

You can’t see much, but you know those are Kyle’s. Brown. Ghost’s are black.

There’s someone else.

The soft glow from Moonflower spills out onto the snow blanketed streets, the crest of the sun just starting to rise over the city.

He finds you there, standing over your workbench, brown paper packages stacked neatly in front of you.

When he clears his throat you turn to face him, eyes are as bright as the dawn breaking. His stomach flips, and music rushes in his ears. The bond sings. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He’s late, by a shade, held up this morning by unnecessary distraction, useless intel. All of it a waste, compared to you. “Sorry I’m late.” You shrug.

“It’s fine. I’m just finishing up the last bit here anyway.” Wrapping a small, bronze ingot in the brown paper you incline your head towards the food on the table. “Are you hungry?” You reach for a slice of bread and gesture to the honey and cheese before extending the plate to him.

His lungs sputter. His heart slows to a crawl and his throat goes dry.

Say yes! The shadows cry.

And fuck, he could. He could force this upon you, deceive you once again, all in pursuit of making you his, forever.

It’s tempting, so tempting. He’s not a good male, has never pretended to be anything but what he is, who he is, and in the blackest, foulest parts of his soul, the desire to take the food and eat is so loud, the temptation almost too much.

But he can’t, he won’t. He’s already taken so much from you.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” You shrug, tearing off a piece and popping it in your mouth.

“Suit yourself.” You sigh, taking one last look around your workshop before drawing you hood up. “We should be going then.” He nods, sweeps a hand towards the door.

“After you.”

Spring snaps like a mouthful of sugar. Too green. Too bright. Sweetened to the point of rot.

You stagger the moment your boots meet the soil, careening off to the left, and he reacts instinctively, a hand on your waist, another on your arm. “Easy.” It comes out rough, suffocated by the turmoil on the other end of the bond. Your side clangs with panic in an off key chorus. It rises with the warped thrum of the woods, the boundary of Spring, and your magic stirs, salts the air, the earth, tries to push back against the trees.

The Middle in you does not like Spring.

The bond flares. Blazes alive in an unsettling crash, and he reaches, trying to settle you, soothe.

What is happening? The shadows curl around you protectively.

Spring doesn’t care for witch blood.

“What is it?” His hand still rests on the curve of your waist, and only when he speaks do you pull away, shaking your head.

“Nothing.” Tension still holds your spine straight, your shoulders stiff. “It’s just Spring. The magic is,” you make a face, nose wrinkling as you drawl, “refined.” He frowns. He’s never felt this here before. The connection he has to you allows him to feel it in a new light-

and it is unsettling.

It’s like the land is fighting you, the magic of this Court is punishing you, trying to push you away.

You close your eyes and draw long breaths, elbows pointed, hands on your hips, lips twisted as if you’re in pain. He can feel it on the bond, the singe of suffering, and he’s desperate to douse it.

“Tell me.” He pitches his voice low so it doesn’t carry, trying to coax you. Trying to pull information from you like he would from a captured spy. Your eyes flick to his, briefly, and you look away to the ground just as fast.

“The magic, Spring itself, it doesn’t care for me. It’s always an adjustment when I first get here. I’m fine.” Your throat bobs on a swallow, and the pit of worry in his stomach yawns wider.

The wards are flimsy, thin silk-like things that web across the trees, but they’re stronger than they were the last time he was here. Someone has been mending them.

A breeze of roses rolls through the forest, crushed petals on the wind, and your magic swells to meet it, something inside you bristling, snapping its jaw.

“We can go back.” It would take only a second to pull you into a pocket of night and take you home. Only a second. You laugh, but it’s not pleasant. It has bite.

“I need these supplies Azriel, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. It’s not like I can find them in any of the palaces now, sanctions considered.” He winces. Rhys has effectively cut trade with Spring off at the knees, and while he agrees with him, it’s easy to see how such an action can be punishing.

You turn on your heel, hood up over your head, bag slung across your body, and then over your shoulder you raise an eyebrow. A challenge. A question. Are you coming?

It’s laughable. He’d follow you into the pits of Hel. Into another world.

Of course he’s coming.

The village is known to him.

It’s more affluent, High Fae, all of its cracking and tearing held together somehow, by sheer will or force or magic, or a combination of all three. Cobblestone streets, pale brushed brick and terraced orchards, all slung low in a meadow that sparkles just a bit too brightly.

Still, the wards are thin. The decay is there, in the corners, in the air. Spring is still crumbling.

You keep your hood up as you walk but it doesn’t stop heads from turning, hasty eyes glancing over and then away. Your own gaze is everywhere, down the streets, across the shop fronts, the homes, touching on everything.

Observant little creature, the shadows croon approvingly before fanning out ahead.

No sentries, no spies to be seen.

And certainly no High Lord.

Your contact waits on the corner of an empty street. His eyes widen with fear when he spots Azriel, mouth agape for a moment before he collects himself, shutters his expression.

“Elric.” He inclines his head and then leers at Azriel. You’ve stopped in front of a house. Its front yard is teeming with life, an overgrown, exploded garden, vines snaking through the grass and up the fence, covering everything in sight in green. Broken clay pots litter the ground, flowers and weeds and cauldron knows what blanketing every square inch.

The male looks Azriel over tensely.

“Who’s this?” It’s a weighted question, and Azriel smiles, shows his teeth. It’s a terrible thing.

“A friend.” You answer, and the Fae crosses his arms. Sneers.

“Didn’t know you worked with those pricks.” Azriel doesn’t stop the shadows from swirling into a black mass, a veiled threat.

“I don’t,” you grit, jaw tense. “Can we get on with it? I have a long list today.” There’s one last disapproving, wary once over, and then Elric nods.

“Come in.”

The house is just as covered on the inside. Plants everywhere. Ivy on every wall. Dust and leaves and dirt abound, it’s chaos.

You drop your bag on the corner of a wide planked table, pulling your hood down as Elric surveys you. His eyes catch briefly on the trunk and branches of the bargain tattoo, what little of it that can be seen under your sleeve, and its twin on Azriel’s forearm prickles in response.

Then, his gaze drags the length of your body like he’s indulging in something he shouldn’t.

Azriel’s fingers long for Truth-Teller.

“I only need the Devil’s Nail.” You pull a brown paper package from your bag. One of the ingots, he realizes. You’re not buying, you’re trading. There’s no coin here.

Elric flips open a book, jabs a finger at a column of numbers. “Gonna cost you.” Your brow furrows at the scribble of numbers.

“You’re kidding.” Your voice is flat, and he shakes his head.

“War isn’t cheap. Trade routes are dead. Tamlin’s shut the doors to anyone with sense. This is where we are now.” Your jaw ticks.

“This is a sixty percent increase.”

“Seventy.” He closes the book, dust flying up into the room as the pages flutter. “If you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else. Though you’ll be hard pressed to find someone with Devil’s Nail.” Azriel is vaguely familiar with Devil’s Nail. It’s a long, sharp root that grows in warm climates, and flowers only in the sun, though he doesn’t know what you use it for.

“I’m not paying that,” you sniff, “and you’re not the only harvester in Prythian.” The Fae shrugs, sick smile stretching lips.

“But I’m the only harvester in Spring, and you’re here, aren’t you? Or do you want to chase your ingredients all over the Continent?” Your eyes harden.

“I’m not playing these games, Elric.”

“It’s no game, witch.” Azriel goes still, the shadows pool in the corners of the room like spilled ink, but you sigh like you’re bored and tap the ingot.

“This is Hush.” Elric’s eyebrows raise, and Azriel fights his own surprise. Even the shadows flicker. “I’m willing to do a quarter bar, for my usual three bundles. That’s equal your old rates plus thirty percent. You can take it or leave it.” Hush. A poison. A paralytic, capable of stunning and immobilizing your enemy, freezing them in place. You can coat weapons with it, put it in food or liquids. He’s used it plenty of times himself.

Elric only hesitates a moment before he’s licking his lips and nodding. “Deal.” You turned the tables on him, clearly. Offered something he’d be a fool not to take, and after the ingot cleaves into parts under your magic, he snatches his piece up greedily.

“Always a pleasure, Elric.” You barely spare him another glance before turning for the door, the Fae’s snicker echoing in the hall as the of you leave.

“Safe travels, half-breed.” Your spine stiffens. Azriel stops.

“It’s fine.” You murmur, but rage has already stirred in his blood, and he’s crossed the room before he even realizes, his hand firm around Elric’s neck, the wild jump of his pulse under Azriel’s thumb. The stench of fear fills the room, the shadows vibrating with excitement.

Kill him? They croon, twisting up his arm to Elric’s mouth, where they tease around his face.

No.

“Azriel. It’s a pain to vet new suppliers.” You make it clear you could care less for this male’s life… but you’re still asking for him to be left alive. Azriel’s smile is cruel in response as he tightens his hold and leans in.

“You will not insult her again.” He keeps his tone conversational, light. Bored, even. A bead of sweat drips down Elric’s temple. “You will not imply that she is less than you because of who she is. You will not speak of her blood as if it’s a stain.” Elric’s jaw works soundlessly. Slowly, he nods, and Azriel steps back, the shadows grumbling with disappointment as they slink back into the rafters. “Good.”

Azriel opens the door for you, stepping out at your back into the honeysuckled air, following you down the overgrown path, back to the street. You sigh when you reach the gate, and turn to face him.

“Az-”

“I know you don’t need me to defend you.” He cuts you off. He already knows what you’re going to say, and he doesn’t know how to tell you… he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if you can handle it on your own, he doesn’t care if you don’t need him. He needs you. He’s here for you. “I want to.”

“Elric is harmless.” You whisper, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t care.” He strokes your cheek, unable to stop himself from touching you, silk skin against scars. “You are capable beyond measure witchling, I know you don’t need me to defend you. I want to. I will not let someone insult you without consequences.” Desire sings down your side of bond, the faint melody heating his blood, music swelling in that space beneath his ribs. He steps closer and touches his lips to your ear with a whisper. “Do not doubt me. I would kill him without question, if you asked.” Your face turns, into him, into his mouth, yours on his with a sharp inhale. It’s enough to drive him wild, insane, and just this small touch turns his cock heavy.

“We should go.” You murmur, fingers twisted in his shirt. “I still have a list.”

Of course you do.

He forces himself to step back, to allow air between your bodies, but he mourns you, your touch. He can feel you, your side of the bond so restrained yet still so vibrant, he can’t fathom what it will be like once it snaps on your side. Even now, your desire is a violin string strung too tight, and it’s tethered directly to his heart.

You don’t mention it. You just turn away, hood back up, shoulders rolling as if you can shake him off. “Come on then.”

He follows you out into the street, the shadows muttering filth and praise both.

The village is awake now. High Fae move through the streets, ducking into shops or lingering by carts laden with fruit that has no right being so ripe, skins shiny, flesh too sweet.

Spring has always been like this. Refusing to admit the concept of scarcity. Propping themselves up in anyway they can. Refined, even when they’re falling apart.

You draw your cloak closer as a group of males pass, their eyes lingering on you before darting away at the sight of Azriel.

“Charming place.” He says under his breath. You shrug.

“Been worse places, that;’s for sure.” There’s something in the way you say it that aches, but before he can push you, you’re veering toward the north end of the village, where the houses start to thin and the road turns to packed dirt.

“How many contacts do you have here?”

“Enough,” you smile slyly at him, coy. “How many do you have?” Touché. He can’t help but be impressed by you, again. That you’ve been doing this, coming here to trade all this time, and he’s never known. Never heard so much as a whisper about you until he stumbled upon you in the Middle.

“You could find new suppliers in Summer.” He says. Truly, he wishes you would. This all feels so turbulent, like it’s one wrong move from blowing up. “Or Dawn. Safer Courts. Less… volatile.”

“Dawn and I… we don’t get along so well. And Summer has their own problems, I'm sure you know.” Of course he knows. He wonders what you mean about Dawn, wonders if it has to do with them bordering the Middle, but he’s not sure he’d get anything from you about it. Not yet. Still, too eager to drink up every drop you’ll give him, he changes topics.

“The Hush…”

“Alchemized bars. The minerals in the ingots have been transmuted, and can be extracted. There’s only so much you’ll get out of a quarter bar but Hush is rare enough that it’s worth more than coin around here. In most places, actually.” As the Spymaster, he should be horrified. With you. With himself. With his network. The fact that you’ve been dealing poison here and Cauldron knows where else but he’s never known about it is a feat unto itself. Combined with the fact that poison is coming from his own Court and he’s never caught on, it’s embarrassing. There are consequences to explore here, but he can only focus on you in the scheme of it. How he can protect you, ensure your safety, how he can ease your path so maybe you don’t have to engage in such dangerous trade to get what you need.

“How long have you been doing this?” He asks quietly. You step off the path, heading towards a lone stone wall in the distance.

“Years. Elric was my first contact.”

“How old were you?” He’s pushing, hard. He wonders when your patience will fray with his questions, but so far, you endear him.

“Young.”

Too young, the shadows warn. His hand curls into a fist. It’s almost too much to consider, you growing up in the Middle, living a young life where you’re knocking on doors, desperate to barter with anyone who won’t turn you away. There’s so much to you he doesn’t know. So much he’s desperate for. The bond pulses with something that’s not quite bitter, yet not quite accepting, just quiet understanding. You’ve had to swallow so much over the course of your life, there’s no room left for anger. Not for this.

The terrain drops away into a ravine, cold, damp air whipping around his shoulders. The trees start to shrink, roots turning gnarled, branches spread out far and low. The manicured, refined magic of Spring is fading fast, and in its place is this old growth, these twisted trees and soft marl.

“We need to winnow from here.” You tell him, offering your hand without a second thought.

“Why?”

