#all the ginger snaps posters suck

[lostcryptids]

i wanted to do the "favorite first time watches of 2023" thing :-)

Pin (1988) ...And Justice for All (1979) Beavis and Butt-Head Do America (1996) Feeders (1996) See No Evil (1971) Ginger Snaps (2000) Dirty Harry (1971) Die! Die! My Darling! (1965) Breakdown (1997)

[harrysweasleys]

to find each other // g.w

summary: Hi love I was wondering if I could request a george x reader. I like the whole like when you're angry or anything write to the person but never send it but one day George finds the love letter. And reader is all embarased and runs away before he can tell her he like her so he writes her a love letter. (Also I'm aware this is a george ask but in my mind fred didnt die. I'm also imagining this before the battle but fred still doesnt die). If this doesnt spark anything that totally fine. Thanks

warnings: mentions of war, blood and death (relax, it aint fredward)

word count: 4.4k 

a/n: this request was so cute and i enjoyed writing this so much! also i hope you don’t mind that i changed up the time that it takes place just a tad. also i want a love letter from george, thanks. 

[i do not give permission for my work to be reposted to any other platform.]

———————————————————————

No amount of window shopping could hide the anxious bubbling in your stomach. Diagon Alley, though usually one of your favourite places, was currently the cause of your shaky fingers and heavy breathing. It was the last day of summer holidays, and for the countless students returning to Hogwarts, it meant a place to get away from home, a place that they could escape to to get away from the chaos of the real world.

However, for you, it meant that things would get messy. That the raging war that was brewing in the evil corners of the Wizarding World was bound to strike. And strike hard. 

Dangers lurked around every corner and even the comforting atmosphere of Diagon Alley was no longer a place you wanted to be. Countless shops were boarded shut, their windows shattered to pieces as if an attack had taken place. Which was most likely the case, if you were being honest.

The only store that seemed to be alive also happened to be the one that you wanted to avoid at all costs. The large purple and orange shop stood practically glowing in the middle of the gloomy alley, music and laughter echoing from the inside. You had to give credit where credit was due; the shop owners were brilliant. 

Students piled in and out in dozens — you couldn’t blame them. Fred and George had a knack for making people laugh. And right now, people needed laughs more than ever. You couldn’t blame these young students for stocking up on joke products to keep themselves entertained for the year. Especially since everyone was well aware this may be the last year of ‘normalcy’ that they get.

However, the shop seemed to be doing marvellously. You’d go in to say hi if it wouldn’t crush your entire existence to do so. Slightly dramatic, but true. You hadn’t left things off on a good foot with George, and the last thing you wanted to do was go in there and make things awkward. After all, maybe he had moved on. 

The last time you saw him, he held your crumpled note in his hand, his broom in the other, and a proud smile on his face as he waved goodbye to the school behind him. The school in which you two shared some of your best moments, the inside jokes and the late nights giggling into pillows in the dark of the common room. 

Until the note. 

The one you had written him the night you found out he was leaving. The one with tear drop stains and smudged ink — the one that confessed your long-rooted love for the ginger boy that had stolen your heart the first day you met him. 

He had found it himself, actually. It wasn’t “given to him,” per say. He had snuck into the girl’s dorm — how, you still have no clue — and found you crying on your lumpy four-poster, your hair a disheveled mess and your cheeks bright red from sobbing. You had been furious at him. Not because you were mad, but because you’d miss him. Miss his smile, the way he brought light to every boring class, and you’d miss the way he made you feel like home, even though your home home was miles and miles away. 

He’d found the messy parchment scrunched up on your dresser and picked it up at the sight of his name. He didn’t let you take it away from him, so you made him promise he’d read it after he was long gone from school. So that you could be saved from the embarrassment of him not feeling the same. The last thing you wanted was to have to sit through the last few months of school with your best friend hating your guts for the unfortunate feelings you had developed.

You thought you were way over him by now, but looking up into the glorious glass windows of his store, you were hit with a wave of nausea. Not because you didn’t  want to see him, but because you wanted to see him so badly it was sickening. To be fair, it had only really been two years, but still. Had he missed you? Had he sat there every night, clutching your wrinkled love letter and thinking back to the moments you two shared? 

You shook your head and walked past the shop, trying your best not to peer in through the windows and catch sight of the familiar grinning man. He somehow always had a smile on his face and that was something you could really appreciate, especially right now. Nothing ever seemed to bring him down and that was one of the things you appreciated most. 

———————————————————————

“What’re you grinning at, Weasley?” you asked, a smile on your own lips as you gave George a teasing look, your hands running through his hair as he sat on the ground between your legs, eyes focused on the common room fire that was slowly burning down to embers.

“Nothing,” he replied, “Just… taking it all in.”

Gryffindor had won the House Cup just that evening, along with the Quidditch Cup just a few days before. You supposed George did actually have quite a bit to smile about, but as he sat there, his eyes slightly dazed and a lazy grin on his lips, something told you it actually had to do with something else.

“Right,” you replied, taking your hands out of his soft hair and leaning back on the couch, “Because I totally believe you.”

He turned around, his smile never faltering, “What? You’re gonna give me a hard time for being in a good mood? C’mon, let me live, woman.”

You tossed your head back, cheeks flushed, “Fine. The day you don’t have a smile on your face is the day I’ll know something’s wrong, yeah?”

Sitting up and crashing next to you on the couch, he gave you quite the exaggerated nod before dropping it and gazing softly into your eyes, “Around you, how can anything ever be wrong?”

———————————————————————

Popping in and out of stores seemed to be the best distraction — Quidditch Supplies, Pets, Quills, the best Parchment in town — all stores that you remember running in and out of while you were just a wee child, hoping to buy the top quality items for another long year at school. 

You’d been so distracted by the sound of children laughing and charging by you that you barely registered the fact that you had walked into a tall body. Luckily, your balance hadn’t been knocked over, but you had been walking at such a quick pace that you’re surprised the other person didn’t go falling backwards.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, looking up and catching your step, nearly losing it completely as your eyes caught sight of the person in front of you. 

Eyes still golden like the sun, George Weasley hadn’t changed. His hair was slightly longer and he wore nicer clothing — perks of running your own business — but he hadn’t changed a day. His lips were still a deep pink, and the freckles on his cheek seemed to be more prominent than you remember. 

“Y/N?” the corners of his lips turned up into a smile, “Bloody hell, what are you doing here?”

You stared up, mind completely blank, “Oh — It’s — I’ve gotta go.”

His hand shot out to grab your wrist, his fingers leaving a touch of sparks in their wake. You snapped it away, rubbing over the skin to soothe the electrifying touch that George left behind. Even years later, he still had that effect on you, and you wished more than anything that you could curse him out for it.

“Y/N, blimey, wait, let’s catch up,” he shrugged, eyes pleading, “What’re you running from? We were best friends. I’ve missed you. It’s been two bloody years, woman.”

“You know damn well why that changed,” you grumbled, trying your best to look anywhere but his inviting eyes. You knew that if you made eye contact, you’d be sucked right back into whatever hold he had on you while you were in school. You weren’t sure you could deal with that right about now.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Look, Y/N, please. Just stay for a few minutes. Come see the shop, yeah? Reckon Fred’ll be thrilled to see you.”

You gave in and looked up at him, already knowing you wouldn’t be able to say no. He was right, you guys were best friends. You were inseparable. They always say catching feelings for your best friend is a beautiful thing, but in your case it felt like the worst thing to happen. You fell head over heels for George and he had no clue. He continued living his life, continued doing the things he loved, and then he left.

You only hoped the letter kept him up at night. As petty as that was.

“Fine,” you let out a deep breath, “Just a few minutes.”

You nearly missed the wide grin that spread across his face, showcasing the beautiful smile that still managed to leave your chest in a fluttery mess. You internally scolded yourself — you weren’t over your feelings and chances are this was going to make things worse.

The shop was magnificent. Shelves lined the walls as far as the eye could see. And even though Diagon Alley was nearly deserted, the shop seemed to be thriving — not that you were surprised. Kids and young adults huddled in groups to gawk and stare at the latest products, eyeing everything with keen interest as George’s twin, Fred, explained to them how things worked. 

“You did good,” you smiled up at George, all hostility towards him fading as the bubbly atmosphere of the shop engulfed you, making you feel as if you were transported back to your childhood, “I’m proud of you guys.” 

“Blimey,” George grinned, placing his hand on your shoulder, “Didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that.”

Your smile faded and you turned away from him, cheeks burning at his comment.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he spun you back around to face him, “I just meant because it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again, to be honest.”

You bit your lip, nodding slowly, “I know. I’m sorry. It was just so hard to work up the courage to see you.”

You weren’t exactly lying. After what happened, you couldn’t find it in yourself to face him. But that wasn’t the whole truth, really. Your courage and confidence had left with him, there was no way you’d be able to come here and see him happy with someone else. Someone that wasn’t you.

“I actually have something for you,” he held his finger up and rushed out of sight, up the stairs and through a door. You stood awkwardly, debating whether you should just turn around and walk out of the store and into the city. He’d never be able to track you down. But, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to move your feet. You were grounded in the moment, still gazing at all the trinkets and items around you. 

Some made noise, some were brightly coloured — some of them even looked like that evil witch Headmistress Umbridge. You stifled a laugh, remembering the times you and the twins had narrowly escaped her wicked grasp. She was not one for fun, that was certain.

———————————————————————

“Down here!” you called, grabbing George’s hand and running down another dark corridor, Filch’s footsteps still echoing behind the two of you.

“When I catch ya, you’ll be expelled!” his grimy voice reached your ears, sending you into another fit of giggles as you linked your fingers with George’s, the two of you barreling down the stairs and continuing your run up to the Gryffindor tower. You had to admit, it was quite far, but if you kept up this speed, Filch and his limp wouldn’t be able to catch up.

“Wait, there’s a prefect,” George whispered through his heavy breathing, giving your hand a heavy tug and pulling you behind a pillar.

Your body fell against his, the two of you squished in a tiny space as you heard the distant voice of the Ravenclaw prefect approaching your hiding spot. George’s breathing was heavy, his chest rubbing against yours with each inhale he took. Your breathing would be heavy if you weren’t having heart palpitations, his body so close to yours you couldn’t think straight.

“Reckon that’s another narrow escape,” he chuckled, breath fanning your face. You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact, way too caught off guard to properly process his words.

Did he realize what this did to you? This closeness, this intimacy? 

It was undoubtedly true — you were falling for your best friend.

———————————————————————

“Well, if it isn’t Y/N Y/L/N,” Fred sauntered over, hands in his pockets and a bright grin on his face, “What brings you to our little corner of the wizarding world?”

He brought his arms out for an embrace; one that you gladly accepted. He was warm and familiar, and you felt a grin spread across your face. 

“It’s nice to see you, Freddie,” you pulled away, “You guys have really blown me away with all of this.”

“Well, what can I say?” he shrugged, tips of his ears turning slightly pink, “We’ve clearly got a knack for entrepreneurship.” 

You shook your head, laughter bubbling in your chest. You always knew they’d be successful — hell, you told them a million times — but seeing it in person after all these years of shutting yourself away, it sort of felt like a dream. As if you’d missed quite possibly the biggest event of their lives.

And you felt like a horrible friend.

“Sorry I wasn’t more supportive,” you said softly, “I really am impressed.”

He lifted his hand and ruffled your hair, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We knew you always had your full support.”

Before you could respond, George came rushing back down the stairs. You were rather thankful for it, as your conversation with Fred was causing your emotions to come through. You could feel your throat closing in and the familiar sting of tears in your eyes, but George’s presence caused your feelings to shift.

He nudged his brother away and stood in front of you, an envelope in hand. On the front of it, your name was scribbled in swirly handwriting — George’s, you recognized — and you could see the faint outline of parchment inside it.

“What’s this?” you asked, taking the envelope from his hands as he shoved it in your direction, his cheeks a tad pinker than before. 

He let out a deep breath, “You’ll see when you open it.”

You nodded, placing the envelope gently into your purse, “I’ll open it when I’m home.”

“Okay,” he responded instantly, shoving his hands into his pockets. You knew it was a nervous habit of his, and it raised a question as to what could possibly be in that envelope that had him so on edge.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta get going,” you said, your voice barely audible. But by the way George’s shoulders slouched, you knew he heard you. He took his hands out of his pockets and pulled you in for a hug. 

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms tightly around him, resting your head on his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. He smelled the same as he did all those years ago, and although he was the same height, he also definitely felt a lot stronger. 

Lifting boxes on a daily basis has taken its toll.

You couldn’t count how many hugs you’d shared with George during your time at Hogwarts, but something about this hug felt different. It felt final, conclusive. As if you both knew that this would be the final time you’d get to see each other. 

“I’ve missed you,” he said, mouth mere inches from your ear.

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied right away, pulling your body away from his to look into his eyes. You tried your best to force a smile, but it most likely only came off as a grimace. After all, you couldn’t find anything to feel enthusiastic about in the moment.

You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his warm cheek, letting your hand linger on his arm for a second longer than intended, before pulling away and leaving the store without another word.

It was safe, and very unfortunate, to say your feelings were still very much present.

———————————————————————

You stared down at the paper, stunned. It was possibly your seventh time reading it and you still couldn’t believe it.

After all these years, he felt the same. 

George Weasley felt the same.

You lifted the letter, once again preparing yourself to read it, wiping your eyes with an already soaked tissue.

Y/N,

I don’t know much about writing letters with a romantic goal, but I do know that I couldn’t leave yours unanswered. There were too many things left in the air, and I might never even get to give this to you, but it’s worth writing anyways.

