#In The Heat Of The Moment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

barnesafterglow · 2 years

Text

in the heat of the moment

summary: your boyfriend doesn't treat you right. bucky knows he won't make the same mistake

pairing: boyfriend's dad!bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: age gap (not explicit stated but reader is 21, bucky is 40), infidelity (on reader's end), shitty bf, smut (MINORS DNI) [mention of masturbation, oral (f receiving), fingering, hand job kinda, pussy job (i hate saying that), penetrative sex, porn with plot with feelings]

a/n: apparently the thought of kinktober awakened something in me, because i sat down and wrote this in one sitting after not being able to finish anything since may. smut is always out of my comfort zone, but i always need the practice. make sure to reblog and comment if you enjoyed this!

main masterlist ─ i know longer have a taglist but you can follow @theafterglowlibraryand turn in notifications for fic updates! 🤍

You knew it was wrong. You knew you should at least break up with your boyfriend first. It was terrible. You both were terrible. But that didn’t mean you were going to stop.

You knocked on the door of the Barnes’ house, already annoyed. Jacob had promised you a movie night, and of course his car wasn’t in the driveway when you pulled up. You only even knocked on the stupid hope that maybe he was here even if his car wasn’t. But even as you walked up the front steps, texting him to ask if he was home, you already knew the answer.

He had just texted you back sorry babe as the door opened. You nearly dropped your phone at the sight in front of you - Mr. Barnes in a sweat soaked shirt and a pair of shorts with an inseam that shouldn’t look so good on a man his age. Half of you wanted to turn around and run back to your car, the other half wanted him to invite you in. Like an angel and devil on your shoulder, each whispered to you, but you knew what you really wanted.

So when he said, “Oh, hey. Jake’s not here, but you can go ahead and come on in,” you brushed both imaginary friends off you and stepped through the doorway.

“Thanks, Mr. Barnes. Jake bailed on me and I had no clue until I got here.”

As you followed him into the kitchen, you tried not to stare as his back muscles moved under the grey of his t-shirt. You wiped at a wetness on the corner of your mouth and hoped the drool was just a figment of your imagination

“How many times have I told you to call me Bucky?” he asked as he pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a sip. This time you couldn’t help stare as a bead of water trailed down his throat.

You shook your head of the filthy thoughts spiraling - like how it would to have that shirt stick to the skin of your back as he bent you over the kitchen counter and fucked your brains out - and scoffed.

“Probably as many times as your son has been an asshole,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” But the half smile on his face told you that he knew exactly what you had said.

“Nothing Mr -, I mean Bucky.” That half smile turned into a full grin that nearly brought you to your knees.

Bucky was, for a lack of better words, a certified DILF. He’d raised Jacob since his mom up and left them when he was three. They had moved to your hometown a year ago, and unfortunately caught Jacob’s eye immediately. At first he was sweet, always doting on you, bringing you little gifts at work, making you smile. Then somehow you ended up here, almost a year later, and you had spent more time with his dad than you had him in months. Every time you came over and Jake had found better plans, Bucky insisted he cook you dinner so you didn’t make the trip for nothing.

Usually, he packed it up and you took several nights worth of meals home with you, but on occasion he would ask you to stay, and you ended up talking for hours.

For a while, you felt weird that you got along better with your boyfriend’s dad than your own boyfriend. Now, you showed up even when you knew Jake would cancel, just to see him for any amount of time.

It started off innocent, really it did. The talks were casual, mundane, about things like how your degree was going and what he was up to at work. Then one night it took a different turn.

You were already two glasses of wine in, even though you should have known this was coming. Jake had forgotten a lot, been distant lately, but you thought for sure you could count on him for your birthday.

Instead, you sat on the couch in his living room for well over an hour, texting him periodically, with no response. You had finally given up, making a move to stand and leave, when Bucky walked through the front door.

His hair was in a disarray, his tie already loosened and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You knew it must have been a stressful day if he was coming home this late. He took one look at your mascara stained cheeks, and gave a nod towards the couch before disappearing into the kitchen.

You obediently sat back down, and a moment later he emerged with two glasses and a bottle of wine. He poured a healthy amount in each and you both drank the first down in silence. When he poured a second glass and handed it to you, he finally spoke.

“My idiot son?” It was more of a statement than a question. He knew how his son had been treating you, and no matter how much he tried to talk some sense into him, nothing changed.

You nodded, afraid that if you voiced the words then you would crack. The tears were already pushing against your eyes, willing you to let them free. Instead, you swallowed them down and chased them with a healthy sip of wine.

When you had drained half the glass, you finally looked at Bucky, staring into his eyes.

“Your son fucking sucks, Mr. Barnes.” In anger, in frustration, in whatever other emotion overtook you as the wine opened your system, you squeezed your eyes tight and a tear slipped out. You moved to wipe it away, but Bucky was already there.

In a split second, he had moved across the couch and was closer to you than he had ever been before; his thigh pressed close to yours and his thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, like he was telling you a secret. “You deserve better.”

You wanted to pretend you imagined the flicker of his eyes down to your lips, that it was the alcohol making you see things. That would make everything easier. But you couldn’t ignore the cool touch of his hand on your thigh, just below where the hem of your dress ended.

“You deserve someone who’ll treat you better.” He sucked in a breath, contemplating his next words. “In every way.”

His fingers inched higher, daring to slip under the fabric, pushing it up just a fraction up your leg. Your eyes flickered from your lap back to his flushed face, dark eyes staring back at you. He wasn’t hiding it now - his gaze on your lips was clear, and he leaned close enough that you could taste his breath. Just another moment and he -

The front door swung up and you both sprung apart. You stood up quickly, and saw Jake walking into the living room on unsteady feet. When you moved forward to help keep him upright, he all but collapsed in your arms. It wasn’t until you had dragged him halfway to the couch that you realized you had no explanation for the two glasses and a half empty bottle of wine. But when you finally laid him down, there was no trace of them - or Bucky - almost like they had never been there at all.

You had planned to break up with him then. It was the last straw of the last straw of the last straw. You knew it as soon as he wasn’t there to greet you that night. But then Bucky snuck through your mind and tugged on a string you couldn’t ignore. So instead of breaking up with your shitty boyfriend, you kept him around for the sole purpose of getting to see his father.

You figured it was only fair after everything he had put you through.

Now, you had to shake your head to get rid of the memory. But alone in your bed at night, when your hand slipped under the sheets and your breaths quickened, all you could think about was that hand on your thigh, those eyes boring into your own.

“Do you want a drink?” His voice pulled you from your own head and you looked up. He was extending his arm, the water bottle still in his hand.

You started to shake your head, declining him, when a rampant idea took hold. So instead of doing what you knew you should, you took the bottle from him. It was ice cold in your hand, and you winced at the thought of what you were about to do.

When you lifted the bottle to your lips, you purposely tipped it too far, letting the cool liquid spill down the front of your top. You yelped from the sudden cold - and you were sure to Bucky it sounded like surprise - and pulled the bottle back, “accidentally” spilling more. You shrugged your jacket off, letting it fall to the floor, and stood in front of Bucky in nothing but a thin white tank top - now soaked completely through.

He had made a move as soon as he heard you shriek, scrambling for a dish towel in a drawer, but when he turned to hand it to you, he couldn’t take his eyes off your chest.

You hadn’t worn a bra, so the entirety of your breasts were on display, so much that he could see the color peeking around your pebbled nipples. He lightly bit his bottom lip, pressing the towel lightly to your exposed skin, curiously careful not to go any lower, though his staring never stopped.

“I, uh,” His words stuck in his throat. “I can grab you a spare shirt if you want to throw that in the dryer.”

“Thank you so much, Bucky,” you said sweetly. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you peeled the soaked tank top off and let it fall on the tiled floor.

One of his hands gripped the counter so hard his knuckles were white, while the other clenched into a fist, trying desperately not to reach out and touch you.

“I’m feeling cold from the water.” You took a small step forward, placing one hand lightly on his chest. The heat radiating off of him was a godsend. “Do you think you could help warm me up?”