“It’s too far a walk. We’ll be on the road for hours.” You chew on your bottom lip, expression thoughtful, before turning wary. “Azriel… my next contact, she lives fairly far north, to the west.” His eyes narrow. Autumn.

It’s fine, the shadows reassure.

I’ll be the judge of that.

“How far?”

“Far enough we can’t walk.” You sigh. “She lives just south of the boundary between the Courts.” He wants to say no, should insist whatever it is you need, he will get it for you himself. He could do it, so easily.

But he wouldn’t strip you of this. Your life. Your livelihood.

“Very well.” He nods, and takes your hand.

"Just south" means exactly that.

Just south.

So close he could throw a rock and hit Autumn.

So close he can feel the magic of their boundary.

“No one is out here, I promise. I’ve never run into anyone from either Court, only Mirin.”

“Mirin?” You nod towards a cottage nestled in the side of hill, smoke rising from the chimney. It looks like it’s growing from the earth, half buried, roof covered in moss, and his shadows sprawl outward in a race.

Strange magic.

What is it?

Not sure.

“What is she?” Your brows lift.

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked.” You move with practiced care, making your way down the slope. There are wards here too, around the cottage, different from Spring’s or Autumn’s, spun in tight spirals instead of straight lines. They taste like iron and river water and something too old to name, something that sets the shadows on edge.

You stop just outside their reach and call, “Mirin?” There’s a clatter from inside, a muttered curse, and then door creaks wide. The female that steps forward surprises him. She’s small, and weathered, but wild, hair tangled and eyes bright. Her skin is lined with age, but he couldn’t tell you how old she is.

“Back so soon magpie?” You smile at the familiarity, the nickname.

“I’ve been busy.” Her gaze slides past you to land on him.

“And you’ve brought a shadow.” He inclines his head.

“Azriel.”

“Mmm. I know what you are.” What, not who. The shadows intrigue grows stronger, and he can’t deny, his does too. She waves her hand dismissively and the wards collapse, allowing you to step forward towards the house, following her inside.

“Who is she?” He whispers, and you shake your head.

“Just… Mirin. Come on.”

Mirin’s home is cramped with low ceilings, but it lacks the chaos of Elric’s. Everything has a place, shelves lined with bundles and labels and jars, bowls of dried herbs, a battered kettle sitting over the fire in the fireplace, steam spilling from its spout.

You shrug off your coat and immediately move to the back wall, peering down at a tray of mosses. “These are new.”

“Pulled them up last storm.” Mirin says, shuffling over to a chest and rummaging through it. She pulls a small box from the chest and sets it on the table, lifting the lid to reveal several carefully separated clumps of something black and spongy, threaded with fleshy filaments. It looks… unpleasant. And it’s magic is viscous, heavy, the kind of thing that likes to burrow beneath your skin and rot you from the inside out. “There’s your Dead Nettle.”

“What do you do with it?” He asks. You don’t look up.

“Depends on who is asking.” He huffs.

“At the moment? Your Spymaster.” That gets you. Your lips lift with a smile, and you exchange a mirth filled look with Mirin.

“It’s a neutralizer, if you strip it right. Binds to cursed metals, pulls the magic out of it. At least long enough to work with.”

“Cursed metal.” He repeats slowly. You nod, eyeing Truth-Teller.

“Surely you’ve run into cursed metals.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Have you?” Nothing about you will surprise him at this point.

“Mhm. You know how many people have cursed jewelry? Or weapons?” You say dryly.

Our little witch is very clever, the shadows assure him. She sees more than you know.

I have no doubt.

You wait with an arched brow, and he bites his tongue, reveals nothing. Mirin shakes her head like she can see right through him and then turns to you.

“How much do you need?”

“Half of this is fine, and the Fire Weed.” Mirin moves towards another shelf, plucking a lidded jar from above her head to set it on the table, wax seal peeling away under her thumbnail. When she cracks the lid, uncomfortable heat spills into the room. Inside is a stack of crimson leaves, edges blackened as if they’ve been licked by flame. The magic that clings to them is sharp, but clean. Cleansing.

You pull your bag onto the table and retrieve another ingot, except this one is different from the last, it’s pale, silvery blue color shining in the afternoon light.

Not steel. Not any alloy he knows. The shadows shiver with curiosity.

Pretty, they croon.

Expensive, he corrects silently. Whatever it is, you’re handling it like glass.

Mirin whistles. “You traipse all the way from the Night Court with that in your bag? Might as well just have a sign on your back that says ‘rob me.’”

“That’s why I have my shadow then, isn’t it?” You smile at her sweetly, and his heart skips a beat.

My shadow.

“What is it?” He asks, peering down at the metal that seems to sparkle.

“We call it star-silver. Come from a specific river bed in the Middle.” Star-silver. Questions upon questions build in his mind.

Mirin eyes it appreciatively, a gleam in her irises. “Let’s get you a box then.” She glances at him. “Try not to brood a hole through my floor.” As she shuffles away, he drags his focus from the ingot to find you watching him, lips tilted in something that isn’t quite amusement, isn’t quite exasperation.

“You do look like you’re trying to intimidate the furniture.”

“It’s working,” he deadpans, glancing at the chair. “It just told me it fears for its life.” You laugh and it’s bright, as brief as a struck match, warming the cramped space. The shadows chirp, delighted.

She’s so beautiful, they sigh.

She is.

It’s evening by the time you finish at Mirin’s, but exhaustion has already settled into your shoulders as you lead him down a stone paved road, its path snaking towards a village that rises from the hills.

“It’s the winnowing. Spring’s magic is pretty resistant to me. It makes everything harder.” He frowns, and you sigh, stopping dead in your tracks to whirl on him, standing toe to toe with determination in your eyes.

Uh oh, the shadows lament. Don’t fuck this up.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

“Why?” He doesn’t need to ask what you mean. He promised you answers. Your expectant expression is all he needs as you resume your march, and he stays steady at your pace.

“Nesta knew you were a witch.”

“Half witch,” you correct, and he nods.

“Half witch, yes. I didn’t know and at the time I was… distracted by the revelation, concerned you might be a threat.” You’re quiet at his side, gravel crunching beneath your feet, waiting for him to continue. “I feared you were trying to deceive me for nefarious reasons. Your kind is not so easily understood.” You stop short on the path again, turning to face him, a million emotions flickering in your irises like fire.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“I didn’t know you,” the shadows reach, and he allows them, lets them curl around you like a shawl, thread between your fingers. He too, tests the boundary, stepping forward to cup your cheek, heart singing when you don’t pull away. “I was so… I was so enchanted by you, I thought maybe you had manipulated me, cast some sort of spell-” You snort.

“I don’t do spells.” The unsaid truth, the bond, is burning a hole inside him, but he doesn’t dare let it slip.

“I know,” he soothes desperately, “I know that now, I know. But I was so… I do not mean to make excuses. There is no excuse.” His head hangs with shame, and suddenly he is a small child. Scared. So scared, scared of what the consequences may be, of losing you.

“You hurt me.” The whisper is carried away on the wind, but the fault line in your heart, the sadness, is clear as day. You’re so vulnerable in front of him now, your pain painted on your face, everything flayed out for him to see.

“I-” the words are difficult. They’re there, but they’re not, because he knows what he should say, what he should do, what the correct course is, the same one he’s been on all this time. “I will regret what I did every day of my life, even if I live to be thousands of years old. Your pain and suffering will never leave me.” A beast rears its head, the same that would have taken the food from you without a care, the same one who wants to hide you away from the world and keep you close, coveted and safe.

Careful, the shadows warn.

“But I will never let you go.” Your head jerks, and you blink in surprise. “I said I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness, and I mean to. You will always have me, even if after this you decide to never speak to me again.”

“Azriel,” you whisper, brows knitted, concerned, confused, it all blends together. He shakes his head, steps closer and tips your chin upward, skimming his nose along yours and sharing your breath. You’re going to say something, but he doesn’t want to hear it. His mouth closes over yours, and when you gasp, he takes more.

He intends for it to be brief. A single stolen kiss, something to keep for himself in case you never allow him another one. In case you use your end of the bargain to send him away, forever.

It isn’t.

You’re frost on dead leaves, holy decay, fern fronds still curled tight in the eve of spring, blackberries on your tongue. Twilight in the pines. His mate. His miracle. Every breath, every taste only increases his hunger, and the bond surges, a ringing choir in his veins.

He kissed you the other day in the workshop. More than kissed you, but this seems different somehow. It’s a raw wound being pulled apart.

He expects you draw back, to go still.

You surprise him instead.

You drag him closer, a helpless little whimper in the back of your throat, snagging on his restraint, dragging it open. His hand slides from your cheeks to your jaw as he presses closer, holds you tighter.

He feels your magic rise. The wildness of it, born from the Middle, and the air shifts from the smell of roses to earth after rain, damp and fresh, fertile and waiting.

He pushes for more and you meet him, deepening the kiss, tongue slipping out from behind teeth.

He’s gone for you. Crazed for you. Lost in you.

“Azriel.” It’s a half plea of wanting, and it grounds him, forces him to step back, to let go. He’s pushed too far, he’s supposed to be apologizing. You blink, confused. Disappointed.

“That was selfish. I’m sorry.” You stare at him, lips parted and swollen.

“You have a lot to be sorry for,” you whisper, shaking your head. “But kissing me after saying you’d never let me go doesn’t warrant an apology.”

“I-” you hold up your hand to cut him off.

“I’m angry with you. I’m not done being angry with you. You hurt me. You terrified me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive that.”

“I know.”

“But I wanted you to kiss me. Even after everything, I still want it. And I don’t know if that makes me weak, or wrong, or broken-” He steps forward, boots touching at the toes, his palm back on your cheek.

“There’s nothing weak, or wrong, or broken about you witchling. You’re a marvel. Wanting me doesn’t change that.” You give him a disbelieving look, on the verge of pulling away, but he holds you still. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m a bastard and a brute and what I did can never be undone. If you use this bargain to bar me from ever speaking to you again, I will understand. I will bow to it. But even then, I will still be here for you, should you need me.” The bond twists under his ribs, tying in a tight, painful knot as you close your eyes, and just barely lean into his touch.

“And in the meantime?” His thumb traces your bottom lip.

“I will take what you give me. Even if it is only ever scraps from your table.” The wind lifts your hood, air full of rot and roses, and you hold his gaze for a long, fraught heartbeat.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whisper, and he nods. “I do not forgive you.”

“I know.” I will earn it, he wants to assure you, but he’s already promised that, ten times over.

“I don’t know if I ever will, or if I even want to.” A lump forms in his throat. His side of the bond wails at the prospect.

“I know.”

“But I do want you to kiss me.” He chokes on a breath.

“Sweetheart-“

“I can decide for myself, what I want. It’s not up to you to deem it worthy or not.” Worthy. “That’s what I want, Azriel. I want you to kiss me.” You fist his leathers, and he gives himself one single moment to close his eyes and press his forehead to yours, to breathe you in, to silently swear an oath to the Cauldron, the Mother, the stars. He will be worthy of you, or he will die trying.

Then he kisses you.

Slower this time, deeper. An endless ocean, the swell of the tide. The shadows surround you like a halo, and your fingers slide up into his hair, nails scraping lightly at the base of his skull. He groans in your mouth, helplessly lost in you, in every hitch of your breath, every taste of your tongue.

When it breaks, you stay close, your nose to his, chest heaving.

“Okay?” You ask him softly, and he nods wordlessly. You kiss him again, just a brush of your lips against his, before turning back towards the road, and hand finds the small of your back instinctively and settles there, the barest point of contact, another tether.

The bond hangs over his head like a guillotine.

By the time the village looms at the end of the road, dusk has settled into full dark. Lanterns burn in windows, golden light flickering through the night.

You stumble on a loose stone, fatigue dragging at your steps. He feels it down the bond too, your magic, your body worn down by Spring’s resistance.

“Do you have business here?” You nod, and motion to a pub on the other side of the square.

“Wyn,” you smile fondly, and green drenched jealously stirs in his stomach.

The pub is busy. A few heads turn when Azriel ducks through the doorway, but otherwise most keep to their own business. This town is far from the heart of Spring, there’s less propriety, less interest. Everyone here is worried about themselves, an unspoken rule.

You weave through the crowd, making your way to small, dark back room, peering in around the corner to find a male half reclined on a bench, one knee up, a worn book in his hand. Not High Fae. Maybe half?

“Wyn.” You smile his name, and his gut churns again. The male rises, takes you in his arms with a hug as his eyes sweep over Azriel warily.

“You in some kind of trouble?” You shake your head.

“Do I look like I’m in some kind of trouble? Wyn, Azriel. Azriel, Wyn.” The male gives him a nod, and then immediately redirects back to you. Azriel grits his teeth.

“You look dead on your feet.” He says mildly, but there’s warmth in it, and he pulls back to study your face. “You’re late.”

“I brought you something.” You deflect, pulling another brown paper package out of your bag to press the small bundle into Wyn’s hands, your fingers brushing his. He takes a deep breath, lazy smile spreading across his lips.

“Hel. You really do love me.” You roll your eyes. The shadows fidget, rolling along the floor, around his hands. Wyn peels the paper open, revealing a small vial filled with syrupy brown liquid.

“A gift.”

“You’re too generous.” You grimace and shrug.

“I owe you. For last time.” Wyn scoffs.

“You didn’t need me.”

“I didn’t, but you made it easier, that’s for sure.” You trace a line in the wood of the table top with a sigh. “You get what I asked for?” What I asked for. How many alliances and arrangements have you made without him ever knowing?

“Have I ever let you down?” Jealously gnaws at Azriel, but he bites it back. Wyn produces a bag, loosening the strings so the fabric falls away to reveal shards of something. A metal of some kind, maybe. An ore. You grin.