I remember the first day we met. Do you remember? We were in second year and you fell down the stairs onto Freddie. You were so cute, and so flustered. It was nearly immediately after that that we became friends, if I remember correctly. (Which I always do.)

Skip forward a few years and you practically owned my heart and soul. I barely went a moment without thinking of you. Of your smile, of your laugh, of your hair and your face. You know, I did it on purpose. All the jokes, they were for you. To make you laugh. Bloody cliche, I know. But that’s the truth, love.

When I left school, it was hard. Not because I’d have to start a whole new life, but because I’d have to start that life without you. Without your constant positivity and your radiance. It was nearly impossible, but you were so proud. So proud of Freddie and me that I knew I couldn’t let you down.

But I did. I left you there, in that horrid place with that toad woman. And I regret that to this day. I read your note every day. I still do. It’s the only thing of yours that I have in my life and I cherish it more than you know.

So, this note kind of has no purpose, but it does have a point. The point is that I love you too. That I’ve loved you for a long time, and chances are that I always will. You’re the best part of me and that’ll never change.

Please take care. And I hope we get to find each other.

Yours forever,

George.

You read it again, and again, and again, and could barely process the words on the tattered parchment. It was a pretty neat piece, which indicated that there was no way he wrote two years ago. It had to be recent — within the last year. And the fact that he decided to give it to you now meant that he might even still feel this way.

With the amount of times you envisioned George professing his undying love to you, not once did you think it would be in these circumstances. With the two of you living different lives. 

You went to bed that night, the note tucked under your pillow. You couldn’t part with it. Even though you had no clue what to do about said note, you didn’t want to let go of it. It was true, and all these years later you finally realized it. All the shared touches, the laughs, the smiles across classrooms; it all made sense. Not only were you falling hopelessly in love with your best friend, but he was doing the exact same thing.

And I hope we get to find each other.

If that meant what you thought — what you hoped — it meant, then maybe there was a chance for you. But for that chance to happen, you had a lot that you needed to sort out. What would this mean? Would you two start from scratch?

You hadn’t exactly had any sort of relationship over the past two years, how would you just jump into something like this? Maybe him giving you the letter was his form of closure, his way of telling you that maybe it could have happened, but now there’s no chance.

You didn’t want to dwell, but there was no way you couldn’t. How does one let something like this go? You can’t. You can’t go back to living a normal life with this knowledge hanging over your head.

He loved you.

If only there was a way you could talk to him, clear the air. Maybe he did still feel the same.

———————————————————————

Hogwarts was, to put it kindly, in the middle of chaos. Spells of bright green and red shot out from every which direction, hitting columns and occasionally, other bodies. You passed lifeless bodies on the ground and couldn’t bring yourself to look down. Some of them you might even recognize, and that wasn’t something you could bring yourself to feel right about now. Your emotions were running wild enough as it is; the last thing you needed was to find the body of someone you loved.

Your wand was tightly gripped in your hand, your mouth repeating the same spells over and over as Death Eaters continued to swarm the homely school grounds. You had called this place ‘home’ for seven years and yet now, it was the last possible place you wanted to be. You wanted to turn around and run, never to look over your shoulder again.

But you couldn’t.

There was no way you could bring yourself to leave. Not now.

“Well, what ‘ave we got ‘ere?”

You spun on the spot, coming face to face with the sunken eyes of a Death Eater. His voice sounded awfully familiar, but that was really the least of your problems right about now. His wand was raised in your direction, his lips already beginning to move.

You raised your own wand, ready to fire out the first spell you could think of. But the man went flying back into the wall before you could even open your mouth. You gaped down at your wand, trying to figure out how the hell you managed to do that without even thinking of the spell.

“Reckon that’s about the fourth time I’ve saved you.”

You turned to the sound of the voice, recognizing it immediately. George’s hair was tousled like crazy, and he had a bandage tightly wound around his head. You could see faint blood where his ear should be, and your heart did a quick flip in your chest. You had heard about his accident — you had run into Ginny in the Great Hall, but seeing his wound and his face in person brought an unsettling feeling to your chest.

“George,” you sighed, running over to him without a second doubt. You jumped up, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly, squeezing harder than you thought. But he didn’t seem to mind, his arms finding their way around your waist and holding you up, his head finding its spot in the crook of your neck as he let out a low chuckle. You could feel the warmth of his skin, and in that moment, he felt so real. As if two years apart had never happened. As if everything said between you two in your letters was unspoken, but acknowledged. 

You pulled your head away from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. The eyes that had been a comfort source in your life for so many years. As if looking into them brought out all of your confidence, you gave him a shy smile before leaning down and pressing your lips against his.

You immediately pulled away from him before either of you could register the action, letting yourself fall back down to your feet as you looked up into his eyes. He didn’t blink, his mouth hanging open.

Maybe you made a terrible mistake.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” 

You were cut off by his hands on each side of your face, pulling you in for a second kiss. One that lasted much longer. 

His lips were incredibly soft against yours, moulding as if this was the place they were meant to be. Your hands went up into his hair, giving a small tug as he pulled your body closer to his. It was as if all the war and death around you two didn’t exist — the only thing you could focus on was George’s warmth and the eruption of butterflies that went off in your body.

After what felt like hours, you pulled away and looked up at him. His lips were swollen and red, his breathing slightly uneven, but he looked happy.

“That was long overdue,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

You let out a breathy laugh, “Definitely.”

———————————————————————

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[sidespromptblog]

What to Do?: Chapter 9

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Ten

Warnings: Food mention, General Angst, Hurt/Comfort, and a difference of opinions.

Summary: Logan realizing that his first mistake was seeing the other sides as anything other than coworkers. They weren't a family. They didn't even like each other. How had he not realized sooner?

Word Count: 2,439

Roman paced anxiously in the hallway before Logan’s door, the paper in his hands had been wrinkled, smoothed out, and then wrinkled again before he had tried to smooth it out once more… this time less successfully. 

He had been more than a little surprised when Logan had come to him with a list of things he wanted Roman to pick out, normally when it came to getting anything done they had two totally different mindsets of what should be done when it came to Thomas. And once it came time to do things they would clash just as they always had, as Roman instinctively wanted Thomas to just have fun and follow his passions. Whereas Logan was the exact opposite of that, and he had always wanted Thomas to do the things he needed to do, whether they were fun or boring. Roman had always kind of hated him for that, for seemingly shooting down his every idea, for a more and more boring one that sucked the fun out of everything. 

But this new plan…

“You too huh?” Roman’s head snapped up in an instant, and locked eyes with Virgil who had his hands on his own version of a wrinkled set of papers. “Apparently Patton got one too, and the oth… the dark sides too.” 

A bolt of surprise leapt through Roman, so Logan wasn’t asking just them anymore? He was actually, well and truly, going to everyone to see what they wanted done. He could imagine that Remus must’ve been quite surprised to be asked such a thing from Logan of all people. Especially with how they had clashed just recently, or had Logan just given Janus the papers with the instruction to give it to Remus too. If that were the case… then Remus would have seen this as nothing more than homework to be done, and probably shredded it the moment that it landed in his hands. 

Or maybe not… 

Roman was smart enough to acknowledge that he didn’t exactly know his brother that well. That and Remus always tried to do what they least expected from him, as one big twist surprise ending towards them all.

He was annoying like that. 

Roman’s eyes snapped towards the door, and Virgil fidgeted in his place for some reason looking very uncomfortable at the prospect of entering. “Yeah…” He finally said, scratching the back of his head. “It definitely was kind of… interesting. I didn’t think he’d want to talk to me for a while, we didn’t exactly part well last time.” That was an understatement, he remembered yelling at Logan… and just being so angry before he had come to terms with it all. “I’m surprised that Logic even wants to see us and-” 

A snarl peeled off of Virgil’s lips, and Roman flinched in surprise.

“His name is Logan, Roman.” The anxious side snapped in an instant, his eyes dark like thunderclouds before a torrential downpour. “Not Logic. Do you understand?” He growled, suddenly looking quite on edge for someone who had just been looking so nervous in the face of Logan’s door. 

It felt a bit like whiplash. 

But even so Roman held his stance firmly, he was determined when it came to this and he wasn’t going to let one of Virgil’s temper tantrums get in the way of it. Not anymore, and not with everything that had happened recently. He was Logan’s shield, he had sworn that he would be that for him even if the logical side didn’t know it, and even if he never knew it. Roman was on his side, and he would remain on his side for as long as the logical side would have him. 

So he crossed his arms, “I think his name is whatever he chooses for it to be, Virgil.” He stressed the other side’s name, feeling only an inkling of guilt at how the anxious side stepped back for a second. “We don’t have the authority to tell him what he will or will not be called. If he wants to be called Logic, then Logic is what we’ll call him. It’s not up to you.” Roman stared at Virgil, meeting his eyes dead on and not breaking eye contact until the anxious side’s eyes darted away. “Got it?” He asked, feeling the tiniest bit of satisfaction in how he had turned the other’s words back on him. 

A beat of silence, and then…

“Thank you Creativity.” Both of the sides looked up in a hurry, their eyes locking onto the logical side who stood before them, his door previously shut tight was now wide open. He held his own stack of papers, all neatly pressed and without a single crease or line on them. “Both of you may come on in, if it so pleases you.”  

And just like that, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving the other two sides to follow him. 

The atmosphere was… more than a little tense to say the least. 

The bedroom that had previously been Logan’s looked nothing like what it was now, to the point where it was almost night and day with the comparisons. The posters were gone, the string lights, the pictures of all of them, the bookcases, the crumpled up paper balls that had once been ideas, even the… the fanfiction that Roman used to help Logan write… it was all gone. It was like everything had just been stripped away, and a boring office cubicle had taken its place. The deep blue walls were now a pale cream color, and the lush carpet was now just bland grey tile worn with a path of someone who walked in the same place for years and years.  

Roman had thought that Logan’s room had been boring before, but this… 

This was a whole new ball game. 

And looking at the stark horror that was etched out onto Virgil’s face, he could very well tell that the anxious side was thinking the same thing that he was. 

“So…” Roman cleared his throat as his voice cracked almost immediately. “I’m.. I’m a…” He fumbled badly with his words, the shock he had just went through robbing him of what he had prepared himself to say. He’d been asked here for a specific reason, and if he failed the simplest thing he had been asked… then what good was he? “I’m sure that Thomas can do the things that you want him to. It shouldn’t be that ha-”      

Almost immediately Logan cut in, “Don’t aim too high,” The logical side suggested, rather politely. In a way that Roman could tell that what he was saying wasn’t necessarily out of malice or anything. Instead, it feels like Logan’s saying to be more helpful, almost like a coworker giving some good advice.

But Roman can only nod, the underlying message behind that advice all too clear for him. 

“I aimed too high.” It says, “And I got burned for it, so don’t do what I did. Save yourself.” 

The tension has not eased a single bit. 

And then, Logan lifts his cup up, taking a slow and steady sip from it, as if he was trying to ease the atmosphere by doing something. The warm brown liquid swirled around in Logan’s cup with the clinking of ice accompanying it, and Roman’s nose itched with the faintest smell of spices wafting off of it. He got the faintest whiff of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves. Had… had Logan completely given up coffee and switched over to having chai tea of all things? He would have expected that from someone like Patton, or even Virgil, to lessen the other’s anxiety.

But Logan?  

Roman had to bite his bottom lip at the mental image of Logan becoming one of those “dark academia” people that sat in the library and looked gloomy and so freaking cool all the time... kind of like Janus. Although Janus… Janus was more of a wine person, that much he could tell from miles away without even having to get close to that snake. 

“Don’t you normally drink coffee?” Virgil asked, wrinkling his nose at the spicey mixture in Logan’s cup, and Roman fought the urge to elbow him in the gut for his remark. “What’re you drinking?” 

Logan, to his credit, didn't even seem like he was going to get mad or anything at Virgil’s pure judgment and vitriol towards the drink of his choice. He merely took a longer sip than usual, licking the droplets that remained from his bottom lip when he pulled the cup away. He looked… calmer, before Logan would have vehemently defended his food choices against anyone who tried to question him. But at the same time, it felt more than a little wrong, Logan may have shifted towards the spicier drink, but where was his spice? Where was Logan’s sharp tangy flavor that made him so different from them? 

This Logan was like coffee now, bitter and… not at all to their taste. 

Logan just smiled that polite smile, and Roman had to force himself to smile back.

“I’ve found that drinking coffee isn’t exactly beneficial in the long run,” Logan explained, as he swirled the content of his cup around in a steady motion. “It’s been known to enhance anxiety attacks astronomically,” Virgil’s face gave a funny look for a moment, before Logan went on. “And it also lowers blood pressure too.” 

Roman swallowed down the words that he wanted to say, “That’s great Logic, good job on looking ahead.” The words felt sour and dull in his mouth, logically… Logan should have known that him drinking coffee over tea wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t impact Thomas in any way, and it wasn’t like Logan himself would drop dead over some high blood pressure. Logan had just taken away one more thing that the logical side liked, and turned it into something else. “You did good.” 

For a split second something in Logan’s face changed abruptly, a slight widening of his eyes and a crease in his forehead and lips. 

Something changed, and then… 

The room flashed briefly, but just out of the corner of Roman’s eye, it was so brief that he almost missed it entirely but he was certain that he had seen it. 

The cubicle styling of Logan’s room, just momentarily flashing back to how it was supposed to look. With all of his space posters, hanging lights, and the organized mess that Roman had seen Logan’s room as before. It was.. It was as if the new room only existed when they looked at it, and not a moment too soon or too late for them.

The very thought alone made Roman’s stomach drop.

