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amiedala · 4 years

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Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 4: Protectors

Rated: Explicit (we’re FINALLY getting to the actual explicit stuff y’all!)

Warnings: descriptions of violence, mentions of stalking/hunting, descriptions of sexual activity

Summary: “Too bad,” you manage, finally, hoping that your voice doesn’t break, “you protect me, I protect you, give and take, Mando, that’s how this works—”

And then you stop because his hands are on you. So fast. Lightning quick. One grabs at your side, thumb pressing lightly against where your scar bottoms out on the left of your abdomen, the other on the right side of your face, fingers tangled in the mess of your hair. You gasp, shudder, and breathe out as he grabs you. As easily as he squeezes, though, his grip detracts to barely there at all, and he slowly pushes you back against the wall. Every nerve on your body is on fire. You breathe, uneven and desperate, as his grip on your hip trails up your side until he has both big hands cupped against your face.

He’s eclipsing you. All you can see in your line of vision is him, and, peripherally, the distorted reflection of your heaving chest pressed up against the cool beskar, everything swallowed up by him. It’s devastating. It’s everything. You can barely breathe.

You dream about him that night.

Well, you’ve dreamed of him every night. It started when you fell asleep face to face, and now he lives in your head. You think some crucial part of it has been wiped clean simply for the sheer space of memory that’s just him. You don’t even know his name. You don’t know how old he is. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s a Mandalorian, he seems to have had adopted the child, and that he has thrown himself directly in harm’s way for you twice now.

Thoughts like that live on while you sleep. Vibrantly so. Sometimes, the dream changes and you’re on top of him, or those huge hands are inside you, or you hear him gritting out your name through the modulator as he—

Somehow, you always seem to wake up before anything in the dream can finish. It’s maddening, to say the very least. Everything with him seems to overlap until it doesn’t.

It’s been a handful of days since your narrow escape on Coruscant, and both of you have healed from your injuries on the planet’s surface. You haven’t been as close to Mando since you slept face to face that night, his head slipped down on your shoulder. When you had woken in the morning, he was gone, and you frantically searched the entirety of the bottom half of the ship for any trace of him leaving before you heard him playing with the baby up the ladder, and when you ascended into the cockpit, you were back in hyperspace.

You’d been in the air for the most part, only stopping briefly down on planets to refuel and replenish whatever stock of food the three of you needed on the ship. You weren’t sure where you were going next. You don’t even remember asking him where the next planet was, just that you knew you were going somewhere. The two tracking fobs he had left to complete before returning the bounties to the Guild blinked from the dashboard, stuttering out of rhythm ever so slightly. You watched them in the dark, sometimes, when you slept upstairs in the cockpit and tried your best to not let your mind wander to the man sleeping a level below you.

Sometimes, more often than not now, your hands would slip absentmindedly into your pants and you’d find yourself conjuring up the gruffness of the Mandalorian’s voice when you touched yourself. Twice now, you’ve finished to the memory of him saying, “where did he hurt you”, and it’s an instinct so natural you don’t even realize that you’re getting yourself off to the rhythm of his words until you’re done. Once, he climbed the ladder almost immediately after you finished, and you had to wipe the warm slick off your fingers on your pants when he asked you to hold the baby. They’re still stained, and the thought of him noticing it—or walking in on you while you’re in the act—has occupied almost all of your waking hours.

It’s better on ruminating on how narrowly you escaped getting hurt by the thug a few weeks back, or on your mind reliving every single memory of how badly you handled being alone on Coruscant the last time you were there—two thoughts that you tried very hard to push away—until the Mandalorian brings it up, almost a full week later.

“You did good,” he says, and you have no idea what he means. For a split second, you think he’s talking about you touching yourself last night, and you have to stifle a yelp when you ask him what he means. “Back on Coruscant. The ship doesn’t handle easy.”

“Oh,” you say, “thank you. I think the Crest has something against me.”

He doesn’t laugh, but you almost think you’re hearing a lighter voice coming through the modulator. “It’s old.”

“As old as me?”

He looks back at you, and you swear you can feel his gaze locked on you again. “How old are you?”

You swallow. “Twenty-five.”

The Mandalorian keeps his visor on you for a second, and then turns back to the front, focusing on the space you’re hurtling through.

“The ship is older than you,” he confirms.

“Explains why it’s so cranky.”

He looks back at you, and you giggle. A few moments pass, and he says, “so am I.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that information, quite honestly. Are you supposed to ask him how old he is? Maybe he’s seventy under the armor. Until you saw his stomach back on Coruscant, you often wondered if he looked exactly like the baby under there, or if he was a Quarren or a Gungan or something else entirely alien.

It takes you a minute, but you finally ask, “Are you younger than the ship?”

“No.”

“Are you twice the ship’s age?”

The Mandalorian looks back at you again, and if you weren’t hurtling through hyperspace and the Razor Crest wasn’t mostly running on autopilot, you would have cracked a joke about distracted driving.

“No.”

“But you’re older than the baby,” you joke.

He pauses again. “The kid is fifty.”

“What?” you shriek, and turn, betrayed, to the little green child hovering innocently in his egg next to you. He coos. You look back and forth between them, incredulous, and then a laugh filters out of the modulator.

“I don’t know how he ages. But he’s definitely still a baby.”

“Maker,” you say, still flummoxed. “Baby, you don’t look a day over thirty.” He coos at you, and you grin, folding your knees up to your chest in the chair.

“The kid is older than me,” Mando says, and then all attention is on him again.

“Well,” you manage, “then we’re working with a gap of twenty-five years.”

It seems the conversation is over, and you’ve been preoccupied with the kid, when Mando finally speaks again.

“I don’t know,” he says, and you look at him, curious, confused, “how old I am exactly.”

You’re about to ask what he means when the ship lurches again, and both of you are thrown sideways. You had strapped yourself in this time. You didn’t want a repeat of Coruscant, in any capacity. The way the Crest handled was atrocious. It was an old, cantankerous piece of junk, and it seemed to defy every other order either of you gave it. It also decided to blindside you out of nowhere, which was… well, it was like both your dirty subconscious and your conversations with Mando that teetered on something more, right before you hit the impact. Mando hauled the navigation drive up, and suddenly you were all right side up again.

“What was that?” You manage, blowing rogue hair out of your face.

He pointed. “Asteroid field.”

You squinted out the window. “Where are we?”

The Mandalorian was silent for a minute, and you didn’t push him. You weren’t in any rush for him to leave again, if you were being quite honest with yourself, and were soaking in all the tiny moments of the two of you cohabitating the ship for as long as you possibly could.

“Jakku.”

You hadn’t ever been on Jakku. You knew that it was a dry, hot wasteland like Tatooine, but that all the Rebel connections here had dried up over the years, and it had lots of small outposts where scavengers could bring practically anything dug up from the sand to make a little money. It was also worlds away from Coruscant, which was probably why it had taken so long to get here. Truthfully, it sounded dangerous in ways that you’d always feared the heat for, and your stomach flipped over a little in the recognition that he was probably going to leave again. You had been so spoiled with the last few missions—they had taken hours, and not one had swallowed up a full day, let alone weeks. He had warned you when you first joined that he could be gone for a week if he were tracking someone particularly difficult to locate, and the small sadness that pained in your gut when you barely knew Mando was a blip compared to the wrench you felt whenever he left your line of sight now. Seeing him get hurt, having to pull him back from that—you hated it. You hated knowing that he wasn’t infallible, regardless of that big shiny armor and the combination of his stealth and quickness. You wanted to tell him it, sometimes, that you hated seeing him leave, but there was still that anxious twang that came attached to how deeply you felt every single interaction, how you make things out of nothing, and you don’t think you could take it if he ever rejected you.

“Is the bounty…difficult?”

Mando seems to deliberately not hear your question, and something flares deep inside you, allowing you to pretend his resistance is because he doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t want to leave you, either, but you swallow and try to be patient.

“Not as difficult as the last one.”

“How dangerous is he?”

Mando takes a second with that one, too, and you aren’t prepared for him to turn towards you. His visor pauses on you, just for a moment, and you offer up a half smile. You have no idea if he’s reciprocating under the mask, when he finally answers.

“She’s nothing I can’t handle.”

She? That tiny, betrayed part of your mind screams, and you have to fight the urge to physically kick away your jealousy. He’s hunting her. Hunting her down, whoever she is, and bringing her back to the ship in shackles. Stop it, you chastise yourself, what, do you want him to hunt you down? Get it together.

Yes, your traitorous, primal possessiveness taunts. Yes, you want him to hunt you.

Maker. You were going to have to square up with this needy, animalistic part of yourself the second Mando left. You were going to kick its ass, because this was absolutely ridiculous—you still hadn’t responded to his last comment.

“You’re objectively…better than her, right?”

He looks back at you. “Expand.”

“You aren’t going to get shot again?”

Mando’s gaze fixates on you yet again. You swallow dry air.

“A blaster’s not really her speed.”

What did that mean?

The baby babbles. He’s reaching out his tiny green fingers for the ball that rests, perennially unscrewed, on top of one of the levers. Absentmindedly, Mando pops it off and hands it to him. The baby coos as he plays with it, trying to teethe on its smooth metal surface. You watch him as he finds so much joy from one small object, not paying attention to how quickly the Crest is dropping onto Jakku’s wasteland surface.

You don’t say much. Mando doesn’t say anything. If you try hard, really hard, you can imagine that he’s regretting leaving you and the kid as much as you’re dreading it. You don’t know why you can’t voice any of this out loud. It should be easy, by now, you’ve pretty much become a permanent fixture here. He fell asleep with his head on your shoulder, your fingers intertwined, a few nights ago. He’s offering voluntary information about himself to you now, which is a complete 180 from how stoic in his silence he was when he first brought you on board. He offered up safe delivery out of Nevarro and then refused to let you leave the ship anywhere dangerous. He let you fix a wound on his bare skin—something you know goes against the rumored Mandalorian creed. There’s all these signs, blinking and humming in the back of your mind, that the way you feel around him—something earned, something real, something more—is mutual. You know you attach big stakes to everything, that you think the galaxy has been leaving you signs, when there’s no higher power orienting you to some elevated purpose. But the way the air burns around him, how right you feel with Mando and the baby…you’d bet your life that he felt it too.

Even just a fraction. Even just in the back of his mind.

When you make your landing, the ship stubbornly creaks into the uneven sand, and you’re glad you’re still strapped in. The Crest had it out for you. You loved it in the way you’d love an old house—broken and creaky around the edges, but warm enough to still call home. The Mandalorian didn’t ask you to follow him down the ladder this time, but you did anyway, out of some habit you’re trying to force. The baby toddles around the lower deck as he flings himself to his father’s shoes, and you scrunch up your lips to the side, a sore attempt at mimicking his expression. You can’t ask Mando not to leave. This is his job. You’re lucky he didn’t let you get taken out by either of the men that tried to hurt you, or leave you for dead on Nevarro, or kick you out on Coruscant.

But stars, you want to.

Somehow, he breaks the silence first. “I’ll be back within a few days.”

Your heart sinks. “Days?”

He looks at you, the visor suddenly impenetrable. “She’s dodgy. I’m not expecting to be gone more than three.”

“What if you are?”

Silence swells up in the air around you both. Your amateur handling of the Razor Crest on the last planet was only possible because you barely had to get anywhere. Jakku was huge, and incredibly desolate, and you didn’t trust yourself enough to figure out exactly where Mando was if there was a dire emergency. And he’d never told you what kind of quarry he was tracking before, which gave you a sinking suspicion that he wasn’t confident that he’d come back completely unscathed.

“Here,” he says, finally. His voice is softer through the modulator. He hands you the commlink again, and you wrap it around your wrist, intentional. “Remember—”

“Only for emergencies?” you interrupt, and give him a soft smile. You can be lenient. You can pretend that you won’t be staring at it for days on end, waiting for his deep voice to crackle across the stars to you.

“Good girl.”

He turns, quickly, like ripping off a bandage, which is probably for the best, because you don’t want him to see your knees going weak at his two words, or how that heat he gives you rushed deep down in between your thighs, warm and wet enough to line your underwear. You stand there, mouth open, just gaping at his retreating figure as he walks out into the sand.

The baby pulls at your leg, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to yank your jaw off the floor and pay attention to him. He’s started begging for lullabies now, with his big bug eyes, and so you oblige, singing past the devastation and tingling that the Mandalorian has left behind in his wake until the kid is finally asleep. You think he does it so much to self-soothe when his daddy leaves, because he’s usually always awake in his presence. You usually don’t like when the little guy fades off when it’s just the two of you, because at least while he’s awake you can talk out loud to him and not feel like you’re going crazy being cooped up inside the ship, but right now…right now, you have other priorities.

You make sure that the kid is sleeping soundly, and you walk up the ladder as quietly as you can, trying to get snug under your blankets in the makeshift bed you’ve made in the corner, and when you finally get yourself comfortable, you play the words good girl over and over again in your mind while you slip your fingers down your pants and into the slick between your legs. You try to picture him in your mind, the way he looks under that mask, his eyes trained on you—what color were they?—and rub tight little circles to the sound of his voice, etched in your memory.

Nothing comes. You can feel it building inside you, that gold rush that sends sparks down your body when you usually orgasm, but right now, it’s like you’re teetering right on the edge. You throw your head back in desperation, in frustration, and you remove your shaking hand for just a second to refocus on him, and when your fingers return to your clit you think this is it, this has to be it—Nothing.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you exclaim, pressing both hands to your eyes as if the stars to explode there instead. You can feel it building, still, even while there’s absolutely nothing in the way, and no matter what happens, you can’t cum.

You’re frustrated. You’re very frustrated. In every version of the word. You huff, yanking up your pants too roughly and pacing around the ship’s dark hull. This is all you’ve wanted for days, this small moment of release, and he just gave you the words to get yourself off by just thinking about it, and…nothing? Really?

You pace and then slide back down the ladder. Maybe you can get outside, just for a few seconds, feel the heat on your face, and maybe that’ll force it to come somewhere else, and you’re tiptoeing past the baby and getting your blaster from the armory, and then you pass the alcove where Mando’s cot is hidden away in, and you’re about to open the airlock—

Wait. Mando’s bed.

Your heart catches in your chest, skips a couple beats. This is not good. This is wrong. This is a horrible, dirty, depraved, very bad idea.

But before you can stop yourself, you’ve pressed your trembling fingers to the button that reveals his bed, and the doors fly open. You throw yourself in quickly, as if that’ll lessen the impact, and you throw yourself down on your back, looking at the ceiling.

It’s so dark in here. It smells like him. It’s like his soap has scrubbed down the bed, the way it’s wafting through the air. In here, it’s like a holding chamber. If you close your eyes hard enough, you can imagine he’s right there with you, his body large and uncloaked of armor, his skin exposed everywhere but the helmet, his hands on your hips while you’re straddling him like you did the other day to patch up his wound, him saying good girl as he moves inside you—

Well. Your fingers didn’t even have to slip back into your pants for you to cum this time.

You bite down on the back of your hand as it ripples through you, your ears absolutely deafened by the way your body vibrates like static. You clap your other hand over the one you’ve sunk your teeth into to simply drown out the sound in hopes that it’ll recede.

It takes probably five minutes. You sit there, in complete darkness, shell-shocked. The embarrassment and the shame you feel of getting off in someone else’s bed doesn’t even compare to the feeling of doing it. Maker, you’re going to bad places when you die. Bad, dark, awful places. The internal chastising you’re trying valiantly to give yourself fades off into the background as you relive it over and over, imagining him telling you you’re a good girl again, back in this bed, wearing considerably less, when he comes back to you. Visions of him telling he’ll never leave you again dance through your head when, suddenly, you fade off into nothing.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. You don’t remember doing it.

But you wake up, and you’re still in Mando’s bed. You’ve pulled his blanket up around your shoulders, and it’s rough and tattered compared to yours, but you don’t even care. Your skin easily irritates when it’s against fabric that hurts, but you’ll take on the rash for this. You are so snug, so warm, and then it hits you that you’re sleeping in his bed, the same bed that you came all over last night, and you sit up in a panic.

You check the sheets, and there’s no mess. You haven’t really disturbed the bed at all, really, come to think of it. You lay back down, still groggy with sleep. He said he was going to take a few days. There’s no reason why you couldn’t sleep here tonight, too, maybe you’d even take the baby in here with you—

The baby. You shoot back up in a panic, suddenly completely awake. When you throw open the door, and launch yourself out of the bed, you find him toddling around on the floor, with that little silver ball he loves so much in his adorable stubby fingers.

“Baby.”

He turns to look at you, making noises of recognition when you fall out of his father’s bed, and you pick him up, swinging his tiny green body through the air.

He coos at you, pulling on the blanket that is somehow still around your shoulders. Dank ferrik. That wasn’t supposed to come with you. You gingerly pry it from his grip. He looks at you, back at the blanket that’s been put back into the alcove, and then his big eyes well up and he starts to cry.

“No,” you whisper, and then, louder, “no, it’s okay, baby! You don’t need to cry! I’ll—here, I’ll sing you some nice little tunes, and we can dance—”

At this, he wails even harder, and you wipe away the array of tears with your free hand. He claws towards something, and you pull him into your chest before you realize he wants the blanket. You pull it back out and drape it around his tiny body. “Hey, bug, it’s okay.” You swaddle him the best you can, and then he wipes his tiny nose against the tattered thing, and you try to pull it away before you realize he’s not wiping his nose. He’s sniffing the blanket. The blanket that smells like his dad. And, more recently, you.

“It’s okay,” you say, soothingly, swinging him from side to side, bringing those big eyes in towards the crook of your shoulder. He clings to it, just a little, but it’s enough to know he wants to stay nestled up there. “You miss your daddy, huh, sweetness?”

He coos, muffled, against your neck.

“Me too,” you admit, with no one but the kid and the dark hull of the Crest to hear you.

Another day passes. Then another. You’re starting to go a little stir crazy. If Jakku didn’t scare you, you would have gone outside and taken the baby for a little walk, but you’re still nervous, jumpy leftovers from the last man who had boarded the ship, not to mention that it’s a desert, foreboding wasteland everywhere you could possibly go. You bring him outside at least once a day, though, not even fully on the ground, just down the gangplank, so that you can both have some fresh air and touch something that isn’t shiny metal or whatever scraps of food you’ve been feeding to you both.

You like the baby. Love him. He rocks. He’s the cutest thing in the entire world. You had sworn off starting a family back when your parents died, because missing them hurt too much and you didn’t want another possibility to make that hurt permanent, but you would sign adoption papers tomorrow if you meant you got to care for the little one forever. His dad was just the bonus, you’d almost convinced yourself, to satiate that hungry, aching, nervous pit in your stomach that grows bigger and bigger every hour Mando’s still not back.

You’ve cleaned the interior of the ship. Three times. Yesterday, you used the fresher twice, simply for the acoustics of that room, so you could sing and pretend you were giving a show at a cantina, and okay, maybe a little bit for the smell of Mando’s soap on your skin.

His bed is much more uncomfortable than the nest you’d been sleeping in on the floor, but it smells like him, and it’s warm, and if you close your eyes and push up against the wall, you can imagine it’s him in the beskar enough to get you to sleep. Worry aside, you’ve slept better the past two nights than you have in what feels like years. It’s partly because you’re imagining he’s there, partly because you know you’re safe in here, and partly because this place feels more like home than any other one you’ve ever belonged to.

You’re starting to get worried, though. You know he insisted that the commlink was only for emergencies, and you didn’t want to distract him on his mission. Or bother him, more likely, the Mandalorian wasn’t a man who got distracted easily, but still, you thought about it. Distracting him. The baby wakes up sometimes, and you pretend to be completely engrossed in attending to his every need, because when he falls asleep or shows more interest in his ball than you, the silence and fear creeps back in.

Another day passes before you’ve gone on long enough without hearing word.

“Hey,” you whisper into the commlink. You’re in his bed. Again. You’re not proud of it, but you can’t pry yourself from it. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but—it’s been four days, and she’s dangerous, and I—the baby misses you.”

You press the button. You hope that’s sufficient. You just sit there, staring at the artificial light in the darkness, tummy flipping over every second that passes where you don’t hear from him.

It’s been full minutes, and you lay back down. You pull his itchy blanket up to your shoulder, huddle on your side. You’ll keep your wrist next to you in sleep, so he can talk in your ear and wake you up if he needs to—

“Are you there?”

His voice is quiet. Through the modulator and the link, you have to strain your ears in the vibrating nothingness to make out the shape of his words.

“I’m here,” you answer. It spills out of you, too fast.

“No emergencies,” he says, and you can feel your cheeks flush with the reprimand before you realize it sounds more like reassurance.

“No emergencies here either,” you manage. “The baby is still as cute as ever. You parked near a good radio station. I’ve been singing to him—”

“Careful,” he warns, and your heartbeat quickens before you can ask what. “The first word that comes out of his mouth is going to be sung, not spoken.”

You giggle, the air cutting through the darkness. “Would that be so bad?”

He’s silent for a minute, and you relax back into his pillow, the commlink pressed up against your face.

“I don’t think I could handle having both of you singing,” he says, and his voice rumbles through you in a way you can’t place until you remember the baby is fifty and hasn’t even spoken his first word yet. The Mandalorian is signing on for years with you, then, maybe full-on decades, maybe for life, with how slowly the kid progresses—you have to bite down on your lip.

“Maybe I’ll shut up when he starts.”

You can hear him shifting. He’s still so quiet. You wonder where he is. You wonder if he’s gotten close to his bounty yet, if she’s anywhere near him—that unfairly jealous part of you roils in your belly, and you push your fist into it as if to shove back the unreasonable thought.

“That’d be a shame,” he finally says.

“Do you like my singing?”

He’s quiet again. You listen through the silence. He speaks so sporadically, it shouldn’t surprise you, but being in anticipation of what comes next is almost as good as the words themselves. “I like your voice.”

Your voice. That could mean anything. That could mean your singing in the shower or the questions you ask him or the way he makes you giggle or the way you’d moan out his name, if you were ever lucky enough to learn it—you realize you haven’t spoken. “I like yours, too.”

He’s quiet. He doesn’t speak again. You know how late it is. “Have you slept?” you ask, quietly, just in case he’s fallen asleep.

“A bit.” You can hear him adjusting. “I’m close to town. I tracked her here.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you. “When do you think you’ll be ba—will have completed the mission?” you ask. You bite your lip in the surrounding silence.

“By sunrise,” he says. “You better fall asleep. I want you both awake when I return to the ship.”

Your stomach flips over in excitement, then in dread. “Do I have to hide from her?”

He’s silent. You slide your thumbnail between your teeth, breath bated in anticipation of his answer.

“Just be ready,” he finally says. “Don’t hide unless I tell you to.”

“I’ll anticipate it,” you counter. “I’ll be awake at sunrise.”

“Set an alarm.” His voice is quick, but you can feel the lightness to it. “Or three.”

“I’ll have you know,” you say sleepily, “that I can be wide awake at the first alarm when I need to be—”

“And,” he adds, interrupting you, “stay near my bed in case you do need to hide.”

Before you can say anything in response to that, the link clicks off. You’re in the darkness, again, that swell in your legs, the buzzing in your ears, the excitement in your heart. The last thing you remember before you fall back asleep is, he’s coming home.

Your name comes from seemingly nowhere, and you jolt up from where you’ve been sleeping. Very comfortably. You wipe sleep from your eyes as you fumble around from the source of it.

It’s the commlink. Of course.

“I’m here,” you manage, through your very groggy morning voice.

“I’m almost back.”

You dig a heel of your hand into your eye before all the moving parts click together in your mind. That’s Mando’s voice, and it must be close to sunrise, because if he’s heading back, he’s definitely got the bounty.

“I—where should I go?”

You don’t hear anything for a long moment, and you hurriedly slide out of his bed, trying to arrange the blanket and pillow in the same formation that it was before you defiled it, and can’t remember enough what it looked like almost five days before but you hope that Mando’s memory has been distracted enough by his hunt that he won’t notice. You find the baby, place him back in his egg, and shake your head firmly when he gives you his big eyes pleading to get down.

“Where are you?”

You sleepily survey your surroundings. “I am against the wall.”

He sighs. “Which wall?”

“The one across from the fresher. Near your bed.” You feel your cheeks flush with that admission, even though he can’t possibly know that you’ve holed up in there since he’s been gone.

“And the baby?”

“He’s beside me.” You pull your gun out, too, and loosely holster it in the belt around your leg. “And I have my blaster.”

“Good,” he says, and no girl follows it, and despite the circumstances, you feel a twang of sadness.

“How close are you?”

The link goes silent. Again. It’s become his modus operandi to just leave you in the lurch, right when you’re on the edge of the conversation, and while it’s hard to get frustrated with him when that pull of sureness inside you is always tuned to the highest frequency, you want to whine about it.

You cut yourself off. Nope. He’s bringing back a bounty. You cannot get distracted, not now, no matter how bad you want him. Not the time. On a whim, you run into the fresher and you splash water on your face, enough to wake you up and keep you alert.

There’s a noise outside the ship, and you immediately push the baby’s floating cradle behind you, fingers on your blaster. You could handle whatever was happening. You actually had your fingers on something tangible, and you were a good shot when it came down to it.

It turns out, the reason why the Mandalorian didn’t tell you how soon he’d be coming back because he was already pretty much there. You tense, then relax upon the first glimpse of the beskar on his helmet you got, and then tens again when the gangplank is lowered down to the hot sand of Jakku.

She…looks dangerous. She’s a Twi’lek. Long, and slim, a very dangerous shade of purple. The first thing you notice isn’t how alien she looks in comparison to the sand around the gangplank, or how she moves with a confident, seductive swagger, but the way her tongue dances in circles around her teeth. Her canines are sharp, pointed, hungry.

You didn’t scare easily. You had worked hundreds of jobs with people who had every intention to double-cross and discard you. You faced off against the intruder on the ship with your only instinct to protect the baby in mind, not your own safety. That’s why Mando had brought you aboard.

But you look at her, and you’re scared. It’s her teeth and the way her eyes lock onto you, immediately, dangerously, like she knows she could intimidate you. And then probably flog you within an inch of your life and leave you for dead. You’d been there before. You knew how it looked.

“What do we have here?” she purrs, turning around to face Mando. He shoves her, once, roughly, and she steps forward so that his blow won’t hit as hard, tongue tracing the outline of her teeth. “You got yourself a little pet.”

Your eyes glance in fear to the baby, but the way he looks back at you makes you realize that she was talking about you, not the kid. You thumb your blaster, stepping forward, trying to remain impervious.

“Hello, there,” she whispers, and you could feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You didn’t want to look away from her—you can just tell, instinctually, that she could strike instantaneously, just lying in wait for a moment of weakness—but you can’t help it. You look at Mando, hoping your raised eyebrow signals your fear and your level of discomfort, and the way his visor locks on you is enough to know he had calculated the risk and knew he could beat her. His hand is still outstretched, slightly, as she meanders over to you.

“Look, Mando,” she hisses, pointing back and forth between the two of you. Instinctually, you push the baby’s cradle back even further, putting your full hand on your blaster. You glance up at him again, and then catch a flash in the low light of the ship, and realize she’s handcuffed. Even shackled, though, you can see how her sharp teeth glint, how her eyes hold venom you’d never even seen. “Have you taken your helmet off for her yet?”

He stands there. You have absolutely no idea what you were in the middle of, but suddenly, it felt like you were the outsider here, not her. Your stomach flipped over with the possibilities. Had he taken his helmet off for the bounty? Had he betrayed his creed for her? You swallow, grit your teeth, loading your tongue behind them just in case whatever she gave you next could be responded to.

“She’s pretty,” she appraises, tongue finding her canine, and before you can react, she lunges close to your face, close enough that you can feel the hot wash of air, clicking her teeth menacingly right in front of your nose. You don’t jump, but the flinch of closing your eyes felt bad enough. You knew it was the wrong move the second your eyes squeezed shut. “Aw, look at that.” She sniffs. You don’t move. “She scares like a little Ewok, Mando, is that why you keep her locked away on the ship—"

Suddenly, a flash of beskar moves through the air between you two, and the Twi’lek is snapped back, recoiling and hissing at how hard he hit her.

“I don’t need to remind you that I have no issue bringing you in cold.”

You recoil at that, how detached and distorted his voice seems. You know that the modulator evens it out, for the most part, and that you tend to imagine his voice comes out softer and warmer to you than anyone else. But right now? Right now, his voice is stone cold. He sounds murderous. Dangerous. Scary. The kind of threat that scared off the man on Nevarro. The kind of threat that you know he gives to his bounties. The kind of threat he’s never once showed to you.

You swallow.

“I dare you,” the Twi’lek says, and she turns from you, just for a second, to slide up to him. So much of her skin is reflected in the beskar that it’s turning the entirety of the interior of the Crest purple. “Try to kill me. We both know you need me, whether you like it or not, that I’m still the best you’ve ever had—”

Before you can react, before you can do anything, the Mandalorian has a knife against her throat. You have no idea where it comes from. You want to react, to say something, to not sit there bumbling like a faulty droid, but you’ve got nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

“Slice me with my knife,” she whispers, taunting him. “Do it. Put on a show for your little weakling girlfriend behind me and kill me. We both know you can’t—”

You unfreeze, suddenly, so quickly that you don’t realize what you’re doing, until you yank her slender shoulder back away from the knife Mando has in his grip and shove her headfirst into the carbonite chamber. She howls, but you press the button—that’s your one move, slamming your hands against things and miraculously making them work in the moment of truth—and her terrifying, hungry face gets swallowed up in the gas. You shove her backwards—well, the block of her—so that it slams into the other bounties that have been frozen in time in between your last trip to Nevarro, and it’s only when you’re sure she’s completely immobilized that you finally exhale, hands on your knees, chest heaving. The world around you is spinning. You check your arms and throat frantically, just to make sure she didn’t nick you with something sharp while you were frozen.

When your breathing regulates, and all your bumps and bruises only tally up evenly to the ones you had before today, you look up at Mando. He’s seemingly stuck, too, the sharp knife still in his gloved hand, completely immobile. You tap his outstretched hand to be sure you didn’t accidentally catch him with your fairly heroic carbonite rescue, and he only becomes responsive to your touch on his gloved one.

“Hey,” you say, softly, to not startle him anymore, “I’m okay—are you? Are you okay?”

“Thank you,” he says, gruffly, his fingers still clenched tight around the knife that came out of nowhere, and you just know that underneath his glove, his knuckles are white. You can hear it in his voice.

“What—oh. You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t react sooner, that I let her go on like that—”

“I was going to kill her.” Even through the modulator, you can hear there’s something complicating his voice. You move forward, gently, trying to pry his fingers off the knife. Your body is so close to his, your neck straining as you look up from his hand to his helmet. You don’t know why this is so difficult for him to reconcile, when you’ve seen him take out at least twenty people, easily, since you came aboard. You don’t like the killing, but you understand his necessity, sometimes, and his disconnect from it. It’s what he does, it’s his job, his survival. You don’t know why this one was so different. “If you didn’t—I was going to slit her throat.”

You’re the one who’s silent, now. You have absolutely no idea what to say, especially considering that him needing solace over the thought of killing someone—not even actually killing them—is completely foreign to you. You inhale, exhale, and then take a half-step closer, moving his last finger off the knife. “You didn’t,” you whisper, earnest, slipping the knife out of his grip and reaching in closely behind him to put it safely in the armory. “You didn’t.”

He looks at you. Up and down. It’s dark in here, but you can track his visor. You have absolutely no idea what’s going on behind it. Despite all of this, despite the way you had both been moving in sync lately, despite how you felt the magnetic pull of the universe with him, he just went radio silent. None of this seemed in character. For the first time since you met him, you felt like you were in over your head.

“I was going to,” he repeats, and you nod, slowly. “She’s not worth anything to the Guild dead, but I would have done it in a second—”

“—You didn’t,” you interrupt, enunciating each syllable, “it’s okay, you can turn her in frozen like that, and we can get far away from her, you don’t have to be—”

“—to protect you.”

You come to a full stop, breath catching in your throat.

“I would have spilled her guts all over the floor in front of you—in front of my kid—to protect you. And then you protected me instead.”

You can feel your mouth falling open in shock. The baby, funnily enough, has decided to move his floating egg upstairs, and you’re glad he’s getting out of the line of fire. You swallow, looking back at Mando. “I did.”

“That’s not your job.”

You have whiplash. His voice has gone from detached to emotional to brash. You have no idea what you’re supposed to say to that, to say to any of this. You feel a familiar, dizzying rush, the beginnings of tears pinpricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Too bad,” you manage, finally, hoping that your voice doesn’t break, “you protect me, I protect you, give and take, Mando, that’s how this works—”

“That’s not your job,” he repeats, but now his voice is almost as ragged as yours is, and so you nod.

His helmet comes forward, slightly, and he presses it into your forehead. “What is my job?” you squeak out, trying to not go cross-eyed as you try to catch any glimpse of his eyes under the visor. You can’t, so you close yours, in desperate anticipation.

He removes his helmet from against your forehead, and you sway forward, already missing his grip against you, until, suddenly, his head is in the hollow of your neck. Your breathing hitches again. You try your very best to not imagine what his voice would sound like without the modulator, what his lips would feel like pressed up against your skin, when his hand drops from your chin and trails back down your body, past your scar, past the bruises on your belly, and then it pauses.

“To take mine,” he grits out, his voice swelling up against the skin of your ear, and then your body slumps against the wall, and before you can beg for it, for anything, his hand rises, meeting you in the middle, fingers fitting perfectly between your thighs.

***

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refinedbuffoonery · 3 years

Text

Looking Through A Window (3)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Fun fact: the final scene of this chapter is part of my original brainstorm for this fic. The rest of the scenes I initially dreamt up won’t come until much later, so I’m thrilled to have at least one of them come early on in the story.

To Carrie and Anna, the lights of my life: I named the neighbor after you two. She’s annoying as shit and nothing like either of you, but I needed a name and decided if anyone deserves to have their name as an Easter egg, it’s the two of you.

*****

Despite the storm, Matty has the shipment of borrowed guns delivered to the Port of Houston in the middle of the night. While they eat breakfast, Mac and Riley study Matty’s excruciatingly detailed directions for navigating the port and finding their shipping crate. She certainly didn’t make it easy on them.

Riley leans back in her chair, looking around until her eyes land on Harley. “Time for you to earn your keep,” she says between mouthfuls of toast.

Supposedly, this is what Harley specializes in—sniffing out weapons. The dog should be able to confirm which shipping container the guns are stashed in without Mac or Riley having to check themselves. Theoretically.

Mac finishes his own plate of eggs and toast in a few ravenous bites. “Thanks for making breakfast.” He gets up to clear the plates and start rinsing dishes. After living with her for more than a year, Riley making breakfast is routine, but Mac still thanks her for it every day.

Living in the apartment together, they fall right back into their old habits. Mac wakes up early and goes for a run. By the time he returns, Riley is awake and making breakfast. After they eat, Mac showers while Riley goes on her own run. And so on and so forth.

While Mac was out this morning, he wove through the whole neighborhood, making sure it’s safe for Riley to go out alone. She can handle herself, but Mac has no delusions about the overall quality of men on the streets, and even though he can’t fix that, at least he can help minimize her chances of encountering creepy dudes.

Before they leave for the Port, Mac and Riley scour their car for a bug or any other surveillance equipment the organization might’ve hidden while they were inside the warehouse talking to Conrad yesterday. They find none. Thankfully.

Once again, they’re going in armed, and the weight of Mac’s gun feels just as foreign and unwelcome as it did yesterday. He tries not to fidget with it while Riley drives, but she notices his discomfort anyway. “You’ve got to relax,” she says. “All your squirming is stressing me out.”

“Sorry.” Mac stills, even though his whole body screams to put the gun somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

Once they arrive at the Port, Mac guides Riley through the maze of cranes and crates and warehouses until they find the one Matty had the guns stashed in—dark green and otherwise nondescript.

Unfortunately, there are multiple shipping containers that fit that description at the location Matty provided. As they get out of the SUV, Riley glances between the boxes nervously. “Uhh, which one is it?”

Mac doesn’t have a clue. “I guess that’s for Harley to tell us.” He looks down at the dog standing obediently beside him. “Find it.”

He releases the leash as Harley takes off like a rocket, sniffing each container and the surrounding area. She inspects more than half of them before sitting and looking back at Mac. He waits for her to bark, but she doesn’t. Whoever trained her clearly did so with stealth in mind.

“Do we open it to double check?” Riley asks.

Mac opens his mouth to say yes, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer before a muddy, dark-blue diesel truck parks beside their SUV. Conrad jumps out of the driver’s seat, accompanied by two younger men, wearing matching scowls and Carhartt jackets. He walks with that same entitled swagger, and a cheap smile spreads across his face.

