#anyway . this was a rendering exercise that got out of hand mostly

[bethrnoora]

little miss hater

alt without glitch under the cut

[stellar-imagines]

HEADCANONS REQUEST: ❝dear daughter.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Todoroki Shouto, Shinsou Hitoshi ]

「Headcanons of Aizawa reacting to the boys (Midoriya, Todoroki and Shinsou ) dating his daughter.」

MIDORIYA IZUKU

♤ The first time he met you was from his friends. And when Todoroki mentioned about how there was a possibility that you might be Aizawa’s secret love child because of the quirk you possessed, he was intrigued. Of course not because you may be Aizawa’s secret love child but because of your quirk. But he’s too shy to approach you.

♤ Midoriya is very curious about your quirk, it’s similar to your dad’s but works in a completely different way. When your dad’s quirk is activated, he is able to disable a person’s quirk as long as he concentrated on his target, rendering an quirk affected unusable. Your dad’s quirk relies on sight which is completely different from yours. It wasn’t a quirk that you can really control and it’s always on which renders everyone’s quirk useless. Your quirk allows you to nullify others on contact, relies on skin contact and is always active. Midoriya has all that noted down.

♤ The time you invited him to your house, his entire body froze for one second and you could’ve sworn that he lost his consciousness for a few moments. Meeting your dad aka his own homeroom teacher in somewhere else but a classroom setting makes him nervous. He knows that he has to meet your father in a different setting.

♤ “Out of everyone, it has to be this problem child.” you heard your father mutter this the moment you showed up at the apartment’s doorstep with Midoriya. And for the hundredth time in his life, your green haired boyfriend finds himself intimated by his own homeroom teacher. It was intimidating enough to have him coaching his class during hero training but having to impress him to earn a spot as your boyfriend was a completely different thing. Midoriya is well aware of how much trouble he has gotten into during his entire time in UA.

♤ Your dad knew that Midoriya can be such a handful at times but he knows that the boy has a big heart. But that was his own opinion so far as a teacher. Other than being a handful, there were positive attributes as well. Midoriya was studious, ambitious and he motivates others. Overall, he knows that he can trust him to take care of you.

♤ But this doesn’t stop him from reminding your boyfriend about his position as your father. “If you hurt her, I won’t forgive you.” it sent chills to his spine. Midoriya couldn’t look at Aizawa properly for a week until the teacher told him to relax.

♤ Bear with him please, he talks a lot at times. Sometimes you wouldn’t pay attention and end up staring at him because he looked so cute. It takes him time to realize that you’re not even paying attention to what he’s talking about. And it takes half a second for him to get embarrassed when you tell him he looked cute rambling about God knows what. He’s very shy and prefers if you initiate hand holding, kissing, etc.

TODOROKI SHOUTO

☆ Todoroki wanted to say ‘I told you so.’ to everyone who doubted him when he said you were Aizawa’s secret love child. In the beginning, he just happened to see you and his homeroom teacher come to school together and leaving at the same time. It got his gears running for quite a while and he paid more attention to you than he should’ve.

☆ During one training exercise, you were able to nullify quirks which made him confused. After a few days of thinking it through, he came to a conclusion that you may be Aizawa’s daughter. Midoriya was the first one who he approached and told about. While his friend was interested in your quirk, Todoroki himself was more interested in your relationship with his homeroom teacher. 

☆ ”I heard from someone that you thought I was a secret love child.” You heard from Uraraka who overheard Midoriya and Todoroki’s conversation when they were talking about you. He’s embarrassed to hear that you found out about him saying such a thing. It was him being his usual and oblivious self, at that time, he wasn’t really thinking things through. He tried explaining himself but ended up saying nonsense. You thought that it was cute and told him that it doesn’t bother you that much. 

☆ You were both from different classes, only a handful of people knew about your relationship — all being your close friends and Todoroki’s circle of friends. Your relationship with Todoroki was not a secret but you never went public about it. The people who know about your relationship were the ones who helped you to get this far with Todoroki so they were updated with your progress with the mentioned boy. It was the same with Todoroki, he had his close friends giving him advice and whatnot before and after you both started dating. 

☆ Out of everyone, Aizawa didn’t mind you date Todoroki. As the homeroom teacher of 1-A, he pays attention to all his students. Todoroki is quiet, reserved and never attempted to make friends in the first place, which made Aizawa question how on earth you two even ended up together. But he thought that the question can be left unanswered. Eventually you’ll spill anyway.

☆ Even though your dad didn’t mind you dating Todoroki, he still ensured that Todoroki was aware of the consequences if he messes around too much with you. Like you expected, your boyfriend responded coolly and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. He vows to protect you and not let this relationship hinder both of your studies.

☆ Todoroki takes a relationship quite seriously, mainly because he’s inexperienced and wants to make it a special thing. He always mention about how no one will know how your relationship will end up but he wants to make it special while it lasts. He loves affection so you better shower him with lots of affection!

SHINSOU HITOSHI

♡ Dating Shinsou was fun. You never thought that he’d be a completely different person once he’s comfortable with you. But here you are. You feel privileged and special, to be honest. Shinsou has no interest in making friends, the two of you got to know each other through Aizawa. He might not be interested in being friends with you but you see him as a friend. And eventually, he warmed up to you.

♡ He’s so relieved that you have a quirk that can cancel others’ quirk, meaning he doesn’t have to worry about you being afraid of his quirk. But he gets a bit insecure when he imagined that you didn’t have a quirk that can nullify his. He finds himself asking — Would you be afraid of him? Of course, you reminds the boy that you love him for who he is and trusts him entirely.

♡ He learns a lot about you from Aizawa, who doesn’t really hesitate to answer almost every question Shinsou throws at him about you. It was mostly embarrassing stuff you’ve done or cute little habits you have that you don’t even realize. He usually keeps the information to himself but sometimes he can’t help but tease you. “You know, I heard from your dad that when you sleep, you—” you would flail your arms wildly and yell at him to not say another word.

♡ Your dates with Shinsou aren’t like those in the movies. Not the typical going out to eat, watch some cheesy movie or play at the arcade. But you both at least eat something before doing something together. Usually you’d hang out at your house when your dad’s away. But Aizawa gives Shinsou the “If you try anything weird, I will kill you” look before leaving.

♡ Out of everyone, Aizawa really approves you dating Shinsou. Call him biased or whatever but as his personal trainer, your dad and Shinsou had formed a bond different from student and teacher. Your dad knows that Shinsou is a misunderstood individual, he wasn’t blessed with a powerful quirk and has been discriminated against solely because of the quirk he was born with.

♡ Okay, even though he approves your relationship, your dad still makes sure that Shinsou knows everything. No underage sex, no going out till past curfew time, relationship shouldn’t hinder studying and whatnot. In fact, he’s more strict on Shinsou because he has high expectations. Aizawa secretly hopes that your relationship with Shinsou lasts until marriage because he likes the guy.

♡ Shinsou calls you kitten as a nickname which makes you very embarrassed because he calls you that in front of your friends.

Total: 1420 words Published: 28.2.2020

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ It’s nearing the end of February, oh my :o Please don’t think you’re inconveniencing us!! Our ask box WAS closed but we decide that if anyone sent anything during that period, we will put that aside and prioritise the requests that came before the ask box was closed. Sorry to make you wait for so long anon m(_ _)m― author Hibiki/Lou

Thank you for requesting! Hope you liked it anon! You seem to be looking for something fun and we both hoped that this falls into your definition of fun. We may have strayed a bit too far from the requirements. ― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Partying and Poker Faces

Criminal Minds x Supernatural

Word Count: ~3350

Warnings: Errbody gettin drunk. Terrible zamboni puns. 

A/N: No, seriously, it’s just random drunk conversations. They are ridiculous. It’s fun. Thanks to @stunudo​, @fookinghelljensensthighs​, @lastactiontricia​ and everybody else in the Slack chat who listened to me ramble and helped with Nutcracker jokes/Winchester band names. Hair clip scene inspired by this post. 

Part 6 of the Rockstar AU! 

-

-

The “Wayward Sons” World Tour: Pre-Tour Kickoff Party

. . .

“Okay, seriously though, my friend found all these pictures of them at Bonnaroo walking around with a girl with blue hair, right? So she did a side-by-side analysis and she swears it’s Harry Styles in a wig. Like, honest to god.” 

“Who’s Harry Styles?” Spencer asks, putting his book down and rubbing his eyes as he comes out of his reading trance.

“Only the love of my life,” Penelope tells him. 

“Penelope,” Emily interrupts. “You are not allowed to ask him if he’s really friends with Harry Styles.” 

Penelope deflates slightly. “But -”

JJ tells her, “You are definitely not allowed to ask if you can have Harry Styles’s phone number.” 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Apparently there’s a whole group of crazies who think he and Sam are actually dating. There are conspiracy theories and everything.” 

“Let’s just outlaw the subject of Harry Styles altogether,” JJ says hurriedly. “Okay?” 

“Oh my God, I wouldn’t actually ask. Are you ready yet, Em?” 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Emily replies, glaring at her reflection. She’s been trying to even out her wings for like half an hour now. “I look like a raccoon.” 

“So… normal then?” Spencer asks, with his cheekiest smile. 

“Uh oh, we’ve got Sassy Spence tonight,” JJ says. She grabs Emily’s arm to tug her away from the mirror. “You’re gorgeous. Let’s go.” 

“Forward, march!” Penelope orders. “To Suite 202!” 

. . . 

“So then Sammy asks if she’s his daughter,” Dean finishes. 

Hotch and Spencer laugh; it makes Hotch look about ten years younger. 

“What did she say?” Spencer asks, tucking his hair behind his ears again. With his legs crossed in his ratty Chucks, he looks too young to be drinking. 

“Just said ‘I’m his wife,’ ice cold, and walked away.”

“You should’ve seen the look on Sam’s face,” Cas adds. He settles down next to Dean, handing him a fresh drink and sitting close. For a moment Dean forgets that they’re allowed to be close, that he’s not in public any more, and then he puts an arm around Cas, smiling to himself. 

“What about you?” Dean asks. 

“I haven’t gotten starstruck since Kurt Cobain,” Hotch answers. “But you should ask Spencer what happened when he met David Byrne.” 

“Spencer, what happened when you met David Byrne?” Cas asks with a smirk. 

“Well… you know how Freud talked about seeing the Acropolis for the first time? The feeling of derealization?” 

“No,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “Should I?” 

“What you have to understand is that my mom was playing me the Talking Heads while I was in the womb,” Spencer continues earnestly. “Remain In Light, mostly, because it came out that year, but — anyway. Research shows —“

“David Byrne is his Acropolis,” Hotch translates. “He didn’t speak for almost two hours after they were introduced.” 

“And I get the feeling there aren’t many things that render him speechless,” Cas says dryly. 

. . .

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Penelope says, and she sits in the empty spot next to Derek on the couch. She almost kicks Spencer as she does so; he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hunched over one of the acoustic guitars that everybody’s been passing around. 

“You know there’s another chair, right?” asks Sam, who’s sprawled out in one of the armchairs opposite their couch.   

“Trust me, it’s pointless,” Derek tells him. “He hates chairs.” 

“That’s not true,” Spencer says absent-mindedly, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I like the ones with wheels.” 

“Wait, you play keys, right?” Sam asks, watching Spencer pluck out a quick, dexterous open-tuned thing that Penelope is pretty sure he’s improvising. 

“And synths,” Spencer says, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. “But also… a little bit of everything, I guess.” 

“Guitar, bass, drums, violin, cello, saxophone, clarinet,” Derek rattles off proudly. “What else? There are some weird ones.” 

“Didgeridoo!” Penelope adds. 

“She calls it my didgeri-don’t,” Spencer says, and it’s true; it’s her least favorite instrument, which is unfortunate because it’s one of her favorite words.“And there are a few things I built, I guess, but haven’t really named yet.”

“That’s awesome,” Sam says, looking suitably impressed. 

“You need a goddamn haircut, Pretty Boy,” Derek says, as Spencer tries to get his hair out of his eyes again. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sam tells Spencer, running a hand through the shampoo-commercial situation he has on his own head. “And don’t let my brother start in on you, either.” 

Penelope rummages in her purse for a second and pulls out a neon green butterfly clip. She combs some hair back from Spencer’s forehead, twists it, and secures it so that the butterfly is right on the crown of Spencer’s head.

“Thanks, that’s much better,” Spencer says, giving her a quick smile over his shoulder. Sam stifles a laugh. 

“Hey,” Derek says, in an undertone. “Got any more of those?” 

“I love the way your brain works,” Penelope stage-whispers back. She digs around until she has a whole handful of aggressively colorful glittery barrettes (some are shaped like flowers, some have pom-poms) and passes half to Derek. She leans down and starts to braid a little section of hair near Spencer’s temple. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

. . . 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Hotch asks, as he starts mixing himself a drink. “I don’t think we met at the surprise show.” 

“Jack,” the kid says, with a sweet smile. He’s all fresh-faced and earnest. Hotch has concerns. 

“I’m Aaron, but everybody calls me Hotch,” he says. “What‘s your part in this whole circus?” 

“I’m their guitar tech,” he chirps. “Cas is my uncle, also. He’s the one who got me the job.” 

“Uh-huh. First tour?” 

He nods. “I’m excited! This is going to be great.”

Hotch has a feeling this is going to be trouble. 

Jack has a hand on the whiskey bottle when Hotch notices and asks, “How old are you?” 

“He’s twenty,” Charlie interrupts, snatching the bottle from Jack’s hand. “Down, boy.” 

Jack shrugs, not seeming particularly bothered, and wanders away with his soda. 

“Good to know,” Hotch says wryly. 

Charlie gives Hotch an apologetic look and says, “I feel like a spoilsport. Like, let the kid have some fun, right?”

“So you followed all the rules when you were his age?” 

“Well, no, not so much, although I wasn’t into drinking so much as… um. Mild felonies.” She wrinkles her nose expressively. “But I have strict orders from Cas. He might look like a teddy bear, but Cas can be scary.” 

“Felonies,” Hotch says, trying to keep a straight face. Charlie nods. 

“Hacking, mostly?” she says tentatively. “There was some… environmentally focused cyber-terrorism, I guess you’d call it.” 

“You should talk to Penelope, she used to do that sort of thing as well.” 

Charlie looks over dubiously at Penelope, who is pulling up the hem of Derek’s shirt and showing off his abs, Vanna White style, for Sam’s benefit. Sam looks shockingly unaffected, so odds are he is straight, in which case, Rossi owes Hotch some money.

“Really. She was actually contacted by the FBI, they wanted to hire her, but.” Hotch smiles at the way Charlie’s mouth falls open. “She has a whole… sordid history. They used to call her the Black Queen.” 

“Are you… what?” Charlie asks incredulously. 

“I know, it’s a ridiculous name, but —”

“No, that’s — I can’t believe it,” Charlie stutters. “Really?” 

Hotch raises an eyebrow. “Really. Does that mean something to you?” 

Charlie shakes her head, eyes wide. “You don’t understand, she’s a legend. She’s like a frakking rockstar.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“No, like an actual rockstar,” Charlie insists. “Not that you’re not a rockstar, I didn’t mean — holy crap.” 

“Would you like me to introduce you?” Hotch offers. 

Charlie goes pale. “I don’t — um.” 

“I think you’re the first person who has ever been intimidated by Penelope Garcia,” Hotch muses. 

Charlie does a quick shot of whiskey before nodding. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” 

. . . 

“I am so fuckin’ glad I don’t have to deal with this every night,” Bobby says gruffly, with an expansive gesture at everyone in the room and their varied levels of inebriation. “We’re too old for this shit. Don’t know how you still want to go out on the road.” 

“Of all the groups I’ve managed, believe it or not, this one’s the easiest.”

Bobby looks across the room to where JJ is passing around shots and Emily is talking everybody into a game of Truth or Dare, as a “bonding exercise.” Spencer is clinging to Morgan’s back like a gangly white Yoda; Morgan, who’s serenading Sam with “Wonderwall” (Sam is covering his ears and looking pained) doesn’t seem to notice his weight. 

“I don’t believe it, actually,” Bobby tells Rossi, who shrugs. 

“They take care of each other, really. No ego involved, with any of them, which is rare enough in this business.” Rossi pauses as Penelope shrieks; Hotch, who is standing between her and Charlie, looks vaguely alarmed, but nobody seems to be in any real danger. Rossi adds, “They may act like a bunch of assclowns sometimes, but they’re much smarter than they look. I told you, didn’t I?” 

“Fair enough,” Bobby says. He’d called Rossi on a whim, looking for an opener for Dean’s surprise show and hinting about “discretion” and “liberal types,” trying not to give too much away. He’d expected Rossi to put him in touch with a friend of a friend, or something. He didn’t expect this to work out so well.

Bobby’s not used to things working out well. It’s a nice change. 

“Good to see you again, anyway” Rossi says. “You’re coming out to a few more shows, right?” 

“Course. I’ll be around here and there.” 

“Bet you’ll miss them soon enough. I was bored stiff when I was retired,” Rossi says. 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to get those two through their teenage years,” Bobby grouches. “Just about put me in an early grave.” 

“They seem like good kids,” Rossi says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since they were… how old?” 

Bobby can’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, they’ve got good heads on their shoulders. They grew up. Just in time, too. I kept tellin’ them, success is going to change things, but I don’t think they believed me. Idjits.” 

Rossi nods knowingly. “Cheers to success, then. And old friends.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” 

. . . 

“Pastor’s son, in the church,” Emily says. 

“Twins,” Dean replies smugly. 

“Nice.” Emily gives him a fist-bump. “Backstage during a performance of The Nutcracker.” 

“I’ll be very disappointed if there were no nut jokes.” 

Emily smirks. “Well, there were no actual nuts involved, but the fairy did, in fact, taste like sugar plums.” 

“Yeah, okay, not bad,” Dean says. He clinks his beer bottle against hers and they drink. “On top of a zamboni.” 

“You mean zam-bone-y?” 

“Thank you! Sam rolled his eyes so hard I thought they were gonna fall out when I said that.” 

“The Roxy.”  

“Green room? C’mon,” Dean scoffs. “Amateur hour.” 

“Nope,” Emily says triumphantly. “In the crowd, during a Guns N Roses show.” 

“Okay, that’s fuckin’ awesome,” Dean laughs.

“It really was.” 

Dean’s eyes flick across the room, following Cas, who just deadpanned something that’s making Hotch double over with laughter. Dean’s eyes go crinkly at the corners as his smile gets even brighter — a full-on megawatt movie star smile — and his expression is so sweet and soft and utterly adoring that Emily melts a little bit. 

“Gross,” she says, elbowing Dean. He elbows her right back. 

“Shuddup,” he mutters. 

“No more twins for you,” Emily sing-songs. 

“Worth it,” Dean says firmly, and even she can’t think of anything snarky to say to that. 

. . . 

JJ can only understand about one in five of the words Penelope and Charlie are chattering to each other, so she gives up and leaves them to it. She’s slightly concerned they’re plotting to take over the world, or something. They don’t seem to notice her leaving. 

Dean and Emily are side by side on one of the couches, both slouching, with their feet up on the coffee table and beers resting on their stomachs, giggling about something as if they’ve been lifelong friends. The whole tableau is unexpected, but not in a bad way. 

There’s something about Dean that JJ just didn’t like, at first. It’s mostly that he’s too likable. In every interaction they’ve had, he’s been incredibly charismatic, warm, polite, funny… but it’s not him. 

JJ is an expert at getting people to trust her without ever showing her hand. She recognizes a bluff when she sees one. 

She’s been watching Dean, whenever he thinks she’s not paying attention. He lets his guard down, sometimes, when he’s with his brother or Cas, but there’s a well-disguised wall that goes up when he talks to anyone else. It’s defensive fortifications camouflaged as charm. 

Apparently Emily’s shoved through whatever wall Dean usually puts up when he’s around strangers. Emily can do that to a person, though. JJ knows that better than anybody. 

Emily’s clearly teasing him about something. He’s grinning, boyish and bashful and genuine, and JJ likes him a hell of a lot more, suddenly. 

She heads over to join them on their couch, sliding over the armrest to sprawl halfway over Emily’s lap and cuddle in close. 

“Are you two still playing Truth or Dare? This doesn’t look very daring.” 

“Debauchery pissing contest,” Emily informs her. 

Dean is watching her, and his walls are up again: pleasant smile slapped on his face, eyes calculating, playing it close to the chest until he figures her out. 

She raises an eyebrow and prompts him: “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me?” 

He looks suspicious, but he goes with it. “What’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” JJ says primly, and for a second Dean’s actually thinking about taking her seriously. She rolls her eyes. “Kidding. Middle of a Guns N Roses show.” 

He looks confused for a second. Then Emily and JJ high-five, and Dean barks out a laugh. 

“I didn’t know you —” 

He hesitates. 

“Swing that way?” JJ supplies. 

“Yeah, that.”

“Most people don’t, and we’re gonna keep it that way. Understood?”

Dean seems surprised by the sudden sharp edge in her voice. “Gotcha.” 

“I used to think she was crazy for not coming out publicly,” Emily tells Dean, but she’s looking at JJ with a little half-smile on her face. “But now that people are starting to give a shit about us, sometimes I think she might’ve had the right idea.” 

“Don’t lie, you love being an ‘inspiration to the youth,’” JJ says, with mocking finger quotes. “And you’ve been disappointing your mom for years, she’s used to it. Mine would probably have a heart attack.” 

“Yeah, but the number of times I get that fucking ‘Does that mean you’re attracted to pans?’ bullshit, I swear to God…” 

Dean’s looking at JJ again, but this time it’s less calculating and more admiring. He nods slowly like something just started to make sense.  

“Helluva poker face,” he says approvingly.  

JJ grins. “Yours isn’t too bad either.” 

. . . 

“I gotta ask,” Spencer says, slurred and slow. “How’d you choose the band name? The Ceiling Fires?”

Sam shrugs. “It was a recurring dream that Dean and I both used to have.” 

“Weird image.” Spencer makes a face as he undoes one of the tiny braids Penelope left in his hair. “Not that — weird isn’t a bad thing. It’s memorable.”  

“Yeah, I guess so. Dean called it that as a joke, to start with, I think, but...” Sam rambles. He’s right at that point of drunk where words just keep rolling off his tongue. “Feels like a long time ago. I mean, I did not in a million years think we’d end up here.” 

“Linear time,” Spencer comments. 

Sam waits for him to finish the thought, but apparently that’s it. 

“Linear time,” he repeats agreeably. “It’s not just… time, though, you know? It’s the whole deal. Success, I guess. People listening.  Expecting you to look a certain way, or… I don’t fucking know.”

Spencer nods pensively, combing his fingers through his hair again. “We did a magazine photo shoot the other day and they wouldn’t let me wear any of my own clothes. I like my clothes. And people keep asking if I’m dating anybody.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that question too.” Spencer doesn’t know the half of it. Sam laughs to himself, rubbing his forehead, and takes a big gulp of his drink. 

