#the pride has to make room for a difference kind of warmth at the sheer competency on display in front of him

[s0fter-sin]

everyone makes fun of soap when they find out how many hair and skin products he keeps on hand. the cabinet in his bathroom is filled to bursting and he always keeps travel sized bottles on him on missions

when soldiers outside the 141 find out, they call him precious and self-obsessed, a vain pretty boy too preoccupied with his reflection to focus on the enemy. no wonder how he got his callsign. price has given up telling him to leave them on base and just teaches him to individually wrap them so they don’t rattle against each other and give himself away

what they don’t know is that each product contains an ingredient that when mixed with any number of the others, creates potent chemical bombs. he was caught unarmed once, he won’t let it happen again

[aparecium-rp]

ABOUT:

Character name: Zixia Chang Age & Birthday: 27 & September 7th Gender & Pronouns: Cis-Female & She/Her Occupation: Unspeakable Blood status: Pureblood Previous house: Ravenclaw Affiliation: Neutral Face claim: Yang Zi

BIOGRAPHY:

With the first sunlight of that day Zixia opened her eyes to the world. Rumor has it that ravens could be heard overhead when she was born; a sign her mother saw as proof that she was destined to be a Ravenclaw. Her father is said to have played the piano for hours out of sheer joy at the birth of his daughter. Her family was a circle of warmth and kindness; purebloods with a sense of the old yet respect for the new. Zixia grew up knowing that there was more than simply blood purity to hope and wish for. Perhaps it came down to her parents that the young girl grew up with a sense of respect for all living beings. While her father was a bit more of the old kind - hoping for a bright future - her mother simply wished for happiness.

Much like her mother had foreseen, pointing to the ravens that had flown overhead the day Zixia had been born, upon finally receiving her Hogwarts letter and being sorted once at school, the girl ended up in Ravenclaw where she blossomed into quite the smart young woman. Zixia could be found in the library for days on end, going through the books as though she lived in whatever world presented itself to her; be it  one of fantasy or knowledge. Her only words of discrimination were those against all those who couldn’t be bothered to spend anytime preparing for a life outside the walls of the school they all called home, priding herself on her smartness and individuality.

Upon graduation, Zixia Chang began to train with the ministry of magic. At first having considered a career with the Committee on Experimental Charms, her parents convinced the young witch that a career as an unspeakable might have been the better path. It was one of the rarer moments when their wish for a little bit of pride and glory overshadowed their wish for their daughters joy and although there was love for the position she eventually found herself in definitely existed, it wasn’t the original path Zixia would have chosen.

There in the Department of Mysteries she found herself at home, growing fond of the work and pushing her actual dream to the far back of her mind. Like a flower she would blossom and bloom into someone very much dedicated to the task at hand. Mostly found in the time and brain room with small dabbles in the time section, research became her primary objective.

It was during her time at the ministry, at the same time, that Zixia fell in love and in between the pursuit of knowledge ended up getting married to someone who was so very different from anything she’d ever thought. Perhaps it was the small happiness the witch had granted herself amidst a war. Zixia had never picked a side, unsure what to make of the chaos it all brought. Until the very day would come that a choice would be forced upon her, the witch would stand her ground.

OOC INFO:

Played by: Eliza Time Zone: GMT+1

[spellboundspectre]

ships passing in the night, p2

hassan el-shabazz x female!reader; 18+ only. minors do not interact.

content: sexual tension, dubious consent, cunnilingus.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: theme song for this chapter is tell it to my heart ft. hozier by meduza

masterlist

Hassan considered himself a patient man. He knew when it was time to speak up, and when it was time to bite his tongue and wait. The ability to tell the difference was something he took pride in. A gem he polished over and over again in his youth that now shined brightly as an adult. It was the instinct that made him a good cop, and an even better father.

But when it came to you?

That was brand new territory. 

Hassan couldn’t tell if you were being flirtatious or polite half the time, he just knew each encounter with you had him wanting more. Another laugh, another smile, anything. It wasn’t as though he was worried about Ali’s approval or not. Already a young man able to tell the signs of a woman interested, he found it harder and harder to contain his laughter when he saw his father freeze up in front of you. 

A flirtationship, Ali often called it. 

His late wife was far from a jealous woman, in fact; she made him promise he would move on after her passing. The Sheriff had every reason to act on his budding feelings for you, and yet he held himself back. At some point, he resigned himself to never take more than you gave freely; content with your daily morning greetings and friendly waves. 

And for a long while, that was enough for Hassan. He had found contentment in every smile you threw his way, every quiet hello you’d mumble at the start of town council meetings. Whenever the two of you were in a room together, those doe eyes of yours were always trained on him. And oh, the effect you had on the poor sheriff.

You were one of the few people in this town that showed him kindness, that’s what he always blamed it on. He was desperate for any kind of warmth and latched on to you. 

It’s nothing more than that, he tries to convince himself. 

But this morning, he didn’t get his daily greeting from you. He stood outside of the general store nursing his morning cup of coffee for a long thirty minutes, but you were no where to be found. Hassan blamed his worry on his occupation; he was the sheriff after all. It was his job to be concerned about the citizens of Crockett. Even if it he was more worried about you and your sister than he was most. And it didn’t take long at all for the Sheriff to realize how empty his day felt without it. Without you. 

Seeing your face at the town council meeting today was enough to return him to himself, but his mood was quickly soured thanks to the efforts of one Beverly Keane. As irritating as she was, Hassan had to admit, she was talented. It was plain to see she wanted nothing more than to get under his skin, and she succeed nearly every time.

The lie you and Erin spun was quickly seen through by the former NYPD detective, but he played along like he was none the wiser. Hassan could use a few extra moments alone with you, anyways. If this was the game you wanted to play, he’d play along happily. 

Hassan let you guide him to the secluded storage room like a dog on a leash. 

You lead the way, a few steps in front of him as the two of you walk through the hallways of the small school. He struggles to pry his eyes from the hemline of your dress, the way your tights are just a little more sheer around the curve of your thighs. The way your ass bounces with every step of your foot. 

A groan purrs deep in his chest as he tries to reign in his thoughts. Hassan was on edge. Irritated, frustrated and eager to prove something. 

Not to Bev Keane, she could fuck herself. And not to the people of Crockett, they were just as much of a lost cause. 

He has something to prove to himself. That he was still in control when a stressful situation arose. That he could make things happen if he wanted to.

And he did. 

And he would. 

Hassan clears his throat before speaking, “You almost got the both of us in trouble, you know.”

Your shoulders rise up and down in a shrug. “And how did I do that?”

“You might keep quiet, but you show all your expressions on your face. And you can’t hide how much Bev Keane irks you every time she opens her mouth,”

You cast an apologetic look over your shoulder as you unlock the doors to the library. 

“Is it really that obvious? I’m sorry it’s just-” you pause, turning the brass handle to the double doors. “It’s like she was put on this earth to make everyone within a five mile radius of her miserable.”