“Good work.” You swap the bag for another ingot, the leftover Hush he realizes, and Wyn’s eyes light.

“You spoil me.” He pauses, head cocked in consideration. “Have you given any thought to our last conversation?” You shake your head.

He wants Faebane, the shadows whisper.

For what?

Unsure.

“It’s not possible, you know that.” Wyn sighs.

“Just figured I’d try again.” You glance at Azriel, who masks his expression. He can ask about it later. “There’s a room upstairs with your name on it.”

“Oh, I… I don’t know if I’m, we’re, staying.”  Wyn’s brow furrows.

“You always stay.” Someone calls the male’s name from the main room, and he stands, tucking both the Hush and the vial into his pockets. “Just let me know.” You nod.

“I will.” Once he’s gone, you turn to Azriel, lip tugged beneath your top teeth. “I usually stay over because I’m too tired to winnow.” He nods. “But I still have some in me-”

“You’re exhausted.” He’d pull you into the shadow and take you home that way, but it’s tricky in other Courts. There’s no guarantee that when he steps into Velaris you’ll be with him. And flying with you, taking you that far, over so much territory, is too much of a risk. “You need to rest.”

“I can manage one more-”

“You’re swaying,” he says quietly, and you look down to the floor, confused for a moment before blanching. He doesn’t love this anymore than you do. He doesn’t know who’s here, who’s a threat, who’s watching. There’s no way to know if it’s safe.

All he knows is he can keep you safe. And that’s all that matters.

“Well?” Wyn reappears, peeking his head in, and Azriel nods.

“We’re staying.”

“Azriel,” you hiss his name, but he ignores you.

“We’ll take two rooms.” Something mischievous lights in Wyn’s eyes.

“Only got the one room I saved for her I’m afraid.” No.

Yes! The shadows cry.

“Sorry. Too many travelers this close to the border. Rooms go fast.”

“It’s fine.” You assure him, but your voice is thick, hoarse on the ends. You sound as frayed as he feels. Wyn waves you off.

“Stairs at the back, last door on the left.”

The shadows quiver in delight when the door swings open.

One bed, they sigh dreamily, and he swallows.

It’s barely wide enough for two bodies, let alone his, and while it’s piled with blankets, the pillows look lumpy, and the mattress dips in the middle.

You step past him, boots scuffing across the floorboards. “Well,” you squeak, “I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“I’ll take the floor.” He grits out, and you stiffen.

“There’s no need for that, I’m sure we can… share.” Your last word is tight, tinny, and you drop your bag by the washstand, fingers flexing against their stiffness. He feels your weariness down the bond, the tired stretch of your magic, the exhaustion in your bones.

“I want you to be comfortable.” He says softly, and you glare at him.

“I can decide what I want for myself, remember?” Fair enough. You drag a hand down your face. “We’re adults. We can share a bed without… issues.”

The shadows shiver with approval, locking loving tendrils around your ankles.

Stop that.

She likes it. Desire floods his veins, and he yanks them away. Hard.

You’re waiting for his answer, annoyance tugging your lips into a frown, and his stomach twists. He doesn’t want you to be annoyed, disgruntled, or anything but comfortable. Safe. Happy.

“Alright.”

The two of you change efficiently. He strips down to what he wears under his leathers, and you pull a folded up sleep shirt of some kind out of you bag, stepping behind the screen the change. The shadow of your body alone sending heat trickling down his spine, and he sends the shadows out, through the pub, the inn, surveying everyone and everything, look for threats. Risk.

All clear, they assure by the time you’re done, and he breathes just a little bit easier.

That same breath gets caught when he turns to find you standing by the bed, the bottom of your shirt sitting just above your thighs.

Fuck.

Your legs are bare. Knees, shins, down to your toes, the hem of your shirt lifting dangerously high when you shift your weight. The air in the room suddenly feels very thin.

“Are you alright?” No.

“Yes.” It’s stiff, and you sigh, padding to the side of the bed, pulling at the blankets. He moves on instinct, circling, a hand to your wrist to stop you. “Other side.”

“What?”

“You sleep on the far side.” He nods to the door, and your confusion turns to understanding.

“Okay.” You crawl onto the mattress, and he stares at the ceiling. Gods help him.

He waits until you’re settled before he snuffs the faelights out and sits, testing the sagging middle like it’s a treacherous sinkhole, something trying to drag him under. The whole thing lists towards your side, and it drags him close enough he can feel the heat of your body.

You roll onto your side, facing towards the wall, shoulders hunched like you’re bracing for the cold. He can see the tension along your spine, the way your breathing is strict. Measured.

Without thinking, he lets one wing relax, just enough to drape the curve of it over your hip like a curtain. A fine line of warmth, a weight, a barrier between you and room.

You go still.

He holds his breath-

and then you sigh. Your shoulders fall, your back sinks into the mattress, your entire body loosens. Rolls back into him. His arms. Your spine aligns with his chest, and you go languid there, soft, your breathing evening out Into something steady and on the verge of sleep.

He can’t seem to stop touching you. His fingers draw a slow, reverent path of the soft swell of your hip, mapping each curve and following it down to the line of your waist, the small of your back. The bond sings with each pass, a melody plucked in perfect sequence, threads twisting tighter, stronger, as he gathers you close.

“Azriel.” You murmur in the dark, and he presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. Gentle. Sweet. All the things you deserve.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers into your skin, mouth finding the shell of your ear, lingering there. He could be selfish. Could roll you on your back and spread your thighs, eat your cunt until you turned delirious, could fuck you until you’re coming all over his cock, crying for more. He could.

But you need rest. You need it desperately, and he’s been selfish enough. He’s supposed to take care of you.

He tucks you into his body, wing tightening, blocking out the world, and you sigh. One more kiss to your crown, and you settle in the slope of his collarbone. “Goodnight Az.”

He’s got mission reports to finalize, weapon inventory to check off, red tape nonsense piled too high on his desk. He’s drowning in bureaucratic bull shit. 

It’s busy for you too. You’re doing custom orders for the holiday, running pick ups out of the commercial kitchen space you rent, knee deep in pastries and pies, trying to keep up with an ever increasing demand. Every morning, you’re up before him, dragging yourself downstairs for your cup of coffee, sleep still crusted in the corners of your eyes, and in the late afternoon, you’re yawning wide when he picks you up. 

Today is no different. 

You’re alone, scraping dough up from the butcher’s block, flour crusted apron cinched at your waist, white streaks on your black leggings. There’s some frost on your ear, the upward slope of your neck. 

You’re fucking adorable. 

“Hi sweetheart.” He murmurs into the space behind your ear, wrapping an arm around you from behind. Your giggle is soft, airy. 

“Hi daddy.” 

“How was your day?” Your cheek is warm under his lips, and you sigh, melting into his chest, muscles easing. 

“Busy.” You tip your head back and he leans to meet you, his mouth on yours. You taste like sugar and cinnamon, lips soft and pliant under his, opening for him as he deepens the kiss. 

“Mm, I can tell. Are you about done?” 

 “Yes.” You mumble, already half hiding in his chest again. His arm around your waist tightens, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking along your skin. 

He should take you home, get you comfortable, wipe the remnants of your day off your skin, but as his palm flattens against your belly, you push back onto him, hips jerking, ass pressing against his cock. 

“Hm.” He pulls at your apron strings, letting them fall loose at your sides. “Is there something you want?” 

“Yeah.” You reply, breathlessly as you squirm. He traces lazy circles across your waist under your shirt. 

“Use your words.” He nips your neck. 

“I want…” you swallow, trying to rouse your courage. He’s been working on your assertiveness, your confidence in asking for what you want, what you need. 

“Tell me.” 

“I want to come.” You whisper, and he kisses the shell of your ear. 

“Do you now.” He slips beneath the waistband of your pants, finding the hem of your cotton panties. 

“Mhm.” You moan as he slides a finger between your folds, pussy already wet for him, clit stiff under his touch. 

“Oh baby, you’re already so messy. Have you been waiting for me?” 

“Ye-eah,” Two fingers press inside you, and you gasp. He licks at the smear of frosting under your jawbone. 

“My poor girl,” he works the heel of his palm against your clit in slow circles, slowly teasing, not giving you quite enough of what you need. “Have you been wet for daddy all day?” He steps back, pulls his hand from to grab the top of your leggings and pull them down, baring your naked flesh to him. You nod, easily folding as he bends you at the waist, arranging you against the countertop. His cock strains against his pants, already hard, leaking precum into his briefs. “Keep your hands flat on the table baby girl.” Your panties and leggings come all the way down to your sneakers, where he unties each one and pulls them off, moving your feet wide, spread open for him. 

You’re a dream. His sweet little raspberry girl, pussy glistening in the lights of the kitchen, your cheek flush with the wood of the countertop, mouth dropping into an o as he lowers himself into a crouch and blows on your heated flesh. You’re already swollen, and he can see you’ve been wound up for a while. 

“Did you touch yourself?” You shake your head. 

“N-no, I was good.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s a new rule, no touching. Easy to follow when he’s home, difficult when he’s away on a mission. His tongue flattens against your clit and then swirls, and your hips jerk. 

“Are you sure?” He murmurs into your skin, and your yes comes as a moan. You wouldn’t be this pent up if you had, and judging by the way you’re clenching, even when empty, he knows you’re already on the edge. “Poor baby. Don’t worry, daddy’s here. I’m going to take care of you.” Your fingers stretch, scratch, and it pulls his focus for a minute, draws his eye to a container full of kitchen utensils. 

He smirks. 

“You’ve had such a hard week, haven’t you baby?” He tips the container over, sending the utensils scattering as he sizes them up, easily finding what he needs. 

The spatula. 

“Yes daddy, I have.” You sigh like a little minx, melting farther into the counter. The spatula’s handle is cylindrical, with a rounded end, perfect for what he has in mind. He drags his fingers up the back of your thigh and over, glancing down your seam and then back, circling your hole before tracing a line back to your clit. You shiver. 

“My pretty girl.” He scans the kitchen. He’s underprepared, and as much as he’d enjoy spitting on your asshole, he’d prefer a different approach today. 

His prayers are answered when he spots the cooking oil. “Close your eyes and stay just like that sweetheart.” You nod, lashes fluttering closed. Your obedience is immediate, as easy as breathing. “That’s perfect,” he praises, freeing the cap of the oil, dripping it onto your skin and smearing it downward, over your hole, swirling it over your puckered flesh. 

“Oh.” You whisper, brows furrowing, bottom lip plush beneath your top teeth as he presses his thumb against you, testing your resistance before sliding down to pet your swollen clit. 

“I think I need to clean up your mess baby.” He slides a finger into your cunt and you clench, back arching. “What do you think?” 

“Mhm, ye-yeah.” You agree enthusiastically, trying to press backward, brushing your ass against his thighs. He chuckles and steps away, releasing his belt buckle and lowering his zipper in one motion, working his hand down his cock while he stares at you. Bent over, on your toes, ass and pussy slick and waiting. “Daddy?” Insecurity rears its head, the silence sitting too long, too heavy. 

“I’m here,” he reassures, nudging the crown of his cock against you. “Big breath,” he coaches, and on your rushed inhale, he thrusts home. 

“Oh god,” you moan, nails scratching against the wood. “Oh my god.” You’re always so tight, tight enough you make him feel out of control, like he could explode at any moment. You bounce against him as he thrusts, working you with an easy, ruthless rhythm. 

“Daddy’s going to make you feel nice and full baby girl.” He grabs the spatula, drips more oil into his hand and strokes it over the rounded tip. It’s a wide handle, wider than his thumb, and your hole stretches around it as he pushes it inside you. 

“Ahh…” you whimper, walls clenching down around him, body trying to crowd him out at the invasion. You’ve been able to take his thumb at most in the past few months, and he’s never pushed you past that point until now. 

“Very good girl,” he coos, stroking a hand down your spine as he slowly fucks your ass with the handle and your pussy with his cock at the same time. There’s a squeaking noise falling from your lips, a raspy whine turned groan, one he’s never heard before. 

He stops. Leans over your body to run his nose down your cheek, kissing the corner of your mouth. There’s salt on your skin, tracks of tears. “Do you need to tell me something?” Do you need to tell him you’re scared? Overwhelmed? Unsure? You start to shake your head but stop. 

“N-no.” 

“Is it just too much?” You sniffle and nod. He can only imagine how you’ll cry when he gets himself in your ass. “I know baby girl, I know.” He thrusts again, burying himself in you. “You’re doing so well, I’m proud of you.” Your eyes roll back as he forges forward, his free hand finding your clit again, circling around it over and over until you’re shaking. You take his breath away, his words. His girl, laid out for him, giving him everything again and again.Your trust, your love, you’re limitless, and you leave it all with him, trust him to lead you through this, through anything. “I love you.” He murmurs, increasing the pressure on your clit. You’re addled, mindless, chest heaving and toes curling as you barrel towards your orgasm. You don’t say it back because you can’t, because he’s playing your body like an instrument, playing every note, fucking you as deep as he can from both angles, and you’re coming. 

“Oh, fuck-” Your hips jerk, muscles seizing around him as you come, your head thunking down onto the table once it’s finished, limp and sated, his own not far behind. He drags your hips back, holds you down by the bend of your waist and slams into you, his vision turning white at the edges, harsh breathing mixing with your moans the obscene sounds echoing around the kitchen. He tips over the edge easily, his cock milked dry by your warm heat, your body desperately pulling him in. It’s violent, and messy, but perfect like you. 

His surroundings come back in technicolor. The table, your skin, the hum of the fridge. You’re still boneless, mouth open, little web of drool shining from your bottom lip. He says your name softly, testing the waters. 

You don’t respond right away. The slow blink is his only acknowledgment before you take a deeper breath and then try to turn. “Daddy.” 