Spencer pulls out another barrette with a grimace. “I mean, why would anyone care if you’re dating… who was it? Harry Styles?” 

Sam chokes and spits whiskey everywhere. 

“Who —” he wheezes, and has to stop to cough. “Fucking — how did you know?” 

“Wait, really?” 

“What?” 

“Penelope said it was just a stupid rumor,” Spencer says. He’s squinting at Sam like he’s seeing double. 

“Shit.” The adrenaline rush is going a long way toward sobering Sam up. He shakes his head and tries to pull himself together. “Shit. I just… shit.” 

“Is that a big deal?” Spencer asks, with a mild sort of confusion. “Penelope made it sound like a joke. She called it a conspiracy theory.” 

Sam stares at him, open-mouthed, before dropping his head into his hands with a groan. “Yeah, let’s just keep calling it a conspiracy theory, okay? I already owe his publicist a fucking… fruit basket, or maybe just a lot of wine.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually know who that is,” Spencer offers. Sam laughs weakly. “No, really, I won’t tell anybody. Even Penelope. Especially Penelope.” 

Sam studies him for a second. He looks earnest enough, in a boozy, unfocused way, but Sam’s learned the hard way that most people can’t be trusted. 

Still, worth a try. 

“If you could — yeah. Please? Just… please don’t tell anybody.” 

“Believe me,” Spencer says. “I know how it goes. If you let people see the things that matter…” He trails off, his eyes sliding to a point somewhere over Sam’s shoulder, and his voice gets unexpectedly clear and fierce. “People can be vicious. I wouldn’t give them a weapon like that.” 

Sam’s pretty sure he shouldn’t feel so reassured — Spencer still has a glittery butterfly clip sticking out from behind one ear — but he is, somehow. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

Spencer shrugs, like it’s nothing, and settles the guitar in his lap again. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

“Oh hell no,” Sam grumbles, and throws a couch cushion at him.  

. . .

“Okay,” Hotch says decisively. “Everybody have their room keys?” 

“Aww! He’s like the world’s cutest drill sergeant,” Charlie says. Hotch scowls at her, but he has a feeling it’s not very intimidating. She just giggles.

“Rossi?” Hotch asks, looking around and doing a quick head count. 

“Went to bed an hour ago to listen to the latest episode of his fucking true crime podcast,” Emily says. 

Hotch frowns. “Without me? Sneaky bastard.” 

“Of all the weird fucking hobbies…” JJ mutters. “Hey, Morgan, is it my turn to be the jetpack?” 

“Fuck no. I am way too buzzed to be carrying any of you home tonight. You can walk.”

“I’m not sure I can, actually,” Spencer says morosely. He looks like a rag doll, sitting on the floor, propped up by the side of the couch. 

“Somebody come get Schroeder,” Dean mumbles, from where he’s curled up on the couch with his head in Cas’s lap. 

“We got this,” Penelope says determinedly. She grabs Spencer by the wrists and hauls him to his feet, and they lean against each other heavily, somehow managing to stay upright. 

Sam opens the door for them, smiling bemusedly as they all start to trail past: Morgan first, uncharacteristically wobbly on his feet; Emily and JJ, with their hands tucked into each other’s back pockets; Spencer and Penelope, staggering dangerously; and finally, Hotch bringing up the rear.

“Thanks,” he tells Sam, and waves at the others. “See you tomorrow.” 

Before the door closes behind him, Hotch hears Dean say, “It’s gonna be a fun tour.” 

.

.

.

[shinybluething]

Anecdata: I have a big NO FERAHEME flag on my medical records, but not because of anaphylaxis. So anaphylaxis is not the only possible complication.

I had feraheme trigger the Big Flare of Psoriatic Arthritis that rendered me completely but thankfully temporarily disabled and thus finally got my random aches and pains properly associated with my psoriasis and thus got both properly diagnosed and treated. And I mean finally referred to a rheum, so I got more than "here's an ineffective cream, use tar soap" (for my 80% coverage guttate-turned-plaque psoriasis that had been ongoing and worsening for four years) and "exercise more, take some ibuprofen sometimes." The first infusion left me feeling like I'd had the Worst Flu Ever and the second one basically made all my joints swell up and not move. I told the nurses I'd had the Bad Flu feeling before they started the second infusion and they started it anyway, BTW, because it went away the first time. Within 24 hours of infusion 2, I couldn't move my hands or open my mouth, or stand up on my own, so Spouse had to dress and wash me, lift me out of chairs, cut up my food, etc. And this time it didn't go away. Also there was a lot of involuntary screaming for about six months until the meds started to really work. There's still enough residual connective tissue damage in my left shoulder (the IV was in the left arm) that my BP measures differently from one arm to the other due to external pressure on the vessels, four years on. Also it did fuck all for my iron levels, because I hadn't hit menopause yet, and my anemia was caused primarily by the kind of menstrual flow that you're supposed to "go to the ER' for (which will get you laughed at, if you've ever tried to). I hit menopause (probably partially due to oral methotrexate for the arthritis accelerating the already happening hormonal changes) and ... the anemia went away.

Mostly I have had shrugging from medical professionals about this. "Autoimmune conditions are weird."

Have your doctors mentioned iv iron supplements? I have anemia, and since i couldn’t tolerate any of the oral supplements either they eventually did it IV. If you already know its an option and it wont work for whatever reason please disregard

That’s what they’re sending me to hematology for. In the meantime I’ve to do my best with oral supplements if I can.

[karliahs]

for prompts um.. aizawa learning about ofa but in like a painful way? in a 'im telling you this because i have no choice/we're gonna die anyway so what does it matter' way? maybe? i also just want... people realizing that deku had a Hard Time and because of that its hard for him to really be like. thoroughly happy. he's so passively suicidal it hurts lol!

content warning for descriptions of serious injuries

Shouta is aware of how fast things can turn bad. USJ had gone from a training exercise to a desperate struggle to preserve 20 lives in a matter of seconds. 

So, he isn’t exactly surprised when he wakes from unconsciousness chained to a wall, still-blurred vision scanning the room - some kind of basement, two masked men, Midoriya chained up on the same wall. That suggests a lack of knowledge, that maybe they’d expected Shouta to be alone and grabbed the kid as a bonus, because chains aren’t exactly-

As if he’s brought it into being with the thought, power crackles along his student’s arms and the chains holding Midoriya break with an oddly-muted crack. Midoriya jumps to his feet, spinning the momentum straight into a kick that launches one of the men across the room. The other, instead of backing away from the 16-year-old explosion of power they’ve clearly vastly underestimated, steps in closer, and Shouta activates erasure with a lurch of panic in his gut.

Then, everything goes oddly still. Midoriya and the captor still on his feet just stand there, at an angle where Shouta can’t see what’s happened to make them stop. The man takes one step back, and still Midoriya just stands there, suspended, angled too far away for Shouta to be able to see his expression.

What he can see is the man in the corner starting to recover from the blow, dragging himself up - then stopping with pure panic in his eyes when he sees Midoriya. He bolts for the stairs, the other man backs up another step, and finally Shouta can see the knife embedded in his student’s abdomen.

When things go bad, it happens fast. So fast it feels like time is slipping away, like he’s moving in slow motion compared to the rest of the world. Both men are bolting now, clearly in over their heads, leaving Shouta still chained up with a kid with a stab wound. 

“Leave the keys!” Shouta yells after them, venom mixing with pure panic. “Call for help!”

He activates erasure even though neither of them seem to be using quirks to escape, just trying to have any impact at all, take something away from them. If this is remorse, it’s worse than useless. Corrupt enough that cut holes in one of his kids, cowardly enough to run without letting them out first. 

Midoriya turns to face him, eyes wide. “Midoriya,” Shouta says, pieces clicking into place in his mind - his primary obstacle is a set of chains, and his only asset is a student who’s just proved he can break them without an issue. If only he weren’t hurt, bleeding and confused. “It’s going to be okay. You just have to-no, don’t.” Shouta interrupts himself as he sees one of Midoriya’s hands hover in the air by the knife. “Don’t take it out. It’s slowing the bleeding.”

Midoriya obeys all too easily, face unmarred by pain - just blank shock, and a hint of helplessness that looks strange on a student who so rarely asks for help with anything. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Shouta says again. “If you can break the chains, I can get you out of here and we can find help.”

“Okay,” Midoriya says, voice choked and young. He takes one step towards Shouta before collapsing, finally crying out as he goes, but thankfully the angle of his fall takes him close enough to Shouta.

“Alright,” Shouta says, trying to keep the anguish out of his voice. If time is going slowly for him, he can only imagine how it feels for Midoriya, drifting in that timeless haze of agony. He needs to be clear and calm. He wants to believe one of those terrified men called an ambulance, but he’s lived too long to have faith in that kind of mercy. Clear, calm and fast. 

Shouta wraps his hands around Midoriya’s, moves them to the chains on the wall and tries to help him get a grip. “Just one push, okay?” Shouta says. “Then we’ll get out of here.”

Midoriya shuts his eyes, and for an awful moment Shouta thinks he’s losing him - then his quirk comes to life, haltingly, the bright patterns on his skin skipping and lurching as if afraid. Usually, Midoriya’s control is such that his quirk seems to become active through his whole body at once, but now the glow starts at his chest and spirals out erratically - then it reaches his abdomen and he yelps, the light blinking out, hands falling to press down around the knife.

“Alright, alright,” Shouta murmurs. There’s blood spreading through the kid’s T-shirt. He’s taking short, stuttering breaths.

“Sorry,” Midoriya mumbles.

“Stay with me, kid,” Shouta says, taking his hand again. The chains clink as he moves, and god, Shouta would give every second he has left just to break that metal. “Try again.”

Midoriya obediently, painstakingly calls on his quirk again and gives a hard shove at the place where the chains meet the wall, but that little bit of movement causes him to let out a breathless scream and fall back. Shouta has to reach out his chained arms just to keep him from collapsing all the way down onto his back. Instantly, his hands are warm and wet; there’s blood at Midoriya’s back, too. 

This can’t be happening. His student can’t be about to die because of two inches of metal. This bright, wonderful person can’t be about to die in his arms.

“It- it hurts,” Midoriya murmurs, leaning on him. “I can- I can feel the knife moving.”

“I know, I know,” Shouta says. “But we need to get you help. It’s either you make it up the stairs-”

Midoriya gives a panicked groan, shaking his head frantically.

“Or you break the chains and I carry you out. You can do this. I promise you can do this.”

Midoriya nods, tears gathering in his eyes, but several panicked breaths later and he hasn’t moved. 

“Take a breath,” Shouta insists, quiet but firm, “then try again. Try to concentrate your quirk just where you need it.”

“It’s…it’s called One For All,” Midoriya says, tipping back a little in Shouta’s clumsy hold. “All Might gave it to me.”

Time slips away again, or something like it. There’s blood on the shackles on Shouta’s wrists. They look at each other, and even through the pain Midoriya seems to be searching his face for something.

“I wanted to tell you,” he adds, then slips back a little further and yelps in pain. Shouta is holding him up as best he can, but it still takes abdominal muscles to hold yourself in that kind of position - and every contraction of those muscles risks jostling the blade. He can’t die like this. He just can’t.

“Midoriya, please,” Shouta says. He doesn’t think his voice holds steady. Shouta has seen victims of stab wounds before, has been the victim of stab wounds before, and so he can’t avoid the knowledge that these minutes of coherency are numbered. As sure as up is up and down is down, soon enough shock and blood loss will render Midoriya unable to listen to what he’s saying, let alone use his quirk. If he hasn’t broken the chains by then - and if neither of those monsters called for an ambulance… “Please, kid. There isn’t anything else I can do. It has to be you, and it has to be now.”

“S-sorry,” Midoriya says, shutting his eyes for another heartstopping moment. He opens them and there’s a shred of his old determination shining there. “Sorry I caused you so much trouble.”

He moves his hands and before Shouta can register what he’s going to do, he’s clutching the hilt of the knife and pulling it out, activating his quirk in the next second and shoving forward to punch at the root of the chains. Finally, finally, they break, and Shouta is gathering Midoriya up in his arms and trying to put pressure on the wound at the same time, sprinting for the stairs.

“You did it, you did it, I’ve got you,” Shouta mutters, barely taking in his own words, and as he reaches the top of the stairs he hears the distant sound of sirens.

...

Hours later, in the grey light and never-quite-quiet of the hospital Shouta has refused to leave, he sits side by side with a silent Yagi, letting Inko Midoriya have some privacy with her son even if the doctors don’t think he’ll be waking up any time soon. 

Shouta has had a lot of time to think, and mostly hasn’t done so. He won’t really be able to think until he sees his student alive, moving, talking again. 

What few thoughts he has managed are shards of memory. A student who works harder than anyone, but came into high school with hardly any control over his quirk, the foundation most aspiring heroes start from. And Yagi, hiding off to the side, watching over his class’s first training session. Like he had a personal stake. 

Shouta doesn’t pry into students’ lives for the sake of it. He and Nedzu have disagreed a couple of times over the level of surveillance UA should aim for when it comes to students, especially now that the dorm system had been implemented. But he can’t help a kid he doesn’t understand. He can’t help Midoriya recover from anaesthesia any faster, but he can try and understand the missing piece connecting Midoriya to Yagi.

“So,” Shouta says, voice flat. “One For All.”

Yagi sits up straighter. “He told you?” 

“He was scared,” Shouta says. He was dying, he doesn’t say, because he isn’t, he didn’t. 

“It’s…his story to tell, now,” Yagi says, and there’s a discomfort there that almost makes Shouta smile.

“Sure,” he says. “Delay the inevitable.” Shouta shakes his head. “That kid’s braver than you.”

“I know,” Yagi says simply, and a quick scan of his expression shows Shouta that he isn’t joking. 

Shouta thinks they’re done, but Yagi turns to face him, solemn and sincere. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for getting him out of there alive.”

Shouta gives a short nod. “He did it himself.”

Yagi smiles. “You should get used to being thanked. I’m sure young Midoriya will be very grateful when he wakes.”

“Delaying the inevitable,” Shouta murmurs, slumping back in his chair, letting his eyes fall shut trying not to see echoes of the night’s horrors reflected in the dark.

[apparitionism]

Hark 3

The new year has hit me pretty hard, work-wise, so I apologize to @kla1991​ and everyone else (including @bering-and-wells-exchange​ ) for my lack of timely continuation. This is the third part of my attempt at a holiday story, which began its cacophony in part 1 and continued, similarly unharmoniously, in part 2. There’ll be a fourth-part denouement, delayed mostly because it concludes in a conversation that I want to make sing in a way that it’s not quite doing yet. Patience may or may not actually be a virtue, but it’s much appreciated all the same.

Hark 3

Myka took a similarly dark view of Pete’s next idea: “If mistletoe’s a no-go,” he said, “on account of this being one of these, how about we chuck an artifact that makes them sing? I’ll aim for Myka’s head, then Steve can rebound and hit H.G. Gotta be some karaoke something-or-other that’d do that, right?”

“That wouldn’t fix anything,” Leena said, like she knew it for a fact. Myka wanted to ask her not “what else do you know,” but rather “do you know everything,” the answer to which was probably “yes, if you mean everything that’s relevant to this excruciating exercise.” Comforting, in its way. Also inconvenient, because it implied that part of the “everything” she knew was that Myka and Helena would have to sing. Of their own volition.

Claudia said, “Even though I didn’t know there was a these—proving that nobody tells me anything, and I promise someday that’s coming back to bite all of you—and even though Pete doesn’t want me on his artifact-ball team—”

“Steve’s taller,” Pete said.

“And that’s coming back to bite you too. Someday. But for now, I’m gonna be the magical elf who fixes it. H.G., what’s the lesson of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”

“Children are not immune from existential despair,” Helena said immediately.

Myka resented how endearing she found that.

Claudia sighed and said, “Why are you always right, but not like I want you to be?” Myka resented how true she found that. Claudia went on, “Okay, smarty, what’s another lesson?”

“One’s so-called friends are likely to scorn one’s attempts to celebrate the season.”

Not quite as endearing. Still right.

“But eventually they come around,” Claudia pronounced. “C’mon, H.G. Be the Linus you wish to see in the world. Or I guess you should be the Linus everybody other than you, or you and Myka, wish to see? Anyway, my point is, what’s the true meaning of Christmas?”

Helena’s hands rose to her temples again as she said, “But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only.”

Myka said, “I’m pretty sure it starts ‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field.’” She tried to mitigate her knee-jerk know-it-all-ness by offering, weakly, “I mean, if you’re really being the Linus.”

“I think H.G.’s flaunting again,” said Steve.

“I am repurposing,” Helena said. “A verse from the Epistle of James, as a Christmas thing. Being the sole Victorian representative, I claim the privilege.”

“Also you’re a pretty committed flaunter,” Myka said, because it was the case—and that too was knee-jerk, for she did not bear in mind, for the split second she said it, the full situation they were in. She’d said it as a tease, and they were nowhere near safe teasing ground.

But Helena’s mood had shifted—possibly because of Charlie Brown reasons, which possibly meant that Claudia really was a magical elf—for she said, “True. And truce? For the length of a verse: together as doers of the word, and not hearers only.”

“Fine,” Myka grudged. “But only so Claudia quits looking at us like we stole Christmas. And I pity the hearers.”

“As do I,” Helena said, solemn.

Claudia passed her phone to Helena. Myka leaned to read with her the words of the next verse. They both inhaled, looked at each other, and said “you start” at the same time. After a chorus of “geez,” “come on,” and similar from the annoying people who could actually sing (and who thus weren’t about to make fools of themselves), they gave up and got on with it.

And so they together submitted, in Wenceslasment:

“O dilecta domina, cur sic alienaris? An nescis, o carissima, quod sic adamaris? Si tu esses Helena, vellem esse Paris! Tamen potest fieri noster amor talis.”

The ensuing silence was eloquent enough, but Pete put it into words: “That’s a wow from me. I had no idea anything could sound that bad. Start to finish, next-level awful.”

“Thanks,” Myka said.

“You’re welcome. Seriously, if that was ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ then I’m good King Wenceslas.”

“And yet I feel like that did it? Made it happy?” Steve said, and Leena agreed with him.

Claudia said, “So I guess we’re calling Pete ‘good King Dub’ from now on.”

“I’m into it,” Pete said, “and my first royal decree is, I want to know what they just made it happy singing—or I guess I mean ‘singing’—about. Somewhere in the scary noises I heard ‘Helena,’ so something’s up.”

Helena said, “I have Latin, and I would rather not say.”

“So do I,” Myka said. “And ditto.”

“But for the rest of the class.” Claudia grabbed her phone back. “Okay, here’s what some guy Symonds said it meant, way back in, wait for it, ye olde Victorian times.”

Helena startled: a tiny upturn of chin. “John Symonds?”

“Yeah. Know him?”

“Not well. Mutual friends... he was an advocate of so-called ‘Greek love.’”

Pete’s eyebrows rose. “Going to Greece to get all hey-hey? Like a vacation?”

“Not... precisely that. Although not not that, I imagine.”

Steve chortled. Then he schooled his expression and said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for understanding such euphemisms. This sole representative appreciates it.”

Claudia, not to be deterred, said, “Oh, like he’s the only one who got it. But speaking of getting it, because whoever was singing about the time of flowers clearly wanted to.” She then intoned, “O my chosen one, why dost thou shun me? Dost thou not know, dearest, how much thou art loved? If thou wert Helen, I would be Paris. So great is our love that it can be so.” Hearing that diction in Claudia’s voice was strange... but she reverted to normal with, “That’s some business. You certainly do get around, H.G.”

“I am not Helen of Troy, thank you.”

“You sure?” Pete said. “I heard she was hot, just like you.” He bumped Helena in the shoulder.

“Hey!” Myka objected—about the shoulder-bump as well as the “hot.” But more the “hot.”

“She is though! And I thought so first.”

“You did not,” Myka said.

Helena said, “That sounds like a veiled offense.”

“I saw you before he did,” Myka told her. “And anyone who sees you...” She would have gone on, but her ears had begun to burn, a sure sign she was about to head into the “saying too much out loud” zone.

Helena blinked herself to understanding, and Myka was gratified that she seemed a little flustered too as she said, “Oh. Well. That is... complimentary.”

*

That first sight... Myka had not felt anything recognizable as love at that sight; rather, she’d felt a sense, something that she now considered a flutter from the future. Their first interaction, in its entirety, had made no sense at all, primarily on the obvious “H.G. Wells?!?” level, but also in its subterranean murmur, which Myka could not parse, could not even fathom, not until years later when she understood what her body had been trying to tell her. What it had decided it wanted.

Because she could not help herself, she had recently asked Helena a version of “What did you know and when did you know it?” Because the Helena of that earliest part remained an opacity, one about whom Myka was endlessly curious, and asking obliquely about desire rather than baldly about deception seemed a safer way in.

Helena gave the question some thought, making Myka glad she had asked, for being able to prompt Helena to real thought was a prize. “Something sparked for me when you said, ‘H.G. Wells is a woman. I’m going to have to process this.' Because of course I was myself working to ‘process’ that H.G. Wells was not a woman, if you can see at all what I mean.”

“Not quite,” Myka admitted.

“At that point I hadn’t entirely absorbed the history, the idea that Charles had so fully become... him. Me? That time had rendered any distance between Charles and... what I mean is, I had not ‘processed’ that I myself, as myself, would be so utterly forgotten.” She paused. “And then that you would... ‘process.’ That word, used as a verb of cogitation, seemed so deliberate, so new, so singular, as if you’d invented such usage solely as a response to me.”

Helena lied with great facility; Myka did know that about her approach to deception. This sort of hesitant, cautious talk usually connoted truth—here, a truth flattering to Myka. “I wish I had invented it,” she said. New usages, new words, an entirely new language; she should have realized that all of these would come to seem necessary. “And I’m sorry if this shouldn’t be true, but I’m perversely glad to have this secret knowledge. About you. As yourself.” That was a prize too—the luxurious exclusivity of her knowledge, her behind-the-velvet-rope version of H.G. Wells.

“That you are one of the few who do have it is so pleasing to me that I would write a novel about it.”

“I thought you supplied the research,” Myka said, trying to distract herself from the suddenly all-consuming idea that H.G. Wells, in whatever incarnation, had just mentioned writing a novel about something even vaguely related to Myka Bering.

“As if I couldn’t have written those books? I simply didn’t have the time, and Charles did. But I have already compiled extensive research regarding yourself—and your ability to process.”

Myka’s own clearest spark-point had occurred when Helena had looked her up and down—so very thoroughly up and down that Myka had felt that look as a full scan of her very self, a magnetic, resonant measure-taking. Helena hadn’t looked at Pete like that. Myka had clung to that look, had continued to cling to it, more tightly than she probably should have, when she was wishing inchoately but bodily for things she couldn’t let herself know she had decided she wanted.