Hassan chuckles, even when you despise someone, you still manage to do it in the cutest way possible. 

“Maybe next time don’t roll your eyes in the front row,” Hassan quips as he holds the door open as you push it open, his arm stretching over your head, “It makes it easier for me to not burst into laughter when she goes off on one of her rants.”

“Oh,” you say sheepishly. “I can do that, Sheriff.”

“I think we’re on a first name basis by now,” Hassan laughs. “Or were you avoiding me this morning?”

He’s following behind you as you weave your way through the bookshelves to the back storage room that doubles as your office. 

“What?” you say in shock, “I wouldn’t- no.”

You flick the switch on the wall to turn on the lights of your office.

“Really,” you say as walk towards the corner where your desk is, “Whitney, my sister, was running late today so I was running late to make sure she got out of the house at a decent time.”

You slide your keys into the pocket of your cardigan with one hand, and with the other, you nervously toy with a loose thread at the edge of the fabric. 

“I’d never avoid you, Sheriff.” Your tone is so apologetic, Hassan feels his heart clench in his chest.

“Hassan,” he corrects, as he pretends to look around the room for rats. 

The building is old, most likely in need of minor repair, but it was clean and there were no places for rats to get in. 

“Hassan,” you repeat.

Your eyes dart around the room, you’re far too embarrassed to meet his inquisitive gaze. He’s bound to have seen through your lie by now. A lie you didn’t even want to make, but joined in on nonetheless. 

“So rats, huh?” Hassan says as he steps closer to you. 

On instinct, you take a step back for each one he takes forward until you stumble backwards against your desk. 

“I could have sworn I saw rat droppings, I must have been mistaken,” You gulp, “I’m sorry for wasting your time Sher-Hassan.”

He clenches his jaw. You really were trying his patience. 

“You don’t have to call me by name if you don’t want to,” Hassan reassures you, he’s looming over you now, “I hate to make you uncomfortable, especially if you don’t like me.”

“I like you, Hassan,” he takes that as an invitation to step closer, forcing you to rest your body weight against your desk to keep a sliver of distance between your bodies. 

“How much do you like me?” His voice has dropped an octave now. 

You can barely hear him over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

“What do you-”

“How long are you going to keep playing this game with me?” He growls, pressing himself closer to you still. The tips of his fingers graze along your thighs as they make their way to your waist. 

Hassan doesn’t give you a chance to answer before latching his hands around you and lifting you so that you’re perched on the edge of your desk. You make the mistake of gasping at the sudden contact and the way your lips part so suddenly breaks his self control and he slots his mouth over yours. 

A flame is lit inside you. It’s stroked as Hassan’s tongue slides against yours until it’s roaring with the full intensity of a bonfire. You can faintly taste coffee and cigarettes on his tongue, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s just him. Clumsily, you kiss him back, pressing your chest against his as your fingers curl around the collar of his jacket to pull him closer. 

He groans against you, his hips grinding against yours as you continue to exchange heated kisses. The sheriff is ravenous as his lips slide against yours, his teeth squeezing your bottom lip between them every so often. Each little gasp, every quiet moan is drunken up by him greedily. 

Broad hands run up and down your back, too high on adrenaline to keep still. His fingers comb through your hair, squeeze at the column of your neck before finally cradling your face. It pains him, but he pulls his mouth from yours and rests his forehead against yours. 

“You drive me fucking insane,” he pants. 

Foolishly, you think this is a moment of respite, a chance to catch your breath before you can kiss him once again; but Hassan has other plans for you. His hands shift to your shoulders and push you back towards the cold surface of the desk. He then begins wriggling his fingers under the hemline of your dress, hiking up the fabric until he can see the waist-band of your tights. 

In a matter of seconds he has both them and your panties pulled down to your knees and you’re pressed flat on your back as he pushes you legs into your chest. 

“Fuck,” he groans to himself as he stares at your most intimate of parts. 

His eyes are transfixed at the sight of the puffy lips of your cunt and the trail of slick that still clings to the seat of your panties. At this moment, he can’t fathom why he ever tried to hold himself back. 

Hassan laps at you like a man starved. His eyes flutter shut the instant his tongue meets the velvet folds of your pussy. His hands spread wide on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs open enough for him to slot himself in comfortably. 

“Hassan!” you cry as your spine arches. 

He responds by purring against your cunt, the vibration causing his beard to grind against your sensitive skin. 

Not even in your wildest of dreams could imagine something as sinful as this happening to you, and in your place of work! You’d been with men before Hassan, but it was never like this. 

Hassan was a force of nature. As you squeezed your eyes shut as pleasure spread across your body, you saw fireworks behind your eyelids. Each flick of his tongue against your clit felt like a strike of lightning, and from your cunt your juices ran from you like a flood. 

“Come for me, sugar.” he groans against your overheated flesh.

The two middle fingers of his left hand slide in your soaked pussy with ease and curl inside of you. The pads of his fingers press against the spongey walls of your cunt and milk your orgasm from you in a matter of seconds. Not even the sharp, cold sting of his wedding band did anything to stop the oncoming surge of your orgasm. 

He sighs against your skin as he feels you come undone on his tongue and fingers, taste your juices so he can savor it and commit it to memory. Hassan continues to suck on your clit slowly, making sure you feel each peak of the waves of ecstasy that have clouded your mind. 

All you can do is lie there stupidly, staring at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath. Your legs twitch idly on either side of Hassan as he straightens his back to stare down at your ruined form. His thumbs strokes the side of your cheeks, silently making sure you’re still ok. Your gaze shifts to him, and all you can offer is a slow blink to let him know you’re still with him.

The bulge in his pants hasn’t gone down whatsoever, if anything it seems more lively now than ever. Even in the low light of the storage room, you can see how the fabric of his jeans strains to contain his cock. 

He pries his hands from you to smooth them over the front of his pants to soothe his aching cock before changing his mind and fishing it from the confines of his jeans. There are tears clouding your eyes, but you can still make out the outline of his cock. 

You prayed he didn’t plan on shoving that inside of you tonight. Like the rest of him, his cock was intimidating, curving towards his navel and so thick, his fingers barely met around it. 

Hassan wraps his fist around the base of it, squeezing his cock a few times before beginning to pump furiously as he stares at your swollen cunt. He’s been on the edge since he first kissed you, and it doesn’t take him long before he’s shooting ropes of cum across your thighs and staining the fabric of your panties. 

With a trembling hand, he angles the tip of his cock so the last few drops of cum land on the seat of your panties. The room goes quiet, the both of you trying to calm your breathing. You’re completely exhausted, every drop of energy has been drained from your body entirely. Wordlessly, he slides your tights and panties back into place and seals his cum against your skin. 

He pats his hand against your cunt and laughs when you jump from the stimulation. 

“You’d better get a move on, if you want to visit all of the elderly by sundown,” He says in a gritty voice. “I’ll check in on you and your sister after the storm passes, ok?”