“Mr. Turner!” Conrad exclaims, shaking Mac’s hand. His grip is too firm to be friendly. Stepping back, he sneers at Riley, acknowledging her just long enough to impatiently say, “Genevieve.” Mac doesn’t miss the way Conrad’s eyes drop to Riley’s chest, nor the way Riley bristles beside him, wrapping her jacket more tightly around her and crossing her arms to hold it in place. Mac clears his throat. “Sorry,” Conrad says, not sounding sorry at all, “but your wife is very attractive.”

Riley rolls her eyes so hard they nearly fall out of her head.

“Your order is this way,” Mac says, cutting off Conrad before he could make another gross statement, “Follow me.” Mac puts a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, squeezing hard as he steers the man toward the shipping container. Harley is still sitting beside it, waiting patiently, and Mac scratches her head with his free hand.

Riley whistles, a single sharp note that sends Harley running back to her side. Mac buries his relief that she’s not alone, although he’d still much rather the hulking bodyguards were closer to him than Riley.

Focus, Mac reminds himself. Riley can hold her own. Just get this over with.

Mac opens the container, revealing two nondescript wooden crates. Still sneering—at this point, Mac’s starting to think that’s the only expression Conrad is capable of—Conrad waves over his bodyguards, gesturing for them to open the crates.

For just a second, Conrad’s sneer edges toward a smile. Inside the crates lie exactly what he ordered: military-grade, semi-automatic rifles and enough ammo to kickstart the apocalypse. Mac’s gut churns. He hates this. He hates everything about this. He hates that he’s arming terrorists. He hates how these men look at Riley like dogs drooling over a steak. He hates that he can’t do anything about any of it, that he has no choice but to play along.

Mac wishes he could bury his feelings the way Riley does, locking them behind a carefully controlled mask. Instead, his linger just beneath the surface, waiting to make themselves known at the first available opportunity.

Counting backward from five, he steels himself to finish the game. Just as Conrad brushes a reverent finger down the barrel of a rifle, Mac chides, “We followed through on our end of the bargain. Did you?”

“Of course.”

One of the bodyguards pulls out his phone. In a deeper voice than Mac expects, he says, “We can wire the payment to your bank account right now.”

“Good. My wife will help you set that up.” Mac gestures to Riley, and the bodyguard walks over to her.

Conrad extends his hand, and Mac takes it, trying not to wince when his arm brushes his concealed gun. “Pleasure doing business with you, James,” Conrad says.

“I hope this is the beginning of a long and prosperous partnership.” Long and prosper? Who was he, Spock?

“Indeed. Welcome to the Patriots.” Conrad gestures for his men to start loading the guns into their truck. “Expect another order within the week.”

Mac doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully he doesn’t have to, because Riley waves him over, apparently having finished her conversation with Conrad’s lackey. “I’ll leave you to it,” Mac says, then turns his back on the terrorists and rejoins Riley. On instinct, he reaches for her arm as he murmurs, “Are you okay?”

Riley tenses under his touch, but doesn’t pull away. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good.” He said the same thing to Conrad just a minute ago. Good. But the word is light years different from before—soft and caring, not curt and vaguely challenging. Bozer pointed it out to him once, how he talks to Riley differently than he does anyone else.

Mac shakes off the thought. He can’t get distracted, no matter how much his mind only wants to think about Riley. Releasing her arm, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

*****

Back at the apartment, Riley settles in on the couch to dig into the Patriots' bank records. By wire-transferring the money instead of paying them in cash, Conrad practically offered up the organization's entire digital footprint on a silver platter, at least to someone like Riley. She doesn't speak as she works, so Mac listens to the melody of keyboard clicks while he makes them each a grilled cheese.

Contrary to popular belief, he's not completely incompetent, although Bozer has nearly everyone convinced otherwise. Mac will never be able to cook something fancy, but he does make a mean sandwich.

He even spreads mayo on the bread, the way Bozer does, because Riley prefers it that way.

The sizzle of the sandwiches hitting the hot pan joins the keyboard clicks right as Riley announces, "I hacked into their bank records."

"What've you got?"

"From the look of it, the shell corp they used to pay us has only been around for four months. Before that, they must've either paid in cash or used personal accounts."

"That makes sense though, since the Patriots haven't been around all that long."

"That's what I thought at first, but come look." Mac does, leaning over the back of the couch so his head is right beside hers. Riley points at the screen. "The first three transactions were all big deposits, each one two weeks apart."

Frowning, Mac squints at the tiny numbers on the screen. "One hundred thousand dollars?"

"Times three deposits," Riley adds.

"Where the hell did they get that kind of money?"

"I don't know. The deposits were cash."

“Damn. Did you at least figure out who their previous arms dealer was?”

“Yeah.” Riley shifts, causing her hair to tickle Mac’s nose, and he brushes her hair to the opposite side of her neck without another thought. “Turns out their previous dealer has Mexican cartel connections, which explains why the Patriots only paid them twice. I’m guessing they found out about the cartel part and broke it off before they made a long-term deal.”

“At least they’re not complete idiots,” Mac mumbles. Tired of squinting, he leans closer to better see the screen.

Except now they’re cheek to cheek, and Mac suddenly can’t focus on the screen at all.

Riley twists to look at him, and it takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower not to glance at her lips. "Are you burning my grilled cheese?"

"No." He straightens, simultaneously disappointed and relieved by the space now between them. Mac shakes off the thought. He can’t keep getting distracted like this.

"Uh huh. Sure."

Retreating to the kitchen, Mac calls, "That was one time!"

*****

As expected, they don’t hear anything from Conrad or the Patriots the following day. Mac doesn’t know what to do with all the downtime on this op. There are plenty of books in the apartment, but he’s too restless to sit and read. He opens the fridge, more out of boredom than actual hunger.

They’re on day five of the undercover op, and it’s starting to feel an awful lot like quarantine. With nothing to do but hurry up and wait, hanging out in the apartment and doing nothing is starting to make Mac go a little stir crazy.

When Riley emerges from the bedroom wearing workout clothes, it’s clear she feels the same way. “I’m going for a run,” she announces.

“Want company?” He hopes she says yes. Anything to get out of the apartment for a while.

Riley unplugs her phone from the charger and slides it into her pocket. “No offense, but no.”

Dammit. Mac shoves down his disappointment. “None taken.” He closes the fridge. Nothing in there looks good.

“Tell you what,” she says. “After I get back we can go to the space museum, okay?”

His heart skips a beat at her offer. “Is it that obvious I’m bored?”

“Yes.” Riley gives him a pitying smile. “So do you want to go?”

Mac smiles. It feels like she just asked him out on a date. It’s not, but it feels like one anyway. Be cool. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”

“Okay then.” Popping in her earbuds, she walks out the door.

“Enjoy your run, muffin!” Mac calls, stealing Bozer’s go-to pet name for when he’s undercover with Riley. She reaches back inside to flip him off before slamming the door shut, and Mac chuckles. Riley really hates that nickname.

Now it’s just him, Harley, and this tiny apartment.

Resuming his search for food he’s not even hungry for, Mac opens the pantry, and Harley comes running into the kitchen. She must’ve learned the sound of the door opening since they keep the dog food in there. Harley looks up at Mac expectantly.

“Don’t look at me like that.” She whines, and her pleading expression reminds Mac of the wide-eyed look Bozer mastered as a kid while begging his parents for something. Neither are very effective. “You just had breakfast an hour ago,” he insists.

Harley glances at the open pantry, then back at him.

Mac doesn’t give in, but he does kneel to pet her instead, scratching Harley’s neck and ending up with a handful of hair. Frowning, Mac digs through every drawer in the kitchen in search of a dog brush. No luck. He checks the bedroom and bathroom, coming up empty once again. Who even organized this house? It makes no sense. His gaze lands on the laundry room door.

Ah.

Sure enough, there’s a dog brush on the shelf above the washing machine.

Leash and brush in-hand, Mac calls out, “Alright, girl. Let’s go de-floof you.”

Harley takes one look at the brush and sprints in the other direction.

Well this is going to be harder than Mac anticipated.

He ends up chasing Harley throughout the apartment, zig-zagging from one room to the next. Every time Mac gets close, Harley slips by, just out of reach. After the fourth time she sends Mac stumbling into the furniture after lunging for her and missing, he realizes what she’s doing.

Harley is playing him. This is a game to her. And, so far, she’s winning.

Mac stares the dog down, and she seems to narrow her eyes in response. “Challenge accepted,” he tells her.

This time, he knows exactly where to find what he’s looking for—peanut butter. He smears an unnecessarily large glob into Harley’s dog bowl, making sure she sees exactly what he’s doing. Harley’s stubborn, and does a good job of appearing not to care, but Mac has a hard time believing any dog would turn down peanut butter.

Harley, it turns out, is no exception.

She follows him to the door, and Mac rewards her with a few licks of peanut butter while he clips on the leash, careful not to let her eat so much that there’s not enough to last while brushing her. Despite Harley’s obvious enjoyment of the peanut butter, Mac is no fool. She let him win this round, no doubt about it.

He leads Harley down the stairs to the small lawn in front of the apartment building, where it wouldn’t matter if he left dog hair everywhere. The brush pulls away thick chunks of her undercoat with each pass, and it doesn’t take long for the lawn to look like something died there.

The peanut butter, unfortunately, doesn’t last nearly as long as Mac hopes.

Mac figures out pretty quickly that Harley does not like her tail being brushed; she turns away and tucks her tail and generally makes it impossible for Mac to reach it. He sits back on his heels, formulating a new strategy. “If I don’t brush your tail,” he says, “you’re going to look like a squirrel, and neither of us wants that.”

Harley’s ears prick at the word squirrel.

Mac tries again, and this time Harley lets him…sort of. It’s not perfect, but at least she won’t be leaving hair all over the apartment anymore—hair that he needs to vacuum, because Riley asked him to last night and he’d completely forgotten until now. Tucking the brush into his back pocket, Mac scratches Harley’s ears the way he learned she likes, and when she leans into his touch, Mac’s heart swells.

“Good girl.” He kisses her head, and Harley licks his chin in return. “See? We’re not so bad.” Mac sighs. “I know we’re not who you wanted, but we’re going to take good care of you.”

Riley made the same promise in the war room. Even if she doesn’t stay with them after the op, Mac will make sure Harley ends up with people who will love her for the rest of her life.

“I promise,” he murmurs into her fur, kissing her head again.

Mac startles when a feminine voice calls, “You could make a whole other dog from all that hair.” A middle-aged woman stands in the walkway, oversized blue purse on her shoulder and car keys in hand. She smiles at Mac. “I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move in?”

“Yeah,” Mac says, standing up. “My wife and I moved in this week.”

“Well, welcome. My name is Carrie Ann, and my husband and I live in apartment 317. Feel free to stop by anytime. I think you’ll like living here, though I must warn you that it gets pretty loud during football season.”

Mac nods. “Nice to meet you. I’m James.” He expects Carrie Ann to keep walking—presumably to her car—but she doesn’t, and Mac suddenly gets the feeling this conversation is about to be much longer than he wants.

“And who is this cutie?” she asks, directing her attention to the dog.

“This is Harley.”

Carrie Ann sounds like a squeaker toy, greeting Harley in a voice so high-pitched it’s almost inhuman and petting her without bothering to ask for permission. Harley eyes the woman warily but surprisingly sits still. “I love dogs,” she says at a mercifully normal decibel. “Sadly my husband is allergic.”

“That is unfortunate.” Mac shifts from foot to foot, eager to escape the small talk. He’s never really had the patience for it.

Carrie Ann, it seems, is completely oblivious to his discomfort. She prattles on, asking asinine questions about what he does for work, if he’s been to the coffee place down the street, and when she can meet his wife.

Mac doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse when Riley appears in his peripheral vision, as if on cue. “Actually,” he says to Carrie Ann, “you can meet her right now.” Mac flashes Riley a wide, bright smile that she returns half-heartedly, chest still heaving after her run. Sweat glistens on her body, and a few wispy curls that escaped her ponytail are now plastered to her face. “This is my wife, Genevieve.”

Giving Harley a quick scratch, Riley stands beside him, close enough that Mac can feel the heat radiating off her body. Instinctively, he starts to put a hand on her back, but he quickly pulls away. She’s not wearing a shirt—only a sports bra and those stupidly tight leggings—and the intimacy of putting his hand on her bare skin is too much to handle. “Hi,” she says, completely oblivious to Mac’s internal panic.

Carrie Ann introduces herself again, and Mac is only half-listening while she and Riley chat. Riley’s so much better at small talk anyway.

He’s much too focused on how Riley grabs his shoulder to use him for balance while she stretches. She’s so casual about it, like she’s done it a million times before. His skin burns under her touch.

Mac wants to feel more of her, wants his whole body to feel like that.

Stop it, he chastises himself. Stop thinking about her like that.

He can’t.

Even after Riley lets go, the feeling lingers, and Mac can’t stop thinking about that too. She’s standing slightly in front of him now, almost as if she’s protecting him from their nosey neighbor.

“When are you having kids?” Carrie Ann coos. “An attractive couple such as yourselves would make such beautiful children.”

Shit. He and Riley never talked about that.

Before Mac can come up with an answer, Riley pulls his arms around her, a smile blooming on her face. She guides his hands to rest low on her abdomen. “We’re actually trying right now.”

Mac’s brain short-circuits.

He blushes, both at the casual intimacy of Riley wrapping herself in him and at the implications of what she just said. Pressing her body fully into Mac’s, Riley looks up at him, smiling like he’s her whole world, and Mac’s heart stops. He’s not breathing.

His whole body burns, and the feeling is so much more intense than he imagined just seconds ago.

Alight with mischief, Riley’s dark brown eyes draw him in, and suddenly Mac is picturing Riley with that exact same expression while wearing far less clothing.

Mac thinks he might die from spontaneous combustion.

You are so beautiful, he barely stops himself from saying. His blush deepens as he’s snared in the mental image of him and Riley doing said “trying.”

Their neighbor has the audacity to laugh. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Genevieve. Your husband looks like he’s ready for another round.”

That makes it worse. So much worse. If he doesn’t spontaneously combust, then he’ll definitely die of embarrassment. It’s not how he wants to die, but it’s better than explaining his reaction to Riley. Because she’s going to ask him about it. Mac knows this—knows this like he knows grass is green and gravity is what keeps his feet on the ground.

As soon as Carrie Ann leaves, Riley does exactly that. She extricates herself from his grasp, putting her hands on her hips and furrowing her brow the way she always does when she knows something’s up. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Mac’s voice is strained as he replies, “Yeah. I’m good.”

He is not good. He is definitely not good.

And Riley knows it.

This op feels like all Mac’s worst nightmares coming to fruition. Simultaneously.

Riley can’t know. Her knowing would ruin everything—their friendship, their work, their trust. Mac can hardly look her in the eye. How is Riley supposed to trust him when he’s secretly thinking about her like that? He’s her friend; he’s supposed to protect her from guys who want her like that, not become one of them.

But god does Mac want to be one of them. Not one of them, he corrects himself. The only one.

He’s screwed.

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yandearest · 4 years

Text

May The Odds Be Ever in Your Favor (Hoseok x Reader Hunger Games AU) Chapter 2: Training Day

Summary - Living in District 4 you never thought you would have to worry about being selected for the Hunger Games. With a training centre right near the dock of the houseboat you lived and fished from, your district was known for volunteers who trained their whole lives for a shot at glory and riches. But at age 18, your name is called and no girls volunteer to take your place. Your devastation is answered when Kim Namjoon volunteers for the males shortly after. Tall, muscular, highly intelligent and charming, the years of diligent preparation have bestowed Namjoon with the expectation of being the next District 4 champion after Finnick Odair last won 3 years ago.

Fishing for a living has granted you skills with a knife but, as your mentor Finnick is quick to describe, your beautiful face may well be your best asset.

Upon arrival in the Capitol you are quickly faced with the reality that Namjoon may not even be the biggest danger inside the Arena. Especially when you capture the obsessive attention of District 2′s own volunteer, and killing machine, Jung Hoseok. Hope soon fades from ‘survival’ to ‘the mercy of a painless death’ but Hoseok certainly has other plans.

Pairing - Hoseok x (fem)Reader

Genre - thriller, angst, yandere

Word Count 7.2K

Warnings - [in later chapters] major character death, graphic depictions of violence, swearing, obsession, dubcon-smut (smut will be marked so reading is optional), gore, unrealistically beautiful oc because I’m a sucker for that shitty trope and want to live vicariously through my writing (sue me)

The following is a dark fic featuring a yandere character, violence, obsession, and coercion. By no means does writing about this in a fictional setting condone any of those behaviours, much like Stephen King writing horror doesn’t mean he approves of psychotic killers in reality. Please avoid reading if any of these warnings makes you uncomfortable.

Previous Chapter: 1

Cross posted on A03 so people can subscribe for updates/notifications

Training began the following morning at 10am, although when you woke for breakfast at 8 Namjoon was nowhere to be found in your living quarters. Finnick informed you that Namjoon had left to begin early as you elected for a bowl of cereal instead of the array of foods presented on the dining table. To anyone else the spread of pancakes, syrup, pastries, bagels, bacon, eggs, sausages and other delicacies you weren’t even familiar with would have appeared mouth watering. But in your state it all just looked like cardboard. You didn’t trust yourself to be able to keep anything down but knew you had to at least eat something so you wouldn’t pass out later.

You tried to make the most of the one on one time with Finnick, listening as he talked about the range of stations that would be inside the gym. For the most part he seemed to suggest being a shadow to the rest of the careers, “play along and act dumb so they think you trust them and are too stupid to make plans for yourself”. Your best bet of survival relied entirely on them underestimating you and you being able to correctly time when to stab them in the back (literally) before they disposed of you.

Once you finished barely eating, you dressed in the capitol provided athletic wear; a fitted black T shirt with decorative panels of silver and gold along the sides and the number 4 emblazoned on your sleeves, along with a pair of just-below-knee-length black leggings that also featured the same silver and gold design as a strip on the sides. After tightly lacing up your sneakers, and tying your hair into a high ponytail, you took the elevator from the floor of your living quarter down to the basement where the gym was located.

You had no idea what you were expecting, perhaps something similar to the warehouse gym back in 4, but the spacious room that you arrived in was definitely not it. To start with, despite being under ground beneath an apartment complex, it looked like it could easily fit at least five warehouses inside the space. There were so many stations set up you wondered how it would be humanly possible to even attempt all of them within your three-day time limit. There were more weapons here than you had ever seen in your entire life combined; what appeared to be a parkour racing course, a rope climb, fire making equipment, a knotting station, something that looked like a paint set up, a tablet with symbols (what use that was supposed to bring you had no idea) and many other things you weren’t sure of. A large digital clock was mounted in the middle of the wall at the back, near a rock climbing wall, displaying the time as 9:45AM. You tried to swallow down your nerves as you scanned across the room looking for Namjoon. You found him easily at the weight section, bench pressing a large barbell you didn’t care enough to read the weight on. It seemed like a pretty basic scare tactic of trying to intimidate the other districts with his strength, but it didn’t have any impact on you because you were already aware.

“What’s muscles over there trying to prove?” a sudden voice at your side caused you to start, whipping your head to see Krystal next to you. She didn’t quite smile but there was an amused look to her eyes and a little quirk to the corner of her mouth.

“Holy shit please don’t sneak up on me like that in the arena, I will literally die of a heart attack” you exhaled with an awkward laugh at the end.

“Wouldn’t be the most painful way to die in there,” Krystal retorted with a shrug. She looked different compared to last night, but you supposed you could say the same for everyone if you compared them in an elaborate costumer to their gym wear. Her sleek black hair had been braided into two French plaits down the back of her head and secured into twin buns on the bottom.

“Touché,” you agreed but quickly moved to shift the topic away from you dying. “To answer your question Namjoon’s probably trying to intimidate some kids into thinking he’s going to bench press them to death.”

Krystal gave an amused hum before gesturing towards her fellow district mate Yoongi who was lazily sitting against the wall nearby. Training hadn’t even started yet and he looked like he’d much rather be asleep. It was hard to think of him as the confidently spoken cape wearing tribute from yesterday when he was now slumped against a wall. If anything he looked quite adorable.

“We just got here, have you seen 2?”

“No, I just got here myself, Namjoon came early to get extra training in”

You looked around the warehouse again trying to spot a familiar head of copper hair or Athena’s cropped blonde pixie cut but couldn’t see either of them for now.

“If he wants to wear himself out before we even get into the arena that’s his business, but if he pulls a muscle or drops a barbell on his head, I’m not carrying him,” Krystal muttered as Namjoon grunted lifting his weights up a final time before slamming them back on the rack.

“Agreed.” You murmured whilst Namjoon finally spotted you were here and nodded towards you and District 1 in recognition, before walking over. Krystal and yourself both gave half hearted waves in reply, Yoongi looked like he had actually fallen asleep and didn’t do anything.

“Hey,” Namjoon greeted wiping his forehead on his shirt sleeve and taking a drink from his water bottle. As much as you had made light of his workout before the fact he was barely out of breath after lifting more than twice your body weight was pretty intimidating. “Have you seen 2 yet?” You were about to tell him what you had just told Krystal when a raspy voice spoke from behind you

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

Turning around you saw Hoseok and Athena walking out from where the elevators were nearby. Athena looked almost unrecognizable in comparison to her warrior outfit and smoky make up from the night before. Her short hair was pushed back with a headband and her face much rounder. She was definitely shorter without her heeled shoes and her body type much curvier than what her costume showed. Whilst Athena, Yoongi and Krystal all looked softer without their costumes and make up Hoseok somehow still managed to radiate the same aura from the tribute parade. His form fitting T-shirt and pants (in the same design as everyone else’s) accentuate his lithe build. The tights he wore showcase the definition of his calves and thighs, along with how long his legs were. The definition of his abs could be seen through the black shirt and his biceps were on display. It appeared he didn’t need any bronzing powder or contouring make-up to sharpen his facial features; his high nose and cheekbones were still just as prominent and his jawline just as sharp. He ran a hand through his hair, which was disheveled from not being styled, but somehow still managed to look good anyway.

When you make the mistake of looking into his eyes you can see that there was definitely no make up involved in the intensity of his stare from yesterday, it’s still just as unnerving this morning. The corner of his lip pulls up into a smirk as he sees you assessing his appearance and he has no shame running his eyes over your body.

“Nice of you to show up,” Namjoon grunted, clearly not impressed with the way Hoseok was staring at you again.

“Relax we’ve still got five minutes until we’re officially mean to start” Athena said as she stops beside Namjoon. She strikes up a conversation to try and distract him like Hoseok had told her to do. Why exactly she was following his instructions she didn’t really know, but she didn’t particularly care to upset him at this point so she simply played along. Namjoon was easy enough to engage, all she did was ask him what he had been doing to work up a sweat and he immediately leapt into a description of the circuit he had been training.

Hoseok moved to take the spot between Athena and yourself.

“Morning love,” he whispered under his breath, touching your elbow gently and leaning down slightly in a way that’s only intended for you to hear. You shudder at the feeling of his warm breath ghosting against the shell of your ear and curse your body for it’s unconscious reaction.

He pulls his hand away just as quickly, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention, but wishes he could maintain some form of physical contact. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that in the arena,’ Hoseok assures himself watching as your cheeks flush that same rose color they did last night. He can’t explain why, but something so simple as your blush makes him feel ecstatic. Oh the things he would do to you to see what else makes you flush that pretty color for him again.

“Hey,” you reply, trying not to break the eye contact out of fear it could be taken as a sign of weakness. He’s tall so you need to look up, but you’re not that short either so it’s not a high angle. You’d estimate the top of your head reaching around his nose if you had to guess.

“I’ve been dying to ask this since seeing you yesterday, but what is an angel like you doing at these games?” his voice is still low, but not as quiet as before, as Namjoon continues to elaborate on his morning work out whilst Athena pretends to care.

“Uh same reason nearly everyone else here is, my name got pulled out the bowl,” you tried to casually respond with a shrug but knew the devastation would have been showing in your eyes. There were some things you just weren’t capable of hiding, and your fear at your situation and imminent death was one of those things. “And you?”

Hoseok frowns and you wonder if you somehow said something wrong but then he softly shakes his head.

“Volunteer,” he states and you swallow with a nod, unconsciously shifting backwards a little. His very appearance is lethal so it really shouldn’t be a surprise at all that he’s signed himself up to slaughter people like you, just the same way Namjoon had.

“Right, I mean you’re a career,” you shrug again looking across at Krystal, Athena, and Yoongi, wondering if they were volunteers too.

“Hey,” his hand was back on your elbow again, he didn’t give a shit if the others saw him. The feelings he was already experiencing towards you had just been intensified immeasurably by the fact you were innocent in these games. He didn’t know how to possibly describe it; all he knew was that from all the words that existed, in all of the languages in the history of mankind, there would never be a way to explain it.

He saw the tremble in your body whenever he looked at you, the shudder earlier when his breath met your ear, surely you had to feel something towards him too. There was no possible way that these emotions he was experiencing could be contained in just one body, you had to be sharing this experience. Was this a ‘soulmate’ that he had only read of before in passing regarding outdated literature? He had never been the kind to believe in fate before, as far as he had trained his whole life to believe, his only destiny was to win the games and bring honor to his family. But as you stood before him, for only the second time in his life, he just knew that you had been preordained for him.

At his age of eighteen he had experienced love in some capacity before, his parents, his sister, a few close friends and a couple of girlfriends here and there but none of those emotional connections compared to you. Surely you would feel the same way about him too, but of course as the poor reaped tribute that you were, you were too afraid to be able to focus on him right now. He was furious you were even here, how dare none of the other female trainees from 4 volunteer to save your precious existence. How cruel the forces of the universe were, for gifting him with an angel only for her to be so close yet still so out of reach. These intense emotions were far too much for one person to ever experience alone, so somehow he must be possessing part of your emotions for him, because you weren’t capable of focusing on anything more than survival right now. His poor defenseless angel, how much you needed him right now.

That must be it. A trial from beyond these games where he would have to earn not just this victory but a way to make you experience your love. There had to be a reason why you were here, it’s because it was for him to prove himself worthy of you. Oh how he wishes you could have met outside, after his victory tour when he went to 4 and he could just pick you from the crowd and make you his. But that would’ve been too simple. Yes, a love like this only came once in a lifetime, he was certain, and he would need to move heaven and earth to somehow save himself and you. But there had to be a reason that the universe had put you together right at this very moment. There had to be a way for him to save you both, and he knew he would kill anyone and everyone who got in his way.

“I promised you last night, I won’t hurt you, and I meant it,” he said, squeezing your elbow – not tight enough to hurt – as if trying to implore you to believe him. His hand felt warm and his hold was firm, shooting a tingling sensation down your spine. You tried to suppress the physical affect his touch was having on you, knowing nothing good could possibly come out of any attraction. You hated just how strongly your body was reacting to him, wondering why the hell he was trying to flirt before he would inevitably try to kill you, and why your body was liking it. But even though you were a tribute, ultimately you were still only human.

“Hoseok, you literally volunteered to kill me, it’s fine,” you began as a small voice internally added ‘well it’s not fine really but that’s besides the point’. A look you couldn’t read flashed in Hoseok’s eyes and he opened his mouth to say something, but you continued on before he could speak.

“I’ve seen enough of these games to know how the career pack works. I’ll help you guys and when it comes down to the end I’ll just try as hard as I can. There’s only one winner and look at you,” your eyes were on his torso because you couldn’t bring yourself to maintain the eye contact as you spoke. The outline of his pectorals and abs that were visible through the fabric of his shirt, compared to your barely toned figure in comparison, did all the speaking in that regard anyway. Looking down at his grip on your elbow, you could see how the fingers on his large hand nearly wrapped all the way around your arm. His own biceps would easily be twice the size of yours.

“Look at Namjoon,” you subtly gestured to your much larger district-mate, “and then look at me.” You weren’t exactly unfit, all the years of physical labor from working on your family’s boat had helped give you some muscle definition, but it was nothing compared to a trained killer.

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lyi-”

Hoseok’s objection was cut off by an announcement coming from the other side of the room. It was now 10 am and everyone had to attend a briefing in regards to how training worked. Hoseok scowled at the interruption before quickly dropping your arm to avoid suspicion from the others.

“This isn’t over,” he whispered, as you followed with the others to where a dark skinned woman stood in the center of the room. She introduced herself as Atala and ran through the basics of how the next three days would work. Her commentary about dehydration and infection being as much of a danger in the arena as the weapons was particularly interesting to, you wondered if Namjoon had spent as much time on his survival skills as he did on his fighting in the old warehouse back at 4. You doubted it. You also noticed a window on the wall that your back had been facing when you entered the room, where a room of mostly men in suits with eccentric beards and wild colored hair styles were sitting on lounges. Atala introduced them as the game makers who were here to observe, sending a shiver of disgust throughout your body.

Before being allowed to focus on the stations of your choice there was a tribute wide assessment on four of the obstacles: Monkey bars, a fire making station, a memory game (which explained what that strange tablet thing was) and a one on one physical combat match with a Capital trainer. The monkey bars were first and tributes were to perform in the order of their district numbers. You were mildly surprised by how Yoongi went from appearing lethargic to swinging across the bars with ease, but as a career it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Krystal and Athena both had no trouble and Hoseok flew across the rungs twice as fast as the others. You swallowed a nervous lump in your throat when your turn came, feeling the pressure of being in a career district and having all eyes focused on you. Upper body strength had never been your strong point, and you knew the furthest you would probably be able to get was around the half way mark. The girl from 3 had struggled and fallen off nearly immediately but you still didn’t want to fail, especially not with Namjoon breathing down your neck behind you. Back at home you had needed to climb around the boat before in order to make repairs, which suddenly gave you an idea.

Jumping up to reach the bar, you used the momentum to swing your legs through and up onto the next bar in front. Hooking your ankles under you pulled your legs through the gap until you were hanging by your knees. With your weight now more evenly distributed you were able to pull yourself up and awkwardly climb over so you were then on top of the bars. From there you tried not to look down at the long fall onto the thin mat below and crawled your way to the other end before lowering yourself back down when you reached the other side.

“Unconventional, but effective” the person who was responsible for measuring the times and taking notes muttered as they scribbled down something on their clipboard.

“Not bad, spaghetti arms” Athena nodded her approval, her own arm muscles were probably close to the same size as Yoongi’s.

“Gotta know your own strengths and weaknesses,” you smiled back with a shrug. Your time was much slower than the others – Namjoon racing across the other side in a speed to rival Hoseok, right after you were done – but it was still better than not even being able to complete the course at all.

The other assessments were pretty much non eventful with predictable results. You performed decently in comparison to other reaped tributes but were definitely lacking compared to the rest of the careers. You could also detect a bit of rivalry beginning to brew between Namjoon and Hoseok as they tried to one up the other. Hoseok was the faster of the two to light a fire but Namjoon was quicker in being able to solve the memory puzzle. Both of them landed ‘lethal blow’ scores against the capital trainer in their sparring match (you had managed to land a simulated hit of the heel of your hand to the capital trainer’s nose which had counted as an ‘incapacitated blow’ – not a bad score).

With the mandatory grading over you were then given individual feedback along with suggestions on recommended training stations before breaking for lunch. After all the exercise you couldn’t help but feel much hungrier than you had before during breakfast, and helped yourself to a sandwich, along with an apple and a bottle of water from the provided catering. The feedback had been handed out on a card, in order of the district number, before you were dismissed for lunch, and you didn’t pay attention to where 1 and 2 had walked off to. Wanting to be alone anyway you walked around a corridor into an empty hallway and took a seat on the floor against the wall. Leaning back, you raised your knees and rested your elbows on your legs as you scanned across your feedback card. You noted there weren’t any grades or scores, but merely recordings of the time it took for you to complete the activity and a short written assessment next to each. At the bottom were the suggestions for which areas to focus on over the remaining days.

Your evaluation had described you as ‘a dark horse’. The Capital had picked up on the career’s alliance and noted that you were the physically weakest of the six members, however they gave you commendation for unconventional problem solving during the monkey bars. The primary suggestion was focusing on weapons based training in order to stand a chance of survival when the time came for the careers to turn against one another. There was also a suggestion to train more on agility based exercises that played to your existing skills, rather that bothering with weights or physical strength stations that would be impossible to build in such a short time.

“How did you go?”

The sudden voice and presence at your side, whilst you were intently focused on reading your card, caused you to jump and nearly swallow your last mouthful of sandwich down the wrong way. You managed to just catch it with an awkward choke, reaching for your bottle of water to swallow it down properly. To your absolute humiliation, you looked up to see Hoseok standing above you with an amused look on his face.

“Uh, fine I guess,” you muttered, fiddling with the card in your hand as he sat down beside you. “You?”

“As expected,” was all he replied with. You nodded awkwardly. You had seen him perform before you in all of the tasks and sail through each of them with ease. ‘As expected,’ meant nothing less than perfection for him. You couldn’t help but wonder if your death was going to be by his hand, and if that would just be ‘as expected’ for him as well.

“Let me see your card.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words were caught in your throat (much like your previous mouthful of sandwich) as Hoseok easily pinched your card out from your fingertips and passed you his along the carpet in return. Frowning, you picked his up, to at least pretend it was a mutual exchange.

“Did you swap cards with the others?” you asked, wondering why he was interested in your report. You skim read across his, finding commentary about Hoseok’s speed, skill and lethality, along with a note stating him as a lead contender, nothing that you weren’t already aware of.

“Nope,” Hoseok dismissed, lips pursed as he read your card much slower.

You frowned at this, passing his card across the floor and reaching over to try and grab yours back, only for Hoseok to lazily lean to the side away from you, with a hint of an amused smile. You let an annoyed huff of air out.

“So why are you reading mine then?”

At this Hoseok paused to raise an eyebrow and make eye contact with you over the top of your card in his hands.

“Because I don’t care about the others.”

He found the stunned look of confusion on your face to be absolutely adorable.

“But…” you paused, not even knowing what to say. Shouldn’t he at least care for his own district mate? Granted you didn’t care much for Namjoon but you were at least somewhat going along with him for the sake of presenting a cohesive alliance. And if he didn’t care about the alliance then what was he doing here with you? The implication of his statement was quite clear that he somehow cared about you, so what had you possibly done to warrant his apparent attention.

“Why?” was all you could eventually ask.

He lowered your card to the floor and slid it back towards you, leaning across with it. You predictably reached to pick your card back up and he instantly took the opportunity to put his hand over yours. You flinched and attempted to pull back, but his grip only tightened, forcing your hand to remain below his much larger one.

Your pulse began to rapidly accelerate. You knew he couldn’t harm you, not until you were in the arena. But to be alone and so easily caught and toyed with, by someone much more powerful than you, was frightening. You looked up from his hand to his handsome face, trying not to tremble as Hoseok stared back with a lazy smirk in place. The thumb on his hand over yours was softly stroking the skin around your wrist and you could swear your heart was pounding so fast he had to be able to feel your erratic pulse.

“Because I need you to be with me at the end.” His husky voice was a low murmur, as he leaned in closer again. Your hand remained clasped tightly below his

“So you can have an easy kill, because I’m weaker than the others?” you frown, knowing your assessment would have told him as much. But Hoseok was quick with a denial.

“No.”

“Then why?” You pushed, growing frustrated with his indirect answers and your hand still trapped in his. Hoseok only tilted his head to the side and released a sigh, looking highly amused.

“Don’t you trust me? You know I’ve promised not to hurt you darling,” his low voice grew quieter still, barely above a whisper, causing you to lean in so you could hear him better.

“Darling?” You balked at the endearment. Whatever answer you could possibly imagine coming out of Hoseok, it definitely wasn’t that. “Hoseok I don’t know what kind of game your playi-”

“You’re not a game to me.” He cut you off before you could even finish your sentence. Undeterred you rushed to speak again.

“But we’re literally in The Hunger Games and one of us is going to have to kill the other. And you and I both know how much easier it would be for you to kill me, than the other way around.”

“Oh so you find the thought of killing me unbearable?”

He quirked his eyebrow with a smirk and again you tried to yank your hand back in annoyance, but he only moved his grip further up to clasp tightly around your wrist. His long fingers easily wrapped all the way around, as he then pulled your arm back towards him, causing your upper body to lean further forward. Unconsciously you let out a breathless whimper in shock, your faces now so close you could feel his breath fanning across the side of your cheek.

“I… I don’t even know how I can kill anybody. You’re the volunteer here and clearly the better fighter between us so you would easily kill me in a final two,” you whispered, trying to turn your head away from his, only for the side of your face to press against the wall.

