MamanMae

Setup Chapter: Operation Blackbox

“I do not need a babysitter,” she insisted, folding her arms over her chest in Laswell’s poorly lit office.

The blond woman across from her looked like she did not get paid enough to mend the wounded pride of an intelligence operative who had just been told she had to take a partner on her next case. “It wasn’t my decision.”

“Well, whoever made the call is wrong. No one understands this op better than I do. A partner would just weigh me down.”

“Hunter,” Laswell said, using the callsign she’d earned years ago for her bloodhound work ethic, “it’s pretty standard to have backup on cases like this. A partner wouldn’t be a babysitter. You know that.”

She sighed, raking a hand through her hair. “I’ve worked Blackbox alone all this time, gathered all the critical intel that led us to this point. And all of a sudden top brass thinks I need backup?”

Operation Blackbox had been her baby for the last year and a half, the longest time she had ever worked a single case. When her supervisor had originally briefed her on it, very little was known: some sort of weapon smuggling scheme was occurring between Europe and North America, and several nations following up on these leads suspected the heart of the operation was in Iceland. Reykjavik was a popular private and commercial stopover between the two continents, for both planes and ships, so it made sense. The more research she did, the more she became convinced that the city was home to a decades-strong, international smuggling ring. Reykjavik was surrounded by remote tundra that would be perfect for underground bases or safehouses, plus, due to its small population and limited resources, the Icelandic government had decentralized its intelligence functions among several agencies. It was the perfect place to broker a weapons trade between the continents.

She had become obsessed with the case, following every lead she could get her hands on. Whether that necessitated hours of searching through archival footage, learning rudimentary Icelandic, or surveilling people of interest, she was up for any task that got her closer to unraveling the scheme.

A few months ago, a name had surfaced that changed everything: Viktor Magnus, an obnoxiously rich “philanthropist” who spent most of his time at galas or on yachts. He had clear connections to three quarters of her people of interest. The further she dug, the more dirt she found – but nothing that tied him to the actual smuggling. After sharing her findings with her supervisor, decisions were made above her paygrade to form an international task force to get hard evidence on Magnus and topple the illegal weapons exchange. Working internationally was nothing new for her, and she even recognized some of the operatives from the CIA and SAS recruited to the op, but it grated on her that they (a nebulous ‘they,’ old men with shiny brass metals on their lapel who felt they knew everything) thought she couldn’t handle this alone.

Well, at least they had deployed resources that allowed her to pursue Magnus. The final step of Operation Blackbox involved going undercover in Reykjavik and moving in Magnus’s social circles for as long as it took to capture whatever crucial piece of evidence could establish the smuggling connection. From there, warrants could be issued and the kingpin would finally be brought to justice.

“It’s really not about your aptitude for gathering intel,” Laswell informed her diplomatically, shutting her laptop and fixing her with a hesitant look. “This is about keeping you alive so you have a chance to gather it. You know better than anyone that Magnus and his men are always armed to the teeth and adept at coverups.”

“If I do my job right – which I will – no one will have a reason to draw a gun,” she rejoined. “I’m no rookie, Laswell. I can handle this solo.”

The case officer frowned from across her desk. “And what happens if, through no fault of your own, the mission goes south? It’s always a possibility in our line of work.”

“Then I’ll pull out my piece and do some James Bond shit,” she explained, firing off some finger-guns to illustrate.

“Sure. It’s just.” Laswell cleared her throat. “Some concerns have been raised about your combat capabilities.”

She instantly bristled, her face heating up. “But I’ve passed every required course at the shooting range, and I re-up my certs on the regular. I know my way around a gun as well as any of these guys.”

“Look,” Laswell said gently. “I didn’t want to bring up Salzburg, but…”

Goddammit. It was always Salzburg with these people! “That was two years ago, and for the last time, it’s not what it looked like.”

Unfortunately, there had been an – incident – on one of her previous missions that would likely follow her for the rest of her military career. After painstaking months of recon, her team needed one last critical piece of evidence to put a trafficker away for good. She was attending an opera at which she anticipated running into his mistress, and the mission was going exceedingly well until one of the trafficker’s men caught on to her presence. A gunshot erupted through the theater, barely missing her, and she quickly unholstered her concealed Glock to return fire.