“Ok,” you say dreamily, still in shock of the events that just transpired. You can feel his cum sliding against your skin. 

“Stay safe, sugar.”

“You too, Hassan.”

[marvelmusing]

On Your Knees

Helmut Zemo x Fem!Reader x Heike Zemo

Part of my • 𝗦𝗢𝗞𝗢𝗩𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗨 •

My Masterlist

WARNINGS: 18+ smut, protected sex, threesome (poly relationship), s/d themes

Sorry if this is bad, it’s my first smut, let me know if you like it!

Helmut is in his office when you arrive home, you didn’t spot Heike on your way through the house so you assume she is upstairs somewhere. You pause in the doorway, suddenly unsure as to whether you should bother him. He glances up at you from his desk. You had taken your blazer off when you’d gotten home and you’ve pushed your sleeves up. One look at your face and he knows something is different.

“Long day?” He asks, pushing his chair back to look away from his work and put his focus on you. You suddenly feel bad, keeping his attention from whatever he was busy with. He watches as you fiddle with your fingers, before you nod with a bashful smile. He gestures towards you with a gentle look, “Come here.” He says, fully expecting you to settle into his lap as you usually do. Surprise flickers across his face when you kneel down by his feet. “Is everything alright Draga?” You nod.

“Just one of those days.” You murmur, your words muffled slightly as you press your forehead against his thigh.

“Would you like to talk about it?” When you shake your head he continues, “Or just sit for a while?”

“Sit, please?” You ask in a small voice, he smoothes a hand over your head, encouraging you to lean your head against his leg.

“Of course Liebling.” He feels some of the tension leave your shoulders as you pull yourself closer to him. As he returns to typing away at his work, you close your eyes as his other hand continues petting your head. He knows what kind of day you’ve had, one that’s left you feeling drained but your mind won’t let you relax. Luckily he also knows exactly what you need. With every stroke of his hand, you lean further and further into him. At one point he drags his fingers through your hair, lightly scraping his nails mildly across your scalp, making you shudder. He looks down at you, noticing how your thighs tense in response. “Are you certain you don’t want to be up here?” He asks as he taps his thigh, knowing how much you love rocking against him. You nod, gripping onto the loose fabric of his trousers. It isn’t often that you feel the need to submit like this, and Helmut wants to ensure that you receive everything you need in this state. Hooking his fingers under your jaw, he tilts your head up, your wide eyes meeting his own. He traces his thumb along the ridge of your lower lip. In response you part your lips lightly, and his thumb slips seamlessly into your mouth. Your eyelids flutter closed, and you hum contentedly as you continue to suckle on his digit. He keeps his thumb still, occasionally applying some gentle pressure against your tongue, to which a delightful shudder overtakes your body. Helmut returns his attention to his work, or at least he tries to. Attempting to ignore the warmth of your mouth and the look of complete submission on your face as you kneel between his thighs. When he finally pulls his thumb away you whine at the loss. He trails his thumb across your lips again, your saliva coating your swollen lips. He looks down to examine the soaked state of his thumb.

“Look at the mess you’ve made.” He purrs, wiping his hand on his trousers. Despite the embarrassing statement, his voice is full of pride as he admires the sight before him. He knows you’re far too delicate at this point for him to tease you too hard. His hand returns to your face, cupping your cheek and tilting your gaze back to his face. “Though I’m sure that’s not the only mess you’re making.” He smirks lightly at the feeling of your face warming beneath his hand as the blood rushes to your cheeks. With his other hand, he pulls out his phone before typing a few instructions to Heike. He returns his attention back to you. “Why don’t we take this upstairs?” He offers, to which you nod. “You head on up, Liebling, Heike will be waiting for you.” He holds his hands out for you to take, before helping you to your feet. You wobble a little and he steadies you, before giving you a gentle nudge towards the door.

When you reach the bedroom you see Heike sat at the vanity table, and once you notice what she’s wearing you know exactly what Helmut wants you to do for her. She’s dressed in one of her favourite underwear sets, with her sheer robe draped over her shoulders. She smiles softly at you once she spots you lingering at the door. You return her smile shyly, and accept her extended hand. As she pulls you closer you sink between her parted legs. You begin to skim your hand up the expanse of her thigh, glancing up to meet her gaze. She raises a brow at you sternly and you flush in response, before obediently putting your hands behind your back. You start at the inside of her knee, pressing a soft kiss there on each leg. From there, you trail your way up her thigh, slowly increasing the pressure of your lips against her skin. You scrape your teeth gently at the soft flesh of her thigh, drawing a quiet moan from her throat. Her grip is tight on the stool, as you reach her core. You whine at the feeling of her lace panties against your tongue. Nose brushing along the line of her underwear, you nip and suck harder at the offending article keeping your mouth from her skin. She moans louder, lifting her hips up for you to pull the panties from her body. You take the lace in your teeth and yank them down, dropping them to dangle at her ankles. You can practically taste how soaked the fabric is against your tongue. At some point you become aware of Helmut’s presence, feeling his gaze fixed on the two of you. You shift closer to her, attaching your mouth to the slick that’s pooling between her thighs. Your fingers twist together with the need to touch her, the crescent print from your nails digging into the soft skin of your hand as she moans against your mouth. It isn’t long before she’s rocking her hips into your tongue as she gets closer and closer to her release. You continue to move against her with increasing enthusiasm, wanting her to fall apart on you. You don’t hear Helmut approach you, but you soon feel his hand as he squeezes the back of your neck gently, pushing you closer to Heike. You’re far too occupied to notice the look exchanged between the two of them. His nails scrape lightly at your scalp as he tugs on your hair guiding you away from Heike. Despite knowing what Helmut was planning, she still whimpers at the loss of your mouth. They both drink in the sight of you, on your knees, dripping with need, your pretty mouth parted as you take a shuddering breath. Helmut’s hand remains tangled in your hair. He hums thoughtfully, before asking teasingly,

“Do you think she deserves it, Draga?” He looks over at his wife as she wavers on the edge of her climax.

“Please sir.” You plead immediately, desperate to feel her release on your tongue. At the sound of your voice cracking, he takes pity on you both. With one hand in your hair, the other under your chin, Helmut guides you back to where she needs you most. You work your tongue against her slowly, with Helmut gently cupping your jaw. You increase your pace, until soon you’re sucking so hard Heike’s seeing stars. She finishes with a cry of your name and you lap up every drop of her, before pulling your lips away panting. You watch Helmut as he moves to stand behind Heike. Her skin gleams with a thin sheen of sweat, and his lips ghost against her ear as he slips the robe from her shoulders.

“Didn’t our Liebling do a good job?” Heike hums in agreement, her breathing slowly returning to normal,

“Such a good girl for us.”

“And look how pretty she looks on her knees.” Your cheeks warm at the intensity of their attention, and you glance down at the floor.