“Oh but darling you’re wrong, to kill you would be to kill myself.”

The hand that wasn’t pinning your wrist to the ground moved to cradle the side of your face, his fingers threading into your hair and thumb running along the top of your cheekbone.

“Hoseok, stop.” You raised your free hand to push against his chest, but he was solid as a rock and didn’t even budge. Instead he only curled his torso in towards you, pinning you in place against his body and the wall. You whimpered in fear, eyes scanning the hallway trying to find a way out, only for Hoseok to press his nose against your temple and lips to the shell of your ear.

“You may not even know it yourself but I can feel it in your pulse how your heart calls for me. Every beat I feel beneath my fingertip sings to my own, that already belongs to you. If you were to die, my heart would have no need to beat without the one it beats for.”

His deep voice was a seductive purr as his breath against your ear sent a shiver throughout your entire body. His hold on your face forced you to look back into his eyes once more, which held the same intense passion you had seen in them last night.

“How c-can you even say something like that, it hasn’t even been a day s-since we met?” you choked as you felt tears beginning to sting in your eyes.

“Because I felt it the second I laid my eyes on you, and seeing you again this morning only made me feel a hundred times stronger.

“Please stop, I’m going to be dead in a week so can you please just not turn my life into some sick joke,” it was all you could do to beg as the first tear spilled from the corner of your eye, his thumb below easily wiping it away.

“I’m. Not. Joking,” he hissed, each word punctuated by his fingers burying into your hair and clenching tightly at the roots, causing you to gasp as more tears spilled out.

“You’re hurting me,” you whimpered, the hand on his chest reaching up to try and pull at his hand that was holding onto a fist full of your hair. His grip instantly released, his hand moving to grab onto yours and thread his fingers in between your own, before squeezing tightly.

“Not as much as you hurt me whenever you try to deny me,” he retorted, pulling your hand to his lips to place a kiss upon the back.

“What do I possibly gain from a game perspective to choose you as my final partner? You said it yourself that you’re the weakest so that means I’ll need to protect you from the other four when the alliance turns. And believe me princess, I will. I’ll slaughter every one of them in cold blood. I’ll snap the neck of anyone who so much as harms a single hair upon your head. I’m going to kill them all for you baby, and I’ll make you watch so you can see just far how far I’ll go for you.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” you whispered brokenly, tears spilling freely from your eyes now.

“Because,” Hoseok dropped your hand to grab ahold of your chin as his lips moved in closer. When he spoke you could feel them brushing against yours “you’re mine.”

But before Hoseok could firmly press his lips to yours in the kiss he longed for, a sudden shout broke the atmosphere he had worked so hard to build.

“YN!”

You never thought you’d be relieved to hear the sound of Namjoon’s angry voice barking in your direction, but his appearance around the corner and into the hallway caused you to exhale a long breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

“What are you both doing here?” Namjoon growled, angrily striding towards you as Yoongi, Krystal, and Athena followed behind him.

Hoseok, who had his back turned to their direction, scowled in anger at the disruption, before quickly masking his face to a neutral expression. The sudden change in demeanour causing you to flinch.

“I found this one here having a bit of a breakdown over her report card,” Hoseok said, lazily getting to his feet and shooting you a wink as your jaw dropped in shock at his smooth and blatant lie.

“No! I- I…” You immediately went to protest only for the words to be caught in your throat. It would just be Hoseok’s word against your own. And who would believe you? His words were so insane you could barely even believe what he had just been saying.

“It’s ok YN,” he purred, as the others walked over towards you. You angrily got to your feet wiping your eyes, not wanting to be a crying mess on the floor in front of the whole group. “I was just telling her there’s no need to worry. First day freak outs can happen to the best of us.”

“I’m fine,” you scowled, crossing your arms and glaring at the floor and seeing the damned report card laying on the carpet.

“I just wanted some time to myself and if anything having someone around only made it worse” you bit back.

“Very well then,” Hoseok smirked raising his arms in a mock surrender gesture and waving his hands theatrically. “Excuse me for trying to be a good teammate.”

“I didn-” before you could rip into him, you were interrupted by another.

“Can you all give me one minute to talk to my district partner,” Namjoon grunted at the others. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, grabbing a hold of the top of your arm and dragging you further back up the hallway. You didn’t know what was worse between him bossing you around since the train ride or Hoseok’s crazy confession, but what you did know was that if anyone else tried to manhandle you again you were going to take your chances on your own in the arena. It had only been one day and you were rapidly growing sick of this alliance. You’d rather die with dignity on your own than be dragged around like a dog’s chew toy.

“Let me go,” you hissed, when you were far away enough not to be overheard, grabbing his hand and ripping it off your arm. Namjoon just rolled his eyes before staring down at you from his tall height.

“What the fuck was that about?” he asked.

For a moment you breathed a sigh of relief. Trying to convince Athena or District 1 about Hoseok losing his mind would be one thing, but Namjoon was your own team mate. You vaguely knew each other from growing up in the same town. Maybe he might actually believe you. Glancing back to the others you saw them chatting amongst themselves, Krystal was now holding your report card and Yoongi gave a dismissive shrug to something Athena had just said. As if sensing your gaze, Hoseok glanced across to make eye contact. The corner of his lip curled up and he cocked his eyebrow smugly as if to say ‘go on and tell him, see if he believes you’. You scowled at him before turning back to Namjoon and grabbing a hold of his arm (missing the way Hoseok’s nose twitched in annoyance at you initiating the physical contact with another man).

“Namjoon, please, you have to believe me,” you began, instantly lowering your voice as you squeezed his bicep imploringly – your hand didn’t even wrap halfway around the much stronger boy’s arm.

“What happened?” he asked bluntly, eyebrows narrowing into a frown.

So you told him. Speaking as quietly as possible and trying to rush through the details as fast as you could, you hurriedly told him about how Hoseok had found you alone and stolen your card, before pinning you against the wall, claiming you were his, and threatening to kill all the others. You finished by telling him how it was only through the rest of the group showing up when they did, that had stopped Hoseok from kissing you.

“It was humiliating,” you hissed out, trying to choke down the lump in your throat that had built up as you were recalling what happened.

“I don’t want to be in the career pack anymore, I can’t do it, not with him.”

You looked up at Namjoon, begging him with your eyes to believe what you had just said.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

You dropped his arm and visibly recoiled as if his words had physically hit you. As far as you were concerned he may as well have.

“Some pretty boy spouts some Romeo and Juliet bullshit so you want to leave the best chance either of us have for surviving this thing? How can you actually be that stupid?!”

You were fuming. How dare he just dismiss what had happened to you like that. You had taken a leap of faith, hoping that as your own team mate he would believe you, and instead he had virtually spat in your face as a response.

“I’m not stupid Namjoon!” You sneered. “The one year my name gets called out is the one year no girls volunteer because they knew that you were going to. If the girls who have spent their whole lives training know they can’t beat you, how the fuck do you think I feel right now? Maybe it’s easier for you because you’ve actually got a chance in these games, but I’m going to die. And none of this is my choice, you actually chose to be here! You were the one who said on the train that you wanted us to join the career pack, so I did! And now I’m the one being harassed, not you! Stop treating me like a child because I’m not just a pawn you can tell what to do until you decide to kill me.”

“If you don’t want to be treated like a child then stop acting like a pathetic fool over the first boy to give you some attention. Do you think your pretty little face is somehow special enough for Hoseok to actually fall in love with at first sight?”

“Of course not!”

“You should be thanking me for pulling your head back in from whatever deluded little fantasy he’s trying to spin. Are you that stupid you can’t tell he’s just trying to divide us so you want to work with him instead of me by the time we get to the end game? At the very least you and I know each other and I guarantee you, in that arena it’s better the devil you know”

You wanted to point out how you were the one to tell him about Hoseok, and clearly were trying to work with Namjoon instead, only for him to berate you, but logic was out the window by this stage.

“Is it? Cause it sounds to me like you’re just keeping me around until you decide to break my neck when it’s convenient for you,” you snapped instead.

“That’s how alliances work sweetheart. You watch my back in the pack to make sure 1 or 2 don’t just slit my throat in my sleep. I drag your ungrateful ass around and make sure you aren’t taken out by some amateur who wouldn’t know the difference between a liver and an intestine. Is that how you want to die? Bleeding out for hours after being stabbed by an untrained idiot and spending your final moments in agony? Would you rather die by someone beating your head in with a rock because that’s the only weapon they know how to use? Let’s see how beautiful you are with your skull smashed in huh. Or do you want to go from starvation or hypothermia because you’re lost and all alone?”

You were absolutely stunned. He was expecting you to just follow him around the arena like a little puppy, where the only incentive for doing so would be his definition of a merciful death? Before you could tell him where he could shove his alliance, your argument was cut off by the approaching voice of Athena.

“I don’t know what kind of little lover’s quarrel you two have got going on here” you could swear you heard a warning growl from Hoseok “but get your shit together. We can’t have infighting in the alliance, especially before we even get into the arena. You,” a point at Namjoon, “stop treating her like shit. And you,” a point at you, “Stop looking like you’re about to cry. You’re a career for fuck sake, a cold blooded killer. Even though you’re obviously not, you at least need to look like one to scare off the other tributes otherwise you’re going to be the lowest hanging fruit they try and pick off first.”

You stared blankly back as Athena kept talking. The other tributes. You had been so preoccupied thinking about Hoseok and Namjoon’s cruelty, you hadn’t even considered your position without them. By now you were established as a career in the eyes of 18 other tributes, regardless of if you wanted to be one or not. From the past years of the games you knew that the other districts would take any opportunity they could to eliminate a career that somehow wound up on their own.

You were completely and utterly ruined no matter what direction you chose to go.

“Hoseok, Namjoon, you two are coming with me to the obstacle course run for a few hours. We need to do some teamwork after you two had your little dick measuring contest before in the graded courses. You two need to do something to make it look like you’re unified because right now because that’s something other tributes can exploit. Krystal, YN, and Yoongi will go to the rope tying station so YN can help us with knots and show off that she’s actually needed in our alliance to the others”

Namjoon nodded curtly whilst Hoseok clearly looked more annoyed at the idea of being split from you and having to work with the Namjoon. However, he quickly covered his expression and nodded as well. Athena gave each of them a shove on the shoulder to get them moving and they walked off out the hallway and back into the training compound.

You took a deep breath, grateful to have a break from either of their presence before looking between Yoongi and Krystal. They didn’t seem particularly interested in you, their sharp eyes and beautiful features were relaxed into a neutral expression that only suggested boredom. That was perfectly fine with you. As a fisherman’s daughter you were indeed well versed in knots and grateful for the reprise which would allow you to spend some time on something you were actually confident with.

“Alright, show me where the knotting station is”

Note: This story was originally a one shot in my mind and has now reached a planned 6 chapters. Aha. I suck.

Ideally I wanted the 'before the games' section to just be one chapter, but found it was starting to get too long after this reached over 7000 words and I still have the other training days, final assessment/grade out of 12 and the interviews with Caesar to cover (those will be in the next chapter, with the games starting in the update after)

The concept of the assessment came from the 1st movie where Atala (the woman who does that ‘in 2 weeks most of you will be dead’ speech in the training centre) mentions a mandatory assessment, so I just worked with an idea from that.

This chapter hopefully showcases more of Hoseok's Yandere nature along with establishing just how much or a horrible character Namjoon is (I swear I'll do a better fic of Namjoon as the lead soon).

#yandere hoseok #yandere bts #bts x reader #dark bts #dark jhope #y!hoseok #hoseok x reader #yandere bts fic #HUNGER GAMES AU #hoseok fic #hoseok au #hoseok x you #yandere jung hoseok #dark bts au #yandere

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icicleteeth · 4 years

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Aljsdfljds so Tamriel bread post got really popular, and I realized I never actually wrote a detailed breakdown of how/why each province’s bread was designed the way they were (Mostly because I hand wrote each description in the art so I had to keep them brief alsdfj), so I thought I’d write a more thorough post about it! More under the cut--though as with everything TES related I make, these are just my headcanons!

High Rock: Given High Rock’s prosperous kingdoms, most cities and the province in general flourishes with the comfort of being wealthy and powerful (Headcanoned this way since High Rock is one of the three main powers in the alliance war during ESO’s timeline, as well as being home to two large kingdoms, being Daggerfall and Wayrest, in TES2) This richness in the economy and resources allowed for the most experimentation and decadence with the province’s food, including its bread. A lot of these individual breads were based off french breads (baguette, buttery croissant, bread rolls, etc) Cinnamon swirl breads and sugary donuts (I call dough knots here/in my fic) exist, as High Rock’s geographic location in the Iliac Bay allows for a robust importing market where spices like cinnamon and sugar are brought in regularly from other provinces.

Hammerfell: Bread in Hammerfell isn’t nearly as decadent as High Rock, as food is treated with more utility and nutrition in mind, rather than flavor. Oats and seed breads are unassuming yet filling. Oats and rye are grown in the less arid eastern lands of the province, as very little is able grow in the western Alik’r deserts. That being said, livestock raised in the west are vital to providing milk, butter, and eggs, which are used in/eaten with the breads frequently. Smaller portions such as the bagels are compact and easy to pack for long journeys across the desert.

Wrothgar: Wrothgar’s climate (specifically the greener western parts of it) allow for them to grow their own grain (typically rye). Orcs’ tastes in bread also drastically differ the bretons in that they don’t go all out with making sickeningly sweet pastries (in fact, the only time they’ll sweeten their bread is with some snowberry jam). They do, however, love huge portion sizes, as many orcs live together in large tribes with just as large tribesmen and warriors, so they bake their breads in huge loaves.

Skyrim: Skyrim’s bread was the easiest to figure out design-wise as they’re directly based off the bread you find in-game, though some parts of it (namely the decision to have a Jazbay crostata here rather than the other fruits) were chosen to fit a general theme of sweetness. Sweetrolls are famous all across Tamriel for a good reason: nordic breads, given Skyrim’s significant honey industry, are generally very sweet (as honey is used generously, in more than just the mead markets) Jazbay is referenced to be very sweet, thus the Jazbay crostata. Braided bread is very buttery and large, like most foods from Skyrim. Like orcs, the nords love their generous portions!

Morrowind (this part’s really long, apologies in advance aljsdf): The bread of Morrowind was broken up into three categories based on very differing cultures within the province: Common (Found in the mainland and settled regions of Vvardenfell) Ashlander (found within Ashlander tribes) and Northern (found in northern villages and Solstheim, with nordic influence). The Common baguette is based on banh mi, which is just “bread” in Vietnam. Vietnam (yes I’m gonna kind of derail into history I’m sorry aljsf) used to be owned by the French, so a lot of our foods share some roots in french culture, which is why Vietnamese bread is similar to french baguettes (though are different, not just in look, but texture and taste, though it’s hard to explain in words) In TES3, the encroachment of Imperial/western conquest and control plays a big part in Vvardenfell’s politics and in (especially in it’s more southwestern region) architecture and culture. I found this mixing of the west with the east to mirror Vietnam’s history somewhat, thus Morrowind’s Common bread being directly based off banh mi.

Ashlander bread was designed in mind not only for nomadic people (thus they would be quite small and compact) but also with keeping in mind that Ashlanders would likely lack access to large ovens/utensils/space to bake anything substantial, so these were based on small pan-baked buns. The bowl they’re in is a hollowed-out green shalk shell!

Northern bread is directly inspired by nordic braided bread, though it’s baked much smaller than the nords’ usual preference for large portion sizes. The influence comes mostly from Solstheim, though it’s also found in north-western cities like Khuul.

Black Marsh: This one was a bit tough to figure out for a while, as one would expect you can’t grown much of anything in swamplands. I was however able to find a reference to the existence of marsh rice in one of the A Culinary Adventure volumes (they’re lorebooks from ESO I believe, in which an Imperial writes about authentic Argonian cuisine; it’s really wild and I highly recommend them!) Therefore these are loosely based on small slices of rice bread, wrapped in large banana leaves (yes this was also taken from Vietnamese cuisine. A girl likes to include bits of her own culture in her art sometimes, even if it’s really vague aljsdfjd)

Valenwood: Probably the most controversial choice that I should’ve explained better, as the existence of the Green Pact would have one assume bread is outlawed in the province due to the use of grains (plants) needed to make it. I still wanted to incorporate mostly meat into these breads, though the fact that bread is still used is based off a headcanon that the Green Pact only applies to plants grown within the forests, but doesn’t apply to grains grown in other provinces. One could infer that, especially at the time of the alliance war, travel and trade within the Aldmeri Dominion’s other provinces was very normal, thus bread could theoretically have made its way into bosmeri cuisine, first by bosmer living in other provinces, who brought the customs over to Valenwood.

Summerset: Altmeri bread prioritizes beauty, flavor, and presentation. Very unlike the nords, they aren’t inclined to large portion sizes (the smaller the better, as one should not indulge in gluttony) but what their bread lacks in proportion is exceeded in richness and taste--essentially the bread version of $200 tiny cuts of filet mignon with a bit of $300 truffle on the side (and maybe with a glass of $1000 wine for good measure) The food ought to look and taste as beautiful as Summerset’s city, right?

Elsweyr: Breads in Elsweyr are, like Morrowind, broken up into multiple sections due to Elsweyr’s drastically different northern and southern regions. Flatbreads like naan are found primarily in the north, and heartier breads that incorporate fruits are found in the south (as fruits are more easily able to grow in these tropical climates). Though it’s important to note that trade between the north and south is common, so these breads aren’t entirely restricted by region.

Moon sugar butter cookies are popular treats found all throughout Tamriel, though not entirely in the same innocent reasons that sweetrolls are popular. Since moon sugar is a narcotic that non-Khajiiti races react poorly to, potent moon sugar cookies are sometimes smuggled via the pretense of being less potent and non-harmful cookies (which use only a tiny bit of moon sugar along with regular sugar, which is the benevolent much loved treat anyone can enjoy). Think really, really strong weed brownies that some people have probably eaten by accident, which certainly would ruin the day of both the person who ate it and the smuggler it belonged to! Though of course, just like skooma, these more potent cookies are just as often willingly sought after.

Cyrodiil: Cyrodiilic bread is based on ancient breads (I tried to pinpoint it specifically from Rome, but “ancient” can mean a lot of different things to Google, haha.) The dry, basic, and unappealing nature of these breads aren’t actually meant as a dig at Cyrodiil (at least, not from my own personal standpoint). They were designed this way based on a line in The Red Kitchen Reader, which is a story about an Imperial speaking of his passion for food. The important bit is this excerpt:

As a child growing up in Cheydinhal, I did not care for food at all. I recognized the value of nutrition, for I was not a complete dullard, but I cannot say that mealtime brought me any pleasure at all. Partly, of course, this was the fault of my family's cook, who believed that spices were an invention of the Daedra, and that good Imperials should like their food boiled, textureless and flavorless. Though I think she was alone in assigning a religious significance to this, my sampling of traditional Cyrodilic cuisine suggests that the philosophy is regrettably common in my homeland.

Thus the design of Cyrodiilic bread is underwhelming and unappetizing.

#the elder scrolls #tes #morrowind #skyrim #food #bread #foodposting

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ravenpie52 · 3 years

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I say in my video descriptions that Domicile is half scripted. Now that we’re reaching a wrap-up point: 2 episodes after the fifth plus 1 potential epilogue much later, I think I’ll pull back the curtain a teensy bit. Not enough for future spoilers, just a general guideline.

First of all, the major “plot points” related to Raven’s character arc were planned beforehand. Though, I can say that I have been coming up with a good chunk of it during my work on this, not all before. I needed to come up with certain things so that it is a satisfying series and so that I can set up needed parts beforehand: location info, buildings, special items, etc. A couple of things I knew about already because they were in the seed description and they were what led me to picking it.

The mineshafts right under my area were a TOTAL surprise. The issue was that I discovered them while in spectator mode flying around trying to take a picture for a thumbnail, so I had to place my stairs and tunnel just right to “hit” the mineshaft caves and discover them that way. It ended up working out.

The in-character explanation for Raven making specifically gold shoes is that it fits their color scheme best and matches their eyes. The real reason is that the Pacifist Mobs mod still includes the regular rules for Pigmen hating you if you don’t wear gold, and I couldn’t have that, so I had to slip in a reasoning for armor at some point and the fall damage from tower building was perfect.

Yes, I do sometimes go into creative mode while working, but it is only to make certain cheap things faster like traveling to a location to shoot, or giving myself a little extra bonemeal to make growing things a teensy bit faster so that I don’t have to wait. Creative mode is only for small time saves and fixing of mistakes. (As well as for swiftly killing mobs that my character should not be encountering. There are certain mobs Raven should NOT be seeing at certain times.)

You may notice some odd discrepancies with the exp levels between shots. Sometimes I end up killing things that shouldn’t be there, boosting villager trades early to pretend they always were that skill level, spending exp on enchanting that might go wrong, etc. I try my best to make it seem not that odd in the time between cuts but keeping track of that is painful.

For game rules, I have FireTick off because I don’t want my enchanting room to catch fire or a forest. I’m pretty sure I have MobGrief off because of creepers (I don’t want Hometown to get wrecked) and mobs trampling crops, but it might actually not be. I have KeepInventory on because I shouldn’t be canonically dying at any time anyways (for reasons) and it just causes unnecessary fuss with getting my items back and regaining exp. My difficulty is set to Easy.

I plan to have the map file public after I build on it for a while and develop it for an epilogue episode, doubling it as a build tour. There’s things I might want to build on the map in the future, but that I don’t have time in the story to film the process of, hence, an epilogue a few months after the story ends.

Now, there is a “list” of specific rules I follow while playing and recording for this series.

1. Raven does not have an inclination toward violence thanks to their formative time being spent with passive mobs and villagers. They do not witness it much and as such don’t fully get the point of it. (They kind of get what’s going on with zombies and skeletons burning [dying] in the day, but choose not to think about it.) Because of this, I am not allowed to hit any mob on purpose. All drops must be ones that I find on the ground alone. I cannot farm animals for meat, either.

2. Raven absolutely sucks at naming things. They are usually really basic noun names: Frosting, Wheat, Spruce, Corner Building, etc.

3. Raven has considerable gaps in knowledge. They do not know the names of certain things or how they work. Sometimes they may know the name of something, but not have it really memorized. Usually I can just decide whenever I choose whether Raven read about it or if it’s just something that never came up. FOR CERTAIN, the things that are a big mystery to most everyone is anything Nether or End related. (The alchemist villager Jean has Glowstone, but ignore that for my sake. Pretend that he doesn’t know where it comes from or something.)

4. I try to remember to slip in references to the piece I wrote. Raven does vocal stimming sometimes because of their association with sound (never reven never reven never reven) and they repeat their sentences sometimes. Lava is really important to them and the color orange because that represents warmth in the cold tundra.

5. Egg.

As a thanks for reading this, here, have an almost done edited timeline of episode 5 that I will probably post Friday afternoon/evening. I need to watch through it in full and make adjustments to the audio envelope to adjust volume levels. I also need to prepare a thumbnail image. But here! Proof that it’s almost done! It’s a whopping 45 minutes long!

Edit: nvm I’m having trouble with the rendering process so it’s gonna be a while longer.

#Domicile

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psychosistr · 4 years

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Snow Day

Summary: After a particularly rough day, Domino isn’t in the best mood. Fortunately, Steelbeak knows just the thing to cheer him up- all he needs is a nice day and some of his partner’s favorite weather.

Notes: This was a holiday gift for @thefriendlyfour and I hope you all enjoy it as well ^.^ As always, Domino (as well as Steelbeak’s outfit design) belongs to the ever amazing @thefriendlyfour / @eleanorose123 (though I think Domino’s winter outfit in this one was originally designed by @akysi ), so make sure you go check out their work as well! =^.^=

There were many things to like about the city of St. Canard: Exciting night life. Great views of the bay. A diverse ecosystem in and around the town. Plenty of places to eat, shop, and steal from. A resident super-hero (though that being likable was subjective). A prison with terrible security for easy escape (again, subjective).

The weather, Dominic thought, was decidedly not one of the things to like about St. Canard.

The loon and his partner, Steelbeak, had just endured an all-day mission for FOWL that involved driving all over the city in temperatures just short of freezing. Normally, the red-eyed bird enjoyed colder weather- winter was his favorite season, after all. Today, however, had been that uncomfortable kind of cold where it seemed fine at first but, over time, made you regret not choosing a warmer coat when you left (they’d both made that mistake, and had relied on his car’s heater to thaw themselves out every time they were done at one location) that only got worse when the clouds decided to precipitate just enough for it to be misty but not enough to snow, resulting in the clammy kind of cold that seeped into their clothes and had them shivering every time they stayed outside just a little too long.

Everything culminated in a showdown with Darkwing Duck at the bay where the two top-ranking agents attempted to use FOWL’s newest device, the “PRESSURIZER”, to drain all of the water and use it as an extremely dangerous high-pressure water canon to extort the town’s residents and government for billions. They had been so close to victory…until that infuriating little red headed girl that always trailed along behind the city’s protector used a hockey stick to launch a wrench that Darkwing’s (admittedly attractive) sidekick had on him in an impressive ricochet shot that perfectly hit the “self-destruct” button (Steelbeak would later swear to pay a visit to the scientist responsible for that little feature) on the console right between the two fowls. Had the resulting blast not sent the pair plummeting into Audubon Bay, Dominic would have been inclined to comment on the child making such an impressive and difficult shot so easily.

As it stood, however, he wasn’t in any hurry to congratulate the one responsible for submerging him and his partner in a bay that was one step above freezing.

Once the deadly duo had dragged themselves up from the ocean’s chilling depths, they made a hasty retreat to Dominic’s car and sped off just in time to avoid the police. While they’d avoided any major injuries (bumps, bruises, scrapes, and singed feathers were par for the course when it came to their line of work), the two agents ended the day feeling exhausted, frustrated, soaked to the bone, shivering like they were trying to avoid hypothermia (which may not have been far from the truth). Oh, and let’s not forget the cherry on top of this wonderful day- Dominic’s car now absolutely reeked of sea water from the two having to sit in it without having time to dry off or change their clothes.

By the time they got home, showered, and changed, it was late and neither man was in a particularly good mood. Both of them just wanted a few days to unwind before having to deal with anymore insanity. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

Well, apparently it was.

No sooner had the two gotten settled on opposite ends of Steelbeak’s couch, fully intent on relaxing before dinner, than the large screen across the room flickered to life on its own. Dominic held back a frustrated groan and could hear a barely muffled sound of displeasure from the lighter bird across from him.

The images on the screen came into focus and three familiar silhouetted figures appeared on it, the one seated in the middle doing the talking as per usual. “Chief Officer Steelbeak, agent Domino, we have a new mission for you.”

Dominic ignored the muttered “gimme a break” from his right, though he certainly agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly. “When do we start?”

Both agents groaned internally at their leader’s rather curt reply. “First thing in the morning at 8:00 sharp.”

He went on to explain the details of their mission, but Dominic was only idly absorbing the information (they’d be given proper instructions in the morning). What the loon got from High Command’s summarized description was that the science department had developed some sort of large egg-shaped sun-blocking device that would create a false eclipse. While the citizens of Calisota were panicking over the false eclipse, FOWL would be taking advantage of the chaos to rob multiple high-value targets at once ranging from museums to laboratories.

Apparently this all had to be done tomorrow, as it was the only day of the coming weeks predicted to have a substantial amount of sunlight for the device’s deployment to make a significant impact.

Although Steelbeak seemed just as thrilled (maybe even less so) than his partner, the lighter FOWL managed a convincingly neutral acceptance of their orders. “Sure thing. We’ll be up an’ waitin’ for the call.”

After receiving a similar acknowledgement from Dominic, the screen went dark once more.

With no more eyes on them (at least, they were fairly certain there were none, it was hard to tell sometimes whether or not with that thing..), the chief officer and his partner finally vocalized their displeasure- Dominic with a frustrated sigh and Steelbeak with an irritated groan.

“No rest for the wicked, it seems.” The loon shook his head, not bothering to hide his scowl anymore. “You’d think we’d get at least ONE day off after what they just put us through…”

Steelbeak rolled his eyes, his scowl matching the darker bird’s. “That’s the problem with those ‘workin’ behind the shadow’ types- they get t’ sit around all day tellin’ everyone else what t’ do an’ forget how exhaustin’ it is bein’ a field agent……like t’ see ‘em try runnin’ ‘round all day an’ deal with stupid heroes shootin’ junk at ‘em…” The last sentence was muttered disdainfully, but was certainly not lost on the other man.

“Now that is something I’d pay to see.” Dominic sighed, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes. Might as well relax while he could, seeing as he’d have to head straight to bed after dinner to make sure he had enough energy for tomorrow. “That or some bad weather…I’d actually pay for it if it meant having a day off.”

With his own eyes closed, the loon missed the look of realization that appeared in the lighter fowl’s dark eyes….and the devious smirk that soon followed…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A loud, rather irritating ringing woke Dominic up from his slumber. Rolling onto his side with one red eye barely open to peer at his bedside clock and the covered window across the room, he was further irritated by the fact that it was too early for his alarm to go off- it was only half past five and he’d been hoping to rest until at least seven. The ringing, he soon realized, was coming from his phone rather than his alarm clock.

While he was very tempted to simply ignore whoever thought it was okay to call him before the sun was even starting to rise, the half-awake loon recognized the ring tone and, resignedly, answered it.

Just because he deemed the one calling him worthy of being answered, however, didn’t mean he was pleased by the literal wake-up call. “Steelbeak..you have five seconds to convince me not to go next door and smother you to death with one of your tacky pillows..”

That distinctive laugh could be heard through the receiver, sounding far more awake than anyone had any business being at this time of day. “Well, good mornin’ t’ you too, sunshine.” Before Dominic had a chance to protest the mocking nickname or threaten to hang up, the much more awake fowl continued speaking, this time in a slightly more serious tone. “Get up an’ get dressed, we’re leavin’ in fifteen. Don’t worry ‘bout breakfast, I’ve got ya covered.”

Well that certainly helped wake him up. Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, Dominic sat up and stretched his legs to help get his body on the same page as his mind. “What happened? Did High Command call and change the time?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, it’s not that big of a deal. Just get dressed an’ meet me in the hall.” Just before he hung up, Steelbeak added one more thing as an afterthought. “Oh, an’ wear somethin’ warm- warmest ya got.”

Looking down at the phone in his hand once the dial tone began to play, Dominic was left with more questions than answers. Had the temperature gone down further since yesterday? Had something come up that changed High Command’s plans? Why was Steelbeak so awake and aware of what was going on?

Despite the many questions floating through his now-awake brain, Dominic did as his partner instructed and got ready for the day. Once his feathers were straightened properly, the loon opened his closet and moved aside his usual outfits for a much warmer one that he typically reserved for the coldest time of the year: A white coat with both light and dark blue accents, a belt-like clasp, a blue and white snowflake emblem on the bottom above the fluffy white trim, and even kept the aesthetic of his usual outfit by placing white buttons in a domino-like pattern over the blue squares of fabric on his torso. The coat had matching white gloves, blue and white boots, a white scarf with a snowflake emblem like the one on the bottom of his coat that was currently tucked into his collar to help him stay warm, and a white pork-pie style hat (he would never understand why people named clothing styles such ridiculous things, but the hat was comfortable) with a light blue hat band and two blue dots to match the coat’s motif.

By the time he left his apartment, Steelbeak was waiting in the hall for him with two thermoses of coffee. The taller man was also dressed in a different outfit than usual, but sharp red eyes could still see the edge of a white sleeve under the hem of the rooster’s long dark red coat that was zipped up all the way to the top, the brown fur-lined hood resting on his shoulders. While his pants were black like usual, they were thicker and reminded the loon of ski pants. The black gloves and dark red sunburst style boots (again, who chooses these names?) lined with fur that matched his hood completed the look.

Holding out one thermos for the darker bird to take, Steelbeak took a sip of coffee from his own and gave his partner a knowing grin. “Took ya long enough. C’mon, we gotta get goin’ ‘fore it gets too late.”

Dominic gladly took the thermos and its energy-granting contents, pleased as always to find it prepared exactly how he liked it- today’s batch even had traces of peppermint, which brought a small smile to the loon’s dark beak before he followed the rooster to the elevator at the end of the hallway. “Too late for what, exactly? The sun shouldn’t be up for another two hours.” He still had plenty of questions that had yet to be answered.

“Exactly.” A black-gloved finger pressed the button for the elevator, its owner smiling over the minor victory of the doors opening immediately rather than having to wait for them. “That’s why we gotta be back before then in case High Command calls.”

“Wait..” Dominic followed the taller man into the elevator, but made his confusion over their early departure transparently clear. “If High Command hasn’t called yet, then why are we leaving?”

The loon’s answer was that same knowing grin from before- the one that both frustrated him for being out of the loop regarding whatever was going on but also intrigued him because Steelbeak didn’t normally keep secrets (at least, not from HIM) for very long and usually shared whatever juicy bit of information or despicable plan was rattling around in his devious brain. “All you need t’ know is that it’s VERY important an’ you’re gonna be glad we left early. Trust me.” Well THAT just left the shorter bird with even MORE questions. Unfortunately, any further inquiries were put on hold once the elevator doors opened again and the duo stepped out into the parking garage. “We’re takin’ my car ‘til yours stops smellin’ like a mermaid’s bedroom.”

Dominic had no problems with that and willingly followed the other fowl to his overly flashy car- he wasn’t really in the mood to drive and probably wouldn’t be until he’d gotten through his first coffee. “Do I even want to ask how you know what that would smell like?”

“I’ve been ‘round the block a few times. Let’s just hope we don’t get any missions in the south pacific anytime soon.” Steelbeak’s chuckle made it hard to tell if he was joking or not, a typical part of his sense of humor that Dominic had gotten used to over the past five months of their relationship. He made a mental note to ask about the alleged mermaid encounter another time while the two of them got settled into their seats. “Put this on.”

Looking up from buckling his seatbelt, red eyes widened in mild disbelief when he saw the fabric being presented to him. “A blindfold?” Thinking he’d perhaps jumped to conclusions too soon, Dominic looked over the long strip of black silk with a gaudy pink heart pattern once again, but, no, it was definitely a blindfold, albeit a rather tacky one that made half of his mind want to ask why the other man had something like that in his possession…and the other half had a feeling it already knew... “Why-”

“I’m aductin’ ya.” The taller fowl jokingly said with that infuriatingly intriguing grin. “But you’re gonna love it, trust me.”

Red eyes rolled in feigned annoyance as Dominic took the blindfold with his free hand, but didn’t make any moves to put it on just yet. “And why, exactly, should I ‘trust you’ and impair my vision after you’ve admitted to abducting me?”

“ ‘cause you’d still kick my butt, even if ya couldn’t see it.” Well, yes, that was definitely true…and this was Steelbeak he was dealing with- the man hadn’t given him any reason not to trust him sine they’d started going out…

……

…………

“….Fine..” Setting his coffee down momentarily, Dominic tied the tacky silk over his eyes and leaned back in the passenger’s seat once he had the thermos back in his hands. “If you try anything, you’re hand is going straight into the bay…without the rest of you going in after it.”

Though he could no longer see it, the loon could easily hear the smirk in the metal-mouthed fowl’s voice as the car rumbled to life around him. “Wouldn’t dream of it, short-fuse.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was hard to tell how long they’d been driving with his vision obstructed, but Dominic had finished his coffee by the time he felt the car shut off. “Can I take this ridiculous thing off yet?”

There was a beat of silence, as if the vehicle’s other occupant was giving the question serious thought. “Hmmm…yeah, I guess so..” Before the white gloved fingers could start on the knot, however, an addendum was added to the previous comment. “But don’t open your eyes.”

Even with his eyes covered, Dominic hoped that the glare he was sending the other bird’s direction would still be noticeable. “I hope you know my patience is wearing thin. You’d better have a good reason for waking me up before dawn, dragging me out of bed, and taking me on a joyride without giving me ANY-”

“I’ve got a good reason. I promise.” Steelbeak’s voice was resolute. His tone betrayed no signs of mischief or ill intent, not that Dominic really expected there to be any, but it was still somewhat reassuring to hear it, anyway... “You’re just..gonna have t’ trust me on this one, Deedee.”

Dominic was prepared to argue the point, or simply take the blindfold off and be done with the whole charade (yesterday’s disasters combined with his unexpected awakening didn’t have him in the best of moods)……but that pause in Steelbeak’s last sentence gave him pause, as well.