So Myka said, in the interest of truth-telling, “That you checked me out was pretty pleasing too.”

Yet another prize: a playful “Is that what I did?”

“More thoroughly than anybody ever has.”

“Then it seems I have some secret knowledge of my own.”

“You do,” Myka said, and: “I’m glad it’s you.” Myka wanted no one else to know any of it. Her own velvet rope, behind which no one else.

*

“When does this end, exactly?” Pete asked. “Not that it isn’t fun.”

“When we’ve done enough,” Leena said.

“And when’s that?” Myka asked in turn. “Because it isn’t fun.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s when Claudia feels that we have.”

Claudia groaned out, “Did Mrs. Frederic have to do this kind of thing?”

Leena said, “I wouldn’t know. Now, are we finished yet?”

“Something about infotech,” Claudia muttered. She started walking.

“Narrows it down,” Steve said, and he followed her, disciple-like.

As did they all. They walked and walked.

“Really old infotech,” Claudia said, so they kept walking.

They passed early computers, including the wall-sized Harvard Mark I; telephones and the switchboards that linked them; calculators, slide rules, Napier’s bones; Babbage’s Difference Engine and Leibniz’s Machine. Claudia dismissed it all: “No, no, no,” she chanted. “None of this. Where are you, pesky upset tech?”

At last she halted. “Okay. You?” And in response to some response, she nodded. “This is it. “

It was a structure that looked like a modernist desk crossed with a medieval torture device. “Gutenberg’s printing press,” Myka breathed, in reverence—not that she needed to say it out loud. Well, maybe for Pete.

“Really?” he said, proving her point. “Pretty much the O.G. of infotech then.”

“Actually we passed a bunch of abaci,” she noted, “which are a lot older than—”

“Ix-nay,” Pete said. “This big fella clearly needs a little jog to the self-esteem. What’s its Christmas deal, though?”

Claudia said, “And so the overburdened Caretaker-in-training got her Wikipedia on one more time.”

“No need,” Helena told her. “This one, I know.”

“You’re certainly a more reliable source,” Myka said.

“It worked, professor,” Claudia said. “What’s the Yuletide word, other professor?”

“There is a cantata commemorating Gutenberg’s invention. Written by Mendelssohn, sometime midcentury? Mid my century, that is... the ‘Festgesang.’ Also known as the Gutenberg Cantata.”

Claudia said, “I think I know how this song goes, and by now everybody can sing it with me: the Victorians stole it for Christmas. Right?”

“Part of the melody, yes. To accompany a Christmas hymn known as ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.’ Do you—no. I was about to ask if you know it, but again we return to A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“Everybody knows it,” Pete said.

“H.G., are you sure all of this song-stealing wasn’t you and your Warehouse 12 buddies?” Claudia asked. “Some super-secret Christmas-invention mission?”

Helena made a face. “Would I be surprised to learn that I had been manipulated into helping such a thing coalesce? Of course not. The Warehouse does enjoy the power generated by a holiday.”

Leena nodded. “Lots of belief. Collectively.”

I am so tired of belief, Myka thought.

“I hope we don’t have to sing whatever the German words are,” Steve said. “I took German in high school and nearly flunked out.”

“Learning lots of new things about you today, BFF,” Claudia commented. “Maybe this isn’t Caretaker practice at all; maybe it’s about us needing to get to know your whole big complicated sax-playing, Wenceslas-hating, German-flunking self. And since when are you a flunker?”

“Something about the word order made me nervous. Like I was always having to untangle what was true. My fault, obviously, not German’s, but I’ve got bad associations, so maybe we could just go with the carol?” He tried, in melodious English, “Hark, the herald angels sing,” then paused, waited. “It doesn’t seem to mind that too much. It isn’t placated yet, though.”

Leena said, “Maybe it doesn’t matter which words we sing.” She tried the next measure as a series of la-las, then stopped and considered. “That wasn’t bad either. I’m guessing it considers the melody Mendelssohn’s real tribute.”

“That’s funny,” said Pete. To multiples of “why,” he answered, “That a printing press doesn’t care about words.”

Helena laughed. “You make an excellent point,” she said. Then, to Myka, “Doesn’t he?”

“He... does,” Myka had to concede.

And in agreeing that Pete made an excellent point, they were, however improbably, pulled extremely close to accord. Myka was barely able to refrain from grasping Helena’s hand again, this time to deal with the depth of her relief that they had... “reconciled” was the word that came to mind, though that probably had more to do with the carol they either were or weren’t about to sing the English words of.

Then again, what was wrong with reconciling, as a word, or as a concept? And so she asked herself why she was refraining. No good answer occurred to her, so she did in fact firmly take Helena’s hand.

Helena didn’t smirk, didn’t eyebrow, didn’t even look at Myka. But she did grip back. Then she went on, with a newly rich note in her voice, “I do think I understand: the press wants it known that the melody was intended to bring glory to it, not to this set of words or that one. And certainly the conceptual majesty of the printed word outglories any newborn baby in a manger, regardless of that infant’s kingship.”

“You’re definitely not being religious now,” Steve said.

“The press brought the Bible to the people, so it has a case for primacy on that score as well.”

“But that baby in the manger saved humankind,” he protested.

Claudia snickered. “I like how nobody’s being religious. Supposedly.”

“We are discussing religion,” Helena starched out. “A different philosophical undertaking entirely.”

“Instead let’s discuss what to sing,” Leena said, “because we’ll be singing together this time. Should it be about the newborn king?”

Helena said, “Not to upset my discursive partner, but the original German is about Gutenberg himself as a sort of savior. His glorious bringing of light into the darkness via the press.”

“If we have to,” Steve said.

“Although,” Helena mused, “I suppose that to sing about Gutenberg’s actions would be to glorify him, rather than the press as such. Perhaps that’s why it doesn’t care about words.”

“How about we split the difference?” Myka offered.

“What’s the difference between an English carol and a German cantata?” Steve asked. “Sounds like a really esoteric riddle.”

Myka said, “Let’s sing the alphabet.” The resulting confused expressions indicated that her very-clear-to-her idea wasn’t quite the beacon of obviousness she’d thought. “Connects all the dots, don’t you figure? Because what’s movable type?”

Helena looked at her like she, Myka, was the one who’d brought light into the darkness. She raised Myka’s hand, which she still held, to her mouth and kissed it. “Lovely,” she said, and although Myka still didn’t exactly feel like singing, she did find herself in a much greater mood to make a joyful noise.

Once the singing—or “singing”—began, they all had different ideas about syllabication, none of which entirely joined into a full cantata-appropriate chorus, but they did end up on “X-Y-Z!” for “re-con-ciled” on their first march through the alphabet, then moved on to the “Joy-ful all ye na-tions ri-ise��� part with a rousing “Ay-bee cee dee eee-eff gee-ee!” Everyone was laughing by the time they finished, and Leena said, “Unless I’m misinterpreting, the press is as delighted as we are.” Even Myka, untuneful as she knew she’d been, couldn’t stop grinning... and, as she regarded a similarly smiling Helena, she wanted to be pelted with mistletoe for the right reasons.

Claudia looked up and around, as if snow had begun to fall. She said, “And I think we’re done. Unless anybody’s still unthrilled?” She asked the question of the Warehouse in general, the air around them.

The air held motionless.

Myka said, “I’m still unthrilled that we had to do this at all. I don’t know how Santa feels about anything, but Pete’s on my naughty list.”

“Aren’t you, however?” Helena asked. “Thrilled, in some small part?” To be back in accord, the sparkle in her eyes said.

Well, all right, she was. “You’re taking advantage of how this feels like a holiday now.”

“In Pete’s defense, and my apologies for uttering that phrase, as well as the one that now follows: his intentions were good.”

“There is a road to a place,” Myka said, “and that road is paved. I won’t name the place, but I think you and I and people who had to listen to us sing were recently in its vicinity.”

“Myka. You just now said it feels like a holiday. And it is also now certain that we will never forget this, our first Christmas together.”

“I like how everyone always forgets that I will never forget anything,” Myka complained.

“But sometimes you don’t keep things top of mind,” Steve said, with his particular delicacy.

“You didn’t forget that?”

“I’m not you, but I was paying attention.”

Myka said, “I appreciate it,” and, noting an inquiring eyebrow from Helena, told her, “I’ll explain later.”

Helena nodded and dropped the eyebrow. She said, “So perhaps a more meaningful statement is that I will never forget this, our first Christmas together. And I am being religious, though only slightly, when I say that it all—having such a Christmas, having this somewhat ear-splitting memory—is a blessing.”

“I knew you’d be all sentimental about Christmas, H.G.!” Pete crowed. “I knew it! Which is I bet why the Messiah figured I’d be all into saving Christmas. And which, FYI, I’m still pretty sure I did, Mrs. and Mrs. Bickerson.”

“Please,” Leena said, “not the M-word.”

“Mrs.?” Pete asked, in obvious confusion. “Should it be ‘Ms. and Ms.’ instead? I don’t know how to be sensitive.”

“That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said,” Myka told him. “Pay attention! You’re the one who just made noise about what tapped you for doing this supposed saving.”

“Messiah!” he shouted, like she’d acted it out in charades.

“Well, that’s re-agitated the press a bit,” Helena said, and to the mechanism, she spoke a single word: “Hark.” That word, said by that voice, was at the same time arresting and soothing. Something to heed. “Or, if you prefer, ‘A’,” Helena offered. Also something to heed. Myka’s ears informed her, by way of further burning, that they would in fact listen avidly to Helena reciting the alphabet. That they would find her doing so to be both arresting and soothing and arousing as well. Not surprising, ears, she told them.

“Speaking of sensitive,” Leena said, “the press is.”

“Aren’t we all,” Claudia affirmed.

“It has more right,” Helena said. “No holiday stole Mendelssohn’s music about any of us.”

“He did score a Midsummer,” Myka said. It was one of the few Mendelssohn facts she knew. “So technically about a Helena.”

That made Leena laugh. “We’ll see what happens if anyone ever puts Christmas lyrics to it.”

Myka said, “I really don’t think she needs a lot of help getting agitated,” and Pete put on an expression of concern. “No, Pete, that’s not what I mean.” Then he grinned. “And that’s not either.”

“What we should encourage Pete to do next year, however, is complete his inventory in a timely fashion,” Helena said, and to Claudia, “A timely supervised fashion, hm?”

“Sorry,” Claudia said, seemingly sincerely. Then she perked up. “But we’ve got happy artifacts and that’s still next in the stack, so let’s go home and play!”

Back at the B&B, just before the playing of Sorry commenced, Myka whispered that word to Helena, with whom she was to play, as that team Claudia had proposed—seemingly forever, but really only hours, before. That word, “Sorry,” followed by “I really am.” Helena didn’t whisper it back, but she did murmur, “Don’t be.”

TBC

[pcygoldenchild]

Mr. and Mrs. Park

✨summary: You and your husband were both agents. Madly in love with each other and your jobs. But what would happen if you needed to face each other?

✨warnings: NSFW, violence, sexual intercourse, dirty talk (Nsfw in part two)

✨A/N: I’ve worked on this for sooo long. I restarted maybe 10 times because I just really wasn’t going my favorite movie justice. Based off of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith’. ( Anon: chanyeol spy au? like him and reader are like mr and mrs. smith????) *not my gif*

You walked into the building. Your heels clicked on the marble floor as you walked through the lobby. It was half past 11pm and most the security and staff were just waiting to switch shifts. No one was really paying attention to the woman entering the elevator. You went up to the penthouse floor and entered. This building was Matt’s office. This penthouse was reserved for when he stayed here instead of going home to his annoying ass wife and kids. He hated his family; even went as far as to hire Chanyeol to kill them. He’s an evil little man.

“Are you in?” you jump as you hear Chanyeol’s voice through your earpiece.

“God, Yeol a warning next time.” you whisper back. You were entering the passcode to the main entrance making sure to stay quiet.

“Next time I’ll knock. Now, are you in?” he replied snarkly. You rolled your eyes and let out a deep breath.

“I’m entering now. Are you ready?” you said. Your hand pushed the door open a bit to look in before you entered. You just had to wait on his confirmation.

“Ready when you are.” he confirmed. And with that you walked in. You made sure not to slam the door or make too much noise. You knew he was up in his study but still wanted as much of an element of surprise as possible. Your heels were loud but you learned to walk on the base of your feet to avoid making so much noise. You walked directly to his study; you knew where it was since you’ve been here plenty of times.

“He’s talking to someone.” Chanyeol said in your earpiece. You could hear voices of another man with a much deeper tone than Matt’s high pitch.

“Any idea who it is?” you whispered.

“I have just as much of an idea as you. I’d say a body guard. There is no way the security let you just walk in there and not alert him. You are banned goods sweetheart.” he replied back. You rolled your eyes again and straightened up.

“Thanks for nothing Chanyeol.” you say before silently walking into the office. There was a sort of short hallway made by a bookshelf before it entered the main office. You stood there for a minute to try to see who Matt was talking to and what about. But all you could tell was that he was twice his size and not listening to a single thing Matt was saying. You took this time to step out into the main office.

“Matthew Barnes.” you said. He smiled without looking at you and shoo’d his hand at the man you are now sure is a guard. He turned to you and looked you up and down. You did the same to him and cocked and eyebrow at him.

“How should we do this young lady.” he said. You squinted your eyes at him as he stood up cracking his knuckles. He was the least intimidating person you’d ever seen and Matt was someone you knew. That said a lot.

“I don’t care. I’m not here for you.” you replied. You walked over to the side a bit giving him a chance to just leave before he did anything stupid. But the big tough guy just had to mock you.

“I know you think you’re a big shot, but you’re really nothing without your husband.” he laughed walking towards you. Asshole.

“You hear that? To think people don’t know I’m the one who made you as intolerable as you are. Marriage changes people. I get no credit.” you said to Chanyeol who was listening in the earpiece. You heard his sigh and the guard looked confused. But he didn’t have enough time to think on who you were talking to or what you were saying before you jabbed him in the throat directly on his adam’s apple. His loss of focus due to the sharp pain rendered him defenseless. He bent over and you kneed him in the head knocking him out rather easily.

“My husband taught me that move.” you smirked dusting your hands of the metaphorical dust he was. You were brought back to the matter of Matt when you were startled by his clapping.

“You two are the perfect pair. Ideally, I have not done you two justice. You two deserve to be much higher somewhere on an Island in Havana or something.” he laughed.

“I completely agree. But instead you want one of us dead. Seems odd, but then again you are one strange man.” you said walking past the unconscious guard. You noticed Matt move back a bit to beside the front of his desk.

“He’s armed. A pistol under his first draw in his desk. Cliche.” Chanyeol said in your ear. You looked at Matt’s hand reach for the edge of the desk then back up at him as he smiled at you.

“Hello Chanyeol. Nice to know you are still informed on all my hiding spots.” Matt said taking his hand away and folding his arms. He was caught but there was no way he was giving up that easy.

“You know, I know his hiding spots too. He was never very good at hiding to be honest. And I’m surprised he didn’t know of the alarm for intruders under my desk. Ask him now if he knows.” Matt said and right after you heard a lot of commotion on the other end. Static and groans came through as you waited for Chanyeol.

“Smart move Matt. Really suits you.” Chanyeol said before a loud groan came through. He was captured? Of all his years, that’s a first.

“What they do with him is up to you Mrs. Park. And you should think fast, time is of the essence.” Matt said sitting on his desk.

“What are my options?” you asked walking to the side to be a couple feet away but directly in front of him.

“Well, you could put a bullet through your pretty head. But they’d kill him anyway. Or you could let him get a very painfully slow death but I’d kill you here. Or you could try to kill me and give me a good exercise but we both know how that will end. Even if you do kill me, Mr. Park is as good as dead.” he smirked. But he was highly underestimating you and your husband.

You walked closer to him slowly, placing your hands in your pockets. You stood in front of him and leaned forward so your face was right in front of his.

“I never thought someone who worked so close to us would underestimate the most powerful people he knows.” you whispered. He didn’t look scared but you knew your words struck fear in his heart, because you were right.

“The most power resides in me, Mrs. Park.” he said before kicking your leg making you stumble. He took that distraction to pull you into a headlock ripping your earpiece out. Your struggle was mostly for show. Sure he could strangle you to death but if you were being honest, you’ve been prepared for it. Late nights with an angry Chanyeol meant frustration sex. Choking wasn’t something you were new to and you’ve had plenty of practice.

“You know, if I were a lucky guy and got to you first, I’d be a much better husband. I mean he sent you in here all alone to take me on. You may be a killer, but you’re weak. You did all this for what? Love? Well you two will die as star crossed lovers.” he said tightening his arm around your neck.

“Over my dead body or yours?” Chanyeol said as he stood in the doorway. Catching you both by surprise but mostly Matt. Because instead of ducking from the gun aimed at him or using you as a sheild he stood there and took a bullet to the arm. He fell after screaming out in pain letting you go. You stood up straight and brushed yourself off. You looked up and saw Chanyeol smirking at you.

“I think I go too easy on you. Although you’ve always been one to take a good choking.” he said coming up to you and rather aggressively kissing you. You grabbed his arms and felt the warmth of his blood stained shirt seep into your hands.

“I always say harder, but you get too scared you’ll hurt your little angel.” you smirk wiping your hands off on the front of his shirt. It wasn’t his blood, he was perfectly fine as expected. There wasn’t much he couldn’t escape from.

“What the fuck.” Matt groans out on the floor. He’s been scooting away towards the back door of his office.

“You’re not shot in the legs Matt. Quit being dramatic and get up.” you said taking the gun from Chanyeol and walking over to a crawling Matt. He heard the gun cock and stilled before turning around to face you.

“You’d kill me while I’m down? That’s very shallow.” he said. Shallow.

“I don’t recall caring.” you said as you shot him in the leg. He let out such a sad shriek. It made you feel a little bad but that lasted only a second before another shot went through his chest. Not from you.

“He was talking way too much.” Chanyeol said before he pulled you back into him ripping your shirt off your body. You did the same to him as you two attacked each other’s lips. Next to go were the pants as you two walked back to the couch against the window. By the time you reached the couch, you two were naked and nearly at each other’s skin.

“Near death and all I could think about was fucking you again.” Chanyeol said pulling your legs to straddle him. You hovered over his hard cock as his fingers went to your core. He rubbed up and down your folds and massaged your clit vigorously.

“If I can’t have this pussy, no one can.” he said as you shook over him and his fingers. You yanked his hand away. He was making you get too close to cumming and you needed more than his fingers.

“So territorial for someone who almost just died.” you groaned out as you lined him up to your hole. Your breath hitches when his hands went to your hips and smacked your ass.

“What’s mine is mine no matter where I am. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.” he said before thrusting up into you. He literally fucked you off balance and made you lean to the side pushing the lamp off the side table and crashing on to the floor. His thrust were fast and needy. You were grabbing everywhere to try and balance yourself so you could gain control but he wasn’t letting up.

“Fuck Chanyeol!” you screamed out as he once again slapped your ass as his cock hit the deepest pit inside you.

“You’re so fucking perfect.” he said grabbing your hips tighter. You started to ride him more once the feeling made you chase your own high. His mouth found place along your stomach and chest as you bounced up and down.

“What would you do without me Mr. Park?” you breathed out. Your hands grabbed his hair and made him look up at you. He smirked and brought one hand to rub your clit fast and hard. His breathing was matched with yours. Your grips on each other enough to puncture your skin. You were both cumming. You shook on top of him as he slowed his thrusts down but not his fingers. You screamed out leaning back as your visions started to black. Then it stopped.

He pulled you flush against his chest as he was still inside you.

“I wouldn’t have anyone to fuck in front of two dead people Mrs. Park.” he whispered. You laughed breathlessly.

“He’s not dead Mr. Park. So I suggest we get going before he comes to his senses and see his dead boss and us fucking.” you said sitting up. He smiled and looked over at the guard.

“That’s sounds like fun.” he said.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 14/? Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Yvanne hadn’t meant to stay in Highever long. Only enough to get her bearings, recover, figure out where she was going to go, what she was going to do. But that first night, after she’d gone down and gotten a drink and not felt any better, she figured she may as well have another one. Then another. Then she drank until she forgot what she was drinking about, then slept til well past noon.

She woke with a splitting hangover. Almost thoughtlessly, she reached for the Fade to provide some desperately needed relief—and then remembered the cloth merchant. Fear electrified her. No, she daren’t risk it.

Without magic, she had no choice but to lay there and experience the hangover’s full wrath. It would be a novelty, if nothing else (though soon it would cease to be that, too.) Having a hangover took up most of her afternoon, after which she scrounged enough of herself up to go have her first meal of the day, which ended up being dinner. And after dinner was as good a time as any to start drinking again.

So it went.

A week passed like that, and then another, and then she was out of money. She could hardly expect to leave Highever if she had no money, so she sold one of her amulets. A Tranquil woman running a magic shop ended up giving her the best price, and the memory of her flattened voice and the vivid (recent?) sun brand on her forehead drove Yvanne to drink all the more that night. It all ended with her vomiting on the floor. The innkeeper looked ready to throw her out, but the clink of her newly-gained gold pieces discouraged any haste.

Sometimes she idly wondered about the cloth merchant who she had robbed and whose mind she had very possibly destroyed. But she rarely wondered for long. That was the thing about encounters with a spirit of Forgetting—they didn’t stick around in your mind for very long. Besides, she had more important things to worry about. The amulet had sold for a good bit more than the cloth. She figured she could afford to stay at the inn for a while, buy some supplies, and head out soon.

But weeks later half that money was gone, and she had no plan, no gear, and no will to get either. So she stayed at the inn.

She’d get out, she told herself. Just not yet. She wasn’t ready.

She missed Oghren. If he was here she would have felt better. More normal, anyway. She wondered where he was now. Probably still at the Keep, drinking himself to death without even a friend to do it with. Though she hadn’t even been a very good friend, had she? A better friend wouldn’t have let herself get dragged into the muck right alongside him. A better friend would have tried harder.

Oh, well. She’d always half-suspected that she was scum. If nothing else, it was nice to feel like she’d been right about herself.

A month later, she sold an armband to keep herself housed and watered, and no longer bothered to pretend that she had any intention of leaving. In fact, she had zero intentions at all.

It wasn’t so bad. In a lot of ways she was better off now than before. Nobody relied on her. She had no responsibilities. If she wanted to sleep all day and drink all night (which she did), nobody suffered. Best of all, when she thought about Loriel (and she thought about Loriel every couple minutes, in those early days), she didn’t feel a sick mix of dread and misery—she just felt fucking  angry. No wonder Velanna had been so fucking angry all the time, shortly after her whole life had been destroyed by her own hand. Angry was good. Angry was easy.

It was  her  fault that she was in this position.  She’d  driven her here, made their shared lives unlivable.  She  had set everything they had on fire and dared Yvanne to watch it burn,  she  had taken  everything  from her. If  she’d given so much as an inch none of this would have ever happened. If she had put in the smallest iota of effort, if she'd cared about Yvanne the tiniest little bit, they could still have been happy together.