“I’m right here,” he promises, pulling out and zipping himself up before working on your underwear and leggings. “How are you feeling?” 

“Dreamy.” You slur, and he chuckles. 

“Any pain? Anything feel off?” You shake your head. He slowly guides you up, your back to his chest, his arms pinning you to his body as he kisses the shell of your ear. 

“I’ll be a little sore I think but… I’m fine now.” 

“Okay, you tell me when that changes.” He starts to move you towards the door, looking around to see if anything still needs to be dealt with, baking wise, but it looks clean. You had everything all cleaned up, thankfully. “We’ll get you in a bath when we get home.” 

“Okay.” You sigh, leaning into his side. It’s where he keeps you while he flicks the lights and checks the lock before herding you to the truck. 

“You did so good, baby. So good.” He kisses the words into your forehead, your cheek, your jaw. Dotting the praise into your skin. “I’m so proud of you.” You give him another wispy, bashful smile, burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you daddy. I love you.” He tugs you into his arms, holds you there for a moment, breathes you in with a deep breath. 

He doesn’t even realize. It’s only when he hears you in the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet that he wakes, a second before you’re tentatively knocking on his door, his name small on your lips.

“Simon?” Ollie sleeps against your chest, the two of you bundled in a blanket, on top of your jumper and sweatpants.

“Christ flower, ‘m so sorry.” Sleepy confusion tugs at your eyebrows. Panic beats in his heart as he takes the two of you in, your shoulders rattling with the chill. “ You must be freezin’. Are you alright? Is she?”

“She’s fine, all bundled up. And it’s not your fault. It’s just… it’s really cold. I tried the wood stove but I couldn’t get it lit.” You look away, embarrassed, and his stomach burns with guilt. You shouldn’t have to be worrying about that, or anything.

“That’s okay, c’mon.” He wraps an arm around you, leads you downstairs to the couch where he grabs another blanket and tucks it in tight. “It’s the furnace. I’ll get the stove goin’ and go take a look.”

“I’m sorry, I tried. I feel bad waking you up, I thought if I could get it…” A shiver rolls through you, and he grits his teeth.

“It’s alright, it’s hard to get the hang of. Let’s get this handled,” he feeds the stove with some short, chipped splinters and a fire starter, finally managing to get it to take after a few tries. “There we are. It’s just a pain, is all.”

“T-thanks.” You’re freezing. It’s winter, and the furnace is out, and you’ve been awake and cold for who knows how long before thinking about waking him. It’s unsettling, how upset it all makes him.

“Next time anything happens, you come get me right away.” He demands, a little sharper than intended. You’ve been suffering while he’s been asleep. He hates it. His girls shouldn’t be cold, or hungry, or scared. “Okay?” He holds your gaze, serious, and you nod.

“Okay Simon.”

You’re curled up on the couch by the time he gets it kicked back on. Stubborn old thing with good bones, it just needs a little coaxing, but eventually, he’ll need to get a new one.

The idea fills him with warm satisfaction. Making this house more of a home, your home, his home, feels too good to deny, and it only multiplies when he comes back upstairs to find you curled up on the couch, Ollie unbundled and asleep on your chest, the two of you warm and safe in the glow of the wood stove.

“Hey,” you whisper, “you get it?”

“Yeah. It’s just stubborn. We’ll need a new one eventually.” We’ll. We. If it bothers you, you don’t mention it, and your small is soft and hazy when you speak next.

“Probably should go back to bed but it’s so nice down here.” You snuggle deeper into the couch, and he settles on the other end, your toes pressed against his thighs.

“She out?”

“Yeah. Still. Could sleep through anything I think.” Her lashes flutter above plump little cheeks, and he strokes the back of one with a knuckle.

“Little trooper.”

“She really is.” You sigh, fight to sit up carefully, trying not to disturb her. “She needs to sleep in her crib though.” His palm is flat on the couch cushion, and yours settles overtop it, skin on skin. “Night Simon.” He smiles.

“Good night.”

He fixes the windows.

They’re old. Wood warped in places, they let small gusts of cool wind in through nooks and crannies.

It’s getting too cold, for drafty windows, and he likes it. It feels good, to fix, to build something with his hands, fingers so used to pulling triggers and flicking knives they’ve almost forgotten how to be useful. Helpful. It feels like something he thought he’d never have, a life with a home and a family, a dream that once lived so far outside reality he couldn’t even imagine it.

Now, it’s all he thinks about.

By the time he’s finished it’s nearly mid afternoon, and he comes down the stairs to find you in the living room, Ollie in her little portable crib. You’re on the couch, a basket of baby clothes by your feet. It looks like a task, a pile of tiny shirts and pants and socks all mixed together, slowly being sorted into piles.

“Need some help?” You startle. Shit. “Hey,” he lowers himself slowly onto the cushions next to you, a palm turned upward. “Sorry angel.” You swallow.

“It’s okay.” You clear your throat. “Sorry.”

“No. It’s my fault.” He knows better, but he gets distracted sometimes. Too eager.

You give him a reassuring smile. Small but intentional, shoulders relaxing a fraction as you hand him a onesie. “Will you put that in that pile over there?”

“Sure.” He turns the onesie over in his fingers before folding it into a neat square, his gaze drifting to Ollie for a moment, watching her little chest rise and fall. She’s so small, so fragile, and it makes something in his chest pinch, an overwhelming urge to protect her settling in a new space inside him.

He had all these holes in his heart, before. Empty, bleak voids full of darkness. Burnt and charred remains of lives lived, things suffered.

They’re full now. Full of light, of love, completely filled in by you and Ollie.

Ollie stirs. She lets out a small warble, and you tense beside him on the couch. Frozen with two little socks in your hands. Unease prickles down his spine and he looks around, searching for the source of your discomfort, coming up empty. “What is it?” Your chest heaves.

“Nothing, I… she…” There’s hopelessness in your eyes. A stark contrast to their earlier ease, and you trail off, gaze locked on the baby who is now fully crying, her face scrunched up, tears on her lashes. “It was a long night and she didn’t want me.” He heard her all night, of course, half awake in the guest room, forcing himself to stay still. Stay in bed. Keep the distance.

He wishes now he’d acted differently, that he had gone to you, helped you.

“I’ll get her.” He murmurs, settling his hand just below the nape of your neck, thumb stroking circles into the junction of your collarbone. He wants it to say all the things he knows he shouldn’t. He can’t pretend to know everything that’s going on in your mind, has no idea what it’s like, to be a new mum, to have a tiny life solely dependent on you, he only knows his own truth. He’s here for you. He’ll take care of you, of Ollie, he’ll do it all, if you wanted.

Ollie comes to him easily, squalling against him unhappily. “Hey Ollie girl, what is it?” You watch from the couch, fingers knotted together, poised forward, unsure of yourself. “You’re okay,” he holds her up on his shoulder, walking the living room in a loop, finding your eyes on him and meeting them. “You’re okay.” You stand, half step towards him and your baby before retreating, heading for the kitchen.

“There’s a bottle. I’ll warm it up.”

“Here.” It didn’t take you long, and your hand is practically shaking as you push the bottle into his grip, discomfort rattling in the hard line of your shoulders.

“Alright, there we go. That’s better yeah?” Ollie drinks greedily, and he motions to the couch. “Let’s sit.” There’s no choice, he guides you with a free hand on your back, urging you forward and down, sitting at your side, so close Ollie’s wispy hair brushes your arm.

“I’m sorry.” You choke, and he shakes his head. “I just… she didn’t want me, and I didn’t know what to do and this morning she seemed so unhappy. It felt like I was failing, and I feel like I need a break or something, and I feel guilty and-”

“Angel,” he covers the hand fisted on your thigh with his, sweeping your thumb out to relax your palm flat. “You’re doin’ great. Of course you need a break. She depends on you for everythin’, and that’s a lot.” You nod and wipe away a tear that’s trickled down your cheek.

“It is a lot.” Your hand shifts under his, turning over, and your fingers fold to hold onto him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I want you to come to me, when it’s too much. Even if it’s in the middle of the night.”

“I can’t ask that-”

“You’re not askin’. This is what I want. I’m here, I want to be here for you. I want to help you. Let me.” Your pupils dilate, lips parting as you hold his gaze. He lets go of your hand to place his palm on the back of your neck, steady but gentle, firm and coaxing all at once. “Promise me flower, you’ll come get me when you need help. When you need anything.” It takes a few seconds, disbelief and then acceptance playing out in plain view in your eyes, before you nod.

“I promise.” He leans in. Holds you still as your lashes flutter closed and he presses his lips to your crown, murmuring into your skin.

Guidelines

Drabbles & Blurbs Masterlist

ꕥ–Fluff

✯–Angst

❥–Smut

✎–Reader submission

Series

The Big Door Prize Masterlist ꕥ ✯ ❥ ✎

Older!Eddie Munson x Neighbor!Reader

Oneshots

It Must Be More [2.1k] ꕥ ✎

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Your best friend, Eddie, teaches you how to paint a fence. You teach him what happens when he speaks sweet and low in your ear. 

Desperation: Ground Zero [1.7k] ❥ ✎

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie’s got some new stompers he needs to break in and a girlfriend who behaves like a needy whore. Two birds; one stone.

I Don't Want Anybody Else [3.2k] ❥ ✎

Perv!Eddie Munson x Best Friend!Reader

Summary: In an effort to hang out and maybe make some prank phone calls, Eddie shows up at your place late at night. But his intention of climbing in through your window is halted by the shocking sight of you, vulnerable and partaking in some intimate self-care. 

Ringing Pavlov's Bell [15.9k] ꕥ ✯ ❥ ✎

Experienced!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Reader

Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?

LoveGame [6.6k] ꕥ ✯ ❥ ✎

Virgin!Eddie Munson x Experienced!Reader

Summary: Eddie’s an unwilling twenty-one year old virgin, but when the opportunity to lose it arrives, he struggles to seal the deal. Even worse, you don’t know he’s a virgin. Will his ego ever survive this?

Go Fish [3.9k] ꕥ ✯

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: A shocking turn of events leaves Eddie bereft and furious. Luckily you’re waiting for him back at his trailer with soft hands and comforting words. Based on I Saw Red by Warrant. 

Eddie 'The Munch' Munson [1.5k] ꕥ ❥

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You and Eddie have a system—it's like a well-oiled machine at this point. You tell him when you need him, he's there. You let him eat you out, he feasts. You don't give him any more than the usual 'benefits', he pushes his luck.

When She Was Bad [3.9k] ❥

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie approves your request to switch dynamics in bed. You eagerly pull out the handcuffs—your weapon of choice as you take what you need. It’s too bad for Eddie that what you need is to drive him insane…

The Princess and the Guttersnipe [1.9k] ꕥ ❥

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Banter between long-time friends, insults, and a joke mistaken as a deal to be his starry-eyed, small-town girlfriend—it’s lunchtime with Eddie.

Steve’s Girl [4.6k] ❥ ✎

Perv!Eddie Munson x Reader, Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: It’s unfair. It’s simply unfair that Eddie has to exist in your presence while you’re not his—while you’re Steve’s. It’s especially unfair when you’re wearing next to nothing, and consistently on the verge of a wardrobe malfunction with the way your boyfriend can’t keep his hands off you.

Eddie's Secret [1.3k] ❥ ✎

Perv!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie’s not good at sitting still, especially when you're trying on lingerie right in front of him.

Loopholes [1.2k] ❥ ✎

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie likes to touch you. And that's fine. But sometimes he really pushes your limits. Him and his stupid fucking loopholes.

Entropy [19.3k] ꕥ ✯ ❥

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie’s at war with his subconscious as it continues to dress up like you—his best friend—painting pretty dreamscapes in his mind. That would be fine—if not a little awkward—if he wasn’t dating Chrissy Cunningham.

Bargaining [1.8k] ꕥ ❥

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Hit with an overwhelming desire to fuck your boyfriend, you try to convince Eddie to waste another fifteen minutes with you, despite both of you already being abysmally late.

Perverted [1.6k] ꕥ ❥ ✎

Perv!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie takes a mini road trip with the gang to pick fruits and vegetables at a farm outside of town. Easy day. Except there aren’t enough open seats in the car, and you have to sit on his lap. Hard day. Very…hard…day.

Devil Inside [3.8k] ❥ ✎

KindaDark!Eddie Munson x Innocent!Reader

Summary: Jason Carver sent his sweet, innocent girlfriend to pick up his ‘fix’ from the town freak—a big mistake on his part, but a glorious little surprise for Eddie. An even better surprise comes when he finds out you think you have to foot the bill.

Learning From the Best [1.6k] ❥

Virgin!Eddie Munson x Experienced!Reader

Summary: Eddie enlists your help to work on his stamina in bed before his big date.

Liar, Liar [1.8k] ꕥ ❥

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie is the type to lie about how you two met just for fun.

Pretty In Pink [2.4k] ❥ ✎

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader, Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Eddie made a special request, and the loving girlfriend that you are, you fulfill it—with his best friend. 

Prescribed Burn [8.7k] ꕥ ✯ ❥ ✎

Ex-Husband!Eddie Munson x Ex-Wife!Reader

Summary: Eddie, your ex-husband, won't stop crashing your dates, leaving you sexually frustrated and alone with him. He wouldn't be such a thorn in your side if you'd just take him back. Maybe one more hookup will do the trick...

Julie [5k] ꕥ ✯

BestFriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie wants you to meet his new girlfriend, Julie. You don’t think she’s right for him, but who is? 

What's Your Favorite Scary Movie? [4.3k] ✯ ❥ ✎

Dark!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Your awful co-worker, Eddie Munson, likes to play games with you—games you don’t want to play.