The gunman, seeing that he had missed and was now the subject of hundreds of eyes’ attention, ducked and began to flee. His escape path took him down a vacant aisle, but once he made it into the crowd it would be nearly impossible to land a shot without risking civilian injury.

Just last week, she had taken a refresher course on situational awareness, where they drilled into her the importance of using your surroundings to your advantage. Scanning the theater, her eyes locked onto a glass chandelier right over his path. Rather than aiming for center mass and killing her target – who would almost certainly yield valuable intel under interrogation – she figured she could pin him under an object to merely incapacitate him.

Without overthinking it (or, in retrospect, thinking at all), she fired three rounds at the wire and chain holding it aloft.

Unfortunately, the thin and distant chain was a much smaller target than a human being, and she succeeded in nothing but dislodging several chunks of ceiling. A select few of the onlookers may have gleaned what she tried, and failed, to accomplish with that shot.

But to everyone else, it looked like her aim was so damn bad that she missed her mark by the height of a theater.

To make matters worse, this extremely popular opera house had cameras everywhere, and footage of the incident from multiple angles began circulating both on base and among the public. Laswell did her best to scrub the internet of the incident, but a particularly persistent video entitled Opera lady fires a clip into the ceiling had accrued some truly heartbreaking comments before being taken down. A particular streamer’s reaction video still gave her nightmares.

She was startled from the grim reflection by a thwap of paper hitting the desk. Laswell had hauled four manila folders from one of her many piles to the center of the desk.

“We figured this would be tough on you,” she explained, “so we were able to secure a few options.”

Now this was more like it. “I get to choose my partner?” There were a few operatives she had collaborated closely with over the course of her research that might not be total deadweight…

“You get to choose from four potential partners,” Laswell corrected, nudging the folders closer. “I want you to take these dossiers with you tonight and review them carefully. These agents all have clearance to accompany you, but due to the delicate nature of your cover, we thought you should have some say in the choice.”

She wasn’t sure she followed. “I don’t understand. My cover is that I’m a wealthy socialite summering in Iceland.” She had the whole story memorized backwards and forwards: Lauren was a former army brat, lived off a trust fund, was generally approachable and chatty, and would do anything for status.

“Right. But your partner…”

“Is my friend? Sibling?” she finished hopefully – desperately, even.

“…is your husband.”

Laswell must have noticed the terror in her eyes, because she held up her hands placatingly. “They’re not going to get in your way, Hunt. They just need an excuse to go everywhere with you. Think of it as one more layer to your cover story – I know you can handle this.”

“Can’t he be my bodyguard or something?” she offered, as though she had a snowball’s chance in hell of talking Kate Laswell out of anything.

“We did discuss that, but we think it would call too much attention to you. You’re not supposed to be a dignitary, and no else is brings bodyguards to these parties.” Laswell frowned. “Last thing we want is for Magnus to know you think he’s dangerous.”

She had to admit that the only cover story that allowed her and her partner never to be separated was, in fact, marriage. Which wouldn’t even be a big deal, if she could be friggin’ normal about it. But she hadn’t been out with anyone since a disastrous date a few years back, and her occasional one-night-stands were anything but romantic. And now she would have to pretend to be in love, with literal life-or-death stakes?

She was going to need to do so much emotional eating tonight.

The phone on Laswell’s desk rang. She placed her hand over the receiver and nodded towards the door. “Don’t freak out, okay? Just look them over. You might be pleasantly surprised.” Before she could reply, Laswell picked up the phone.

She dragged herself through the rest of the day, utterly distracted through her paperwork and gym session. After a quick meal in the mess hall, she finally made it back to her room and changed into some comfortable sweats, accessing her emergency stash of chocolate. The beds here weren’t exactly luxurious, but she crafted a little pillow and blanket nest and laid out the four dossiers from Laswell in a half-halo in front of her.

She opened the first file, took one look at the photo, and slammed it shut. “Nope!” she declared to her empty room. She tossed it to the end of the bed and made to move to the next folder before she paused. Chewed her lip in consternation. Ugh. Operation Blackbox meant everything to her. She owed it not only to the team, but to herself, to evaluate each candidate with an objective eye for strengths and weaknesses as applied to the mission. Her personal feelings had no place in the decision.

With a put-upon sigh, she stretched across the bed and dragged the folder back over. Just a quick read through his credentials to find a legitimate reason to reject him, that’s all she was doing.