You could see the thoughts racing through his mind, trying to decide if this was real, if it was a trick, if it was worth it. And he had his answers in the same instant; yes, no, a thousand times yes.

Before you could even begin to question yourself, he had you caged against the kitchen counter, awe in his eyes as he looked down at you.

He still didn’t touch you anywhere except his arms that crowded your body, but you could tell he wanted to. So you gave him a push, slowly moving your hand under the hem of his shirt, feeling the smooth, hard expanse of skin there. You stroked gently, trailing your hand down until they brushed the waistband of his shorts.

It was like a spark lit up in him, and he dipped his head to capture your lips with his own. You immediately moaned into it, your surprise causing you to grip the band of his shorts, pulling them down enough for you to feel the heat of him.

His hands moved, finally, off the counter, to your sides. They squeezed lightly, like he was testing the waters. But you didn’t want timid or careful; you wanted what you had been craving for longer than you wanted to admit. So you pushed your chest against him, your still hardened nipples brushing the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands moved again - one grazed the side of your face, slightly possessive and guiding your kiss, and the other moved to grip your breast. It was a dizzying mixture of dominance and care, and you didn’t think you had ever been so turned on in your life, let alone from just a kiss.

Sick of wasting time, you let your hands move up to tug his shirt, getting as much off of him as you could in the position you were in. When he caught on, he pulled away from you long enough to pull it up and over his head. You were almost as mesmerized by the sight of him topless and he was with you, and you blinked dumbly until he placed a finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You have no clue how much I’ve wanted this.” There was emotion radiating from him that you couldn’t name; all you knew was it turned your core into molten lava.

“I think I might have an idea,” was your response, and you pulled him down for another kiss. This one wasn’t like the first - wasn’t slow and searching. No, this one was hot and desperate, all the tension from months of time lost bursting open and shattering across the kitchen tiles.

You looped your hands back into your waistband, trying to get them off, but he pulled away, biting your bottom lip lightly as he did.

“Wanna do this right,” he murmured, lips still close enough that you could feel the moment of them as he talked.

“I don’t care. Just -”

“I do,” he interrupted, a touch of a growl in his voice. Then, without a second of hesitation, he picked you up and threw you over his shoulder as if it was the easiest thing in the world. You squirmed at first, until he placed a light swat to your ass, and then you let him take you wherever he wanted.

When you felt the soft plush of a mattress beneath your back, you didn’t even have time to register the fact that you had never been in his room before. His hands were already on the button of your jeans while he bent down to kiss you again. Once he had them off your legs, he pulled you to the edge of the bed and kneeled before you.

It was nearly enough to make you come at the sight. Here was this beautiful man, one who could have anyone he wanted, kneeling before you like he was ready to worship. His hands roamed your legs, then he let his mouth follow the same trail. He bit lightly on your inner thigh and he spread you further, until you were fully exposed to him.

He watched you in amazement, bringing his hands up to touch you lightly - to spread you apart and see you glisten with wetness for him. You wiggled your hips a bit, almost uncomfortable with the attention you were receiving. Then his lips met your core and any other thought you had was lost to the wind rustling outside.

His expert tongue and the beautiful feel of beard burn was enough to have you panting, gripping the thick strands of hair on his head.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “I’m gonna -”

But he didn’t let you finish your sentence. Instead, he pushed two fingers into you, and you clenched down around them, unable to hold yourself back. He didn’t stop as you rode your high; he let his head rest on your thigh, looking up at you, keeping the pace of his fingers until you finally came down.

When you could finally begin to relax, he pulled his fingers from you, moving so his body hovered above yours.

“Open.”

You obeyed immediately - something about him made you do it without question - and he gently rubbed his fingers on your tongue. You closed your mouth around him, cleaning your own release from him, and when he pulled them out he immediately replaced them with his own lips.

“Knew you’d be fucking perfect,” he said, and you weren’t sure whether it was to you or himself. You didn’t have time to dwell on it because he was moving you like a ragdoll again, positioning you on your back, your head resting in the fluff of pillows, and he placed his body weight over you.

Almost immediately, your hands went to his shorts, wanting desperately for them to finally be off. And he obliged you, more than ready to give you whatever you wanted.

He quickly pulled the shorts off, and once he was back on the bed, he stood on his knees in between your legs, stroking his painfully hard cock. You reached out almost timidly to replace his hand with your own, and at his low groan, you picked up the pace, twisting your wrist and squeezing lightly. He bit his lip harshly, trying to hold back a damn near whimper at the feel of your hands finally on him.

Then he gripped your wrist, stopping you from ending it too short. Again, he laid his body over yours, careful not to crush you, and you felt the length of him rub against you. Both of you moaned into the kiss you shared - you at the feel of him brushing your sensitive clit, him at the slick feel of your wetness coating him. He moved his hips lightly, keeping that momentum going, until the thrusts started to speed up, and his tip caught at your entrance.

“Please, Bucky,” you gasped, moving your hand to grip him, guiding him to where you were willing and waiting. “I want you so bad.”

Unable to resist - not that he would ever want to - he finally sunk into you. Inch by inch, you whimpered at the sweet mixture of pleasure and pain that the stretch of someone so big brought. Bucky had his forehead pressed against yours, breaths heavy and trying not to hurt you. Once he was fully seated inside you, your eyes met his, and a slight nod gave him permission to move.

He started thrusting into you, gradually at first, alternating between kisses to your lips and trailing them down your jaw and neck; it was like he couldn’t bear to go a moment without his lips pressed to you. Then, as the intensity grew, so did his movements. It wasn’t long until you were moaning without restrain, every breath a mixture of his name and whatever expletive your mind could come up with. You wrapped your arms around him, scratching red lines down his back as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

He was mumbling something over and over, his grip on you tightening.

“Come for me, Bucky. Please, I want you so bad. Fill me up.” He moaned, lifting his head to meet your eyes again, when you said the words that sent him hurtling over the edge.

“I’m yours.”

Nothing could have prepared either of you for the intensity of the shatter. Both of you exploded in sync, sparks flying, flames igniting, threatening to burn the goddamn world down. Bucky was an out of body experience, where your only tether was the feel of his body against your own. He lit you up from the inside; threatened to consume you.

And you would let him.

#bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky smut #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #boyfriend's dad!bucky barnes #mcu #marvel #marvel fanfic #in the heat of the moment #tiff writes

423 notes · View notes

nemo-of-house-hamartia · 7 months

Text

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

——————————————————————————————————

The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. “-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

——————————————————————————————————

“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. “We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

——————————————————————————————————

Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "A Touch of West" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #Assassins #templars #jacob frye #dorothea starrick #Byron Harrison #Phillip Starrick #Ambrose Harrison #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #Mostly Ocs for this chapter but it's needed #the story develop in parallel lolol

33 notes · View notes

howifeltabouthim · 3 months

Text

She remembered vaguely that he had proposed to her while he had been inside of her. She had said, 'Yes, yes, yes!'

Anna Biller, from Bluebeard's Castle

#proposal #carried away #in the heat of the moment #intimacy #quotes #lit #words #excerpts #quote #literature #swept away #anna biller #bluebeard's castle

4 notes · View notes

savageandwise · 11 months

Text

youtube

Woah he changed up the set list!

In the heat of the moment

Also he sounds pretty good considering he said he lost his voice cheering City on.

#noel gallagher #san diego #june 2023 #Youtube #in the heat of the moment

2 notes · View notes

ulfdistracted · 1 year

Text

I haven’t sat down and listened to music in a long time, but here are ten songs (in alphabetical order) that I’ve been listening to, as demanded by the wonderful @thyqueerblueberry :

1. All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix Not a second of this song is skippable. Mesmerising.

2. Come On Baby Dance With Me by Shakti with John McLaughlin Exactly what it says on the tin. Comforting and joyful and you will want to dance with someone.

3. Cornfield Chase by Hans Zimmer At least this time it’s not from Inception.

4. In The Heat Of The Moment by Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds Blame my TUA rewatch for this.

5. Know How by Young MC My go-to writing background song if I ever need one. The words just shoot out when this is on, I swear.

6. Noir By Sunmi Quite a popular K-Pop song. Give it a listen.

7. Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage Listen.. HYYH yoonkook. That will be all.