( You couldn’t have been,  a voice inside her whispered,  and it’s your own fault for not seeing it sooner.)

How could she just not care? How could it not matter? How could she do this to them? She hated her, she  hated her—nearly as much as she still loved her.

—

She decided early on that she would be a mage no longer. She did no magic, carried no staff. The part of her that knew magic was atrophying day by day, and she was glad of it. If she never again touched the Fade, never again felt its cool waters and infinite varieties—that would be fine. Good, even. Better to be free. Better to be safe.

What had magic ever brought her but pain?

She never gave her real name. Yvanne Amell was somebody’s wife, somebody’s friend, somebody’s mentor and commander, so she would no longer be Yvanne Amell. The innkeeper who had been putting up with her presence knew her as nobody at all, and anybody else that asked got a different answer every time.

One week she met a well-off Antivan trader, rich in silks and bravado. She put her hand on his wrist and looked up with limpid eyes and spun him a tale of how her husband, a cruel and petty man who married her for her titles and seized them from her--how she had had to flee to Highever in terror of his wrath, and how she, once a noble lady, had been rendered homeless and destitute. The Antivan became so enraged at her piteous plight that he drew his sword and declared that he would not rest until he had slain the cruel and perfidious Bann himself and shortly thereafter fell asleep. She informed the innkeeper that her bill for the evening would be on him.

That was the nice thing about a port city like Highever—it never wanted for a steady stream of transient, interesting characters. After many weeks of staying at the inn, not a single face was familiar, and she was free to be somebody else.

Another week she was a Chasind exile, driven from her home because she had dared to find love outside the clan. Her lover had been a rich overland trader who plied her with fine gifts—but alas, when she left her clan to be with him he had abandoned her, and now she had nothing but her faithless lover’s presents to live on. She told this story seven times over the course of a week, each time with further embellishments, each time well enough to earn enough of her audience’s sympathy that they might purchase her a meal or another drink.

The first time someone misread her facsimile of friendliness for sexual interest and leaned in to kiss her, it took every scrap of her hard-won self control not to strike him down with lightning on the spot. She managed to only slap the young man across the face instead. It couldn’t have hurt him—she’d grown so used to augmenting her insignificant strength with magic that without it, she felt about as physically imposing as a newborn kitten—but he still drew back in shock. She hissed through her teeth that she was  not available and to get out of her sight before she made him regret it.

Later she sat and nursed a tumbler of brandy and dwelled. That wasn’t strictly true, was it? She wasn’t unavailable at all. And the young man had seemed nice enough. She didn’t particularly regret hitting him, but only because she had already decided that she wasn’t going to regret anything ever again. If she started to regret, even for a moment, she would be lost.

After that she slept with whoever seemed even halfway interested. At first mostly women, because women were familiar—and then only men, because women were familiar. With a woman she could not help but compare. With a man it meant less than nothing, an all-but-mechanical exercise of material forms. Men were easier to please, anyway; more than half the ones she took to bed were delighted that she was paying them any attention at all. She would take them to her room for an hour or less, and send them away after. She rarely let anyone spend the night, and then only ever on accident.

She felt like a teenager again, sleeping with whoever the hell she wanted, just because she could. It felt good to betray Loriel even in this little way, even though Loriel had been the one to tell her to go, even though she had no one to betray anymore.

After all, why not? All this time she had obsessively wondered,  how could it mean nothing?  Well, it was time to stop wondering. It  did mean nothing. Nothing meant anything, and she was free, free, free.

Some of them left payment for her trouble. The first time it happened she had flushed furious red and tried to explain that it wasn’t like that, she hadn’t been performing a  service— and then realized that she would have to be a complete idiot to turn down coin for something she was going to do anyway. So what if they misunderstood? Let them! She’d take their money if they were so desperate to part with it.

After a while, she started negotiating higher rates.

The innkeeper eventually put a stop to it. He informed her, none too politely, that she was free to ply her trade in the brothel, but  not at a respectable establishment like his inn, and if she did not stop at once he would throw her out. So that put an end to that. She went back to selling jewelry.

It hadn’t occurred to her that there was a brothel in Highever, although upon even a brief moment’s thought it became obvious that there had to be. She remembered the Pearl in Denerim. Back then she’d been so eagerly curious to find out what they were like inside, because she’d been so eagerly curious about everything. Loriel had found the whole thing distasteful and at the time had sarcastically asked her if she was looking for work.

Maker, but they could be horrible to each other. The rest of the night she sat and remembered every single time Loriel had been horrible to her and she’d been horrible back.

One night, in a fit of what could only be insanity, she went around to every brothel in the city until she found a working elven woman with pale skin and black hair, and afterward felt so disgusting that she couldn’t get out of bed for a week.

—

“—Amell—”

She jerked up at the mention of her discarded name. She had been slouched at the counter, sipping the last remnants of what probably passed for wine, half-asleep and struggling to stay awake. If she fell asleep the innkeeper would make her go upstairs, and she wasn’t ready for that, yet.

Her heart pounded. Who here knew her name? She looked wildly around at the source of the voice, which she didn’t think she recognized. Her eyes settled on two men she definitely didn’t know. Where they had come from was impossible to say by clothing and accent alone. Fereldans? Free Marchers?

Neither of them were looking at her. She strained to hear their conversation.

“—took up residence at the old estate,” said one.

“Feh,” said the other. “I don’t believe that cockamamie story about a Deep Roads expedition. If you ask me this upstart new Lord Amell got his money the old fashioned way—trickery, lies, or thievery.”

“Or all three.”

“Or all three!”

“Well, perhaps so. Either way I’d rather deal with this new cocksure than the last Lord Amell. Drunken idiot, that one was, bloody impossible to do business with. Kirkwall’s better off without him—assuming he’s really dead.”

“ I hear the last Lord Amell now lives in a hovel in Lowtown.”

“Maybe somebody claiming to be the old Lord Amell, alright. Anyway, even if this new Lord Amell is a lying trickster, you’re right that he can hardly be worse than old Gamlen, whatever’s happened to him.”

She kept listening a while, but the conversation soon turned to that season’s commercial fishing prospects, and they did not discuss Lord Amell again before they headed up to their rooms for the night.

They didn’t mean her, she thought. They were only talking about this Lord Amell, whoever he was. She was so relieved that she had another drink, and then really did fall asleep on the counter, and was subsequently shaken awake and sent to bed by the weary innkeeper.

Only when she was getting into her own bed did it occur to her that her family had lived in Kirkwall, once, and that the name  Lord Amell might have been more than simply a coincidence.

Over the months that followed she heard more talk of Lord Amell, usually from sailors making port out of Kirkwall. They said Lord Amell was well over six feet tall and nearly as wide, that he consorted with smugglers and thieves and Qunari, that he had a pet hawk as his constant companion. They said he was secretly an apostate, and what more locked in a torrid romance with a Rivaini pirate queen—although the accounts varied. Sometimes the torrid romance involved an escaped Tevinter slave or a Dalish blood mage. She disbelieved all these stories at once, and even began to doubt that this Lord Amell even existed. He sounded more like a tall tale or local legend than an actual person.

And even if he was real—he was hardly any business of hers. Resolutely, she went back to the important business of drinking herself to death.

—

Sometimes she did leave the inn. On these occasions she would blearily wander the city with no particular aim in sight. She would go to the docks, to the walls of Castle Cousland, to the markets, anywhere where people were. City guards and thieves and mothers with their children and slouching youths and burly dockworkers, they all streamed around her. If her dark skin and braided hair was cause for a second glance in other parts of Ferelden, not so in the port city of Highever.

This was what it meant to be part of the world. Total anonymity. Total aloneness. Total perfection.

On one of these sojourns she found herself walking past the gates of the alienage. Loriel was from Highever, she suddenly remembered. She’d been born in the alienage here. Were her parents still here?

She laughed to herself. What if she found them?  Do you know where your daughter is?  she would ask them.  Do you know what she’s been up to? Do you even care? She found herself looking intently at every person she saw, looking for older elves with narrow eyes and dark hair, but nobody looked like a decent match.

Highever wasn’t so far from Vigil’s Keep. Loriel could have come here and looked for her parents any time she wanted. But she’d never even cared to try. She’d given up on them, too.

Suddenly she was furious at her all over again

She wondered if her own father knew or cared that she was still alive. If  he was even still alive; the man she remembered had been so sapped of all vitality that it would not surprise her if the loss of yet another daughter destroyed him completely. When she had been a child she had hated him for abandoning her in Kinloch. She’d been so furious at him for so long that she’d entirely forgotten to think of him, burying all memory of him beneath an avalanche of bitter hatred. It was only now occurring to her that her father had loved her.

She wondered where her sisters were now. They hadn’t been close. They fought over toys and food and their father’s attention, hit and pinched and slapped each other, screamed and shouted and ruined dinner. Suddenly she missed them so much it felt like a physical ache, though she had not thought of them in years. She wondered who they had grown up to be.

At least her oldest sister was probably in a Circle now. When she had been discovered a mage, her mother had been so grief-stricken that she begged the Templars for mercy on her knees, right in the city streets—and her a noble lady. It was quite the scandal, and a bigger scandal yet when Revka Amell disappeared to parts unknown soon after. That was all she knew; she remember little of it, and anytime she’d asked for more, her father would look pained and drawn and refuse to speak more on it.

For a long time, anytime her father was less than what she’d wanted, when he was distant or sad or busy and seemed to look through and not at her, her mother had been the imagined Good Parent. Her mother, who always sided with her and let her do what she wanted, who never hit her or ignored her or let her be hurt. She would spend hours in this fantasy, supposing that someday her mother would come and take her away to wherever she’d gone off to, and she would finally have the life she’d always meant to have.

Unlike her father, though, her mother had abandoned her willingly.

She didn’t remember how old she had been when she’d stopped having that fantasy.

Somebody bumped into her; an elven woman balancing a basket of mangos on her head. She realized she’d just been standing blank-faced in the middle of an alienage for several minutes now. Then she noticed all the dirty looks she was attracting from the alienage elves, wondering what some strange shem woman was doing here.

Fuck this, she thought, heading back to the inn. And fuck all this futile wondering about her family. Even if she wanted to find them she would spend a lifetime searching. One way or another, they were lost to her for good.

—

She didn’t generally let her disposable lovers stay in her bed for long. Sleeping next to someone and feeling their warmth disgusted her. That she’d let this one stay had been pure accident; she’d just gotten too drunk, and fallen asleep practically halfway through.

When she woke again to the late-afternoon light seeping into her room, she found that she had been robbed. All her jewelry; that was most of what she owned, all of it valuable. Her traitorous temporary lover would be hours away by now, carrying her rings, her bracelets, her armbands, her necklaces and amulets, even the little decorations she wore in her hair. That was everything she could have hoped to live on. She had less now than she’d even fled the Vigil with.

She sat on the bed with her legs tucked underneath her like a child. She felt like the biggest fool to ever walk the earth. But if she were honest with herself—with how careless she was being—it was a wonder this hadn’t happened earlier.

Laughter bubbled up from her chest and into her throat, until she had to let it out or else choke on it. She put her head in her hands and laughed until she couldn’t breathe, until she gasped for breath and blackness ate at the edges of her vision.

Something glinted on her hand, drawing her attention to it. Her wedding ring. She had grown so used to its presence on her finger, her plainest piece, the one she never removed or swapped out for anything different. That was it. That was all that was left.

Her head throbbed, but she didn’t dare use magic to fix it. She badly wanted a drink, to take the edge off, but she had no money, and there wouldn’t be enough men at the inn to cajole into supplying her until later this evening.

Suddenly she couldn’t stand to sit here. She needed to go outside and feel the sunlight before evening fell—and the markets closed.

The late summer air was heavy like soup. She felt herself floating through the streets as though not under her own power. She was sober, painfully sober, but nothing felt real, anyway. She watched people hurrying to and fro, going about their comfortable lives, totally ignorant of her plight. Totally indifferent to the slow and now sudden dissolution of her entire life.

Having only one possible recourse, she went to the shop of the Tranquil woman who had always given her the best prices for her jewelry. But then she lingered outside the door.

Her wedding ring gleamed dully as she pulled it from her finger. The simple band was worn smooth from her thumb constantly swiping across it; she must have rubbed it a thousand times over the past several months. She hadn’t taken it off since she’d put it on, years ago. Until now.

What a stupid, impulsive thing it had been, the way they’d gotten engaged ( Loriel gilded in moonlight, the most beautiful woman in the world—)  What a stupid excuse of a ceremony their wedding had been (Loriel breathlessly promising—) What a joke it had been. They'd vaguely planned on a real ceremony someday, and now that day would never come. A trivial pathetic excuse of a wedding, for a trivial pathetic excuse of a relationship, one built on nothing but mutual parasitism, on nothing but fear, on nothing. What a stupid, pointless, empty  (Loriel flushed and laughing, being spun around wildly as they danced, happy—) thing it had been. It made her sick with rage to think of it.

She went inside the shop and sold the ring.

—

The sun was setting by the time she left the shop, her hand bare, her pocket heavy with a little purse of coins. The markets were already closing; there wasn’t really anything left for her to do except go back to the inn.

Except she knew that if she did that, she’d get herself a drink. And because she’d only woken up a few hours ago, she’d keep getting herself drinks. And by the next day she might easily burn through a significant portion of the last few coins she had to her name.

So instead she wandered the city. As long as she kept putting one foot in front of the other—she would be alright.

Only she wouldn’t be. She had nothing to live on, no skills to peddle. Nobody was hiring mages, nor castle administrators. And who would want a willowy female soldier who needed magic to wield a blade at all effectively? She didn't know how to weave or spin or farm or smith; outside the walls she had ensconced herself in, she was useless.

What was she going to do?  What was she going to do?

The sun had fully set by now. Her feet hurt; the shoes she’d bought to replace her ruined pair were cheap and unlikely to last long. Once she’d walked across all of Ferelden, but she’d had good leather boots to do it in. Those were boots that would have lasted a lifetime, and they were back at Vigil's Keep. She wouldn’t be seeing those again.

She could not stop looking at her left hand, bare for the first time in years. It felt perversely light without her. ( Nothing. It had meant nothing .)

A red lantern glowed at the end of the street, and she realized where she was—the brothel. It was called the Lady’s Grace, an awfully pretty name for a place with such sticky floors. After the one time she’d paid it a visit, she had avoided this part of town, acid shame in the pit of her stomach anytime she strayed too near.

But now the glowing red light was as a lighthouse to a storm-tossed ship. There! She could go there—and beg for a place. Girls in these places were well-provided for—food, shelter, enough money to keep drinking. The work would be easy—it was just  sex.  And unlike the others, if she caught something, or fell pregnant, that was an easy fix. She had abandoned magic, but magic wasn’t something you could forget—she would keep it secret, use it only when necessary. Yes, she could do that.

Eagerly, she reached for the handle of the front door, bathed in the red light—and hesitated.

Was she really going to do this?

She could easily imagine it. She would disappear into the Lady’s Grace, and come out only rarely if at all. There she would be comfortable as she wiled away the years, and slowly in the perfumes and the pillows, she would forget. Someday she would be old, and still she would stay, be the madame. She’d run a castle, once, an army. How hard could a brothel be? It wouldn’t be so bad a life. At least she’d have a more comfortable bed.

But still she hesitated.

She looked at her bare hand again.

Yvanne Amell had been somebody’s wife, so it had been intolerably painful for her to be Yvanne Amell. Better by an ale-soaked gutter rat than be Yvanne Amell. But now Yvanne Amell wasn’t anybody’s wife. The only proof that she’d ever been anybody's wife was gone now.

Perhaps it was time to start being Yvanne Amell again.

She thought of all these rumors she had heard of Lord Amell of Kirkwall. If this Lord Amell was real...if he wasn’t a pretender...he might well be her cousin. Her father, her mother, her sisters, all of them were beyond her reach. Not so her maybe-cousin.

Drawing back from the brothel door, she headed to the docks. Her fingers closed around her last few coins. Would it be enough for passage? Perhaps not—perhaps she would have to beg, or steal, but either way, her mind was made up.

Yvanne would make for Kirkwall.

[needdl]

One Spawn at a Time (Part Two)

Part One    Part Two

FFN and AO3

It could be said that Neji was very stressed out. It could also be said that Naruto was slightly fond of ramen. Both would be understatements.

“Neji,” Tenten said very calmly from where she was slowly bouncing up and down on an exercise ball, “I know that telling you to relax won’t actually help you relax in any way, but could you at least pretend to relax?”

“I could try,” he said, somewhat numbly. He’d stopped blinking again. “But I doubt I will be good at it.”

“Okay.” She bounced in silence for a few moments, then said, “Holy fuck, this is taking a long time. How long since I first woke you up?”

He checked his watch. “Almost seven hours.”

“Wow.” She slowed to a halt. “And that’s after I waited for an hour too.”

“You what?”

“I wanted to be sure they were real contractions. Plus I figured if they were real then it’d be best to let you sleep for as long as possible.”

“Tenten- how could you- what if you-” Neji sputtered for a moment, then burst out, “Next time, let me know right away when they start.”

She grinned at him, and despite the exhaustion in her eyes they still sparkled with humor. “Let’s get through this one first, babe.”

There was a quiet knock on the door, and they both blinked at each other for a moment before Tenten called, “Come in!”

Sakura poked her head in the room with a barely-contained grin. “Hi!”

“Hey!” Tenten was just as excited to see her. “You must be about to start your shift, huh?”

“Yeah! I just wanted to quick drop in and say hi, I hope that’s okay-”

“Of course it is!”

Sakura brightened up even more. “So this is it! Big moment!”

“Can you call it a moment if it takes more than six hours?” Neji questioned dryly.

Sakura’s eyes went round. “How far apart are your contractions?” There was a pause as she analyzed what she had said, then held up a finger. “That was definitely my doctor voice.”

They both smirked at her, and she said hastily, “I’m asking as a friend. I am definitely not your OB-GYN.”

“Oh really?” Tenten said. “I hadn’t any idea. They’re about seven minutes apart, we got to the hospital about an hour ago when they were closer to ten minutes apart.”

“That’d put you at the end of your latent stage then. And your water hasn’t broken yet?”

“Nope,” Tenten said wryly. “It’s all such fun.”

“Well, I can’t say from experience but I’ve been told that active labor is much more painful.”

They both stared at her flatly. Tenten said, with no inflection to her voice whatsoever, “Thanks, Sakura. I feel so good about that.”

“Happy to help.” Sakura’s pager went off, and she muted it with a little sigh. “Well, hopefully I haven’t put you off to the point that you don’t let me drop by later if it’s an okay time?”

“If I’m not in the middle of pushing a baby out of me, sure.”

“Great.” Sakura walked over and hugged Tenten (who patted her back somewhat awkwardly in response) then burst out, “OH MY GOD TENTEN YOU’RE HAVING YOUR BABYYYYYY.”

“Yes?” Tenten’s face was smushed into Sakura’s abdomen and her face wasn’t visible, but the confusion in her voice came through loud and clear. “What did you think was happening?”

“Shut up, I know you’re having a baby,” Sakura snapped, “But you’re MY FRIEND AND YOU’RE HAVING A BABY. TENTEN IS HAVING HER BABY.”

Tenten twisted her face around to look at Neji and mouthed, ‘Help me.’

He cleared his throat. “Sakura, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Right, right.” Sakura stepped away from Tenten somewhat reluctantly. “Ugh, I can’t even handle this. See you later if you aren’t in horrible pain and you hopefully have a baby!”

Tenten was not in horrible pain when Sakura next saw her, but neither did she have a baby.

She was reading on the bed when Sakura came in during her break, looking slightly sweaty and uncomfortable but otherwise fine. Neji was nowhere in sight.

“Knock, knock.” Sakura said.

“Who’s there,” Tenten muttered to herself, then seemed to realize what was actually happening. “Oh, right. Hey Sakura.”

“No baby?”

“Well, there’s a baby, but it’s really just not feeling the whole ‘birth’ thing.”

Sakura frowned a little as she took a seat. “Wait, do you not know the gender?”

“Nope.” Tenten put her book to the side and stretched out her neck. “Hyuga tradition, I guess.”

“Huh. Speaking of Hyugas, where’s yours?”

Tenten grinned fondly. “He went out to grab us some lunch. Should be back in a few, actually.”

“Ah. Well, besides labor, how’s your day?”

“Pretty uneventful, honestly. I’m mostly just bored in between contractions. Neji is super unwilling to make out with me to keep me entertained, for some reason.”

Sakura stared at her, looking awkward. “Oh, well- um.”

Tenten let the silence draw out for a bit, then said, “Anyway. How’s your day going?”

Tenten and Neji were actually playing cards when Tenten’s water finally broke, resulting in him panicking and her feeling mildly disappointed that the cards got crumpled and, kind of disgustingly, wet in the resulting flurry of action, rendering them unusable in the future.

And Sakura was quite right. Active labor was much more painful then latent labor.

Hui Na Hyuga was born at 2:38 PM on June 13th. She weighed 7 pounds and 2 ounces and had what was apparently the loudest cry the doctors had heard all day.

Tenten held it together all through the delivery, but the second Hui Na was placed on her chest she started bawling her eyes out right along with the baby. Neji, right at her side with purple fingers where she had been clenching her hand around his through her contractions, surreptitiously wiped away a few of his own tears as well.

Delivering the placenta was a piece of cake when she had a baby to hold in her arms and coo over. She was a little slimy still, but Tenten’s lower area was slimy too so who was she to judge? (Her upper area was just sweaty.)

Once things had settled down a bit and Tenten was cleaned up, she took a longer moment to look over Hui Na’s tiny, delicate features, Neji at her side and staring down at the baby with gentle eyes. They counted up her fingers and toes- twenty of each, of course, but it was so fun to check- and gently stroked her arms.

“She’s so soft,” Tenten whispered, awestruck. Neji hummed in response, hugging her a little closer and resting his head on her shoulder. She propped her head on top of his as they both watched Hui Na yawn, captivated.

“This is like the shot people always show in TV shows and stuff when they have a baby.” Tenten murmured. They certainly were picturesque, curled together on the hospital bed and cradling their child.

Neji hummed in response again. Tenten rolled her eyes. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Hm.” He never stopped staring at Hui Na, and she couldn’t help but smile. “Fair enough.”

Hui Na let out the tiniest of whines as she squirmed around a bit under her blankets. They both watch with bated breath as she settled herself back down.

“That was so intense,” Tenten whispered, only 70% joking.

Neji hummed.

Tenten woke up from a nap and instantly felt the soreness in her entire body reminding her that yes, she did in fact have a baby a few hours ago.

It went away a little, though, when she rolled over and saw a shirtless Neji seated in a chair and cradling a diaper-clad Hui Na to his chest.

“Why’re… shirt.” She slurred.