Even putting aside their complicated history, Captain Price could be insufferable to work with. The man had more opinions than he did brain cells and was never afraid to bark them out to his subordinates and peers. His default setting was to assume that everyone but him was incompetent until they could prove otherwise, which had been infuriating to Hunter on their first mission together when she just wanted to get the damn job done. The reason he got away with it all was because he was extremely good at what he did – the golden boy of the SAS, the one they put on the recruitment posters.

It took her a long time to look past all his bluster and arrogance. And to this day, she wished she hadn’t bothered.

The thought of working with him on another mission, let alone pretending to be his wife, felt violating and ironic. But to her crushing disappointment, the man’s resume was impeccable. He had exactly the type of experience she would have wanted for a partner on this job and he had even operated out of Reykjavik for a task several years ago. There was a reason the SAS worshipped him, she supposed. There was no one better than Captain Price.

Interestingly, Laswell had jotted a little note for her on the back flap of the folder – she would recognize that clipped cursive anywhere. My top pick for you, was all it said. Dammit.

Putting a pin in those considerations for now, she retrieved the second dossier. Now here was a much more pleasant option! This guy was a cutie, and although she didn’t recognize him, she sure wouldn’t mind pretending to be his lover. Although, the mohawk was... a choice. She quickly reminded herself that she was not, in fact, swiping on a dating app at the moment, and began reviewing the file with a modicum more professionalism.

His name was John MacTavish and his call sign was Soap, evidently due to his ability to quickly and thoroughly wipe out a room of combatants. The paperwork referred to him as a “demolition expert” (fingers crossed that wouldn’t be necessary for the mission). He had spent years working under Price and boasted a resume reflecting as much. It seemed like he would make a fine partner for her purposes, although she wasn’t sure how well he would blend in at the posh events her target was purported to frequent. One of the attached reports mentioned his team often had a hard time parsing his incomprehensible Scottish accent and slang.

Laswell had left a note on this one, too. Great shot, enjoys undercover work, too charming for his own good. Keep him on task.

Well that didn’t sound great. This mission would be difficult enough without having to babysit a golden retriever with an assault rifle. Besides, he already had two strikes for the hairdo and having been trained by Price. Maybe she could come back to him after she saw her other choices.

There was no photo with the third file, and the name Simon Riley did not immediately register with her. Another unknown, then? But when her eyes fell on his call sign, she realized that this was the infamous Ghost. She wasn’t even sure if she had heard his first and last name before, or only his edgy moniker. From the whispers around base, it seemed like the guy went out of his way to appear dark and mysterious in a manner that bordered on farcical in her mind. They had interacted on a limited basis, occasionally swapping notes if their jobs or targets had some overlap. She grimaced, thinking about how frustrating it would be working with someone who communicated largely in grunts and brooding looks, especially if they were supposed to pass as a couple. Although she couldn’t deny that (in some part of her id that she usually kept locked in a figurative basement) his whole vibe kind of worked for her.

She thumbed through his paperwork, cringing at some of what she read. This man had seen some shit. Christ, buried alive? Seriously? Maybe the emo bit wasn’t an act.

Anyway, he was definitely still on the table given his very strong combat skills and experience with a variety of mission types, including stealth. And he got extra points for not being Johnny Mohawk or Captain Britain.

Laswell’s note this time gave her something to chew on, perhaps more-so than the other two. You’ll be safest with him, but I don’t know if we can get him to take the damn mask off. Hmm. He did sort of give off that protector energy. He was efficient and focused, and she’d heard how he always took first watch shift for the night, sometimes even declining to yield to a replacement.

The mask thing would certainly be a challenge, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious what lay beneath it. He’s got to be hot, right? No one walks around with that big dick energy and then just isn’t a smokeshow.

No clear winner had emerged at this point, and she was starting to get nervous. Given the luck she was having so far, she half expected her final option to be Vladimir Makarov. When she flipped open this folder and saw the photo of her last hope, she clamped a hand over her mouth to stem a shocked yip.

Kyle Garrick, “Gaz” to his team, looked like an excellent candidate for this mission on paper. He was young and handsome, great with banter, and had solid combat and interrogation records under his belt. She was confident he would have her back if a firefight broke out, yet for the day-to-day intel gathering they could definitely pass as a starry-eyed couple.