8. RUN by BTS Expect RUN, Outro: Tear and 134340 to always be in my head.

9. Washing Machine Heart by Mitski For a video I’m editing. didn’t think I’d ever get tired of this song but here we are.

10. We Didn’t Start the Fire by Billy Joel It was always burning since the world’s been turning ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

...not gonna lie, I’m really surprised that “When The Levee Breaks” and “Netsujou no Spectrum” aren’t on the list.

Since this is supposed to be a tagging game and I’m indecisive, anyone who interacts with @ulfie-by-osmosis is welcome to join in whenever they see this post :)

2 notes · View notes

blueiskewl · 2 years

Video

In the Heat of the Moment

Fierce battles rage in the villages surrounding Svatove in the Luhansk region, Ukraine.

#2022 russian invasion of ukraine #2022 russia-ukraine news #ukraine #russia #war #world at war #weapons #battle #fighting #in the heat of the moment

6 notes · View notes

just-a-meccha-couple · 1 year

Text

#hinata #naruto #my gf loves me more than i ever will be aware of #now come and sleep with me dear #in the heat of the moment #love

1 note · View note

pangur-and-grim · 3 days

Text

I got too excited while playing chess and told my opponent that I was going to slit his throat and slaughter him like a hog. something to work on for next time

#to be fair to myself I had his king surrounded #so it was all in the heat of the moment

11K notes · View notes

neon-junkie · 5 months

Text

In the Heat of the Moment - Chpt.8

Summary: “Less than ten percent of domesticated species go into heats,” accord to Tech and his research, and (un)fortunately, you’re one of that ten percent. What else are you meant to do? Trapped during a heat cycle with five men - five willing men who are happy to help relieve you, but not all have the confidence to say so.

Relationship: The Bad Batch x fem!Reader (she/her)

Tags: Heats, Mating, Sex pollen, Friends with benefits, Friends to lovers, Slow burn, Sex, Jealousy, Pining, Tags to be added.

Word count: 1.2k

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 9]

Chapter 8 - Scorching

"So, you… haven't been taking them?"

Hunter's voice throws you off guard, causing you to drop your tool with a clank!

Is there really any need to discuss this right now? The repairs are almost complete, and you can all finally leave this forsaken planet with its two cursed suns! However, your Sergeant, the one that has been avoiding you for weeks, now feels the need to address the Bantha in the room… or in this case, the desert.

You turn to look at him, barely a meter from you; his eyes flicker between his work, and your dazed expression. "You mean the supplements?" you question.

"Yeah," Hunter confirms with a light shrug of his shoulders.

"Nah, I haven't," you shrug back, and pick up your tool, returning to your work. It's not really his business, is it? There's no need to be nosey about such a thing.

A moment of silence becomes present, the sound of tools tinkering away fills up the void, yet you can feel the pulse of adrenaline rushing through your veins. You're getting defensive, and for good reasons.

"Why not?" Hunter finally quirks up, not bothering to look your way. It seems he isn't letting this go, is he?

"Didn't want to," you simply reply, matching his monotone demeanour. It doesn't take a Jedi to pick up on Hunter's sarkiness. Why he's bothered is beyond you, but if he can freely ask, then so can you! "Is that a problem?" you follow up.

"It has been, yes," Hunter confirms, finally looking your way as he continues working. "I won't deny that I find your… scent rather distracting, especially during missions."

"We're always on missions," you point out. Even if you aren't physically in action, you're either heading to your next target, or unwinding from the last one. Better yet, you're making amends from your previous one, and they can't come fast enough.

"Exactly. How am I meant to work with… that?" Hunter dares to comment. Now, work is no longer your priority. The tool in your hand becomes motionless as all of your attention turns to your Sergeant, whose defensive expression matches your own.

"I'm sorry that my biological needs are such a distraction to you," you snap. "Maybe if you followed your training better, then you'd be able to ignore my scent."

"And maybe if you'd taken the supplements like I originally asked, then I wouldn't have to put up with your scent, nor the sounds of you kriffing all of my squad!"

The nerve! The audacity!

The tool in your hand hits the sand with a soft thud, and you rest your hands on your hips, chest puffed out. It's just a smell, something that Hunter can easily ignore, but it seems his true intentions are coming to light. "I haven't slept with all of your brothers," you say with a mindless shrug, not that it's any of his business. Jealously really isn't a good look for him.

"Most of them," Hunter barks back.

"It's not my fault that they offered to help me out. I'd rather do that, then pop some mystery pills that you shoved into my hand! I don't even know where you purchased them from!"

Hunter's lips purse in annoyance as he takes a step closer towards you, attempting to one-up your stance. The sweat above his brow is clearly visible, possibly from frustration, or the blazing Tatooine heat. It doesn't help that he's chosen to work shirtless, his toned chest almost pushed into your face as he looks down at you, tanned and covered in a soft trail of hair. There is no need for him to be this close, and the more that he gets into your face, the more irate you become.

Hunter goes to open his mouth, but you beat him to it. "Get your boobs out of my face," you say as you swat his chest, taking a step back away from him. "If you want to help me out, then this isn't the way to approach it."

"I…" Hunter sputters, crossing his arms across his chest in some lousy attempt to cover up. "This isn't what I'm trying to do-"

"-Then what is it?" you interrupt him again. "Because it's pretty obvious that you want to 'help me out', rather than giving me those supplements," you shout, using your fingers to flex quotation marks. This is probably some elaborate scheme just to sleep with you, although you weren't expecting Hunter of all people to stoop that low.

Hunter's lips fall silent as his eyes refuse to meet yours. His furrowed brows fail to relax, as does his jaw, clenched firmly as his patience continues to run thin. He sucks in a deep breath whilst pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Seconds pass, and you're waiting for him to burst, but when he finally speaks, he's as calm as ever.

"Finish up. The ship should be ready to depart."

And with that, Hunter leaves you to it, entering the Marauder. You can overhear him talking to Tech, muttering something about getting the engine running.

Now, it's your turn to suck in a deep breath, and attempt to steady your thumping heart. You've never argued with any of your boys, much less your Sergeant. A light squabble here and there, but never full-on arguing.

You almost feel… guilty, although you had every right to defend yourself! No matter.

As your eyes open, you're greeted by someone who is only going to fuel your fire. Crosshair is leaning against the Marauder's entranceway, arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his lips. He chuckles as you scowl at him.

"Not going to give Sarge a chance?"

"Kriff off."

Crosshair chuckles once more, and watches as you pick up your discarded tool, using it to secure the Ship's side panel into place. He allows you to finish before speaking up, instantly turning your concentrated expression sour.

"You know, hate sex is awfully pleasant," Crosshair states. Whether he's hinting at himself, or Hunter, is beyond you. Probably both, knowing Crosshair.

All you can do is barge past him, your shoulders clashing with force. "What's with you?" you scowl, meeting his gaze for a brief moment.

"I'm only pushing your buttons, Princess," Crosshair shrugs as he allows you to pass, keeping his stance despite wobbling from your aggressive gesture.

Not wanting to allow yourself to become even more angry, you don't bother responding, and instead head straight to your room. The repairs are somewhat done, and Tech is already firing up the engines. It's time to leave. Whether this ship will make it off this planet is beyond you, but right now, all you need is some space.

It's time for you to take a breather, and isolate yourself for a while.

#tbbwriting #in the heat of the moment #tbb #the bad batch #tbb x reader #reader insert #f!reader #female reader #hunter x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb hunter x reader #nsft

137 notes · View notes

you-just-said-that · 2 months

Text

youtube

Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - In The Heat Of The Moment

That loving man ain't no rolling stone

#Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds #In The Heat Of The Moment #Chasing Yesterday #Youtube

0 notes

nemo-of-house-hamartia · 1 year

Text

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 4 - Homeward Bound

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3

Words Count: 7981

Warning: None

Dorothea

January 1868, London

The first thing that hit Dorothea was the smell: abhorrent, a stinging stench, almost choking in its miasmic pungency.

Phillip had warned her that it would have been a shockful amalgamation of foul odors, but at first, the young woman had deemed her cousin, with his penchant for the dramatic, exaggerated in his assertion.