He had promised himself that he wouldn’t intervene if this was what Logan had truly wanted for himself, but even so… it didn’t ease the sting of pain that was accompanied by every new thing that Logan was starting to do when it came to any of them. He had thought that he could handle it, and that the pain of this somehow would be lesser than the guilt he had felt towards this whole situation. But.. 

It wasn’t. 

If anything this felt worse, he had talked himself into giving in and giving this to Logan. All of this was almost too much for him, his legs itched to run and take him out of this room so that he wouldn’t have to witness anything like this anymore. But he held himself firm, and refused to move. He forced himself to look back at Logan, at the logical side who is steadily typing away on his computer, inputting the information that both he and Virgil had brought to the other side. 

Speaking of Virgil though…

The anxious side looked like he wanted to either scream or cry at Logan, the emotions clashing like a thunderstorm on his face as his eyeshadow darkened in color for a few brief moments. Until finally Virgil sucked in a deep breath, his eyeshadow returning to its normal, usually messy state as he seemed to calm down for now. 

Reaching into his pocket Virgil pulled out a folded piece of paper, “For your… office.” Virgil caught himself on the last word, almost wanting to say something else. The cubicle looked like a prison to him, nothing at all like Logan’s old room, and he could very much see why Logan hadn’t wanted him in here before. So he says the word almost bitterly, because this whole situation feels bitter to him. There’s not one bit of sweetness to be found in it.

He only softens the slightest bit when Logan takes the paper, unfolding the picture he had drawn for the logical side. And when Logan actually pins it to his cubicle wall, his movements are careful and precise so as to not damage the art Virgil had made for him. It remains on the wall, in plain view for the logical side to look at while he’s working. Then and only then does Virgil feel an intense sense of relief sweeping through him like a hurricane. It’s one more piece of evidence for the both of them that Logan doesn’t entirely hate them, but also that things also aren’t the same between them.

At least not yet. 

“Okay…” Virgil clears his throat, before tugging on Roman’s sleeve to pull him towards the door. “We’ll leave you to your work.. Logic. Let us know if there is any other paperwork you need from us, and we’ll get it done…” Virgil paused, but for just a moment. “I promise.” 

Logan stopped in his typing, his eyes glancing up from the computer they had been otherwise glued to. A look of… something passed over the logical side’s face, before it vanished entirely. 

“Thank you…” 

It was the only two words that were whispered back, so softly that Roman had almost missed them entirely. And before he could even think to ponder the words, he was pulled out by Virgil, his head full of ideas as he remained ever more determined to give Logan things to put up in his new “office”. His mind was wild with ideas of painting, charcoal sketches, and pastel drawings that he could give to Logan to pin up. Anything to make his new room, just the slightest bit more hospitable for the side who was constantly having to be in there. And anything to let Logan know that they still cared for him, even if he was doing all of this.  

While Virgil…

Virgil felt just the slightest bit better.

[succinct-assbutt]

||After school special||

fandom: supernatural

pairing: dean x reader (highschool)

warnings: make outs?? just teens being teens

summary: dean, in need of some tutoring, calls up the smartest person he knows.

A/N: a bit of a lengthy author’s note at the end but no pressure to read lmao, enjoy darlings :)

                                                            ~*~

Y/N’s phone goes off as soon as she gets home, barely kicking her shoes off.

 She sighs, dejected, and flops down onto her bed. There’s papier-mâché and craft scissors hidden somewhere among the mess, a tornado of art class having torn her room into shreds, but even through the clutter she makes out the blinking screen of her cell phone.

  Slipping it out from under her book, she answers. “Hello?”

 “You home?” The voice asks right away.

 “Where else would I be?” Despite the ache in her muscles, she pushes herself up to sit, flicking her right shoe off so it can join the left by the door (her room’s a mess anyway).

 She lets her hair out of the bun it’s been in all day and shakes out the stiff strands and curls. Everything about her screams tired; frizzy ends, wrinkled collar, the pleats in her uniform skirt uneven.

 “Wow, attitude. And it’s only Wednesday.”

 “What do you want, Dean?”

 “I was just going through the geography textbook and I realized I know nothing about volcanoes.” He says brightly, “Figured you could help me with the assignment.”

 Y/N balances the phone on her shoulder as she slides offer stockings. It’s unsurprising, really—it’s Dean. She’d be more surprised if he didn’t call.

 “I’ve not even yet started.”

 “Perfect. We could do it together. Are your parents home?”

 Judging by the silence of the house, probably not. She didn’t bother to check on her way up, driven by the exhaustion and the sandbags weighing down her eyes. Most nights they work late.

 “I think my mum’s shift is ending soon, but no, they’re not home.”

 “Awesome. I’ll be there in ten.”

 “No, Dean—“ She tries to say, but the line goes dead before she can finish.

 Y/N pulls the phone away and glances down at the blinking screen; it’s ironic almost, the image staring back at her in form of her home-screen. None other than the elder Winchester himself, his chin rested on her head and wearing a wide smile. Homecoming, sophomore year. No matter how many times he annoys her, she can’t bring herself to change it, and maybe it’s a good thing because right then it manages to draw a tired smile from her.

 As promised, Dean gets there in no more than ten minutes.

 She’s passed out on her bed, face buried in the chaos of art supplies, when her phone buzzes to life; peering an eye open, she makes out his name blinking across the screen. Presses decline. Almost instantly it starts ringing again, and, groaning, this time she gets up.

 She changes then heads down, surprised when she yanks the door open and no one’s there.

 For a second her brow wrinkles. She checks her phone, then scans the perimeter: empty streets, only a few cars lining the road. Eerily normal and the thought that she dreamt this whole thing up crosses her mind, just for a flash second, before Dean appears right in front of her with pebbles in his palm.

 Y/N jumps back in surprise; smiling—as usual—the elder Winchester, quirks his eyebrows at her.

 “Hey.”

 “What are you doing?”

 “You weren’t answering your phone,” His hair is standing up in every direction and the sweat beading along his hairline gives away the fact that he must have ran here. “I figured you were still asleep, tried waking you up.”

 “By throwing pebbles?” She glances at the handful of rocks from their driveway then back up at him. He shrugs, still smiling as they tumble out of his hand.

 Then he leans in and gives her a quick kiss, before stepping into the house.

 From the amount of times he’s been in her room before, Dean knows the rules almost instinctively: he kicks his shoes off right at the door, letting them join her own, then drops his bag at the foot of the bed. Robotic, almost. Laughing, y/n rolls her eyes as she lays out their study materials. She’s got all kinds of supplies to make her feel productive even when she’s anything but—the whole color coded scheme, sticky notes plastered all over her walls, flash cards tucked into her pencil case (you’d think she’d be a straight A student judging by how well she plays the part)

 Dean picks up one of the notepads with her schedule written down. He eyes her dubiously. “Do you actually follow this?”

 “I try to, but sometimes I just can’t be bothered.” She answers, shuffling things around and checking her notes.

 The elder Winchester joins her on the floor, perching just a few inches away from their set-up.  “I know what you mean—hell, maybe that’s why I’m failing Geography.” He slides the book back and leans back onto his elbows.

 “You’re not failing,” Y/N insists, says it like it’s the hundredth time because frankly it probably is, “I told you, as long as I help you, you’re getting at least a C.”

 “That’s not cocky at all.”

 “It’s fact. You know how good I am Geography.” It’s true, in all honesty. Despite being a class below him, Y/N is miles ahead of Dean and the rest of his friends because of, what she insists is, hard work and determination.

 If it wasn’t her looks that drew him in the first time, then it was definitely the smarts.

 Dean’s not shy to admit it one bit: he likes brainy girls. Brainy girls who go off rambling about rocks and homeostasis; brainy girls with big books full of cursive and diagrams and who have sticky notes strung up all over their walls.

 When they first met, Y/N having been pulled in from another class by their teacher to explain something about the earth’s plates moving, the elder Winchester was instantly drawn to her. She was nervous and confused, but it still made a lot more sense when she explained geology than when Miss Lambert did. Not to mention he’d seen her around school before, smiling with teachers and freshmen, putting up posters. Even if the grades didn’t always show it, there was no doubt in his mind that she was all about school.

 “You owe me big time, Winchester,” Y/N says as she draws up a graph.

 Curled against the bedframe, Dean watches her—his eyes move from her working fingers to the glasses perched on her nose, then back to the page of the book. She explains to him what he needs to know, and at the end they have some snacks, cozied up against the textbooks and papers played across the floor.

 She stands to put everything away, but the elder Winchester pulls her back into him, his arm caged around her waist.

 She falls into his lap so easily, laughing as he nuzzles his face into her neck. Dean knows she’s ticklish, but it’s not like that will stop him.

 “Dean,” She can’t help but laugh,” Stop, or I’ll never help you again.”

 “We both know you will, kiddo. And besides, who’s gonna help you with history then?” And math, and science, and basically anything that isn’t geography. Unlike her, he only has one weak spot.

 “Stop!” Y/N tries to push him away, her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, but it’s no use because he’s stronger and taller and soon enough she’s on her back, Dean hovering over her with a smile.

 His brow wrinkles “Or?”

 “Or I’m k-kicking you out—“In-between laughs, she gasps for air, the elder Winchester dipping to press a kiss against her collarbone. His breath is warm and rushed and she can smell the ginger-snaps they just had linger against her skin.

 Soon enough, the sensation starts to melt into something mellower; her giggles slow to a stop, chest heaving up and down. Dean’s hand snakes up her side, slipping beneath her shirt. His fingers are cold. She can’t remember the last time she felt this in tune with the moment; calloused hands climbing her waist, soft lips lazing across the column of her throat.

 And Y/N can’t help it, but her own hand disappears into the thickness of his sandy hair, tugging and careening and the books are still out and probably dog-eared by now but she doesn’t care.

 “Your notes…” Dean murmurs into her stuttering chest.

 She falls back against the stationary, hearing the crunch of the pages beneath both their weight. Not even for a second does she open her eyes. “Fuck it.”

 “Sure?”

 Her answer comes in form of nimble fingers clasping onto either side of his face and she kisses him, right there and then, absolved of any worry and former exhaustion school drew out of her—here, they’re not students or friends or anything but her and him and the heat that begins to buzz against their bodies, and Dean lets out a sated hum that sends ripples through her body.

 His hands are everywhere; big and callous, they span across every inch of her, kneading and wanting, sliding up to her neck. Y/N stretches back and he takes the oppurtinity to pepper light kisses along the scope of her throat.

 “The door.” She pants.

 He drags his lips along her jawline, hips pressed flush against her own, “Are your parents home,”

 “Shit, they will be…”

 “Well, it’s your room.” He says.

 “Dean…”

 “Y/N….”

 “Please get the door.”

 “I’m a bit busy here…”

 Sighing, Y/N plants her hands on his chest and pushes him off. The elder Winchester tumbles to the side; flushed and heady, his eyes follow her as she moves to check the lock. The collar of her shirt hangs loosely off her shoulder and already blooming are the marks of his teeth, mountain ranges against the expanse of her skin.

 When she looks back at him, sucking a breath, he can trace the lust in her eyes; for a second her gaze flickers to the mess of books he’s laying on, and there’s almost a flash of sadness at the sight.

 Dean looks down at the papers beneath him then back at his girlfriend. He quirks an eyebrow. “This okay?”

 “It’s just…” She bites her lip and strains against her words; tries again, but nothing comes out. She can see all the flash cards spilled against the rug and the wrinkles in some of her worksheets. A sigh falls from her lips and she shuts her eyes, “Ugh, this is stupid.”

 Dean can’t help but laugh; she’s brainy and cute, but more than anything a hard-worker, so he doesn’t need to think twice before he’s picking up the sheets strewn around him.

 “Come on,” He hands her most of what he can salvage, not ignoring the wide grin that’s plastered across her face as they clean up.

 Y/N clutches her books to her chest and laughs. “I know I said I was okay with it, but…”

 “Heat of the moment, I get it.” He stuffs some flashcards back into her pencil case, tossing it onto the bed, then stands, inches away from Y/N. His mouth tugs into a small simper and he reaches out for her; her clothes are still a bit disarrayed and her glasses are nowhere to be found.

 Arms wrapped around her waist, he lets his forehead press against hers. “Sorry about your stuff.” He says, and before she knows it, his lips are on her neck again.

 It’s instinct, almost, how easily her body responds. She curls into him, and they practically mold into each other. Haste hands, slow kisses.

 “You owe me a new notepad, by the way” Y/N giggles as her eyes move to the pile of things they couldn’t salvage—among it, her schedule and a bunch of crumpled up sticky notes, and Dean’s grin grows, fingers inching further up her torso.

 “How about I pay you back with something better?”

                                                       ~*~

It’s been a hot minute since I last posted, hasn’t it?

Thank you for reading! I’ve been in a bit of a rough place, hence the lack of writing, but I’m pushing myself to make more content. Likes, reblogs and follows are greatly appreciated

Secondly: I hate to be this person (even though I’m still going through with this lmao), but it’s been a tough couple of months for my family here in kampala and so that’s actually why I’ve come back on here; I’ve decided to open requests (even though I have over 10 unfinished fics atm lol) in hopes that, in exchange for a writing of your choosing/ length, a few peeps could send in donations?(even so much as 10$ makes a big difference here in Uganda).

Not to push anything down anyone’s throat, but if you’re interested in finding out how you can help my family and I out and receive a special piece of writing, inbox me or check out this link.

[eyeofthewolfe]

Ninjago & TLNM: To Be Green

Chapter Six: A Whole New World Realm

Koko’s harsh eyes softened when she saw her older-looking son shed a tear. “Wrong?” she asked tenderly. “What’s wrong?”