The reason she knew this was because it had happened before – only it wasn’t fake.

Several years ago, she and Kyle worked a very brief case together and developed something of a flirtatious relationship. When the task concluded, he asked her to dinner. She was overjoyed, as dinner dates were few and far between in her line of work. She had dolled herself up, giddy to hit the town like a normal woman for once, and met him at a chic French bistro.

Thus ensued the single worst date of her life. It was so bad, she told stories about it every year at Christmas. Her therapist actually asked her to stop bringing it up after several months.

She barked out a laugh when she saw Laswell’s advice, scribbled hastily – You’d make a cute couple. Convincing.

An intriguing thought occurred to her. Had these men self-selected for this mission? That would mean Kyle, even after their disastrous dinner, wanted to work with her again. Wanted to pretend to be her husband. Wanted to be seen in public with her, resting a hand on the small of her back and gazing down at her with a sparkle in his eye…

And Price? There was no universe where that man had willingly opted into this role if he knew she would be his partner. No, she decided. Laswell or someone higher up in the chain of command had roped them into this. Nothing else made sense.

By the time she shut the last file, she had more or less made up her mind. Although she wondered if she would regret her decision, her gut assured her that this was the best call to complete the mission and live to speak of it. Fishing out her cell and thumbing to Laswell’s number, she stared at the backlit screen in the dark cocoon of her quarters before pressing send.

“Laswell here.”

“Hey. I, uh. I have my pick for Iceland.”

Laswell hummed in approval, shuffling some papers on her desk. “Well?”

Taking a deep breath, she announced, “I choose...”

Gaz

Ghost

Price

Soap

Konig

It was a cold, dark morning when you awoke from what seemed like a never-ending slumber.  And yet, you were no more rested than when he first brought you to his den, however many days or weeks it had been since.

The curtains were closed tight, but beyond the windows of the cabin, you could hear the birds singing from the trees.  Not the long, ardent harmonies that ushered in the spring, but the lethargic, chipped calls of creatures simply existing.  Passing the time from season to season.  Darkness to light.  Waiting for the wind to calm and the sun to rise again in the great North Woods of Maine.

You were a creature as well, although perhaps just as different from the juncos and black-capped chickadees as you were from him.  The man beside you in bed.  Whose shallow breathing and slow heartbeat were only a temporary affliction.  He had ears so sharp they could hear the flutter of your lashes as you opened your eyes.

Muscles deceptively taut under a soft pelt of dark hair and a layer of cushy insulation, ready to pull you tightly back against him should you shift the slightest in his arms. 

You brought a hand up to scratch at his head over your shoulder, to soothe him back to sleep and shush him with your assurances. 

“I’ll be right back, John.  Just need to pee and get a drink.  I’ll put another log in the stove.”

A displeased grunt was all the resistance he offered as you crept from bed on stiff legs and cramped feet.  You immediately missed the warmth of him as you wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and tip toed across the chilled wood floor.

The kitchen was brighter than the bedroom.  He tended to only rise for a meal when it was too dark to awaken fully.  His heavy-lidded eyes would barely open while he leaned against the doorframe and shoveled a stack of crackers or a few bites of jerky into his maw before he nodded his thanks and returned to sleep.

But that morning, you were alone in the grey light of an overcast sky.  Outside, everything was white but for the green tips of the pines that rose like barbed claws from the frozen earth. 

The cabin was warm, it was safe.  But still, you ached to open the door and set your bare feet in the snow.  To run off and see if you’d leave a trail like the brave deer and rabbits that stayed active and free throughout the long winter.   

Or if it was all just a dream and you’d never woken up at all.

Hibernation was not your natural state of being.  You were only given one life.  A finite collection of years.  To sleep through a quarter of each seemed wasteful.  Such prolonged exhaustion, clouded thoughts, and inactivity were against your nature.  Rest was something to be earned when the work was done, not a necessity for survival.  It made you feel helpless.  It made you feel weak.  An offense to the universe.  A blatant disrespect for time. 

Your body, and your mind, resisted it in the brief moments of clarity you scraped at like frost from a window.

You chose this, you reminded yourself.  You’d chosen him.

He’d explained it all so thoroughly, when he was sure you wouldn’t run from him.  That he wasn’t just larger, stronger, faster than any man you’d met before, despite the creaking of his knees and the rugged depth of his gravelly laugh.  That he wasn’t just intense, protective and voracious in his appetite for food and fucking because of some closeness to the basest parts of human nature.