Now, as she wrinkled her nose with barely masked revulsion painted on her otherwise delicate features, she found herself thinking that, mayhaps, her cousin hadn’t been dramatic at all.

Her sensitive nose had grown so accustomed to the fresh clean air of the surrounding forest of Sturefors, in Sweden -her mother’s ancestral home- that breathing the less-than-salubre air of London felt like a slap to her face and an execrable invasion of her nostrils.

Making sure no one would hear her, Dorothea allowed herself to let out a sigh, barely audible, yet lingering like haze in the cold winter air.

She had known she would miss Sturefors Slott the moment she had set foot in the carriage her mother’s family had prepared for her to bring her to the southern part of the country, where she had taken the ship that had brought her back to London.

Sturefors Slott -despite its name- wasn’t truly a castle as they intended them back in her beloved England, with their towering stone walls and turrets, built during the early middle age to protect the Lords and their people from the barbaric invasion; rather, it was a Hall, elegant and refined if modest in its appearance, nestled within the soft embrace of an endless vastness of evergreens and a clear lake, just outside the door.

Closing her eyes, she wished she could fool herself that it was not smog what she was breathing, but the fresh tingly scent of crushed pine needles and musk and balmy resin.

As she allowed herself to glide through her most recent memories, all she could see was the residence’s walls painted in a soft pale shade of yellow and white, in a way that made them resemble one of those Austrian pastries her father had always been fond of ever since she could remember; she could see the small artificial pond, sitting right in the middle of the small baroque garden, where waterlilies grew aplenty and birds would come and swim at their leisure; the orangery and hothouse, where she had spent countless afternoons reading during those chill summers, surrounded as she was by the delicate perfume of the flowers in bloom.

The complete peace that place provided was one of the reason why it was always guaranteed that she would be found there; but alongside that motive, also the fickle hope that, somehow, being surrounded by all those familiar scents might help quell the melancholy and yearning, she oftentimes felt in her young heart, to see her family soon.

As she raised her eyes to glance at a ferry passing by them- one belonging to her father’s commercial fleet, judging by the men clad in red that shouted on the decks, and the wolf painted on the funnel spewing out a dark, choking smoke- she wondered at what price that melancholy was finally about to be abated.

In Sturefors, she had known a freedom she never felt while in London, with her mother’s protective wings always looming over her and her father’s ever watchful gaze constantly following her, even while not being physically there; like Eva with the Apple in the Garden of Eden, she had tasted the fruit of a far greater independence she had ever dared to dream, a complete sovereignty of her own self she had never experienced ever since she had memory.

“Those days are long over, Dora. You are back home, now,” she thought to herself, sighing again, before straightening her back and tilting her chin up, as she gazed upon the industrial city opening up in front of her, studying at it with uncertain eyes.

Her home.

London, the Centre of the World.

The city had changed ever since she had left it in 1865, almost three years prior: cluster upon cluster of new factories had been built in the industrial neighbours, and even from the river she could see the enormous luminous signs bearing her family’s name or her father’s own wolf crest black on the walls of red bricks, the eyeless predator towering over the buildings that faced the Thames, its watchful gaze the same her sire’s.

So many changes.

So much to get used to once again.

As she let her eyes wander, she felt a small leap of reassurance in her heart when she caught a glimpse of the city’s historical landmarks, the towering height of Big Ben, his belfry raising high against the late afternoon sky, a familiar sight amidst all that chaotic maze of buildings veiled by a haze of smog.

This was indeed her home.

“And yet,” she thought, calling upon all her considerable will not to let the tears that prickled her eyes run free on her cheeks, “It does not feel like it any longer.”

With a subtle gesture of her hand, she tried to brush away the tears away, before anyone could notice, and trying to compose herself, she let her gaze wander around some more and touch the buildings at the side of the river.

She looked at the tiles and doors and windows, bringing her eyes up where the roofs and chimneys sat and let out their nauseous smoke that rendered the air impossible to breathe.

All of sudden, she stopped in her wandering, feeling that her gaze had been returned.

And it had been.

Someone - at that distance a mere silhouette- had moved with switf movement from behind the cover of red bricks, and without hesitation, had jumped from a chimney to the other, graceful and secure in their movement like a cat.

She narrowed her eyes, bringing one gloved hand to her forehead to shield herself from the last rays of setting sun, trying to make sense of what she thought she saw.

Could it have been a trick of the light or the fatigue of the journey that was finally starting to take over her mind?

No.

She was sure of that.

“Ditte, vad hände? Det ser nästan ut som om du har sett ett spöke!”(Ditte, what happened?It almost looks as if you have seen a ghost!)

Dorothea kept looking up the roofs, half hearing what the woman that was approaching her was saying.

“Sassa, såg du det?”(Sassa, did you see that?) she blurted out, pointing with her finger.

“Vad såg du, min kära?”(What did you see, my dear?) Astrid, a cousin from her mother’s family, that had took upon herself to chaperone Dorothea safe and sound to London, looked intently and raised an eyebrow when she saw nothing.

Dorothea looked again, but whoever was jumping around like a miscreant was clearly gone.

“Någon... som hoppade runt? Jag svär, jag vet vad jag såg, eller så heter jag inte Dorothea Marianne Starrick!”(Someone...who jumped around the roof? I swear, I know what I saw, or my name is not Dorothea Marianne Starrick!)

The woman gave her a long look, her lips pursed together in a thin, austere line.

“Herre Gud, Ditte, det är inte så en ung dam i din ställning ska tala! Jag visste att Minna var benägen till fantasiflygningar, men jag trodde aldrig att du också var det!” (Dear God, Ditte, this is not how a young lady in your position should speak! I knew Minna was prone to flights of fancy, but I never thought you were too!”)

“But I know..what I saw…” she murmured back in English, lowering her head in shame at her cousin’s words.

“Där, där, min kära, ta dig samman! Denna smutsiga luft måste ha spelat dina ögon ett spratt.”(There, there, my dear, pull yourself together! The dirty air must have played a trick on your eyes) The woman said with a condescending tone, caressing a wayward strand of silvery blond hair away from Dorothea’s cheek. Then, she turned to look at the houses built parallel to the river with barely contained disdain. “Säg, Ditte, hur kan man bo på ett sånt här ställe undrar jag?”(Say, Dora, how can you live in a place like this, I wonder?)

Shaking her silvery blond ringlets, Dorothea tried with all her might not to sigh in exasperation, her jaw tensing as she turned to look away from the woman that had just spoken to her.

There was no use trying to reason with her.

But she knew what she saw.

“I can live in a place like this because I was born here, min kära. But pray tell me: what happened to all the good propositions of speaking only English from the moment we left Gothenburg?” she answered, putting an emphasis on the English name of the city.

Astrid brought her perfumed handkerchief to her nose, as her periwinkle eyes filled with tears from the disgust the vile air was causing to her poor nose. She stared at Dorothea for a moment longer than necessary, a wrinkle appearing on her brow, as if she was fighting the natural impulse to rebuke in her native language out of spite.

“Very well, Ditte,” she finally conceded, switching to an heavily accented English. “I am going to be here only for a few weeks anyway, I can afford to do that. For your sake, if anything else,”

“Your effort is oh so deeply appreciated, Sassa,” Dorothea pursed her lips, trying to drown her annoyance in a sweet, if tense, smile of gratitude.

However, much as ever, she had to contain the impulse to roll her eyes at Astrid’s tone and words; if caught, it would have earned her a reprimand and a tirade once in front of Mother and Father, and the last thing Dorothea desired was to have her return to London being soured by the constant complaining and nitpicking her older cousin was known for.

Deciding that she had given the woman far more attention than she deserved, Dorothea took a few step away from Astrid, leaning against the handrail that faced the side of the city where the Clock Tower was and tried to distract herself by looking at the busy stream of ferries in front of her.

But melancholy crept again into her heart. If only Minna, Astrid’s own younger sister and Dorothea’s closest companion in Sturefors, had been the one to be allowed to accompany her back home, maybe the journey would have been less grievous, if anything because she could have retained with her some of the happiness she had felt in Sweden.