Lloyd quickly wiped his eyes. “Those pictures of me...” he started as he gestured with his chin to the photos on the wall. “I have no recollection of them or the people in the photos. I mean, I see Lord Garmadon but he’s...different.”

Koko turned back, an eyebrow raised curiously. “You don’t remember any of that? Do you remember me?”

Lloyd didn’t hesitate as he shook his head. The ginger sucked in a shaky breath as she stepped back. Lloyd noticed she was starting to tense up, so he offered for them to sit down in the kitchen a few steps away.

Koko immediately put her head in her hands when she sat next to the table. Her ‘son’ uncomfortably sat across from her with his trembling hands awkwardly folded together on his lap. There was a long silence in the kitchen before she mumbled through her hands, “If you aren’t Lloyd, then where is my son?”

That was the question he feared to answer. He sat back a little more and carefully selected his words. “Well, first of all, I am Lloyd, just apparently not the Lloyd you all...know.”

She looked up at him, her face pushed together with confusion.

Lloyd continued. “However, the Lloyd you know...I don’t know where he is. I would imagine he is where I was.”

She continued to stare at him blankly as if he had spoken a completely new language. Finally she shook her head and said, “He is where you were? What does that mean?”

“I’m not from here,” Lloyd replied, trying hard to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I am from a different Ninjago. I don’t know how that’s possible but I think maybe-“ suddenly Lloyd froze. Koko waited as her eyes slowly opened.

“Holy FSM...” Lloyd breathed as he pushed himself to his feet. His legs were shaking so much that he almost collapsed onto the ground. His ‘mom’ rose to help him, but Lloyd was already scrambling for the window. He viciously tore the curtains to the side to let him see the city. Frozen in his spot, Koko slowly joined his side with her eyes wide. “What is it?” She demanded as she wondered what about the view she’s seen all her life is terrifying to this different son of hers.

“This isn’t Ninjago,” Lloyd muttered. “I mean, obviously it is Ninjago but it’s not my Ninjago.”

Koko stared back blankly.

“That made no sense to you, I’m sure,” Lloyd continued as he pressed his palms against the side of his head as he turned back to the ginger woman. “But the Ninjago I am from has 16 realms, well, 14 now- and I’ve only been to about half of them. This must be another realm.”

“Realms?” Koko repeated with disbelief.

Lloyd didn’t hear her. “But is weird...it’s like an alternate reality for my world....it so similar yet so different.” He reached out and took her arm to turn her attention back to him. “Your son must be in my Ninjago.”

She hesitated, trying to comprehend. “How...how do we get him back?”

With a sigh, Lloyd shut the curtains slowly. “I...don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here.”

Shuddering a breath, Koko collapsed back into a chair. Lloyd instinctively dropped down to her side. “Don’t worry ma’am, I will get him back. I promise.”

She held back her tears as she gazed back at Lloyd. After what felt like a full minute she smiled and gingerly placed her hand on his cheek. “You look just like him.” She breathed a whisper. “If you are here and safe, then I can have faith my boy is safe too.”

She pulled away, but Lloyd remained still. He lifted his own hand to his face to touch where she just had her hand. She scrubbed her eyebrows together at his gesture. “What is it?”

Lloyd quickly dropped his hand. “Nothing.” Koko blinked but decided to drop it. She rose to grab a tissue from the counter to wipe her eyes. “I can’t believe I lost my son and husband on the same day,” she muttered quietly to herself to ensure the new Lloyd didn’t hear. As she tossed the tissue she subconsciously glanced at the clock. Suddenly she gasped.

“What?” Lloyd called out from by the window.

She turned back to him. “It’s getting pretty late. You should probably get back to sleep since it’s a school night.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right, school.”

She pulled her head back out of shock. “What, did you not go to school back in your...Ninjago?”

He shook his head.

Koko’s jaw dropped a little. “What kind of mom wouldn’t send her kid to school?”

Lloyd actually chuckled at that. “Oh she did, just...nevermind.” He dropped it again, his throat tightening up again.

She shook her head and then walked back to Lloyd. “Now get a good nights rest, after school tomorrow we can figure out what to do next.”

Lloyd nodded, his eyelids immediately drooping over his eyes when he thought about his must-needed sleep. He turned to a closed door.

“Uh, that’s my room,” Koko giggled as Lloyd froze. He wore an embarrassed smile as he turned to the opposite door. “Goodnight ma’am.”

“You can call me Ko- uh, mom. You can call me mom.”

Lloyd hesitated at the doorknob. He turned back with a warm smile but an aching heart. He turned the knob and slipped into the bedroom.

A closet with a bed would actually be a better name for the space Lloyd walked into. Posters covered the wall of different bands, movies, but mostly of the green ninja and the ninja ‘squad’. The room was mostly clean besides the few socks and shirts on the ground, an overflowing trash bin and an unmade bed. He slowly shut the door and inspected the tiny room that was apparently his.

“Well,” he muttered aloud to himself. “It’s me alright.”

He tracked down some pajamas (bottom drawer to the right, like always) and got himself fully ready for bed. Admittedly it was odd to go to sleep in an actual apartment rather than a room in the Temple or in a large sleeping quarters with his friends. It was even weirder once he actually got into his bed, which was cramped with walls on each side. It was as if he was caged in when he was sleeping.

The small alarm clock near his bed has an alarm already set for 6:20 in the morning. With a shrug, he set it, and then flipped off his lights. The room instantly disappeared into darkness.

Minutes passed as Lloyd laid in bed very much awake, for he wasn’t used to the background buzzing of the city outside of his window. It was odd sleeping in a room so familiar but so uncomfortably different.

His thoughts drifted to this other “Lloyd” he knew was of existence somewhere. Well, he knew where- he was back at the Temple just as confused as Lloyd is.

Lloyd cringed, his mind sore from all the double Lloyd and double Ninjago confusion. He rolled onto his side where he faced a wall, and then forced his eyes shut.

I wonder how the other me is doing right now....

________________________________________________

“And you TOUCHED IT?”

“It was glowing-“

“EXACTLY!”

Lloyd slowly tightened his jaw as Nya stuffed her face in her hands. The others reacted similarly as they all leaned back some more on the training equipment they were currently leaning on. Lloyd was sitting criss-cross on the grass, picking some every once in a while anxiously.

After a few seconds of silence, Lloyd decided to continue. “After I had grasped it, the green glowing stuff dissolved into my arm. I was shocked so I fell backwards, but instead of landing on the beach I landed here.”

“So you teleported?” Jay interrupted. Lloyd hesitated before shrugging a little. “I mean...I guess? I don’t even know where I teleported to.”

Kai crossed his arms. “You are in Ninjago.”

Lloyd nodded. “That much makes sense, except I am from Ninjago.”

“That’s when it doesn’t make any sense anymore.” Cole spoke up. “There can’t be two completely different Ninjago’s.”

“Actually, perhaps there can.”

Every head turned to the robot. Zane sat forward some.

“Maybe,” Zane spoke slowly, signaling to the other ninja (expect Lloyd) that his idea was not based with fact. “....there’s another realm for Ninjago.”

The lawn fell back to silence. Lloyd stared at the other ninja, who all took that remark like it actually made sense. Finally Lloyd snorted a laugh.

“Another Realm? What are you, serious?”

The others stared at Lloyd as if he was crazy.

“Look, different worlds? Yeah they exist. I’ve been to some prrreeeeetty weird places and seen some preeeeety weird people. But a different realm? Of the same place? That’s not possible.”

Kai looked back to Zane. “He does have a point. Based on Lloyd’s story, that would mean there’s another realm that is almost exactly like ours. But....with slight differences.”

“Like me having an accent!” Jay chimed in. He cleared his throat and tried yet again another ridiculous accent. “Horw doers thirs sournd? Clorser?”

“No,” Lloyd replied sourly. “Not even close.”

While Jay angrily snapped his fingers, Nya leaned forward. “Our Lloyd said he only have been to half of the realms. It’s possible that it could exist, it’s just odd to think there’s another realm that’s a weird mirror image of this one.”

“No, guys-“ Lloyd interrupted again by pulling up a large tuft of grass. “Realms don’t exist. Period.”

Cole snorted and opened his arms up. “Welcome to Ninjago, dude. You’ve got worlds- we’ve got realms.”

Lloyd kept his mouth open for a second before shutting it. He thought back to what Master Wu had mentioned a few years back before he had helped out other Master Builders in their worlds: “New world, new rules.”

Zane pushed himself up. “There is one way to solve this. Later today we will voyage to Hiroshima’s Labyrinth and pick up the Realm Crystal and try and find the realm.”

“Realm Crystal?” Lloyd voiced, but everyone ignored them.

“I agree,” Nya nodded. “But first, more sleep. The Lloyd’s apparently don’t want us to sleep in this morning.”

With a grunted agreement, the other ninjas rose to follow Nya and Zane back into the Temple. Lloyd scrunched his eyebrows together and glanced over his shoulder, where the rising sun had fully emerged from the horizon.

“Uh...” Lloyd called out. Slowly and reluctantly the ninja turned back around.

“Aren’t we going to school?” Lloyd asked with his eyebrows raised.

There was a long pause as the ninja debated in each of their heads if Lloyd was playing with them or not. Finally Kai burst out laughing, followed quickly the rest of the team. Lloyd, in complete shock, realized that they didn’t go to school and most possibly never have.

“Okay I get it I get it, y’all can stop laughing.” Lloyd grumbled. However, he held back a smile of pure joy of not needing to go to school.

“No no no,” Kai wheezed last his laughter. “It’s not funny that you go to high school, it’s funny that our Lloyd may have to go to high school in your place.”

Lloyd narrowed his eyes a little. “Why is that so funny?”

Kai grinned. “Cuz he has the education of a third grader.”

[birdinky-blog]

Motels, Diner Talks and Stars (Madwife one shot)

The entire day had been spent on the road.

Despite the urgency of their journey, Sweeney had insisted on stopping somewhere for the night. “Even gods need to take breaks, ” he had said, exiting off the highway. Obviously, Laura wasn’t happy about this sudden change of pace. Sweeney pulled into the parking lot of dingy little Motel 6 that had been advertised on every sign for the past 15 miles. She stayed outside while he went to talk to the receptionist with a couple of crumpled up 20 dollar bills.  Laura smoked a tasteless cigarette and rested against the hood of the stolen automobile; she watched Shadow’s light disappear into the distance leaving her world -yet again- dark.

The diner across the road from the motel was bright, warm and smelled of everything Laura would have wanted if she was hungry, or alive. Sweeney busts in and picks a booth right next to the large window looking out to the road and the motel, behind him Laura follows him like a ghost (which would not be too far from the truth). The place was just like the ones she remembered visiting as a kid, with walls covered in American memorabilia, even  an old fashioned pinball machine sits in the corner. Fuck, being dead sucked. She could tell the room was probably full of color with all the hanging Americana posters and neon lights, but her eyesight was failing her more and more each day she remained a decaying dead girl. She wonders if everyone can smell her rotting self, mixed with the Febreze she sprays herself down with before entering enclosed spaces- Sweeney always had a good laugh about this little fact.   

The waitress that serves them matches the restaurant’s look, with a little blue dress and white apron and hair tossed up in a clumsy bun. She’s young and pretty, the kind of pretty that gets sucked right out of you after getting married to some small town asshole and pushing out a few kids. But for right now she’s young and pretty and rushing around the space with a notepad. “What can i get y'all?” She says when she finally reaches their table. Sweeney, who had been looking through the rather large menu sitting on the table, looks up and gives a cheeky smile obviously now noticing the girl.

“I'll take your burger and fries darlin,” he says and gives her a wink. The girl’s fair face turns a lovely shade of red and Laura’s eyes roll so far back they might as well have gotten stuck there. The waitress fills up their glasses with water and quickly rushes to help the next table.

“Do you always have to be so fucking gross?”  Laura snarls.

“Wow, someone really thinks they have room to talk about what's gross?” Sweeney gestures towards her abdomen, where her stitches were mostly undone underneath her jacket, exposing more rotting pieces of her. She rolls her eyes again. “Beside what’s wrong with a little flirting?” Sweeney says as he pulls out a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lights it.

She looks away from him and turns her gaze at the waitress again. Laura use to be pretty like that, perky tits- alive. She wondered how revolting she looked now, and how obvious it was that she was dead and slowly turning to mush. She never saw herself as the type to get self conscious, she was beautiful in life and she always knew it, because that's what she had been told.  

Flash to her mom brushing her hair when she’s just a girl, her mother telling her how pretty she was. Flash to her friends being jealous of her, hating her because all the boys loved Laura.

“Oi!” Sweeney says his large hand snapping in front of her face, “someone’s gonna think you’re really dead if you keep staring off like that dead wife.”

She blinks a couple times, “We shouldn’t have stopped,” Laura suddenly says “Shadow is somewhere out there with god knows who and we’re fucking around getting food. He could be dead!”

“Wednesday wouldn’t allow that, at least not yet,” Sweeney says somewhat seriously. The diner becomes silent for a second, and for that still moment Laura wants to cry. She wants to cry like a little girl in her mom's lap, hard sobbing, but her tear ducts rotted away days ago and crying in front of Mad Sweeney was the last thing she wanted to do anyway. She had been so close to Shadow, so close to getting back what was rightfully hers. Her Husband. She thinks about what Sweeney had said before Shadow had been abducted.

Hurts when someone takes what's yours, doesn’t it?

“Why wouldn’t Wednesday let you into that god meeting or whatever?” Laura asks, unsure if she should be bringing something like this up, “aren't you like a god too?”