“She pooped on me,” Neji said. Tenten blinked a few times, unsure whether she should be upset that she missed her baby’s first poop or not.

“How’d it go?” She asked.

“...Fine, I think. A nurse came in during your nap and did some check ups on Hui Na. She’s doing well.”

Tenten smiled. “Yaaay!” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and stretched her arms out in front of her, rolling her shoulders a little to shake out some residual tension. “You think we should try breastfeeding again in a little bit?”

“Your breasts, your call.”

She grinned and shook her head at the phrasing. “Your baby.”

“Your baby too.”

Tenten beamed at the little baby girl in Neji’s arms. “Yeahhhh.”

Neji had wanted children almost the minute he realized he could have his own someday.

His father had been his entire world for a long time, and though his death was devastating- even now, sometimes- he remembered how much they had meant to one another. Sometimes he thought he was one of the few bright spots in Hizashi’s short life.

(Neji was already older than Hizashi was when he died, which pained him deeply to think about.)

But he remembered that bond, and longed to have it again someday, and if it meant becoming a father then it would be something he would relish.

At one point, he realized that to have children in a stereotypical way would mean having sex and getting someone pregnant. That put him off it from ages nine to thirteen, and then he decided that maybe having sex would be not that bad probably.

It didn’t meant he wanted children right away. In fact, the idea of having children in high school or college- before marriage, really- put him off quite a bit.

And he wouldn’t want to ask such a thing from his partner if they didn’t want children just as much as he did.

He always just assumed he would have to wait most of his life to find someone that he loved and would want the same thing- and then he walked into the Chinese History and Heritage offices in the Konoha Institute of Art to whip through a publicity-gaining, pro-bono case for the newly formed law firm of Hatake and Maito and saw none other than Tenten Huang, his own best friend from ages thirteen to nineteen, sitting at a desk with her hair just as he fondly remembered it.

(He joked to her later- once they had become close enough friends again- that she herself had been so excited to see him that she threw up. She was not as amused as he was.)

Three and a half years later, he married her. Two years after that, she told him she wanted to have kids.

And now here they were, a family.

He had a daughter now, small and loud and grumpy and perfect. When Tenten fell asleep and he and Hui Na had their first moments alone together, he couldn’t stop the few tears from falling.

Hui Na glared at him for a few seconds, then stubbornly clenched her eyes shut and fell back asleep. He grinned down at her and gently stroked his hand over the top of her downy head. It was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and he almost couldn’t believe she was his own child, finally here.

He raised her slightly in the crook of his elbow to kiss her forehead, then settled back in his chair, content to watch her sleep.

An hour, a big baby poop, a subsequent shirt removal, and one breastfeed later, Neji had moved back to the bed with Tenten, his arm around her waist and legs tucked in next to hers as they lay on their sides and watched Hui Na slumber away, swaddled in her bassinet and wearing the ridiculously adorable turtle hat from Gai.

“You know what I just realized?” Tenten murmured.

Neji dropped a quick kiss to her cheekbone. “Hm?”

“She’s ugly.”

He had to hastily bury his laugh against her shoulder. He pulled away again a minute or two later, still grinning, and said, “Tennie, you can’t call her that-”

“I mean, she is! I’m not going to pretend to people that she’s cute. She’s a newborn, they’re almost never cute and I won’t make people say she is.”

“Hui Na is perfect.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t perfect. I just said she was ugly.”

“I’m going to ignore you now,” Neji informed her.

Tenten settled back against his chest and sighed. “You do that.” She was asleep in minutes.

Neji startled awake at the cry of an infant, and had a disorienting moment where he wasn’t sure what was happening. Tenten, tucked against his side with her arm thrown over him, woke up when he sat up, and in the time it took for her to open her eyes he remembered: hospital, baby- and not just a baby, Hui Na, his daughter.

His daughter.

He got up before Tenten could, quickly crossing to Hui Na’s bassinet and gently lifting her from her bed. She continued wailing, and Tenten’s voice broke in distress. “Neji- she’s crying-”

“I know,” he dropped his voice to a low, comforting hum. “She’s hungry. Take your time, get comfortable and I’ll pass her to you.”

Tenten sat up and propped up some pillows around herself, then tugged down the front edge of her gown. Neji passed her the wailing infant then sat down next to her on the bed as she settled Hui Na close to her chest. From what Neji could tell from the light falling softly through the cracks in the door, Tenten’s expression was… not good.

Hui Na quieted and began nursing, seemingly without an issue. But Tenten’s expression didn’t ease.

She took a sudden, shuddering breath. Neji reached out to cup her jaw. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. He felt her tears fall over his fingers. “I just- she was crying, and I didn’t wake up until you moved me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m her mother.”

“And you just gave birth to her a few hours ago. You’re exhausted, Tenten. You can let yourself rest.”

He slid his hand back to cradle the back of her head. “I’m here for both of you.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He leaned in and slowly kissed her temple, aching over the hitch in her breath as she fought to keep her sobs quiet.

When Hui Na finished nursing and had been burped, Tenten gently moved her to rest on her bare chest, sitting back in the bed and closing her eyes. Neji draped his arm over the top of the pillows behind her and gently started stroking her hair.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing together. Tenten let out one last quiet snuffle and said softly, “Can you put her back in her bassinet?”

Silently he sat up and lifted Hui Na from her arms, shifting her in his grip and pausing to stroke the baby’s cheek, feather-light, before settling her back down. She wiggled a little under her blankets and turned her head as she slowly drifted off again. He watched her for a few long moments, contemplating how much his life had changed in mere hours.

He turned back around to go to bed and found Tenten smiling softly at him through sleepy eyes. She held out a hand to him in invitation and he slid down under the covers next to her, catching the proffered hand and kissing the fingertips.

She put her arm around his waist again and draped her leg over his, tucking herself against his shoulder as she drifted off. Neji laid on his back and placed one hand over her arm and the other on the back of her head, turning to kiss her forehead before he closed his eyes.

They were headed home early evening the next day, after some more check ups, a few visits from friends and family, and a day spent resting and cooing over Hui Na. Neji, despite Tenten’s muttered, petulant protests, decided to use the cot the hospital had provided for them rather than sharing a bed with Tenten while she napped- she wouldn’t admit it, but she physically felt better if she had it to herself for recovery.

Plus, it gave him to opportunity to lay Hui Na on his bare chest while they napped together- and Tenten was sure to get plenty of pictures of that.

By 4:30 PM, they had packed up all of their things besides a few essentials- and of course, Hui Na, awake in the carefully vetted baby carrier and watching the outside world move around as much as she could.

Neji pulled the car around while Tenten waited with Hui Na, cooing over her and quietly telling her about what her home would be like. Hui Na was distinctly unimpressed, squinting up at Tenten and making a face that probably meant she was gassy.

Their ride home was uneventful, but it certainly didn’t stop the new parents from being quite tense over the possibility of any danger. Tenten was certainly prepared to shield Hui Na with her body at a moment’s notice, and Neji was hyper vigilant at the wheel.

They got home and settled Hui Na down in their room for a nap, took hundreds of pictures of her, unloaded the car, and then realized they had no idea what to do next.

They sat on the couch and stared at each other for a while, before Tenten said, “Well… dinner?”

Neji blinked. “We have that tofu stir-fry Lee and Gaara made us.”

She yawned. “Sounds good.”

They stared at each other again. Finally Neji said, “I guess I’ll heat that up, then,” and stood and walked into the kitchen. Tenten called after him, “I mean I could do it, but since you’re up and everything.”

“You just stay there and look pretty.” Neji said.

Tenten cast a quick look over herself. She was wearing a pair of loose sweatpants and one of Neji’s shirts, because like most people after giving birth her postpartum body looked about five months pregnant. She hadn’t actually washed herself in almost thirty hours (she’d had a nice zen experience in the hospital shower, but hadn’t felt like doing anything beyond sitting in the chair and zoning out for a bit.) She didn’t even want to consider what her hair looked like.

“Okey dokey,” she told Neji.

She was asleep by the time he came out with a bowl of stir-fry.

[jefferyryanlong]

Fresh Listen - The Squids, The Squids (Bankshots Music, Inc. and Oto-Songs, Inc., 1981) and Duganopacalypse Now (A Fan Compilation, circa 1981)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a periodic review of recently and not-so-recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

The first band I ever loved was the Beatles, and John Lennon was dead years before I had any idea of who they were. It wasn’t until Kurt Cobain died that I had any interest in Nirvana--I recall an eighth grade classmate looking at mw with contempt after I told them I was unfamiliar with their music, when “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was already an MTV hit. The chemical composition of my brain was dissolved and reconstituted over the course of two weeks when, at twelve years old, I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Cool Hand Luke on late-night television, but both films were about twenty years old by then. I just heard of Herbie Hancock’s V.S.O.P. album, featuring Freddie Hubbard, Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter, and Tony Williams, about two weeks ago. I’m 42 years old now and I’ve only just come to realize how cutting and prescient Claude McKay’s novel Banjo is. 

All this to say that I wish I’d been around when Honolulu’s The Squids were playing around town. (Much thanks to Roger and Leimomi from Aloha Got Soul for pointing me in the right direction.) The Squids were so odd and varied, a New Wave outfit with the muscularity and venom of the truest punk rock, able to invoke the B-52′s in the same gig as Talking Heads or the Ventures or the Specials, all with the same veracity, but much weirder and crueler. They married a sunny, breezy synth sound with an aesthetic that I can only describe as joyously psychopathic, spraying smart-ass malice on the unfortunate subjects of their songs.

Though the band only officially released a 7-inch EP in 1981 (currently unavailable on Amazon) Comrade Motopu, the mysterious archivist who, through digitized vinyl and cassette tapes, as well as donated photos, scanned liner notes, flyers and news releases, has painstakingly agglomerated Hawai‘i rock music and associated miscellany on a magnificent pre-Y2K looking website, has not only shared the Squids’ EP (featuring “Tourist Riot,” “‘Love Theme’ From Surfer Boy,” “In,” and “Rio”), but what is also listed as Duganopacalypse,  a fan compilation with even more twisted tunes: “Medicine,” “Sexy,” “Head in the Sand,” the ska-soaked “New Girl in Town,” their partially awful, mostly spectacular “Cool Clear Water,” and “Pretty Vacant (with Dugan),” the Never Mind the Bullocks classic with a seemingly hated fan on the inarticulate vocals. I only pray that Comrade Motopu continues documenting this underhand era of Pacific rock music of the late Seventies to early Nineties--the site is a treasure, and more words about the bands highlighted on comrademotopu.com (the Vacuum and Yahweh’s Mistake, for instance) will be coming soon.

The Squids began as a concept by guitarist Beano Shots in 1979, later to take shape as a full-fledged human/cephalopod music group with members Kit and Gerry Ebersbach, Dave Trubitt, and Frank Orall. Those of us who sweatily flailed our way through a booze-and-drug bender on the strobe-lit (at least, as it appeared then) dance floor of the Wave Waikiki between the hours of 2 AM and 4 AM when all the other bars closed down would be surprised to learn that the now-demolished former nightclub, a hub for the scraped-out, after-hours husks operated by the residual combustion of chemicals in their blacked-out reptilian brains, once hosted the edgy Squids as the house band, presumably when the going-out crowd still had an affinity for fun, strong music, and did not simply seek to propel themselves upon the the mechanized beats and soulless zombie tracks initiated by a faceless button masher, in hopes that they would be manipulated, by the end of the night, into some loveless fuck with a nobody. 

Of the Squids’ stage show, we have but one recorded example of the band live in concert: a faithful interpretation of the Sex Pistols’ “Pretty Vacant,” in which the players serve as back-up band for a loyal heckler known only as “Dugan.” Having taken (jokingly) enough shit from Dugan, the band harasses him into sing-shouting the song. The performance captures the “fuck you” sentiment of “Pretty Vacant” with a primitive abandon that almost makes the original seem like a Monkees’ tune. It also portrays a punk rock scene less enlightened to the diverse lifestyles it later engendered, when “dick sucking” was applied exclusively as a pejorative.

The same pissed-off adrenalin leads off the the 1981 EP in “Tourist Riot,” an apocalyptic narrative of that species of traveler compelled to hammer a new experience into a predetermined mold that will establish an appropriate backdrop to their social media posts. The tourists here burn hotels and smash out windows when their expectations aren’t suitably met--a bad vacation in which they are pushed around and mistreated leads the tourists to murder and mayhem.

“Tourist Riot” lays out the Squids’ music aspirations right away, especially in the interplay between Beano Shots’s electric guitar and Kit Ebersbach’s keyboards, which morph from forbidding electronic warning tones to psychedelic ghost notes to the replicated sirens of a city on fire, collateral damage in a war between locals and tourists. Following a surprisingly effective bridge that concludes with a shouted “Fuck it, I’m going to New York City!” is an atonal guitar solo reminiscent of Nels Cline asleep at the wheel, redeemed by a more fluid keyboard exploration.

When Jimi Hendrix claimed that “you’ll never hear surf music again” in 1967, he was, through the example of his own transcendent playing on “Third Stone from the Sun,” burying the corpse of that elementary, improvisationally unimaginative rock instrumental with the axe with which he had slew it. To that end, after hearing Jimi Hendrix and all the musical manifestations that took shape from his cosmic residue, it is sometimes hard to take surf music seriously. “‘ Love Theme’ from Surf Boy” comes across as the Squids’ winking parody of the genre, with its reverb, its whammy, its overall melancholy, and its simplicity. That said, there is some sophistication in the song’s structure, as if the wordless tune was more an exercise in technique, an attempt to take stock creatively before reaching out to a farther and stranger place.

On “In,” the guitars and keyboards snarl rabidly toward the same explosive destination, barely kept in check by the talents of the players. Lyrically minimalist, the song’s non-sequiturs slice through the instruments like assembled cut-up style by William S. Burroughs. “Are you losing sense of humor, could be Jesus was only kidding” followed by “are you losing sense of humor, could be Jesus was just a salesman.” These pieces of thoughts unfinished resonate in my head like something close to catchy--to what end, I don’t know. Where the keyboards overmatched the guitars on “Tourist Riot,” on “In” the guitar is locked in and dirty, climaxing in repetitive harmony between the instruments to close out the song.

When I first read the track listing to the 1981 EP, I thought the final song “Rio” would be a rough rendering of the hit video single by near-contemporaries Duran Duran (whose synth-guitar arrangements, though undoubtedly smoother, find relation in the Squids’ overall aesthetic). Instead, “Rio” is an acid commentary on the American Capitalist, represented as a white suit soaked in sweat, and his compulsion to foster vice and iniquity to exotic locales.

I’m not sure whether the fan compilation Duganopacalypse, also available for listening through the Comrade Motopu website, was recorded before, after, or  during the sessions of the 1981 EP. A few tracks lead me to believe that the songwriting and arrangements are from a wiser, more sophisticated band, while other songs seem so apelike in their imitations as to come through as pointless satires, or maybe the explorations of a band trying to find its identity.

In “Medicine,” for instance, the Squids operate under an overpowering B-52′s filter that washes out their uniqueness. Whereas on previous tracks this influence existed only at the fringes of their sound, the singer on “Medicine” channels Fred Schneider on the verse and switches to David Bowie during the bridge. The role-play, though, doesn’t kill the the more interesting aspects of “Medicine”--its guitar lick is inventive and so wormy as to be slightly irritating, and the song’s themes, that one must willingly imbibe “the medicine” to accept the hypocrisies of this “downer world,” resound strongly to anyone who casts their eyes around a crowded room.  

Where the B-52′s references go deep in “Medicine,” Talking Heads emerge in “Sexy,” from David Byrne’s vocal tics to the subtle and swampy “Take Me to the River” vibe. It goes beyond straight homage to cover band territory, but it does emphasize the band’s technical ability to lock into a groove. “New Girl in Town” is a heaping serving of not-completely-warmed-up ska leftovers, a bit misogynist (of its time, but still). “Head in the Sand,” regrettably, could have been the Squids’ crossover pop hit. I say “regrettably” because, even though the song has a point--that the ability of humans to maintain a semblance of happiness is to carefully cultivate the warm fuzz of obliviousness, sacrificing will to fate in the belief that nothing we could do to change anything would matter anyway--the effort seems more calculated than organic, a plastic approximation of the closest this band, given their specific set of skills, could get to a pop crossover hit. The work put into it seems to drain away at some of the dirty magic. It‘s self-conscious in a way that the other songs aren’t.

Finally we have “Cool Clear Water,” what would have been the band’s masterpiece if they’d spent a little more time recording a decent take (the version on the Duganopacalypse almost sounds live, though it could have been laid down in a rehearsal space). This is not the country classic performed by Marty Robbins and Johnny Cash. The Squids’ “Cool Clear Water” is the frightening confession of a soldier recently returned from the war in Vietnam, directed by an angel spirit to mass murder with a shotgun from a tower in town. When the killer is set to be executed, the angel spirit comforts him, tells him his spirit will be redeemed in heaven for “setting the people free.” The unnerving subject matter of “Cool Clear Water” is given sinister shape by the relentless horror-notes of Kit Ebersbach’s organ, the guitar holding down the song’s march toward inevitable nothingness because the bass (normally played with elan by Gerry Ebersbach) is a complete mess (I’m not sure if she hadn't learned the song or if she just showed up at the gig drunk).

As Marc Maron frequently says on his podcast, “there’s no late to the party” anymore, given the the amount of content available to all of us via the digital consciousness that we are now more plugged into than not. But I’ve waited all my life to lose myself in something vital, of the moment, with my eyes and ears and heart present while the thing is taking shape, at its most temporal. I feel that way listening to the Squids. I wish I could have seen them at one of their Wave gigs. I wish I could have had a beer with them afterward, and gushed in the embarrassing way I do about things I love.

[hannahmcne]

Her Royal Highness - Chapter 4

Mal's door remained unlocked, but she didn't go anywhere except down the hall. Mainly because she couldn't remember where she'd come from and a piercing headache had started in the front of her brain, right behind her eyes. So, she hung out in her room. Not long after Ben left, Sophia came around and brought paper, writing utensils, books, and a little list filled with lots of numbers.

"What's this?" Mal asked, as she rubbed her head and squinted at the writing. She recognized the names written on the sides of the numbers, but her head still didn't feel like it was working correctly.

"A list of important phone numbers for the palace," Sophia answered. She had a tea set on the dresser and was preparing a cup for Mal. "My number is on there too." She said as she added a small pill to her cup, which fizzled into the drink and disappeared.

"What do I do with them?" Mal asked. She sounded flat-out exhausted as she tried to focus on the paper.

Sophia chuckled and took the list out of her hand, replacing it with the tea, which Mal stared blearily at in confusion. "For your headache," Sophia told her. "Drink up. Where is your phone?"

It was lying on the bed, locked. Sophia handed it to Mal, who quickly entered her password and then gave it back because the light hurt her head even more. She took a sip of the hot drink Sophia had given her and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. "Oh gosh." She moaned as her head cleared. "This heals everything."

Sophia opened the text app with a chuckle. While Mal finished her tea, Sophia entered her phone number and set the message 'Mal Bertha'.

"Look, Mal. Now you can contact me." Sophia explained to Mal, showing Mal her own phone screen, which had lit up with a green notification with her name in it.

Mal looked at the screen and watched as Sophia showed her how to label the number with a contact so that she'd know it was Sophia.

"Why are there two keyboards?" Mal asked, noticing a different panel at the bottom of the screen. She pointed to it so that Sophia could see what she was talking about.

"One is a picture keyboard." Sophia simplified. "There's a bunch of faces and animals and stuff. Want to see?"

Mal shook her head. Eventually, she'd be left alone, so she could explore the picture-keyboard then. She observed in bleary exhaustion as Sophia entered in a new number and sent her name through. This time, a little grey text box appeared with three dots in it.

"They're messaging back," Sophia explained to Mal, gesturing to the box.

'Ben Florian' was the name that came back. Mal frowned. "Is that Prince Ben, Ben?" She asked.

"Yes." Sophia nodded and watched Mal to see what her reaction would be.

"Oh," Mal replied lamely. The phone buzzed in Sophia's hand. A moving picture had appeared from Ben. It featured a middle-aged man with a friendly smile, who was waving with the caption: 'Hi'.

Sophia continued adding Belle, Adam, Lumiere, and a few other people. One of these was named Doug. When Doug first received the message with Mal's name from Sophia, he immediately texted back a paragraph. There wasn't much meat to it. It was basically "If you need me, come ask" "Sorry if I take a while to answer texts."

Sophia was very kind to keep Mal's saucer topped with headache remedy, but eventually, she had to slip away to refill the pot. Mal, who felt much better, took the books Sophia had brought and began to fill her little bookcase up. She discovered a surprise: a thick, white comforter hidden underneath the pillows on her bed. She traded her shock blanket for it and took the paper and pencils Sophia had brought her. Then, she hid out in the closet, which she liked because it wasn't as bright, and it was a smaller space. She did keep the door cracked open a stitch, so Sophia wouldn't wonder where she'd gone if she came back.

Mal liked to doodle. She'd done more than her fair share of graffiti on the Isle, decorated their hideaway behind the rock-pulley system, and spent a fair majority of her time in class drawing on scraps of grey paper. It was nice to work with all the new utensils instead of the emptyish ones she got on the Isle. As she was finishing putting the finishing touches on a rendering of her new home, the castle, she heard a knock at the door. She pushed the closet door open a little with her toes and called: "Come in!"

The door opened and revealed a woman who Mal had seen many times on TV. She cautiously climbed to her feet.

The Fairy Godmother flashed a beautiful smile. "Hello, Mal." She greeted, then curtseyed. "I'm the Fairy Godmother. I've been told you aren't what we were expecting."

The Fairy Godmother wore a blue dress with a retro collar and a pink bow fastened beneath her collarbone. Underneath her skirts, Mal could see the edges of a black and white polka-dotted fabric attached to the bottom of the knee-length dress. She wore blue plastic flats and wore her hair curly with a pretty silver clip in it.

Mal swallowed and managed a small bow, of some sorts. "It sounds like you were expecting Hades himself." She said softly.

"Not Hades, but a mini-Maleficent, perhaps." The Fairy Godmother's smile faded a little as her eyes began to travel. Mal shifted her weight and began twirling a lock of hair around her finger as the older woman studied her.

"White isn't really your color, is it, dear?" Fairy Godmother asked with a smile.

Mal smirked. "Just don't put me in yellow and we'll be fine."

Fairy Godmother laughed. "How old are you, dear?" She asked.

"Sixteen," Mal answered, leaning against the closet frame and kicking her leg up to rest against the doorframe. At her answer, the Fairy Godmother looked sad.

"My, you're much younger than I was expecting." The Fairy Godmother whispered. "You're about the same age as my daughter Jane."

"What are you here for, again?" Mal asked. This conversation was going way off track, in her opinion.

"To talk, mostly. I was curious, have you experimented with your mother's magic yet?" Fairy Godmother sat down on the bed and examined Mal even further.