“My my, isn’t Astrid a charming choice for a chaperone? Are my ears deceiving me or is the Lady Ankarcrona complaining yet again, Dora?” she heard a young gentleman addressing her thoughts, as if on an invisible cue.

The tone was conspiratorial, yet affable in cadence, and the velvety quality of his timber did nothing to hide the sharpness of his silver tongue.

“With extreme passion, I dare say,” she giggled, for the first time since leaving Sturefors.

Dorothea turned to to face the tall, handsome blond man that was approaching her with an imperious gait that well suited his authoritative appearance.

Philip Edmund Starrick, her first cousin on her father’s side, older than her by only a handful of years, was doing nothing to hide the condescension from beaming in his deep eyes, but when he turned to look at Dorothea, his gaze melted into a mischievous look, as a warm smile stretched on his lips.

Dorothea reciprocated with an impish smirk of her own.

“If you were to ask me,” he said, doing nothing to lower his voice,”If she applied all that passionate effort into something other than making everyone else’s ears miserable with her constant twaddling, her husband would not go looking for a nicer company among the valets of the house,”

Gaping in disbelief, Dorothea leaned over to glance behind his shoulder, to make sure that Astrid hadn’t heard his words.

“Mind your words, Pip! How could you possibly even know about that?” she muttered.

He winked at her, his smirk widening even more.

“It is my job to know what is going on around me,”

“In London, maybe,” she chuckled, poking his ribs with her elbow. “But not in Sweden,”

“Sometimes it is indeed hard not to perform one’s job, especially if that someone is considerable remarkable at doing it ,” he chuckled, leaning in so that he would be able to whisper without anyone hearing them.

“Ever the paragon of humbleness, I see,”

“False modesty is for mingling peons and the church ministers who have time at their hands. I have little patience for it, and much more interest in the fruits my job brings; Speaking of, my darling cousin, I couldn’t help but hear voices about how eager young Master Daae was to instruct you in the art of the violin, during your sojourn in that desolated farm they dare to call a Hall. “

Dorothea gaped once more, opening and closing her mouth as a look of profound abashment found its way on her face. She wished she could stop the blushing that prickled her cheeks at the insinuation Philip had purposely left hanging in the air, founding herself unable to.

She gave him a piercing gaze, tilting her chin up in a silent challenge of wills.

“ I haven’t even set foot in London, and you are already enquiring about businesses that are none of yours. Gustave was my teacher, and nothing more than that,” she whispered, glaring at him. “And you might insinuate all you wish, but my conscience is at peace. My conduct at Sturefors has been nothing less than impeccable.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow, giving her a look that spoke aplenty.

“Not even for a moment has the thought crossed my mind. I am well aware you are a paragon of virtue, cousin dearest. He did fancy you, however, or so I had been told,” he added. “He indeed had the insolence to send you letters with flowers, as well as paying constant calls to you, and invited you for frequent walk together, sometime…unchaperoned?”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes, not liking for a moment that last insinuation.

A realization came to her mind, and irritation found a way in her voice.

“I have nothing to hide nor to apologize for. Who spied on me while I was at Sturefors, Phillip? Was it Father that told you to follow my every step? Or Mother, Heaven forbids?”

Chuckling, he took a step closer, leaning against the railing.

“No need to fret or get yourself into a state, cousin. Neither Uncle Crawford nor the Countess had their hands in this. I am at liberty to say it was in fact my own doing.”

“What for, may I ask? Do you think me so inept that I am incapable of properly take care of myself?” She furrowed her eyebrows and gave him a stern look, crossing her arms against her chest.

The young man gave her a long look, as silence hung between them, a silence Dorothea couldn’t truly decipher. All it did was rendering her more aggravated with each passing moment. Wasn’t she at liberty to have companionship but the one approved by her family?

“As your spies have most likely already reported to you, my good flibbertigibbet, all that Gustave sent me -all he ever did - was to politely express his respect and devotion toward a friend and fellow connoisseur of the art of the violin and singing. It was done in perfect accordance to all rules of propriety and decency, as my Lady Mother has instructed me to,” Composing herself, she wrinkled her nose as her face morphed into a mask or haughty disdain. “As for what you refer as “fancying me”, Mr. Daaé fancied my competence in playing and composing melodies, and in my voice when I found appropriate to accompany his violin. I assure you, he did not want-“ She faltered for a moment, a sting in her chest where her heart was. She cleared her throat from the lump that had formed there, before regaining her word.“-whatever interest he might have shown toward me, it was not personal at all, but merely connected to all that I had to offer as an artist in my own right.”

Phillip didn’t answer immediately, keeping his thoughts to himself as he observed his cousin with an intense look in his eyes.

“Do I hear a certain vein of disappointment in your voice, Dora? Did you wish for him to acknowledge you in a more,how to say…womanly fashion?”

“I-“ the young woman’s face flushed, her cheeks turning a scalding hue of red that could rival the one of the garment she was wearing. “This is not the place nor time to discuss such matters, Phillip. On my word, your boldness had grown bigger than your ego, and that in itself is an accomplishment. I have no idea what you are insinuating, and I surely hope you did not report a single words of this postulation of yours to Mother and Father? Because I shall not accept any besmirching of my own reputation from no one, yourself included, cousin,”

Dorothea felt her heart thundering against her chest, where contempt and mortification took turn in mocking her.

When she saw him still standing, still observing her with those piercing eyes that had nothing to envy to the winter tundra in the North, with no intention to utter a single word, Dorothea felt dejected.

“It matters not,” she murmured, turning again to face the river. “Not now, not ever, because nothing more than friendship dwelled in Gustave’s heart. He did not know who I was -what I am- and even if he had, nothing would have changed. At all.”

How to explain that the companionship Gustave had offered her had proved to be both the greatest of comfort and the bitterest of yearning, and not reciprocated in the slightest? Her young heart knew all to well what her fate was, where it lead her.

A nightingale in a golden cage, that’s how she felt.

Unable to soar against the dark vaults of the sky, forever locked in the maze that was her reality.

“I could very well have hoped to have Brave Lancelot coming at my window and whisk me away to Camelot, and my chances to find a companion worthy of Mother and Father’s approval would have been the same,”

Phillip let out a small chuckle.

“Now now, you are being rather unjust toward our Mr. Daae. Sir Lancelot would always have an unfair advantage compared to any suitor that might end up asking for your hand. He can very well be considered family at this point,”

Dorothea allowed herself to let out a giggle, her aggravation slowly subduing, as it always did with Phillip.

“I might have driven my father out of his mind with all my jibber-jabbering about the Knights of the Round Table and their quest.”

“Him and everyone else in the Order. All the letters you had the Old Bear write for you, asking noble Lancelot to come and rescue us all from the dragons that were threatening your Father,”

He chuckled at the memory, before speaking again, this time, reciting some verses.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.”

“The Lady of Shalott,” Dorothea murmured, her smile growing wider. “Have you perchance seen reason and read the poem, finally giving our good Lord Tennyson the praise he deserves ?”

Phillip adverted his eyes, his mustache quivering as he held back a contemptuous snort.

“Well?”

“Mayhaps.”He conceded.

She kept her eyes fixated on him, cocking an eyebrow as her smirk widened the more he avoided her gaze.

“Fine. I’ll admit to it, you impertinent pest! This past winter, Cip and I might have spent the evenings perusing some of your books because we missed hearing your voice reading story to us, and Charlie was adamant we went through “The Lady Of Shalott” at least once per week because he knew it’s your favourite. I swear to all the Heavens, he was more punctual about this reading than he was to attend Mass,”

“Let us always be thankful for Charlie and his sensitive decisions. If we wereto be left to your devices, you would have us read something that would make my father’s hair turn white and my mother’s poor heart fail,”

Phillip rolled his eyes, but cannot hid his smile. “Preposterous. I do not know where you get all these ideas.”

Then, all of sudden, Dorothea felt Phillip taking her hand in his in a gentle gesture, and brought her palm against his cheek. Gone was that quick moment of mirth, to leave place to a far somberer one. The calculating light had all but disappeared from the young man’s eyes, leaving place for a warm compassion she had not seen in many years.