That's Just My Baby Daddy [2.6k] ꕥ ❥ ✎

Dad!Eddie Munson x Mom!Reader

Summary: Eddie really wants another baby, but you're hesitant. He's not going to take 'no' for an answer, so he's just gonna have to convince you.

Whatever You Want [1.2k] ❥ ✎

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You're so pretty, Eddie's so hard, you're so sleepy, Eddie's so not deterred.

(Baby) Daddy [2.4k] ꕥ ❥

Dad!Eddie Munson x Mom!Reader

Summary: Eddie's a good husband and a good father, he just wishes you'd stop calling him 'daddy.'

Glitter Girl [4.6k] ꕥ ❥ ✎

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Drummer!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin’s new song is missing a little oomf. Eddie knows exactly what it needs…

Are You Now or Have You Ever Been [40k] ꕥ ✯ ❥

Eddie Munson x Popular!Cheerleader!Reader

Summary: You’re the most popular girl in school, a 4.0 student, a fantastic cheerleader, and a force to be reckoned with. Eddie is…well, Eddie. When you two mix, it’s like oil and water. Spewing hateful insults one minute and hooking up the next, you and Eddie navigate the thin line between love and hate.

Eddie's List [1.8k] ꕥ

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie is the opposite of a nonchalant boyfriend.

Malapropism [3.3k] ❥ ꕥ

BestFriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie and his inability to get his words right. Or, three times Eddie was way off.

Lovin' You's a Dirty Job [9.2k] ✯ ꕥ

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Rockstar!Eddie is trying to make you fall in love with him. Based on Lovin’ You’s a Dirty Job by Ratt

Even the horses indulge in the silence without so much as a huff as they chew on the fresh greenery the base of the mountain has to offer. There is no campfire to ward off the chilly air, but everyone sits in a circle on the ground as if the memory of one still lingers. Eating is a monumental task. It's more than just grinding your teeth through impossibly stale hardtack—it's swallowing it down. It's pressing it into your stomach and keeping it there without bile rising back up.

What a cruel metaphor; consuming the knowledge that you've bitten off infinitely more than you could ever hope to swallow, yet you keep biting anyway.

"It's Tuesday." Kyle's the first to break the silence. He's long since given up on eating and has been weaving long stems of grass together instead. Bear noses at the side of his face, breathing down his neck until Kyle gives up and lets the horse eat it from his palm. "The bank should be open until five today."

"Means we got a couple of hours to hit it today. Unless we wanna wait until tomorrow," Soap concludes.

"No," John interjects. "The sooner, the better."

Looking at him, you realize you don't think you've seen John eat at all today. He sits with his knees bent and elbows resting on his legs as his lips curl around the filter of his cigar. The smoke swirls on the breeze, catching the brim of his hat before dissipating.

When his gaze turns to you, you find your eyes dropping to your lap where you eye a ladybug dancing on the hem of your dress. It climbs and falls over the divots in the fabric before eventually spreading the slit in its shell and taking off where it lands on Jester who brushes it off with his tail in annoyance.

"So. What's the plan?" you ask, prompting the conversation further.

Everyone looks to John in unison. The ring leader. The shepherd guiding a flock of sheep. Haphazardly, he flicks ash onto the ground next to him before leaning forward, eyes focused on imaginary flames.

"We do this quiet. Easy and quick. Don't wanna cause any more harm than what's already come to Blackpeak," he says. You wonder if he's being intentionally vague so as to spare your feelings, but you don't voice your concern out loud.

"If we wait until closer to five, it'll be easier for Lamb to slip in," Kyle suggests.

"Security'll be sleepy," Riley agrees.

Though his cigar is only half finished, John tosses it to the ground before standing. The heel of his boot cuts deep into the tobacco where he twists it into the ground. "We won't know anything for sure until we do some recon."

It's as if he's spoken some language you don't understand—the boys are quick to stand, shoveling the last bits of food in their mouths like starved children before fetching their horses. You stare at them from your spot on the ground as they mount. They're unfamiliar to you. Wolves turned bloodhounds ready to sniff out any nefarious scent they can catch.

"I just want numbers," John says, thumbs sneaking into his belt. "After the show they put on at Laswell's, they'll know we're coming, but they won't know when. Let's keep it that way."

"Aye," Soap agrees.

They disperse like a flock of birds in autumn, traveling until nature swallows them up with green leaves and thin branches. Everything swells. The chirping of squirrels leaping from tree to tree, flies milling about in the air, attempting to find the perfect place to harass Jester in a place his tail can't whip—then, there's your own heart. Pulse thudding in your chest just like it does during Daddy's sermons, you nearly choke on the beat.

It only worsens when you bring your attention back to John. His eyes are already on you, uncomfortably warm like iron left out in the sun for too long. Clearing your throat, you stumble to your feet before crossing your hands behind your back awaiting orders. Reality hits you in the gut. Steals the air from your lungs.

This could go bad. Worse than failed recitations. Worse than your knees kissing rice or a palm sliding against your cheek. You still recall what happened at The Twin Rose. The blood in your hair. Deafening gunshots that left you dazed. You think of your blood like that, staining the floor or the earth, iron seeping back into the dirt to make its way back home. Even worse, you think of John like that, gasping for breath—your only savior butchered and leaving you to fend for yourself.

"I'm good at being quiet," you spew. It's awkward enough that you're left rocking back on your heels like a tower begging to be toppled. "Used to avoid all the squeaky boards back home. I just need to know where to sneak in through."

John's laugh is quiet. A simple exhale through his nose as his lips twist into a tight smile. "I'd never make you do anything as mischievous as trying to rob the place blind," he assures.

"Right… So then, uh…"

His gaze is so heavy it turns your tongue into lead. Thick in your mouth, butting up against your teeth, squandering any attempt at speaking you conjure. John moves slow but sure up to his horse where he places his hat on the horn before he begins to dig through his saddle pack, exploring through the pockets until he's nearly elbow deep in the main compartment.

Something small glints in his palm as he holds it in plain sight. The sun catches it as he strides up to you, free hand flicking off stray flakes of curled leather and grass.

"I plan for this to be as easy as possible, for everyone's sake," John explains. He holds a dainty key out for you to take, one that's no longer than your pinky. You pinch it between your fingers, impressed with how sturdy it is. "This key belongs to my safe box at the bank. The number is inscribed there along the top. One-four-one. You should be able to go inside and they'll take you back to fetch the correspondence between Shepherd and Makarov. Theoretically, no one should cause you any trouble."

Swallowing, you nod. "Theoretically," you repeat.

"You can always count on men to make a mess of things," John chuckles. His smile slowly morphs and contorts, like a river left to wander for too long, now taking on a new shape as something somber overwhelms his face. "I won't be able to go with you. They'll recognize my face before I even step foot into town, but I'll be watching. I promise."

"I know I'm quite the klutz, John Price, but I'll do my best," you say with stiff humor as you stow the key away into the pocket of your dress. "I won't mess this up."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

The wind teases his hair and you are left watching the way the strands glide against one another—how they seem to catch fire in the sunlight. His facial hair has grown out. It reminds you of the rugged mountain men that used to visit your father's church during their travels. They would always cry during service. Heads bowed lowest, hands clasped tightest, yet their voices were always the quietest.

John's hand moves to his hip where his six shooter sits low, clothed muzzle resting against his thigh where the silver peeks out between the leather holster. The wood-grained grip sits in his palm fluently as he releases it, cylinder falling open with a simple click, letting him slip the bullets from their chambers.

"I'm sending you with this, just in case things get hairy," John explains. Freshly emptied, he slaps the cylinder shut before he holds it by the short barrel, grip facing you. "I won't be close, but I'll still come if anything happens, and this should buy you some time."

"Oh, I don't know about this," you say, hands raising defensively, refusing to take the gun. "I've never shot a revolver before."

"That's why we're gonna practice."

When John takes your hand into his own, you're reminded of those weeks ago when he taught you to shoot a rifle. The warmth of his palms are dulled by the callouses that litter the fleshy bits beneath his fingers, yet he is somehow impossibly soft as he presses the smooth wood grain of the grip against you. He maneuvers behind you as he takes your other hand and places it around the first. Like a teacup he murmurs.

His explanation his thorough. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Line the sights up like you do with a rifle. Don't point the muzzle anywhere you wouldn't want a bullet. Watch for the recoil—it will be more jumpy without the extra weight of a stock. Cock it to fire easier, but it's double action, so you'll have to squeeze harder if you don't. John has you dry fire it a few times to get used to the draw of the trigger. You feel the mechanisms turn and bind as the cylinder spins with each feigned shot.

At the same time, you feel his breath on your ear, the warm weight of his hands squaring your shoulders back; you're reminded of these last few nights camping in the mountains, how he slips into your sleeping sack each night to keep you warm. You squabble less and enjoy each other more.

Mr. Beckett once told you a story about a wolf pup he found long before you were born. A small runt, pathetic and whining, kicked out of the pack and left to waste away into nothing. He took pity on the thing. For months he fed it cows milk until it was no longer emaciated. Strong legs and yellow eyes, he trained it to be a guard dog—something that had a better chance of fighting off wild coyotes and wandering wolves. You don't know why it reminds you of John, a wolf among sheep who loves the lambs despite his nature.

Heph, he called him. Named after something in Greek Mythology that your father refused to let you fully learn. Two years into their bond, Mr. Beckett found Heph in the midst of his flock of sheep with his throat torn out and dark fur stained auburn, betrayed and brutalized by the very pack that left him behind.

No matter what it's fed, you suppose a runt is still a runt.

Once John is satisfied with your learning, he takes his revolver back and begins to load his bullets back into the chamber. The brass catches the sun where it lingers in your vision as spotty black holes until he flips the cylinder shut and spins it for good measure. The clicks echo against the trees. It soaks into the roots, savors the flavor, forces itself to remember the sound of playful death.

He wordlessly holsters the revolver before retrieving more items from his saddle pack. Leather, you realize. Earthy colors and soft hides—they're straps, complete with brass buckles. John approaches you without shame before he sinks to the ground, knees digging into the soil and bleeding into his jeans. Wary, you step away from him with drawn brows.

"What are you doing?"

"You can't exactly walk into a bank with a gun in your hand, Lamb, and a woman clad in a holster will garner too much attention," he chides. "Lift your skirt for me."

Now this is the John Price you're familiar with—blunt. Requesting you do the most shameful of things as if it means nothing more than dust. However, this is the first time you've noticed the sincerity in his eyes.

You give in without argument or banter because after all the time you've spent with him, you think you might trust him now, fully and without question. Fingers daintily roll the hem of your dress up until John has the canvas he needs to work. Your pantalets don't offer enough coverage to keep you from shivering, though you can't decipher if it's because of the mountain air or the way John's hand slips between your knees to pull your leg closer to him that you tremble so terribly.

It worsens as his hand moves up along your thigh, knuckles grazing against you as he secures his six shooter to the side of your leg via the leather straps. The metal bites through the cotton of your clothes and you keep yourself from hissing as he tugs on things to check how secure they are. It's uncomfortably tight, enough to leave pressure divots on your skin, but you don't say anything as he pulls your dress down and smooths it over your body to check for any awkward, overt lumps that should give it away.

"Give her a walk. See how it feels," John prompts, pushing himself to his feet.

One leg is lead and the other feels like water, each moving beneath you in their own strange ways as you waddle through dried pine needles and decaying leaves. You test out what it's like to lift your dress up and yank the revolver free, and though you aren't the fastest, you think you'll be able to catch anyone by surprise should they attempt to cause you any harm. The weight of a loaded gun feels strange in your hand. Wrong.

Thou shalt not kill.

"It's a little uncomfortable," you admit. "I… hope I won't have to use it."

"I hope not, too."

Twigs snap beneath John's boots as he wanders up to you. You do not back or cower away. Instead, you watch him. You can't read the expression on his face, but you recall how it mimics the one he wore at the train station in Grand Hollow before you departed, so you aren't surprised when his palm raises to cup your cheek. A familiar feeling and scent—tobacco and leather on his fingers, now sinking deep into you.

"Just in and out, that's all we need. Just need you to get back safe." His voice is a whisper, one that fans over you like the blanket he hides your bodies with at night.

When you nod, his hand moves with you. "Okay."

His other hand joins in cradling your face and you're left trying to recall the last time someone ever held you like this. A gentle mother wiping away your tears, your own palm pressed against your cheek at night to try and will yourself to sleep—this time is different. Unfamiliar and strange enough to leave your head spinning.

Then, it's not just John's hands on your face, but his lips. His facial hair tickles you, scratching your chin and nose as your eyes flutter shut because it's the only thing that feels right in the moment. You can taste him. The tobacco he smokes, earthy and wet, and the salt lingering on his tongue from lunch.

Nature curls around you. Vines swarm your feet and legs, keeping you pinned to your spot on the earth while the wind binds you and John together with invisible string. Macrocosm eggs you on, but your upbringing rips you down—if this is unholy then why does it feel right? Why do your arms raise on their own accord to rest on John's shoulders, to feel the muscle beneath his skin, to revel in his warmth?

Then there's the way he looks at you when he pulls away. Parted lips and heavy eyes. You think of what his hands have done—what you've seen him do. The lives he's taken and the harm he's caused, and yet he's never once hurt you.

His hands are softer than God's shepherds.

"Why'd you go and do something stupid like that?" you croak.

You know you've ruined things again when John releases your face. "Didn't feel stupid at the time." Your hands fall from his shoulders as he steps away, chin stiffly falling towards his chest. "Guess it does now."

It takes the boys a better part of an hour to return from their reconnaissance and to save you and John from the awkward purgatory you've thrown yourself in. Stray glances, unsure hands trying to keep busy—each beat of your heart brings you pain. It screams at you, pounds against your chest and demands to know the reason you opened your mouth and ruined everything. A tender moment. The softest thing you've experienced since you were a child.