He was a bear.  In his heart, and in his DNA.  He’d spent his life searching for a mate, making his den, protecting his territory and his home.  He fought, he ate, he slept.  He waited for you. 

And when he finally found you, you stayed.  You’d never seen someone so happy, and it was contagious.  But he had been dormant for too long.  Out of your reach, despite the closeness of your flesh.

You loved him, and yet you still opened the door and felt the first gust of winter on your face since the one before.  When you were all alone and near starved.  For everything beyond the tangible—hope, touch, friendship. 

You inhaled an icy breath like shards of glass into your lungs and the world seemed to pause.  Even the birds hushed at your intrusion.  There was an unfathomable silence, but for the whistle of air in your ears.  It all felt too bright.  Too clean.  Too empty.

There was nothing out there for you, you realized then.  Everything was back where you left it.  But you couldn’t move any longer.  You stood up to your ankles in the snow.  You’d gone too far, your trail disappeared behind you and the cabin was far out of sight.

Let it be a dream, you prayed silently, as you willed yourself to take a step, and then another.  He’d be so disappointed when he woke up.  To find his mate frozen to death.  Remains eaten by a bobcat or a lynx.  Picked over by the buzzards and crows.  After he’d taken such care to keep you safe.

You thought you imagined the first howl.  A trick of the wind or perhaps it was your own whimper that sounded like the mournful yip of a coyote behind you.  It was the second from in front of you and the third from your flank that left no uncertainty.

Coyotes were solitary, except when they hunted together when food grew scarce.  You might have stood a chance against one, if you had better use of your numb limbs and something to scare it with, but not three.

Getting back to the cabin before he knew you were gone was futile.  Your own only chance was for him to find you before it was too late.

“John!” you screamed, as loud as you could.  Louder than you’d ever screamed before.  It tore through your throat and your ears.  “Help!”

Your plea hadn’t finished echoing across the foggy expanse when you heard something crashing through the woods in front of you.  The thundering of paws and the chuffing of a predator large enough take on a coyote.  Large enough to kill you.

It burst through the brush like a dark shadow, incredibly fast for its size, graceful enough that the only sounds it made were intentional.  Shock and awe.  Fear and intimidation.

The coyotes scattered with cries of deference and submission, and you cowered into a ball, forgetting everything you knew about black bear encounters as it sniffed and snorted at your neck.  Growled its impatience and annoyance straight into your ears. 

You didn’t know whether he was still himself inside.  If he knew it was you with a critical understanding, or if you were just a familiar scent.

A pitiful, soft human who’d gotten lost in the woods.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” a harsh voice called out.

His voice, at least.

“I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to—”

“Mean to what, run away?”  He picked you up over his shoulder and carried your shaking, sobbing form back in the direction of the cabin.

“I just needed to...to breathe.  I couldn’t breathe.”  Your sobs only intensified as his roamed his rough hands over your legs, your ass, and your cunt along the way.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, just c-cold,” you stuttered, teeth chattering.  You’d lost the blanket on the ground, and there wasn’t much covering you aside from your own weak furless skin.  His own steamed with exertion, red and hot to the touch as if he’d shed some hot suit of armor.  Or an overly thick coat.

He kicked the door to the house open and wrapped you in fresh blankets warmed by the stove.  Before you knew it, you were back in the bedroom again, hog tied in the soft flannel throws and stuck underneath his tremendous weight.   

“Of course, my girl would put up a fight.  Make me chase her down.”

Why did he sound so proud?  It was difficult to make out his features behind his dark, overgrown beard.

“You’re not angry with me?” 

It felt like he was angry, as he pushed into you without warning, and by the punishing pace he set.  The biting grip on your hips as he pinned you to the mattress.  The glint of his bared teeth in the low light.

“Just needed attention is all.  Missed me, did you?  Just have to ask next time,” he panted out the words between thrusts.  Sweat from his brow dripped in rivulets from his chest onto yours.  “I’ll calm you right down.”

The tingling in your hands and feet as they adjusted to the heat was no match for the hot coil burning and building against the pressure of his pounding at the nerve-riddled top of your channel.  It erupted with release as your walls softened and shook around him.