“Forgive me for my actions and words earlier, cousin dearest. I..might have been in the wrong with my own conjectures. I did not mean to bring any harms nor sullying to your conduct while away.”

Dorothea gave him a small smile that did nothing to hide the sadness in her eyes.

“Did Charlie agree with your vision? Did he support this decision? And be honest with me, Phillip: I cannot abide any falsehood to be thrown to my face. Not from you.”

The young man shook his head with a smile.

“Cip was adamantly against me intervening. He knew you would have not approved, and that I had no right to do something like this without you being in the known,”

“At least someone in our family still retains some trust in me and my endevours, I am glad to see,”

And yet she knew in her bones that, if Charlie was aware of Phillip’s intentions, so would her father. She knew that Phillip alone couldn’t have the authority to order her to be followed in Sweden. Not without the giveaway of someone higher than him in authority.

And only two people had that kind of prerogative within the Order.

But which of them, she could not fathom.

“Do I have your forgiveness, cousin? I cannot bear to know you are aggravated with me,” She heard Phillip ask her, his voice now warmer.

She raised her eyes to look at him, and saw the same honest glint he always had as a child when he knew one of his prank had taken things too far and he would be in trouble.

She let out a sigh, giving him a tiny smile.

“ I cannot bear to be mad at you for too long either, you know that, Pip,”

“All I did, I did with the best intention and your well being in mind. I was worried about you,” He continued. “The Swedish Rite does not act as your father would, as the British Rite would, and it was only concern that had moved my hand to extend my authority in Sturefors. And after all that happened at the Manor that year, I-”

Dorothea brought her fingers to his lips, in a delicate but firm gesture, her gray eyes silently pleading.

“Say no more, I beg of you, Phillip. For the love you say to bear me, do not open this door. Let me keep the peace I found in Sturefors for just a little longer.”

The man did as he was told, and stopped talking, not without feeling his own heart growing heavy at the seriousness painted all over her face. So much had changed since the day she had been sent away, loaded on that ship, away from her family, alone in the darkness of the north.

And he couldn’t help to think that, while having changed in appeareance, while having become even comelier than she was when she sailed away, Dorothea had not regained any of the innocence that she had lost that godforsaken night. Where once warmth and good cheer dwelt in her silvery eyes, now an hollowness remained, a desolation that made his blood boil.

The spectre of fear still lingered all over her, attached to her like a tick to the coat of one of his hunting dogs, sucking away at all the joy she once had as a child.

His heart broke at the memories of what once was, but kept his silence, as promised.

“There you were, you two,” a squeaky voice took them away from their conversation, and both cousins turned to look at Astrid, strutting toward them with small, rapid steps.

“I dare say, Mr. Starrick, is this the way to welcome a foreigner in this country? I was under the impression that the Starrick were amiable people, from what I gathered from my cousin here and her behaviour, but now I have to assume that it was my Aunt’s teaching to her daughter rather than the staple of her father’s family education.”

Dorothea had to silence the chuckle raising in her throat at the sight of her cousin rolling his eyes so much, she was sure he could see the back of his own head.

Not much could faze Phillip or break his composure, for he was known to be one of the most bewitching men, but being around Astrid had been proving quite the trial on his nerves ever since they had crossed the border where the Thames met the North Sea.

Nevertheless, the Master Templar’s expression morphed from aggravated in a mask of charming gallantry, with an easiness that came from constant practice. He took a few steps away from Dorothea and reached for the Swedish woman, looking straight into her violet eyes.

“Why, dear Astrid, you hurt my heart with your unjust words. What can I do to prove to your genteel spirit the extent of my family’s “amiability”?” he said, taking her hand in his with delicate touch, allowing his thumb to caress the back of her gloved hand. Astrid held her breath, too stunned by the young man’s boldness. “I assure you, us Starricks can be most…cordial, when given the chance,”his voice now a sultry husked murmur, almost a caress to the ears. “Just say the word, My Lady, and I will make sure to show you to what great extent us Starricks know how to make a respectable woman such as yourself feel…welcomed”

Dorothea’s eyes bulged as she silently put a greater distance from them, reaching the opposite side of the deck and making sure not to be within earshot.

She had heard enough, and she had no intention to bear witness to her cousin’s own trifling, even less so with that trifling being directed to Astrid. She was not one to admire demonstration of affection in public, preferring to read about it in her books: if one were to look upon two lovers exchanging their deeds of love, she would find herself blushing and wishing to be as visible as a spectre. Modesty and propriety lead her actions, and while being a young woman yearning to find love of her own - or, affection at the very least - she dreaded the idea of showing that love to anyone but her proper husband.

How could Phillip behave in such manner with so little concern of who might be bearing witness to his action, she could never understand.

Trying to distance herself from that lingering feeling of uneasiness, she raised her eyes once more, hoping to be able to see again a glimpse of the jumping figure she had seen earlier.

She knew what she saw.

Byron, so dear to her heart, oftentimes praised her for her grounded intellect and her propensity to not let her emotions drive her best judgment.

She allowed herself to gather strength from that, when she decided that she had indeed saw a figure looking back at her, before disappearing in front of her very eyes.

But what was it?

Or rather.

Who?

**************

The moment the ferry’s gangplank touched the dock, was the moment that truly marked the end of Dorothea’s journey from the North.

But all melancholy and sadness at the lost liberty seemed to melt away, like snow in summer, the moment her eyes found the blond man that was awaiting for her close to the pier, his face almost a mirror of her own.

Charles Magnus Starrick was standing tall and straight as an arrow, waiting for her, his round playful face just as amiable as she remembered, and his smile as warm as the gentle summer sun. She couldn’t help but think how much it contrasted with the much soberer faces of the flock of Templar agents surrounding him. He had always looked out of place among the Templars, almost as if he did not belong, and yet, his authority, while not as great as Phillip’s, was never disputed.

“Charlie! Charlie!” she called at high voice, waving her hand at her cousin.

“Ditte, show a little restraint! This is not how a Lady should behave,” she heard Astrid’s reproach in her ear.

Dorothea tried as much as she could to maintain the elegant composure of her usual pace, but the child-like joy at seeing her cousin’s sweet kindhearted smile was so great, she couldn’t help herself from hasten and almost fly in her cousin’s open arms and hug him as tight as her own strength allowed.

“Darling Dora, welcome back home,” Charles whispered against her hair, reciprocating the tight embrace.

“I missed you so much, Cip!” she whispered back as joyful warmth spread in her whole chest. “All your letters kept me so much company in those long winter nights where I could not be with you and Pip!”

“You were equally missed, Dora, I assure you! Oh, but do I dare say: did you become taller since the last time we saw one another? Or maybe my darling cousin has been lured by the Erlking and the one in front of me is but one of his elven vassals? Wait! Let me see for myself, I have an infallible method to know if it is indeed my darling Dora!”

Dorothea giggled, shaking her ringlets as Charlie started to count the freckles on her cheeks.

“Ah,Yes! They are all there! It is indeed you, cousin dearest!” and before she could answer, she was wrapped in another bear hug.

She had to call upon all her strength not to shed tears of joy at the relief that she felt back in arms that had hold her ever since she was a toddler.

She was home.

She was truly home now.

“Here she is, brother of mine. Delivered safe and sound, as I promised, “ they heard Phillip’s voice come from behind them, as he strutted down the gangplank while carrying one of Astrid’s luggage.

Charles took a timepiece out of his pocket, and cocked an eyebrow, as a smile appeared on his face.

“And with only fifteen minutes of delay from the advised time. I daresay I am almost impressed by your efficiency, Pip, albeit your delay cost me a whole round of beers with the men.”

“The nerves you got there, brother! I thought that by now you knew that when I say something, I deliver my promise. And it is not as if I had a way to make that godforsaken piece of scraped metal go any faster, even if I wanted to,”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you decided to commandeer it and cause mayhem across the Thames. You surely would have made it on the evening papers, I can already hear the titles echoing in the streets: “Gentleman of dubious background causes an halt to the viability of the river to deliver precious cargo unscathed,”

“Do not even jest on this, brother: the Old Bear and Uncle Crawford would have had me hanging by my breeches, if I dared doing such mischief,”

“Oh, to be sure. But I have a feeling that our Dora here would have had her fun,” he said, winking at the young woman and causing her to giggle.