“Look at us, darling.” Heike calls out, and you obey her immediately. Your eyes flickering between the two of them, your breathing becoming ragged as you try not to squirm under their gaze.

“There’s our good girl.” Helmut praises as your eyes meet his. You whimper softly, and briefly consider grinding against the carpet in a desperate attempt for some sort of friction. “Shall we put her out of her misery?” He asks Heike.

“She has been very good.” You stare up at them with a pleading expression. Heike crouches down in front of you, cupping your face gently and pulling her lips to yours. She moans at the taste of herself on your tongue. They both guide you into standing, Helmut’s hands run over the back of your arms, smoothing over the muscles there. You hadn’t noticed how tense you’d been, holding yourself back from touching her. The two of them quickly undress you, though you barely notice most of it with Heike’s lips against yours. You reach forward, grasping at her waist, wanting more of her. Though you don’t get far before she’s pulling away. She shushes your whines, brushing her fingers soothingly across your cheek, “We’re going to take such good care of you darling. Isn’t that right, Helmut?”

“It certainly is, my love.” He agrees, trailing his hands along your sides.

“This is about you now.” She pulls you flush against her body as Helmut’s lips explore your neck. His hands are fixed on your waist as he works your body against Heike’s. You’re aware of them moving across the room, but don’t fully register it until you’re being pushed onto the bed. Heike’s body is soon back on yours as her lips move against yours. She pulls back, leaning on her elbow at your side before leaning back in. You trade long, slow kisses, as her hand trails down your body leaving electric need in its wake. You hear the bedside drawer open as Helmut searches for a condom. She applies a little more pressure once she gets to your abdomen and you buck your hips upwards with a mewl. Her lips lower to leave marks beside the ones Helmut left against your throat. After a particularly harsh bite to your shoulder you let out hiss which soon morphs into a moan when her fingers slip inside you. She holds them still, and your eyes roll back into your head. “Look at that, my love.” She purrs admirably as she slowly pulls her fingers out. “I think she’s ready for you already.” Your breathing is already erratic but when you look up at Helmut you swear your heart stops. His large palms smooth across your thighs, spreading you wider as Heike continues to move her fingers inside you. He leans over you, his lips moving against yours. Heike removes her fingers, before extending them to Helmut. You whimper as he takes her fingers in his mouth, and your thighs clench when he moans at the taste of you. Helmut’s hands grasp onto your hips, as he kneels on the bed, before lining up to your entrance. He slips in, swearing in Sokovian as you cry out at the feeling of finally being full. The back of your thighs brush against his as he sets the pace of his thrusts. Heike cups your face, guiding your lips back to hers as her hands skim up your body. She ghosts a thumb over each of your nipples and you throw your head back against the pillows with a gasp. She continues to caress your body as Helmut’s hips crash against yours. As his pace increases, so do your moans and soon you’re crying out a useless babble consisting of their names and broken pleas as you clench around him. His voice is hoarse, as he rasps,

“You’re close, aren’t you Draga?” You can only nod weakly with a dazed look in your eyes. Heike slips an arm around your waist, the added pressure against your abdomen bringing tears to your eyes.

“It’s alright darling.” Heike coos at you, giving you a tender kiss. “Let go for us.” Pressing your forehead against her shoulder, you cry out as you climax. Helmut guides you through it, prolonging the pleasure that quivers your body until his own release. He breathes deeply into the crook of your neck as the two of you come down from your high. Heike skims her hands up and down your arm soothingly, leaving gentle kisses over your face. Helmut pulls out of you as carefully as he can. You still whimper at the loss, though Heike comforts you with more kisses. As Helmut moves to the bathroom, she pulls you up to rest in her arms. You lean your head against her chest, eyelids slipping closed contentedly. Helmut returns with a warm washcloth which he uses to clean between your legs. Your brow creases a little as it brushes against the tender skin.

“You did so well, Draga.” Heike nods in agreement threading her hand through your hair,

“We’re so proud of you.” You smile softly at them both. Your eyes are failing to stay open for long.

“Love you both.” You mumble against Heike’s skin. They both regard you affectionately.

“We love you too.” Helmut says, stroking your cheek with a fond smile.

“Very much.” Heike adds. Your smile widens. “Now, bed or bath darling?” She asks. You hum thoughtfully as you consider your answer, your eyes still closed. You hear Helmut chuckle, and you look up at him.

“We don’t want you falling asleep in the bath Draga.” You pout despite knowing that he’s right. He walks over to his wardrobe, picking out a few shirts. He hands one of his dress shirts to Heike, who slips it over her shoulders. He then dresses himself in a pair of shorts before returning to the bed. He settles down next to you as Heike helps you to sit up. The two of them pull an old t-shirt of Helmut’s over your body. “Bedtime, Draga. We’ll give you a bath tomorrow night, yes?” Once it’s on, they both leave a peck against your cheek before guiding you to lie between them. You nod with a small smile as you cuddle up to them both. Helmut has his arm around you both, and Heike’s pressed against your side. The moment you’re settled into their arms, you’re out like a light, feeling utterly content and unbelievably lucky to have them both.

Tags: @anteroom-of-death

[kusagrasskusa]

Michael Myers X Short! Reader - Part 2

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

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

Y/N was in the kitchen, preparing to make a chocolate shake because, uh, chocky shakes are quite scrumptious if I do say so myself, and I do say so. She grabbed the stool next to the small island in the kitchen and used it to get on top of the counter. She clicked her tongue, keeping her mind on her surroundings in case her roommate, Michael, were to teleport through sheer force of will and pull her down. But she didn't hear him coming.

Y/N grabbed the blender and looked around the room to make sure her stool wasn't moved when she wasn't looking. When Michael would do that, she'd fall down since it's like walking down the stairs but missing a step, making you fall down and lose your will to breath. Of course, Y/N should be smart enough to just look down or get down slowly to see if the stool is there, but that solution would be too simple and intelligent for the likes of this story.

Y/N got off the counter and kicked the stool off the side, looking around more. "Huh,"she clicked her tongue, shrugging off her paranoia. She plugged in the blender and grabbed the ice cream tub she got earlier, scooping some out and putting it in the cup of the blender. She hummed to herself as she poured in milk and whatever toppings she wanted, like oreos or something.

It was about 8am, meaning it was almost time for her to go to work. Usually Michael would be watching tv, doing something out back, or whatever else he does, but she strangely couldn't find him. It was weird for him to just be missing. But to be fair, he's an adult who can leave whenever we he wants.

I sighed, as I turned on the blender, my eyes turning dull from boredom. It felt like a weight was put on her shoulders from the disappointment, but at least getting to work on time would be easier. Michael wasn't used to a modern day home so I would usually have to go on a rundown of things to and not to do before I left. A smile lifted my face as I think back, simultaneously pouring the shake into a cup and putting it in my fridge for now.