The larger man didn’t sound as confident as he had leading up to this point. He sounded almost…hesitant? Uncertain? It was hard to say. Either way, it sounded more like he was asking for Dominic to trust him, rather than demanding it, but it was almost as if he wasn’t sure he’d be given such a thing…

“……” Taking in a very slow, deliberate breath before exhaling it in equal measure, the white gloved fingers finally began their task of untying the blindfold. “Fine.” Once the silk was gone, red eyes remained firmly shut. “But my earlier statement still stands.”

He heard a brief chuckle, but this one sounded relieved rather than amused. “Don’t worry, you’ll like this, I promise.” The car door on his left opened and shut, followed by a minute of silence before his own door opened. He felt a light tug on the blindfold still being clutched in his hand. “This way.”

Dominic followed his partner’s lead out of the vehicle, hearing the door close behind him once he was far enough away. He heard a brief click afterwards, as if something had been opened, but couldn’t tell what it was. As he was lead further away from the car, he noticed an odd sound and sensation below his boots- the ground beneath him was…crunchy? That was the only way he could think to describe it- crunchy in sound and loose in texture. “Where exactly are we?” He thought for a moment they were at the beach, but the sand there wouldn’t make this sort of noise. It…kind of felt like-

There was a creaking sound, like something heavy and metallic being pushed open. “Why don’t ya open up those pretty red eyes of yours an’ see for yourself?”

Taking the other man’s advice and doing so, Dominic’s red eyes finally opened for the first time since he’d gotten into the car with his partner, and what he saw momentarily took his breath away before it was exhaled in a visible puff.

The two fowls were standing just inside the gates of the very same park they went to during their first date. While it was still dark out with only the dim lighting of the street lamps providing any visibility, there was one very noticeable difference this time:

Snow.

Every inch of the park- and the city as a whole, it seemed- was covered in a thick blanket of snow. The park’s grassy fields had been completely buried under the fluffy white precipitation, as had the walking trails and sidewalks in and around the park. The trees and other shrubbery resembled cotton balls with how thoroughly their foliage had been coated, and in the distance Dominic could even see that the lake had frozen over. There were already so many of the beautifully cold flakes scattered about, and even more still falling from the thick, dark clouds above that showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Curious as to how he hadn’t felt the falling snow sooner, the loon’s red eyes drifted up and finally took notice of the large black and white striped umbrella above him. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw his partner watching him with an amused yet fond smile while holding the umbrella with his free hand.

The expression brought a slight flush to the darker bird’s cheeks that, even if it were noticeable, he’d blame on the cold if he was ever called out for it. “H-How-” He had even more questions now than before he’d gotten in the car, and, downplaying the slight stutter to his speech by clearing his throat and pretending it was just a dry throat from the cold air, he was intent on finally receiving some answers. “How is this possible? The reports all said it was supposed to be sunny today.”

Steelbeak shrugged one shoulder, the grin on his gleaming beak betraying the words that left it. “Y’know how unpredictable the weather is ‘round here…‘specially with all the supervillains runnin’ ‘round changin’ things just ‘cause they feel like it.” Apparently deciding the umbrella was no longer needed after the big reveal of his surprise, Steelbeak closed it and set it by the park gate. “Or, y’know, if someone offers ‘em a few million big ones t’ start a snowstorm and ‘suggests’ a few choice places t’ hit up an’ keep any annoyin’ superheroes busy.”

Dominic followed the lighter bird as he ventured deeper into the park, giving him a curious look accompanied by a quirked brow. “If you made all of this happen, then why was it so important to get out here this early? We could’ve waited until the sun was up.”

Hands now resting comfortably in the pockets of his coat, Steelbeak gave another calm shrug. “I dunno ‘bout you, but I don’t exactly trust the ‘freaky four’ t’ practice things like restraint.” Dark eyes glanced up at the thick clouds and the still plentiful amount of snow falling down on the city below. “At the rate this stuff’s fallin’, I figure we got about three hours before the snow drifts get taller than you…short fuse.” He side-eyed the loon with a smirk. Red eyes rolled as Dominic shook his head, choosing to ignore the jab at his height compared to his monumentally tall partner. (Honestly, though, who didn’t seem short compared to him?) “And..” The loon’s attention returned to the other fowl when he heard the slightly softer, less sef-assured tone in Steelbeak’s voice. Steelbeak was glancing away now, a bit of red visible beneath his off-white cheek feathers. “I..know ya love this stuff…figured you’d wanna come out an’ have some fun before the whole town gets snowed in…plus there’d be no one out this early, less people around an’ all that…”

It was once again Dominic’s turn to blush. Any irritation he’d felt from his unplanned awakening was forgotten almost instantly. Now that he had a chance to look at- really look at- his partner, he noticed the things he’d missed earlier in the chaotic whirlwind of events leading up to this point: His feathers had clearly not been preened since his shower the previous night. His comb wasn’t standing up quite as straight as it usually did. His eyes were bloodshot, albeit only slightly- he must’ve taken eye drops at some point to hide it. His eyes also had dark circles under them that indicated-

“You didn’t sleep last night.” Although the red-eyed fowl was truly touched by how much thought Steelbeak put into all of this, he still couldn’t help but ask- “Why?” He elaborated further when he was met with a confused look from the taller bird. “Why go to all this trouble?”

The question made a grin appear once more on the metal-mouthed rooster’s beak. “C’mon, stripes, between the two of us, YOU’RE the one that actually WENT t’ school.” He chuckled, the grin on his face practically beaming. “Thought you’d know what a ‘snow day’ was.”

“A..snow day?” Wow, that was a term Dominic hadn’t heard since his school days.

“Ding, ding! Startin’ t’ ring any bells yet, wise guy?” Steelbeak teased as the pair walked over the park’s snowy trail (or at least what one could assume to be since it was slightly lower than the ground around it). Once he’d had his laugh, though, the rooster’s grin softened into something calmer. “High Command needed a sunny day t’ make their plan work- no sun, no stupid eight AM mission, so we get the day off. Plus, even if High Command decides they wanna try somethin’ else, they’re gonna need time t’ come up with a new plan an’ send a helicopter t’ pick us up since the streets’ll be too buried t’ drive by then, so we get plenty of time t’ relax an’ enjoy breakfast when we get back.” One dark gray eye winked down at the loon playfully. “Sounds like a win-win, if ya ask me.”

Darn, that grin was infectious. “A win-win indeed.” Dominic’s own dark beak soon lit up with a smile as he nodded in wholehearted agreement. He had to give credit where it was due- that was a very well thought out and expertly executed plan. “I have to say, I’m impressed you came up with all of this so quickly.”

“Hey, I didn’t get t’ be Chief Officer just ‘cause of my good looks- there’s a pretty big brain behind this gorgeous mug.” Ah, and there was that cocky grin and wink followed by the exaggeratedly “flirtatious” eyebrow wiggle that never failed to make the loon laugh.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Dominic wasn’t sure how, but he managed to get the whole sentence out with only a few quiet, barely restrained chuckles slipping in. If there was one thing that Steelbeak knew how to do, it was make his partner smile and laugh and feel a hundred times lighter than he had before.

After the misery of the previous day, Dominic decided, he’d gladly take this much more pleasant alternative.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The deadly duo spent a while simply walking around and admiring the fresh-fallen, undisturbed beauty of the snow covered park. It felt so much like their first date- the two of them just walking around, conversing freely, enjoying one another’s company without anyone around to bother them; he’d even talked Steelbeak into ice skating with him over the frozen lake and was pleased to see that the rooster’s balance had improved considerably, only needing to be helped up a handful of times.

While it felt similar, though, it also felt like a completely different experience altogether. Back then, they’d still been getting to know each other, getting used to one another. Now, they were still learning things about each other, but there was a greater feeling of familiarity, as well as a sense of comfort that came from that familiarity. There were still boundaries they were discovering and learning how to work around, but it was leaps and bounds from where they were before that night almost half a year ago.

As he passed beneath a tree off of the park trail, Dominic’s musing on his relationship with his partner was stopped by a sudden clump of snow falling onto his hat.

He tipped his head back, looking up at the glistening branches curiously and allowing the frozen flakes still resting on his hat to fall off. Well, the tree WAS heavily coated with snow and ice, a stray breeze could have-

Another clump of snow, this one rounder and more firmly packed, descended at a slight curve- as if it had been thrown from somewhere behind him- towards him and hit the surprised loon in the face before he had time to move away. “!!” Brushing the snow from his eyes, he looked back over his shoulder at the only other person in the park. “I saw that..”

Steelbeak, who’d stopped a few feet away from the tree to kneel down and adjust one of his boots, gave the loon a slightly raised brow and his best attempt at an earnestly confused expression. “Saw what?” His attempt at faking innocence would have been much more effective if it wasn’t clear that he was holding back a smile and that one of his gloves still had snow on it.

Oh, so he wanted to play games, huh? Fine. Dominic could play, too. “Nevermind…must have been my imagination…”

Stepping closer to the tree, one of the loon’s hands was freed from its glove- his back to the rooster as he walked around the base to keep it out of his sight. After slipping the glove into his pocket, his still-gloved fingers trailed along the snow-covered tree. From an outside perspective, it would look like he was idly tracing simple patterns into the powdery snow of the trunk. In reality, however, he was readying his ammunition. By the time there was enough snow accumulated in his covered palm, Dominic had reached the other side of the tree and was able to quickly transfer it into his other hand without being noticed. A quick packing between both hands and the sharpshooter had his weapon locked and loaded.

When he suddenly made a sharp turn and jumped back out the way he came, Dominic was not at all surprised to see Steelbeak waiting with another sizable clump of snow in his hands, clearly prepared to throw it at the other side of the large tree with his hands raised over his head.

Steelbeak, on the other hand, was very surprised to see the loon doubling back and catching him in the act. So surprised, in fact, that he didn’t have time to dodge the snowball that was sent hurtling towards him. “!!!” The snowball found its target’s face, causing said target to let out a startled squawk from literally going snow-blind. The whole ordeal made his hands move just enough to turn his own weapon against him, the clump of snow that was once above him now falling all over his head and torso. “Hey, no fair! Cheap shot!”

Dominic smirked at the prone rooster, quickly forming more ammunition and ducking behind the tree for cover while his “enemy” was busy shaking and wiping snow off of himself. “I was merely returning the favor- now we’re even.”

With his vision restored and most of the snow removed, Steelbeak smirked as well and readied another oversized snowball. “Well, it ain’t gonna stay that way for long.”

And with that, the war had begun. The entire park quickly became a battleground as two expertly trained secret agents crafted and launched their handmade weapons at one another.

Dominic had the clear advantage- snow was his favorite weather and he was truly in his element. The aquatic fowl was able to quickly craft practically perfect spheres from the terrain around him and throw them with pin-point accuracy. The tree he’d stationed himself behind made for good cover between shots, allowing him to safely stockpile ammunition and retreat when he was under heavy fire. From time to time, he’d dart out and weave between the surrounding foliage to fire off multiple shots and even slid across the lake a few times to stay ahead of his adversary.

Steelbeak, on the other hand, was clearly not as used to interacting with the frozen liquids he attempted to wield. The metal mouthed fowl didn’t have the finesse (or apparently the knowledge to take off his gloves and use the heat of his hands to melt the dry flakes) to craft small snowballs, and instead scooped up large quantities of the loose powder and form what could only be described as “snow cannonballs”. These larger projectiles took more time to make and weren’t as precise as his quick-footed and quick-witted rival’s smaller spheres, but they were capable of devastating damage when they managed to hit and knocked the slippery sharpshooter off of his feet more than once.

The battle raged for longer than either combatant cared to keep track of, the once pristine park now full of holes and gashes from their wintery war. The two snow covered fowls laughed and shot comebacks at one another along with their projectiles. It was certainly a sight to behold- a duo of deadly spies who carried out assassinations and mass slaughters of enemies on a regular basis now using their battle skills and instincts to throw balls of snow at each other with the excitement of school children. If anyone from work- be it an eggman, fellow agent, or Darkwing Duck himself- were to see the well-known chief officer of FOWL and his normally stern, red-eyed-glare wielding partner and tell others what they’d witnessed, chances were that no one would ever believe them.

Dominic himself could hardly believe it, but he was having far too much fun to stop. Retreating back to the trunk of his chosen shelter, the loon managed to hit Steelbeak’s large and vibrant tail feathers with his last snowball before working rapidly to replenish his supply.

“Yeow!” Steelbeak yelped from the packed precipitation striking his perfectly plumaged posterior. “Ohh, you’re gonna get it for that one!”

From his hiding spot, Dominic could hear the larger bird making another of his plus-sized snowballs. “We’ll see about that!” He parroted the other man’s earlier words over his shoulder while topping off his ammo cache. Confident he could dodge whatever size the lighter fowl’s newest snow monstrosity happened to be, Dominic left his makeshift fort and prepared to fire off his more manageable artillery.

His confidence was immediately shaken by the small-boulder sized chunk of snow hitting his face with enough force to send him toppling into a deep snow bank.

It took a minute for Dominic’s world to stop spinning, and a few more seconds for his senses to return enough to realize that the hazy white blur he saw was snow piled around his head and (thankfully) not spotty vision caused by a concussion. As he sat up, the loon shook the snow off of himself, needing to retrieve his nearly camouflaged hat from the white mound.

His attention was soon stolen, however, by the menacing shadow that was cast over him. Looking up, red eyes widened at the sight of his opponent holding an absolutely MASSIVE chunk of snow even larger than the last one over his head with a smirk. “Any last words, wise guy?”

Hands planting themselves against the ground behind him in preparation to run or fight back, Dominic’s gaze darted rapidly around his surroundings. There had to be a way out of this!

Then, he found it- his bare hand touching something textured and rough hidden within the snow. Looking back up at the tree above them, a plan at last formed in the clever fowl’s fiendish mind. He’d only have one shot at this…

Gripping the object he’d found, Dominic smirked while making eye contact with the unaware rooster. “Yes…but would it be in bad taste to say ‘freeze’?” Without any further explanation, the loon’s bare hand emerged from its hiding place in the snow to briefly reveal the stick it was clutching before throwing it at a sharp angle that just barely missed the other fowl’s head.

“What the-?!” Steelbeak, at first thinking the projectile was meant for him, instinctively ducked to avoid it, nearly dropping the colossal cold-ball clutched in his hands. Thinking himself safe, he smirked back down at the presumed-defenseless loon beneath him. “Your aim’s slippin’, Deedee- ya missed.”

“Oh, I don’t miss.” The darker bird replied with a wicked smirk before putting his weight back onto his arms and rolling the extra foot he needed to avoid what was about to happen.

Following the other man’s red-eyed gaze up to the tree he was still standing beneath, Steelbeak’s own dark eyes widened at the sight of the stick Dominic had thrown striking the completely-snow-covered top of the tree. By now, there was so much of the frozen precipitation accumulated on its branches that it looked nearly twice its normal size. This made the realization of what was about to happen all the more chilling- in more than just the literal sense.

“Hmph…well played, stripes..” Was all Steelbeak could get out before the domino effect came into play. The disturbed snow on top of the tree fell, falling into and shaking the snow on the next branch. This pattern cascaded down through every level of the tree, resulting in a miniature avalanche that left the large fowl buried under an even larger mound of snow before he had time to run away.

The backdraft of air and snow was strong enough that Dominic had to shield his eyes with his gloved hand, holding onto his hat with the other to keep it from blowing away. Peeking out once the air had settled, a pleased smirk found its way to the loon’s beak as he observed his handiwork: The entire base of the tree and a good portion of the trunk were now buried in snow. Where his opponent once stood was crumpled lump in the mound of white flakes with no sign he was alive other than the single black-gloved hand sticking straight up like a flag- one of surrender, the loon mused jokingly.

Deciding it would be best for everyone if the taller man didn’t catch hypothermia or pneumonia, Dominic figured it would be best to show mercy for once and dig his fallen adversary out of his precipitated prison. Dawning his second glove once again, white-covered hands made short work of shoveling the equally white powder away from the lump beneath the extended black glove. After a minute or two, he found a gleaming metal beak within the snow, and soon the rest of the head attached to it became visible.

Dark grey eyes blinked the world into focus as their owner looked up dramatically. “Wow, think I finally found the light at the end of the tunnel.” The same eyes glanced over at his rescuer, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smirk. “Gotta say, you’re not quite what I expected an angel t’ look like……but I ain’t complainin’.”

Dominic returned the look in kind and winked down at the still partially buried man beneath him. “Keep it up and I’ll send you to heaven my way.” A quiet laugh shook the smaller bird’s shoulders as he shook his head with an undeniably fond smile. “While I do admire your ability to flirt while half frozen, frostbite isn’t exactly charming- let’s get you out of there, shall we?”

With a quiet chuckle of his own, Steelbeak started sitting up to extricate himself from his icy prison. “Yeah, probably for the best..think I feel my tail feathers freezin’ o-” He froze (not literally for now), eyes blinking in surprise as they looked from the loon’s face down to his own hand that was still sticking out of the snow.

Clasped firmly around the rooster’s large black-gloved hand was a smaller one clad in white.

Dominic knew what the other’s look was about and why the normally talkative man had gone uncharacteristically silent. “It’s fine.” He offered with a small but reassuring smile before digging his heels into the snow and pulling the other man back up onto his feet.

Once he was back to his usual towering six and half foot (seven if his comb was counted) height, Steelbeak looked down at the hand still clasped around his own with an expression somewhere between elated and nervous. “So…am I ‘bout t’ go swimmin’ in the bay after that..?”

Dominic shook his head, giving the larger palm in his own a light squeeze for reassurance. “Not this time. I want to keep it around for now.”

The nervousness left the lighter fowl’s expression, leaving him with a smile that tried its best to look calm but was undermined by the excited gleam in his dark eyes. “Keep it for as long as ya want, red eyes.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” The loon gave a softer smile, two sets of fingers in contrasting colors lacing and locking together as if it were their natural state.

Steelbeak, as well as many other individuals within FOWL, were well aware of Dominic’s “quirk”, as High Command liked to call it. After witnessing the loon lose it more than once on some poor, unsuspecting fool that made the innocent mistake of putting their hand on the touch-triggered bird the wrong way, the chief officer had made it a mental priority to always be mindful of his partner’s contact-based aggression and avoid touching him without warning, even after they’d started dating. He never made any “moves” on the darker fowl like he would with the girls he’d “dated” in the past- no sneaky arm finding its way around an unaware shoulder or waist, no sudden brush of fingers along the side of a striped neck, or even a suave attempt to steal a kiss. The rooster had a front-row seat to multiple showings of what the shorter man could do when someone didn’t properly respect his personal space, and he was determined to never be anything more than an observer if he could help it. He’d only taken what he was given and never even made a move to hold the aquatic avian’s hand.

While Dominic was definitely grateful for Steelbeak’s cautious-patience and respect for his boundaries, he felt the taller man fretted a bit too much about it from time to time. They’d been together for months now, seen each other through countless moments both life-threateningly dangerous and calmingly domestic. At this point, out of everyone in his life, his partner was the one person he felt the most confident that he wouldn’t hurt with one of his violent outbursts.

The discomfort would always be there in the back of his mind, Dominic knew this from the time he’d spent with his last partner and the others he’d dated before, but it was worth it for the warm feeling that bloomed within him. The contact was diluted by both of their gloves, allowing him to feel and familiarize himself with the sensation of Steelbeak’s palm and fingers against his own without letting the discomfort build up too much. He knew he would want more soon, and he could tell from the longing looks he’d caught when the rooster let his guard down from time to time that Steelbeak wanted it as well, but, right here, right now, it was enough for both of them to stand in the snow together with their fingers entwined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pair of snow-covered agents arrived back home just in the nick of time, giving themselves about fifteen minutes to change out of their winter attire, rid themselves of any traces of their pre-dawn excursion, and throw their usual coats on over top of more casual clothes to give off the image of readiness. They staged themselves in Steelbeak’s living room, acting like they were about to leave just in time for the communication screen to turn itself on.

“Chief Officer Steelbeak, Agent Domino.” The usual speaking member of High Command looked less than pleased. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Dominic, doing an excellent job of feigning ignorance, looked at his leader with a confused expression, one brow raised inquisitively. “Why? Did something happen to the device?” From the corner of his eye, he caught Steelbeak trying not to smirk and barely succeeding.

The silhouetted person shook his head with a scowl. “The Fearsome Four decided to bury the entire state in a snow storm. The mission is cancelled for now, but be ready in case the weather changes.”

Receiving a “Yes, sir” from both agents, the screen went dark once more.

Steelbeak gave his partner a knowing smirk. “Somethin’ tells me this storm ain’t stoppin’ for a while. How ‘bout we get nice an’ comfy ‘til then?”

Dominic gave a knowing smirk of his own. “Of course- we’ll need to save our strength for when it clears.”

There was a beat of silence before both of their expressions melted into amused grins and they laughed quietly over their flawless performance. The pair took off their coats and hung them on Steelbeak’s coat rack to enjoy their more comfortable attire- Dominic wearing a soft red turtleneck sweater and Steelbeak sporting a light grey long-sleeved Henley style shirt (again, who gets payed to pick these names?) with dark blue trim and a pair of slightly darker grey sweatpants.

Within half an hour they’d lit a fire in Steelbeak’s fireplace- Dominic withheld his remarks about how unnecessarily extravagant it was to have a fireplace in an apartment complex with fully functioning heat since, begrudgingly, he had to admit it was appropriately cozy on a day like this- and the loon was seated patiently in the same spot as last night while his partner brought him a more substantial breakfast than his earlier coffee.

As he waited, Dominic brought the tall mug in his hands to his lips and took a sip with a pleased hum. While it didn’t have the same kick as his previous drink, he wasn’t about to complain about the creamy hot chocolate Steelbeak had prepared for him- the kind made by pouring hot milk and cream over chocolate until it melted, not “that watered down powdered garbage” as the rooster would put it- especially not when he’d made him a peppermint one with red striped marshmallows. There were even bits of crushed candy cane coating the rim and a pair of full sized candy canes hanging from the edge. Picking one up by its crook, the content loon used the candy to briefly stir his drink and melt into it before popping it into his mouth and happily eating the remains.

Dominic had once mentioned to Steelbeak that candy canes were a preferred treat during winter when they’d been having a conversation about comfort food. The peppermint sticks were a childhood favorite- a preference that was quite fortunate since many places gave the sweet treats out for free once the “holiday spirit” began to spread, making it an easy to obtain a bit of food when his mother was unable to provide more than the bare minimum needed for the two of them to survive. His love for the striped sweets continued into adulthood, giving him a fondness for the simple candy whenever the season came about.

That bit of information had only been shared between the two once, but it was apparently enough for Steelbeak to plan ahead and keep a box of candy canes handy in his large pantry. He’d never admit he went out and purchased them simply because his partner liked them, though, even if he himself wasn’t as big of a fan of peppermint (that little prank on their first date probably didn’t help much).

This, Dominic had realized some time ago, was something Steelbeak did often- holding onto small, seemingly inconsequential bits of information and using them to surprise his partner later. Dominic mentions his favorite color while they’re making fun of a ridiculous fashion model show? He receives a new shirt in that color a few weeks later. Dominic makes a disgusted face and shudders upon seeing a cockroach while they’re in a warehouse? Steelbeak suddenly starts killing or removing any insects he sees when they’re together. Dominic mentions on their first date that he enjoys snow and ice skating? His partner pays supervillains to alter the weather and takes him out early to enjoy it properly.

It may have been an instinct developed after spending nearly two decades as a spy- information had value in their line of work, after all- or it may have simply been a trait unique to Steelbeak himself. Either way, Dominic found it extremely endearing and was grateful for his partner’s memory and small acts of care & consideration.

A plate fresh cinnamon rolls and blueberries being set on the coffee table in front of him brought Dominic’s gaze up to look at the very man who’d been occupying his thoughts.

Steelbeak, balancing a matching plate in one hand and a large mug of hot chocolate in the other, winked down at the loon as he set his own breakfast on the table near his end of the couch. “Told ya I had breakfast taken care of, Dom.”

“A good thing you did, too- I’m famished.” Dominic set his mug on the table and exchanged it for one of the enticingly large rolls on his plate. “I’ll pay you back by taking care of lunch.”

Steelbeak chuckled, knowing he wouldn’t win if he tried to argue. “Fine. But we split the difference at dinner. Deal?”

“Deal.” Dominic agreed with a quiet chuckle of his own before digging into his roll.

The pair sat and ate in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying their sweet treats and warm drinks in front of the crackling fire. Once they were finished, Dominic volunteered to take care of the dishes, despite Steelbeak’s adamant insistence that he didn’t need to- again, though, he knew he wouldn’t win once the other man stated he was going to take care of it.

When Dominic returned to the living room, he was surprised to see Steelbeak had wrapped himself in a large, heavily padded quilt in the time he’d been away. “Still feeling cold?”

“Kinda..” Steelbeak yawned and pulled the blanket tighter around himself, his legs drawn up under it as he sat curled up on the couch. “That an’ my adrenaline an’ coffee finally ran out…” Off-white fingers rubbed at extremely tired dark gray eyes. “Think I’m gonna be outta commission ‘til lunch…won’t hold it against ya if ya head back t’ your place.”

Dominic considered it for a moment, but eventually shook his head and picked up a book he’d left on one of Steelbeak’s end tables during his last visit. “I think I’ll stay.”

Steelbeak shrugged, settling in for a much needed nap. “Suit yourself, stripes..” His eyes were nearly closed when a weight against his side made them flutter open once more. “Hm..?”

Rather than take his usual spot at the opposite end of the couch, Dominic had opted to sit right next to Steelbeak- to the point where he was sitting sideways with his head reclined against the rooster’s blanket-covered shoulder and his legs were spread out over the empty cushions.

“Just getting comfortable.” Was the only explanation he needed to give.

Both men had soft, content smiles on their faces as they settled in for some much needed relaxation. They intended to enjoy their snow day as much as possible by doing as little as possible. After all, with this city’s unpredictable weather, who’s to say when they’ll get another chance?

Then again, Dominic thought as he opened his book to its marked page, perhaps the weather in St Canard wasn’t that bad.

End Notes: Hope you all enjoyed this wintery fun filled fic and have a happy holiday season =^.^=

#darkwing duck #dwd #Steelbeak #Dominic Domino #steeldomino #darkwing duck oc #dwd oc #not my oc #thefriendlyfour

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themissingmarvel · 4 years

Text

Kind Regards, Detective [Part 3]

(I am /so sorry/ it got this long. I lost track of it. I had enough for two chapters if I added a bit more but I figured one giant one wouldn’t be bad. I just got too into it. I’ll set an alarm next time for ‘hamburger’ and follow time management skills of the protagonist. And for the record... this is the story of Y/N, not Detective Loki. Which I like. Sure, they’re paired up but... it’a a story. And maybe something more happens. Guess you have to read.)

Catch up: [[Part 1]]// [[Part 2]]// [[drabble]]

Pairing: Detective Loki x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 4.1k {{I AM SO SORRY}}

Warnings: Language, description of violence {{assume that’s a given}}

Sleep wasn’t something that had ever come easy to Y/N. No, she had spent her time in undergrad preparing for graduate school, graduate school preparing for her application to the FBI. Time training at the FBI training to become a profiling agent. Once, when awake at 2 in the morning, sitting on the couch, her ex-boyfriend had asked her to come to bed. She had spoken without even looking up, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

She wasn’t kidding.

They broke up shortly after.

It was arguably harder to sleep now because her brain was always processing information. It was hard to make sense of something so seemingly senseless. And now she had a pile of information that didn’t even add up. More frustrating was having to wait for the lab reports to come back and for forensics to identify everything and tag it. She supposed evidence would come to light in the morning.

Her room in the Holiday Inn was hardly spectacular, to say the least, but it was fine. It had a queen sized bed, a large desk for her to sprawl her things out on, and a place to put her suitcase with the exact amount of clothing she’d need, plus an extra set just in case. Once upon a time she had been the person to travel with seven bags and joke “you never know!” but those days had passed. She had learned that carrying essentials, and sometimes even less, was the way you lived. It made her yearn for that oversized blue hoodie she had stolen from some ex-boyfriend (maybe that asshole who told her to come to bed) that was sentimental only because she wanted it to be. And that thing was durable as hell.

She had slept like a rock that night, for the first time in ages, which was unsettling when she finally did wake up. It didn’t mean her brain hadn’t processed the information, though. Her process meant that when she did wake up, after her shower and getting dressed in clothes too casual for an FBI agent, that she’d come up with new thoughts. New concerns. New ideas.

By the time Y/N rolled into the precinct, it was still only 7:30am. She had a cup of coffee in her hands that she’d scored from the sad and emotionally draining continental breakfast offered by the hospitable Holiday Inn. But food was food and all she’d really wanted was that bagel and a hard boiled egg. Now she had consumed at least two cups with the third in a travel tumbler she brought with her. Her office one, the black one that said nothing but had a small crack at the top was nestled safely in her cabinet at home. That small apartment with a weird amount of locks on it and a keypad she had. Just in case.

Placing her bag on the small table, she glanced to the side and saw Detective Loki at his desk, hunched over and looking at files. He had a powder blue shirt on this time, and looked cleaned up, meaning he’d at least been home, but she suspected he’d had significantly less sleep than her. Which made sense.

The note left at the front of the church had indeed been for him.

My deepest regards and thoughts for you on this anniversary.

It had seemed to rattle the man initially, his eyes blinking almost non-stop. Twenty seconds and he composed himself. Twenty seconds and Y/N knew not to ask and she knew not to pry. His file had so much in it, but now was not the time. If it had been relevant to the case beyond wanting an emotional connection to David, he would have said so.

Laying out some files and opening her laptop, she stood as it booted up, walking over to Detective Loki and knocking softly on the table, “Morning, Detective,” she smiled cautiously, unsure of how to greet the man. He was still wary and they were still both digesting all of yesterday.

He looked up, hardly shaken, looking tired but nothing dramatic. He sat up and nodded, glancing at his computer to get a sense of the time. Raising an eyebrow, he turned back, “You’re here early.”

She grinned, “One to talk. Did you sleep much?” Normally she might have said it was small talk, though in this instance she found she truly cared. Shared trauma did that. Or maybe it was something else.

A soft, quick laugh left his lips and he stood, mostly to stretch himself out, “I slept. Any is better than none, right? Maybe I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he grinned at his own dark humor, gathering his things and walking towards the conference room, the young woman following behind, chalking it up to coincidence. Everyone said that.

He glanced at the papers on the table and her laptop loaded, “Any emails come through yet on the case?” Obviously the answer was no, because normal people rested at night and the lab worked on normal hours, but he liked to think that every once in a while, people stayed late and did their jobs the way he did.

Taking a breath she sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair, signing in to the database remotely, “Nothing as of this morning. The lab spent the evening processing the materials, though. One benefit of Feds, right? We have people who work around the clock,” she smirked at him, David almost surprised that perhaps she had read his mind, too. Though in reality she was used to this. Small towns or even cities often backlogged, suddenly given resources they weren’t used to.

A small ‘ding’ went off from inside the bag, Y/N quick to fish around inside for it, “Do you just… not carry your things on you?” Detective Loki didn’t mean to sound condescending, though his tone certainly spoke that way. More than anything he was concerned. Why she didn’t have her weapon holstered on her person or even her phone in her pocket said there was a level of disconnect. And there was. She liked to process in her head and her phone took her away from that.

Ignoring the snide remark, she glanced at the text that had popped up, “Check your email, ladybug. Fast tracked some of that forensic work for you.”

Ding.

“No offense but does that precinct always work so slow? We never got the cell phones in with the belongings and even you have a cell phone.”

Glancing over at David who had taken a seat not so far away, she furrowed her brow with concern, “Forensics bagged up all the personal affects of the individuals at the scene, right? Like, all of it?”

David frowned, “I sure as fuck hope so. Is something missing?”

She began desperately clicking through the laptop, accessing the items retrieved from the scene, David standing, concerned and terrified, still seeing that note in his brain, reminding him of what he had tried so hard to forget. Placing a hand on the back of her chair and leaning in, perhaps inches from her face, able to smell the coffee on his breath and his face wash, whatever he used to keep himself so clean shaven. She could hear him breathing. It was eerily calm despite his clearly rattled demeanor. And him being so close? Hard to focus.

Squinting she scrolled through each individual’s information, frowning as she compared, “Shit. Shit!”

David was looking at the same documents, and he was realizing the same thing that she was. He supposed it might not have been so obvious so immediately, but he also wasn’t a profiler. This wasn’t what he did the way she did it.

Grabbing her phone she typed desperately into it, sending the message off to her coworker, Adrian, the one she’d had a crush on and had flirted with terribly. The one who had told her he was interested, but maybe not right now. The one who sent her flirty texts still and she knew he just liked the attention, but sometimes you couldn’t help who you liked. Even if that person was a total asshole.

Ding!

Damn he was fast.

“Who the hell doesn’t have backups on the cloud? So far these people are coming up empty, ladybug.”

Sometimes you fell for the asshole and sometimes the asshole fell for you.

Detective Loki had seen that text. It had made him tighten, for whatever reason. Maybe it was the information given or maybe that little nickname at the end. He didn’t know squat about this woman and so far he was finding that it wasn’t making him dislike her. He wanted so badly to have slept on it and realized she really wasn’t his type. But here she was, focused and on task, already making headway with evidence. She wore an attire so different than his own and she didn’t look like a Federal Agent the way he always had seen them. She didn’t wear that stupid-ass jacket they all had, or that dumb fucking cap. She looked like she belonged in a coffee shop somewhere reading a book and staying quiet. But it bothered the hell out of him that she didn’t keep her weapon holstered or her badge on her.

“None of them had their cell phones. And we didn’t find them at the abduction sites. We assumed they were dumped for safety reasons, but from what Adrian is telling me, they didn’t even have backup information. We literally have no digital information on them,” she frowned, turning to look at David.

He paused for a moment, so close to her, able to smell the shampoo she had used, the lightly floral fragrance, the look of concern in her eyes. He could see everything.

Stepping back suddenly he rubbed his hands over his face, “All right. So let’s look at this. Phones get dumped for a ton of reasons, right? And maybe they just… all didn’t back up their phones.”

Y/N shook her head and frowned, as she typed back a response before tucking the phone away, “The GPS and locators on the phones were all deactivated, or else the lab would have coordinates for the phones. And why does someone not back up their phone?” She looked at him, already with the answer, though she needed him to say it. She needed him to understand what she was getting at.

“Everyone leaves some digital footprint. Can we find them online? Social media, maybe?” In that moment Y/N almost felt like giving him her signature ‘are you fucking with me?’ looks, though kept her poker face. He was a man living in a small town who had done small cases, for the most part. He didn’t know the ins and outs the way she did. He hadn’t been trained as she had.

So instead she looked at her computer, “I can do some searching myself, but for the real stuff… for what we’re really looking for… we need someone with experience.”

For a moment she thought briefly of her own team. Of course there was a group she worked with, but ultimately there was no ‘Penelope Garcia’ on her team, or a quirky tech nerd. There were expert analysts who could pull data and indeed find footprints. Honestly they were probably already doing that. But she had that feeling again… that gut wrenching pain.

Staring at the monitor for longer than felt comfortable, she sighed heavily, “I don’t like this, Detective. It’s wrong. I feel like we’re watching the lights flicker before the power goes out. I don’t even think this is the worst of it.”

Admittedly, she had been wrong in the beginning. But being wrong meant she was learning more about this person, and she didn’t like that. She never liked being in the head of a criminal, but of a sociopath… that was scary. Sleep wouldn’t be coming again any time soon, that much she knew.

As if overtaken, Y/N lept from her chair, almost knocking the damn plastic piece of garbage over as she stood and began practically tearing through the files. David looked at her, both confused and angry, though unsure why he was angry, “What are you doing?”

Her eyes were wide, though, and she was focused. In that moment it was all she could think about, all she could see, all she could-

“Here! It’s here!” She pulled out a statement by one of the victim’s spouses. Louise Frank, 43, nurse at the local hospital in Noxen. Putting the paper down she pointed, Loki now shoulder-to-shoulder with her, eyes locked as she pointed out the sentence, “Her husband stated he was having trouble getting in touch with her, which makes sense, but said he thought it was just something to do with her new phone. Detective, what if her husband still has the other phone? He said the screen was shattered but if we can get it, we can check the old phone.”

Adrenaline was pumping through her body, wanting in that moment to wrap her arms around his neck as she realized the opportunity they had. But instead she kept those Y/E/C eyes wide and excited, excited in a way she didn’t like to admit but in a way that David knew meant they had something to go off of.

“Let me get my keys, we’re driving to Noxen,” he looked stoic, though his breathing had increased, his own adrenaline pumping as he adjusted the collar of his shirt.