She was ready to answer with a jape of her own, but once she felt the gaze of the small flock of Master Templars on herself, she quickly tried to regain her natural decorum.

She would never forgive herself if she were to stain her father’s reputation with a less than impeccable conduct, especially in front of all his subordinates.

All of them were wearing dark garments in the finest cut and on their short capelets, the red Templar Cross stood almost flamboyant against white fabric.

Even Charles, not one to showcase his appurtenance to the Order, was sporting the formal attire, and Dorothea could have not felt more honoured to know that he had done so just to welcome her.

She brought a hand to the cross tied around her neck by a silken red sash, caressing the engraved enamel with tender affection. It had been the last gift her father had given to her before she left.

She thanked her forethought for having decided to wear it during her journey back home: what kind of impression would have she given to the other Master Templars, if she, the Grand Master’s own daughter, were not to wear the symbol of the Order itself?

But, despite all intention of propriety being on her side, she couldn’t stop herself from tiptoeing to have a better look around her, trying to find other familiar faces among the much soberer ones that were standing guard around them.

“Where is Father? And Byron?” Dorothea asked, her lips forming a small pout of disappointment when she couldn’t catch a glimpse of Byron’s caring eyes or her father’s solemn face.

“The Grand Master and Lord Harrison have been….held up by an unexpected nuisance that needed to be dealt at once, I am afraid,” said Charles, sharing a knowledgeable glance with Phillip.

Dorothea’s own features turned to ashen, all colour leaving her face when looked in her eldest cousin’s eyes.

Even without a word being said, she knew precisely what the nuisance was.

“Assassins? In our dear London?” she whispered in disbelief . “Has our beloved City of Light become an abode of chaos and ruffians in the three years I have been away?”

“You needn’t to concern yourself, Dora.” she heard Phillip murmur, his lips twisted in a disgusted grimace.

She narrowed her eyes, not entirely reassured by Phillip’s word, before turning to face Charles.

“Is it true?” she asked, a tinge of authority in her normally soft voice.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes running from her face to his brother’s, and more than ever, he looked like a tiny mouse trapped between affection and duty.

"I am afraid…I am afraid to admit that in the last few months there might have been more…”chaos” than foreseen,"

Dorothea shook her silvery ringlets, a look of incredulity on her face.

“Impossible. Father has held the reins of London since before I was born, and no assassins has ever dared to even cross the threshold of the city. He never mentioned anything in his letters to me. Byron never did, either.”

“I told you already, Dorothea: you needn’t concern yourself with this. It is being taken care of.” Phillip said, his tone final as he shared another glance with his brother, a silent command written all over his hardened face.

Dorothea felt her heart sink, just for a moment, before determination found a way through her bones.

“Be as it may, Pip. Keep your secrets and I will keep mine. Two can play this game. But I swear they won’t be yours much longer,” she thought, letting her features to settle back in an expression of neutral calm.

“Very well, cousin. I shall probe no longer. I will not lie that I am saddened in not finding my sire and Byron here,” she murmured with polite courtesy, folding her hands together. “But if it is true that disruption has reached our fair city, I am most reassured that the Grand Master is taking the due steps to ensure that no Assassin will dare to ruin his work.”

Charles let out a nervous laughter of relief as Dorothea stirred the conversation.

“Cousin dearest, allow me to say that none is more disappointed than them in being unable to welcome you in person after your long absence. Nevertheless, they wanted to be sure that their presence would be with you, despite everything.”

With a small nod of his head, Charles beckoned one of the henchmen standing behind them to come forward.

Dorothea turned and exchanged a glance with him, and for a moment she found herself wondering where she had seen him before.

His face seemed familiar, with the neatly stilled whiskers and short trimmed beard framing his face and a lock of dark, unruly hair brushing over one of his temples.

He was very pleasant to the sight, to be sure, but what caught Dorothea's attention was the subtle glint of mischievousness in his grey eyes, hidden just beneath an apparent playfulness.

Before she could ask any questions, the man did as he had been told and produced a small box and a bouquet of pink soft roses.

She smiled to herself at the sight of those gifts: she knew the flowers were from her mother’s own hothouse and the small box was from Byron himself. With a small thank you, she took them with gentle hand, promising herself to open the box once alone in the privacy of her own rooms.

"I took upon myself to make sure they were to be delivered to you in person, Lady Starrick"

Dorothea raised an eyebrow.

"That is very kind of you, Mister..."

"Markus Barclay, My Lady," he murmured with a bow. “I work underneath Lord Harrison the Eldest himself, and I was given order to attend to all your needs in his absence. I am yours to command,”

Squaring her shoulder and straightening her back, she nodded with solemnity.

“Very well, Markus. I want you to oversee that the Lady Astrid Ankarcrona is to be brought safely to the Grand Master’s residence and that she is settled in the most comfortable of the rooms within the Manor. She is an esteemed guest, and she will be treated with all the honours due to her station.”

“Consider it done, My Lady,” he answered, raising his face and looking straight at her without hiding the smirk that touched his lips.

Something about his demeanor caused an uneasiness to stir within Dorothea’s chest and this, along her inability to focalize why she thought she had seen him before, left her in complete diquiet.

When the Master Templar left to do as he was ordered, Dorothea turned to face Charles, a tired smile on her face.

“Will you accompany me home, Cip?” she asked, trying to hide a small yawn. “I think the journey might have taken its toll on me, afterall,”

Charles took her hand in his and brought it his lips with gentleness.

“It will be my honour to pick up from where Pip has left off,” and with a swift gesture, he beckoned for the other Master Templars to take care of Dorothea and help her to her carriage.

Waiting for his cousin to be far enough from where he stood, Charles approached Phillip, careful to lower his voice.

“Have you told her anything about what Uncle Crawford has in plan for her?”

Phillip shook his head at his brother, as they both stayed behind, looking as Dorothea was giving directions to the ones helping her.

“No. I-“ He hold his silence just a moment longer than necessary, weighting the word he was about to say. “I didn’t have the heart to see her smile wane. She had found some peace while in Sturefors. I let her keep it. But I will not lie to you, Charles: I wish I could offer her the same peace here,” he murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Now I undestand your need for secrecy. But I never thought you as a sentimental, brother,”

Phillip shook his head with impatience.

“This has nothing to do with me being sentimental. But after all that happened that night, I was afraid she would not smile ever again,”

“The Assassins have paid aplenty for that,”

Phillip cocked his eyebrow, his face now severe, a quiet question in his eyes.

His brother return his question with a smile so cold, so devoid of any of his usual kind warmth, it left Phillip with a feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

“Frye is dead.”

“The perpetrator?”

“The Leviathan, of course. He has left nothing in his wake, not even a body for his children to cry on,” Charles said, his voice grave.

Phillip stood silent for a moment, with the loud chattering of people filling his ears. But nothing could deafen the thumping of his accelerated heartbeat.

Finally, he spoke.

“That’s not enough,“ murmured Phillip. “Not nearly enough. Not after what he had done. The ripples of that bastard’s actions have left more than one broken. His death alone is not enough. Is the Leviathan satisfied and his revenge finally accomplished?”

Charles let a small smile appear again on his lips, just as cold as the one before.

“No.”

At that answer, Phillip's own lips stretched in a vindictive smile, a reflection of his own brother’s.

“Good. Then we know what to do next.”

“Pip! Cip! It is time we go!” Charles and Phillip turned their head as they heard their cousin calling them from the carriage window. “ Are you are not coming with us, Pip?”

“I wish I could, cousin dearest, but alas, we need to part ways here, for my services are needed elsewhere.” He smiled, as he approached the carriage and took his cousin’s hand in his, bringing it to his lips in a parting gesture.

“Will you be attending to the Lady Astrid, cousin?” she teased.

Phillip rolled his eyes, shaking his golden ringlets.