I take a large breath again before heading to my room, pushing the door open with a silent squeak coming from it. It smelled like slight dust which kinda makes since because who the hell has time to clean anything, am I right? No one, because this story takes place in America and anyone who's lives in a different country before being here can tell you that a lot for us are depressed because America is designed to be repeatative. Like, can we please do anything other than wake up, work, go watch TV at home, then sleep? Can we have a week long festival instead of getting drunk and shooting fireworks one day in July?

I shake the thoughts that suddenly appeared in my head off, sighing as I walked to my closet. "I need to take schizophrenia pills, I swear," I mumble as I pull open the sliding door— "Yo, what the hell!-"

There the skyscraper was, right in the middle of the same closet where I keep my hoodies. He stared at me for a good four seconds, a dull expression but anyone can tell from the look in his eye that he was shookyth. Probably because he didn't his mask on but who knows.

It was a great battle honestly; as soon as I realized he was maskless, I pulled my phone out quickly for a picture, but he ran at me and took the phone away. Obviously, I wasn't gonna let that slide so I did what anyone would in the situation; kick them in the shjn because that's what everyone was thinking,  right? He reactively brought his hands down fast a protection reflex, giving me enough time to grab his hand.

His grip was stronger than the strength of flex tape however, so I couldn't pull it off him before I was shoved back. I landed on my back, but tried to get back up. But hah, that would mean adding more to the "battle" so of Michael held me down after throwing the phone on the bed. "Michael, get off!" I yelled as his hands squeezed my wrists. It was embarrassing to be straddled when I had so much pride, but this isn't in a situation where I can enjoy it and act like a flustered schoolgirl!

I tried to kick my legs, but that didn't work either. I was never gonna get out of his grip but still, struggling to get out was er than admitting defeat so it's worth it. "Come on! You're heavy enough to kill me, so get up and fight like a man!" Michael had held his head down so getting a good view from my perspective wasn't easy. Basically, his head was above my chest (it's the easiest easy to describe my visionnnn) so him looking down only gives the view of his hair and forehead.

"Michael! Where you looking for that hoodie from a week ago? What were you even doing!" I shouted, cause you gotta make sure you keep that pride. I gave a couple seconds of waiting before sighing loudly, limping. Because screw that line in the same paragraph about pride, am I right? Then, he mumbled. It wasn't a word I don't think, considering it sounded more like a groan as conformation. I shivered a bit, still not used to the sound of his voice.

"Is...that a yeah?" He then nodded, but kept his head low. "Um, alright... Well, let me up and I'll get it for you, okay?" Michael then let go, standing up and helping me up in the process. "Thank you," I stated as I walked over to the closet, pulling out two hoodies. One for me, and that blue one for him. When I turned to hand his to him, he sadly put his mask on already, making me sigh again. I handed the hoodie and smiled at him.

"There you go! Let me know if you need anything else before I go, kay?" I spoke as I put on my hoodie then fixing my slightly messed up hair. He put on his hoodie, not responding in any way so I assumed nothing else was needed. I pat his arm and said bye as I walked out of the bedroom. I grabbed the oreo shake and walked out of the house, locking the door.

I shivered in bed, trying to sleep. It doesn't snow much here therefore what's basically a blizzard to happen is definitely surprising. It's worse that I have an old house; the temperature of the house really depends on the outside. There's few vents, so freezing air easily makes it into the house. And get this; the heater conveniently broke! Hah! Who's gonna come fix with weather? It's so funny it makes me want to curl up and cry, haha.

I guess it seems like I'm overreacting, but the house's temperature really is freezing because of the snow. Plus it's night out, so it's even colder. "It felt like summer yesterday though," I mumbled to myself, holding the covers tightly around me. I pressed me face closer to the pillow, closing my eyes tigher with stress. We all know a cold pillow is great but a cold cover is miserable. Michael had it worse however.

He slept on the couch with a few covers rather than a thick mattress and comforter. He got up a few times to microwave food so at least it'll make him a little warmer, but it didn't help much of course. Michael's been shot, ran over, beaten, and so many other things so the cold is nothing to him. But given the conditions he lives in, it wouldn't be wrong to use what he can to be more comfortable. Such as sleeping in a bed for once.

Just the thought of a bed sounded nice to him. The couch was small for someone tall enough to slap the top of the ceiling in schools that probably had some encouraging message on it. Michael pulled the covers off him, sitting up and stretching. His mask was off at the moment but it was too dark for anyone to notice luckily for him. He made his way towards the bedroom, opening the door silently and closing it.

Y/N frowned, nearly falling asleep at this point. Michael made his way over, softly leaning on the bed before laying on it. He wrapped his arm around Y/N for a little of warmth, since snuggles is nice I think. I wouldn't know, I've never dated. He nuzzle into the crook of her neck, closing his eyes. It was silent aside from the strangely obnoxious sound of wind from outside. I wouldn't know if that happens irl, it finally snowed for the first time where I lived and it was so little that the snow didn't pile up.

It was peaceful and Michael almost fell asleep until he heard a small snore from Y/N. Not the loli snore kind, no, I'm not a big fan of "adorable sneezes, yawns, or snores." This is the kind that you never want a significant oth set to wake you up to tell you about. Okay, maybe that not extreme but it was loud enough to be heard.

Michael felt a small smile go on his lips, intertwining his fingers with Y/N's hair. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep now. But his sleep was cut short when a loud squeak shook the house. He shook awake, sitting up immediately and looked around. All there was was a smol reader with a large smile on her face. The lamp besides the bed was turned on, showing a soft reddish feel to the room that made her blush excusable.

His look of concern fell to annoyance when he realized where the yell came from. He sighed, going deep into the covers with his back facing her. Y/N scoffed, "hey! Don't judge me! This is a three in a lifetime experience!" She huffed and pulled her phone out from under her pillow. She already got a picture of his face and hiding the picture would be easy. Uh, maybe. Y/N smirked as she plugged her phone it and turned off the lamp. She sjufgled into the covers, wrapping her smol arm around him this time.

"Goodnight~"

[scandeniall]

falling in love

Pairing: sakusa x reader

Warnings: none for once ??? Usual college/aged up

A/n: Yeah it’s almost 3am and I just soewed this out. Idk if it even makes sense but I wanna be in luv with him lol. Also; the references to no limit to you (bc even months later it’s still top 3 one of my fav things I’ve ever written)

Falling in love with sakusa is slow and steady. Its weeks of being an acquaintance and friend of a friend. You were friendly enough, considerate of his space and that he wasn’t the most outgoing guy in the world. Paying attention when he made his way into the conversation as you all sat at a group dinner. It’s the not shoving your social media in his face unlike other people trying to get a highly sought after athlete to follow them.

It’s months of getting to know one another as friends ignoring the tiniest spark whenever you two would meet up for lunch. So tiny, it could’ve been a hallucination. Getting his number one night as the two of you found yourselves outside of a party (one he’d been forced to go to and wanted nothing more than to leave), the rest of your friends having the time of their lives on the dance floor. At that point he’d watched you and got aquatinted enough to know that you were relatively genuine. He’d detected no ulterior motive. Late night texts were his thing. After a busy day of classes and practice, where he’d remembered you’d texted a joke the day before. He’d shoot a quick apology for his poor conversation and offer his own meme as consolidation.