You're not sure what scares you more—the fact that you've once again embraced a man before marriage, or the fact that you enjoyed it too much to care about your father's warnings.

"It's quiet," Kyle reports. "Nothing out of the ordinary that we could see through a scope, anyway."

"Shepherd's confidence'll get 'im killed," Riley rasps.

"Bastard thinks we won't come back so soon," John mutters. He straightens his back and crosses his arms as if he's ready for war. "But it's safe for Lamb?"

Kyle nods. "They'll have no reason to question her if she goes in alone."

John hums. His eyes flicker to you for a short, fleeting moment before landing back on the boys. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Jester huffs with every step he takes as you traverse along the trail Kyle pointed out to you just before everyone parted ways for what must be the most backwards heist the world has ever witnessed. Sweat slicks along the reins as you scan the edge of the road as if anyone will pop out to grab you at any moment. You are soaked in guilt. Soaked in sin. You wonder how long it will take before someone can sniff it off of you.

When the treeline breaks and the road widens, you are met with the sparse ranch lands that line the environs of Blackpeak. It's nothing spectacular, and not nearly as expansive as the ones you're used to in Penmosa, but you eye the grazing cattle and the guard dogs lazying in the afternoon sun.

A small flock of geese honk and flutter along the fence, long snake-like necks weaving through the posts. You can't help but chuckle as they flap their wings and call out to you expectantly. It's an oxymoron. Give us what we want but don't get too close. You reach to dig your hands into the pocket of your apron only to realize you're not wearing one, nor do you have any rice from a post-sermon punishment to feed them.

As you near the town, you begin to realize just how Blackpeak got its name. A part of you always thought it was because of the onyx coal dust and soot that seems to settle over the town from the mines, but off in the distance where man cannot touch, you see a towering mountain. Snow still sits in patchy spots around the head despite the warmer weather, but the cap is dark, a stark difference from the surrounding terrain. It's not quite black like the name would suggest, but it's powerful. Baronial. The town shivers in its shadow.

Though it is not comparable to Grand Hollow, it certainly beats sleepy Penmosa and Little Wood. Heavy timber buildings reinforced with wine colored brick line the main street to the town with twinkling lights that you're certain must be electrically powered. In the distance, a train horn cuts through the chatter of shopkeepers and the whining of horses itching to free themselves from their reins and run free. Many people greet you with kind smile before going about their business—strangers must not be so strange around here.

Kyle's directions echo in your head as you trot past what you're certain is the town square. Oak trees spring from fat patches of grass with unlit oil lamps on each main corner. There's a cobblestone path that leads through the shade to a large man made structure that leaves your stomach swirling.

Gallows. Tall and proud, with a noose already awaiting its next victim. The rope swings in the faint breeze as if it's already got the weight of a body beneath it. You swallow.

Left at the gallows, then the bank is at the end of the road.

Blackpeak Bank is what you expect of something that shoulders so much responsibility. Pristine stone holds the walls high and thick windows reflect the blinding sun directly into your eyes as you approach the hitching poles. John's revolver digs into your thigh as you dismount, but you're wary of the man dressed in black standing at the entrance, so you don't bother to adjust it as you tie Jester up and ascend the stairs.

Wiping the sweat off of your palms onto your dress, you greet the man at the door with a tight lipped smile. He's young and clean shaven, and you're surprised to see he returns your smile with a toothy grin as he reaches for the door.

"Afternoon, miss."

You try to quell the pounding of your heart so that the warble can't be heard in your voice. "Why thank you."

Inside of the bank, there is a short line and two tellers assisting people with various requests. As you fall in behind them, you look at the armored doors that lead to the back of the bank and the armed man who stands before it. Despite the weapon that looms on his hip, he looks bored. Tired. An uneventful day at work must be a good one for him.

It doesn't take long for the line to move you to the front. Each step you take along the polished floor has your blood gushing to your fingertips, but you keep a straight face as the teller calls you forward with a smile. He's older than the man up front, but not by much. A dark mustache curls on his lips, fitting perfectly with the tie around his throat.

"Hello miss," he greets, his tone pitchy and kind. "What can I do for you today."

You act out the scenario the same way you rehearsed it in your mind for the entire ride here—smiling, you reach your hand into the pocket of your dress before retrieving John's key and sliding it across the counter. "Hi there, I just need to retrieve something from my safe, please."

Thumbing over the key, the teller looks at you with a raised brow. "Your safe?"

"Technically, it's my husbands," you say with a gauche laugh. "But he's always saying what's his is mine, and I always thought that extended to his safe and the money within it. Don't worry, sir, I assure you he sent me to get the money for him. He's working on closing a deal with some cattle, but we're a little short on pocket change."

Confusion melts clean off the teller's face and is replaced with the same cordial smile everyone else in this town seems to wear. Taking the key into his hand, he nods towards the armored door to your right. "Follow me, Miss…?"

"Lily. Lily Beckett," you fabricate, borrowing your favorite bartender's last name.

"Yes, Mrs. Beckett. I'll bring you around to fetch your cash."

With each step you take, you feel as if you're going to float away from the earth. Your body is light, muscles tensing, preparing for flight. You will your nerves to settle as you're brought to a room adorned with black iron boxes dipping into each wall, all complete with a small gold sign that states their number.

The teller leads you past several boxes until he reaches John's safe—141. It's nothing spectacular. Akin to all the other safes around it, the teller treats it with no special importance as he slides the key into the lock and pulls the door open, then steps aside so you can retrieve the items to your liking.

Thanking him, you peer inside of the box and you feel your mouth go dry at what you find. You've never seen so much money in your life. Stacks of it held together with twine wink at you. There must be a few hundred, if not thousands, more than enough to buy a home—more than enough for cattle.

Swallowing, you reach your hand inside and begin to rummage through the items. A cautionary glance over you shoulder reveals the teller's stoic gaze as he stares at the far door, giving you privacy. You find the letters hidden under a stack of bills, each still folded neatly in the envelopes they were sent in. There's no time for curiosity, so while the teller's attention is elsewhere, you shove the envelopes into your blouse before sorting through the cash, ensuring you put on a good show of counting the bills before you're content.

"There, that ought to be enough," you determine.

The teller turns to you with a smile. "Excellent."

He locks the safe and hands the key back to you before guiding you to the front of the bank. You can't help but eye the main entrance and the freedom that lies behind it. All you need to do is ride back to camp and then this is all over—this odd nightmare that you've found yourself in.

"Mrs. Beckett, before you go, I must ask for your signature," the teller says, yanking you out of your daydream.

You blink. "My signature?"

"If you don't know how to write, a simple mark will do just fine," he assures you.

He's flipping through a book of sorts—an old one with a cracking spine that's been keeping records for longer than you've been alive. He's looking for something. A name. A number. The bills in your hand begin to crumple.

"What for?" You try to keep you tone steady, but it's hard to hide the nervosity rising in your throat.

"We keep track of who takes money from which vault and when. A security measure. I'm sure you understand," he explains flippantly. Finally, he settles on a page and begins to reach for a writing utensil from the counter. "Ah, here we are, safe 141—oh… well that's strange."

Your feet are moving. Toe to heel, you're backing up slowly. A lamb caught in the wolves den. The teller looks away from the book and up at you, and you know his gaze. You've seen it on your father. Disappointment. The careful unwrapping of your facade. He sees right through you.

"According to our records, the safe you accessed doesn't belong to a Mr. Beckett, but rather, a certain John Price."

It starts a promise, one he forces you to make.

Stay in bed. I’ll take Ollie so you can get some sleep. Stay in bed, I mean it. Promise me flower.

I promise.

“Gotta let your mum get some sleep, don’t we Ollie girl?” He holds her against his chest, careful on the stairs, down to the kitchen where he started warming a bottle when he heard her get up, cranky little cries reverberating through the house.

He’s never had such a demanding boss.

“That’s a girl,” he encourages as he strokes the side of her cheek, triggering the reflex just like you taught him. When her mouth opens, he slips the nipple inside and her eyes slip closed once she realizes she’s finally got her breakfast. “See? Not so bad.” She had been resistant yesterday. You tried and tried to get her to take the bottle, only getting a little in here and there, but it wasn’t enough to discourage you. You were committed.

“Once she gets used to it, it will be fine. I can’t… I can’t do this,” you motioned to your chest, “all the time. Plus, if she takes a bottle, you can feed her.”

She’s on the last drop when you appear in the doorway of the kitchen, and his heart stops when he turns and finds you there, his flannel hanging off your shoulders.

You look good.

You like his.

“Morning.” You tuck your hands into his arms, pulling Ollie towards you, the beam of a smile on your face. “And good morning to you too, silly girl. Were you good for Simon? Did you finish your bottle?”

“She did.” There’s a smidge of pride in his voice. It makes his cheeks hot.

“That’s amazing,” you settle at the kitchen table, slowly, and he can see the discomfort all over your face. He bites the inside of his cheek. “And that smells amazing.” He started breakfast earlier, eggs and sausage and toast, and has been keeping it warm until you got up. You’re going to need more energy today.

He slides a plate in front of you, and tries not to watch as you eat. Doesn’t want you to feel like you’re under a microscope but he knows food is essential for healing, for strength, and with all the work you’re doing, feeding Ollie, he worries.

“There’s more.” He offers when you’re finished, but you shake your head.

“I’ll die but, thank you.” Your eyes dart around the kitchen, your hold on the baby tightening for a moment. “We should probably leave soon, I guess.” Your voice shakes on the last word, and you turn tense. You’re scared.

“Alright,” he says slowly, taking your plate to leave it in the sink for later. “Want to get ready? I’ve got to install the car seat… thing.” You nod, but stay seated, gaze fixed past him and out the window. “Flower.”

“Hmm?” You don’t look at him, you keep your focus outside, even as he goes to a knee in front of you.

“I know you’re scared,” you close your eyes, take a deep breath, try to ward away whatever it is you’re feeling.

“It’s silly.” You whisper. “I just want to stay here, where it’s safe. I don’t want to take her out, you know?”

“I’m gonna be with you the whole time.” He folds a hand over your thigh, thumb rubbing wide circles into the flannel of your pajama pants. “You’re safe with me, alright?” Your eyes find his, bottomless pits, whole oceans. Endless seas of trust. You cover his hand with yours and take a deep breath.

“Alright.”

He waits. Dutifully.

Dodges the stares in the waiting room, keeps his focus trained on the door.

When you resurface from the back of the pediatrician’s, you and Ollie are sharing wet cheeks, tear stained and sad.

“What happened?”

“She had to get shots.” You’re stiff, the baby squirming in your arms as she cries her discomfort. “It was… a lot.”

“I’m sorry.” He has the urge to lean in, kiss your forehead, wrap you in his arms. Give you the comfort he didn’t know he was capable of giving. She quiets, still unhappy but less expressive, cries settled softer ones.

You wipe your eyes, force a smile. “My appointment is on the next floor. Can you…”

“Of course.” It’s second nature, taking Ollie from your arms into his, holding her against his chest, leaning down to her ear to murmur low shushing sounds to try to calm her. He follows you into the elevator, takes his post outside the door.

“I’ll be right back.” You kiss her face and it’s so close, your cheek brushing against his thumb. Your smile is strained. “Thank you. It shouldn’t be too long.”

“Take as long as you need. We’ll be right here.” He promises, and you give her one last reluctant back rub.

“Okay.”

Ollie makes it easy.

He paces with her in the building’s hallway, walking back and forth as she stares up at him with those wide, curious eyes. She’s seeing everything for the first time. The world. This place. Him.

He’s been in her life she since was days old, and he knows he won’t be able to let you go, let her go. He’ll do whatever it takes, to keep you both. To keep you safe. To make you feel loved.

Love.

What a backwards world. He shouldn’t be capable. There are things inside him that are broken, stripped to the studs and blown apart. Things so dark they can never see the light of day.

But not with you. You’re sunlight. You and Ollie, you bring him into it, that light, the one that shines on his face.

Just him, and his favorite flowers, soaking up the sun.

You’re quiet for the rest of the day, into the night. Ollie has fully settled, snuggled into her bassinet in the living room, next to where you sit on the couch, blanket on your lap. You’ve got a book, but your eyes are focused outside, through the window, somewhere else.

“Hey.” He puts a mug of tea down on the coffee table and you’re slow to come back to yourself, to him, smiling once you catch up, but it doesn’t touch your eyes.

“Hey.”

“How are you feelin’?” You ignore him. Or worse, you don’t hear him. You stare at the mug, unblinking, until he says your name carefully.

“Sorry.” Guilt tugs your lips into a grim line.

“It’s alright angel. What’s goin’ on?”

“I didn’t handle today very well.” You admit with a grave whisper. “I don’t think I’m going to be good at this.” You glance at Ollie, asleep and perfect. He frowns.

“You are good at this.” A tear rolls down your cheek and you shake your head.

“I fell apart during her appointment. I couldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t comfort her, it just felt like I was failing and-”

“I know, I know.” He takes your hand. “But you did do good. She’s healthy and safe, and so are you. You’re doin’ great, it’s just hard. It’s supposed to be hard.” For a moment, a slow, endless moment, you’re looking up at him with sadness and relief, wet eyes shining in the setting sun, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a palm to your cheek, holding it there. “You’re alright.” He murmurs. You close your eyes and lean forward, face finding his neck. He freezes, only for a second before wrapping his arms around you, a hand covering the back of your head, the other working long strokes up and down your spine. “You’re okay, flower. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry.” You croak into his skin.

“Shhh now, stop that. It’s okay.”  You pull back and wipe your cheeks, but the tears don’t stop. “You have nothin’ to be sorry about.” He’s said it before, he’ll say it again, over and over until it sinks in. You have nothing to be sorry for.