“Please, John.  Please,” you begged, but he had already given it to you.  Fresh tears sprung for your eyes in both apology and gratitude.

The renewed energy of his lovemaking was such a contrast to the docile beast he’d been for weeks.  The transformation to his bear form would have drained him, sapped any resources he’d saved from inside his body.  And yet he didn’t hesitate to spend them all, to release everything he had left inside of yours.

“I’ll keep you happy, love.  Don’t need to run.  I’ll keep you too full to run.”  He nuzzled the side of your cheek as you both came down, his body still atop you.  Ready to go again if you stirred.  To expend his precious stores as many times as needed to fuck you back to sleep.

His DNA became yours, just for a little while.  It mixed within you, swirled in your womb and urged you to rest alongside him.  In preparation for all that awaited you come spring.  A pull so strong your body couldn’t resist it. 

And you no longer had the clarity of mind to try.  

As the snow slowly turned to rain, and the thaw began to spread, his grip on you loosened.  His own breaths deepened, and his heart sped up to match the steady beating of a downy woodpecker’s beak along the logs of the cabin. 

It was as if he could hear the worms return to the surface.  The insects scurrying from beneath the rocks and the decaying leaves.

“Is it time?” you asked hopefully, anxious to feel the sun on your face and grass between your toes again.

Your nest of blankets and pillows reeked of smoke from the wood stove, musky sweat and seed.  You itched to wash it all away and hang them out to dry on a wildflower-sweetened breeze.  To open the windows and let it all in.

“Not quite.  Spring of Deception, love.  Another freeze is coming tomorrow,” he grumbled, his softened cock sliding from you in its own exhausted surrender.  It’s milky emission too gummy and viscous from the night before to follow behind.

The effects of his influence were no match for the cacophony of bird song outside the windows, and the promise of the world moving forward around you.  You’d survived your first torpor.  It was time to live again.

“Sleep then, if you wish.  But I am starving.”

He may not be able to keep you in bed forever, but he’d learned his lesson on leaving you alone for too long.  You weren’t in the kitchen cupboards for more than a few minutes before he darkened the door behind you, squinting groggily at the light and tugging a pair of pants over his hips.

“I’ll put the coffee on,” he yawned his offer of assistance. 

“I’m going to make a cake, I think.  To celebrate.  With carrots and cinnamon, toasted nuts and applesauce.  I think there’s even a few eggs left.  And brown butter frosting.”

Your mouth watered as your brain moved faster than it had in months. 

“What are we celebrating?” he asked, as he added another log to the stove.

“I don’t know.  A new season.  New life.  Maybe even for us.” 

By the way you caught him looking at your belly and the slight shake of his head, you had your answer.

He knew the mating didn’t take in the way he knew it would snow again.   He could smell it in the air.  Could smell it on you.  You’d bleed soon.

“Maybe next year will be easier,” you offered gently.  While you were disappointed, but not overly despondent, you wondered if he felt the same.

He’d explained before that bears only bred successfully under perfect circumstances.  Would he take it as a personal failure in his fortification of the den?  In caring for you and keeping you well and full as he promised?

Or would he blame you, for fighting against it?

“Plenty of time to get it right, and things to do before then,” he assured you, smiling in a way that warmth flooded his glacier blue eyes. 

No, he wouldn’t give up.  Not on you.  Not ever.

“And if it never does?”  Perhaps the differences in your nature were too great.  The odds too overwhelming, even for him.

“Then I’m glad we have each other.  And maybe we’ll raise some dogs instead.  Or orphaned cubs.”  He said the last so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.  It was on his breath like an afterthought that slipped through a crack before it could close.

“You’d do that?” you asked, disbelieving, although you shouldn’t have been surprised.  Taking great care of other people’s muppets was his life’s work.

“Aye, with you I’d do anything.  If it kept you happy.”

Kept you with him, he didn’t say. 

“I’m not going anywhere, John.  I promise.”  And you meant it.  “Now pour me a coffee, will you?  Before it gets cold.”

And before the next storm blew in.

_____

(This is a silly little homage to some of the amazing Bear-shifter works I've read, both in this fandom and others.

"landscape with honey" by emphemeron (ceilidho) and the "Your Heart Is The Only Place That I Call Home" series for Halsin from Baldur's Gate by cozy_ships (thecoziestbean) are two of my favorites.