The question startled Mal. Of course, she knew her mother had possessed some of the strongest magics in the land before her imprisonment. The fact she had created and executed this elaborate mess was a testament to that. But the idea that she would have similar powers hadn't occurred to her. The only thing she'd ever been able to do was make her eyes light up.

Fairy Godmother chuckled. "I suppose not, then? Can you try now? Do you know any spells?" Mal shook her head. Everything her mom had once crammed down her throat and into her head felt like years ago now. "Make something up." Fairy Godmother encouraged her. She bit her cheek as she crossed her ankles daintily and waited.

Mal raked her newly not-aching brain and quickly made a flimsy rhyme. "Snap my fingers like a thread, hurry to fix the hair on my head."

Upon her words, her fingers took a life of their own. A sharp green light appeared at the end of her fingernails. She flicked her hand left, then right, and then made a little circle around her face, all against her will. Her vision went green and foggy for a few seconds, and then she felt the strands on her head rearranging and straightening themselves into something that hopefully didn't look like she'd had a mental breakdown earlier and lost her cool at the future king of Auradon. Mal slumped back in exhaustion as soon as she had control of her hand back.

The Fairy Godmother applauded lightly. Mal stared in surprise at her fingers, and then quickly turned her attention back to the Fairy Godmother. Conversation now, panic over new revelation later.

"Well, Auradon discourages magic, I'm sure you know. You might be able to find books in the library to teach you about theory and things like that, but active practice is a punishable offense, usually with heavy fines and sometimes community service. And of course, spells work better if the lines match syllables, and if they're in multiples of three, seven, or with the same number of beats as your age." Laugh lines appeared in the older woman's face as she smiled proudly at Mal. "But, laws aside, you could very powerful one day, even without practicing magic. I hope you'll recognize that and use that power for good."

Mal had no clue what she was going to do at that point. She was still blown away that her first feeble attempt at a spell had worked.

The Fairy Godmother cleared her throat. "If I may, can I sample your magic? If there's any correlation to Maleficent's, it might help with decoding her curse. We have already sampled former cursed items, but it appears in different… context on Ben." She gestured to Mal's hands.

Mal swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Anything to get me out of this mess." She outstretched her fingers and walked towards the Fairy Godmother.

At her words, the Fairy Godmother looked incredibly sorry. She took Mal's hand and spread her fingers out. She began to mumble, and the tips of Mal's fingers relit. A warmth spread through her palm. But the Fairy Godmother quickly let go. She shook her head. "Your magic is the same type hers is, but it's far too weak at the moment to be able to unravel her curse. It's also slightly warped."

"Warped?" Mal asked, alarmed. How could it be warped? She'd cast one spell her entire life and now she was damaged forever. Just her luck.

"It happens naturally." The Fairy Godmother assured her. "Everything in the world has a little magic, and your magic grows depending on where you live and how you use your powers. I bet the barrier over the Isle is what warped it the most." Fairy Godmother shrugged. "Anyways, we can't have you help us break it yet until you're a little stronger."

"How long will that take?" Mal asked.

"Well, you should have been growing your magic at a steady rate for several years now." Fairy Godmother explained. "For you to recover and exercise your magic enough to gain enough power would take two or three years of intense magical growth, which you won't be able to get in rhabdophobic Auradon."

Mal slumped her shoulders in disappointment. "Alright." She mumbled. Fairy Godmother patted her cheek.

"Cheer up dear. We'll figure this out. For now, are you alright? I heard you had a panic attack today. Has that happened before?" She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head.

"Yeah, I did," Mal admitted. "And no. I've never had anything like that happen. I just, the walls felt like they were going to fall in so I went into the closet to hide."

"And couldn't stand up?" Fairy Godmother prompted, looking worried.

"Or hear or move or anything." Mal agreed. "It was like my brain was shaking and my body went stiff." The Fairy Godmother examined Mal as she moved her hands in explanation. Mal carefully sat down next to the wingless-fairy.

"Before then, had you eaten or drank anything?" The Fairy Godmother asked.

Mal shook her head. "No. Well, I had some candies on the way to the palace this morning, but nothing else since lunch yesterday. I missed dinner because my mom decided to inform me that I was leaving."

"That would play into it. You probably didn't sleep all that well either, huh?" Fairy Godmother nodded as if this all made sense to her.

"No," Mal admitted sheepishly.

"We have panic attacks like that at the school every year when finals roll around." The Fairy Godmother informed her. "People forget to take care of themselves. We get panic attacks and people passing out when they're exercising, among other things."

"Oh. So, I just need to keep on top of that?" Mal asked.

"That should do it. Of course, if it persists, see a doctor." Fairy Godmother smiled.

Mal made a face, and the Fairy Godmother laughed. A silence formed for a few seconds. The Fairy Godmother looked around the room. "Did you really not know you were coming here?" She asked quietly.

Mal withdrew into her frame and clammed up. "She sat us down in front of the TV and wouldn't say a word on why she was so excited. When they finally brought Ben out of his meeting with you and King Adam gave his statement to Auradon, she told us in celebration while she was dancing around the room. None of my friends or the other villains had any idea what to think. No one talked to me all day."

"So, it wasn't exactly a surprise when they showed up?"

"Well…" Mal trailed off. "I don't know. It all went so quickly." The Fairy Godmother crossed her legs and leaned forward to Mal. She waited until the purple-haired girl began to speak again. "I was angry at first, but then I managed to convince myself she'd been lying. I mean, Mom's had tons of elaborate plans to leave before. But when I came back they'd already packed up my things for me and the guards showed up about five minutes later to drag me away."

"On behalf of Auradon, I apologize." The Fairy Godmother whispered softly. Mal snapped into an upright and hostile position and furrowed her eyebrows at the Fairy Godmother.

"You'll apologize for this and not for the Isle of the Lost?" She accused. The Fairy Godmother looked taken aback.

"Why should we apologize for the Isle of the Lost? We had to protect ourselves from the villains." She explained with confusion evident in her tone.

"I find it funny," Mal said bitterly. "How you fought an entire war where both sides lost thousands of people and still refused to use the death row to eradicate the problem. It's your fault I'm here in the first place. If you had killed Maleficent, I wouldn't have to deal with this – this burden! Or if you had come up with a different solution to the Isle of the Lost: banished them outside the kingdom, removed their powers, again: killed them, then Mom never would have thought to create this spell in the first place. Who's to say it's her fault and not Auradon's?"

"We don't believe in killing or hurting people like that." Fairy Godmother explained to try and placate Mal. This only riled the teen up even more.

"And that's another thing!" Mal retorted angrily. "Auradon's famous honor code; despite the fact you imprisoned hundreds of your worst villains, murderers, and schemers on the Isle and refuse to provide them the basic essentials to life outside of the weekly trash delivery, you don't believe in removing a person's magic and allowing them to walk free for their lives? Haven't you heard what happened to Ursula's eye? Or my Mother's wings?"

The Fairy Godmother was silent. Then, she pointed at Mal's head. "Your horns, dear." She whispered.

Mal blinked in surprise. She cautiously reached up to feel the top of her head and fell two curved protrusions descending back into her skull. They felt like warm stone or ivory. But they were only there for a second, and then they were gone. She stared in shock at her fingertips, as if she were doubting what they'd felt.

Across the room, the door creaked, and someone knocked. Mal turned her sharp gaze to the entrance. After a few seconds delay, it opened a little more and Prince Ben appeared, looking sheepish. He cleared his throat and began to speak in a high, awkward tone:

"Erm, sorry, we're waiting for you in the library, and-"

"How long have you been standing there?" Mal interrupted his introduction. Ben wilted. Mal scoffed. "Long enough, then." She stood up and, after a moments' hesitation, took her new phone with her. Ben's face was red as she marched past him at a brisk pace. She stopped outside the door and pretended to wait for him and the Fairy Godmother, but truthfully, she didn't know where the library was.

Ben held the door for the older woman as she walked past, then took up the lead. Mal walked beside him. If she couldn't lead, she sure as heck wouldn't fall behind him. Ben curled and uncurled his hands like he wasn't sure what to do with them while they swung at his side.

Ben stopped outside of a pair of doors that were three times his height. Why anyone would need doors this tall, Mal didn't know, but she hoped some giant found them useful one day. Ben opened the door to allow the Fairy Godmother, who had remained silent during the walk down, and Mal, to walk through.

Mal sucked in a breath at the tall beams of the library. The ceiling was patterned opposite the floor, with the ceiling being the lighter inverse of the pattern on the floor. The room was a very large rectangular prism, with the wall ahead made of glass and looking out over the kingdom. The wall they'd just entered with their backs to had a beautiful mural of the castle, featuring a beautiful girl in yellow and a rose, among other things. It must have been the story of Belle and her Beast, Mal noted as she took in a ferocious, growling monster in a corner of the wall. The last two walls were made of books. Several other enormously tall bookshelves filled the magnificent room, but directly in front of her was a collection of rose-embroidered couches and chairs surrounded by a rosewood coffee table with dozens of papers and folders spread out on it. Belle and Adam were sitting in two armchairs and holding each other's hands. They looked up without a smile as the group entered the room.

"Come and take a seat." Adam invited in a weary tone. He raised a hand and beckoned the three towards him.

They did, and Ben and Mal ended up sitting next to each other on the two-seater so that everyone could examine them. Ben still hadn't said anything to Mal since telling her they were waiting for him. He twiddled his thumbs and did his very best to politely ignore her.

"We have about three months until Ben is due to become King." Adam began in a grave tone. "Mal has agreed to marry him, but only as a last resort. One of the new goals of this meeting is to ensure she is no more trapped than we are."

Everyone flinched at the King's harsh, straight-to-the-point words. Mal bit her tongue and examined the mural on the wall.

"The spell… it is too complicated to break at this moment." The Fairy Godmother admitted. "We don't know where to start." She picked up a manila file on the coffee table and opened it up. On the top was a black and white photo of what looked like a mess of spiderwebs.

"This is one micro-cubic traunct of the spell." The Fairy Godmother explained. She laughed at Ben's confused expression. "A traunct is the smallest portion of any spell. It's much like an atom in how magic is made up. Unfortunately, this one is, by far, the most complicated of any spell I've ever seen. In most cases, a simple undoing spell could sever small trauncts. However, Maleficent has done something rather unique in that these trauncts are backing each other up, and nothing we've tried thus far has severed their hold. We're going to have to unravel it or submit to it."

"Unravel it?" Belle asked.

"In order for us to unravel it, we have to find a hink, or a hole in the trauncts so we can loosen their hold and put them apart little by little. The spell won't be broken, per se, but we can pull conditions off the spell until eventually, it will be as though it has no power on you."

"Sounds like a lengthy process," Mal commented.

"It is." The Fairy Godmother admitted sheepishly. "I've never seen anything so complicated. We're looking at a year, maybe two years' worth of work."

King Adam made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like the beginning of a groan, or like he'd been kicked or something; a defeated sound.

"There's no hope it'll be gone before Ben's coronation?" Mal begged.

"Unless there's a major breakthrough within the next ten minutes." The Fairy Godmother said. Mal turned her head away from the group and schooled her features to indifference. Ben leaned forward and started running his hands through his hair. The only sound was that of Mal tapping her hands on her knees.

"I think it's time to start talking about the kingdom's infrastructure when Mal becomes Queen." The Fairy Godmother said quietly. No one missed the use of the word 'when'.

"Right," Adam muttered. "What are the details of Maleficent's curse?"

"Mal must become Queen before Ben is twenty-five, otherwise the both of them will begin to experience excruciating pain. If Mal is murdered, then Ben will go with her. If she's maimed in any way that she's rendered unable to take the Queen's throne, the results will carry over onto Ben. She needs to have the ability to pass binding laws in Auradon and has authority over troops in Auradon's standing army." The Fairy Godmother rubbed the bridge of her nose as if to stem a headache off. "As far as Auradon's requirements go, Mal still has to pass the same tests Ben did. I can deliver them here if you would like?"

"Tests?" Mal asked.

"There's three of them," Ben explained. "I failed the last one due to this curse, but since it's consciously manageable, I'm still able to rule the Kingdom. Basically, the tests were made to answer three questions: Will you be able to rule the kingdom? Will you do it right? And is anyone controlling you?"

"Oh," Mal said because there wasn't much else to be said.

"Would you like to zoom through it?" The Fairy Godmother asked gently. "It probably wouldn't be worth discussing much more if you can't become queen anyways."

Mal shrugged. "Sure. Whatever." She turned her phone over, palm over palm, as the Fairy Godmother reached for a different, light blue folder.

"If you fail the first two, you will not be able to rule." The Fairy Godmother cautioned. Mal didn't seem concerned.

The Fairy Godmother withdrew a similarly blue-tinted paper to the one Ben had written on. Ben was especially anxious to see the results. He scooted forward on his seat to peer over her shoulder. As Mal scrawled her name on the first two lines, the entire room held its breath. Then it faded to blue, and the three royals and one fairy breathed a sigh of relief. Mal rolled her eyes.

Ben curled his nails into his palms as the Fairy Godmother asked Mal the second question. This, of course, was the goodness check. Belle and Adam both leaned forward in their chairs as the Fairy Godmother asked Mal to sign on the third line. Mal's hand hesitated on its way to the paper as she raised an eyebrow at the nervous royals. Then she scrawled her name and the date, and the black color changed to the same royal blue as the first question.

Ben sat back in cold shock.

This was Maleficent's kid, right? The mistress of all evil? The one who cursed Queen Leah's entire kingdom? Ben was dumbfounded. He glanced sideways at Mal and watched her tuck a lock of purple hair behind her ear as she chewed on her cheek and stared at the paper. Something softened in his heart and he had to look back at the paper to stop the awed smile from moving onto his face.

While he sat in his stupor, the Fairy Godmother removed all spells and enchantments from Mal, and then Mal signed her name. It came back red, just as Ben's had. The Fairy Godmother produced a gem, identical to the one in her office, and instructed Mal on how to hold it. She read the spell's aura quickly and determined it was the identical other half to Ben's spell.

And that was when Ben had another revelation.

Maleficent had raised a lady fit to be queen. He wasn't even sure Audrey would have been able to pass the test, cruel as she was. And extended from that, Maleficent had raised this girl while keeping in mind she would one day be his wife.

It couldn't have been Maleficent's intention to raise such a morally strong woman. Mal must have found the path of good herself while on an Isle where evil ran rampant. Ben was beyond impressed.

"We've talked." Belle began with a quick gesture to her husband and herself. "And we've decided to announce that Mal will be queen alongside Ben."

Fairy Godmother drummed her fingers together. "I think that's the right thing to do." She said finally. "Unless we wish to marry Mal and Ben and allow them to go their own separate ways?" She gestured to the two teens.

No one in the room had considered this alternative. It made the royals stop in their tracks.

The Fairy Godmother continued: "Of course, neither would be able to get married to other people until the curse is broken, if ever. So long as Maleficent's conditions are covered, they technically have their freedom."

Mal dug her fingers into her knees. Living alone in Auradon? That was a prospect she wasn't prepared to cover. She looked toward Ben to try and decipher his feelings. His eyes were wide; he looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"We need time," Belle said quickly. "We don't need to make decisions like that so quickly. We'll let Ben and Mal be the ruler of that decision."

"But-" Adam continued. "We need to know by a month before the coronation. That's when we were planning on announcing Mal since we wanted to keep the press away from you while you adjust to Auradon and get to know Ben."

Belle nodded in agreement. Mal crossed her arms and leaned back into the upholstery. The king and queen were actually, by her book, being pretty fair. A warm feeling was rising up inside her chest. And before she could stop them, two words spilled out of her mouth.

"Thank you." Mal blurted out. "For being so fair." She pulled her arms tighter around herself and turned back toward the mural on the wall. The air in the room suddenly felt very thick with... what?

"You're welcome, dear," Belle replied as if it were no big deal.

The sun dipped lower and lower in the sky outside. At first, Mal had tried to follow the conversation, but then she'd gotten lost among all the legal terms and political abbreviations. She only looked back at the group whenever her name was mentioned and did her best to look as if none of their words were affecting her. She was aware her edginess was tuned down by the fact she was wearing white instead of black.

As the day drew to a close, Belle and Adam got up to show the Fairy Godmother out. Mal, too, stood up to examine the large mural on the side of the wall. Ben remained sitting for a few seconds, and then stood up and walked up behind her. He was watching her with a curious expression as he stood behind her and watched her cross her arms and take in the large, beautiful painting.

"You good?" Ben asked in a whisper that tickled his lips as he spoke.

Mal exhaled through her nose. "Yeah," She agreed in a high, strong voice. then, softer and more guarded: "It's whatever."

"So... no?" Ben asked, watching her eyes flicker back and forth.

Mal didn't answer. The muscles in her arm tensed, and she acted as if he were not there. Then, she raised her hand to the wall and gestured to it. "This is a lovely mural. I used to paint things like this on the Isle."

"Oh, yeah." Ben nodded. "For Mom and Dad's first anniversary, Dad wanted to have the library redone, but the plans took too long to be drawn up. So, two years later, for their third, they began work. Mom was pregnant with me that year and the paint fumes were too much for her most days, so she never saw the progress until after I was born." Ben explained. He let his eyes flicker over the frame of Mal's shoulders as she listened to him and took a small breath.

Mal chewed her cheek in thought. "That's cool. And there's so much detail..." She smiled a little, and then returned to a neutral expression. Her eyes fixed on the floor. "So, this is really happening, huh? I was still kind of hoping I'd wake up and it'd be over."

"Yeah." Ben sighed. "But hey, you're going to be a queen."

"Ugh." Mal groaned. Ben laughed at her dismay and, while she was distracted, slipped an arm around her shoulders. Mal tensed up and shrank away from his grasp, but Ben didn't seem to notice.

"You'll be a great queen, and by the way, you did really good today. I know a couple of Auradon kids who wouldn't have passed the goodness portion of that test." Ben told her.

Mal's eyebrows furrowed. Why would that matter? Was that supposed to make her feel good about herself? 'Some Auradon kids can't do this, so it's amazing a daughter of Maleficent could.' "So... are you comparing the Islanders to Auradonia? That's it's amazing an Islander managed to best any Auradonian?" Mal frowned and turned to look at him.

Ben shook his head. "No." He disagreed. "It's just that you're a good person who comes from an entire island of bad. It's admirable." He reached down for her hand, but Mal jumped away and out from his grasp.

"What are you doing?" She hissed, guarding her hands against him and bracing herself as if she expected him to throw a punch. "And you said no before you basically regurgitated what I'd said." She narrowed her eyes and took a few careful, suspicious steps back.

"Calm down." Ben patted the air with his hands. "I just-"

"And for the record," Mal snapped, interrupting him. "Your parents created the Isle. It's their fault that I'm even here, that I was even born. Auradon is finally getting what's been coming for a long, long time."

"That's not true!" Ben disagreed. "Mal, I was just trying to-"

"I wish I could throw you onto that Isle." Mal hissed. Her eyes were alight with green magic. Ben searched through them and found nothing but weakness. Nothing but guarded faults. A vein began to pulsate in his neck and he balled his fists up. Mal dug in her feet, marched right up to him, and stuck a finger in front of his nose. "Don't you even understand?" She hissed. "You and everything you've grown up with?" She gestured around to everything around them, the furniture, the library, the beautiful mural. "It's abhorrible." She snapped. "You gave the children of your enemies nothing despite their innocence. Generations would have withered away in misery if your parents and their band of petty royals had had their way. I thought you believed everyone could forge their own paths and be anything they wanted in Auradon, despite where they came from."

"We do believe that!" Ben protested. He reached for the hand the hung at her side but she jumped back like he was a hot stone.

"Don't touch me!" She shrieked. "You're liars, all of you!" She began to back up to the door. Ben followed her in small steps. "You already think I'm like my mother, like Cruella, like the Evil Queen! It's your own fault and your own proposed goodness that made you foolish enough to allow my mother to spell your stupid crowns. It's Auradon's fault my mom has cursed me and you. So don't go feeling sorry for yourselves now that your 'happily-ever-after' has a kink. You deserve torment for all the evil you've caused."

Mal turned and fled out of the library. Ben dug his nails into the palms of his hands, turned, and ripped a pile of books off of a shelf to throw to the ground. They clattered to his feet and hid his shoes from view. He kicked them away and dropped down to the carpet, where he buried his face in his hands. She was so arrogant, and self-righteous and... right. Ben pulled his legs up to his chest. She was right.

[kazcaldwell]

lovable jock x dumb is good x the heart

@murderclubhq

NAME.

FULL NAME: Kazran Caldwell PREFERRED NAME/NICKNAMES: ‘Kaz’ to a majority of the world. His sports bros call him ‘Caldwell’.

APPEARANCE.

FACECLAIM: Tyler Posey SEX: Cisgender male HEIGHT: 5′10, pretty average. WEIGHT: around 160 lbs. a little lighter when it’s baseball time and a little heavier in the winter during bulking season. BUILD: he’s generally lean and muscular, with a little more muscle definition in his thighs and calves. HAIR: short and black. he would grow it out but his mother makes him cut it regularly. HANDS: big hands for holding many balls. occasionally sports a big ink stain on the side of his right hand from an intense drawing sesh. too often has dirt caked under his fingernails. his hands always smell vaguely like a baseball glove. SCARS: a few, on his knee and calf, and a good one by his elbow. they’re all from various sports injuries, except the one across his hip that came from the time johnnie convinced him it would be a good idea to parkour over a barbed wire fence. CLOTHES: absolute sports bro garbage trash. ratty, dirty sneakers and white socks that come up a little too far. basketball shorts or track pants. jeans on only the most special occasions. his shirt is usually a jersey of some sort, and he’s rarely seen without a baseball cap (backwards, naturally). OTHER FEATURES: dimples! he has the most adorkable dimples when he smiles, which is most of the time. he also has a stick n poke tattoo on his wrist that his bff johnnie gave him - a poorly rendered skull and crossbones.

SPEECH.

VOICECLAIM: if Tyler Posey was a good southern boy ACCENT: slow and southern. LANGUAGE: english and spanish. his spanish pronunciation is inhibited by his deeply american accent, much to his mother’s chagrin, but he is fluent. ARTICULATION: he often has to search for a word or way of phrasing something in the middle of a sentence, but when he finds it, he says it with confidence. EDUCATION: kaz’s vocab is a lot of slang, peppered with ain’ts and y’alls. sometimes he’ll surprise the room with a three-syllable word but it’s always a shock when it happens. LAUGHTER: loud and often, from deep in his chest. has probably teared up from laughing more than he’s teared up from crying.

MANNERISMS.