Sweeney looks up, surprised at her sudden interest in things surrounding the topic of gods. He takes another drag from his cigarette, “let's just say the others don’t necessarily feel I’m like them,” he looks out the window and lets out a deep breath, “people use to fear me and want my favor, because I was the final factor that decided their fortune.” He drops the cigarette in Laura’s untouched water, “Long story short the children of those people decide they don’t need luck or don’t want to put out some milk and bread for a fellow and before you know it, they forget,” he pauses and meets Laura’s eyes, “and you change with them.” There’s a hidden sadness in his voice, something deeply rooted in his soul, even Laura can’t help but notice it.  

For some reason she feels like there is more than what Sweeney is letting on, but she mulls over the information she’s given, and for once, actually tries to understand the leprechaun. Although it is hard for her to think of him as some ancient god and not her drunk murderer. He looked no older than his mid to late 30’s but it was his eye’s that gave it away, the eyes of someone who has seen too much.        

“When I was a girl I used to believe in all kinds of things,” Laura says suddenly, feeling something rising in her chest, “I use to carry around this journal, I brought it everywhere with me and I filled each page with all kinds of creatures and monsters I made up in my head,” why was she telling him this? “I was convinced they lived in my backyard.” She had been avoiding Sweeney’s eyes, but when she finally looks up, expecting a laugh or tease, she finds him intently focused on what she is saying. Laura quickly looks out the window and fiddles with a loose string attached to her jacket, trying her best to not let his burning gaze get to her.

“What happened to that girl?” He asks. His voice low.

“She grew up.” Laura says sternly. “She went to college and worked in a job she hated and let her life swallow her whole, because that's all life is in the end.”

The waitress eventually drops off Sweeney’s order and the two sit silently as he munches away at his burger and fries. They pay and head back to the motel still not sharing anymore words. The conversation they had at the diner was different than anything they've talked about before, and Laura wasn’t sure how to feel about it. When the pair get to their room, Sweeney immediately goes to the bathroom and takes a shower. Laura, not needing to rest, sits on the a small sofa next to the one window in the room and lights one of Sweeney’s rolled cigarettes.

She thinks about Shadow, and how far away he might be and how dark the sky looked. Then she thinks about the way Sweeney looked at the waitress. She thinks about the way he smirked and (for some reason) she wonders if he could ever look at her that way. Laura shakes the thought away and chuckles to himself, maybe she did need some type of rest.

Mad Sweeney eventually finishes his shower and lays in one of the beds, his giant frame taking over the mattress. In the silent room all that can be heard is the gentle rumble of the old fashioned heater, Sweeney’s breathing and Laura’s absence of breath.

“Ginger Minge?” Laura’s voice breaks through the silence.

“Hm?” He answers.

“If you need someone to believe in you… well I believe in you if that makes any difference.” The words seem to tumble out of her, unexpected and terrifying. Her belief in him hangs in the air and for a moment Laura assumes he must have fallen asleep. But just when she is about to turn back towards the window to finish her smoke, a voice emerges from the bed.

“Thank you Laura.”

There’s something about hearing her name that rattles every dead cell in her body. She had never heard her name leave his lips before. For a while she was convinced maybe he just didn’t know her real name. She suddenly gets that urge again to start sobbing, but instead she finishes her smoke and turns off the lamp beside her, filling the room with darkness. She listens to the steady, slow breaths of a sleeping Sweeney and watches the sky and she notices that with the absence of Shadow’s light, she could see the stars.  

[artificialqueens]

UFO 2 (Katlaska)- Squeaky

The year is 1931. Katya’s banned from thirty countries and one small island; she’s as done with this planet as it is with her.

OR: A love story featuring a witch, an alien queen, and a potion.

TEN YEARS SINCE CONTACT

Katya stares out at the horizon, hoping to spot a dark disk hovering above the Eiffel tower. She’s tired of gazing, until the sun has gone down.

Where are you, Alaska? Katya wants to scream down into the Parisian streets. What do you want? Me? Or is there someone else out there in that vast galaxy?  

Sometimes Katya goes through her tarot cards, fans them against herself and then spreads them on the table. She has her partners choose one, but none of them ever pick ‘lover.’

Tonight’s a blue kind of night, so she turns on the radio to listen to jazz. She’s in a navy gown with puffed sleeves, white collar, and cinched waist. Pining away for an intergalactic babe she met at sixteen isn’t fun, especially when she looks glam as hell, but what else can she do on a night like this?

All things considered, Katya’s horny as hell.

She mutters a Latin invisibility spell and snaps her fingers, so the balcony is shielded from straying eyes. Katya runs a hand down her breasts, squeezing them, and spreads her legs. No one can see her now, except the moon goddess. Katya hopes that she enjoys a solo show.

She puts out her cigarette on the table and then pushes up her dress. Katya rubs herself over her nylons and lets her head fall back. Parting her lips, she imagines that she has a beautiful french girl between her thighs. But as she pushes down her tights, wet with desire, the blurry face sharpens into Alaska’s.

“I hate you,” Katya moans, touching herself through her lace panties.

She rubs in slow, sensual circles. Her imaginary Alaska smirks up at her through her lashes and pushes her head between Katya’s thighs. They never had time to try that position, but Katya can imagine how nice Alaska’s tongue would feel. She can imagine how Alaska’d lick her, slow and steady. Then speed up her pace.

Katya gasps as she pushes a finger inside. Her other hand runs under her dress to squeeze her breasts. Perspiration drips down her neck, and she feels like she’s burning up. Katya knows only one way to break a fever: sweat it out.

She presses a third finger inside, moans, and fucks herself harder. When she closes her eyes, Katya’s tangled up in moonlight soaked sheets, riding Alaska’s cock. She can still remember how perfectly it fit inside her, still remembers how it filled her up. Alaska had flipped them over, so she was between Katya’s thighs and whispered- Shhh, just like that, Kat, just like that.

Her eyes flutter open, and the moon is staring down at her. Katya flushes at the gaze, slowing her pace, as she realizes how desperate she must look. She’s finger-fucking herself on a balcony in Paris and dreaming of her first love for fucks sake!

Katya arches her back, gasping, and the liquid drips down her fingertips. She groans and just lays there, staring up at the stars. To be Katya Zamolodchikova is to intimately know the meaning of pathetic.

Behind her Annette Hanshaw low voice coos over the radio waves:

“The moon was all aglow But heaven was in your eyes The night that you told me Those little white lies.”

The lyrics make her heart tighten.

Katya lets the song play out before muttering a fire spell. Her eyes water as the dark smoke fills up the room. She kicks off her dress, puts out the fire with a whisper of Latin, and falls asleep, naked, with the cold moon for warmth.

She dreams that she’s swallowed a star, and it’s swelling up inside of her. She tries to tell people, but they all laugh and walk away. Katya tears her skin, trying to dig it out, but it’s hidden itself too deep. She wakes up, covered in sweat.

There’s a knock at the door.

Katya slips into a white bathrobe, splashes her face with water, and forces herself to smile as she throws open the door.

“Trixie, what a surprise,” she croons, leans against the doorway and bats her lashes.

Trixie pushes past her and taps her wand around the kitchen: “Wanted posters! How’d you manage that?”

“Oh, doll,” Katya purrs as she leisurely makes them a cup of coffee. “You worry too much. Me and the law get into a tiff sometimes, but we always kiss and makeup.”

“What did you do this time? Steal the Mona Lisa? Rob a bank? Geez, did daddy not love you enough, Katya? Whose attention are you trying to get?”

Katya coyly sits up on the counter top, crosses her legs, and pouts. Trixie’s casting charms all over the apartment, trying to protect them. Katya never did understand her obsession with wands- maybe penis envy? She can’t remember the exact incident that led up to her warrant, but Katya’s sure it involved a vial of whiskey, a troupe of Russian prostitutes, and a french flag.

“Can’t a gal fuck on the Eiffel tower for her own amusement?”

“Oh, goddesses, a day with you Katya is enough to turn my hair silver. Like Fames. How that chicken lady put up with you is the real question.”

“Did you come here for a reason or just to tell me that I’ve been a very naughty witch?” Katya says and lifts her robe to stick out her leg. It might have been sexier if she’d bother to shave once in awhile. Trixie only shakes her blonde curls and rolls her eyes.

“I came here to tell you to clean up your act. How many countries are you banned from?”

“Thirty. Plus that little island off the coast of Brazil,” Katya grumbles as she leaps from the countertop and pours them each a cup. Trixie’s shaking too hard to drink.

“And how many more til you stop?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, doll?”

“Katya! Focus! The Witches International Team of Crime and Horror-”

“Just say W.I.T.C.H,” she montones as she pours more milk into her coffee.

“They want to jail you. Permanently. Have you ever been to jail?”

“No, but I hear the sex is good,” Katya teases. Trixie’s face is grim.

“What are you going to do? Hide here forever?”

Katya collapses onto the couch and poses like a dying starlet: “I guess that I’ll have to leave this planet. Ascend into another plane of existence, where a bad witch like me can finally do some good. Oh, say you’ll think of me when I go to the great beyond, dolly? Say you and the rest of the gang’ll pray for my heathen soul?”

“You’re horrible.”

Katya winks and demurs, “But'chu love it.”

Trixie stays over for lunch, conjuring up a meal from scratch, and gives her a good gossip. Ginger’s made it big in a witching band, charming hearts across the US. Violet’s turned into burlesque star, and she’s fallen in love with some millionaire from New York City. Rumor has it she’s pregnant with his baby. Katya squeals at the gossip. She hasn’t seen Violet in six years, so, for all she knows, it’s true. Fame is still clucking away with her chickens.

“Oh, your dad contacted me. Somehow. Says that you still haven’t collected all the things your mother left you in the will.”

Katya lights up a cigarette, even though Trixie wrinkles her nose, and makes a rude hand gesture.

“Fuck him,” she blows a ring. “Only cared about her once she’d died. Suddenly, he’s Mister perfect, setting up the funeral and dealing with the government. Ha. Just cares what all the warlocks at the circuit will think of him. What a phoney.”

Katya had been running through the streets of St.Petersburg when she’d gotten the news of her mother’s death.Her father had given her a stiff hug when she flew back. She hadn’t hugged him back. Her mother has died of a heart attack and the doctors said she could have been saved if someone had been there, anyone.

After that she went from petty crimes to full on robbery. She hit up every bank in the northeast. Until, finally, the United States Witchery League sent her a warning in the shape of bullet aimed at her heart. Katya went back to Miss. Fame’s farm, buried all the money under the chicken coop, and never looked back.

Despite her training, Katya had become the woman that Miss.Fame had always been afraid of. She drank and smoked and fucked everything that moved. She chugged vodka straight from the bottle and made out with the Tzar. Everyday was a rush, a blur of madness, but, no matter what, Katya came back to Paris in the summer, her heart still full of foolish hope.

“What are we going to do with you, Kat?” Trixie sighs as she hugs her, tight.

Katya buries her face in her friend’s neck. She doesn’t have an answer.  

—-

TEN YEARS AND A DAY

Katya can’t go onto the streets as herself. Luckily, her suitcase is filled with transformation potions from the russian, black market. Identity theft is strictly forbidden but so is kissing girls, and Katya’s not going to stop that any time soon. Why is everything fun illegal?

She takes a deep swig of a swirling blue-green vial. Her throat burns and her skin bubbles. Katya sucks in her breath, chanting a pain-numbing spell, but the process is never pretty.

She lays still, head resting on a couch cushion, until, finally, she’s left with nothing but a tingling sensation. Her larger hands pull back her dress to survey the damage; Katya’s distraught to see her chest is flat and there’s a cock between her legs. Great.

Katya looks at the man in the mirror. Nothing but her piercing eyes remain from her original form. He’s got sharp cheekbones and light, whispy hair. All things considered, Katya’s thankful that this new body is clean and functional.

“Let’s call you…Brian,” she decides, picking a name at random. She pulls out her suit, which she sometimes dons as a woman, and, except for the tight shoulders, it fits perfectly. Katya hates adjusting the cock between her legs. But where else is she supposed to put it?

Katya has no plan except to get out of this stuffy apartment. It smells like smoke and Trixie, and she can’t breathe. Kata’s not in prison (yet) so why should she lock herself away? For who?

The sun’s setting, and Katya finds herself down at the market, buying up a loaf of bread with goblins gold. It’s the kind of money, like her, that changes its shape in the morning light back into dirt.

“Goddess, bless you,” the elderly witch says and squeezes his shoulder.

Katya goes down a block and takes a bite, spits it out, and groans. Fuck, sawdust! She doesn’t feel so bad about the goblin’s gold anymore. The whole world has gone to shit with brother eating brother to stay alive in this great fucking depression.

She arrives at the bar and finds it easy to pick up witches dressed in a suit with goblin gold lining her pockets. Katya leisurely sips a cocktail with a girl perched on her knee. The painted witch whispers her name is ‘Fleur’ and Katya whispers that ‘his’ name is ‘Brian.’ She’d feel bad, but how many people at bars are who they say they are? In Romania, Katya met so many closeted werewolves and vampires she’d started to carry around a cross.  

“I would love for you to -how does one say?- pay me a visit,” the french girl simpers.

“I’d bet you’d like me to pay,” Katya says, unconvinced. She knows a pretty trap when she sees it, being one herself. The girl just blinks her yellow eyes and leans in. Katya kisses her because the world is a simmering red, and it’s the thing to do in these bitter times. She tastes sweet, but all Katya can think is sawdust.

That’s when she hears it. A soft ‘hiii.’ Katya’s heart tightens as she squints at the blonde down at the bar, hoping that it’s really her. Could it be?

“Ah!” the girl shrieks as Katya stands up.

“Excuse me, I see my ride,” Katya says in rusty french. The words stick in the back of her throat. Katya finishes her drink, but her mouth is dry.