Looking at him with confusion she shook her head, “That’s two-hour drive, Detective. Shouldn’t we call them first?”

He was opening the door and headed to his desk as he spoke, “David. And I couldn’t give a fuck how long that drive is, we need that phone.”

___

David.

They had gotten into his car in a bit of a hurry, though Y/N was quite proud of remembering to bring her phone and her badge, both tucked into her jacket. Well, her badge was. Her phone was in hand as she called Noxen Police and had them email her the name and address of the husband. She had gone so far as to call the husband as well, warning him they were coming, and politely, kindly, sweetly, asked if he knew where the phone was.

He did. He had it.

Hanging up, she tucked the phone away, “Mr. Frank said he’ll have it out for us.” David barely nodded, instead gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles almost white as he kept himself from going seventy in a fifty. This was a lead, he knew. It was a lead they’d be able to solidly point at and hold up in the air and shout, “here!”

And he was not about to jeopardize that by having some idiot mail it over or some rookie cop drive it and drop it again. Or lose it entirely. He didn’t trust anyone except for the two people in the car.

“I dated a guy once with knuckle tattoos,” she spoke calmly, looking out the window at the barren trees and quiet grey day.

Loki was shaken from his trance and looked over, his face washed with confusion, “What?”

Y/N turned to face him, “I dated a guy once with knuckle tattoos. Like you,” she gestured to his hands, partially to let him know she noticed how tightly he was gripping the wheel.

He let go slightly.

Raising an eyebrow he turned back to the road, his posture relaxing, “Oh,” he said flatly.

She kept her face stoic, “Don’t you want to know what it said?”

David glanced back again, confused though now oddly engaged, “What did it say?”

She got quiet, “It said ‘gullible’ on one hand.”

His face contorted for a second as he considered this, “That doesn’t- goddamnit,” he felt himself smiling as he looked over, watching the woman in the passenger seat smiling as well, her form relaxed as she chuckled. David did too.

“How often do people give you shit about your tattoos?” She kept her smile but softened her tone, deciding she didn’t like the idea that the rest of the car ride would be silent. She wanted to know David more than just as a man in a file. She wanted to understand what went on in his head.

Taking a breath, he considered the question. His internal monologue was often just that, internal, but he found himself being asked questions that people didn’t often ask him. A joke that no one else would have ever made seeing him angry. This wasn’t just a woman, but chaos in a bottle, perhaps, “When I was in the academy, lots of people gave me shit. I was a bit older than some guys in there and I still had my temper,”

She grinned, “Oh, this is you calm?”

The corner of his lips curled up slightly, just slightly, “Anyway, I got into a couple fights. Off grounds, of course. But I talked to one of the sergeants in the academy and he sort of set me straight. Told me there would always be something and that if I wanted to be any kind of officer, any kind of detective, I needed to let those things go. So yeah, people ask, but I don’t get into it.”

Nodding, she folded her hands in her lap, leaning back, “Back when I was in college, freshman year, of course, I was determined to get a tattoo. I mean, straight up determined. I thought, ‘Hell yes, you’re an adult, get that fairy tattoo on your ribcage!’” She looked over at David who was already smirking, “Hey, shut it.” He held a hand up, staring ahead at the empty highway as they drove.

“But ultimately I didn’t. It changed. It was a butterfly on my ankle, then for a brief moment a rose on my wrist. By the time I decided I wanted to be in psych, and work with the FBI, I had talked myself out of a tattoo entirely. It’s funny, because people always say they regret the tattoos they got, but honestly? I regret the tattoos I didn’t get.” Her eyes turned back to the trees as they drove, remembering those rushes of adrenaline as she took out a few hundred in cash and stood outside some shop near her school. Always a different one. Always the same amount of money in hand. Always certain. Then always with a reason not to.

It had never occurred to David that someone might regret not getting a tattoo. Some of his he had gotten in some guy’s basement when he was fifteen. Some when he turned eighteen and nineteen. Some even when he was twenty-four. His neck and hands were his younger years. And for a moment he tried to picture a young Y/N with her shirt hiked up getting a tattoo on her ribs that she wouldn’t possibly imagine how painful it was. Or maybe she did. There was much about her he didn’t know.

Her phone dinged again, breaking the silence, pulling it out to read another text from Adrian, “Ladybug, you’re teasing me with all this exciting information. Update me on the case. Place isn’t the same without you here.”

Asshole.

Sighing, she frowned, eyeing the message, “Ladybug?” David had caught a glimpse of the message, and while he had tried not to pry he was somewhat curious. Was it a significant other? A friend? Something else?

Shutting the screen off, the young woman tucked her phone away again, “Coworker. Not a profiler but he’s a field agent with serials back in DC, where I’m out of. It’s a long standing joke, mostly born of me forgetting the word ‘bee’ and instead screaming ‘ladybug’ because clearly those two things look and sound the same,” she rolled her eyes at herself. It had been such a bad first week, so much so she’d stressed herself out that when a bee came near her, allergic of course, she had screamed instead ‘ladybug’, the first insect name she could think of.

David only nodded his head, and Y/N considered her own fondness for Adrian. She wished she didn’t like him. She wished she could listen when her own friends told her he was just using her for attention. But she knew that already. Didn’t matter. Not really. Emotions were always fickle that way, driving you to do stupid shit. It was why she was so good at her job, in that she understood what drove people, even when it didn’t make any logical sense.

The drive after was fairly quiet, though interjected with sparse conversation. Meaningful, but quick. Tidbits shared. Pieces. Shards. Bits of each other’s puzzle that they would later try and piece together to make sense, even though it never would. But she found out he had spent ten years in the boy’s home, sprinkled with some juvie time for petty crimes he rolled his eyes at himself for. And Y/N had let out her own experience coming face-to-face with one of the serials she’d caught. He didn’t know who she was. She knew who he was. Just by that look. The vacant look but one that was burning. An empty building on fire. Nothing inside. Nothing but the fire to drive him. It had terrified her. She still woke occasionally to those eyes, staring through her, passing her by on the street like dodging a bullet.

Getting the phone once they arrived in Noxen had been quick. The husband wanted less than nothing to do with the police and it was clear he had already spent time crying. David knew the look. Y/N did too. Grief stricken and angry. Nowhere to put it.

Giving the phone to David (who insisted he be the one to hold it) she sighed, shaking her head, “We have to plug it into my laptop at the precinct and use encryption. Whoever did this, all of this, is smarter than we’re giving him credit for. If he knows we have the phone, he’ll be all over this. We need to consider who this man is.”

A shiver ran up Detective Loki’s spine, looking at Y/N as they got into the car, “You’re saying this is a guy?”

She frowned, chewing at her bottom lip, “I didn’t want to think it was. I don’t think he was trying to trick us with the formal writing and the flowers. I think that’s just how his brain is wired. But I need to know, then, why he’s targeted you and the other detectives. And now… now you, David. He wants something from you.” Her eyes were filled with concern as she stared at him in the car, still turned off, cold.

He turned the car on without a word, beginning the drive back to Conyers. He was angry now. Not just at the situation, but at all of it. He had wanted to be grateful for the phone, for having someone like Y/N on the case who could figure this out, but he was angry at how he felt. He didn’t like being a target this way. He didn’t like that someone knew him. Knew the anniversary of the day his horrid mother dropped him off at the home and ran off. He didn’t like that this was so damn personal.

Dover and Birch was hard, but it was easy. He was fueled by the parents' focus. He was driven by the need to save a child. Children. He had wanted to do something good after so much time hiding in a town like Conyers. And now someone had hand-picked him, of all detectives in the world, for this.

Y/N wanted to tell Detective Loki she knew he was better than that. Than some psychopath who would stage a mass murder. She wanted to urge him to be cautious, though understood someone was poking the bear in a big way. Someone wanted him upset. On guard. Determined and angry. Someone wanted him emotionally involved. It wasn’t because they were getting back at him, though. She knew it was something else. But that was the big question.

((Tagging: @is-it-madness @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @encounterthepast @detecellie @breakawayfromeveryday ask to be added/taken off))

#detective loki #detective loki x reader #detective loki x you #detective loki x y/n #detective loki reader insert #detective loki imagine #imagine detective loki #prisoners imagine #imagine prisoners #prisoners #prisoners 2013 #prisoners movie #prisoners reader insider #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal imagine #imagine jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x you #reader insert

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a-dinosaur-a-day · 5 years

Text

Nymphicus hollandicus

By Jim Bendon, CC BY-SA 2.0

Etymology: Nymph Birds

First Described By: Wagler, 1832

Classification: Dinosauromorpha, Dinosauriformes, Dracohors, Dinosauria, Saurischia, Eusaurischia, Theropoda, Neotheropoda, Averostra, Tetanurae, Orionides, Avetheropoda, Coelurosauria, Tyrannoraptora, Maniraptoromorpha, Maniraptoriformes, Maniraptora, Pennaraptora, Paraves, Eumaniraptora, Averaptora, Avialae, Euavialae, Avebrevicauda, Pygostaylia, Ornithothoraces, Euornithes, Ornithuromorpha, Ornithurae, Neornithes, Neognathae, Neoaves, Inopinaves, Telluraves, Australaves, Eufalconimorphae, Psittacopasserae, Psittaciformes, Cacatuoidea, Nymphicinae

Status: Extant, Least Concern

Time and Place: Within the last 10,000 years, in the Holocene of the Quaternary

Cockatiels are originally known from the bulk of Australia

Physical Description: Cockatiels are medium sized birds, ranging between 29 and 33 centimeters in total body length. Wild Cockatiels are grey all over their bodies, with white patches on their wings. The males have bright yellow heads with orange cheek patches, and long yellow crests of feathers coming off of the tops of their heads. The females are usually more grey in the head region, with a duller orange cheek patch, and a grey crest. They have extremely long tail feathers and very large, broad wings. They usually weigh between 80 and 100 grams. Semi-domesticated individuals of this species can come in a wide variety of color morphs that are based on the wild-type colors, but not exactly the same: some will be yellow-ish all over, some will be entirely white; some will lack the orange cheek patches and have grey or white heads; some will be more spottled, and so on. There are an estimated 22 color mutations in cockatiels, with many being very distinctively different. In general, males are more brightly patterned than females, and have bigger crests; there are exceptions to this rule, of course, all over the color spectrum.

By Ben Cordia, CC BY-SA 4.0

Diet: In the wild, Cockatiels feed mainly on seeds and grain, especially from crops and native fields and plains, where grass seeds are fed upon. In captivity, Cockatiels should be fed a varied diet of pellets, fresh vegetables, whole grains, some fruit, and the occasional seed for treats.

By Jim Bendon, CC BY-SA 2.0

Behavior: Cockatiels in the wild will feed twice a day by foraging on the ground, scurrying about in a waddling fashion to look for the seeds and grains they prefair. Large flocks of tens to hundreds or even thousands of birds will gather depending on how much food is available in any given spot, and are occasionally joined by budgies at especially fertile lands. Their waddle walk is offset by the fact that they are extraordinarily powerful fliers, able to move very fast and powerfully with rapid flaps of their wings, using the tail to steer. They will migrate nomadically, following the presence of seeds and - thus - usually following rain patterns. Because they follow water, they oftentimes will reach the coast in their migrations. At night, they will sleep in available trees, perched in branches with no real preference as to what sort of tree they sleep in.

BY Jim Bendon, CC BY-SA 2.0

Cockatiels are extraordinarily loud birds, making a variety of calls to one another to ensure that the flock stays together. To just chirp at each other, they’ll make sort of yipping calls as they go about their day. When a member of the flock is lost, they will scream extremely loudly to find them again, calling out “EEP” at the top of their lungs until the flock member is located. While flirting, they will unfurl their wings ever so slightly, forming a heart shape; sticking their neck out, they will perform a flirtatious call (which can vary somewhat) at the object of their affections. They often bob their heads and bodies while doing this. Sometimes they’ll practice their singing into the air, and will hold up one of their feet to do so, singing at it like they’re holding a microphone. They will extend their crest out all the way while curious, and cluck while exploring a specific environment. When alarmed, their body will go extremely taught, their neck stuck out all the way; if danger is present, they’ll fly away quickly and make very loud sounds to the rest of the flock to promote everyone escaping from the situation.

By Jim Bendon, CC BY-SA 2.0

In the wild, cockatiels breed usually in the late autumn or winter, nesting within tree hollows. They are very protective of their nesting sites and will scream at any intruders. They can form lifelong pairs or be polygamous in terms of breeding behavior. Both sexes will protect the eggs and bring each other food; the clutches are usually one to seven eggs in size, and are incubated for twenty days. The chicks are usually very naked with some yellow down, and are largely altricial; they will stay protected for five weeks and are guarded by the parents. They then mature and become part of the nomadic flocks, sticking close to their family members for the first month or so. Cockatiels reach sexual maturity at around 1 year old, and full skeletal maturity at 2 years. They can live up to 25 years on average, though many individuals have reached past 30 years of age with proper care.

By Meig Dickson

Ecosystem: In the wild, Cockatiels live in arid and semi-arid open habitats such as savanna, scrubland, open woodland, grassland, and more outback habitats. They will stay close to sources of water but do not need them as much as other parrots; and they are often found associated with extensive cropland and farms. They are usually not found in the most fertile and wet corners of Australia, or the deepest parts of the Australian desert, or the Cape York Peninsula.

By Meig Dickson

Other: Cockatiels are some of the most common birds in Australia, with an estimated population of around one million individuals; this, plus them showing no real drops in population, makes them not vulnerable to extinction at this time. They are occasionally regarded as pests, especially by farmers. However, the main interaction humans have with Cockatiels is via aviculture.

By Meig Dickson

Cockatiels are the second most popular pet parrot after budgies, and one of the most common pet caged birds out there. While individuals are occasionally imported from Australia from time to time, most Cockatiels sold or adopted at this point are descended from many generations of breeding programs. Breeding efforts have turned pet cockatiels into nearly domesticated animals, inhabiting that weird grey area between tame and domestication. As such, at-home species have different colors and behaviors. They tend to trust humans more, especially when they are hand-fed by their breeders. They are extremely intelligent animals and are able to learn tricks. They require extensive space, toys, and out-of-cage time to live happy lives, and need a varied diet to avoid biological problems such as fatty liver disease. Though not an easy companion animal to own by any stretch of the imagination, cockatiels (and budgies) are well on their way to being truly domesticated, rather than just an exotic animal that’s at home in human spaces. Extremely social animals, they do best with other members of their species in a large cage, rather than being alone in a smaller space. Cockatiels are kept entirely for companionship; they are not bred for any other purpose, though with their powerful and agile flight style they may be shown off in bird shows.

~ By Meig Dickson

Sources under the Cut

Adams, M; Baverstock, PR; Saunders, DA; Schodde, R; Smith, GT (1984). "Biochemical systematics of the Australian cockatoos (Psittaciformes: Cacatuinae)". Australian Journal of Zoology. 32 (3): 363–77.

Astuti, Dwi (2011). "Phylogenetic relationships within Cockatoos (Aves: Psittaciformes) Based on DNA Sequences of The Seventh intron of Nuclear β-fibrinogen gene" (PDF). Jurnal Biologi Indonesia. 7 (1): 1–11.

Rowley, I. & Kirwan, G.M. (2019). Cockatiel (Nymphicus hollandicus). In: del Hoyo, J., Elliott, A., Sargatal, J., Christie, D.A. & de Juana, E. (eds.). Handbook of the Birds of the World Alive. Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

Flegg, Jim (2002): Photographic Field Guide: Birds of Australia. Reed New Holland, Sydney & London.

Martin, Terry (2002). A Guide To Colour Mutations and Genetics in Parrots. ABK Publications.

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enfys-squees · 6 years

Text

Job Hunting Advice from a Xennial for New College Grads

Hey there. I’ve been reading some posts from folx who are understandably TERRIFIED and CONFUSED because job hunting is exactly The Worst. I have some pointers to make it less sucky, as someone who’s been through it a number of times in the past 20 years, mostly using online tools (while Gen Xers and Baby Boomers yelled at me to just “hit the pavement”), and who has also been responsible for interviewing and hiring people. I’ll add to this as I think of more stuff. Mostly this is stuff career counselors don’t tell people and I’ve had to figure out on my own.

Where To Find Jobs 1: The Internet

Anymore, job hunting largely, but not exclusively, happens online. I’ve had some really good luck applying for jobs directly through a company’s website and through LinkedIn in recent years. Sites that are intended to be huge job boards for all types of jobs tend to be quagmires, and, in my experience, are kind of a waste of time. BUT there are some specific job boards, like Idealist for nonprofit jobs, and Dice for tech jobs, that tend to be useful, or at least do a nice job connecting you with recruiters.

Where to Find Jobs 2: Recruiters

Recruiters are a mixed bag. They get paid to help find people for jobs, and usually they’re looking for folx with more than a few years’ experience. Some recruiters are tasked with trying to fill jobs that are terrible, so a lot of what they do is try to sweet-talk people into jobs with horrible pay and benefits. But then there are some that can be super helpful in finding you a job that’s a really good fit for you. Your mileage may vary. If you happen to meet a recruiter at an event, it’s worth staying in touch with them, but don’t put all your eggs in that basket. If a recruiter finds you a position, it’s a bonus, but put most of your job-hunting energy elsewhere.

Where to Find Jobs 3: Networking

So many career guidance folx will tell you “network! that’s where all the jobs are!” and they’re correct, but they never tell you fucking HOW to do that. So here’s how.

1. NETWORKING EVENTS: Google something like, “career fair” or “networking event” or “happy hour” plus your particular interest/skill set and location. So, like, “Librarian happy hour North Dakota” or something. Keep the location broad - you may have to travel a bit to find one, depending where you’re located. You can also broaden your search terms to things like “nonprofit” or “government” or “healthcare.” Check for these events on Meetup and Facebook. There may also be groups in your area that meet regularly that you could join.

2. INFORMATIONAL INTERVIEWS: Is there a particular company you want to work for? Cool. Is there someone there (or at a similar company) doing a job that looks a lot like what you want to do, if not now, but in 5-10 years? Stellar. Find that person’s contact info (may require a bit of research - again, Google-fu, but try not to be stalkery) and send them an email like, “Hi, I just graduated from XYZ and I’m really interested in getting into FIELD. Would you be willing to have coffee/Skype with me sometime in the next month and tell me about your career journey?” People love to tell their stories. Prepare some questions to ask them, like “How did you get started?” “What was the most important thing you learned early in your career?” “What advice would you give somebody who is just starting out in this field?” etc. and then listen. You can tell them a little bit about where you’re at, but generally this meeting should be focused on THEM. After you meet with them, send a followup thank you, and set up calendar reminders every couple of months to tell them hi, maybe share an article related to your field, something to keep you in their brain so that if they have a job opening, hey, they know someone who’s interested. Being a known quantity makes a lot of difference.

Resume Tips

1. Include a section called “Skills” and list every bit of software you are comfortable with. (Pro tip: Microsoft Excel is really, really useful in a lot of jobs. If you don’t know how to use it, find an online course to learn it and put it on your resume. Seriously.) Also good things to include would be if you had to do any accounting/budget management for a job, etc.

2. When writing about your previous jobs, focus on what you accomplished, rather than what you were responsible for. Are there ways that place is/was better off with you there? Did you improve anything? Write about it, with an action word at the start of each bullet point. Something like, “Increased daily sales by 10% over 2 years” or “Ensured tips were correctly distributed among staff” or “Praised for punctuality and dedication.” ANYTHING that shows you, specifically, were good at that thing. You do not have to list every single thing you were responsible for in that job. Unless it’s relevant to the job you’re applying for, don’t bother including it.

3. Ask colleagues/former bosses for letters of recommendation that you can use, then pull quotes from them and put them on your resume in little quote boxes. (This is a good space-filler, but it also shows you’re pleasant to work with.)

4. Put skills and experience at the top; education at the bottom.

5. Bold key words related to the type job you’re seeking. HR reps spend an average of 30 seconds looking at a resume, and they don’t usually understand the job itself but have been given key words to look for. (Hint: Those words are usually in the job description.) Make your resume easy to scan. Think bullets, think bolded phrases, think section headers, think two-column as opposed to one-column.

6. For fuck’s sake, proofread. Have a friend proofread. Read it out loud. Do not misspell shit or use bad/inconsistent grammar.

Cover Letter Tips

1. Your cover letter is your chance to express yourself, especially if you are looking for a job in a creative field. Mix up the formatting. Add colorful headers. Throw in a photo of yourself.

2. Your goal in the resume is to show you’re qualified; your goal in the cover letter is to reinforce that but also to show why you’d be a good fit for the company and why you want to work for them specifically. Make sure you answer those questions in there, but keep it brief.

Interview Tips

1. Did you know you’re allowed to bring notes to an interview? You totally can.

2. Preparing for a job interview is like preparing to be interviewed for a press conference. You want to make sure you’re clear on your talking points. Think about, and write down, the top 3 or 5 reasons they should hire you for the job, and if you get stuck during the interview, go back to those.

3. If you want extra-special awesomeness points, you can use my secret weapon: the “Why I’m Awesome Sheet.” I created this when I was first job hunting and it has gotten me offers DURING THE INTERVIEW because people were so impressed by it. All you do is you take the job description, break it into bullet points of what they’re looking for, then put 1-2 bullets beneath each one of how YOU fit that thing they’re looking for. This is great for a few reasons:

You’re demonstrating that you’re proactive and willing to go the extra mile to get this job, doing work that wasn’t asked for.

You’ve saved the interviewer the work of matching up the stuff on your resume with the job description, and therefore made their life easier.

It will help you better remember why you’re a good choice for the job during the interview, which will make you appear more confident.

If they ask you the dreaded “Why should I hire you?” question, you just HAND THEM THIS SHEET.

4. Don’t forget to send a thank-you note after the interview to each person who was at the interview. Email is fine.

5. Do not stop looking for work just because you’ve scheduled an interview. Keep several irons in the fire and try to apply for a new job every day if you can.

6. Remember to smile, especially in a phone interview. I know that seems weird, but smiling on the phone makes you sound engaged and positive.

Patience

This may not seem obvious, but people hiring for jobs have a TON of other work they’re responsible for. They are often very slow to follow-up because filling the position is not their #1 or even their #10 priority, most of the time. Expect that it could take several months to hear back on an initial resume & cover letter submission. Expect that it could take a couple of weeks or more to hear back after an interview. Expect it can take several days to get a response to a question via email. This is common. Try not to sweat it. You can follow up to ask where the process is after you’ve interviewed, but don’t do that too often or too quickly. Wait about a week after you’d expect to hear back.

That said, if they contact you for follow-up, respond as quickly as possible. Don’t let it sit in your inbox for more than 1 day. Seriously. Be professional and careful in how you respond, proofread, etc. but do not let it linger.

Finally, unfortunately, sometimes you will not hear back if you were not selected for a job. Sometimes your resume will go into a black hole, because a lot of companies are terrible to applicants and don’t inform them of status at all. Try not to sweat that either.

#job hunting #college graduation #new grad

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667-darkavenue · 5 years

Text

pressurized (part one.)

Catra/Adora

CW for descriptions of blood and injuries.

At this point, fighting Catra runs like clockwork. Swipe. Stab. Push. Block. Flip. Adora knows her tricks, she doesn’t fall for her feints or her traps. She throws Catra on her back in two minutes flat. Two hands gripping the hilt, She-Ra plunges the point of her sword to the hollow of her throat.

But she stops herself before it slices in, as always.

Catra laughs. “Still got my teeth in your heart, huh?”

She dissolves into a burst of pixels. The virtual reality around them vanishes with her. Light Hope stares at Adora, expressionless.

“She gets more personal every time,” Adora grumbles.

“You are at a dead end. There is nothing more I can do for you here.”

“Run it again. I have to kill Catra. I have to kill Catra. I have to kill Catra—I have to kill Catra?” She gets a little more distressed each time she says it. “I have to kill Catra?”

Light Hope frowns. “You seem to be glitching.”

The race is on to find as much First Ones tech as possible before the Horde does. Without Entrapta’s brilliance on their side, the Princess Alliance doesn’t have a whole lot going on for them. They don’t have the Horde’s firepower either.

Today, for once, they manage to suss out a possible location deep within the Whispering Woods and arrive before the Horde has. But nothing’s ever that easy. They emerge from the ruins with a First Ones crystal in hand and what they see waiting for them makes the hairs on Adora’s arm stand up straight. The forest around them is gouged, its trees split apart and blasted out of the way. Four Horde tanks surround the ruins, poised to strike.

“Scatter!” Glimmer barks.

That same moment, the cannons fire. The princesses dive in different directions. Most of them find bushes or fallen trees to hide behind. Except for She-Ra. There’s a tank rolling straight at her and she charges it head on. She leaps onto its hull, where the cannon blasts can’t get her. The other tanks won’t fire at one of their own and the one she’s hanging onto can only swivel its long barrel uselessly, shooting past her. The swiveling jostles her around a bit and makes it a challenge to hold on, but that’s the most it can do.

She climbs up the side with purpose, looking for the outer security panel. She remembers training day in the tanks. She knows there’s a keypad on the outside to let soldiers back in if they choose to exit the tanks. She knows the default code is 1-2-3-4-5-6 and she knows that no one in her squadron wanted to remember a different six-digit code every time they’d roll out in a new tank, so the tanks all use the code they came with.

If she can get in and take out the driver, she can distract the other tanks from inside. Normally, the outer keypad only opens with an ID swipe, but She-Ra’s fingers rip the lid right off with effortless princess strength. She hits 1-2-3-4-5-6 on the exposed keys.

DENIED.

“What?!” she growls at the tiny strip of screen above the keypad.

They changed the tank codes? Since when do they have their shit that together? The barrel swivels around again and she ducks. It’s not even firing anymore, it’s just trying to knock She-Ra off. In an incredulous frenzy, she tries to guess a code before the barrel swings back around. 6-5-4-3-2-1?

A series of interlocking clicks, and the top hatch swooshes open. Ha! She still knows her old squad like the back of her hand. She-Ra heaves herself up, scrambling to get to the hatch before the person in the tank can shut it. The barrel catches her on its return swing, knocking the air out of her and swinging her full body around the edge of the tank. The only thing that saves her is that the pilot needs to let go of the controls to reach up for the hatch, so the barrel hits an abrupt stop before she’s flung off. She-Ra’s hand barely manages to catch the edge of the hatch as she’s almost thrown off the side. She already feels the pilot tugging it shut, and that pull actually helps her gain leverage to climb up over the edge.

She rips the hatch open with the last of her strength before dropping the transformation and diving in. She’s been inside a Horde tank’s teeny cubicle they call a cockpit. Adora could hardly spread her arms out in it, so She-Ra’s eight foot tall ass sure won’t fit. She lands right on the pilot, pinning them to the floor.

“Since when d’you know how to hack a tank?” Catra’s face scrunches up at Adora in utter disbelief.

“Is trying the old PIN backwards considered a hack?”

She starts to laugh, but it turns into a pained “augh!” as Catra uses a complicated twist that Adora doesn’t fully understand to flip their positions. The side of her head thunks against some kind of compressor tank stacked among the cockpit’s supplies. There really isn’t any space to roll around in here. Blinking white spots out of her eyes, Adora throws Catra backwards with all her non-princess strength. The exertion is a thrill, an exhilarated fury. Catra slams into a pile of industrial crates with a vicious yowl.

They’re too close. The space is too tight to swing any kicks or punches. All they can do is thrash each other from wall-to-wall, locked in a grappling struggle. They knock against the controls over and over, driving the tank haywire. They could crash into another tank or run over an ally, but one of them needs to give up control if she wants to be the responsible person. Neither is willing to do that. They’ve popped the cork on all the pent up energy built up since the last time they fought. All the silent rage from during sleepless nights spent glaring at the ceiling with clenched jaws and hands balled into fists, kept carefully bottled for a special occasion such as this.

Their snarls are deafening in the cramped steel pit. Catra snatches Adora’s ponytail and wrenches her face into a sharp, iron corner. Something cracks softly as an egg and a burst of warm wet trickles from her nose. Adora’s simulation training is worthless here. She didn’t prepare for a space where she could barely move, could hardly breathe in.

In the tangle of graceless clawing and shoving, one thing is clear: Only one of them is getting out of this tank alive. There’s no coming back from what they’ve done to each other by now.

A lurching impact flings them both off their feet. The tank crashes into something hard, throwing them both against the windshield. They’re too angry to stop or even to care what it hit. They pounce right back at each other’s throats without giving it a thought.

They don’t notice something is wrong until they start to slide. That gets the pair to pause. Panting, they look out the windshield. The forest outside is warping—tilting. The floor inside tips with it, rising vertical. Adora has to throw her hand out against the wall to stop herself from tumbling into it. She takes a second to spit out the blood that’s gotten in her mouth. Then, the wall becomes horizontal and she’s pinned down by Catra’s entire squirming bodyweight—but only for a moment—before gravity pulls Catra away again. She’s held in mid-air, floating for a split second. Adora’s also pulled away. She slides down the wall until her head thunks against the ceiling. Catra hits the other end of the tank.

The inside of the tank looks like a washer steadily picking up speed. Except instead of wet socks, this load is spinning a bunch of loose crates. Adora and Catra are caught in the middle, bashing into everything.

“For the honor of Grayskull!” Adora draws her sword before her own skull breaks open.

A flash of light and She-Ra fills up the cockpit with her size so thoroughly that most things are held in place, unable to get past her. The things that are still loose can’t pick up as much momentum, either. They all pound against her back or her shins with each roll of the tank, which hurts like hell, but it’s far safer than her normal self taking a full crate to the face.

“Catra?”

No answer.

She cranes her head around as much as the tight space allows, but doesn’t see Catra anywhere. All she can do is hang tight until the vehicle thunks to a rough stop on its side. Which, actually, doesn’t take long at all. They can’t have fallen too far. In the stillness after the chaos, She-Ra takes a minute to breathe.

“Catra?” She asks again, her tone a weird mix of concerned and wary.

A little rustling, and Catra slithers out from the narrow space beneath the control panel. She-Ra, huge and barely able to move, abruptly feels vulnerable and drops her form. Without She-Ra’s broad shoulders holding them up, the crates and other items behind Adora topple to the floor (which is technically the tank’s wall). Adora jumps as the compressor tank makes a particularly scary clank when it falls, heavy enough to crush bones beneath its weight.

“Okay! What is even in there?” She demands, a little distressed by how close it came to her foot.

Catra glares at her. “Just get out.”

Adora isn’t sure if that means Catra’s dropping the fight and letting her go, or if Catra intends to take the fight outside. Chances are an even 50/50. Either way, it’s getting claustrophobic, so Adora doesn’t hesitate to do as she says. She reaches for the top hatch (which is a side hatch now) and swings it open, cautious of what will happen next.

An appalling stench floods through the open door. Adora’s first breath of fresh air becomes a gag.

What actually happens when she climbs through the hatch is neither of the 50/50 options. The tank sits in the middle of bubbling black pit. It appears cracked and dry in some areas, oily in others. Plumes of smoke curl out from several spots across the surface. There’s a shoreline well within sight, at least. A little stretch of soil on the edge of the Whispering Woods. It’s not even that far away. As she hangs out of the sideways porthole, Adora’s hand comes up over her nose and mouth. The smell is unbearable.

Catra shoves her over to look out of the hatch as well. “What. Is. This.”

“We fell straight into the Torpid Tar Pit,” Adora realizes out loud.

She coughs back a retch and covers her nose. “The tank’s sinking.”

Adora’s eyes flit between the tar inches beneath the edge of the hatch and the shoreline. “Looks thick enough to walk over. I’m gonna book it to the shore.”

“You’ll get stuck, moron.”

“The tank’s already stuck. She-Ra could power through it.”

“I don’t care what you do, just shut the hatch before I puke,” Catra grumbles.

Adora’s not sure if she’d puke because of the stench or the mere mention of She-Ra. “I’m gonna make it.”

“You’re not gonna make it.”

Adora squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath, preparing to transform and run. “Just you watch.”

“Nah. Just shut the hatch behind you.” Catra goes back inside the cockpit.

Okay. Come on. You got this, Adora. The shore is right there. Adora takes a deep breath, and regrets doing so immediately. The putrid smell filling her nostrils makes her dry heave. God, this place is disgusting. What happens if she does get stuck? She slowly sinks to her death while vomiting all over herself? Nuh uh. Hell no.

Adora looks down. The tar is close enough to the edge of the hatch to seep in any minute now. A putrid bubble on the surface bursts and splashes Adora’s jacket, nearly getting her face. She heaves again and, okay, that’s it. She can’t do this.

“Damn it.” Adora goes back inside, slamming the hatch shut behind her. “We’re stuck here.”

“What, really?!” Catra blinks, eyes round as saucers and voice drenched in derision. She drops the wide-eyed look by rolling them up toward the ceiling (which is actually the control panel now).

“And what’s your genius plan to get us out of here that’s so much better than mine?”

Catra stretches both arms up to tap at the tank’s steering controls. “The bar for a better plan is low. Literally anything’s better than ‘I’m gonna walk through tar.’”

The engine revs and the wheels whirr helplessly against the tar outside. The tank creaks, but doesn’t budge. Infuriated, Adora wonders if it’s not too late to swing the hatch back open and fling herself out of here. She’d rather straight up get buried alive out there if being locked in a tight space with Catra is what she has to put up with for the next… who knows how long.

That question answers itself when she hears Catra swear beneath her breath. Her head is craned straight up. Adora follows her concerned stare up to the tank’s front windshield (which has become a skylight). Murky darkness pools at the edges, creeping across the glass. Catra makes a sound that’s something between a huff and a growl as her hands fly to the communication switches over her head.

She seems to have an awkward time figuring out how to dial when the comm panel is at such an unfamiliar angle. “Come in, Horde. Can everyone hear me? Hello?”

Adora wonders if she should break the bad news. “Hey, uh, I don’t think your comms are up.”

Catra clicks her tongue and tries dialing a different radio. “Come in, Scorpia.” A long pause. “Hey? Scorpia! … What the hell? You always answer.”

She acts like she can’t even hear Adora. It feels weird being more or less ignored by her nemesis after they were in what felt like a life-or-death showdown just minutes ago.

“The antenna’s busted,” Adora says, a little louder than the last time.

That gets Catra to look back. “When did you become an expert?”

Blue eyes narrow at her. “I know what one looks like. And I saw it out there. Sinking into the pit.”

Slowly, Catra drops her arms to her side. “So, we can’t send anyone our location. And we are sinking. That’s just great, Adora. Thanks a lot.”

“Why’re you talking like it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t invite you into my tank! And we’re definitely not here ‘cause I drove it into the Torpid Tar Pit myself.”

Adora makes a series of sounds. Angry half-started sentences that she can’t even get together. “I—You—Ugh—Wow—Do you—Look, I’m not even gonna—Ughhhh.”

She attempts to storm off from the conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. Adora winds up sort of just spinning around in a little circle. Meanwhile, Catra’s already moving on to Plan B. She drags a supply crate out of the weird crevice it flew into during the fall and lugs it to the middle of the floor (which used to be the wall). She flips the lid open and digs through the contents, squinting. It’s noticeably dimmer inside the cockpit now than it was moments earlier.

Adora looks upwards at the window overhead again. Inky black tar has crept over nearly the entire surface. Only a tiny pinhole is left through which she can see the blue sky above. Adora watches that little circle of sunlight shrink smaller and smaller and smaller… until it is gone. The tank fully submerges, swallowed whole by the tar pit. Even if someone comes looking for them on the shore, there would be no trace left that they were ever here; let alone that they’re still trapped right here, just underneath the surface.

The longer she thinks about that, the harder it is to breathe. Is there even enough air in this tiny cockpit for both of them? How long until power runs out and the space goes pitch black? Adora needs to stop staring and start moving. She needs to put herself to work. She has no clue what Plan B is, but she busies herself with lifting one of the supply crates out of the odd corner it has fallen into. Adora opens up a crate of her own and starts digging through it, unsure what to even look for.

They don’t speak to each other while they sift through what they have.

They trained for so many different emergency scenarios in the Fright Zone, but this wasn’t one of them. The supplies Adora finds are familiar. Pretty much what she would expect from a standard excursion kit. Flashlight, tape, flare, nutrition bars, first aid… Adora pops the first aid kit open. She rips a roll of gauze open and shoves some up her nose to soak any blood that may still be flowing. She would attempt to clean the blood she can feel drying and crusting on her face, if there was a mirror anywhere. But there isn’t, so she doesn’t.

She moves on to open a different crate. This one is the largest of the pile. Inside it: a bunch of dissembled metal parts she has never seen and some kind of hazmat suit.

“What is this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Catra doesn’t look up from the crate she’s taking stock of.