FACE: his heart is displayed right on his face, in flashing neon lights. he’s often accused of having a case of the puppy dog eyes. HANDS: he fiddles a lot. he has a hard time keeping still, and his hands always need to be doing something. he doesn’t use them to talk, but he’ll be spinning a pencil in his hand mid-conversation for sure. LEGS/FEET: similar to his hands, he’s generally tapping and bouncing his leg to get out the pent up energy. EMOTIONAL OUTBURSTS: the happier and more excited he gets, the louder kaz is. he has no concept of his own volume and the halls of normal secondary are often blessed with echoes of him yelling, “BRO!”. when he’s upset, however, it’s quite the opposite. he withdraws and grows quieter. HABITS: kaz can’t stand the quiet, so if there’s a silent room, he can often be heard making beatboxing noises under his breath. PERSONAL SPACE: kaz has no concept of such a thing. anyone in the vicinity should prepare for him to barge into their bubble without the slightest thought.

HEALTH:

DIET: as a growing sports boy, kaz eats quite a lot. mostly protein, but when he’s not trying to be ultra fit for baseball, he’s a snack fiend. SLEEP: as a kid, growing up in a graveyard gave him frequent nightmares. he grew out of them, but his sleep cycle never really recovered, and he wakes up easily throughout the night. EXERCISE: every morning before school, he goes on a mile run. on the weekends, he does it for longer. he hits the gym to weight train whenever his team does but he doesn’t usually seek this out on his own. he’s more of a runner. CLEANLINESS: he’s a dirty, sweaty boy because he spends all of his time outside. his mother is unsure if he owns a piece of clothing without a grass stain on it. ODOR: general boy stank masked with the strong scent of old spice. NARCOTICS: although his friends dabble in recreational drugs, kaz is a good boy who doesn’t touch anything stronger than weed. he’ll even pass on that if he’s got practice or a game the next day. ADDICTIONS: baseball.

PERSONAL.

INTROVERT/EXTROVERT?: extrovert as hell. he hates alone time and will bug his friends to be in their presence no matter the time or day. OPTIMIST/PESSIMIST: annoyingly optimistic. he’s like the bard of the group. when he’s sad, he has his moments, but it isn’t difficult for him to jump back to the glass being half full. SEXUALITY: straight-ish as far as he knows. he’s only ever dated girls, but there was that one time he woke up to his best friend’s hands on him. johnnie claimed he was half asleep and thought kaz was a girl, so it was whatever. he doesn’t think about it a lot. romance has never been a focus of his and he generally only dates because it’s a thing everyone else does. ROMANTIC: kaz has a huge heart and he can be super romantic. he’s that way with everyone he meets. PLANNING: kaz would rather rush into a situation and figure it out on the fly than stand back and make a plan. if he’s forced to rely on others before he can act, he likes to get the ball rolling by throwing out a million suggestions until one sticks. INTUITION: when it comes to the game, kaz has great intuition. it’s like he knows what the other team is going to do before they do it. he trusts his gut, and he brings that with him in real life situations as well. GOALS: more than anything, kaz wants to get out of normal and explore the world. his way to do that is through baseball and a potential scholarship, which he is very close to achieving. INSECURITIES: he takes most things in stride, but he can be insecure about his intelligence. especially with the murder club, he often feels like he isn’t contributing or helping the cause. he internalizes a lot of it and tries to put himself out there anyway, in the hopes that he’ll accidentally do something right. PHILOSOPHY: the caldwell family is not particularly religious, at least not more than their neighbors, but they are very traditional. they have a lot of beliefs about the sanctity of life and death. kaz is far more hedonistic/utilitarian in that he does what makes him happy in the moment and disregards whatever it might mean for his afterlife.

RELATIONSHIPS.

PARENTS/GUARDIANS: kaz lives with his biological mother and father, but he doesn’t have a close relationship with them. they’ve always been distant and mostly allowed kaz to run off and do his own thing. they’re responsible parents, if not emotionally neglectful. FRIENDSHIPS: being a popular guy, kaz has a large social circle. he’s closest to the other guys on his baseball team, particularly johnnie ward, his best friend. after his brother’s disappearance, kaz has been distancing himself from his regular crowd and spending more time with the murder club. ANNOYANCES: kaz is the ultimate peace keeper. he rarely thinks that anything is worth fighting over and always tries to see things from the other person’s shoes, when he can. the only thing an argument is ever good for is entertainment when you’re watching two people go at it and you know you’re not involved. ADVERSARIES: kaz is more forgiving than he should be. he takes most things in stride, so it would be difficult to do anything so heinous that you lost his friendship. anything involving his brother is a good way to get him riled up. STRANGERS: kaz treats everyone he meets very familiarly, like they’ve been best friends for years. FUN STUFF: he does the standard teenage boy stuff with his pals. they play video games, trash other people’s houses at parties, hit each other with sticks, etc. he’s very active and hands on so he rough houses with his friends a lot. BEST FRIEND: johnnie ward is his bff and has been for a long time. johnnie is like the mr. hyde to his dr. jekyll - the one who always drags kaz along to do the dangerous, slightly illegal things. WORST ENEMY: at the moment, kaz’s worst enemy has to be the sheriff and the rest of the police force. although he’s generally always been on good terms with them due to his sports prowess bringing renown to normal (johnnie often shoves kaz at the cops when they get into a spot, so he can smile their way out), he can’t forgive them for the lazy, uncaring way they’ve handled his brother’s disappearance.

INTERACTIONS.

GROUPS: the more the merrier. kaz loves having people around him and thrives in group settings. he’s the guy at the party who keeps hopping between different social groups to interact with everyone he can. OPENNESS: it’s a 50/50 situation. there are certain things that kaz keeps very private, that he’s unwilling to talk about. he’s so bent on keeping it positive that he doesn’t often share the deep stuff unless he’s doing so flippantly. however, there isn’t a lot that he takes seriously enough to treat this way. GENEROSITY: kaz would probably give both his kidneys if someone really needed them. he grew up lower class (not as much as the wards, but enough) so he doesn’t have too much to share, but he shares it all the same. JEALOUSY: romantically, kaz is not the jealous type. he’s so socialable himself that he couldn’t imagine getting upset if someone else was the same way. the only thing that’s ever really made him jealous is seeing the way his more well-off teammates live. they can afford the nicer cleats and have more time to spend in the weight room, etc. etc. he’s seen how it takes him more work to stay at the same place as them and wishes it were easier. TEMPER: generally patient as a saint, if only because most stuff either flies over his head or is taken in a positive manner by him. his temper has gotten worse recently, but it’s still very tame. AFFECTION: kaz’s way of showing affection is through touch and time spent with the other person. he’s very affectionate with all of his friends, always boosting them up and being their hype man. a total team player. DISTASTE: if he dislikes someone, he simply becomes the opposite of himself. cold, robotic, generally antisocial around them. ETIQUETTE: polite enough. his mama raised him to be a gentleman so he acts accordingly, but he can’t help being a little rude around the edges without realizing so. RESPONSIBILITY: he feels responsible for everything. he’s always been extremely independent, as his parents left him alone to take care of himself and then eventually his brother, so he sees himself as the one who has to handle it all. if something doesn’t go right, he feels like it’s his fault and internalizes the blame. he projects his bad feelings onto others when they’re bad, if only because he has a hard time processing them. CONFIDENCE: kaz is very confident in most aspects of life, aside from anything to do with academia. he rolls with the punches. HONESTY: honest, but never in a way that intentionally hurts someone else’s feelings. he will occasionally blurt out something that’s honest and rude, but it’s usually accidental and he tries to put a positive spin on most stuff. LEADER OR FOLLOWER: follower, and pushover. kaz’s friends could get him to jump off a bridge if they really wanted. he likes to go with the crowd, to feel like his belongs. FLIRTING: if kaz is speaking, he’s flirting. ATTENTION SPAN: poor. he’s very easily distracted. the only place where he’s super focused is out on the field.

LIFE.

DUTY: kaz has always been responsible for taking care of his brother. when baseball started to get more intense with scouts was when he asked abby to take over for him. he’s the de facto captain of his team and is in charge of making sure everybody is in shape and doing what they should. COMBAT SKILLS: he’s a lover, not a fighter. but he’s fit and athletic so it wouldn’t be difficult for him to defend himself or others. HOME: he’s a garbage boy with a very messy cave of a room. but it’s organized chaos and once a month his mom makes him clean up because it smells worse than the dead people in there. COOKING: he can use a microwave. hot pockets all day, baby. DRIVING: he doesn’t have a car, preferring to get about town on rollerblades, but he can sometimes be seen driving johnnie’s white mustang when his best friend is out of it. FINANCES: the caldwell’s live a humble lifestyle. they’re on the lower side of lower middle class. more like upper poverty. but kaz does odd jobs here and there for cash money, like mowing lawns and shoveling snows and such neighborhoodly things. PETS: there’s a feral cat that lives in the graveyard. he also has johnnie. LAW: he’s gotten in trouble a few times - breaking and entering, vandalizing public property, public urination... mostly things his friends were doing that they blamed kaz for because they knew he’d get out of it. he doesn’t have a record because that’s usually true. TRAVELING: he’s never been out of normal, but he wants to travel the world more than anything. MEDICAL: the only time kaz has ever had a real medical mishap was at a very young age, when his parents left him in the car to go to a town council meeting. middle of summer, way too hot, and it landed him in the hospital nearly dead from heat stroke. he doesn’t suffer any lingering medical issues from it but it has left him with a strong desire to always feel like his body is functioning and alive. PARTYING: he’s a partier, always letting his friends drag him along to the haunt of the night. HOBBIES: drawing. he doodles in his sketchbook. it started being a more frequent activity as a way to bond with alfie, but he does it on his own as well.

[dib-adrift]

[ @dib-adrift @queen-of-lazuroth @son-of-an-invader]

Dib shifted nervously. This would make the second time he was at the Team Nebula base. Since his first visit the dreams he'd been having were far more intense, ranging from flying a ship he'd never seen to fighting an unknown Irken in an engine room. Every time they felt so real, and he couldn't help but linger on them.

When Midge came and answered the door, smiling up at him warmly, Dib managed to smile back. There was just something about Midge that was...comforting. He couldn't put his finger on it. She was sweet and friendly, and seemed very concerned with making him feel comfortable. He would admit it probably wouldn't be as awkward if he didn't feel like he was seeing a strange blurry version on her in his dreams.

“You're early!” Midge mentioned brightly, stepping to the side to let Dib inside. “Did you miss us that much?”

Dib couldn't help but snort. “Well when you live alone the quiet does tend to drive you a little nuts,” he replied.

Midge shut the door and began heading for the kitchen. Drun was current napping and Ada was playing in her room, so the living room and kitchen area were strangely quiet. “I get it,” she said with a nod. “I've gotten so used to noise that the quiet becomes weird and disturbing.”

“That makes sense,” Dib said. You have a big family and all you team mates have their own living quarters. I imagine it's hardly ever quiet and if it is there's probably something wrong.”

“You got it!” Midge said. As she went into the kitchen she turned around. “Dinner's still in the works, but if you want you can go find Dek in the ship yard. You remember where that is, right?”

Dib gave another nod in confirmation. He took a peak to see the spread of raw burgers ready to be cooked. He grinned a little, excited. It was hard to make a good vegan burger, but from what he could smell he had high hopes.

He made his way from the front living area to down the hall. The ship yard was basically part of the bases gigantic back yard, a good ways from the garden. Diana the cougar could be spotted napping among some of the flowers and plants. Dib decided not to disturb her rest.

He found Dek almost all the way toward the back, where the prized main ship of Team Nebula was. He appeared to be repainting the outside. Do jogged over. “Need some help?”

Dek turned from his work to look at Dib, the smallest of grins appeared on his face. “Nah. It's almost done,” he said, applying a few more strokes of the charcoal paint. “It's been a while since I've been able to give her some TLC. We've had so much going on.”

Dib didn't know all the details, but he did know this family had been through some shit. The fact that Dek had two different colored eyes was one of the many reminders of that. “Well, I'm glad all of you have so peace for the moment to do things like this,” he stated, staring up at the large Nazo. It was easily the biggest ship in the whole yard.

Dib took a moment to look around. There was a couple ships that were about half the size of the Nazo, and from there they steadily shrank. Thanks were so many different kinds, some models he recognized, others he didn't. Then...one in particular caught his eye. Except...it felt like more than that. He felt like it was...calling to him.

“What's that one?”

Dek looked up again from his work, his brow furrowing in confusion. Huh. That was strange. “That's an Astor. It's an older ship model but with some sprucing up they're forces to be reckoned with. Really fast and agile. But…”

Dib gave a look of concern. “But what?”

“I just...I could have sworn we only had one.” He shook his head. “Maybe we just kept missing it or something.”

“You mean you had more than one?”

“I...I guess so.” Dek walked over to the Astor, tapping his chin. So strange. “Agent Dib as it. The other one I mean. It's called the Delphina.”

Dib approached the Astor as well, still unsure why he was feeling so drawn to it. It looked...eerily familiar. Like a family member he didn't remember until now. There was an urge to… “Do you mind if I fix this one up?”

Dek rose a brow at him. “Um...sure.” He shrugged. “ You Dib's got a thing for old ships or something?”

Dib chuckled nervously. “I guess so.”

They chatted a little longer, mostly Dek telling him about the pros and cons if Astors. Dib listened intently, trying to ignore the weird case of deja vu he was feeling. He reached up and touched the side of the ship, already knowing what to call it. “Do you think Agent Dib would mind if I named this ship Sualocin?”

Dek blinked. “I mean...I don't think so. But if you're that concerned I would ask him. Though why would you want to name it Sualocin. His is named after Delphinus because we joked that it looked like a dolphin.”

Dib shifted a bit. It was never easy to reveal something personal. But he wanted to try. “My dad's name was Nicolas,” he explained. “It's...a strange coincidence, the constellation and all that.” He shrugged, not sure how to really explain. “For the longest time we never got along but recently things were getting better but then…” He trailed off. Not yet.

Dek let Dib speak, noticing that talking about this was difficult for him. Once if seemed like he was finished, Dek decided he should probably change the subject. “You like sparring?”

Dib felt his stomach flip nervously. “I haven't done it in a while. So I'm probably out of practice.”

Dek grinned. “Then let's get you back into practice,” he said, gesturing for Dib to follow him back inside.

Dib watched Dek walk away for a moment before following after him. The hybrid led him to the elevator and then to a room with a strange, squishy flooring. The walls were plain and gray, but Dib could see a controlled panel near one of the corners.

“Sometimes we have simulations in here for team building exercises,” Dek explained. “But it’s also nice and open for just normal sparring.” He took a moment to walk over to the other side of the room before taking a fighting stance and grinning. “Alright. Come at me anytime.”

Dib hesitated. He hadn’t had a good spar since...the incident. Since losing him. He observed Dek for a moment, trying to get a gage of what his strengths and weaknesses might be. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was just going to have to find out. He positioned himself, too, and then charged.

Dek’s grinned widened. He’d give the kid credit. He was quick. But he was too obvious in him movement, and Dek easily dodged the initial attack. “Come on, Dib. You can do better than that.”

Dib scowled, feeling like the captain was mocking him. He charged again, this time swerving low a bit. He caught Dek off guard, sweeping his leg to knock the captain off his feet. Then, in a fluid move, he leapt at Dek and dragging him to ground, pinning him with his arm behind his back. “Is that better, Captain?” Dib asked with a smirk.

Dek could hear the smirk on Dib’s face, and couldn’t help but look over his shoulder with one of his own. His amaranth eye glinted mischievously, and then two of his PAK legs were out, helping hims break free of the hold. “Almost but not quite.”

Dib fell backwards on him but, frowning. “Oh, come on! That’s not even fair!”

“Did I say I was going to fight fair? I don’t recall.”

Dib huffed, but got to his feet anyway. Well, if Dek was going to be like that. Dib reached up to his goggles and began tinkering with a dial on the side. It helped him see heat signatures, x-rays, and even had night vision. After a moment of analysis, he shot toward Dek again, this time attacking with his arms. He tackled the hybrid down, pinning his PAK beneath him and rendering useless. He kept his grip firm. Dek could handle it, and Dib wasn’t about to take a chance of the hybrid getting up. “Do I win yet?” Dib asked brightly.

Dek rose a brow. Dib was impressive, but he didn’t expect anything less of a Dib. However, there was one thing this one lacked from the others he knew. Experience.

In a strong and swift movement, Dek got his legs free and use his feet to kick Dib off of him, throwing him off. He kept hold of the human, causing them both to sumersault with Dek landing on top of him, effectively pinning him to the ground.

Dek grinned proudly. “You’re good. But you rely on your height too much.”

Dib shook his head, trying to wrap his head around what just happened. Dek was fast and decievingly strong. But of course he was. He was part Irken. And Dib knew he should never underestimate Irkens. His brow furrowed at Dek’s comment. “Huh?”

“It’s just kind of obvious. It’s almost like your used to fighting people shorter than you.” He shrugged. “If you wanted some training, you’d be pretty tough to deal with though.” He got up off of Dib and offered his hand to help the human up.

Dib didn’t want confirm that Dek was right. He was used to fighting and sparring with people shorter than him. Well...someone in particular, anyway. “What would I need training for? It’s not like there’s...anything happening.” He took the hand, gathering himself back to his feet. He yelped a bit when he felt a jolt of electricity from the touch. Not really painful, just very intense.

“There isn’t anything happening right now,” Dek explained. “But trust me. Those roached won’t stay in hiding for long. But...it’s your choice if you want to stay out of it. Probably for the best, honestly. He- ack!” He cut off, also shouting in surprise at the strange sensation. His brow furrowed. “Well...that was weird.”

“Yeah,” Dib said, staring at his hand for a moment. It was the same thing that had happened the first time he’d met Midge. The weird jolt of energy. But…it didn’t feel like it was repelling him from them. It felt more like...it was trying to draw him in…

He shook his head, deciding to go back to the other conversation. “What were saying? He who?”

Dek sighed. Someone needed to tell him. “Dwicky. The High Chancellor asshole that poisoned my daughters. He has an extremely disturbing obsession with Dibs.”

Dib grimaced. It was still very hard to wrap his head around the fact that Dwicky - any Dwicky - had climbed his way to a position like High Chancellor, and that he was going around trying to kill children and wanting the complete annihilation of the Irken Empire. It was...disconcerting to say the least. “I see. That’s...creepy.”

“Yup.” Dek looked at this wrist communicator to check the time. “Dinner’s probably ready by now. Let’s go see, huh?” He began to walk out of the room.

Dib nodded, following Dek all the way back to the living area. Midge had already had set the table, with the baby Drun in his high chair and everything.

Ada looked up from her own burger. “Hi Mr. Drift Dib!” she said excitedly.

Dib snorted. “You can just call me Dib, you know?”

“It’s just a filler until Mama or Daddy adopt you and you become another one of my uncles,” Ada replied, biting into her burger.

Dib couldn’t help but laugh. He’d heard the Denivars had a habit of adopting wayward souls. And...maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Even if it would be like filling a square hole with a dozens of mismatch triangle pegs, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a family again…

Midge finished serving the food and they sat down to eat. The burgers smelled even better now that they were fully cooked. There was even some sweet potato fries. He took a small bite of the burger, and his eyes immediately widened. “Midge...this is amazing.”

Midge’s cheeks dusted light blue. “Oh, uh, thanks. It’s an easy recipe. I can teach you if you want.”

“Please teach me everything,” Dib said. “I can cook simple things, but I’ve never made anything this good oh my god.”

Dek chuckled, leaning over and giving his wife a light kiss on her temple. “Midge is the best cook in the universe. A woman of many remarkable talents.”

“Dek stop,” Midge squeaked, her blue blush darkening.

Dib smiled a little at the display of affection. It was plain just how much Dek and Midge loved each other, and he was happy that two people he was slowly coming to like had someone they would always lean on. But...there was an ache of longing in his chest. So much that he reached up and grabbed onto the object that laid beneath his shirt. He missed having that, too. So much.

When dinner was finished, Dib offered his help in the kitchen. Most of the dishes could be put into the dishwasher, but Midge figured she could use the help with the ones that needed to be hand washed and dried. Also, she wanted to ask about something. Not right away, of course.

“So, how did my burgers hold up? You said they were your favorite?” she asked.

Dib smiled. “I wasn’t kidding. They were really good. Please teach me everything.”

Midge giggled. “You’re welcomed over here every time. And when I’m not helping you with your cooking skills Dek can help you with your hand-to-hand combat.”

Dib frowned a little. It may or may not have looked like a pout, but he was not about to admit it. “I just haven’t had the need to fight, is all. So I just...haven’t kept up with my training.” Not to mention I haven’t felt much of a reason to do...anything.

Midge wasn’t good at lying, but she was also good at telling when someone else was hiding something. She handed another dish to Dib for him to dry and put away, their fingers brushing accidentally. She gasped. It was the strangest feeling. Not quite like static electricity, but definitely something...buzzing. It made her hearts jump a little.

Midge wasn’t the only one to feel that weird buzz between them again. His brow furrowed, and his hesitated in putting the plate in his hand away. Unconsciously, his hand went back to his shirt, gripping the item beneath through the fabric. There was...such a strange familiarity here. Like he was a missing puzzle piece that was being welcomed home. Then there was the strange dreams he was having. Dreams that felt more like memories. But he’d never done any of those things. He’d never been on a space station or had to beat up some ugly alien that stole Zim’s PAK. Nor was their first kiss on board ship he had restored on his own.

Midge took a deep breath. She could tell there was something under Dib’s shirt, could tell it was a bit of a comfort item. She could even see a bit of a chain peeking out. She took a slow step toward, taking the plate from his hand. She created a footstool with her ice powers before using it to put the plate away. Once she was done she stepped down and looked back up at Dib. Her hand came up to cover his, gentle, trying not to startle the human. There was that buzzing. It was warm and strange. Familiar. Like...but that couldn’t be right.

“Did...he give that to you?” she asked. “Your Zim?”

Dib was in the middle of backing away from Midge when she reached out and touched him. For someone with ice powers were so warm. And then there was that buzzing, like a quiet, calm vibration. Like the universe was trying to tell them something. It was so weird and confusing and Dib couldn’t fathom what it meant, but it was also...comforting. He was almost tempted to take her hand in his and hold it for a while.

He shook that thought away and cleared his throat. “Um...yeah.”

“I want you forever, My Dib.”

“I’m forever yours, Space Boy. Forever and ever.”

Who would’ve thought forever wouldn’t have been promised to either of them…

“I’m sorry,” Midge almost whispered. She knew when someone was grieving. She could see it in Dib’s eyes, his facial expressions, the way he was holding himself right now. And as someone who had lost someone she’d loved so much, she understood how much it hurt. And how there would always be a whole there that would never truly be filled.

Gently she tugged Dib forward a little. “Would a hug be okay?” she asked.

Dib contemplated the question. A part of him wanted to run away from this. To go back to his ship and fly far, far away. From the Denivars, from this neighborhood, from this strange connection that he’d found with Midge and Dek. A connection that seemed to only be growing the more he hung around. But yet, that very connection was what kept him from doing so. What was this? What did it mean?