This is the opportunity of a lifetime. What are the chances you meet your lover a decade later in a seedy bar in the heart of France? In drag? Katya adjusts the bulge between her legs, biting her lip as she stares down at the blonde. She’s dressed in what looks like the same light blue gown that burned away in the barn fire.

“Hello,” Katya says, trying for suave.

Alaska raises an unimpressed eyebrow as her nails -now covered in precious gems- curl around the drink. She’s grown taller and sharper than she was before. Katya would be content to just lean here and stare up at her cosmic beauty all night.

Instead, Katya tries again: “Are you from this planet?”

Alaska turns sharply towards her. She lifts up her gown to reveal milky white thighs and the black of what appears to be a gun strapped to her garter belt. Katya roughly swallows. Ok, this is a dangerous game she’s playing.

“Because you a-are out of this planet beautiful?” Katya chokes out.

“Funny. You know what else is funny?”

“That we’ve found each other after all this time?”

“When the police find you strung up on a street lamp with your blood slowly dripping out of your body, sir.”

Katya squirms under Alaska’s sharp glare. Oh god, she’s wilder than she was before. There’s a madness in her eyes that Katya hadn’t seen. Why does the glimmer make her lean forward? Like she’s a foolish moth fluttering closer and closer to the light that will burn her?

Katya reaches forward to put her hand on Alaska’s thigh, but the alien girl grabs her wrist and twists. Hard.

“Oh, you have some nerve, sir. I thought you men were fond of the way your small cocks are attached to your bodies?”

Katya twitches in her pants, squirming under Alaska’s grip. Ouch, they always said love would hurt you, but she didn’t think it would be so literal.

“So you’re not interested?” Katya breathes in relief. In the bar mirror, she catches a reflection of Brian’s 5 o’clock shadow. How petty that her heart burns in jealousy at this young man that’s flirting with Alaska. She can’t help but wonder how many others, in this lost decade, have also put their hands on Alaska’s thigh.

“There is only human in this entire planet that I am interested in.”

“Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“Come on. Who is she?”

“She’s….she’s captivating. There are solar systems in her eyes, and her lips are sweeter than milk. I could die a thousand deaths, and it wouldn’t be enough to deserve her pure heart. There’s the way she smiles when she listens to you talk, hanging onto your every word. The way she laughs when you make a joke, like there’s never been a joke made in this universe before she laughed. Her- wait a second, I didn’t tell you that she was a ‘she.’ Did I?“

Shit. Busted.

Katya’s been listening with her lips parted. 

“You said you’d come back when you were eighteen,” Katya whispers, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She doesn't know if she wants to bury her face into Alaska’s shoulder to cry or deep between her thighs to taste her.

“K-kat? Is that…?”

Alaska leans closer, cups her face, and looks into her eyes. Katya watches understanding dawn like the sun above the hills. Her eyes grow brighter and cheeks redder. All the anger and hostility melts away to reveal a brightness.

“Hi, Alaska. It’s been a whole.”

Alaska leans forward.

“Well, you’ve changed…a lot,” Alaska whispers against Katya’s lips. She looks down at the bulge between Katya’s legs, and, under Alaska’s hot glare, it grows harder.

“That’s what happens when you leave a tall glass of milk like me alone on this dusty planet. She’s got no choice but to disguise herself,” Katya teases with a wink.

Alaska is just watching her now. It’s been too long, and there’s too much to say. Katya decides it’s better not to say anything at all. She pulls Alaska forward, words failing to express her excitement.

They’re both on the dance floor now, swaying to the beat of the sweet jazz. Those watching may see a woman dancing with a man, but Katya is intimate with the truth. The truth is that the eyes are treacherous and deceitful. Alaska had looked at her at first with her eyes and failed to see her. Then she had looked with her heart.

Katya’s pressed up too close. There’s no room for any goddess spirits between their grinding hips. Alaska can feel Katya’s bulge against her hip. She leans in, so her breathe curls around Alaska’s neck.

“So you’ve been flying around the solar system? Enjoying yourselves among the stars?” Katya asks, but what she means is why didn’t you come back?

“The universe’s so big that it’s easy to lose yourself.”

“Is that what happened?” Katya asks, and she’s aware that Alaska’s lied to her before. She’s aware that she could be lying to her now.

Then again Katya has come to her wearing a false disguise. She’s come to her dressed the part of a man. She’s come to her with the truth hidden in the back of her throat, threatening to be stolen with a kiss.

“I’m here now,” Alaska reassures her.

“Here to stay?”

“Here to stay.”

The spell will wear off at midnight, so they leave the club a couple minutes before. The policeman tips his hat at them. Alaska blows him a kiss as Katya slings ‘his’ hand around her waist. They giggle at their deceit. They’re both illegal to this city in one way or another. They’re both here, but, if all their disguises were stripped away, they’d be chased away. Katya feels that displacement inside.

She’s been wandering, searching, seeking a place to call her own. Katya took refuge in Paris, waiting for her lover, but this city is not her’s. Not really. New York City used to be her center -it was the place she lived with her mother and friends- but now it’s been stolen away from her. The moment her mother’s heart stopped beating, Katya’s stopped as well.

Yet, with Alaska so warm and real against her skin, she’s willing to relearn how that beat goes. The stars are out tonight, and Katya’s eyes are on Alaska- her star.

She’s here now.

———

TEN YEARS AND A NIGHT

Katya opens up the door, and Alaska pushes her back over the threshold. Desire grips her for this beautiful foreigner. She’s told her to come inside, but what Katya means is that she wants Alaska inside of her in every sense of the word. To come closer, to occupy her, to make a home inside of her.

It’s as if Alaska has been holding the keys, and, with a kiss, she’s opening Katya up. She spreads her legs and wraps them around Alaska’s waist.

“You’re late,” Katya sighs against her lips. “Ten years late.”

“I’m just in time,” Alaska protests as she walks Katya over to the countertop and rests her there. All the time between them seems to melt away with a kiss. Still, Katya’s looking for the spaces, where other lovers must have breathed and lived in. Katya’s looking in Alaska’s eyes to see if they still hold her own. Katya’s looking for the familiar in this stranger.

Katya has known her once, but does she still know Alaska now?  

Her own disguise has melted away at midnight like she’s Cinderella. Except her intergalactic princess has found her instead of some Prince Charming. The enchantment is gone, and Katya’s soft breasts have returned. Alaska slips her hand under her tux to grope them. Her fingertips are so cold that Katya’s nipples harden under her touch.

“My princess has returned,” Katya whispers as Alaska undoes the buttons of her tux, pressing a heated kiss to every bare inch of skin she uncovers.

“Queen,” Alaska corrects.

“Your father stepped down?”

Alaska shakes her head even as replies, “Uh, something like that.”

Katya’s suit top falls to the kitchen floor. She tightens her legs around Alaska’s back as she kisses her again. She moans into her mouth, loving how they still fit so well together. How is it that their bodies remembered the shape of each other?

Alaska’s skin is hot soft when Katya strokes her cheeks and pulls back, flushed. With each tender touch, she feels herself growing wetter. She’s never found a spell stronger than the one that Alaska can cast over her.

W.I.T.C.H would ban Alaska from this world -make her body more illegal than it already is- if they found out what mystical charm her eyes had.

Alaska pushes down her silk dress, so she’s in nothing but her panties and garter belt gun. If looks could kill, Katya’s ascended. The outline of Alaska’s cock against her white panties right besides a weapon, makes her stomach twist. Katya squirms out of her black pants.

“How many babes have you taken for a ride in that…spaceship?” Katya purrs as she jumps off the counter top. She wraps her hands through Alaska’s hair. They kiss, and Alaska just smirks and shakes her head, refusing to answer. Katya kisses her harder, as if she could steal all those kisses back. Isn’t that what thieves do?

She can’t make it to the bedroom, so Katya pushes Alaska back onto the couch.

Alaska looks angelic with her light hair spread over the black cushion. Her legs are obscenely spread, and Katya looks from the bulge of her cock up to her heavy breasts. Her mouth is watering.

She crawls up Alaska, so her own sheer panties, are pressed against that mouth-watering bulge.

“Do you know how many men proposed to me,” Katya sighs, arching her back, as she rubs herself against Alaska. She draws the words out, and they hurt her just as much as she knows they’ll hurt Alaska.

“How many did you consider?”

None.

“A couple,” Katya purrs as she leans down for a kiss. All she wants to do is drive Alaska as crazy as she’s been driven. Katya’s panties are obscenely wet with desire.

Alaska hands possessively curl around her hips. They are not the stumbling, stuttering witch and lost princess from before. Now, they’re outlaw and queen. Now, they’re powerful in their own rights. Still, what have they lost in that journey? Is there enough of their teenage hearts left?

“We promised not to lie to each other,” Alaska finally says. “So tell me again- how many did you consider?”

“I…” Katya sighs. “None of them.”

“Neither did I. There was a year where my, uh, the old king had me meeting with diplomats. I poured water on their heads. I called them names. I put my whole race at risk because I wouldn’t marry any of them. Couldn’t.”

The words reassure Katya. Her shoulders relax, a weight lifted, as she leans for a slow kiss. With all the spaces between them, none of those bodies were anybody who had stolen Alaska’s heart. Katya was the only thief in the galaxy that had managed that.

“There’s only been one for me too,” Katya confesses.

You, her eyes say as she rocks back, it’s always been you.

Katya pushes down Alaska’s panties, and her cock springs out. She rubs herself against the length of it, loving how it pushed between her wet folds. Eyes fluttering, Katya lets her head roll back. She parts her lip at the physical pleasure only eclipsed by the emotional warmth that grips her.

“A-laska,” she whimpers as she pulls down her panties and lets Alaska’s tip rub against her. It’s just the tip but already tears of pleasure fog her eyes. Then Katya pushes down, slowly filling herself up. Katya’s had so many others buried between her thighs, but Alaska fits there perfectly, like she belongs.

“My real lover,” Alaska promises, and those words make her seventeen again. She’s seventeen and full of foolish love as she stares down at the Lover tarot card. Katya laughs, something she never does during sex, and fucks herself against Alaska. Harder.

But then she’s twenty seven, with years of experience, and Katya arches her back, taking her pleasure. Oh, it’s even better than the first. Their first was all fumbling, but now she rides Alaska with confidence. Breasts bouncing, Katya fucks her.

Alaska flips them around, so she has Katya pinned down on the couch. Now, Alaska’s buried her hot breathe into her shoulder, grunting in her ear, as she fucks her into the cushions. Katya tangles her hand in Alaska’s hair. Her naked toes curl.

“Fu-fuck, Lasky,” Katya moans as her orgasm spills from her. Alaska comes inside of her with another groan, filling her up with her cum, and Katya’s eyes flutter in pleasure at the sensation.

They lie there afterwards, cum dripping out from between her thighs, and Katya experimentally slips her fingers behind Alaska’s cock. She hadn’t really tried it when she was younger, but now she wants to finger Alaska, feel inside of her. Alaska whimpers in her ear as Katya explores the warmth of her wetness. It’s similar yet so different from a human woman. Alaska gets wetter much quickly, and Katya’s fingers fit deeper. Oh, how strange.

“Katya,” Alaska sighs happily. “You’ve gotten so good at that.”

“Practiced for you,” Katya whispers against her lips as she continues to finger her open. Alaska’s spent cock twitches as Katya finds that bundle of nerves. She rubs against it, and Alaska’s back arches.

She cums with a loud groan, and they’ve made a mess of the couch and themselves. They start to drift off to sleep, but Katya nudges her away. She’s afraid Alaska like the moonlight she is will disappear when the sun rises.

“Confession- I’m banned from thirty countries…and a small island.”

Alaska raises an unimpressed brow: “That it? I’ve been banned from a whole galaxy.”

“Shit! W-what did you do?”

“Kill my father,” Alaska says, and Katya just stares at her lips. The words hang there in the air, and Katya shakes her head. All she knows about Alaska’s father is that he abducted Miss. Fame, raped, and impregnated her. But if he had been capable of that…would else had he be capable of?

“I-” Katya cuts herself off. She’s happy Alaska shared that secret with her, but she doesn't know what to make of it.

“I killed him because the bastard wanted to start colonizing planets and enslaving other races…so by line of succession, I’m the queen,” Alaska continues. “But my uncle -why is it always the uncle?- has claimed my throne for himself. I’ve been travelling universes and galaxies, hiding from his army, and trying to build one of my own. That’s…that’s why I’ve been away for so long.”

Katya laughs, even though it’s not funny: “Always have to show me up, huh? Here I thought I was the biggest, baddest thief. Then you come along, Miss. Queen.”

“I can’t stay here,” Alaska warns her. “It’ll put earth in danger.”

The words take the breathe out of Katya, and she holds Alaska closer to her naked skin. She’s lost her once, and she can’t lose her again.

“Take me with you.”

“You’ll miss your family.”

“My mother died, and my father’s dead to me.”

“You’ll miss your friends.”

“We can visit.”

“You’ll miss the earth.”

“They won’t miss me.”

Katya can see that Alaska’s weakening under her gaze.

“It’ll be dangerous.”

“Good. You’ll need a powerful witch to protect you,” Katya says and kisses her. “Strongest spell caster this side of the milky way.”

Alaska hugs her tighter and whispers: “Then pack your bags, earth witch. It’s time for the adventure of your lifetime to begin.”

[onemilliongoldstars]

most ardently- chapter one

Clarke Griffin has been forced to abandon her name and her family. She is desperately hiding in her new role as lady's maid to Lady Lexa, fumbling through her duties and hoping to become invisible, when she realises that her heiress mistress is caught firmly under the thumb of her overbearing uncle. As Lexa suffocates under the expectations of her remaining family, she and Clarke slowly realise that they may be each other's safe haven.

or: Clarke is hiding a secret while struggling to seem like an experienced lady's maid for Lexa, who is painfully glad for a friend.