A huge, smooth sheet of some thick material is in there. Adora begins to unwrap its folds and finds strings attached to it. A parachute, maybe… But why does a tank need a parachute and what are the other pieces for? What do they assemble into? There are screens and panels in the case that Adora can’t begin to guess the purpose or function of.

She narrows her eyes at the equipment. “This is how you find First Ones tech. Isn’t it?”

A beat of silence.

“Know what this reminds me of?” Catra shuts the ammunition case she’d been examining and sits on the lid. “The underground bunker.”

Adora raises an eyebrow, afraid to take the bait. “‘Cause we got trapped inside?”

“All because you wanted to play house.”

“You wanted to play, too.”

“I just needed time off from everyone else in the Fright Zone.”

They were nine years old and just learned about the Horde’s various fallout bunkers in that day’s classes. They were told the protocol for going into the bunkers when necessary (“Children first.”) and were even given a glimpse inside. Shelves of food, neatly made cots... It looked cozy. By the end of the school day, Adora and Catra were already planning how to get into one. Perhaps Adora remembers the day so vividly because it was also the first time she stole something. A key card from a commander’s desk while Catra caused a distraction.

The door closed behind them, they played for a few hours, they had a sleepover. It was the first time either of them had slept in a room without twelve other people. It was fun, until they woke up in the windowless bunker. They couldn’t even tell if it was morning, if they’d gotten a full night’s sleep or just taken a nap. And the door wouldn’t open.

What they weren’t told in class that day was that the bunkers did not open from the inside. The Horde didn’t trust a closet full of children not to open the doors for a clever enemy or a defected soldier demanding to be let in.

Slowly, Adora winds the strings of the parachute around her hand. “We thought no one would know to come looking for us in there.”

“And you cried like a baby.”

“You cried too!”

“Don’t remember that. Doubt it.”

After crying the panic out of their system, Adora remembers they simply… went back to playing house. “We just accepted that the bunker was our home now and we were gonna grow old in there.”

Catra snorts. “Yeah, I thought that would’ve been fine. I was bummed that Shadow Weaver did eventually find us.”

Adora looks down at her hand, now unwinding the strings around her palm. “We’ll grow old in here, then.”

“If we don’t kill each other first.”

“We nearly did.”

A tense pause stretches between them. Adora tentatively adds, “I think I’m over it for now.”

Catra smirks at that. “C’mon, I wouldn’t kill you in this tank. I’m gonna kill you in front of everyone we know.”

“Wow, thanks. Good luck with that.”

Adora balls up the strings and dumps them onto the folded parachute. She shoves the edges of the material back into the crate, snaps the lid shut, and sits on it. Across from her, knees almost close enough to brush, Catra’s sharp eyes are pinned on Adora. Her gaze radiates a burning enmity.

She leans in and Adora flinches.

“Chill.” She reaches way past Adora, bending over to take the first aid kit by the handle drag it over to her side.

Adora can’t see much of what she’s doing, but she hears the box pop open and then the crinkle of plastic ripping open. When Catra rises to face Adora again, she has an antiseptic wipe in hand.

Adora’s eyebrows furrow, trying to calculate what kind of bait this is.

“Chill,” Catra repeats. “You really this scared of me?”

The furrow becomes a scowl and Adora reluctantly leans closer, presenting her blood-encrusted lower face. Catra takes hold of her face with a satisfied hum and Adora realizes this interaction was set up to be a lose-lose. Doing as Catra says is a sign of weakness and refusing to do as Catra says means she’s scared. Now, Adora’s at a disadvantage where she doesn’t know what to do or expect. The most frustrating part is that she walked right into it.

She glares directly into Catra’s eyes, hoping it’s as alarming up close as the feeling of her claws gently sinking into the flesh of Adora’s cheeks is. She’s close enough to notice Catra’s gaze shifting from one of Adora’s eyes to the other, before moving on to other parts of her face.

The cloth feels cool and damp, dabbing first at seemingly random spots across Adora’s forehead. Perhaps some flecks of blood travelled up there while the tank fell. Her eye twitches when Catra taps what feels like a bruise forming on her temple.

“Are they worth it?” Catra asks, her voice a low hum. Almost casual.

She isn’t even looking directly at Adora. She’s staring at her mouth and chin as she wipes dried blood away.

“Yes,” Adora answers without a thought.

Catra doesn’t react. It’s an unsurprising answer.

“This’ll sting,” she warns one second before a flare of white hot pain blinds Adora.

Her eyes squeeze shut and her lips clamp together to muffle a yelp. Struggling to hold her still, Catra’s hold on Adora’s face becomes tight enough to hurt. Wet cloth swipes around the open wound on the bridge of Adora’s nose once—twice—a third time—Another yelp huffs out of Adora’s nostrils—and Catra lets go. Adora instantly wrenches herself away.

“Catra—” Her eyes open and her face slowly unclenches as she gasps for breath in the wake of the pain, both hands propped up on the crate behind her as she leans back and blinks up at the tar-covered windshield. “Look—I know what you think, but it’s not true.” She tips her face forward again to look at Catra. “I didn’t choose them over you.”

“You say that,” Catra flings the blood-soaked cloth in her hand at Adora, “and yet, you’re with them and not me.”

“The world’s bigger than us. You can’t be the only person I look out for. ”

“Don’t.”

“It’s the right thing to—”

“Drop it, Adora. Neither of us is sorry. So, what do you expect to happen here?”

“You’re not even a little sorry?”

“No.” Catra shrugs one shoulder. “I’m glad you left. It’s exactly what I needed, but was too chickenshit to admit at first. I couldn’t add up to anything as long as you were the favorite. I can’t believe I actually tried so hard to bring you back.”

“I can’t believe you actually think Hordak isn’t using you.”

“I’m not stupid, Adora. But I bet you really believe the princesses aren’t just using you. You think you would’ve mattered at all to them if you weren’t She-Ra?”

That strikes just the right cord to get Adora’s claws out. “And you were just waiting for me to be top dog so you could tug the leash. You ditched me the minute that wasn’t in the cards for you.

“I—?!” Catra’s jaw drops. She blinks incredulously, then puts her hands over her face to muffle the barks of laughter that bubble up. “You’re so good at playing innocent, Adora. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.” Her hands slide away from her face to reveal a venomous smile. “You know damn well Shadow Weaver would make me pay for your mistakes. I—was—the leash. Fucking excuse me for looking forward to a little control when we called the shots.”

“Catra, I—I hated being the favorite.”

Adora wants to fight, she wants to prove she’s right. But that furious drive gets swept off the offensive by a wave of guilt, and now she’s struggling to somehow defend herself. Catra seems to know every string to tug and when to do it. Was she always like this?

“Doubt that.” Adora opens her mouth to argue, but Catra cuts her off, “Don’t bother. We were kids when it started and there was no way out when we got older.”

“But you still resent me.”

“Yeah. I do. I can feel alI the bitterness I want while still knowing that who you are and who you needed to be to survive are two very different people.”

Adora stares at her, unsure of how to feel about that assessment.

The cabin lights flicker for a few seconds, then go out. The inside of the tank is pitch black as the tar outside. The rumble of the engine powers down. It had been a background noise Adora didn’t even register, but the complete silence when it’s gone is unnerving.

==> part two.

#spop #catradora #catra #adora #spop spoilers

100 notes · View notes

snapebang · 4 years

Text

A List on Parchment

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationships:

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Harry Potter & Severus Snape

Characters:

Severus Snape

Harry Potter

Draco Malfoy

Minerva McGonagall

Additional Tags:

Enemies to Friends

Character Study

Severus Snape Lives

Suicidal Thoughts

Post-War

post-war politics

Accidental Voyeurism

Walking In On Someone

Suicidal Ideation

Language:English

A List on Parchment

meshkol (ashernorton), author

Spamelotte (Bevan), illustrator

Summary:

When Severus first wakes up to After, it takes him approximately fourteen minutes to decide three non-negotiable plans when moving forward in this strange, alien world, written on a simple piece of parchment. The first is removing himself from all things people, the second is finding a way to support himself while also monetarily giving reparations to the Wizarding world as a whole, and the third is finding a way to live with himself until he can finally die in peace, preferably with a painful potion once he’s finally assured that he’s done enough to atone for the horrible atrocities he’s committed in his miserable life.

Then his careful plans are upended because of idiotic lunacy and a lack of sane foresight, and he is forced to open his isolated home to first Draco, then to his imbecilic and horrid fiancé, whom Severus loathes above all else other than himself.

To his surprise, though, everything seems to change, almost so slowly that he doesn’t realise it. Suddenly, Severus finds himself falling into an easy companionship with the one person he’d never expected to, and he can’t help but ponder whether those resolute plans are as solid as he once thought they were.

Notes:

For Bevan.

Written for the Snape Bang. Thank you muchly for putting this bang on, and I greatly enjoyed the experience.

The truly magnificent art embedded into this story is done by Spam, who can be found on tumblr and on ao3. Please show some love for these lovely, remarkable, whimsical pieces!

Please enjoy this story and mind the tags, as this fic gets heavy in some places, and please do not hesitate to let me know if you believe there should be additional tags/warnings included.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

When Severus first wakes up to After, it takes him approximately fourteen minutes to decide three non-negotiable plans when moving forward in this strange, alien world.

Strange and alien because one, he hadn’t even expected to survive for there to be an After to begin with, and two, after a lifetime of being labelled as a monstrous leper in all but affliction, he is…unused to being lauded in its stead. The whole ordeal is highly uncomfortable at the least, and infuriating at its worst: a parade of Healers and unwelcome ‘visitors’ that are unendingly polite and respectful, even when he is snappish and surly; the flood of flowers and cards from ‘well-wishers’ and ‘fans’ that make the hospital room reek of pollen; Ministry officials looking for their political bump when they attempt to invade his space with reporters to document their scripted words, which drip with false niceties; Kinglsey Shacklebolt himself sweeping in with an Order of Merlin, First Class, mercifully without reporters but apparently feeling it necessary to include every Department Head in the history of the Ministry.

Harry Potter visiting his hospital bed – a few days after Severus had woken, an incident that had started awkward and stilted before quickly digressing into spitting words, scathing digs, and eventually Potter slamming the door with a roar of Fuck you Snape! ringing in Severus’s ears – is an entirely different galling event that is beyond description.

The first order of business, of course, is obviously removing himself from all things people, and once he is finally discharged (after all but spitting his demands for the requisite potions he needed to heal to the imbecilic Mediwizards and Potioneers employed by St Mungos), he puts this plan into effect immediately. The vast majority of his salary during his tenure at Hogwarts had been stored away in Gringotts – the only spending he had been doing during his years teaching was purchasing exotic potions ingredients that the school hadn’t supplied on-hand or extra clothing and robes, which hadn’t accounted for much over the years. Additionally, Severus had been patenting and developing potions and spells over the decade, which had increased the amount of coin in his vault, though research and development was notorious for not being a high-paying endeavour. Not to mention that, with the help of a specialist in these sorts of affairs, Severus sells Spinner’s End within his first week of consciousness, though he practically gives it away due to his desperate need to be free of the property as well as the atrocious location and state of it. Combined with the Galleons he’d received for the Order of Merlin, he has a nest egg; nothing too extravagant, but enough to put his plan into motion by exchanging the majority of his vault’s coin into Muggle pounds and all but fleeing the Wizarding world.

He buys a Muggle house in Scotland, close to the other end of the Forbidden Forest but as far away from Hogwarts as possible. It gives him the opportunity to haunt his favourite grounds – a landscape that he knows better than even his own mind on occasion, courtesy of a lifetime of not being real in exchange for repaying a debt – for unsullied potions ingredients and solitude while also being able to explore the mountains that surround the barrier for more. The barrier itself is altered to allow him admittance to the forest, courtesy of Minerva herself, and she is the Secret Keeper of his property as well, as there is no human being left alive that Severus could feasibly entrust with that Secret and be assured that they will undoubtedly take it to their grave.

The second order of business is finding a way to support himself while also monetarily giving reparations to the Wizarding world as a whole. The purchase of the property had been done in hard currency with no names shared, and while it is not an extravagant place – three bedroom, rather run down though a step up from Spinner’s End, and an old coal cellar that he’d expanded and reinforced with a great deal of difficulty in order to brew in an optimum environment – it had taken almost all of his savings to acquire it. The rest of said savings had gone to purchasing ingredients in bulk, considering the majority of his furniture had been taken from his Hogwarts quarters and the rest had been gifted from Minerva (and, he suspects, Albus’s portrait giving instruction).

The most obvious way forward is potions. There are many unpatented recipes that he has been sitting on for over twenty years, hidden away in his brain or heavily-warded hideaways. The primary reason the potions have remained out of public consumption was because he hadn’t wanted the ‘opposing’ side – first Albus’s side, then the Dark Lord’s – to have access to superior or novel potions, which would’ve been an impediment on their war effort: improved pain relievers, nerve damage repairs, limb regrowth, et cetera. Another reason was because Severus had hoarded information as currency, first because he’d needed it to stay in the Dark Lord’s good graces and then, of course, because it had ensured that particular potions hadn’t ended up in the wrong hands, leading to reverse-brewing or retaliatory potions being developed. Naturally, another major reason had been because Severus, being a prior Death Eater despite Albus’s testimony on his behalf, had had to go through countless hoops just to get the Ministry and ICW to even look at his potions, let alone receive a patent so said potions could hit the global market.

For that last snag, waking up in this strange and alien world does admittedly help matters – his newfound ‘hero’ status, courtesy of Potter’s surprising and relentless PR campaign on his behalf After, enables him to get patents and contracts at a previously-inconceivable rate of speed, which is…rather beneficial, if Severus is honest. His nerve reparation potion, initially created for the Longbottoms but capable of being used on individuals outside of Cruciatus spell damage, hits the market five weeks after waking up After, the ICW human trials likely rushed through due to the post-War environment (though he knows that it works from personal experience). His modified Polyjuice potion – one that would change the very genetics of the drinker permanently for the betterment of almost-instantaneous limb and skin growth, enable transgender individuals to completely rewrite their genetic code to an opposing biology with concurrent potions and charms, or resetting targeted biology completely in order to reset genetic abnormalities brought about by any matter of magical or mundane afflictions to a pre-affliction state – goes through a bit slower, but four months is astronomically faster than the years he would’ve been forced to wait Before.

In any case, the patenting of a few dozen potions in very short order both increases his finances (allowing him to purchase more ingredients and donate the rest to reparations and charities, anonymously of course) and also allows him to help people as a general rule, from war injuries to general betterment of life itself.

Which leads in nicely to the third and final order of business on his plans for After: finding a way to live with himself until he can finally die in peace.

It is…not easy to do that, even with all of the potions he’s put out into the world and the money he’s been returning to the people. Every night at exactly eleven, he sits in one of the four rickety chairs at his rickety kitchen table with a piece of parchment and a quill, staring down at the meagre list of things he has to complete before he finally feels like he’s done enough to atone, wondering if there is anything else he should add to it in an effort to repay the horrible atrocities in his life. Once that list is complete, he can go to his lab, brew an incurable poison that will be unspeakably painful for him to ingest (he deserves nothing less), and then finally feel like he’s paid his pittance.

There is only one thing left on the parchment now. It’s a lofty goal, one that is time consuming and incredibly laborious, mostly because it’s a cure for lycanthropy. The Wolfsbane is a remarkable invention indeed, but a total cure is the crown jewel of the Potions Guild and the subject of a collective effort between all Potioneers. The entire Guild has been working on a cure since the inception of their order, and there’s no denying that they’re close as a community. Of course, Severus has his own personal reasons for wanting to see it done (the terror never goes away the fear of Lupin the horror of Greyback and what he did in front of Severus and to all of those children), but there is an intellectual curiosity that’s also undeniably there. The only thing that’s missing from his quest to find a cure is the old thirst for fame and fortune – and there’s no denying that whoever finally solves it will certainly be famous and rich – because, if Severus is perfectly honest, he thinks he’s attained both enough notoriety and fame to last a lifetime.

Regardless of who patents a cure first, Severus will see it happen, either by his own work or from someone else in the Guild, unless he dies first (and that is always a possibility, he supposes).

It is mid-March, six years and ten months into After, when the parchment is finally altered from its original creation and giving him another reason to suffer life for that much longer, and once again, it’s all Potter’s fault.

Typical.

The Malfoys, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, had come out relatively intact After.

All three had predictably been taken into custody by the Aurors, according to the Prophet, but between Potter, Granger, Weasley, and a large assortment of other Order members, the trials had been quick and to-the-point. Narcissa and Draco had both gotten off with time served, a mercifully short two and six weeks respectively, but Lucius had been sentenced with a mediocre six years. Severus had been surprised by the short length but obviously hadn’t gotten involved – the last thing he needed was Draco sending him a barrage of owls in pique.

The only person he converses in-person with is Minerva, when she has the time, and therefore any information regarding Draco and Narcissa’s exploits in After are by post and report only. He doesn’t trust the tabloids as far as he can throw them, but even Skeeter has her own vein of truth like any decent reporter and therefore, with the varied confirmations when Draco writes, he does have a fairly good indication of how they’ve been conducting themselves. The Malfoy family had been so nonsensically wealthy that even the financial reparations hadn’t affected them much, and between unending charity work as well as Narcissa and Draco’s own smooth assimilations into ‘hero’ status (complete with their own Order of Merlin’s, albeit at a lower grade than Severus’s), they bounce back nicely.

He knows Narcissa spends most of her time making connections and volunteering, which is wholly unsurprising. She is a proper Pure-blood wife, and being able to make a public statement is in her blood; she has a lot of much-needed damage control to do before Lucius’s release from Azkaban, and while Severus has always been aware that Lucius is ridiculously good at twisting a narrative in his favour, the confirmation of his Death Eater status as well as his two stints in Azkaban (not to mention the breakout, which certainly hadn’t helped matters) means that his social standing has been heavily tarnished. If the Malfoys hadn’t been so wealthy and his wife hadn’t been the politically untouchable Narcissa, Severus is highly assured that he would’ve never recovered.

Draco, on the other hand, loses his ever-loving mind in the most predictable of ways, in Severus’s opinion.

Of course, the fact that Draco becomes the socialite he was raised to be isn’t surprising in the least – as intelligent and ambitious as Draco is, he’s still a Malfoy, and instead of being forced to get a job like the vast majority of people (Severus included) in order to feed themselves, he goes into political lobbying, throwing Malfoy money around for various causes. It’s smart, for sure, and increases his own social capital in exchange for Lucius’s; most people in After will look to Draco rather than Lucius as the patriarch, and for damn good reason. Draco still has his biases and prejudices, to be sure, but between the political climate of After and the fact that Lucius himself isn’t interfering in an effort to brainwash his only child with Pure-blood dogma, Draco learns to have his own opinions, for better or for worse.

Well, mostly for worse, considering he begins associating with Gryffindors and begins dating Potter.

Severus can only see Draco’s highly publicised relationship with Potter as a serious lack of sane judgement, but he can’t say it’s not predictable. The two of them have been obsessed with each other since the first moment they laid eyes on each other, Severus suspects, and his past digs into Potter’s woefully unprotected mind as well as Draco’s unceasing complaining about Potter during his school-days only reinforced that opinion. Considering that Draco’s developed a mind of his own – a proper teenaged rebellion a few years too late – and the Prophet having foolproof photographic evidence of Potter constantly being in the Malfoys’ presence – a glaringly obvious PR campaign to sway the public in the immediate aftermath of the war’s conclusion which had eventually morphed into the aforementioned romance – Severus can’t honestly say that he didn’t see it coming. He’s appalled at Draco’s lack of taste, for sure, and he absolutely loathes Potter, but even if Draco truly does enjoy Potter’s company (or even loves him, which Severus genuinely suspects, to his own horror), Severus can see the pros to such a union. If anything, it’s politically brilliant for Draco to be tied to the Golden Boy, especially in combination with his good deeds in politics and charity, and has certainly encouraged the public to embrace the Malfoy family with open arms once again.

That is, until Lucius gets out of prison, which directly correlates with the addition of another goal on his bit of parchment.

He’d read in the Prophet that Lucius had been granted early release for good behaviour last week but hadn’t thought much more of it – after all, it was only a measly two months in advance, and it wasn’t as if Severus was going to remove himself from his total isolation to go congratulate him. Severus has never cared for Lucius outside of what the Malfoy patriarch could give him, and that hasn’t changed even in After. He’d read it, replied back to Draco’s owls with his usual flat correspondence, and other than a brief moment of thought as to how Lucius would take the new status quo (and Draco’s relationship with Potter, still going strong after over five years together), he’d pushed it from his mind in exchange for his research.

Then, on the thirteenth, he gets The Letter, and his life is totally upended due to Potter once again (though he does suppose that Lucius is also to blame, but it is much more satisfying to blame Potter):

Severus,

I do hope that your final stretch of research is going well. I haven’t a doubt as to your proficiency, and considering the general chatter in the academic community, you must be fairly close to a solution. Master Delmonico says that you’ve come up with a concept that has gotten the Guild into rather a stir of excitement. He says that you are looking to begin human trials in a few months, if and when the Wizengamot allows you to conduct these trials on human subjects? I cannot see them denying you this, as there are many inmates in Azkaban (including the abominable Greyback) that are werewolves, and who better to experiment on than despicable excuses for living creatures? In any case, good luck with this, though I sure you will not need it – your brilliance is renowned for very good reason, and if anyone can develop the illusive cure, it would be you.

On a more serious and personal note, I’m sure you’ve heard that Father was released from the aforementioned Azkaban nearly a fortnight ago. We certainly expected friction in that regard, of course, but it has been rather more than we were expecting. He hasn’t much of a problem with Mother’s actions, though he is not best pleased at her more liberal expenditures nor the dismissal of the elves, so there has been minimal ire at her. As you very well know, contrary to popular belief, it was a love match between them, regardless of the arranged marriage, so it is to be expected that he would warm to her arguments post-haste regarding the good she’s done for our family name.

However, he is not nearly as magnanimous with me. Our intent was to slowly introduce him to my own political endeavours, as well as my relationship with Harry, but of course he found out all at once this morning and it has resulted in quite the predicament. Mother says that she will work to bring him around, of which I haven’t a doubt will soon be successful, but in the interim, I am in a precarious position.

As of this morning, I have been formally disowned with not a knut to my name until I bow to his demands, which are as thus: abandon all lobbying for Muggle-born equalisation, terminate all association with Muggle-born and Muggle-born supporting individuals, cease both platonic and romantic association with Harry, and enter a courtship with an approved Pure-blood woman in anticipation of marriage and children. I have, of course, told him no, not only because I believe in the causes I am supporting and have genuine friendships with Muggle-borns such as Hermione, but also because I am in love with Harry, with all of my soul. I do not know if I’ve told you, but he asked me to marry him Severus, once Kingsley formally officiated the law of marriage between all people regardless of gender, and I have accepted his hand. We have plans for children, as we are both in need of an heir (though Harry just wants children in general, and is a philistine in regards to family seats, so he hasn’t a care about formalities), so I will have a Pure-blood heir to my name. Nevertheless, Father will not have it, and I have been completely removed from my birthright.

I do not believe that it will stick for long, as there is no other heir to the Malfoy name and Mother is unbelievably fond of my fiancé, not to mention that Father will see reason when it comes to the political standing Harry gives us even outside of our engagement, but in the immediate environment, it is rather daunting. Harry has, of course, offered his home and finances to support me until Father comes to his senses, but not only is that against my own morals regarding the courtship of marriage, I refuse to be a kept man (don’t you dare laugh, you misanthropic bastard). I am not entirely sure what I’m to do at this point, as most of my friends and acquaintances are newly married or doing tertiary studies, and I haven’t the money for board as I wasn’t even given the opportunity to gather even clothing and only had what was in my purse. I naturally went to Gringotts immediately to see if I could withdraw coin before the necessary bureaucratic nonsense was finalised, but Father was quite quick in making sure that was dealt with before I could even walk Diagon Alley in full. He may not have the soundest judgement in political affairs and his beliefs, but you cannot deny that he is very proficient in all things monetary, to my everlasting annoyance.

I’m sure Mother will find a way to send me something while she’s working on bring Father to heel, but until them I am unsure what to do next. Have you any suggestions, other than sleeping on the streets (for I would rather sleep in the streets than move in with Harry before we’re married, regardless of how daft you must think me for clinging to those ‘outdated’ courtship rituals)? I am in a situation as to which I am completely unaccustomed to, and it is not as simple as when we were both at Hogwarts, when I could simply slip into your quarters for intelligent conversation and sleep when Slytherin House was too overwhelmingly toxic or dangerous to allow my guard to ease.

The fear of no money is rather paralytic, Severus, and I cannot fathom how people can live without succumbing to depression or desperation. How do you manage it? Nevertheless, it is something that, once Father returns to his senses (or, better yet, passes the estate to myself in its entirety), I will have to lobby for. Universal basic income is something Hermione has been waxing rhapsodies about for half a decade, and only now do I understand her point of view. Terribly blindsided of me, but at least I can take this as a learning point to do better in the future, as well as the fact that I should’ve had the foresight to develop financial contingencies before this occurred in the first place. Now you can laugh.

I hope it will not be but a few weeks before this all blows over, and hopefully sooner. If all else fails and I cannot find a bed, I suppose I can always hide away in the Shrieking Shack – my transfiguration ability would allow me to have a somewhat comfortable go of it until Mother finds a way to send me coin, and there is no longer a werewolf inhabiting the space once a month.

Wishing you luck on the final stages of your research and hoping you are well, Draco Malfoy

Severus spends the first thirty minutes after reading bustling about for bits of meat from the ice box so he can feed the owl while letting his mind dissect the hidden meanings behind Draco’s missive. His first thought is that Draco is a fool for falling in love, but again, the news is unsurprising, though the mention of betrothal is. The news that Draco is happy and content enough with Potter to get married – spurning his father’s wrath and upending every societal expectation within the Pure-blood community – is shocking to say the least, especially since Severus has always half-expected the two of them to finally get into a domestic that they couldn’t recover from. Pure-bloods take betrothals and marriages very seriously, and if Draco’s accepted Potter’s hand, then there is no turning back unless one of them dies. Pure-blood customs demand nothing else, and Draco is a proper Pure-blood despite his political leanings.

After he’s come to begrudging terms that Draco is marrying Harry-bleeding-Potter of all people, he begins going over the other hints within Draco’s letter, namely the request for lodging, or if nothing else, the funds to support him until Draco can pay him back.

It’s glaringly obvious that Draco’s asking, even if he hadn’t said so in blatant terms. The mentions of having no options with other lodging options nor the money for even a room at an inn is fairly clear to decipher, and then there’s the deliberate addition of it being for a short period of time (which is most likely accurate, once Lucius gets his head out of his arse and accepts reason) and the very specific remark about the Shrieking Shack, which is one of the only explicit locations that Severus consciously has nightmares about (as most of his nightmares revolve around people and events rather than the places said events took place). It’s that last bit that really hammers it home, as Draco most certainly knows that Severus despises that place, even if he might not know the reasoning as to why. Well, he likely does now that he’s dating Potter and is friends with the rest of his idiotic friends, as Gryffindors have no concept of privacy nor subtlety.

Gods, he hates Potter.

There isn’t a reason in hell he would allow Draco to live in that despicable place, even for a night, and it makes his skin crawl to even imagine the thought. Still, Severus hasn’t any money to send, as all of the proceeds to his patents go for the bare minimum of food and a surplus of potions ingredients before the remnants are sent in entirely to charities, so that’s not an option. Additionally, Severus can see where Draco’s coming from, in regards to other lodging – as with any post-war society, the vast majority of people rushed into marriage and are procreating at an alarming rate, and anyone not swept up in the urge to hurry into such things are in tertiary studies with a Master and therefore cannot live outside of student lodgings. Outside of that, as far as Severus is aware, the only adults who aren’t married or are in tertiary studies within Draco’s relative age group are people in Pure-bloods that are in betrothal contracts (which can’t be interfered with, and considering Draco’s still technically unmarried, he would be considered a problem) and the sparse few others available likely would not allow Draco to stay with them due to a lack of even passing acquaintance.

Gods, but he fucking hates Potter.

If it hadn’t been for Potter’s relationship with Draco, Lucius almost certainly would’ve spent two hours in a rage, a night in a sulk, and then the next morning listing to Narcissa patiently explain why Draco’s liberal politics was good for the family. If Draco had gone through with the original option to enter a betrothal contract with Astoria Greengrass – which had been brought up shortly after the Malfoy name had been elevated into ‘hero’ status, according to Draco himself – Lucius might’ve not done anything but brood. His son marrying Potter though, a hot-blooded man who had defeated the Dark Lord and (according to imbecilic lunatics like Lucius) was actively trying to destroy his superior way of life, was clearly the issue that had resulted in Draco’s expulsion from his inheritance and family seat, and Severus for the life of him can’t understand why Draco or Narcissa hadn’t anticipated this outcome from before the platonic relationship alone had occurred.

After Severus’s lunch, which he’d taken if only to keep himself from blowing up a cauldron due to his own distraction (fucking Potter), he writes two letters with a fair amount of anxiety and wariness that he doesn’t bother hiding in the privacy of his own home. He’s steadfast in his decision, even though he is certain that he’ll regret it, but other than two to three visits a year from Minerva, Severus has not seen another living soul that is human. The anxiety is to be expected, after almost seven years of total isolation from the outside world, and the wariness is equally anticipated, considering Draco has changed from the boy he once was and Severus himself has grown accustomed to not wearing a mask.

Still, he wore that mask since the first time he remembers his father beating his mother, since the first time he watched Lily smile at the other Potter Severus hates, and he can feel it slipping back into place seamlessly as he carefully begins to write his own missives.

The first is to Minerva:

Good day,

Without divulging too much private information, Draco is currently disowned from his birthright due to his relationship with Potter. He has no options at the moment, and I am offering my humble dwelling for him until Lucius sees reason. Naturally, as my Keeper, you will have to grant him permission to come onto the property, and due to the nature of Draco’s excommunication, time is of the essence. If you would be amendable, I would greatly appreciate if you could give him the Secret at your earliest convenience. I suppose it does not need to be said, but before revealing it, ensure that Draco’s Occlumency is solid and the nosy, bothersome portraits in your office do not interfere, even with the protections bound to a Headmistress. If you wish to verify any of this letter in person, please do not hesitate, but otherwise, send a Patronus if you are agreeable to the above. Also enclosed is the message to Draco – I am cognisant of the fact that you have the ability to deliver correspondence to Potter post-haste, and I would appreciate if you could deliver this to him, as Draco will almost certainly be with him or at least in a speedy proximity. In any case, I will be in my lab if and when you arrive with Draco.

Also, if Potter is with him when Draco arrives to see you, or Draco gives you any indication that he is looking to share the Secret with Potter, feel free to curse both of them. I would suggest something to remove their genitalia so they do not procreate, and therefore leave this world free of any offspring they would unfortunately bring into this world.

Respectfully, SS

The next is to Draco himself, and he doesn’t bother with pleasantries:

You are a dull, imbecilic dunderhead who was likely dropped on his head as an infant. Pull yourself together at once else I will refuse to entertain your increasingly ridiculous and soppy correspondence.

Minerva McGonagall will see you when you are available, and I do not care if you are betrothed to that equally dull and imbecilic dunderhead: Potter stays out of this. Do not make me regret this decision or I will rectify your continued existence myself, Boy-Who-Lived and what little remains of my sentimentality be damned.

On Draco’s letter, he spells it to be opened and read by only Draco – he does not trust Potter, the nosy and unsubtle idiot, to keep his eyes to himself, and he does not trust the Ministry in which Potter works either. When he’s sufficiently satisfied with the letter’s protections, he rolls up the scrolls and attaches them to the leg of his personal owl, sending her to fly the short distance to Hogwarts.

Minerva’s cat appears in short order but instead of a coherent or long-winded response, it’s a solid twelve seconds of her cackling (which makes Severus hate her just a little bit) before her voice says from the Patronus, “Done and done, my friend. I’ll come over for tea tomorrow as well, just to make sure you haven’t murdered the poor boy in a fit of pique.”

Severus Summons the parchment, a quill, and a stoppered vial of ink, and writes down the first addition to his third After goal: ensure Draco remains alive and well until his affairs are in order.

For the first week of Draco’s invasion of Severus’s isolation, everything goes smoothly.

He follows the basic rules – do not bother me when I am working, clean up after yourself, no talk or sight of that blasted idiot you call a fiancé or the War in general – and Severus is lulled by the vague familiarity of it all. Draco had spent a significant amount of time in Severus’s quarters, both before and after Albus’s death, just to get away from the politics and backstabbing within Slytherin House. He had, of course, been comfortable in Slytherin, but Draco had been regrettably forced into being an adult far sooner than any child had the right to be, and being around classmates that were still essentially children had taken its toll on him. Severus can empathise, considering his home life and his days courting the Dark Lord from Sixth Year and after, and they had found an easy companionship with each other even despite Draco’s much-younger age during those days.

That being said, it is clear that Draco’s recent associations have ingrained themselves into his person.

Most of the changes are things Severus understands and even supports, namely his changed views regarding anyone not ‘pure of blood’ and fully human. He is proud of Draco’s maturation, and even if some of Potter and Granger’s idealism has obviously worked its way into Draco’s person, it is reassuring to see that Draco’s pragmatism is still in control of any grand and lofty goals Draco would like to see come to fruition. The bits that Severus does not understand – not much, honestly, and only because he is unsure of how the Muggle world works anymore within the new millennium – are subject to intellectual debate over the spare few meals they share, which is rather invigorating after so long of only getting into infrequent debates with Minerva.

Generally, Draco does not spend a lot of time at Severus’s dwelling, save for the first day when they had finally laid eyes on each other for the first time in half a decade, resulting in stilted small talk until they’d both remembered how to actually exist around each other. Draco’s still out lobbying on a constant basis at the Ministry or scheming with Parkinson and Granger, who’ve become quite the fierce duo if the Prophet and Draco are to be believed. There are also the frequent visits to see Potter to account for, though Draco obligingly does not inform Severus of these outings – the only evidence of that is the fact that Draco returns to Severus’s dwelling with a smile he can’t wipe off his face and positively reeking of sex or fresh shower potions, the transparent moron.

It’s an easy, amiable coexistence with a person, until suddenly it’s not.

It starts with the owl from Lucius stating in flat terms that Draco will never be reinstated as his heir until he breaks off relations with Potter, which is followed by another owl from Granger informing that Potter’s been getting death threats from an untraceable source, which is followed by yet another owl from Narcissa saying that Potter seems to be on the verge of storming Malfoy Manor without a warrant, which is followed by a final owl from Potter himself saying that he is on the verge of storming Malfoy Manor without a warrant because he got poisoned from the first death threat and he’s damn well sure that Lucius is responsible even if he can’t prove it.

Severus may hate Potter with an undying passion but even he can admit that Lucius is probably responsible, considering the timing of it all.

Draco’s hysterical for the second week and spends almost every night with Potter, and in the spare few moments he returns to Severus’s home, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. As he packs more clothing, he explains to Severus (who is trying to focus on his equations in the kitchen and not the familial drama) that he might have to move in with Potter after all, because he doesn’t trust Potter to be alone right now as Potter’s frothing at the mouth for retribution (predictable) and might end up opening another poisoned missive. Severus, as much as he thinks Potter is a hot-headed and impulsive brat, thinks that the latter is quite unlikely, because as rash as he is, Potter is certainly capable of both protecting himself and getting lucky enough to cheat death. Despite Potter’s many faults, it still is fact that he’s a fully-qualified Auror who’d definitively defeated the most powerful Dark wizard in history, and touching one poisoned letter isn’t indicative of a trend. After all, there are many poisons that are undetectable – some of them are of Severus’s own design even, and he’s fully aware that Malfoy Manor has stockpiles of various fatal potions that he’d brewed for the Dark Lord both before and after his first fall – that have been utilised throughout history to kill rivals. It is highly unlikely that Potter will make the same mistake twice, even at his most reckless.

Of course, Draco is a drama queen and refuses to accept this, loudly voicing the worst-case scenarios of Potter’s seemingly inevitable demise whilst making an enormous racket about the impropriety of being forced to move in with his betrothed, and by the time Severus is cursing the fact that he hasn’t any Calming Draughts brewed to force down Draco’s throat, he’s utterly done with the histrionics.

He’s not entirely sure if he offers his dwelling’s protection to Potter for Draco’s peace of mind or because he just wants Draco to shut up.