Dib nodded silently, accepting the offer for a hug.

Midge had to pull the human down a bit as she pulled him into her arms. The buzzing increased. If felt like something warm and fuzzy was being wrapped around the two of them, yet with also a small bit a strange, gentle vibrations. Suddenly Midge found herself overwhelmed with emotion. The only thing she could compare it to was when she’d found out that Addie was awake.

“You don’t have to be alone, you know,” she said. “You…” “You may have be strong for the rest of the world, Membrane. But you don’t have to be strong with us.”

...What?

Dib nodded as he leaned more and more into the hug, even burying his face into the crook of Midge’s neck. The unknown sensation seemed to increase the closer he got. Some part of him was scared of it, and wanted to get as far away from it as possible. But...it was also the most comforting thing he’d felt in such a long time. He found his throat growing tight, and he gave Midge a squeeze. His heart was pounding a little. It felt like dozens of emotions were flooding him at once.

“I…” He started, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you.”

Midge smiled, reaching up the pet the human’s hair a bit. “Of course. Any time.”

They weren’t sure how long they stayed like that before Dib finally pulled away and made his way out.

[stronghours]

brought low a bit, by various threads discussing a particular AWP conference event regarding textual intimacy and eroticism, especially in queer books. this is a subject that’s been horribly frustrating the past couple of months (mostly rl but only tangentially in my own writing). Any talk about ‘taking back’ a particular offense or insult always feels alienating. the phrase “using stigma to create style” was said regarding gays and gay writers and truly -what about the unstylish bitches! where’s MY style? what’s my style? and with all this talk going on about intimacy and transcendence and joy and openness going around, which inevitably goes around when you try to follow mainly positive lgbtq people on twitter - where’s MY openness? am I open enough? am I open to these talented people’s exacting standards?

at one point in my MFA program, one of the poetry professors (awful! I shan’t name!) scheduled a ‘women only’ reading of her recent erotic pastoral poems series. and since every other woman in the program was there and i, by accident of birth happen to be one, also went because i was obsessed with not gaining the rep of a conservative fuddy-duddy. anyway the event was not held outside by the campfire like i thought, and was instead held in the poet’s room where she’d draped all the lights with pink scarves and all the women in the program were draped lustily around all the furniture half-undressed (my thesis adviser helpfully pointed out to me ‘look melanie, I took my shirt off!”) and they all had a sexy transformative experience lolling and sighing around while the poet recited about having a threesome with her husband with another lady, and that she totally grabbed the lady’s tits. so one example of my brushes with literary eroticism

The whole program was kind of like this at many points, with many writing, but also mental exercises trying to render us very vulnerable in different ways. it was done in a very supportive and kind and I guess process-focused environment, but frankly, even that got fucking exhausting after three days (and we were in residency for ten) like no, don’t put your hand on my chest and announce “you’re tense. something happened while you were at home, what was it?”. don’t Reiki me or touch me or primal scream at me! good lord.

anyway so much of this crap is tied up into sex/intimacy and sexual identity and ~your womanhood~ and like, only for so long can you be the person with the problem while everybody else is sighing and draped over the furniture in the pink washed room. you have to grow up, or else you’re the one sitting by the campfire by yourself like a fool. how?

that has also come up with some AWP queer shit - taking things back, naming yourself, defining yourself “in your own terms.” I’ve used and discarded a lot of terms for myself over the years (honestly I probably would have anyway) but it almost always comes down to - but it never is in our own terms, is it? everything about me is tied up into someone else, a friend, a family member, a stranger, who ultimately does have power. today we have nothing but words and the freedom of words to define ourselves, but the more there are the more trapped and faded I feel. I can barely handle lesbian and woman, and even that doesn’t feel things i’ve taking back ‘on my own terms’. even the clothes I wear aren’t worn under my own terms. Just too many people are looking. and since nobody, not even I can agree on what I am, I’m just this pasty stamp in too-big target clothes lurching around.

and it always comes around to the work! i’m reading my new stories with pathetic thoughts like “but is this too sly and nasty? where’s the transcendence? is it to un-joyful? is it dreary? is it unattractive and ponderous and heavy? is this story like an ugly, depressed lesbionic who simply cannot put out with the appropriate verve?

anyway i’m talking with a person who might be interested in This Person and let me tell you I hate it i hate it i haaaaaaaaaaaaate it. I absolutely fucking hate it. I hate the expectation and the weird moves towards private matters and the crawlings into what might be flirting and i hate all the texts, and it feels like the worst thing I could be doing right now. and I’m extremely ashamed that I feel this way about a situation that involves a perfectly kind and appropriate and interesting person, and that, realistically, to stop being uncomfortable i have to continue making myself even more uncomfortable in the hopes that one day i will be slightly less uncomfortable - and that thought is fucking exhausting. it’s almost exactly how i felt when i finally booked an appointment with my Fired Therapist. which is, of course, an incredibly sexy way to think about someone.

[depizan]

♧, ☍, and ⇊ for the War and Combat asks

With no characters specified, I’m going with my main three.

♧ - Does your muse have any regrets about a battle or incident they had to fight in? Has it changed them?

Jezari: already answered here.

Savler: She’s not really one for regrets, and she’s come out on the winning side in most of her fights, anyway.

Kyrian: He’s not keen on fighting, and none of his experience with fights has made it seem any more appealing. He’d much rather use stealth, charm, or reason. Depending on the circumstances, he may regret that he had to fight at all.

☍ - Does your muse draw any inspirations for their combat style or spells from their past or the world they live in?

Jezari: already answered here.

Savler: As a kid and teen she trained in the galactic equivalent of kickboxing, so she’s got that as the basis for her hand to hand combat style. Though she’s certainly supplemented it with plenty that wouldn’t be allowed in even an underworld tournament. And had to adjust her style for what works in armor, which, no matter how well fitted, is just not the same as fighting unarmored. (But armor has advantages beyond just protection.)

Kyrian: His fighting style is purely what he was taught in Imperial Intelligence training, at times tempered - or hampered - by his dislike of violence.

⇊ - Does your muse have many scars or lasting effects from a battle? If not, do they keep any trophies or reminders?

Jezari: The only really notable scar she has is one along her hip from a blaster burn. Not that many people will ever see it. Otherwise, she’s done pretty good at not collecting major injuries, despite her less than safe choice of careers. She does have a few minor scars, none of which she could tell you how she got.

The things she wants to remember are moments of remarkable piloting, and perhaps a few rescues or times she and Savler pulled one over on other criminals. Battles and things like battles are something she’d rather not collect.

Savler: Contrary to what she tells clients and random cantina patrons foolish enough to ask, the scar on her face is not from (depending on audience) a Mandalorian, a Trandoshan, some properly impressive wild animal, or a Jedi. It’s from a childhood accident.

As for actual battle scars, her armor has mostly protected her from those. She might have a few faint scars here and there, but they’re mostly not from anything of note, just minor injuries she didn’t apply kolto to in time. Or didn’t bother to. Actual close calls her armor either completely protected her from or protected her enough that the contents of your average medpac were enough to take care of the rest.

She’s got some great stories - real ones, with the names filed off - but otherwise, she really doesn’t keep trophies or reminders.

Kyrian: His successes have not really involved battles or fighting, or at least what violence there was was not part of what made it a success to him. The scar on his face (and the matching scars on his shoulder and arm) came from a training exercise, but they were intended to serve as a reminder to follow orders and focus on the mission. They failed at even being that. He also has lasting damage to his right hand, not that that can be said to have come from a fight, even in the most generous definition of the word. And an assortment of minor scars from things that didn’t get treated in time not to scar, at least a few of which he’d rather not be reminded of.

Bonus: since I’d already answered a couple of the questions for Jezari, I picked another one to answer for her.

♡ - If your muse were rendered unable to fight, what about them would change? Would they be able to handle it?

Fighting is not central to Jezari’s concept of self, except in the sense of her wanting to be able to take care of herself, which - in the galactic underworld and in her kind of work (both kinds) - often involves fighting. The problem is, I can’t think of any way she could be rendered unable to fight without being also rendered unable to fly. And piloting is central to her concept of self. So that would be bad.

[brightlycoloredteacups]

End Up Dead

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga, Ivar x OFC

Warnings: Violent Imagery, none for this specific chapter.

           Brynhilda is amazed how quickly two months can pass. She’s almost certain it’s because she’s kept busy. Fetching water, carrying sacks of grain for meals, and grain to the brewer for ale. Whatever physically demanding task Aslaug could think of, she called for Brynhilda to carry it out. Because of all the demands, she’d so far managed to escape the Ragnarsson’s notice. For that, she thanked Odin. From what the other slaves told her, the first three could be very pleasant to be around if you wanted a nice roll in the hay. But it was the youngest, Ivar, that proved the most difficult to work with.

           Ivar was a cripple who had been smothered his entire existence by his mother. He was in an awkward stage of life where he tried to prove himself capable despite being crippled, but not having the will power to exercise control over his anger. He was a complete terror to nearly everyone but his mother and eldest brother Ubbe. Brynhilda made a mental note long ago to stay far, far away from Ivar. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to be alone with him.

           Getting to know the slaves she shared quarters with was the hardest thing she had to do. They were so nice to her, bathing her when her back rendered her useless, rubbing her feet when Aslaug overworked her, telling her funny stories they made up when she was too angry to speak. It was sickening. Deep in her heart, she loved every moment of it.

           She used to have her own set of slaves, four girls that were at her beck and call night and day. She never raised a hand to them, or her voice, but that hadn’t meant she was a good master. It wasn’t just petty tasks and forcing them to care for her. She allowed men under her command to use them as they saw fit. She never cared if they became sick, or injured, she expected unattainable perfection at all times. To soothe the guilt she felt over those transgressions, she made a vow to Odin that she’d do right by her slaves if she ever found them again.

           She also resolved to take care of the other slaves she served with as much as she could. Which was how she found herself carrying a jug of ale to the feast hall. Apparently, because the cold was setting in, Ivar was being more of a pain than usual. The slaves were terrified of him, so they solicited Brynhilda’s help. After all, she was brave, wasn’t she? The scar on her back proved it.

           Despite her new vow to protect the other slaves, when they crowded around her, asking her to serve the Ragnarssons that night, she was hard pressed not to roll her eyes. As she carried the jug of ale she had to remind herself that the slaves dealt with a different kind of pain than she did. She could take a hit from a fist, they could not.  

           Before she enters the great hall, she takes in a deep breath to calm herself. Queen Aslaug wouldn’t be there, she had retired to bed early, a migraine overtaking her. There wouldn’t be anyone that could placate Ivar once everyone got drunk.

           Having never served anyone in her entire life, she enters the feast hall, not sure what to do. Luckily, one of the brothers makes sure to put her right to work. One of them raises their cup. He has incredibly blonde, bushy hair with a few braids on the sides. “It’s about time.” He whines. As she walks over, she’s aware all eyes are on her. The other brothers raise their own cups for her to fill. Well, it’s easy enough. “You’re new.” One of them states. He’s the only one with a full beard, and a long braid that reaches to the backs of his shoulders. “I am.” She says quietly. “What’s your name? Where are you from?” He continues.

“I’m Brynhilda, I can’t remember where I’m from.” She figures the less they know about her, the better. She doesn’t like the looks they’re giving her. “Why do you look so different?” One asks. His hair is shorter than the first ones, and shaved at the sides. “Hvitserk!” he gets a hit on the back of the head. Hvitserk grunts with the force. “She does.” He mumbles, going back to his food. “Maybe she’s from Islam.” One says. Brynhilda’s eyes snap to his. He’s Ivar, she’s sure. The cruelty and curiosity in his eyes give him away.  “Are you girl? Are you from Islam?”

“My name is Brynhilda,” she says, trying to keep her voice from sounding too harsh. “And Islam is the religion, not a country.”

“What does a slave know?” he scoffs. “Ivar, play nice.” The same one that slapped Hvitserk warns. “Why, she’s just a slave.” Brynhilda grits her teeth to keep the smart come back quiet. “I could beat her to death and you couldn’t stop me.” The boy says. Brynhilda scoffs, but manages to bite her tongue. The boy wouldn’t even be able to land a hand on her before she had hers around his throat. Ivar’s eyes snap to hers. “What was that?” he growls. “Nothing,” she mutters. “Nothing, what?”

           Brynhilda doesn’t miss the grip he has on his knife. Ivar would surely kill her if she wasn’t on her guard. “Nothing, master.” She puts, bowing a little. “I’m sorry, are you being sarcastic with me?” He turns to get a better looks at her. “Ivar, please, she’s just trying to do her job.”

“Stay out of it Ubbe.” The boy snaps, without turning to him. “You do realize you’re talking to a prince, right?”

“Oh?” Brynhilda says, “You’re so ugly I couldn’t tell if you were even human.” She winces, her and her big mouth. The unnamed boy, the one she can only guess is Sigurd, throws his head back and laughs. “I think I found my new favorite slave!” he says. Ivar growls and throws himself to the ground. Crawling towards her, Brynhilda holds her ground, wondering what he could possibly do to hurt her. She knew better than to underestimate him, despite being a cripple.

           He looks up at her, “You’d better learn some respect, slave.” He growls. “Or I will make life very hard for you.” Brynhilda raises and eyebrow, looking down at him. “I doubt it.” She challenges him. “There’s nothing you can do to me that I haven’t already lived through.” Ivar’s lips curl into a vicious smile. Saying nothing, he merely slithers around her and into the darkness.

           The rest of dinner is uneventful. The remaining brothers try their best to flirt with her, but she doesn’t take the bait. Soon enough, they’re too drunk to notice her anyway. They turn to laughing at each other and talking of great hunts. Brynhilda can’t help the smile that overcomes her face. It’s an intimate scene she’s well acquainted with. Many nights had been spent around a feast table like this, laughing with her friends, boasting about kills. Her smile quickly falls when she realizes that those friends are out there, laughing and boasting without her. Gritting her teeth, she stiffens her face to stone once again. She needs to find a way to stop thinking about such things. The past won’t help her here.

           Another pebble is flung into her side as she raises the water buckets over her head. Ivar, son of Ragnar, does not make idle threats. So far he hadn’t really made life more difficult, just more annoying. He’d woken at dawn with the rest of the slaves, just to torment her. He hadn’t outright ordered her to do anything, he was just there, prodding at her, wondering how far he could push her until she snapped. In all honesty, she wanted to strangle the little shit.

           He followed her as she brought the buckets back to the feast hall. They were to be warmed for Queen Aslaug’s afternoon bath. Brynhilda knows better than to put the water buckets on the ground, Ivar would surely come up and dump them over, smiling like a child who’d gotten away with being naughty. Just as she was reaching for the door, it opens. She looks up and sees Ubbe. “Master,” She says, grunting as another pebble connects with her back. She saw some very suspect looking mushrooms in the forest once, she could slip those into his food if she ever served them again.

           Ubbe looks behind her. “Ivar! Stop torturing the slave.” Brynhilda grits her teeth. I have a name you ass, she thinks. “Excuse me, master.” She says. He steps out of the way and watches as she carries the buckets inside to be warmed. “Ivar, enough!” Ubbe hisses as another pebble lands beside her feet. She leaves them to argue.

           Setting the buckets down near the water, she sees that they will be her last two buckets. Thank the gods. The other slaves are tending to the heating of the water. “Brynhilda,” One whispers. “Come sit down.” As she has no other chores lines up for her so far, Brynhilda sits. If she remembers right, the girls name is Sigrid. “I don’t envy you,” She leans in and whispers. “You should’ve known better than to anger Master Ivar like that.” Brynhilda merely grunts.

           The girls around her talk pleasantly. Most of the topics are foreign to her. Dreams of marriage and children, cute boys they’d like to snuggle with by the fire. Mostly Brynhilda kept quiet, enjoying the company even if she didn’t participate. “What about you Brynhilda?” Sigrid whispers. The girls all look at her excited. She stares back at them, not sure what they’re expecting. “Don’t you want to get married?” One of the slaves asked. She’s the youngest of them all, no more than eight or nine.

           “Of course she doesn’t Rhona,” the other one snaps. “She’s out for revenge.”

“Vigdis!” Sigrid hisses. The girl pales and sends a terrified look to Brynhilda. Vigdis is also young. In fact, out of the five slaves Aslaug had in her household, only Margrethe and Brynhilda were considered proper women. “And how would you know if I’m out for revenge?”

“We don’t,” Sigrid says quickly. “We were just talking earlier. We, um,” She blushes hard. Brynhilda raises an eyebrow. “Did you make up stories about me?” She asks, not trying to hide her smile. The girls look relieved that she isn’t mad at them. “So long as I’m the hero, I don’t care what you come up with.” Brynhilda says. The girls giggle.

           When the water is heated through, Brynhilda pours it into the bath. Bidding the other girls farewell, she takes the buckets and returns to the feast hall. She thinks that maybe Ubbe has taken Ivar far away from the hall, but no such lug. “Slave!” Ivar barks. Brynhilda stops in her tracks and turns to look at him. “Come here.” Brynhilda stays where she is. “Are you hard of hearing?” He snaps. “Come here.” She still stays frozen in her spot.

           Her logic is this: if he’s going to try and make her life more miserable than it already is, then she’d make him work for it. “Woman!” He yells. “My name,” She says. “Is Brynhilda.” She turns and walks out of the hall. She’s playing with fire and she knows it, but she can’t let that pompous shit brained man-child get the best of her.

She is Brynhilda! THE Brynhilda, named after the Valkyrie, she struck terror into the hearts of men long before they even saw her. How many battles had she won by the sound of her name alone? How many times had men and women reported to be the fiercest in all the land bowed to her? How many aspiring farmers had come to ask her for training? How much of an asshole did she sound?

The longer she spent thinking about what was and what is now, she reaffirmed that yes, Odin meant for this to happen. Foolish hero that she was, at one point she almost felt akin to a god. The arrogance she suffered must have been insufferable.

           She’s putting away the water buckets when Sigrid comes running as fast as her legs can carry her.  “Master Ivar wants to see you.” She huffs, her hands on her knees. Brynhilda rolls her eyes to the sky. Her father told her that sometimes, the gods continued to add challenges during adventures to teach their champions valuable lessons. What lesson she was supposed to learn from serving Ivar, she had no clue, but hoped it was damn worth it. She just suffered an earth shaking epiphany.

           Entering the feast hall, she sees Ivar is still where she left him, at the table. She stands in the doorway, looking at him levelly. “Come here.” He growls. She doesn’t move. The boy places a hand on his axe. She readies herself. She’s far enough away that she believes she can dodge his attack with little trouble. “Brynhilda,” He says, “come here.”

           With that, she moves towards him. He seems pleased that she’s finally listening to him. “Yes?” she asks. “Yes, master.” He corrects her. She says nothing. If he’s irritated by it, he doesn’t show it. He’s too busy reveling in the small victory she allowed him. “My brothers have gone to the river. I wish to join them.”

           She looks at him, confused. “What’s stopping you?” She asks. He purses his lips together. “I’m crippled.”

“I’m aware.” She crosses her arms. “I am not going to drag myself all the way to the river.”

“Why not? You drag yourself everywhere else.”

“You’re going to carry me to the river, Brynhilda.” He orders, ignoring her comment. “Now?” She asks. “Yes, now.” She shrugs and grabs for him. Fisting his shirt and the crotch of his pants, she throws him across her shoulders and heads for the door. “PUT ME DOWN!” He bellows. Again, she does as he asks, throwing him over her head onto the ground. He lands with a painful sounding thump. When he gathers enough of his wits about him, he rolls over and punches her leg. There isn’t much force behind it, which is surprising, considering how he gets around. She looks at him smirking. “What’s that matter Master?” She says sweetly. “I thought you wanted me to carry you to the river.”

“I wanted you to carry me properly you insane woman!” Another punch to her leg. Still not much force. Either he was holding back or he really didn’t know how to hit anyone. Brynhilda bends down and hooks her arms underneath him, one under his shoulders, the other under his knees. He glares at her. “Put. Me. Down.” He says, voice full of menace. Brynhilda can’t help but smile at him, dropping him to the ground again. He yelps and his head cracks against the floor.

           “I’m going to kill you.” He mutters, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not my fault you aren’t beings specific Master.”

“I am being specific.” He counters. “Carry me, on your back, to the river. And do it properly.”

           Brynhilda turns from him, gets down on one knee and waits. She hears Ivar move into position. He wraps his arms around her shoulders. She grabs them and stands. “This isn’t-” He starts. “Quiet,” She snaps. “I’ll get you situated in a minute.” She leans forward and awkwardly grasps at his pants. Getting a good grip, she takes a hold of the backs of his thighs and he wraps them around her middle. “You’re strong,” he notes. “you’re fat.” She spits back. “It’s muscle.” He defends. She lets out a bark of laughter. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

           She’s near the door when she hears Aslaug call out. “And where do you think you’re going?” Brynhilda turns towards the queen. Ivar mutters a ‘shit’ underneath his breath. “To the river,” He says. “Ivar, you cannot swim.” Aslaug points out. “That doesn’t mean I can’t join my brothers.”

“You aren’t going to the river.” Aslaug says with finality. “Oh, thank Odin!” Brynhilda says, letting go of his legs. Ivar, having learned his lesson from before, tightens his grip on her neck before he’s dropped. It throws her off balance, and she falls with him, letting out a strangled cry.

           They spend a few seconds dazed in the pile they’ve become, Brynhilda on top of him. “you’re on my legs.” He growls shoving at her shoulders. “Well, who’s fault is that?” She snaps, getting up. Her back is screaming in pain, so it takes her a while to get to her feet. “Slave, why are you playing around? Haven’t I given you enough chores to do?”

“My lady,” Brynhilda says, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Master Ivar wanted me to carry him to the river. Seeing as you haven’t given me any tasks for the afternoon, but Master Ivar had-”

“You aren’t Ivar’s slave, you’re mine.”

“Why not mother?” Ivar asks. “I want her to be my slave.”

“Ivar,” His mother warns. “She’s strong,” He says, looking up at her. “You saw her carrying me, the others can’t do that. I want her to be my slave and my slave only. I don’t want to share her like we share Margrethe.”

“I did not take her in to be a personal slave.” Aslaug explains. “I took her in to do the labor the others could not.”

“I don’t care.” Ivar states bluntly. Brynhilda is mildly surprised. If Ivar were her son, she would’ve slapped him for such behavior. “She’s strong and she can take me anywhere I want to go. I won’t have to wait for anyone else to take me anywhere.”

           Brynhilda looks at the ceiling, praying to Odin for mercy. She doesn’t want to be Ivar’s personal slave. She’d kill him. Let Aslaug  be strong just this once. She prays. It’s ignored. “Fine, Ivar.” Aslaug gives in. “She’s your slave.”

           She’s careful to keep her groan from escaping. Wonderful, from slave to pack mule. Brynhilda is now assured of one thing, one of them is going to end up dead.