1/6, 5.7k words

Read on ao3

“You're going to be a terrible lady’s maid.”

Octavia’s voice echoes over the tiles of the kitchen from behind her, but Clarke is too busy balancing the heavy tray in her hands. The china clinks softly under her trembling grip, evidence of her inexperience, but she grits her teeth and clenches her jaw so tightly that it hurts even as her arms shudder under the unusual weight.

“Here, let me.” Octavia scoops the tray from her hands just as her arms begin to fail her and dumps it on the table with a clatter of silver and crockery. The delicate rose patterned cup shivers under her rough treatment, but Octavia doesn't spare it a glance. Instead she turns her attention back to where Clarke is running her fingers over the skirt of her dress, trying to iron out any wrinkles and hide her fear. It's borrowed, dark and patched in places, a little too small so that her ankles and dark stockings show, and despite the pristine white apron over it, Clarke feels almost bare in the scratchy, foreign fabric.

“Clarke, calm down.” Octavia's fingers on her arm are reassuring and grounding and she centres herself around the feeling, letting out a soft sigh.

“I'm sorry,” Her voice is quiet but steady.

“It's alright.” Octavia’s fingers tighten and Clarke can see the worry in her eyes when she continues, cautiously, “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no obligation-”

“Octavia, please.” She steps from the girl’s grasp, which feels abruptly poisonous. “I am well.”

“What’s going on?” Raven’s voice makes her cringe and her eyes swing to the door to see the stable girl wiping sweat from her forehead.

“I'm telling La–Clarke...” she glances back at the blonde guiltily at the slip of the tongue, “...that she doesn't have to do this.”

“Octavia, with all due respect...” She folds her hands behind her back and straightens her spine. “I cannot continue to accept your generosity; you barely know me. Your brother should not have to suffer my presence in his home without payment. I must earn my living.”

“You know you're welcome to stay with us freely,” Octavia insists, “and I still think someone with your… background shouldn't be sleeping on a pallet.”

“Thank you,” she allows a small, graceful smile, “but I will not take charity; I can do this as well as anyone else. I spent my life being waited on–something must have stuck with me.”

“Perhaps…” Octavia sounds deeply sceptical, and she glances back at Raven for support, but the stable girl only shrugs, crossing her arms.

“If the princess wants to make her own way, I think it's a good idea. See how the other side live.” There's a deep slice of bitterness to her voice, like a sliver of ginger caught in her throat, and Clarke sniffs.

“I was not a princess, I was… to be a countess.”

“Now you're just like the rest of us,” Raven snaps, leaning against the doorframe to eye her, “so you'd better start acting like it.”

“Raven!” Octavia scolds, frowning at the girl.

“What?!”

“Be kind! She's lost her family-”

The kitchen door creaks as it’s pressed open, and Clarke turns hurriedly with the others, petticoats brushing against her ankles. The housemistress is a foreboding figure in the doorway, tall and wiry with old age, her skin sucked close to her cheeks and sallow in colour. Hair slipping from dark brown to silver is scraped back so harshly that her head looks slightly odd and misshapen, and when she fixes piercing eyes on them all, Clarke folds her hands uncomfortably at the small of her back.

“My apologies, girls.” Her gaze falls from Clarke to Octavia who flinches away from the stare. She is deeply dry, mouth twisted in a horribly small smile when she speaks. “I was not aware you were being paid to spend your time chattering amongst yourselves.”

“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Octavia runs hasty hands down her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and returns to her task of chopping through the mountain of parsnips on the broad kitchen table. Clarke chances a glance from the corner of her eyes and finds that Raven too has disappeared, leaving her to face the wrath of her new housemistress alone.

“Madam.” She bobs a quick curtsey at the woman, whose brows quirk into a frown.

“You are the girl Octavia recommended?”

“Indeed madam,” she raises her eyes and meets the housemistress’ sceptical gaze with as steady an expression as she can manage, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The housemistress swings her eyes to Octavia, who remains so focused on her work that Clarke fears she may chop through the table, before looking back to Clarke. “Do you have experience in domestic service?”

“No madam,” Clarke straightens her shoulders under a quick rush of bravery, “but I am hardworking and classically educated, I may be a great company to your lady.”

The housemistress lets out a laugh which scrapes like nails against a chalkboard and her smile turns cruel once again. “You are not here to be her companion, girl. You are here to wait on the lady; dress her, bathe her, keep her rooms orderly. Be seen and not heard, am I understood?”

“Yes madam,” she bobs a curtsey again, even as the skin on the back of her neck burns with humiliation.

“I doubt you have anything to say that my lady would wish to hear, regardless,” the housemistress steps forwards, grasping one of Clarke’s hands in her own and inspecting the soft, pale skin and clean nails, her nose wrinkling when she turns her gaze back to Clarke’s. “Good god girl, have you ever worked a day in your life?”

She is saved from answering by the obnoxious ringing of one of the bells lining the upper walls of the kitchen. The housemistress sucks unhappily at her lips, making a displeased noise in the back of her throat and finally saying, grudgingly.

“Our lady has rejected almost every lady’s maid I have sent her, you will have to do.” She grasps the tray and thrusts it so bodily into Clarke’s arms that she almost stumbles back. “Do not displease her and you may last through the day. When our lady has no need of you, you will make yourself useful as a housemaid, am I understood? I will not have lazy service in my house.”

“Yes madam,” Clarke agrees, dutifully, eyes darting to where Octavia is watching them from under her eyelashes.

“My name is Mrs Myborn, you may refer to me as ma’am,” the housemistress sniffs imperiously and when the bell rings again, looks expectantly at Clarke. “Well? Tardiness is not appreciated in this household, girl.”

Clarke takes that as her cue to leave, bobbing another half curtsey to the woman as she struggles to shoulder her way out of the kitchen with the unwieldy tray in her hands. The kitchen is down a small flight of stairs and Clarke trudges her way carefully up the narrow staircase, her shoes already pinching at her toes and her arms already trembling under the strain of the breakfast tray. When she steps out of the delicate, white panelled door and onto the marble floor, it is as if the breath has been stolen from her lungs. She has to pause for a moment to take in her surroundings, hesitating under the gleaming light of the crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling to stare, agape, at the room. She has not seen such grandeur since she left her home over six months ago and now the sight almost brings tears to her eyes. Here, under the steady watch of careful oil paintings in gleaming golden frames and the swoop of marble statues, she has to stop and catch her breath. Stubbornly blinking the tears from her eyes, she forces herself to look down at the white apron sitting against her shabby dress and inhales shakily at the sudden reminder of who she now is.

It is only when she is on the first landing, hesitating by the swooping, carved bannister, that she realises no one had done her the dignity of telling her where she was actually going and she feels panic grip her like the stone hands of one of the statues. For a moment she contemplates the thought of returning downstairs, still laden with the tray, but the thought of Mrs Myborn’s glare as she is surely thrown out into the gutter is enough to push her heavy feet onwards in her pinching shoes. The first few doors she passes have been left mercifully ajar and she spies several spacious drawing rooms in gentle yellows and blues, a study with dark panelling and the picture of a scowling man over the mantle, before she comes to the first closed door.

It is quite impossible for her to lift her hand from the tray, with its weight and she spends a moment considering her options before finally lifting a foot to tap cautiously against the door. There is no response and so she continues this method, quietly pleased with herself, before finally a low voice calls out an entreaty to enter and she is able to no less than shove the door open.

It bangs against the wall and she is momentarily mortified by the sound, freezing in the doorframe to meet her new mistress’s raised eyebrow with a terrified gaze. The girl sits up in a wide, four poster bed, a stark nightdress almost blending into the pasty pallor of her skin. Dark hair tumbles around her head in tight curls and green eyes watch her with something between amusement and outrage as she edges cautiously into the room.

The drapes are still pulled shut, but some light filters in from the early morning sky and slides between the slight gap, illuminating the lady and the room in shades of white and blue, a white marble fireplace sitting comfortably close to the bed to provide warmth in the night. Clarke swings her attention back to the girl in the bed when she coughs slightly.

A flush heats her cheeks and she hurries abruptly forwards, almost tripping over her short skirts as she deposits the tray as gently as she can into her mistress’s lap.

“Your breakfast, my lady.”

“Thank you…” the girl’s voice is still pleasingly low and even, despite the fool Clarke has so readily made of herself and she quirks an eyebrow, watching the way that Clarke hesitates. “You may open the drapes,” she provides, when Clarke seems lost as to what to do and Clarke hurries around the bed to do as instructed, pulling back the thick material from the wide windows to cast the whole room in murky London sunlight.

“An orange,” when she turns, her mistress is holding the fruit between her fingers curiously and she seems to sense Clarke’s gaze, because she turns her eyes back to her and explains, haltingly. “Mrs Myborn does not usually allow me such exotic fruits… she thinks they are sure to be poisoned.”

Clarke lets out a snort and speaks without thinking, “That’s ridiculous, oranges are delicious and perfectly safe.” She still abruptly the moment her brain catches up with her mouth, frozen at the bottom of the bed and the girl blinks at her for a moment, astonished by her response.

“I see,” she says at last, placing the orange wedge down untouched and focusing her attention on Clarke. “You are my new lady’s maid?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Clarke bobs a quick curtsey, cheeks heating up again under the girl’s intense scrutiny.

“What’s your name?” The girl cocks an eyebrow and Clarke edges slowly around the bed to take her teapot into her hands, glancing at the girl to make sure she’s doing the right thing.

“Clarke, my lady.” She pours the tea carefully, her fingers still shaking.

“Clarke,” the girl echoes her name, spreading it out satisfyingly across her tongue like fresh butter. “I am Alexandria.”

There is no invitation to call her anything less than her title and Clarke just nods, swallowing against her dry throat and adding milk to the teacup, stirring gently in an attempt to not look at the girl in the bed. She had expected someone much older, but Alexandria cannot have many more years to her name than Clarke herself.

She chances another glance at her and is startled to find green eyes watching her closely.

“What can I do for you today, my lady?” She steps away from the breakfast tray, chewing on her lip as Alexandria considers her question.

“Help me dress for the day,” she offers at last, “be sure my fire is stoked. I have no intention of leaving the house today, though,” her voice drops, hinting with dark bitterness, “my uncle will surely have arranged callers.”

“Of course my lady,” she swallows at the thought of tackling the fire, but the dressing sounds almost pleasant after a morning of helping Octavia collect water and haul fresh vegetables from the market for dinner tonight.

“You may get on with the fire while I finish,” Alexandria reaches for the book sitting on her side table and then says, offhandly, “and light the candles for me, the dark in the city is ghastly.”

“Yes my lady,” she bobs a final curtsey and wonders if she should be feeling dizzy yet from so much dipping up and down.

Thankfully, the fire is already laid and she has learnt how to use a tinderbox from her many days attempting to clumsily help Octavia and her brother around their small, few rooms in a house in the east end. Carefully, she lays out the implements from the silver tinderbox and uses the flint and steel to ignite the rough linen at the bottom of the box. The spark takes almost instantly and she cups her hands carefully around the slight flame, blowing gently to encourage it to catch until she is able to light a candle with the flame and press it against the kindling beneath the logs. She can feel Alexandria’s curious gaze on her as she works, prickling at her neck and shoulders.

When the fire is properly caught she dampens the tinder and replaces everything methodically back into the box, standing to deposit the candle on her mistress’s bedside. Alexandria’s book still sits unopened in her lap, her food almost untouched and Clarke almost says something, before biting her tongue and reminding herself not to be impertinent.

Alexandria instructs her to fetch warm water and lay out her clothes while she waits and then turns back to sipping her tea and reading her book with a slight frown. The tray has been set aside in the bed in favour of curling her legs up beneath herself and she does not touch her food, Clarke notices as she slips quietly about the room, but to delicately eat the wedges of orange Octavia had fanned out for her across a small china plate.

At last, after what feels like hours but is not more than thirty minutes, most of which Clarke spends patiently waiting for instruction as Alexandria reads, the clock on the mantlepiece chimes quietly. Clarke sees Alexandria startle up in surprise, blinking at her as if she had forgotten Clarke was there. Clarke, who had been leaning against the wall and attempting not to fall back to sleep, jerks fully upright again, flushing.

“Goodness, my apologies,” Alexandria is almost amusingly flustered, snapping her book shut to rest it on the table. “I had forgotten- I lost track of the time, please excuse me.”

The words are so astonishing that Clarke can only stare at her for a moment, before gathering her senses enough to answer.

“I am here to serve your needs, my lady.”

“Regardless…” Alexandria flushes, but says nothing else as she swings herself from the bed. Clarke is surprised to find that stood to her full height, her mistress is taller than her. She had seemed so small in her large bed, dwarfed by the space and Clarke steps hurriedly out of the way as Alexandria paces past her to examine the clothes set out for her and nod approvingly.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

To Clarke’s great relief, Alexandria does not ask her to wash her and instead goes about the task of scrubbing her face until it is bright and rosy herself. She averts her eyes respectfully, even though Alexandria steps behind the screen to slide into her petticoats and is startled by the girl’s call.

“My lady?” She responds, tentatively and hovers by the screen beyond which, she realises with a jolt, she can see the girl’s silhouette as she struggles into her petticoats. When there is no response, she steps cautiously around the screen to see Alexandria holding out her corset with an expectant air, watching her as she reaches out with shaking hands to accept the offer.