Draco calms down at the offer though, considering it with complete focus and blissfully quiet for the first time in an hour, and when he asks if Severus is serious, Severus hesitates for a split second because why in the hell had he offered it in the first place? Still, Severus is a proud man and he’s already made said offer, albeit in the heat of the moment, and he’d put Draco’s happiness and well-being on his parchment, something that he will see through to the bitter end. Besides, it’s not like anything will come of it – the entire history between Severus and Potter is filled with blood, anger, and hatred. There isn’t a chance in hell that Potter will take Severus up on it, especially considering that the last time they were breathing the same air, years upon years ago in a private hospital room at St Mungos, Potter had told him that it would be ‘a cold day in hell when I voluntarily put myself in the same room as you, you cold and miserable fuck.’

So he says that he’s indeed serious through clenched teeth, though there will be rules, and it’s almost worth it when Draco smiles.

The problem is that Potter takes him up on it, and fuck but he hates Potter.

The rules are simple, laid in unnegotiable terms in a tense silence inside Severus’s shabby sitting room.

The first two are ones that Draco is already obliging – do not bother me when I am working and clean up after yourself – but the rest are Potter specific: he’s forbidden from wasting time lounging around Severus’s public rooms (because too much Potter in Severus’s presence will certainly result in bloodshed); no word on where Potter is hiding out to his gossipy friends (Severus is tempted to require an Unbreakable Vow, but Minerva shoots this down rather vehemently when she comes over to make sure he’s actually going to allow Potter into his home); if Potter is in the dwelling, Draco must be present as well (because Severus being left alone with Potter will result in not bloodshed but cold-blooded murder); Potter must provide his own food and supplies (because Severus sure as hell isn’t going to support the pint-sized brat); no sodding funny business in Severus’s home (because if they want to paw all over each other, Potter has a perfectly good home of his own for that vulgarity); and a maximum time limit of one month before he is required to leave (Severus desperately hopes that Potter and Draco solve the problem much faster, and judging by the expression on Potter’s face, this is a mutual hope).

It’s uncomfortable to be sure, but Potter is silent except for the occasional quiet yes sir when appropriate, and it does admittedly help with that discomfort. As soon as the conversation is over, Severus flees to his potions lab and Draco hurries Potter into his bedroom to settle down as apparently Potter had needed his own for propriety’s sake, and Severus will never understand the ridiculous customs of Pure-bloods because how in the hell is it any different than Draco sleeping in a separate bedroom in Potter’s London flat?

Sometimes, Severus hates Draco almost as much as Potter himself, because it isn’t even a week before everything falls into insanity.

Severus is in his lab, finalising his notes for the first human experiment, when everything goes pear-shaped.

The first subject is Malcolm McClellan, a thirty-two-year-old male who’d been mauled by Greyback when he was seven, courtesy of his Pure-blooded parents denying the Dark Lord early during the first war. Severus has met him many times, of course, both when he was still a child and later when he’d been a Snatcher, and he’d been a violent, hateful thing with a remarkable talent for killing his subsequent victims rather than changing them. That being said, Severus is uncertain if he’s comfortable with McClellan being the first human subject considering the situation – he’d been so young when he’d been turned, and due to his high parentage, it hadn’t been a secret whatsoever, which meant that Albus hadn’t been able to grant McClellan his slot at Hogwarts like he’d been able to give to Remus Lupin (and likely other closeted werewolves over the years). Because of the denial of his schooling and the general fear regarding werewolves, not to mention the fact that the Wolfsbane hadn’t been invented yet, his parents had both despised him and been furious with the government for allowing it to happen while simultaneously doing nothing about it immediately after, leading to the complete radicalisation of the entire family. The boy had grown up with Greyback and the Dark Lord during his most impressionable years, as his parents had wanted nothing to do with him, and therefore had developed a taste for rage-fuelled brutality towards anyone and everyone who’d crossed his path.

Severus is terrified of werewolves for many reasons other than Black’s ‘prank’, but he still has some empathy for McClellan nevertheless. Like almost all werewolves, he hadn’t had a choice and furthermore had only been a child, and the Wizarding World had ostracised him to the point where he hadn’t been able to get an education, let alone assimilate himself into proper society where he could’ve had a decent life. Instead, he’d been turned away by his own family as well as the entire population, and it had made him lonely and afraid and angry, leading to his fall into the Dark Lord’s orbit because he hadn’t any other options without debasing himself. Severus can obviously sympathise with that – his own experiences within his childhood home and the relentless cruelty from other Houses (and honestly in Slytherin itself) during his Hogwarts years had widened that gaping hole of ambitious hatred in himself, leading him to the Dark Lord as well.

Still, actions do make the man, he supposes, and besides, if the Dementors hadn’t been unilaterally removed from Azkaban during the first six months of After, McClellan would’ve been Kissed anyway. If the experiment kills him – which is certainly a possibility, though Severus would anticipate the complete elimination of his magical core before he’d expect death – then it’s not too much of a problem, according to the legal branch of the ICW in charge of signing off on human experimentation. McClellan had ultimately been given a full trial by the Wizengamot and been found guilty of almost every one of his crimes (rightfully so, in Severus’s opinion, as he’d been present during some of his murders). The only reason he hadn’t been executed was because the EU Wizengamot is firmly anti-death penalty, just like the Muggle one is, and the Dementor’s Kiss has never been considered as such, just a more extreme type of lifetime incarceration for the most dangerous of criminals.

Severus has always personally believed that was rubbish, but he’s not a politician and hasn’t ever voted in the Wizarding elections, so he’s of the opinion that he’s negated his freedom to complain about that particular moral argument, not that it matters anymore with the Dementors’ removal.

In any case, his formula is sound, and he’s confident that it will, at the very least, negate the need for Wolfsbane, if it doesn’t completely remove the lycanthropy infection from the magical core. Or if it doesn’t remove the entirety of the magical core itself. It’s certainly a delicate balance, as lycanthropy infests the core on a genetic level and is tied to magic itself, and trying to destroy the infection could hypothetically result in the destruction of the magical apparatus within the human body. Of course, that’s the point of human trials on individuals who lost their rights to perform magic regardless – it’s not like they can experiment on animals first, since lycanthropy is a purely Wizarding disease contrary to Muggle belief, and it is unacceptable to do human trials on witches and wizards who would be, at the very least, completely unable to do magic if their core was destroyed, or at worst, actually die from the elimination of a crucial part of their biology. The only other cases of a core being destroyed – usually through illegal curses or potions – has occasionally resulted in the death of the Magical individual, after all, and they cannot afford to perform these much-needed experiments on individuals who’ve done nothing wrong legally even if they volunteered for it in a fit of desperation. No, it is much too dangerous, politically and otherwise, to do such a thing, and so life-sentence prisoners infected with lycanthropy it is.

He’s finishing up the letter to Lincoln Heaversham, the lead Healer who’ll be supervising the administration at Azkaban, when his magic responds to the wards, letting him know that someone has Apparated on his property. He huffs out a sound of irritation, hoping that the two idiots will keep it down considering the late hour, and then continues methodically until he hears a loud crash and a blistering explosion of vulgarity, which results in Severus upending his inkwell onto the nearly-finished missive and letting out his own incensed swears as he sweeps his way up the narrow staircase to rip both of them to shreds.

Not that he has the opportunity, because he stops dead at the entryway of his lab, taking in the tangled bodies and the blood smeared on the white floor of his kitchen from what appears to be Potter, who’s liberally coated with red.

Draco looks as if he’s having a coronary as he shrieks with an edge of hysteria, hands shaking and face blotched with pink, “What is wrong with you?! Are you out of your ever-loving mind?! You should be at hospital, you fucking moron!”

“Stop yelling,” Potter groans, trying to push himself up from the floor and failing miserably even despite Draco trying to help him get to his feet. Severus can’t tell immediately what the problem is, but it’s obvious that Potter’s hurt, his brown skin ashen and green eyes glazed with pain. “You’re going to bother Snape and he’s going to give us a right good bollocksing for mucking up rule one.”

“Too late for that,” Severus drawls, his voice carefully modulated to hide any of the thoughts and emotions currently swirling in his head. He’s not sure what’s the most confusing: the fact that Potter of all people is scolding Draco to respect the rules, that Potter’s not rising up to Draco’s hysterical barbs with anger, or that Severus feels concerned by the frankly alarming amount of blood on the idiot.

“Severus! Do something!” Draco cries at the same time Potter mumbles under his breath, “Well shit.”

That’s more familiar, and Severus almost wants to smile.

“I haven’t an idea what you expect me to do when I am unsure as to what happened in the first place,” Severus says calmly, advancing with a raised wand. He flicks it methodically over his sitting room and kitchen, setting rights to his chairs and cleaning the blood on his floors, and then crosses his arms when he reaches the two imbeciles still on his floor, looming over them. “What in the devil happened, Potter?”

Draco opens his mouth to speak but swallows his words when Severus glares at him; Severus doesn’t care to listen to Draco’s dramatic histrionics, and while he doesn’t necessarily expect Potter to tell him the whole truth, he’s likely to get a better idea of what happened without adding onto the terrible headache he can feel starting in his temples.

Potter’s face twists through various emotions before he shifts, grimaces, and then manages to sit himself upright, fingers tentatively touching the back of his head. Clearly a head wound then, judging by the cringe, and Severus lets his eyes take in the rest of his hunched form for further injuries as Potter explains flatly, “Raid. I’ll be fine with some rest.”

Draco looks apoplectic, teeth visibly grinding and eyes bright with panicked rage, but Severus ignores him. “Have you been to medical?” he asks, though he’s already sure of the answer, and Potter doesn’t disappoint.

“No,” he mutters mulishly. “Got looked over by an on-sight medic but she suggested St Mungos, and if I go there, I’ll be stuck in a bed for ages because everyone seems to lose their ability to do their jobs when I walk into a room. Contrary to what you might believe about me, I’d much rather sleep instead of getting prodded by Healers desperate for a photograph as they wax the usual spiel about thanks and gratitude and all that rubbish.”

Severus eyes him for a long moment, Potter glaring defiantly at him while Draco seethes, and then Severus says blandly, “Well, it seems like the Healers are just as imbecilic as you are.” Potter flushes, a rather distasteful combination with the pallor of his cheeks, but Severus doesn’t wait for the inevitable parry, instead levitating Potter entirely until he’s laid out on the couch. He flicks his wand in well-practised movements, wandlessly doing diagnostic charms that are practically instinctive after years of teaching students, and then says once he’s done, “Well, luckily for Draco and your numerous fans, you’re not dying. Pity, that. Stay put, else I’ll hit you with a full-body bind and Stupefy, which would be unrecommended due to the concussion and head wound. Do get him out of his robes before I return with topicals, Draco, and for Circe’s sake, don’t perform any magic on the idiot as it may interfere with my potions.”

He turns on his heel and makes his way to his lab, where he has the usual potions in case of injuries. He’s torn between irritable that Potter’s such a haphazard idiot who denied himself medical care just because he didn’t want to cater to mindless kow-towing and…oddly sympathetic, to his eternal annoyance. Still, Severus remembers waking up in St Mungos himself, in the bizarre and alien world of After, and he’d been ready to hex the lot of them himself because of the ridiculous fawning. Merlin knows it is likely worse for Potter, even six years after the War. It’s decidedly strange to be in a position where he can empathise with Potter of all people but it’s no less true, and in a way, he doesn’t necessarily blame Potter for trying to escape the histrionics. He’s always been bull-headed and stubborn, and Severus can certainly understand why he’d want to suffer in silence while taking care of himself the Muggle way rather than put up with it all.

Furthermore, Severus also remembers that St Mungos has truly atrocious brewers employed, and Severus’s stores are much more effective for the standard injuries. He’ll have to brew some Skele-Gro for the shattered bones in his right arm and shoulder, but that’s only an afternoon if he uses the standard method (which tastes vile and has to be paired with tissue regenerators and pain relievers because it tends to scorch the oesophagus and stomach lining going down) or an afternoon and late evening if he uses his own improved method (vastly superior, obviously, and tastes like grass). He’s done with the first test batch of the lycanthropy cure, and until he receives the results from Heaversham, he’s essentially sitting on his hands except theoretical, ultimately irrelevant improvements on paper.

Besides, he’d made an oath to Lily and Albus to keep the boy – man – safe until his last dying breath, not to mention that it would destroy Draco if Potter died from something as stupid as intracranial bleeding.

He gathers up a large assortment of potions within his expanding case, nearly depleting some of his stock, and then makes his way back up with a monumental effort to keep himself physically impassive. It wouldn’t do to show something akin to sympathy or concern, not because he has an image to maintain anymore but because he truly still does despise the idiot, and he pauses before leaving the stairs so he can look in the mirror across the corridor, taking in his ageing appearance with a critical eye. He’s not quite out of practise after years upon years of not being forced to put on a role, as his act had been such an integral part of his entire soul for most of his life and therefore is like putting on a well-worn and comfortable robe. However, he has admittedly grown somewhat relaxed since he hasn’t needed to make an effort to react ‘appropriately’ when there’s an audience, and he can’t risk Potter seeing any sort of compassion or empathy. The last thing he needs is Potter growing comfortable here and starting to bend the rules in response, as he’s wont to do when he isn’t being watched for any misstep (and Severus has been watching).

Satisfied that he gives the appearance of mild irritation underneath smooth emotionless, he steps into the corridor and then out into the sitting room. Draco’s seemingly expanded the couch length-wise, but Severus can’t sense any other residue of magic use; he’s fairly good about detecting it, especially within his own wards, and he’s vaguely relieved that Draco hasn’t taken complete leave of his senses, other than his current betrothal to Potter.

“You are not to make this a habit, Potter,” Severus drones irritably as he begins pulling out potions from his case, handing them to Draco one-by-one slowly so he can unstopper them and hand them to Potter for ingestion. “If you cannot deal with your adoring public with any sense of propriety, then take appropriate measures. You’ve enough money to hire a private Mediwizard for your personal use if signing autographs is too tedious for your delicate sensibilities, and I for one will not tolerate you causing undue grief and hysteria in Draco, nor will I be your fucking nursemaid.”

Potter snorts loudly, then groans in pain when it jostles his shoulder and arm. Severus scoffs in annoyance and snaps, “Act like an adult, you insufferable brat. Four more potions to go, and then I will set your arm and shoulder. I expect to be reimbursed for the exuberant amount of potions you’re forcing me to give you, as well as my time for brewing a Skele-Gro, which I may remind you is actually illegal considering it’s under closed patent.”

Potter reaches for another potion, downs it in one go, and then says with heavy sarcasm, “What d’you want, my firstborn?”

Severus rolls his eyes and hands over the last potion – a pain reliever, which he’d saved for last in a fit of undeniably childish pettiness – to Draco. With his own sarcastic bite, he drawls, “If this world is so lucky, you will never sire any little Potters to demonise this world. I do hope you’re sterile for the sake of us all.”

“Severus,” Draco says imploringly, and then looks back at Potter incredulously, who’d huffed a visibly careful laugh before downing the last potion.

“What?” Potter says around a sigh, relaxing into the worn, but comfortable couch as the pain reliever kicks in. Severus rolls his eyes again and does a few diagnostic spells as Potter continues, “I thought it was funny.”

“There is nothing amusing about the idea of you procreating,” Severus mutters while he flicks his wand at Potter’s shoulder, setting it into a localised binding to keep the idiot from moving it accidentally and then immediately following with another to his arm and wrist.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, if we have any kids, they’re going to be biologically Draco’s,” Potter says, grimacing as his arm and shoulder is stiffened into proper placement.

“You have no idea how comforting that is,” Severus drolls.

He ends up taking the standard route with the Skele-Gro, if only for Draco’s peace of mind.

By that point, Potter’s healed up enough to move into his bedroom, and Severus thrusts the vial into Draco’s hands without entering said room with strict instructions to make Potter drink all of it. He discreetly hovers outside in the living corridors, listening to Potter choke down the potion just to be sure he doesn’t sick it up, and then disappears into his lab to redo his letter to Heaversham and send it with the lycanthropy potions to Minerva. He loses himself in brewing replacements for all of the potions Potter had taken, and works through the night on a few additional recipes as well, mostly potions for tendons, muscles, and ligaments. Merlin only knows the amount of damage Potter’s done to the surrounding tissues of his shoulder and arm after fleeing a crime scene, and Draco will be pleased at least (and Lily, wherever she is). It’s something to do, in any case, if only to keep his mind off the lycanthropy trials that will be taking place in a week and the fact that once it’s successful, he’ll be able to finally die without guilt.

Almost there, he supposes, and his chest feels lighter at the thought.

He surfaces at about seven in the morning, exhausted and sore from stirring repetitions, with an odd ache in his stomach that is probably from the lack of food. He hasn’t an appetite though – he’s never had much of an appetite, not even since his Hogwarts days – so he settles for a pot of tea, setting it up with methodical patience even if he’s sure he’d do better with sleep instead.

He’s glad for his choice when he’s halfway through his first cup, the newly-arrived Prophet open to the Potioneers’ section in his other hand, for Draco comes through in fine robes, hair slicked and a briefcase in his hand.

“No,” Severus says instantly.

Draco sighs and takes a seat, posture impeccably straight and looking apologetic, as well as equally exhausted. The smudges under his eyes are a clear picture of a night spent worrying over Potter, as Skele-Gro is quite painful to endure. He gestures to the pot of tea, pouring himself a cup once Severus stiffly nods, and says tiredly, “I haven’t a choice. The Auror Department needs to be updated on Harry’s condition before they send out an armada and I need to make sure MW Olivier brings this bill to motion today rather than tomorrow.”

“Send an owl. Or a Howler.”

“You know I can’t do that. In any case, rest assured that you won’t be bothered – Harry’s liable to sleep until noon considering the night he had, and he knows the rules.” He swallows down the entirety of his tea in one long series of swallows then flicks his wand at the teacup to clean it and send it flying towards its proper cupboard, standing up with another sigh. “I’ll be back in a few hours, no longer. Please don’t asphyxiate or otherwise maim my fiancé, Severus.”

He sweeps out of the home without another word, a distant pop of Apparition mixing with the internal awareness of Severus’s wards letting him leave, and Severus rubs his temples with stained fingertips in irritation.

He finishes his tea and pours another, ears straining for any sounds of movement just in case he needs to flee at a moment’s notice. He’s almost tempted to flee regardless, but he won’t be spooked within his own home whilst the brat isn’t even in the same room – that would be rather pathetic, and Severus is too proud to be such. Besides, Draco’s probably right – Severus bedroom and lab are both additionally warded, with supplemental Muffaito charms entwined for his own sanity, but even though he hadn’t been able to hear anything, he’s fully aware how painful it is when Skele-Gro works, especially since the standard recipe patented by Reubens Wilkius’ estate negates all sleep potions and minimises the effectiveness of pain relievers.

Severus should’ve just brewed his improved recipe, honestly. If he had, he could’ve added a vial of Dreamless Sleep to the exorbitant amount of potions Potter had been dosed with and wouldn’t have to worry about Potter surfacing until later this evening.

Hindsight, indeed.

He half-heartedly finishes reading the Prophet – the drivel they report has only gotten worse in After, somewhat surprisingly considering the political climate, and he can’t help but be concerned with the right-leaning slant to its articles, hidden inside gossip pieces and seemingly innocent human interest editorials – and steadily works his way through the rest of his teapot. He hasn’t the energy to do much but sit there in silence, tense for any movement in the house other than his own, but the lull of his bed isn’t strong enough to entice him to move. He doesn’t trust himself to brew further or look over his lycanthropy notes, either, as his exhaustion is bone-deep, and he hasn’t any work in his herb garden that needs to be done.

So he simply lets his mind wander to different poisons and spells he can use to take his own life, his preferred way of relaxing. Perhaps it’s not the most standard means comforting himself, fantasising about the most brutal and painful ways to extinguish his existence from this world, but Severus is so tired, of living with his guilt and being alive when so many better people weren’t allowed to, and he just wants to rest, even if a part of him wonders if his continued existence is penance for his evil. Severus is not a religious man, but he wonders if there is a hell after this life that he’ll be subjected to like some Muggles believe, and he can’t help but hope so, because an eternity of suffering is all he deserves after the horror he’s enabled.

There’s something very comforting about that possibility, and he can’t ignore that there’s something even more calming about the idea of Lily being allowed to exist in a peaceful afterlife, surrounded by her loved ones and a beautiful utopia of harmony. It’s a lovely thought, of her laughing whilst surrounded by fields of lush grass, her red hair glowing in the bright sunshine, in the arms of her pseudo-family, and he almost smiles. He’s only ever wanted her to be happy, even if he personally hadn’t approved of her husband, but that hadn’t been his choice and he’d never deluded himself into believing that it was – Severus may be proud, but James Potter had been much better for her anyway, as much as he hates to admit it, because they would’ve had a beautiful life together if Severus hadn’t been born for the sole purpose of destroying it. He hates himself most of all, because he’s the reason they’re dead, the reason they hadn’t been around to watch their child grow, the reason that so many lives had been extinguished before they’d had the chance to be. He desperately hopes there is something after this world, if only so she can watch her son grow old whilst being surrounded by love.

He supposes he’s not surprised when Potter does surface, silent as a ghost from his stealth training and years of fighting the Dark Lord, but he is surprised when Potter stills in the kitchen doorway, looking at him for a long moment with a strangely unreadable expression before he asks quietly, “Can I join you?”

Severus stares back, at those bright green eyes that haunt him with every moment of his continued existence, and hears himself murmur, “Do whatever you will.”

Potter shuffles around, almost eerily silent even as he brews his own pot of tea from his own stores. Severus tries not to watch him, staring into the dregs of his cuppa whilst trying to shake off the memories of Potter’s mother and his own self-hatred, but it’s hard not to – he’s only seen Potter a sparse few times since that first sit-down regarding rules, and this is the first time Severus has seen him without his full Auror robes on, making him look younger and far less guarded. Like he’d noticed the previous evening, he’s still rather short for his age – especially in comparison to his biological father, Lucifer torture his soul – but the skinny child has been replaced by a man with broad shoulders and strong musculature, a vast difference from his school-days. He certainly looks healthier despite his current stiffness, more settled in his skin in a way, and it’s a far cry from that last meeting they’d had in St Mungos, when Potter had been almost deathly thin and gaunt with a haunted shadow in his eyes.

After has been good for him, in a way that it hasn’t been for Severus himself. Then again, Severus has been holed up and completely cut off from the outside world except Minerva’s irregular visits for tea, and has been slowly preparing to die, so he’s not particularly surprised by that fact.

Potter finally sits at the farthest end of the table from Severus, pouring a cup of tea and sipping at it silently, eyes on the rough surface of the table. It’s too quiet and charged, and Severus knows that there’s something being held back, something on the tip of Potter’s tongue that’s audible even through the silence, and finally Severus sighs, almost too exhausted to be irritable. He’s not at all ready for this conversation – a conversation that they’d tried to have nearly seven years ago in St Mungos, which hadn’t gone well by any stretch of the imagination – but it’s probably the perfect time to get it out of the way, with Draco in London and both of them too fatigued to let their tempers get away from them.

Probably.

With a heavy frown, Severus says tiredly as he pours himself a cup of tea from the last of his pot, “We’re only having this conversation once, so use your time wisely – the second Draco walks through that door, it’s finished.” Potter huffs with what sounds like amusement, which is vaguely frustrating, but he grits his teeth, trying to keep himself from getting riled up. As soon as Potter says his piece, he’s gone.

Potter’s quiet for a long moment, thumbs brushing along the lip of his chipped mug, and then he says, “About a year after the War ended, right after I started officially dating Draco rather than simply falling into bed with him, I remember sitting in Grimmauld Place, wondering what it would’ve been like if I’d been Sorted into your House.”

That’s…not what Severus had been expecting in the slightest, and he looks up from his own cup so he can eye Potter, trying to figure out what point is being made here.

Potter continues quietly, a small and almost sardonic quirk to his lips, “I almost was, in case you didn’t see that during those disastrous Occlumency lessons. The Hat told me I’d do well in both, and I was damn near a hatstall when I argued for Gryffindor. The only thing I’d heard about the Houses was that there wasn’t anyone in Slytherin who wasn’t bad, and I’d been told my entire life that I was bad, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I was terrified and overwhelmed and so young, and all I wanted was to not be bad anymore, to be accepted for the first time in my life. It didn’t help that the first magical person I really butted heads with was Draco, who insulted the first person who hadn’t treated me like a leper for the simple crime of being poor and acted like he was superior because of his name, and the Hat didn’t even touch his head before it was yelling Slytherin. If anything, it just reinforced that I didn’t want anything to do with your House, and we all know how that turned out.”

Potter sighs, takes a sip of his tea, and then abandons it entirely, putting it on the table and leaning back, finally looking up to catch Severus’s gaze as he wraps his arms around his chest, like he’s trying to protect himself. “It’s funny, isn’t it? An eleven-year-old child being Sorted and being ostracised for it, from the other three Houses to the damn staff themselves. Trust me, I’m fully aware of how it works with age and hindsight on my side, Snape, because I’m not nearly naïve as people like to think I am.”

Severus hasn’t an idea what to say to that, especially as he’s unsure what Potter’s trying to get at. He has the fleeting thought to attempt Legilimency but there isn’t a point to that, as Potter goes on, “But I was sitting in Grimmauld Place, surrounded by the remnants of blood supremacy and still in shock because of the War, reeling from all of the laws and motions that were being brought up in government because we defeated Vol—sorry, You-Know-Who, that Pure-blooded families were starting to assimilate within the modern fold because of the fact that we won, and all I could think about was that almost all of the Pure-bloods from conservative families never even had a fucking chance, especially if they’d Sorted green. They’d been indoctrinated into Pure-blood dogma from infancy by their indoctrinated parents, who’d been indoctrinated by their indoctrinated parents, and none of them had ever been given the chance to assimilate because the entire world was against them, ostracising them and belittling them and not giving these children a chance to form their own opinions about what was right. Slytherin in particular was completely cut off from any sort of modern thought because of the direct actions of students and staff, never able to forge friendships and relationships with anyone from other Houses because of the sheer prejudice, prejudice that I myself participated in rather violently, as I’m sure you recall.

“So I sat there, in that dank and dark townhouse in Islington a year after the War, and it just really hit me that I was dating a Slytherin, the very Slytherin that made me beg the Hat to Sort me red in the first place, and that half of my friends were Slytherins even by that point, including Pansy, a Slytherin who actively tried to convince the rest of Hogwarts to hand me over. It hit me that all of them were people I cared for, people I loved, and that every single one of them was conservative in some ways but open in all ways, willing to explore and learn and change their minds once they were exposed to the clear and irrefutable fact that Muggle-borns weren’t evil, and reform wasn’t against their interests, and that the world is a lot bigger than pleasing parents who don’t and never had their best interests at heart. Not just that, but we learned something from them too – that there is pride in tradition, that blindly assuming someone’s worth based of a talking hat at eleven-years-old is idiotic, that human beings are multifaceted and complex, that compromise is imperative to freedom, and that we as non-Slytherins don’t have the monopoly on being the good guys.”

Potter laughs, a humourless bark of sound, and then says slowly, “And all I could think of was me, and what would’ve happened if I’d been Sorted green like the Hat wanted me to, because we both know how that would’ve gone. Sure, I was the Boy-Who-Lived, but Slytherin was bad, and it wouldn’t have mattered if I was the Chosen One, even more so when it came out that I was a Parselmouth – my Fourth and Fifth Years are definitive proof of that alone. Chosen One or not, Dumbledore’s favourite or not, I would’ve been locked inside of a bubble that I never would’ve been able to get out of, and the only people who would’ve accepted me were other children inside of that same prejudiced bubble. I never would’ve gotten to know Hermione or other Muggle-borns, never would’ve been given the opportunity to learn that all magic is equal no matter who the hell has the wand, never would’ve been able to be exposed to a different point of view because the rest of the world would never have allowed me to. Slytherin Pure-blood dogma would’ve been indoctrinated into me just like it did all of those children in Slytherin, because I had been so desperate for companionship and love, especially since the only Muggles I really knew had emotionally, mentally, and physically abused me from the day Albus Dumbledore placed me on their fucking doorstep.”

Severus has the sudden recollection of Potter’s Occlumency lessons, of Petunia yelling and a small, too-skinny child trying to escape a rabid dog, of Potter sitting in the dark as laughter drifted from outside a small doorway, and something familiar aches in Severus’s chest. He has to break eye contact for a moment, glancing at his untouched, cooling tea to gather his bearings, but he forces himself to look back up, at the hard surety in Potter’s eerily familiar eyes.

“I think that’s a large reason as to why we nark each other off so much,” Potter says, a twisted mimicry of a grin on his face even though his tone is flat and emotionless. “Yeah, there’s a lot of guilt on your side, I’m sure, and you’re a certified bastard whereas I’m a stubborn fool, I’ll fully admit to that. But at the end of the day, we’re very similar, you know. I so easily could’ve been just like you, and the only sodding difference between us is that I was Sorted Gryffindor and you were Sorted Slytherin. I was given a chance, and you weren’t afforded that same opportunity because of pointless prejudice and cruelty.”

Potter reaches for his tea, taking a long swallow, and then he admits so quietly that Severus has to strain to hear him, “I’ve never told anyone this, not even Ron and Hermione, but I used to fantasise about killing Vernon. Hell, I still fantasise about killing him sometimes, when I’m really low. I’ve made some peace with Dudley, and in other ways Petunia, but Vernon is a different matter entirely. There’s only so much belittling and starvation and beatings a kid can take before he snaps, and in Slytherin, in the political climate that Hogwarts was in during those pre-War days? I wanted love and acceptance and camaraderie, which I would’ve gotten because snakes stick together against the collective prejudice of literally everyone else, and I also wanted Vernon dead, which would’ve been lauded in that same House because he’s a Muggle. It would’ve been easier than breathing to accept the dogma, and I wonder sometimes if I would’ve even accepted him, even despite him murdering my parents, when everyone I cared about and loved also accepted him. God knows that there’s enough anger in me, enough hate, and I am self-aware enough to know that I would’ve been so easy to manipulate. Dumbledore’s almost effortless manipulation of me is proof enough of that. I would’ve walked straight into his arms, Snape, I know I would’ve.”

“I never would’ve allowed that to happen,” Severus hears himself say, throat tight. His mouth is dry as bone, but his stomach is so twisted that he’s afraid that even a sip of tea would cause it to revolt, bringing up nothing but bile. He very suddenly wants this conversation to stop, wants to not hear what comes next, but he can’t get himself to rise up and flee, to escape this torment that’s sure to break him even more than he already is.

A ghost of a smile pops up on Potter’s mouth. “Maybe,” Potter says. “Maybe you would’ve taken me in like all your snakes if I’d been Sorted green. Maybe being a Slytherin would’ve forced you to look at me like my own unique, irritating person rather than a carbon copy of a man I don’t even remember. Maybe I would’ve been so indoctrinated that there would’ve been nothing you could say or do that could’ve made me turn my back on dogma, or maybe I would’ve been exactly the same person I was in Gryffindor and would’ve introduced that alternative point of view to the Slytherins a full decade earlier, resulting in an inter-House uprising. Who knows, maybe I would’ve died my first year for fuck’s sake. There’s no way to know and ultimately it doesn’t matter, because I’m here, and you’re there, and everything keeps on spinning like the world’s biggest cosmic joke. All we can do is work with what we’ve been given, and try not to make the same mistakes our parents made before us, and I think we’re doing that, y’know? I think we’re actually succeeding in making a difference for the better, bridging gaps and compromising where it truly matters, because yeah, maybe some people like You-Know-Who are born the way they are, but the vast majority of our demons are made, and it’s crucial that we don’t forget that.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, a stretch of weighty stillness that seems to be never-ending, and then Potter sighs, looking down at his empty cup with half-lidded eyes. “I don’t hate you, you know. I did once, undoubtedly, but then again, I’ve never really known you. I don’t think anyone really has, maybe not even yourself. Now, I obviously don’t agree with a lot of the things you did or said during my school years, or some of the choices you’ve made, but I get it. I really, really do. You had a role to play, and you played it perfectly, even if it damn near killed you to do it. You may not believe me, but you more than anyone decided the outcome of this war, and that is a debt that I, nor anyone else, will never be able to repay. My—” He trails off, swallows thickly judging by the strain on his throat, and then continues with a very soft, earnest finality, “My mother would be so proud of you, Severus Snape, and don’t you ever doubt that.”

A flare of bright, overwhelming pain sears through his chest like fire, and Severus bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood, eyes tightly shut as he tries desperately to control himself (and control what, he doesn’t even know). He distantly hears Potter get out of his chair and start to clean up, even Severus’s mess, the mug flying out of his nerveless fingers, and then there’s a murmur of something that he can’t understand through the deafening pound of his heart in his ears before there’s nothing but silence.

He doesn’t – can’t – move until he hears Draco pop into the front garden, and he flees into his bedroom blindly so Draco can’t see his face.

And suddenly everything changes, which results in amusing, strange, and disastrous situations.

Mostly it’s because the rules go to rot, slowly but surely, and admittedly Severus himself is just as responsible for that as Potter is. Of course, they avoid each other for the three days Potter’s on sick leave, ensured by Draco from Potter’s bosses, but then everything goes back into the previous routine with some minute changes that grow into general insanity.

Severus is starting to think that Potter’s never going to leave at this point, even though it’s only been a near month, and he finds it strange that it’s only a mildly irritating thought.

For starters, Severus likes to cook.

He’s a fucking Potions Master, and of course that translates to cooking. Despite the many years at Hogwarts, where all of his meals had been supplied by the elves, he’s still a product of poor, Muggle upbringing and had helped his mother in the kitchen despite the gender roles of his decade not requiring him to do so. Furthermore, he’d not resided in the castle during the off-season within his adult years, and his paltry pay packet for teaching and the sparse few patents he’d managed to get hadn’t resulted in liberal amounts of coin, which meant that takeout hadn’t been a financially sound decision to make when he’d had to acquire his own potions ingredients and books, not to mention the dosh he’d been required to fork over to the Muggle government so he could maintain his drab childhood home. There’s something comforting about brewing and cooking both, considering they run along the same vein, and he’s always found some modicum of peace when he’s experimenting in either avenue.

Ultimately, it’s not a hardship to go back into the kitchen to feed both himself and his persistent houseguests – not only is it an interesting challenge to triple his usual recipes and create more staples that abide by allergy restrictions, but he’s honestly getting tired of the quick, unimaginative meals he’s been preparing for himself since Draco and his fiancé invaded his home. He hadn’t wanted to spend too much time in common areas, after all, especially if they all decided they were hungry at the same time and ended up fighting for space, so he’s been eating hasty, fast meals that hadn’t been very nutritious or fulfilling.

There’s also the fact that cooking for other people at set times ensures that Severus himself doesn’t forget to eat for days at a time, and he needs to keep up his strength for the next round of lycanthropy trials (as the first round does indeed strip McClellan of his infliction and magical core, though it surprisingly doesn’t kill him entirely).

He doesn’t invite Draco and Potter to dinner, exactly, but he doesn’t dissuade them of it either. It starts with him cooking more than his usual and leaving it on the table, flicking his wands at their doors before he flees with his portion to his lab or bedroom. Then he eats in the kitchen – usually standing – before he flicks his wand at their doors and flees to his lab or bedroom. Then they both start tentatively wandering out once they begin smelling food, and Severus ends up fleeing with his portion to his lab or bedroom while the paramours eat at the dining table. Then he stays at the shabby breakfast table in the kitchen proper while they eat in the dining room and flees immediately afterwards.

They never share a table, though. That’s too much socialisation with his two invaders than he’s comfortable with.

Surprisingly enough, Potter cleans up the detritus every time once this begins, usually arguing with Draco until he’s bullied into assisting (rather badly at first, the spoilt brat), and it doesn’t take him long before he’s hesitantly asking if Severus needs help cooking as well. Severus, who is greatly familiar with the travesty of Harry Potter in a potions’ classroom, vehemently declines for the sake of his sanity and taste buds, not to mention the integrity of his kitchen itself – the last thing he needs is Potter burning down the house and leaving him homeless.

So Potter simply starts cooking himself when he has time after work before Severus has a chance to leave his lab.

To Severus’s eternal shock, Potter is wickedly inventive in the kitchen. Occasionally there are meals that are nothing to write home about, an experiment that doesn’t go as well as can hoped and has to be saved by a quick and bland meal on-the-go, but ultimately it’s quite fascinating to consume the things that Potter cooks, dissecting the ingredients he’s eating and utterly confused that Potter of all fucking people is capable of edible (and dare he say delicious) creativity in the kitchen.