“Things were supposed to be different. They should have been different.” You’re speaking more to yourself than him, and he lets you go. Lets you work it out, say whatever you want to say, need to say. He sits with you through it. Listens. You don’t need him to counter you, or reassure you right now. No one ever just listened to him. Only Price, and by then it was way too late. No one gave him the space he needed to talk, work it out, understand. No one got it.

But he does. He gets it.

He never expected to be sitting here, on a park bench, openly discussing him.

But that’s how it is with you. You make it easy. Easy to sit with, easy to talk to. You’re easy to love, and he’s afraid he’s halfway there.

“It’s hard on all of us.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. He hasn’t moved on from Johnny’s death, still feels like he’s kneeling there on cold concrete sometimes, looking for something that wasn’t there. A pulse. A sign of life. Anything. “But we’re gettin’ through it. We’re all on leave, currently.”

“Your team.” He nods, and you give him a soft, sad smile. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I’m saying I’m sorry. I know it’s… it’s not always helpful.” Experience rings in your words, and his heart squeezes in his chest.

“Who did you lose?”

“My mom.” Your voice is empty, flat lined. “I don’t really talk about her. It was a long time ago.”

“When you were young?” You nod.

“I was eighteen.” He burns with an impatience to touch you, hold you. Tell you he’s sorry as well, even though he knows how it feels to hear it, how hollow it can be.

Before he gets a chance, you let out a little gasp. He tenses.

“What-”

“Hold on,” you giggle, reach for his hand and splay it over the curve of your belly. “She’s barrel rolling in there, do you feel that?” He’s stunned. The baby moves under his palm, and he’s lost for words, stupefied by the blatant evidence of life inside you.

“Wow.” It comes out hoarse, and you laugh again.

“She’s usually asleep right now. Must like your voice.”

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say. He feels cold and hot all at once, floored. “That’s amazing.” You haven’t let go of his hand. Still under yours, it sits on your belly, his fingers spread wide, soaking up every second of contact. He should pull away, but he can’t. Your gaze is tender when he meets your eyes, little hitch in your breath as you nod.

“I know.”

“Fuck!” He hears it from the living room, where he’s painstakingly assembling a piece of furniture, trying to put your desk together so you’ll be ready to start working again.

The tools fall out of his hands.

He’s upstairs in less than five seconds.

“What is it?” He hones in on the sound of your breathing, sharp, ragged pants that have his anxiety skyrocketing.

When he finds you, in the bathroom, in only a t shirt and underwear, blood running down your thighs, he goes cold.

“Is this…”

“I think I pulled a stitch.” He freezes, heart stops dead in his chest. The sight of your blood knocks him off balance.

“Sit down.” His voice is steady, somehow, controlled but h needs help, needs Maisie, now. You hesitate, sway on your feet and he’s at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around you, slowly lowering you onto the closed lid of the toilet. You whimper as he shifts you. “Breathe angel, take a deep breath.” He grabs the hand towel on the side of sink and dunks it under the tap, looking away when you work it between your legs, one hand still holding his in a death grip.

“Ow.” Your voice trembles, his stomach twists.

“Jus’ hold that there,” he fumbles with his phone, “hard. Hard enough pressure to stop the bleeding.” He’s not equipped for this, has no idea where you’re bleeding from, internally, externally, and his field medic training is useless in this situation. He shoots off a text to Maisie, and then pivots, places a hand on your thigh.

“I don’t know… I felt something pop, or rip, I-” you shift, and hiss, and he squeezes above your knee.

“Easy. Let’s just wait for Maisie, yeah? She’ll know what to do.” He hopes.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. Blood is starting to seep out from under your knuckles. He can feel his pulse jumping in his neck.

“Don’t say that. You don’t have anythin’ to be sorry about flower. We’ll get you fixed up.” He holds you there, holds you steady until he hears the front door, John and Maisie’s key in the lock. “Up here,” he shouts, pitch betraying his panic, but you don’t seem to notice, sitting with your eyes closed, one hand between your legs.

“Hey, oh no.” Maisie gives you a sympathetic look. “What happened?”

“I think I tore something, like a stitch.” Your mouth is set in a grim line, and Maisie nods, drops her backpack onto the cool tile of the bathroom.

“Can I take a look?” You nod miserably.

“Okay, let’s get you comfortable, Simon can you...” She motions to the ground and then he eases you down, settles your back against the tub, your legs pressed together at the knees. “Okay, got it from here.”

“Ollie.” You whimper when the baby monitor crackles.

“I’ll take care o’ her, you just let Maisie take care of you.” Your eyes are wide, trusting, and you swallow. This is the second time he’s left you in her hands, and it doesn’t feel any better. Not because he doesn’t trust Maisie, but because he can't stand being useless to you, helpless. Seeing you in pain, knowing he can't fix it, makes worry, anxiety, roll in his stomach, makes him feel like he's failing you. He hates it. 

Ollie is wriggling around on her back, waving her arms and legs insistently.

“Okay, alright, I’m here.” She’s so small, even after gaining weight, she’s still tiny, small enough he can hold her in two hands, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love doing just that. Holding something so precious, so important, keeping her safe. It almost feels like what he was made to do. “Your mum is gettin’ patched up by Aunt Maisie, so you’re stuck with me. That’s not so bad though, right?” She’s stopped crying, seems to do that when he has her against his chest. Instead, she’s watching him with that tiny furrow in her brow. “You look jus’ like her, you know?” He adjusts his hold, brings her closer, breathes it in, the baby shampoo and powder and you. She coos, tiny hand flinging towards his chest and he slips a finger into it, sharp little fingernails pricking his skin.

He walks back and forth in a slow pattern she seems to like and it helps burn his brain, scrub his fear away.

He’s seen plenty of blood. Seen plenty of people suffering, hurting.

But this was different. This was you.

“Your mum is tough. She’s amazing, you got lucky.” Ollie stares at him. Watching, and he wonders if she knows, how much the two of you mean to him, how gone he is. “You two are gonna be just fine, I’m gonna make sure of it.”

“Simon?” Maisie calls, and he finds her washing her hands, a small trash bag tied up on the floor. You’re still slumped against the tub, and give him a weak smile, holding an arm up.

“Think you could give me a hand?”

“Of course.” Ollie starts to cry as he hands her off to Maisie, and his heart breaks a little bit, compounding when you struggle to your feet, your weight shifting at his side.

“She needs to lay down.” Maisie tells him firmly, and he runs a hand down your spine, gently pulling you closer so he can support you.

“We can do that, can’t we flower?” You nod, taking it step by step out of the bathroom and down the short hall to your bedroom, holding onto him the entire way.

“I’m sorry.” You say over your shoulder, and Maisie shakes her head.

“Don’t be. Just take it easy until Wednesday.” Wednesday. You and Ollie have appointments on Wednesday, a trip he’s reluctant to take even though it’s necessary. He doesn’t like the idea of you being out in town.

He’ll be there the whole time, at least.

“Thank you. Again.” He eases you down onto the bed, keeps a hand on your elbow just in case.

“Don’t mention it, seriously.” She says her goodbyes with a quick reminder that you need to stay in bed for the time being, and then he’s alone with you again, holding Ollie as you get settled against some pillows. Ollie grumbles against his chest, mouth open on his jumper, and he frowns. 

“Think she’s hungry.”

“Oh. Yeah, definitely.” You hold your arms out and he deposits her in them carefully, huge hand cupping the back of her tiny hand.

“There you go,” her onesie’s zipper curls up under her chin, still too big for her, and he presses it down. “Don’t want that gettin’ in the way do we?” When he pulls back, he realizes you’re staring at him, lips slightly parted. “What?”

“N-nothing. I um,” you look away, lick your lips. “Can you get the pillow? Please? The curved one that-”

“I’ll grab it.” He knows which one it is, easily. He knows everything about your routines now, has Ollie’s schedules memorized.

It doesn’t take him long to find it, and when he comes back up, you’re sitting against the headboard, shirt halfway up, feeding her with your shirt curled up so he can just barely see the soft curve of your breast.

It’s like he’s been hit by a bus, and he doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring. Watching you feed your baby, the little life you made, watching you give her everything she needs. You’re her sun. She doesn’t need anything, anyone except you, and it’s amazing. All she knows, all she wants, is you.

She revolves around you.

And he does too.

“I’ve got it,” the words are thick in his throat, and you lift your arms.

“Help me out?” He wedges it under your elbows and then steps back. He should go, turn around. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay in this moment with you, with her. He wants to soak up the sun.

“She’s gettin’ big.”

“Huge.” You stroke her cheek with your finger. “Cheeks are getting chubby.”

“She’s beautiful. Gets it from her mum.” You don’t answer, but he catches the widening of your eyes, the way your gaze dips down. The silence is heavy, air between the two of you thick and warm, and after a while, you clear your throat. 

“You can sit, you know. You don’t have to stand there.” He hesitates but only for a second before he’s settling on the bed in front of you, your leg shifting just enough that your knee is resting against his thigh.

Ollie unlatches with a sigh, her tiny mouth open, milk drunk and perfect. You adjust her, yourself, and then prop her up on your shoulder, methodically, gently, patting her back. The blanket pools at your waist, and he itches to fix it, tuck it in closer to ward off the cold.

She burps once, twice. And then-

“Oh no.” You groan as she poops, and he chuckles.

“Who knew somethin’ like that could come from someone that small?” You start to try to move, inch forward, but his palm settles firmly on your thigh. “No.”

“I can-”

“You can stay in this bed. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to, I’m fine, I can-”

“Angel.” He cuts in, and you sigh. “I don’t want you gettin’ out of this bed for the next few days at least. Not unless it’s necessary. And changin’ a diaper isn’t necessary when I’m right here.” You still look like you want to argue, but he shakes his head. “You’ve been through hell, sweetheart. You’re hurting, you’re tired, and you’re tryin’ to do it all but you don’t need to. I’m right here.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.” You whisper, staring down at Ollie’s face.

“You and her could never be a burden to me flower. I want to help. Let me.” You’re mine now, he almost says. Your eyes have uncertainty in them, doubt he wants to wipe away, but you finally relent with a sigh.

“Thank you.” It’s hoarse, and he only nods. “She’ll probably want to be walked around too.”

“Don’t worry,” he assures as you transfer her to his arms, “I’ve got it. We’ve got it, don’t we Ollie girl?” You brush her cheek with the backs of your fingers, and then give him a small, soft smile.

You touch it, pressing down until the ache is muffled. "Focus,” you whisper the demand, thumb dragging over the mark. "You need to focus.”

Her face fractures beneath your hand as you splash water to your cheeks and hair. Then you pull out the small pouch, part it open, and swallow a teaspoon worth of fine seeds.

A light crunch of footsteps.

You shove the pouch away and pull your braid over your neck just as the water stills.

“Ready? Everyone's done," Blue murmurs behind you.

You stare at the reflection a second longer, then push up on your feet and hook the bow over your shoulder. A breath steadies your lungs more than it fills them. Past her, through the trees, the summer home looms; the others finish breakfast.

“Yeah. Coming." 

---

The doe lowers her head to the dark water. A red coat and a slight bend at the hock. You track the blinking eye, the tension of the bow lost under the whir of insects. She lifts her head; a still exhale as you adjust your aim. The still air between the cattails shatters at the cry of a crow, and the light scatter of hooves pulls a curse from your breath.

Your arrow flies to the black burst of wings, the bird dropping at the edge of the canal.

You lower the bow and shoulder through thick reeds, sticky earth grappling at the soles of your boots. An hour of following her and this is what you have to show for it; a beady-eyed crow whose corpse clings to your arrow as you wriggle it free.

"Are you pleased with yourself? Now I have to find where she went."

You boot the bird into the water. The mirrored surface swallows it whole. A shift in your hollowed stomach makes you dig for the leftover jerky at the bottom of your backpack, grind it between molars, and wash it down with a sip from your canteen. The humidity presses in and you study the grass in the direction the doe fled, tracking back to the woods. 

She can't have gone far. She’s skittish, and the only deer you’ve seen here.

The Ardennes region curls around you in damp greens. You stalk through the trees, ghosting your steps over gnarled willow roots. A flash of hide disappears behind a ransacked cottage. You draw the arrow again, closing in on where you know she must be.

You round the punky porch post, but gooseflesh freckles your arms when the ground shifts behind you, and you snap your aim to the rear.

The doe bolts.

Your eyes scan the area, then snap back to the cottage, where morning air breathes through an open window. Then—again. You drop the bow in favor of the knife at your belt, but the fraction of a second is too long. You swing in vain at the blur of a shadow who easily catches your wrist and pins you against the stone wall.

The scent of him quiets your struggle before his face even takes shape. 

"Jesus—there is something wrong with you." Your knee knocks into the first piece of him it finds; his thigh. 

There is no explanation save the fervent press of his mouth on yours. It is the first stolen taste in days, pent-up deprivation bleeding at the seams of your mouths, through the spaces in your teeth. Quick and starved. The wide frame of him seals you against the wall; a bite at your lip, then he breaks away and drags a rough inhale up your neck.

You pant. "Not here. He could be close."

"I know." His forehead digs against yours, noses colliding. He sweeps his gaze over your face, then down to your collarbones. He tugs at hem of your shirt, exposing the gash near your shoulder. "When was this?"

"Yesterday." Your voice is kept between your shared breath.

"One scratched you?"

"No, just—a broken window. Glass. When I was running."

A trace of his thumb around the reddened skin. "Cleaned?”

“Alcohol.” When you jerk your wrist free, you stoop to retrieve your fallen weapons. "You ruined my kill."

He fixes the rifle around his elbow. "I got a buck."

"You're lying. Where?" 

"By the road." His chin tips toward the east. "Help me drag it."