It was just over a year of knowing one another that it’s the first time as friends he felt nervous to hang out with you and couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. It wasn’t a date by any means, just a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. He’d offered to pick you up as an apology for his horrible texting one week in particular citing that it was on the way. It was the first time you’d ridden in a car just the two of you and the way you offered a breathless greeting and apology for taking so long to come out (thus putting you two behind schedule, something that had garnered the tiniest bit of annoyance) had his own breath caught in his throat. He’s not even sure he uttered any real words when you’d complimented him.

It was at the end of the night, seeing you delirious with exhaustion yet as happy as ever, finally having a break from the reality of classes that his crush might’ve started. Your insistence that he texted you when he made it back home safe and the fact that you even stayed up to make sure he did stirred something inside of him.

It was something he’d pushed down. ‘It was only because of the atmosphere’ is what he tried telling himself. Yet he couldn’t shake the way he actually enjoyed hanging out with you in a way that was different from hanging out with Komori or his teammates out of obligation. At some point the two of you began studying together and that unveiled a new layer of yourselves to one another.

You learned that he needed nearly complete silence to study and he had to force himself to not focus on the tiniest muffle coming from your earbuds. He learned that when you began to stress to got extremely fidgety and would have to shoot you a look whenever you clicked your pen one too many times. Sometimes you’d have to break from the libraries harsh fluorescent lighting because he worked best there on the quiet floor. The compromises you made as friends in even school were because there was something oddly comforting about the presence of one another when studying. For you, it was how studying with him actually forced you to be productive and not get distracted like you’d do with your own friends. For him, it was the sheer comfort of having someone there, someone who didn’t try and talk with him and ultimately let him be.

It was early into your third year of college when he finally asked you out. At this point you’d been friends for nearly two years and sitting on feelings for at least a year. It was a simple date, takeout from a place the two of you mutually agreed on and a movie at his place. A clean spot for his first date with you. The date had been nothing special but you’d gotten to truly witness first hand just how meticulous his cleaning habits were in his own personal space.

Of course in the time you’d known him, you’d seen his cleanly nature in action. It’d manifested itself in the the mask he frequently wore and the hand sanitizer he carried often. You’d always noticed the way he glanced at public tables and admired the fact that he was never too shy to ask for a different one at a restaurant when it was obvious that it had hardly been cleaned in between guests.

His desire to immediately wash his dishes, and wipe down the table post dinner caused him to offer you an apology yet you didn’t care. The way you just wordlessly helped him confirmed that his crush was indeed real. When it got chilly, you didn’t feel obligated to cuddle up for warmth and even gratefully accepted the blanket he offered you, separate from his own.

In the nearly two years you’d known Sakusa, neither of you had ever initiated any sort of physical contact. Yes there was the occasional glance of one another’s shoulders to show the other something, but it’d always been platonic. That first date ended with the first of many hugs and a cautious look asking for permission to kiss his cheek.

That first date quickly turned into a second and third and fourth and fifth, the two of you sharing your first kiss sometime between the third and fourth. Itd been after one of his games, one your school had won. You’d waited up for him, the promise of boba on you if he won. Not that he really wanted it, but more so felt drawn to hang out with you. “We’re gonna win”

The kiss was quick and what others would have attributed to being “a moment.” It wasn’t unusual for silence to envelop the two of you. You’d been privy to many comfortable ones after learning to gauge when sakusa needed a moment to cool off from conversation. As the two of you just walked from the shop, drinks in hand and back toward campus he’d paused and asked to try something. Neither of you knew it, but inside both of your nerves were going crazy. The slightest shaking lasted the remainder of your time together unsure if the kiss really happened or if you’d just imagined it.

It’d been two months of dating exclusively before you two became an official couple. The kisses from there became more frequent but for some reason there was the hesitation to jump into anything official. So instead, the two of you spent that time getting to know one another in purely a romantic context.

At some point you’d joked asking when he was going to officially become your boyfriend.

“Do you really want me to?” Itd been a thought that had been at the front of his mind lately. He’d been trying to find the right time to ask as well, getting annoyed at the questions his teammates would ask about you in the locker room. He watched you intently analyzing your reaction to his words as your amused look turned serious than softened before you indicated that you really did. And so he asked and it became official.

It was the way that even after the honeymoon stage had ended that he still felt drawn to you. Even when you bickered about your room not being clean [enough] when he came over or about your annoying own clicking habit, neither of you wanted to bicker with anyone else. Even during your first serious argument that resulted in you admitting that you loved him his heart both dropped and swelled. He’d been the one to fuck up that time, the argument being quite heavy. That night he left with a kiss on your temple and a promise of seeing you soon.

It was the way that the days the two of you didn’t speak felt like hell to him. He was more irritable towards others and found himself stress cleaning whenever he could (something his teammates witnessed as he wiped down his locker for the 50th time in a span of 5 minutes). The usually cautious player may not have performed differently to outsiders, but when he didn’t see you in the crowd during the home game he was off.

Making up felt like a weight had lifted off his heart. He’d swallowed his pride and reached out first. Returning those 3 words for the first time had him feeling like he was on cloud nine.

From then the love between you and Kiyoomi continued to grow. It was never perfect, with the two of you always having something something to work on. But, it was you.

The day he’d revealed to you that he’d signed to MSBY post college was one of his favorite moments. The two of you had been at his hanging out when he’d given you the unmarked envelope. He’d watched your face go from confused to realization to excitement as you read aloud “we welcome your commitment to MSBY Black Jackals-.” It was one of those times he didn’t mind the camera you’d shoved in his face insisting that you were filming a once in a lifetime moment. He’d found himself smiling at the kisses your scattered over his face, ignoring what usually would’ve made him grimace in disgust for the love that overpowered it.

He’d considered the next step in your relationship for a while the question of asking you to move in with him ultimately flowing out of him at graduation. It was the start of a new journey and he wanted you by his side.

Moving in was no easy feat. Learning to live with another person and their habits got to the two of you at times but you were determined to stick it out. Once the initial struggles faded, and you’d gotten into the swing of things he was met with a different kind of love. The love of a domestic life with you. Love was never easy, and potentially being harder when you were young. Yet you’d waited it through. Slowly built a friendship and the foundation of something great. Sakusa has no intentions in proposing anytime soon, yet knew for a fact that he wanted you and you want him.

a/n: i honestly coulve kept going but uh i gotta go to bed and this shit is long nough

[hankwritten]

By the Roots

Scout & Soldier, 2k

Part of the DontNeedADiscord Pride Week, Day 2: Family

Of all the people, all the people on the damn planet, it really shouldn’t have been Soldier that figured it.