“I usually cooked for the Dursleys,” Potter had said one day, when Severus had come in for a cup of tea after working in the garden and hovered as he waited for it to steep, only somewhat uncomfortable due to the fact that he’d been focussed on Potter’s easy movements around his kitchen rather than anything further. He’d been making some sort of dish that Severus’s had vaguely recalled from a Guild conference in Marrakesh, and it had smelled divine. “When Petunia helped, it was one of the only times where I wasn’t being berated all the time, so it was actually kind of…nice. And now that I’m living on my own – well, kind of, since Luna, Ginny, and Dennis all live at Grimmauld Place too – I get to play around. I’ve never been too fond of takeout, myself, and I think Molly’s pleased that one of her kids is somewhat decent in a kitchen.”

Naturally, after a good two weeks of it all, it leads to biting and incredulous discussions about Potter’s abysmal potions education whist Severus and Potter bustle around for the Sunday roast.

“Severus has a point,” Draco says as he takes sips of his Firewhisky, languidly sitting at the little breakfast table like some sort of king at court. “If you’re instinctive and confident in a kitchen, there isn’t a reason as to why you would’ve been horrid at potions, at least before we went into theory after OWLs. Then again, you probably could’ve brewed consistently perfect potions and Severus still would’ve berated you. Not much confidence building, there. Still, I distinctly remember you being horrible at pretty much everything you did in the classroom, which doesn’t make much sense.”

“I never would’ve brewed consistently perfect potions anyway, considering you kept putting shit in my cauldrons in front of everyone and their grandmothers and not getting in trouble from this arsehole over here,” Potter says with amusement, gesturing towards Severus with a ladle and a grin.

Severus rolls his eyes, and whilst he doesn’t want to inject his opinion on the matter in the slightest, he hears himself say anyway, “Potions is instinctive rather than memorisation and theory, and had you an accommodating teacher and an environment that didn’t want you dead, you likely would’ve been able to claim potions as one of your best subjects, possibly even one that you loved.”

Potter snorts, but Draco says, “You’ve always been an instinctive wizard, Harry, so it’s a valid point. You did really well during the potions’ modules during Auror training, and you were a prodigy during Sixth Year.”

“Yeah, by cheating,” Potter grumbles.

There’s a shadow of irritation here at the reminder of his heavily modified text in the hands of Potter, but he lets it go because it’s irrelevant now. “I wouldn’t consider using greatly superior instructions cheating, Potter,” he says. “Perhaps you could’ve shared it with your classmates, but I highly doubt that most would’ve obliged you anyhow, and it’s certainly Slughorn’s error for using such outdated texts in his classroom as most of my adjustments to the potions were commonplace by the time you took his class. That text was old when I myself was a student. Considering your near-dreadful potions scores from prior years and the amount of stress you were under, you were warranted to utilise any leg up that you could get. Besides, if Horace wanted all of his students to be on an equal level, he would have done his duty per the school’s rules and made sure that all the second-hand texts given to students were unmarred, but he did not, so in all fairness, he’s the one that should be blamed for cheating, not you. If anything, consider it a classic Slytherin move on your part, Potter, and that is something to be celebrated.”

Potter gives him a strange look while Draco nods once in agreement, taking another languid sip of his whisky with a smirk.

Next, it’s the time limit of one month he’d imposed, which is disregarded most alarmingly.

Lucius doesn’t budge on his ultimatum, continuing his underhanded methods to enforce his demands (specifically keeping Draco penniless and disinherited), and while the poison missives cease, other odd things happen at Grimmauld Place: cursed objects, Howlers with masked voices, touch-activated Portkeys, and various other things that either get flown in by anonymously-owned owls or activate in the ancestral Black home themselves. There’s an Auror contingent that’s tracking it all, but Lucius is nothing if not resourceful and creative, as all Slytherins are, and there’s no way to tie the Malfoy patriarch to it.

Oddly enough, Severus enjoys his houseguests more often than he would ever admit out loud, though he supposes that they can guess well enough due to the fact that he hasn’t thrown the two of them out by their ears yet. It’s…not exactly nice, but he does find some semblance of ease at the sounds of people rather than just his morbid, dark thoughts and potions bubbling in a cauldron. It’s strange that despite his constant pleas and demands for peace and quiet over the years from students and adults alike over his wretched life, he’s actually grown so accustomed to human noise. Even outside of regular conversation, it’s somehow soothing to hear footsteps in the corridors and the clatter of things in the kitchen and muffled laughter or arguments in the sitting room.

So he doesn’t throw them out once the time limit expires, and not only because the situation with Draco isn’t solved – he enjoys not being alone all the time, the sounds of life in his rundown little cottage, and if he’s perfectly honest, he’s growing reluctantly fond of Potter too.

Perhaps he has gone mad in his solitude for that thought alone.

Lastly and most alarmingly, it’s the blatant disregard of personal space, both towards himself and…otherwise.

They’re a well-organised operation in the kitchen now and that comes with its own measure of closeness – brushing against each other whilst moving about, handing each other ingredients or instruments, a sparse few times that result in a grasps of limbs when someone is about do something foolish or detrimental to the final product (surprisingly, they both do that, not just Severus) – but it slowly bleeds into everything else, not just dinner together at the rickety dining table.

Occasionally Draco is asleep by the time Potter gets home (and isn’t that an odd turn) from the Ministry, so Severus and Potter will sit in front of the fireplace together, usually silent as they do their own paperwork or read but sometimes in quiet conversation. It’s obvious that Potter’s grown up, not completely but in the ways that make his company palpable to someone like Severus, and they get into long-winded discussions (and arguments, to be honest) about mutually engaging topics like the Dark Arts, politics, ethics, and Gilderoy Lockhart being utterly useless, amongst other things.

Then Severus starts allowing Draco into his lab to brew, which soon enough culminates in Potter joining them on his days off, studiously relearning the basics of the most crucial potions from his fiancé with the infrequent comment from Severus himself. Potter’s a quick learner, Severus will give him that, and he seems to thrive under patient but strict teaching, so it’s obvious that Severus mostly keeps his mouth shut and only gets involved if he absolutely has to. He’s inquisitive and curious, and he makes many mistakes when he gets comfortable with the staples of his profession – Blood Replenisher, Hangover Cure, Pain Relievers, Pepper-Up, and Stimulant Draughts – which results in amusing and infuriating concoctions when he tries to alter the existing recipes for taste. He’s not nearly to the level of Severus, nor will he ever be without a good ten years of education, and his theory-based knowledge will always be rubbish, but he’s certainly capable of brewing more than decent potions.

Sometimes Potter just watches Severus brew without Draco even being around, which is certainly odd in and of itself. Severus is no stranger to having an audience – after years of study for his Mastery, giving practical instruction to students when teaching a technique, and then brewing in front of the Dark Lord and the Order, he’s an old hat at being watched – but it’s different and strange. Severus isn’t sure if it’s because it’s been so long since he’s had an audience, if it’s the highly secretive lycanthropy potion he’s usually working on, or if it’s because it’s Potter himself, but it takes every iota of his focus to stay on task. In Potter’s defence, he’s quiet and polite, working on his own things or just watching, but it’s heavily distracting.

When asked, Potter had just said, “It’s soothing – makes everything else go quiet.”

Severus hadn’t known how to respond to that, so he simply went back to work.

The ease of their company, not just Severus and Potter but Draco too, leads to overt physical contact becoming the norm as well. In the beginning, Potter and Draco had been careful to keep separation between them, as if even touching each other in passing would lead to clothes flying, but slowly they begin rotating around each other with a learnt familiarity full of ease and affection – they press against each other’s sides at dinner and during leisure time in the common areas, touch each other liberally but appropriately, and brush hair back from foreheads and behind ears with small smiles.

The relaxed intimacy of it is alien to Severus. He’s used to teenagers pawing at each other no matter the time or place, their hormones almost always at odds to the casual intimacy experienced by adults, and from any adult couples themselves, he’s spent more time in the company of highly formal Pure-bloods and older British persons, all of which consider public intimacy to be distance and looks rather than easy touch. He wonders if it’s this generation who are liberal with their physical affections or if it’s always been there, and he just hasn’t had the opportunity outside of the Dark Lord’s formal circle and unmarried professors at Hogwarts to see it first-hand. Merlin knows that Severus has never been in a relationship before, no matter the social status of his partner, and has never really desired one either outside of perhaps Lily (and that relationship itself is still so complicated even in his head that he can’t be certain exactly what he’d wanted), so he hasn’t any personal experience in these matters.

He doesn’t say anything to make them cease their actions, though – there is something deeply comforting about seeing these two men being so uncommonly soft and familiar with each other, when he’s still used to them being separate entities with vastly different expectations upon their young shoulders, stretched thin and so weary as they try and try and try to survive in a cruel, unfair world. He’s honestly and genuinely pleased to see them so easy with each other, because even though Potter’s still Potter – stubborn and rash, expecting the world to bend even though reality doesn’t quite work that way regardless of what one might hope – he’s confident that they’ll be happy with one another. He has no doubts about that, even when they inevitably fight and snark and complain about and to each other, sometimes loud enough to shake the walls no matter the strength of Severus’s silencing charms.

And then there’s the matter of their sexual relationship. As Severus had predicted, the growing comfort between them all in Severus’s humble abode results in Draco and Potter starting to bend the rules in response, and quite frankly, it’s both mortifying and intellectually fascinating.

To be fair, the beginning of their cohabitation had been strict to the rules, and when the two of them were home – or when one of them got an ‘urgent’ owl from the other – and in a mood, they’d always vacated the property post-haste. Severus had considered that a mercy, because after catching teenagers in flagrante delicto for fourteen years, he has absolutely no desire to see or hear Draco and Potter in the thralls of coitus no matter how abstractly intriguing it is to watch their casual, non-sexual intimacy.

Severus has never had sex, and he’s never really had the urge to do so – not even his affections for Lily had ever brought about any sexual desire for her, and the whole idea of it is distasteful at best and alarming at worst. He sees how people get when they’re falling into bed with each other, reckless and hasty and completely incapable of making logical decisions, and considering the fact that he’d nearly killed himself just trying to save and then honour Lily’s memory outside of a sexual connection, he can’t imagine how people function when they do have said connection. Severus is too controlled that the idea of losing his mind with passion is horrifying.

He doesn’t know how much of that mentality is because of his self-preservation instincts or because he’d been forced to be a play a cruel role for most of his life and therefore never allowed himself to even contemplate being vulnerable with another person.

Nevertheless, lines start being crossed – first with chaste kisses shared in complete disregard of any possible company, then very much not chaste kisses, and now this.

Doing rounds within the castle and breaking up hormonal teenagers was both hard and easy in hindsight. No adult with a sane mind or morals enjoyed seeing such flagrant displays of impropriety between children, so it was both disgusting and horrifying to happen upon them in alcoves or unused classrooms whilst in various stages of undress. Still, a biting remark and vicious belittling of their indecorous behaviour was more than enough to get them so mortified that they’d scramble to separate and fix their dishevelled clothing, accepting detentions with red faces as Severus berated them. On rare occasion, they were so loud that they’d forgotten prowling teachers and seeing such depraved activities with his own eyes could be avoided altogether, which was quite merciful in Severus’s opinion. And considering the wards on the castle as well as the portraits and ghosts monitoring, it hadn’t been like the students had been able to get very far in their rule-breaking activities regardless – patrolling teaches had been able to intercept before anything too untoward could happen between the hormonal idiots.

Also in Severus’s opinion, all students should have been mandated to ingest lust-dampening potions with their morning breakfast under threat of detention with himself or Filch, but he’d been wholly overruled by staff every time he’d brought it up at meetings.

This, however, is not as simple.

To begin with, while he’s not personally familiar with sexual aspects of love, he is fully aware that it seems to be something not easily controlled between two adults in a consensual relationship, especially not within the comfort of one’s home. And there is no doubt that despite their initial displeasure all-around with the situation, Severus’s humble abode is now…well, their home as well.

Secondly, he isn’t sure what the etiquette is with breaking up two adults in the throes of pleasure is. Of course there are rules to be followed here, same as at Hogwarts, and rule seven explicitly states no sexual activity under Severus’s roof (even though he’s vaguely aware that with the bending of the rules, they’ve almost certainly been breaking said rule in the privacy of their own rooms, but since it’s indeed private, he hasn’t bothered to mentioned it). Still, he can’t exactly sweep in with tightly-clenched eyes, berating them mercilessly while assigning detentions and taking points, as this is not the castle but their home and they’re both of age. He supposes that he could threaten to kick either Potter or both of them out and force them to cohabitate at Grimmauld Place with the rest of Potter’s unmarried cohorts, which would terrify Draco to celibacy most likely from the horror of impropriety, but if Severus is being entirely truthful to himself, he doesn’t really want either of them to leave until they’re safe and secure enough to do so. He…actually enjoys their company, even Potter’s, even if he’ll go to the grave denying it.

Thirdly, he’s never actually seen anything with his own two eyes that has elevated to this level of depravity, as he’s never had sexual relations and hasn’t had the interest to search out pornography in the slightest. Again, the students in the castle had been intercepted before anything too improper took place, so the most damning thing he’s ever witnessed is shirts being unbuttoned or hands down trousers. He’s certainly never interrupted anything that’s to this level of undress, let alone action.

Lastly, it’s blatantly obvious that it’s Draco’s fault, rather than Potter’s, and he’s always been soft for Draco.

Severus stands in the doorway of the kitchen silently, staring in a mixture of horror and disbelief as Draco holds Potter down forcibly, a wicked grin on his face as he uses his fingers on—dear Merlin, but that does look positively bizarre and uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Severus isn’t sure how Potter could enjoy being penetrated like that while being bent at such an unpleasant angle over the kitchen table, the edge obviously digging into the skin of his back, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Potter’s obviously aroused by it judging by the wet rigidness of his prick and the movement of his hips, he’d think Draco was hurting him just by the expression on Potter’s face.

He supposes he’s always known in abstract what men do during coitus, but it’s another thing entirely to see it being done in practise.

What’s even stranger about the scene in front of him is that Draco’s fully clothed whilst Potter is as naked as the day he was born, a stark power imbalance that is only reinforced by the language Draco’s using. He’s positively degrading Potter, crude and utterly improper for polite company, and Potter is clearly more than receptive to it, his fist flying over his erection and moaning in the back of his throat as he makes a valiant attempt to stay as quiet as he can.

Severus blinks, shakes himself, absently wonders if he’s finally lost his bloody mind, and drawls irritably, “What in the absolute fuck are you doing?”

And to Severus’s absolute horror, Potter sobs out “Oh my God” and arches sharply, ejaculate pulsing out of his prick onto his own chest and Draco’s pristine robes.

Severus is torn between spitting vitriol at them, cursing their genitals off, hexing them off his property, or simply fleeing for his own sanity, and there are so many contrasting thoughts rolling around in his brain that he ends up just standing there, completely unable to do anything but gape at the two of them in a rare show of visible emotion because what in the absolute hell has just happened in front of his very eyes?

At least to Draco’s credit, he yelps and pulls his fingers out of Potter’s body, scrambling for the robes carelessly tossed over the back of a nearby chair, but the damage is already done – Potter’s too out of his mind with it that he just rides his release out, hips jerking and thrashing wildly enough that the table creaks warningly from the rough treatment, and not even Draco hastily-thrown robes over Potter’s convulsing body can erase the sight of Potter in orgasm. It’s probably been permanently branded into Severus’s brain now, and he’s half tempted to excuse himself so he can make an attempt to drown himself in the nearby lake.

That is far more Potter (of any generation) than he’s ever wanted to see with his own eyes, and he is mentally scarred for life.

By the time Potter’s capable of speech, Draco’s already babbled himself into a frenzy, apologising profusely for the blatant rule breaking, and Potter interrupts the shrill rambling with a remarkably calm but breathless, “I am so sorry, sir. That will never happen again, and I’ll personally replace the table with something appropriate to your tastes.”

“I hate both of you,” Severus tells them both flatly before he spins on his heel and heads to his lab, mind already working on potential potions that he could take to erase that memory post-haste.

The new table is indeed acceptable to his tastes.

What is not is the fact that all of his perfectly serviceable sitting room furniture is replaced as well, and he has a sneaking, horrifying suspicion that he’d been sitting on a sofa that’s been defiled; he has to take an hour-long shower once said suspicion had entered his mind before he feels clean again.

Mercifully, Potter puts him out of his misery the next time Severus sees him, cutting off Severus’s biting remarks about rule-breaking: “We didn’t—er, we didn’t do anything there, if that’s why you’re glaring at the armchair. They were just shoddy sofas, the springs always stabbing me in the back, and I was already at the shop so I made a few impulse buys. I can return them if you want, though I’m fairly certain Draco Incendio’d all your old stuff in the back garden.”

The new set is comfortable and tasteful though, so he just huffs irritably and goes to make lunch for the three of them, eyes determinedly avoiding the new kitchen table lest he have a coronary.

By the time the two of them have been living with Severus for three months, he’s actively interrupting.

He’s gleefully cheerful underneath his annoyed façade because it’s…actually, it’s honestly rather good fun to ruin the mood with perfectly executed plans, and as a man who hasn’t had ‘fun’ since he was still friends with Lily, he’s enjoying it the sparsely-experienced levity immensely. The nudity and compromising positions don’t even phase him any longer on the occasions he’s exposed to it – it’s mostly because Draco and Potter aren’t children, which does wonders for his mental health in that regard, but there’s also the fact that he sees it so often that he’s immune to it. There are only so many times one can see the same naked bodies before the shock wears off, after all, and as far as Severus is concerned, they’re the ones still trying to climb each other in the common areas despite having been caught on multiple occasions, so Severus is completely unsympathetic.

He charms tables they’re laid on to dance, hexes the wall they’re pressed against to make them break out in boils (easily treatable, of course), and sets their bed on fire (non-damaging and non-harmful, naturally) when they accidentally leave one of their bedroom doors open. Non-magical means are utilised too: he sprays them with the sink hose when they’re on the kitchen table again, throws dirt at them while he’s out in the garden and they haven’t even managed to make it into the house to fondle each other like teenagers, and slams books closed when they don’t realise he’s in the sitting room reading. It’s a great amusement and has the added bonus of keeping Severus on his toes, forcing him to think quickly on his feet when he walks in on them.

Of course, to Potter’s defence, he always seems to try and get to a private location first, as Severus sees and overhears on multiple occasions, but Draco seems to have a one-tracked mind once he’s in a mood, and Potter’s too indulgent (and hormonal, apparently) to argue very much.

As immune to their naked forays as Severus is however, Draco and Potter decidedly do not become impervious to Severus’s wand-happy interruptions. It’s always highly amusing to see them shriek or scramble for cover, and on a few occasions, he even laughs out loud, earning a furious glare from Draco and an embarrassed cringe from Potter. Severus is entirely unapologetic though, and generally tells them that “if you want to stop being interrupted by your gracious host, follow rule seven you blithering idiots”. It’s not his fault that they don’t stop, and if they continue breaking the rules, then Severus will be forced to expand his formidable creativity as it would be poor form to repeat the same interrupting action twice.

Severus even gets some defensive practise in because Potter’s a very capable duellist, wand or not. He’s missed duelling, honestly, and regrettably his own skills had grown dull with his time in isolation, so he does initially get subjected to quite a few Bat-Bogey Hexes and various Stunners or Binds until he re-establishes his own lightning-quick reflexes. Still, Potter is wicked fast and dangerously creative himself, so he occasionally does get caught in one of Potter’s knee-jerk spells he flares out when they’re interrupted. After every quick back-and-forth between them, Severus always has the thought to ask Potter if he’d like to have a bit of a duel in the front garden just to see how far Potter’s come through his Auror training and profession, as Severus’s baseline for him had been during his school-days and even then he’d been capable of matching Severus’s own not-inconsiderable abilities with a wand. He therefore can’t help but be intellectually curious as both a Dark Arts and Defence practitioner and as a…well. Severus and Potter have a hell of a history, yes, but despite his initial intentions, he’s gone past ‘growing fond’ and is just simply fond of Potter in entirety. He would even go as far to say that Potter is a friend, one of the three living friends he has, Draco and Minerva being the others.

Somewhere in his distant and not-too-distant past, he’s lighting himself on fire for the sentiment.

It’s not all walking in on them and sabotaging Draco and Potter’s sex life though. All of them work, but Draco begins helping him brew commissions and surplus when he’s not lobbying so Severus can focus on the lycanthropy cure, which is in its final stages based off the most recent testing – Severus is so close he can almost taste it – and requires a significant amount of concentration. If his most recent calculations are correct, he thinks they might only be a test or two away from a solution, and it’s a heady feeling, knowing that they’re so undeniably close to a cure in his own lifetime, especially since Severus is the one who’s brewed it.

Potter comes home in a right snit one evening, ranting and raving about idiot bureaucrats (so standard day really), blasted paperwork (certainly atrocious as Severus has seen the mountain of parchment brought home every evening), and Lucius Malfoy (Severus sympathises most ardently with that particular complaint). He’s irritable and snappish, eventually saying something carelessly cruel in his anger that makes Draco jerk back in a surprised hurt, and Severus ends up grabbing Potter’s arm with a scowl, yanking him to the front garden in the middle of dinner. Draco’s puttering behind them, begging Severus to be reasonable and not throw his fiancé out, but luckily for him, Severus is not at all contemplating that particular action. Instead, he pushes Potter away and then draws his wand, shooting an Impedimenta at his face quicker than Potter can even open his mouth to shoot vitriol back.

It works astonishingly well, Severus and Potter really going at it until they’re both drooping and sore, and the fight seems to bleed out of Potter now that all of the rage and excess energy has been released. He apologises to Draco, smiles at Severus, and Severus ends up spending a good two hours out of the house, as this time Potter’s the one who can’t hold back his impulses until they’re absconded into a bedroom. For once, Severus doesn’t interrupt, repairing the front garden and then fussing about with his planting until he’s certain they must be done.

To Severus’s enjoyment, for lack of a better term, Severus and Potter take to duelling fairly regularly after that, and it’s both physically and mentally engaging. Potter is significantly more practised and experienced now, and they relish the opportunity to curse and hex the living hell out of each other when they both have time to unwind. Severus learns quite a bit, and he’s free with his own instruction as well – now that they are friendly, with mutual respect and easy familiarity seeping into their once-violent relationship, they both gleefully and smugly share tips and tricks freely, certainly making each other more deadly and formidable in a duel.

Severus supposes that that’s when Potter becomes Harry, both in verbal communication and in his own thoughts, and in return, his own familiar name is used as well.

It’s actually surprising how normal it feels.

At the four-month mark, Lucius finally folds.

It’s a mixture of many different things that Severus believes begrudgingly changed his mind: Draco being completely functional and even flourishing without his vast inheritance being needed, which undoubtedly Lucius had been expecting; Harry completely ignoring Lucius’s threats and bribes in order to make Lucius look like the unhinged one whilst also heading a relentless public relations’ campaign that ensured his relationship with Draco was always on the front page of every paper; Narcissa both constantly imploring Lucius to see reason and giving her husband the cold shoulder (and, without a doubt, probably refusing to have another child, if Severus knows Lucius as well as he imagines); the overwhelming positivity in the press and Ministry regarding Draco and Harry’s relationship as well as the date of their wedding being officially set; and Lucius’s complete isolation from associates and business partners because it was political suicide to go against Harry, not to mention that the entire Wizarding world was benefiting from laws being passed by the Ministry (spearheaded by Draco, Harry, and Granger), which made it financially unwise to back Lucius.

Also, Severus had sent the man a letter himself – the first person outside of Minerva, Draco, and Harry who’s heard from him directly, either in writing or otherwise – and said letter had practically been dripping in red ink, Severus’s irritation and viciousness clear in every single stroke of his quill.

It’s not that he particularly wants them gone, though at the same time he does in a way. He enjoys their company, more than he would’ve ever expected before allowing them (particularly Harry) into his secluded life, but he’s hit the point where not only are his social reserves near-depleted, but he’s simply tired of not watching them move on in their life. He’s fully aware that Lovegood has spontaneously married Rolf Scamander, Creevey has taken a position in Peru for research, and Weasley is finally on tour with the Harpies, so Grimmauld Place is empty of all inhabitants for Harry’s solitary use, a first since After. With Lucius capitulating, Draco is free to return to his family seat until his wedding in November, and Harry is able to start preparations to make Grimmauld Place their home once they’re married.

So Lucius waves the white flag first and asks for a family meeting, Harry surprisingly included.

They come back together and there’s an air of relieved excitement about them (so at least Lucius hadn’t used the capitulation as a lure to murder Harry once at the Manor, not that such a thing would’ve gone well for Lucius), but there is certainly a hint of melancholy as well, and Severus echoes this sentiment. He’s grown used to inventive meals and duelling in the front garden and fascinating conversation and having fun, as odd as that is to think about, and he’s unsure as to…how he’ll be able to return back to his prior isolation when he’s grown so comfortable with his houseguests.

He does suppose that there are some advantages to this development, if he’s being perfectly honest. The next trial is ongoing, and he’s confident that they’ll have the complete success to make it a final trial. Of course, if it is successful and a second test of the same solution is also successful, the batch will have to be brewed in significant quantity and shipped in-bulk to the ICW for international testing on various genders, races, magical levels, and such, but the various genetic compositions of any werewolves in voluntary trials are astronomically unlikely to interfere with the brew’s potency. They do have to mass-test for obvious reasons but considering it’s an actual cure instead of a potion to manage symptoms, Severus fully expect a quick turnaround for mass human trials, no more than three to five months and likely even less. By the end of the human trials and the beginning of mass production under open patent, Draco will be comfortable and in order, readying himself for marriage with planning and getting Grimmauld Place to a place where he’ll be caught dead living in it.

Severus’s parchment will finally complete.

There’s something very calming about that, that the end is almost here, but at the same time, for the first time since he walked into a half-destroyed cottage and held his childhood friend’s body in his arms, a small voice in the back of his head asks why. That makes him strangely nervous, after so long just waiting to die once his pittance was paid in a numb haze of self-hatred and depression, but it’s ultimately irrelevant. His friendship with Draco and Harry is a brief chapter of surprising brightness in his miserable life, and they are both off to have beautiful experiences with each other. Soon, they will be swept up into wedding preparation, considering they only have a little over five months until the ceremony, and will begin the next chapter of their lives, with politics and tabloid fascination and domestic bliss and, eventually, children. Severus has no place in that, his existence only a ghost on the periphery of their remarkable lives, and perhaps it would��ve been kinder for all of them if Severus and Harry hadn’t stumbled into their unlikely friendship, because Draco is pragmatic enough to move on in time but Harry is not. Harry feels everything so keenly, and those feelings do not fade with time, each memory just as harsh and painful as if it’d never healed.

Severus has been in his mind too many times to not know that intimately.

As Draco heads to their rooms to begin collecting their trunks and any remaining items wandering about, Harry stays back, approaching Severus as he bustles about for tea after a sweeping wave of his wand (Muffaito, perhaps a repellent jinx, and Severus should be alarmed but he’s somehow not). Severus easily moves around him in a practised ease, both of them collecting the service, as Harry murmurs, “It’s going to be strange, being alone.”

There are many ways to take that, Severus supposes, but he understands Harry’s point, that both of them will soon be alone in their own homes. “Yes,” he says simply, tone nonchalant as he heats the kettle.

“I think…perhaps I wasn’t supposed to see, but I couldn’t help but notice anyway. Hazard of my job and being moulded into a child soldier, I suppose,” Harry says slowly, and Severus glances over to see a strange, almost pained expression on Harry’s face. Those eerily-familiar green eyes stare at him without blinking as he continues quietly, “Would you much mind if I suggested something for your list?”

Severus carefully does not react, going to pour the hot water in the pot for a steep, and he doesn’t bother to ponder what Harry’s assessment of said list is. Severus hadn’t been so childish as to name it something needlessly dramatic, like List of Things to Accomplish Before I Kill Myself, but contrary to his own beliefs in the past, Harry’s not stupid, and they are rather alike in a way, as Harry had claimed at the beginning of their cohabitation. It is not exactly hard to make a reasonable deduction if he’d seen Severus staring at the old parchment every night precisely at eleven, stone-faced and numb and yet yearning for some semblance of peace, and Harry’s always been observant. It’s one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities.

He debates saying no, then wonders if it would be so terrible to say yes, and ultimately asks smoothly, “What are you suggesting?”

They both sit, and despite the dark topic they’re talking around, Severus feels comfortable enough to meet Harry’s eyes. It’s such a strange thing, to be comfortable around this man, and Severus muse as to what Lily would say, what James Potter would say, if they could see Severus with their grown son like this, calm and easy and familiar.

Harry says, “Short-term? You very well might balk, but we want you at our wedding.”

“Surrounded by happy attendees that will gawk and pester me with imbecilic questions and cheerful accolades that mean nothing to me, you mean,” Severus says evenly.

A ghost of a smile creeps up on Harry’s face. “Well, you’ll get a personal view of what my life’s like, I reckon, though I have a feeling most people will still be too scared of you to approach.”

Severus huffs, though there isn’t any heat in it. He thinks about it, Harry patiently waiting as he checks the tea and pours them both a cuppa when he’s satisfied by the colour and scent, and is strangely torn. He hasn’t any desire to be surrounded by his old students and their parents, especially after so long in solitude, but he does have an inkling of curiosity for it, and he can’t help but ponder if it would be nice, if he could watch these two extraordinary men marry under the old rites, the same way Lily married Harry’s father. He supposes an argument could even be made regarding the list he has now – he’d written ‘ensure Draco remains alive and well until his affairs are in order’, and seeing through to the wedding would certainly ensure that Draco’s affairs would indeed be in order, regardless of whether or not he’d attend the actual ceremony.

He also can’t help but wonder if he’s making excuses out of fear of his inevitable death, despite longing for it since the day he’d signed Lily’s death warrant.

There’s no reason to talk in vague circles, so Severus says bluntly, “I can hold off on any permanent plans until you are married, but I shall think about your invitation.”

A flash of pain in Harry’s eyes at the frank and casual mention of his impending suicide (he wishes Harry didn’t care about him, this would be so much easier), but Harry smiles a bit wider nevertheless. “That’s nice. We wouldn’t make you part of the party—”

“I should hope not,” Severus mutters, appalled at the thought.

“—but it would be nice if you were there, skulking in a corner in all black. It’s not like we’re inviting the entire Royal Family and gentry either, contrary to what Narcissa wants.”

“I’ll think about it, for Circe’s sake.”

Harry mercifully stops mentioning their impending wedding and Severus’s attendance, but the alternative is somehow worse because it’s so calm despite the subject matter: “Draco doesn’t know what you’re planning to do, you know.”

Severus takes a moment to digest that – he’s unsurprised, if he’s honest, because Draco has never been observant in the ways Harry is, but he also finds it strange that Harry (notorious for over-sharing with the people he loves and trusts) knows and yet Draco doesn’t – and he can’t help but ask, “Have you not told him?”

Harry exhales with what could’ve been laughter if he dared to be louder, risking Draco overhearing their conversation even with his magical deterrents. After all, Draco could still come down and read their lips, though he’s always been horrid at such things, even if he’s much more likely to throw a strop if he knows he’s being left out of a serious conversation between Severus and his fiancé. Quietly, Harry says, “Of course not. We’re all entitled to secrets, and as much as I love him, there are things that I will never tell him, things that are better left buried.”

Severus doesn’t have to ask what they are – horcruxes, Severus’s memories, Harry’s secret desire to murder his uncle, Severus’s impending death, so many more, all for the Greater Good, Merlin but they’ve taught him well – and instead says, “Ensure that remains so.”

“Naturally,” Harry murmurs. He takes a sip of his tea and says, “The reasoning behind my assumption as to Draco’s ignorance is that long-term, Draco wants you to be our child’s godfather.”

Severus freezes with surprise and no small amount of shock, and Harry grins for a second, sharp and lacking any genuine amusement, before he says lightly, “I wouldn’t be averse to it in the slightest and of course Ron’ll be sharing those duties too, so it’s not like we’re creating a single point of failure if something were to happen to us, as unlikely as that is if I’m being perfectly honest and slightly arrogant.”

“How predictable,” Severus manages to drawl through the overwhelming flow of disbelief and vague horror.

“Shut up,” Harry says, and Severus can hear the amusement. Then he continues, “Look, I’m not going to lie and say that I want you to top yourself off if that’s what you really want, because obviously I don’t want that. Like it or not, you’re family now, and I’d like to see if you discover any other crazy cures in the future and watch you be all, well, you with my child. But it’s not my choice, and as much as I hate the idea of it, you have to do what you think is best for you, what you think you can live with. Just…maybe stick around for a bit, at least until November, and think about it in the meantime? If it helps, I think the Guild will probably move to curing vampirism once your lycanthropy cure hits the market, so that might be an interesting puzzle.”

“It is the second most pressing affliction,” Severus admits, though he’s never done much research on it – there hadn’t been a personal stake in the matter, the vampires mostly staying out of the two wars despite being courted by both sides of it, and Severus has never been around them much, nor has he been attacked by one. The vampiric community has always been voluntarily isolated in communes, and they’re generally lazy and unmotivated to do anything but lounge around drinking the blood subsidised by the ICW and sleeping their undead lives away. Unless that funded blood supply is lost (supremely unlikely), the vampire community will continue to whittle about their days in a lethargic haze rather than attacking living people during the night.

That being said, he knows that the Guild will look into the matter of a cure like Harry postulates, and it is undeniably an interesting problem. The affliction comes from a pathogen infects the magical population, same as lycanthropy, and mutates genetic code through magical means, but rather than a virus, the affliction comes from a parasitic—

Severus’s thoughts snap to attention when his distracted brain registers the hopeful, but almost smug glint in Harry’s eyes, and he says flatly, “I’m onto you, Harry Potter.”

Harry laughs. “I learnt a lot from Albus Dumbledore, Severus, and underhanded means to an end is one of those lessons. I’m certainly not going apologise for it, if it means keeping you in our lives for that much longer.” His eyes flick to the side and his face instantly brightens like the sunrise, the way it always does when he sees Draco, and Severus sees the minute movement of his right arm that signals the removal of spells.

Draco walks in with a suspicious frown. “What are you two being all secretive about?”

“Nothing of importance,” Harry says airily, grinning widely as he stands, pressing a kiss against Draco’s temple on his way to rinse out his teacup.

Of course, Draco doesn’t buy it in the slightest, but Harry has grown remarkably adept at spinning narratives to his advantage, and judging by the knowing eyebrow he raises, Draco probably assumes that Harry’s planning something regarding the wedding based off Harry’s carefully cheerful lie. Severus has no inclination to convince him otherwise, though, so he remains silent, playing his part by allowing his lips to curve into a smirk that he very deliberately tries to hide, and Draco harrumphs with displeasure, though Severus can see the delight he can’t mask.

“Fine, keep your dreadful secrets, you insufferable bastards,” Draco intones tetchily, turning his pointed nose up at both of them. Then he says, “We’ve a meeting with the event planner in an hour, Harry, so do hurry up, if you please. I would very much despise having to reschedule, as it was a marvel we were able to acquire the slot in the first place. Daniella Patil does not often have cancellations in her diary, and I assure you we won’t see another and will be forced to wait three months for another appointment if we’re late for this one.”

“I still say you should take your mother and Pans,” Harry says, winking at Severus as he puts away his clean cup and spoon.

Before Draco can open his mouth for the predictable histrionics, Severus adds dryly, “Be gone with both of you, so I can finish my tea without having to be subjugated to your depraved fornication all over my furniture.”

Harry laughs brightly whilst Draco splutters in mortification.

He walks them out, humming noncommittedly as Draco pesters him to visit Grimmauld Place at his earliest convenience – “We’ve managed to mostly erase all traces of Dark Magic in the common areas, but there are some very tricky remnants in the upper levels, which I think you would rather enjoy to untangle now that the property is free of red-headed weasels,” he says pointedly, cleanly dodging Harry’s shove – and ignores Harry’s hopeful looks. Gods, but it’s not like Harry couldn’t deal with it himself, considering how well-versed he is in Curse Breaking not to mention his association with the eldest Weasley spawn, but he supposes he could take a look during the wait for the lycanthropy cure test results, as long as there are no prior students or other Weasleys lurking.

He wonders if Harry ever managed to remove old Walburga’s portrait and if so, how he’d managed to remove the charm.

He stops at the edge of his anti-Apparition wards at the overgrown gate, allowing them to walk past and turn towards him. Draco says his droll goodbyes, already making plans for a dinner together within the fortnight, and Harry looks at Severus evenly, familiar green eyes over-bright in the overcast light.

“Think about it,” he says simply.

Severus stares back for a long moment and finally says, “I shall.”

Harry smiles.

A week later, full from his evening at Grimmauld Place, Severus pulls out his parchment and begins to write.