Slick blood paints gloves up to your elbows. A bucket of water blooms red as you duck them in and scrub roughly, then help Ghost spread the butchered strips over smoking embers. The buck yields enough meat for five or six days. By the time you are surrounded by makeshift racks full of carved flesh, the windmill is a black shadow upon the hill. 

Kyle’s haul covers the night.

"Come now children." Your hands grip the frayed ladder, head poking up to the loft. "Dinner will be served." 

Blue lifts her finger from a dust-etched round of tic-tac-toe, one of many carved into the floorboards.

“What’s on the menu?” she asks.

“A full Sunday roast.”

Ari doesn’t look up. “Dessert?”

“Sticky toffee pudding.” You dip back down, then lift up again. “Correction. Chef says we’re out of literally everything, so tonight’s special is French-roasted canal duck and the geese Kyle slaughtered.”

Blue sighs and drags a large C over the game. “Coming.”

Fingers pick at bones, and mouths chew cooked flesh. The large wooden gear above your heads groans in the fall of night. 

“Meat needs a day to finish,” Ghost says to Price when the map is spread on the floor. 

“We’ve made good time. Ardennes puts us halfway to the border.” He taps the green brush of ink, then drags his finger to a splotch of blue. “Next is the river. If we push like we did through Lille, we’re looking at two weeks. Three at worst.” A glance up. "Kyle. How are we on ammo?"

"Still sitting on a couple hundred. Those Greys cost us about thirty."

“We might want to start being more conservative with wound care,” Nereida says gently. “The gauze and alcohol are getting low. We had only a bit to begin with and… well, after treating Ghost’s back…” Her voice lowers. “I just think we should save what’s left for emergencies.”

Night in the French Ardennes is a cacophony of croaking frogs and murmuring mosquitoes. You shift under the thin sleeping bag, listening, and wonder if the German side is this vocal. When all the breathing around you evens, and Blue's shifting around stills, it does enough to hide the slide of your socked feet against the floor.

The heavy door shuts soft behind you.

He's on watch.

The warmth and solidity of him is a flame, and you are reduced to a moth, hands slipping beneath the lapels of his coat. His jaw is tense when yours mouths find each other. There is no luxury of undressing. The kiss only lives until he pulls you around the stone base of the windmill, lowers to the ground with the rifle still readied in one hand, his eyes on the dark horizon. His free hand blindly yanks at your jeans and you wriggle in his lap to help get them down just enough; then pure, choked relief is smothered by your palm once the stretch of him burns inside you.

It hurts—your muscles wrecked from travel, your body sore in too many places to count. Days without this have turned the ache into something unbearable, something that makes it hard to take him all the way at first…not until he touches you the way you need.

"Easy. There." Gruff encouragement at the shell of your ear. "That's my girl. Sucking me in now."

A few more words like that undo you.

When your head falls back onto his shoulder, there is the faint recognition of him spilling into his hand.

You drag up your zipper when the ability to move is regained, but are locked in his lap by a strong arm when you attempt to lift. Without taking his eyes off the distance he is meant to survey, he demands lowly, "Go in my right pocket."

Questioning pulls at your brows, but you obey, reaching blindly for the pocket in his jacket. Your fingers feel cool aluminum, and you pull out a tube.

"Savlon," you whisper, thumbing the bold, white letters. A sharp intake. "Where did you—"

“On the cut. Just a bit."

Understanding lands. This isn’t part of the ration Nereida carries.

You dab on a conservative amount beneath your shirt and tuck it back into his pocket before guilt can form.

His arm loosens and you push upright, sparing him a quick look as he stands and pulls his jeans into place, wiping his soiled hand hard against the stone wall first, then on his thigh.

A kiss to your hairline is the last of it; lingering any longer would be risky. You slip back toward the door, only tugging out the canvas pouch of seeds once he’s lost to the dark. A dry swallow, then the faint shift of what’s left brushes your fingers—two or three teaspoons at most.

The following day drags.

All there is to do is tend the smoking embers.

“I fucking hate mosquitoes,” Blue mutters when the two of you seek relief for your bites, lathering cool mud on each other by the canal. “Why do they need to exist?”

“Not sure. Let’s ask them.” The notches in her spine poke your hand even more than the swollen, hot welts before you roll her shirt back down. “There. Should take the itch down for now.”

Tadpoles flee as you scrub your hands clean. Then you check the gash. Better.

Your hands are dirtied again when you dig up edible roots with Nereida: burdock, apparently, but it resembles those wild carrots she unearthed before. 

"Have you seen anymore Queen Anne's Lace?" You keep your voice for her alone, biting your cheek to wrestle a stubborn one from the soil.

Without looking up, she whispers, "I haven't." She breaks off the useless flowers. "Are you running low?"

A nod.

"I know what you're thinking." 

"What?"

"That I'm stupid and reckless and selfish."

"I'm not thinking that, Twix." She holds the little purple burdock heads in her palm, brushes them with her thumb, then lets them fall back to the earth. "I think it’s important to reclaim pieces of ourselves… in anyway that we can."

"I can't—I can't get pregnant."

She finally regards you. "Have you been tracking your period?"

"I know when I last had it. It’s just… irregular. Sometimes it doesn’t show up for months."

She sighs, then says, “Don’t punish yourself for being human. I’ll keep an eye out for more when we move on. Just… be careful with yourself until then.”

There is no wind the morning the brief grace period ends.

You pack, wedging the restock of meat between your second set of clothes. Canteens fill with filtered water. Dirt is booted over the dying embers, easing them into suffocation.

After you yank the zipper closed, a voice breezes past your shoulder.

“Put more.”

You know instantly—without looking—what he means.

“It’s doing better,” you murmur.

“More. Before you’re sweating.” A discreet nod to his backpack by the door, gaze focused on the hands that restock his rifle. "Front pocket."

Your hesitation eases with a quick glance at the others, their eyes elsewhere. You grab a wrapped piece of meat and pretend to tuck it into his pack, crouching as you unzip the front pocket instead. It’s quick, an even smaller dab than before, then you’re screwing the cap tight and pushing it back inside. When you do, something snags your attention: a bent corner of paper, blotched with old blood.

Your eyes flick behind you once before your fingers pull it out halfway. Not paper. A photo. One side holds the faded faces you saw once before, back in his old bedroom: the infant and her young mother. He brought it, all this way. But the other side, a yellowed white you never checked, flashes faded ink. Writing. Cursive you decode in a single, furrowed glance.

Simon,

I am willing to try again with you, for her sake.

Call me if you still want this.

—Sara

The words hardly sink in because the intrusion of Kyle's voice somewhere behind you pushes the photo away, and you zip the pocket quickly. 

“Go on. Not the time to be shy.”

He approaches Ghost with Ari and Blue at his sides, a firm hand planted between the boy’s shoulder blades. You linger by the door, managing a neutral posture even when you notice Blue won’t look up. That alone pulls your brows together.

Kyle shoves Ari forward.

“Sir, I didn’t mean to… I apologize for—” 

“Spit it out,” Kyle grits, and the uncharacteristic tone surprises you.

Ghost’s entire frame leeches tension into the cramped space of the windmill's interior. His voice is low and controlled when he asks, “What is it?”

Kyle digs into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of cigarette butts. “Found these up there." He nods his head toward the loft. "He was giving them to her, too.”

Ari tries to jerk out of his hold. “What does it even matter? It’s not like—”

“She’s a fucking kid, is what. Now apologize.”

Ari’s nostrils flare, eyes pointed to his boots. “I apologize for sharing them with her, sir. It won’t happen again.”

A fraught pause follows before Ghost responds—to Kyle. “Watch him.”

“I assure you, Lt. I will.” He pulls at Ari's jacket. "Come on. Go pack."

Blue remains, lingering by a weathered grindstone.

"Come here."

She obeys.

"Look at me," he speaks, lowering on a knee. "What else did he make you do?"

"He didn't make me do anything. He's just my friend."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not, I swear!" Moisture reddens her eyes, but she wipes it with a single, harsh swipe. "I didn't even really use those things. It was just once because I couldn't sleep."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Just..." She shrugs weakly. "I don't know." 

He cups her chin. "You should've come to me instead."

“What’s so bad about it? You used to smoke all the time.”

“I don’t care about that. It's—" His jaw works, then he lets out a controlled breath. "I’ve been patient because I know you need a friend, but that boy is too old for you.”

"He's hardly older than me," she argues, jerking from his touch. Her eyes flick over at you, and your nails catch your palms, then she looks back at him. “You’re older than Twix, and she’s still your friend.”

"Twix is an adult. You're a—"

"A what?"

"You're a child, Blue. My child." He lifts back to his feet, carrying the tone that erodes argument. "You will sleep better with me, or with Twix. Not next to him anymore."

Her eyes flash. "But Dad—"

"Let's get your stuff."

Her hands curl, but she swallows down any response. 

The mosquitos grow bolder as the southern Ardennes sinks into marshland, making all of you stay on the gravel.

Braids help with the sweat, but you eventually undo them to cover your neck. Your gaze shifts focus between your footing over the broken concrete and glass from derelict car windows, along with the ruins of industry that pass you in a quiet seduction of safety. Half-submerged cranes reach out of the canals like hands, and empty warehouses groan in the crawling temperature.

Blue is far more silent than usual.

The Greys haven't been bad so far, nothing the four of you couldn't handle, but you worry the saturated air reduces how far their scent travels. There is little comfort in knowing the smoke bombs disorient them like they do humans—after Price used one the other day, you're down to four. It was the saving grace in an escape of thirty or so of them, after you scaled an abandoned shopping center. That is where you earned the broken skin at your shoulder, and where you suspect Ghost must've snagged the Savlon. No other place you've stopped through makes sense.

I am willing to try again with you.

Confusion gnaws within your chest.

But he said he was never with...

Movement between two buildings stifles the thought. You snap an arrow onto the string, but when your boots halt to track it, the black eyes of a doe are all that find you.

She watches you for a second before leaping over something on the ground. 

Your bow lowers along with your eyes, making out the crumpled jutting bones of a human skeleton, long picked clean and crushed under a large iron rod, frayed rope still tied around it.

"Old trap," Kyle remarks lowly. 

“Someone’s territory,” you mutter through tight teeth.

"Was, hopefully."

"Guard up," Price tosses over his shoulder from the front.

More traps show up along the interstate, old and rusted, catching your eye from a distance. Nothing feels fresh or lived in, but Ghost keeps his place at the rear. You know why. He wants his eyes on her.

But the land turns empty again by midday, and the calluses you've dug open from the harsh grip demand a break.

Pausing for lunch reveals just how swampy it’s become; in every direction, the sun glints off pockets of murky water tucked into a narrow maze of reeds. Price scouts ahead. 

"Interstate turns into a bridge," Price announces when you're wiping crumbs off your mouth, wrapping the meat back up. "Broken."

"Then we find a way around," says Kyle.

"Going around isn't an option." Ghost stares off in the distance. "It goes on for kilometers like this."

"We cut through the marsh." Price's slitted gaze points to the sky. "Beat sundown. Reach Hirson."

The sweet reek of stagnant water fills your nose. You shoulder the bow just to watch where your boots land; even the driest patches still suck at your steps. Cattails flatten beneath the quiet trek. When a deceiving piece of ground sinks up to your shin, a hand around your bicep yanks you out of it before you can face-plant into the water.

"Careful."

"Thanks," you exhale to Kyle, his grip easing once you find a sturdier footfall. 

There is a thick moment where he lingers there beside you; a tilt of his head, and a flash of his eyes to your neck. You instinctively reach to touch there, nostrils flaring around a quick exhale. There's no way—it's hardly a mark now.

"Keep moving."

Ghost's voice makes Kyle blink, and he glances at him once before adjusting his backpack and pushing on.

Thankful for your jacket, you yank up the hood and zip it all the way. You focus more on following the exact path Price takes, sealing your bootprints right over his.

The water ripples beneath the landing spot of a dragonfly, its bright blue body stark against it. Then, it lands on the mud at the same time as your foot; blue smushed into the black silt.

"Sorry."

Something in the water makes you pause. Movement. The silver scales of a fish, maybe. But a lingering glance reveals the row of teeth, submerged, and bony orbitals that fail to blink. Trapped, all that reaches for you is a hand at your ankle. You unsling the bow and aim at its eye just when bubbles of air moan from its mouth. 

Ripping your leg free, you call to the others. "They're in the water!"

A scream at your side, and the splash of struggle when Blue is dragged under. 

Ghost dives after her a split second later, stabbing at skulls and ripping off the hands that seek flesh. He drags her back up onto the mud and she drives backwards on her elbows, frantic, as more emerge from the pool of opaque water, grappling toward her. 

But Ghost's gunfire quickly drops them. You don't even manage another shot before the water sucks their squealing corpses back in. Then you rush to Blue where Nereida is already kneeling, wiping the mud from her face.

"You're okay, you're okay."

Ghost hauls her onto his back, both of them drenched, spitting out dirty water when he barks, “Move. There’ll be more.”

The marsh does not let up. For the next hour, every step is a fight. Mud swallows your legs, water sloshes into every crevice, and long-stuck Greys burst up in twitching fits whenever they scent you.

Most go straight for Ghost and Blue, jaws snapping at his legs as he keeps her anchored high on his back. You drop the ones he can’t reach. Others fail to break free at all, pinned where rocks or missing limbs hold them in place, their arms flailing at the air.

Price and Kyle cover the front, steering you toward the slow rise of firmer ground. The vegetation shifts to trees and short grass up on a bank. Ghost finally lowers Blue, his hands lingering at her arms to steady her shaking legs. 

"We have to check for bites," you tell him, but he is already about to lift up her soaked shirt.

Her arms fly over her chest. "N-no!"

Her dirt-smudged cheeks flare red.