“You there! I saw that, pipsqueak!” he demanded not two days after the team was first assembled, storming at me across the training yard like I’d already done something wrong. “Regulation warm-up is fifty pushups, not ten and then exclaiming very loudly ‘FIFTY’ as you do that last one! Do not think because you are a woman I will go easy on you. In fact! I will be riding your ass twice as hard so you will be encouraged to measure up to your clearly more dedicated male counterparts!”

There were a lot of things I could object to in that, a lot of things I was planning to object to, but one thing in particular surprised me so much it practically hit me upside the head. “Whoa, hey dude! I ain’t a chick!”

Soldier lifted his helmet with a thumb and peered down at me. “You are not?”

“No a’course I’m not!” I said, flabbergasted. “Would a chick have sick muscles like this? Or like this?” I should off each of my amazing and impressive biceps in turn, a little shocked that he wasn’t falling over in awe due to their sheer awesomeness. “I am peak dude, pally. Why would you even think that?”

“Your small stature, your chicken legs, your feminine jaw, your general weakness, the unending gab from your motor mouth-” Soldier ticked them off on his fingers.

I swatted down his hands. “Dude, jeez, I get it.”

He considered me again. “…You are sure you are not a very petite yet tomboyish girl?”

“Uh, yeah pally,” I scoffed. “I think I’d know.”

Twenty-two months later, my hard earned ponytail fitting snugly through my hat, I wondered if Soldier knew, somehow. That was stupid obviously—Soldier was completely bonkers even by the team’s standards, and if every weirdly nonsensical thing he’d ever said was true then I’d also be a spy from ten different countries and partially made of ranch dressing. But. I guess some small part of me liked the idea that it was apparent to someone. That there was some hard truth out there, and somehow Soldier was in tune with the weird songs of the universe enough to prophesize me even before I’d divined myself.

I was pretty far from the team’s campfire, the rush of the last hour still coursing through my system. It’d gone as well as I could have hoped, with everyone kind of knowing or at least suspecting by this point anyway, but I’d still been nice to get it all out in the open. A little family meeting of sorts. I smiled, watching them laugh and carry on with their drinking.

“Is something the matter, Scout?”

Spy’s voice startled me, but I totally didn’t jump or nothing, just turned my head as the creepy bastard slinked out of the dark.

“Nah,” I told him. “Was just a lot of adrenaline doing all that. Needed a moment to cool off. Not like I’m nervous or nothin’! Could’a talked about shit all day if those knuckleheads didn’t get it through their bozo craniums, but it’s just like after a run you take a breather to make sure you don’t get heat stroke or something-”

Spy held up a hand. “I understand. No need to elaborate.”

“Great. Cool. Just so you know that I’m not freakin’ out.”

He took a spot next to me, the rocks cool where the desert night came on fast and hit hard. We stayed like that for a while, him smoking, me staring with my chin in my arms.

“You come out here to say you’re surprised or something?” I asked, after the moon had ticked a little lower.

He blew a strand of smoke. “It wasn’t my primary goal, no.” He paused. “Though I was, to be sure.”

“Hah! Yeah you were! You should’ve seen your face.” I grinned, kicking a rock. “I can’t believe you were the last person to find out.”

“…I certainly couldn’t have been the last person to-” Spy stopped when he saw the shit-eating grin I was giving him. “Hm. Fine, I suppose I will take this as a loss to my professional pride.”

“Heh. Nice,” I snorted. “So if that isn’t what you wanted to talk about, what was?”

He hesitated a moment. “Scout if I have ever said something, to you or merely in passing that was…greatly insensitive, then I am sorry. I cannot hide the fact that this is not something I have experience with, and if my past ignorance has ever caused you distress then I apologize fully.”

I blinked. Was he serious? “Eh, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Ah, so I have made some faux pas. Again I’m sorry-”

“No,” I interrupted him. “I mean seriously, don’t worry about it. ‘Cause I don’t.”

Spy looked genuinely confused, already the second time that night when I’d barely seen him make that face in two years of working together. “Pardon?”

“I don’t really care about what you say,” I shrugged. “When it comes to things that bother me, crap my Ma’s shitty boyfriend says about how I look barely makes the list. After however many years of the way you’ve treated me, I’ve just kinda tuned you out.” I shrugged again. “How it is.”

“…Ah.”

I kinda missed when he was surprised, since that was at least easy to read. Now I didn’t know what to make of the mix of emotions crossing Spy’s face, only that I was sorta bored of the conversation.

“If that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m heading back to the fire,” I said, smacking my legs as I stood. “Cold out here.”

I left Spy, not checking to see if he was still doing that thing with his face.

I honestly was planning on heading over to the fire, but I saw Soldier sitting on the bed of Engie’s truck, not doing anything but staring into space as he sipped his beer. It wasn’t even conscious really, I just suddenly found my feet moving in his direction, abandoning warmth for the lunatic with the bazooka. The weird things we do on instinct sometimes.

“Yo, Major General,” I greeted. “Feel like the smartest guy in the room yet?”

“I have never claimed to be!” Soldier said. “I settle for being the most tactically sound.”

“I meant about me, dumbass,” I rolled my eyes, then hopped on the bed next to him. I scooped up a beer while I was at it.

“You?” He might have been blinking at me under the helmet.

“One of the first times we ever met, you asked me if I was a chick.”

Soldier rubbed his chin, trying to recall. “…You said you weren’t.”

“Well I didn’t know at the time, dumbass.” I cracked my beer. “But now we all know, so congrats to you, pally.” I toasted in his general direction and drank.

“…How is it?”

“The beer or the chick thing?”

“Being a girl.”

“It’s alright,” I admitted, playing it cool. “The ponytail’s great though. Look! I can do this now.” I bobbled my head, showing that my hat stayed on no matter how hard I shook it. I kept bobbling until I almost fell off the truck, Soldier steadying me at the last moment.

“Careful, missy. You’re going to need to cut that soon if you don’t want it smacking you in the middle of battle,” Soldier pointed out. “That or braid it.”

My hand clamped defensively over the back of my head. “Nah, no way man.” Hearing how whiny that sounded, I tried to pass off my sudden movement as a stretch. “It’s fine. Plus I don’t even know how to braid.”

“…I could do it for you.”

Of all the batshit things Soldier had said to me over the years, this took the cake. “You? Know how to braid?”

I wanted to ask if he was pulling my leg right now, but his expression was just as dead serious as ever. He pointed downward and made a circular motion.

Hesitantly, I turned around, and felt him lift off my cap. The ponytail threaded out of it, and he tugged at the elastic until my hair fell free around my shoulders. I’d seen myself with it down in the mirror every morning before pulling it up, but it still felt odd to have it hanging free here in the same place we killed BLUs and got our guts blasted full of lead. Soldiers fingers carded through the loose strands, dividing them into chunks, but despite that it wasn’t nearly as weird as I thought it would be. It was actually…nice almost.