“I shall need help,” she explains, unnecessarily, and Clarke nods as confidently as she can, considering the implement in her hands as if it is a loaded musket. Lady Alexandria turns her back and gestures and Clarke takes a moment to stare at the thin material of her petticoat and the way that her hair falls in a waterfall of curls down her back.

“Clarke.” Her mistress’s irate voice snaps her from her reverie and she blinks away the haze of blue and green to hurriedly help Lady Alexandria position the corset around her waist. The lacing is fairly simple, if she thinks about it and she begins from the bottom, pulling as efficiently as she can to tighten in her mistress’s waist. Her fingers graze against the girl’s back and she attempts not to notice the touch, swallowing against her suddenly dry throat.

It is only when she is halfway up her back that she notices the way her lady has reached out to place a hand against the wall, steadying herself. Her breathing is slight and shallow and Clarke’s fingers hesitate uncertainly against the laces.

“What are you waiting for?” Alexandria demands, turning to give a glare over her shoulder.

“My lady,” she begins, anxiously, “I just- I wonder whether this is safe.”

“This is how it must be worn,” Lady Alexandria’s voice is almost tired and heavy and Clarke chews on her cheek for a moment before saying, quietly.

“Perhaps… if my ladyship were to breathe more deeply whilst I lace it you would have more comfort. It would not dig into your ribs, so.”

Alexandria hesitates at her words, glancing back again to peer at her. “Do you think that would be acceptable?” She asks, after a moment.

“Of course, my lady,” she hurries to undo the laces, watching with satisfaction as Alexandria is finally able to heave in a full breath. Of all the things she misses in her old life, this is not one of them. She begins slowly lacing the corset back up, allowing Alexandria more space to breathe and says, firmly, “the most important thing is your comfort, no fashion should come before that.”

Alexandria scoffs softly and seems to surprise herself with her own words, “if comfort were the most important thing I would wear britches all day.”

“That seems very practical to me,” Clarke agrees, after a moment of shock. The smile playing at her lips is strange and unprecedented, even as she hurries to add: “my lady.”

“Thank you, Clarke.” Alexandria tells her, softly.

She helps the girl into her dress, fastening the tiny buttons up the back with steady fingers and when she sees Alexandria heave in a satisfied breath, a wave of warmth passes through her.

---

Alexandria retires to the library when she is done, leaving Clarke to whisk the breakfast tray back below stairs. Octavia tuts over the food remaining in the dishes and cook, who has returned from selecting the finest cuts of meat at the butchers- a job she trusts no other with- takes great pains in lamenting the poor appetite of her mistress. She is a large woman, married to a man by the name of Bustle, and Clarke thinks that no name has ever suited a woman quite so well. Mrs Bustle is plump and small, with rounded cheeks and a constantly harried nature, and seems to labour under the impression that her mistress will starve to death.

Octavia hurries to introduce her to the footman, James, and the butler Mr Darby, who give her polite smiles. James inclines his head to her and she bobs a curtsy to both him and the quiet butler, who tells her he hopes she soon finds a place here. There are only a few maids, including Octavia and herself. Mrs Myborn is quick to find fault and quick to dismiss, which often leaves them under staffed. Octavia assists in the kitchen and covers most of the cleaning, but a bucket and sponge are shoved unceremoniously into Clarke’s hands the moment she arrives downstairs and she is told to have the entry hall floor done by luncheon.

It is hard work, especially for one not used to the usual grind of household life, but she is determined not to complain and so sets to scrubbing the floor with diligence. The water is so hot it burns her hands and the soap smells so strongly that she has to turn her head and cough into her sleeves, but by the time the clock chimes eleven times she is halfway across the entrance hall. The bucket heaves under her as she carries it down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to let the dirty water escape and make a mess. Mrs Bustle is wiping floury hands against her apron and she jumps into action at the sight of Clarke emerging into the large kitchen.

She entreats the girl to change her apron and cap and take a steaming cup of tea and plate of fresh cakes to her ladyship upstairs and Clarke, sensing the woman’s distress, hurries to comply. In the entryway a knock on the front door makes her pause and she hesitates, glancing around uncertainly in search of James or Mr Darby. The knocking comes again, more agitated and so she steels herself and crosses the wet floor carefully, balancing her tea tray against her hip as she opens the door.

A young boy, in a cap and an oversized jacket stands before her, bouncing on his heels in the late October chill.

“Can I help you?” She peers behind herself anxiously, in case Mrs Myborn should choose to suddenly appear, but the boy is blessedly quick.

“Letter for her ladyship, miss.” He holds out the small letter, printed with thin, slanted handwriting and she takes it, thanking him and shutting the door.

“Whatever are you doing girl?”

The voice is so loud that she startles around, mindless of the slippery marble and her shoes slide out from beneath her. It seems to happen slowly, she feels the tray slip from her grip, her hand flail out to grab at the delicately engraved table at her side. The tray lands with the clatter and smash of silver and china and her grasping hand, instead of finding purchase, knocks the vase close by and brings it too crashing to the ground beside her.

There is a moment of stunned, shocked silence which hangs in the air between them like dust mites caught in the evening sunlight. Clarke turns an aching neck to stare, aghast, at Myborn’s horrified face and feels her stomach sink with dread.

“Goodness!” The voice that breaks their silence comes from above, where Lady Alexandria had been leaning over the bannister with a horrified expression and is now lifting her skirts from around her ankles to hurry down the stairs towards them. “Clarke! Are you alright?”

“Your ladyship,” Mrs Myborn moves quickly to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs as Clarke flinchingly extracts herself from the mess around her, each limb groaning. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, the girl will be let go at once, you have my assurances.”

“Please!” Clarke staggers up a step, holding out a hand, “I’m sorry, I can do better your ladyship.”

Alexandria looks between them both as if she has really no idea what to say, stumbling back up a step in the face of Myborn’s obstruction. “Mrs Myborn, I usually leave the running of below stairs to you,” she begins, eyes darting to Clarke’s pathetic figure. “You do know best after all.” Clarke’s shoulders slump and she bites harshly on her cheek to crush back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Alexandria catches her and her expression hardens, “but this time I must insist. Accidents happen after all, especially in a new place and the girl is hurt.”

“Thank you,” Clarke almost wilts under the verdict, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand, “thank you, I’m so sorry your ladyship. I shall clean everything up, it was not my intention to-”

“You certainly shall clean everything up,” Mrs Myborn replies, tartly, cheeks heating furiously, “and relieve your wages to the replacement and repair of everything you have broken!”

“Of course,” Clarke reaches out a hand to brings shards of crockery and crumbs closer to herself, “of course, yes.”

“Wait,” Alexandria pushes past Mrs Myborn’s figure at the foot of the stairs, hesitating a few steps from Clarke. She stares at her for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. “I only mean- she cannot clean up in this state, she is hurt. She’s bleeding.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and her gaze flickers downwards. She has been cut, she realises belatedly, a sluggish stream of blood escaping the ragged tear in the skin of her palm and it’s as if the realisation brings her back to herself because the pain is abrupt and sharp.

“Come with me, I’ll see to it,” Alexandria tells her and if her eyes are softer, lighter Clarke can blame it on the shock of watching her housemaid fall, or the gentle candles to light up the dreary hall.

“My lady,” Mrs Myborn looks as white as a sheet, “you must not trouble yourself, one of the maids can do it.”

“I think the maids ought to look to cleaning this mess,” Alexandria replies and then smiles wryly back at the housemistress, “my uncle will not be best pleased to arrive to this.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs Myborn bows her head, but her lips are as tight as a seam and Clarke knows that she will feel the housemistress’ wrath later for their lady’s gentle treatment.

“Come,” and there is Alexandria, standing above her with a hand outstretched and Clarke reaches up to take it without thinking, allowing the woman to assist her shakily to her feet. “I have bandages and rubbing alcohol in my chamber,” Lady Alexandria explains, quietly and, casting a nod at Mrs Myborn, lets Clarke curl an arm through hers to help keep her upright as they make their way slowly up the stairs.

In Alexandria’s bed chamber reality seems to come crashing back down on Clarke. She remembers, from her place on the chaise at the end of Alexandria’s bed, the many instructions Octavia had given her on the behaviour of servants to their mistresses, and by the time her lady turns back to her, Clarke is halfway to standing.

“My lady,” she says, at the surprise on Alexandria’s face, “I should not be here, this is not proper in the slightest.”

“Sit,” Alexandria holds out a hand, not touching her, but a clear entreaty for her to stay and so Clarke sinks back onto the chaise with a fearful glance at her employer. “I like to think myself as not too high and mighty to take care of my lady’s maid when she is hurt.”

“You barely know me,” Clarke protests softly, but when Alexandria’s slender fingers take hold of her own she does not pull away.

“No,” Lady Alexandria agrees easily, her eyes fixed firmly on Clarke’s hand as she pulls it into her lap and douses a clean rag in rubbing alcohol. “But I think I should like to, Clarke.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Her heart feels caught in its throat as she watches Alexandria bend carefully over her hand, eyelashes like silk thread against her delicate skin, a few tender curls escaping her pins to fall over her cheek.

“This may hurt,” Alexandria warns, glancing at her worriedly but Clarke smiles a small, sad smile and assures her.

“It takes far more than a little rubbing alcohol to hurt me, my lady.”

“I see,” Alexandria presses the rag down on her cut and Clarke’s fingers flinch automatically, a hiss escaping between her teeth as Alexandria continues to talk. “Are you new to town, Clarke?”

“Yes your ladyship,” she swallows, fixing her gaze pointedly to the window across the room, where she can see trees swaying from the park across the street and hear horses stamp and winnie and men shout. “Fairly new.”

“I do not often come to town,” Alexandria’s fingers tightening around her hand are the only warning she gets that the girl has added more rubbing alcohol to her cloth and Clarke lets out a grunt. “My uncle likes for me to be seen out in society, but I would much rather be at home than here.” She gives a final pat to the wound and nods, “there, ready to be bandaged.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she does not protest when the girl adds padding and begins to wrap the wound. “Where is home for you if I may ask?”

“My family has a large estate up north,” Alexandria tells her, winding the bandage carefully over her hand, “Towerhill Hall, it’s been in my family for generations.”

“And are your family there for the winter, my lady? You have come here alone?”

Alexandria freezes under her gaze and Clarke is left to watch helplessly as the girl finishes her care in silence, fastening the bandage with a tight knot and withdrawing her hands to hold them in her lap. Finally, when Clarke is about to apologise and hurry from the room, from the house, from the city itself, she speaks. “My family are dead. My older brother died in the war, my mother and father both died of illness. I am the only heir.”

“Oh, I-” her heart aches for the girl and she goes to apologise, but Alexandria has already risen from her seat and is carefully replacing the bandages and bottle in their chest. “I am so sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” Alexandria spares her a slight smile, as false as a pedlar’s promises, “they died when I was very small, I do not miss them much, as awful as that makes me.”

“That doesn’t make you awful at all,” Clarke’s words rush over one another like water down a narrow stream and her fingers catch at the crumpled letter in her apron pocket. “Here, my lady,” she stands and crosses the finely embroidered rug spread out across the floor to hold it out. “This came for you,” her eyes catch the name on the front and she frowns, “or at least… I think it is for you?”

“Really?” Alexandria reaches out, taking it delicately and sliding it open to pull out the small note. “Ah,” a true, rich smile lights up her mistress’s face for the first time since Clarke met her, “it is for me, a note from my cousin. She lives in town and always pays me a visit every few days, between her many other dalliances.” Alexandria glances curiously over the envelope and smiles again, slightly embarrassed, “yes that’s me, Lexa. A family name, a pet name more than anything. Most know me by my real name but Anya and I have known each other many years.”

“It’s a lovely name,” Clarke assures her, folding her hands in front of her and watching as her ladyship carefully slips the letter into the locked drawer at the top of the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Alexandria glances back at her uncertainly, “I can trust your discretion? The maids do not usually answer my door, Mrs Myborn insists it is in bad taste, but my letters so often come to me opened that it may be a policy I begin to encourage.”

“I would never open your letters, my lady.” Clarke’s face drops in horror and Alexandria’s smile is soft and hopeful.

“No, I don’t think you would.” She brushes down her skirts, though the soft blue is as perfect as when Clarke had dressed her in it this morning, and casts an eye over Clarke’s appearance, which she abruptly realises is most likely ghastly. “You may want to run upstairs and change your dress.”

“I-I do not have anything else here, my lady,” Clarke hesitates, fidgeting, “my appointment was rather last minute, I am still at my lodgings in town.”

“Oh,” Alexandria’s face falls and she frowns, glancing back at her dressing room door, “I am sure I have something that you could wear.”

“No, no your ladyship,” Clarke protests before Alexandria can hurry away, catching herself before she reaches out a hand to stop her, “I could not possibly.” She runs a hand over the crumbs and water stains on her dress. “I will change my apron and cap, if it is not offensive to you to see me like this in your house.”

“Not at all,” Alexandria pauses, still halfway to the dressing room door and says, cautiously, “I will tell Mrs Myborn to set you up in the attics though, if you are obliging? Sometimes I may require you in the early hours and it would not do to have you walking around town that late.”

“That… would be quite acceptable,” Clarke blinks at her, surprised, “if Mrs Myborn will stand to keep me employed.” The words slip from her before she can think and she inwardly curses her quick tongue and temper, biting at her lip as she ducks her head.

Alexandria, to her surprise, lets out a soft huff of laughter, though she quickly stifles it. When Clarke chances a glance back up at her she is smiling, “Do not worry, you are becoming a great asset to me. I will not allow her to drive you out.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Clarke bobs a slight curtsy and turns to leave her.

Lexa. She sounds the word out in her head. It suits her new mistress very well.