“God forbids I have to spend another minute with that woman. If I wanted to hear someone nagging in my ear all day, I would have asked Father for his services. He has years of experience and a disdain that rivals no other’s. No, dearest, I am bound toward other purposes. Duty calls, as it always does for me,”

Dorothea’s smile couldn’t be but a melancholic one at those words.

“So soon? The time has flown much faster than I wanted to. What will I do without your pestering chatters, I wonder?”

Phillip’s face turned into a mask of disdained, but his eyes were smiling at her.

“Preposterous. I daresay, you have grown far too bold for your own good, cousin dearest. No, you will have to do with Cip’s own chattering, I am afraid. But,” he added, as he smiled to both her brother and Dorothea, “ I leave you in good hands,”

“Oh, I know. The best hands indeed,” she replied, returning the smile and holding Charles’ hand in hers.

“Now go, before your Lady Mother starts worrying for your late return. I shall call on you tomorrow, first thing in the morning,”

“ I count on that, cousin,” she murmured, not truly wanting to let go of his hand.

Not after three years without her family.

He squeezed her hand three times, a silent gesture she understood immediately.

A promise.

And Phillip had never failed to keep his promises.

**************

The pub was loud, messy, chaotic with its patrons busy gulping down pints after pints of what could be considered the foulest beer available on the market.

And yet, its despicable taste seemed to do nothing on the one gurgling it down as if it was water, as the rowdiest of songs accompanied their time sitting at those squalid tables.

Among those people, two men sat in front of one another, barely looking at each other in the eyes. The oldest one, built like an ox, with a sour face and brutish hands that could snap an arm in two without any effort, was busying himself with the food served in front of him, while the youngest one, leaner in his figure and more elegant in his demeanor, could barely keep his own meal down.

“The little Countess has returned, at long last” he murmured, trying to distract himself from the queasiness in his stomach.

“So it seems, my friend. Ain’t so little anymore, though, I’ve been told. All grown up.”

The youngest of the two pursed his lips, an uncomfortable light in his eyes.

He didn't want to be there. At all.

“Come on, eat somethin’, will ya? You look like you’re goin’ to faint, if you so much dare to stand up. Eat. It’s on me, this time.”

“No, thank you,” the youngest murmured through gritted teeth.”This...grub does not sit well on my stomach,”

“What a sissy. Well, suits yourself, mollycoddle. I, for once, have never been one to love wasting a good meal,” and without ceremonies, he took the plate sitting in front of the youngest man and started to scarf it down as if it was his last meal.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you any manners?”said the young man, barely concealing the disgust on his face.

“Aye, me mom. She tried when I was a younglin’. Didn’t quite work out, my brother was much better material for her to work with. But what good are manners anyway? No need for them durin’ a brawl in the street.”

“If you say so…”

“Let’s talk about more important things, shall we? Is the Grand Master still set on his plan? Is she to succeed him, when the time comes?”

“How should I know? I am not in Starrick’s mind.”

“Indulge me, lad,”

The young man sighed, crossing his arms against his chest.

“There might be this possibility, yes. Nothing has been decided as of yet.”

“Bollocks.” said the other, curling his lips in disgust.

“Facts.”

The oldest of the two spit on the ground.

“Don’t fuck around with me, you ninny. I can’t believe Crawford Starrick would do somethin’ so stupid. He has enough foresight to know that it would be a catastrophe for the Order.”

“He might be in possess of knowledge about her that we cannot foresee. When he comes to his daughter, the Grand Master is most secretive,”

“Horse’s shite!” he said, slamming his hand on the table. A few people turned to look at them but hastily ignored them when the older one glared at them, his mouth the snarl of a bulldog.

“Would you care to lower your bloody voice?” said the youngest one."Mind my words, you are the paragon of discretion. It's a miracle all of London did not hear you!"

The young man grabbed the pint in front of him, and chugged down the alcohol, hoping it would wash away his nervousness. His eyes darted all across the room, hoping to not meet anyone familiar. The trouble he would be in, if he were to be found in such company, would be beyond repair.

“That’s an absolute pile of shite right there! “See somethin’ in her”? There is nothin’ to see there! All I’m seein’ is a father too blinded by his love for his child and his own desire to create a dynasty through her!”

“Maybe so. But you forget her father has personally overseen her initiation in the Templars ever since she was but a babe in arms and her mentor is none other than the Leviathan himself. She is a Starrick. I would not do the mistake to discount her on the account of her sex. And young she might be, but she resembles her sire more than you can imagine: there is steel hiding underneath that silk. Do not let yourself be fooled by anything else.”

The other grinded his teeth as he leaned closer to the young man, his face splotched by red stains of seething rage.

“Bah! All you have are conjectures and hyphothesis, nothing more than that! It can’t happen. The Order won’t accept her, just because she's his daughter. She's a woman! She belongs to the house, opening her legs for her husband as he sees fits and whelping as many little bastards as possible. She can’t be made anything else than what she is! We need someone strong at the helm of this ship.”

The younger one looked at the elder man, an inquisitive look in his cat-like eyes.

“And what do you propose we do to stop this? Kill her? Kill HIM?”

The brute hesitated, long enough for the younger man to know that, even blinded by rage, he would not act in haste. They needed a valid reason to justify any action taken, lest they were to become a target like the one they were set to control.

“That’s what I thought,” the youngest one finally said, after the long pause. “You will find that patience, my friend, is a virtue not to be discarded in favour of a hasty approach. We shall wait in the shadow, as we have always done, and seize the moment when the right window of opportunity opens. London is already in chaos as it is, with the Assassins rearing those bloody heads of theirs and causing ruckus all around the city. Those blasted Frye twins are an annoyance we need to take care of now, before this annoyance starts veering into dangerous territories.”

“Ethan Frye's bastards?” said the eldest one. “Had they learned nothing from their father’s death? Are they trying to meet the same end he did?”

“Mayhaps.”

“Wasn’t aware those assassins were a family of suicidals,”

“More like children playing with fire. But a fire that need to be quelled at all costs, nevertheless,”

"The challenge is that they’re unorganized. Chaotic. There's no plan or pattern behind their action and this makes them dangerous. Rumors have it that the Frye lad’ve been fightin' at the pits: the lad packs a mean punch.”

“Nothing that will worry you, I assume?”

“Are you jokin’,? Me and my brother will make a pulp of him, as soon as our paths cross. And trust me on this, ninny, they will cross. Wish I could do the same with the Starrick girl. Hell, I’m a gentleman myself, and would be gentle with the little poppet,” he murmured, leaving the promise hanging between the two of them. “That little neck of hers can’t be too hard to snap. A twig in my hands.”

The younger man’s mouth curled in an expression of disgust.

“You will do nothing of this sort. We have to let the Grand Master take care of this, before striking." The young man took the moment before speaking again, weightung his words with moderation. "Kill the young lady, and you will kill Crawford too, in spirit if not in body, and we do not want that. Not now, anyway. The assassins need to be dealt with first, and for that, we need the Grand Master. We need to destroy the Brotherhood, or what remains of it. Then, we shall take care of Crawford Starrick and his daughter."

The eldest one gulped down his entire pint of beer, slamming it against the table once done. He smiled, but there was no warmth in his light eyes.

"What are we waiting for then?"

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - “Confrontation”]

[NEXT CHAPTER - “Awakening of the Hunter” ]

omg, could it be true??? THE 4TH CHAPTER IS FINALLY DONE AND UP??

Seriously, I don’t know what possessed me to finish this, but I just sort of did?

I missed working with my Starrick family, and so I started to read again the chapter, and before you knew it, I basically added 3k words to it today, and just finished it.

Well, as said in the previous chapter, we are finally back in 1868, so finally we have the chance to move around through London with Dorothea :D

I hope you will like this, I know I will be needing a long nap lol

also, a huge thanks to my dear @susann- noir for being my beta reader and helping me through! you have been immensely kind, I appreciated your help so much <3.

Hope you will like it!

--Nemo

#Assassin's Creed #Assassin's Creed Syndicate #Jacob Frye #Crawford Starrick #Dorothea Starrick #Phillip Starrick #Charles Starrick #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #ocfairygodmother

52 notes · View notes