He wasn’t gentle—this was still Soldier after all—but the tugging at my roots was more pull than yank, a careful suggestion to go one way or the other. Nudging me towards something.

“How’d you learn to do this, anyway?” I asked.

“Used to do my sister’s,” he said gruffly. “Little sisters can’t do anything by themselves. They always try to follow you around, and then they get in trouble or fall in a creek or something.”

His fingers brushed against my neck every now and again. “As a professional little sister, that sounds about right.”

“You are not a professional little sister. You are a professional Scout. What sister-ing you do, you do on your own time missy.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Soldier slipped the elastic around the braid’s end. I swung it around a few times, trying to see if Soldier had messed it up somehow, but only managed to almost fall off the truck bed again. Maybe that beer was really hitting me.

“…Thanks Solly,” I said, gently touching the braid’s end.

“Any time, private. If you need me to teach you, I will happily train you in the art of braids,” he declared. “And knot tying! But only if you meet my standards on the braid portion of the exam.”

I grinned at him. I’d done a lot of weeding, taking out the people and things I didn’t want in my life, but it was nice to know there were things I wouldn’t have to get rid of entirely. “Sure Soldier. I’ll think about it.”

[embersrpg]

IT’S TIME ----

No one feels ready or prepared for the Reaping that has come on the early summer day. For some, the sun shines bright and hard, beads of sweat running down temples, sweat causing shirts and dresses to stick to backs. For others, it’s raining hard and there’s no refuge, leaving everyone soaked and shivering as they await for the bitter fate of the two tributes that will be heading into the Quarter Quell.

The Escorts stand amongst the crowd, before them, a massive bowl stands, littered with papers of the names of the victor’s loved one. No questions have been answered. Will Capitolites be in the pool? Will victors be in there? What about loved ones crossing over districts?

The moment is tense but it goes forward without question.

ONE:

Saffron Sky

The name which is first drawn in One summons Saffron Sky to the stage. Thirty-nine, she’s beautiful, tall, fit. She’s wearing a long silk dress as she blows a kiss to her cousin, a victor from a time long before she was able to win. She holds her head high. There’s absolutely no telling what the expression on her face says. She is a complete wildcard. Maybe that’s what she wants.

Gold Farlock

Gold is built. Standing at 6′6, people have always wondered if the Farlock family bread, or maybe even genetically altered, a perfect soldier. He’s standing beside Tiberius, who looks prideful as she shakes his nephew’s hand and he ascends to the stage. He’s far past the age of being able to fight in the Games in a normal year. It can’t help but raise questions; coming from a family such as this, why hadn’t he fought back then? And why were they so excited now?

TWO:

Osa Pittsmith

Elegance has never looked so clear on a face before. Osa Pittsmith, older sister to the brutal victor, Teal, was always rumored to be brighter, more charming, more attractive, but what she made up for in personable skills and looks, she lacked in sheer brute force. As far as you can tell, she’s an enigma. But both she and her sister share a long, meaningful glance that is hard to define.

Terra Ivornary

The audience freezes as they all cast their eyes to the older woman. In her early sixties, she’s plump, but she walks with pride up the stage. She’s a baker from the square, but she has confidence. The only noticeable mark of her age, regardless of the graying hair and withered skin, is her trembling hands. To come from a Career district, reaping a simple baker seems shocking.

THREE:

Zero Holloway

Someone clears their throat when the name gets drawn from the bowl. The young man fixes his glasses before he starts for the stage. Someone tries to reach for his wrist but he slips from their grasp before it’s too late. It’s cold. It’s quiet, but Zero stands among the rest, accepting fate.

Citron Gulwether

No one even knows who Citron is, who they’re connected to. Seventy, withered, and looks tired. There’s someone far off that you could mistake for calling to volunteer as tribute, but it goes ignored. Citron moves slowly towards the stage, but manages with no help. Their breath is loud, they’re running out of steam but it’s all for the game. 

FOUR:

Marina Tidestrum

She emerges from the crowd, but not confused. Just a slow step forward as if this is a declaration of sorts. The ex of Roux Selkirk Her fingers rub together nervously as she tries to search for eyes that will give her the answers. She doesn’t get them. She just gets to the stage where she’s championed like an icon. It feels far from that.

Abe Iss

Abe stands tall. He’s built well enough that there are some that clap at his reaping. A lot more reassuring of victory than the previous draw. He’s smiling, or at least, it looks like it’s supposed to be a smile. He’s not particularly attractive or charming, but he’s built. He’s a mentee to an old victor, much like a grandson. His fists clench and he looks brutal, but also, for some reason... uncomfortable.

FIVE:

Darby Skiberry

Darby Skiberry was a nurse. Specifically, one that took care of the children. She was in her mid-forties, been a nurse for thirty years. She was a mother figure to many, including the victor for the 67th Games, Ambro Forge. There’s some sobs from the crowd as she climbs to the stage, her fear is evident.

Kin Rosesand

The youngest child in the Rosesand family, youngest sibling to Aven, perhaps the most needy in the bunch, but now a young adult, trudges onto the stage and cries. Openly. They do not want to be there, and the eyes of hundreds on them, gives them a visible tremble. This was not what they were prepared for.

SIX:

Helena Clearwater

She’s forcing a smalls mile on her face, dusting off her dress as she starts for the stage, no guidance needed. Pista Clearmark’s mother, ever the beacon of warmth, has now found her time. It’s hard, judging from the audience, if she’s happy or heartbroken.

Cabil Stulvurg

Stulvurg is an old name. Cabil is young. Twenty. Everyone knows that boy is twenty. He was birthed in the river from his mother who didn’t get to see the face of her new baby boy. Stulvurg designs the very trains they build. Baster Stulvurg, Cabil’s father, was intense but never terrible. But Cabil was warmth. Cabil, who made the mistake of falling in love with Haldi Commonbo, the winner of the 70th Games. Haldi, who shrieked and cried as her lover sauntered onto stage. Baster, a cold and collected man, yelled for his son’s freedom. For once, power couldn’t buy safety. 

SEVEN:

Nettle Blume

She can’t exactly see straight. She walks with a cane even though she’s in her thirties. After a lumber accident, Nettle was considered useless. Her family was going to perish after she couldn’t work any longer. Caspan Roseleaf, who was a victor over forty years ago, hired her to tend to his home in the victor village. For over a decade, the two have had a tight bond, and watching her struggle to get on the stage makes the crowd uneasy.

Harbor Gazel

There’s confusion that settles over every one. But Harbor... he’s not around anymore, is he? Doesn’t matter, next thing everyone sees is a frail, weak figure being tugged onto the stage. Harbor Gazel, is hard to recognize. There’s no hair to be found on their face. None from their head, their eyebrows. There’s wisps of eyelashes but they look near transparent, and there’s small adjustments to his face. Different cheekbones, mainly. He looks... kind of like Harbor. Then raises the question, has he been in Seven this whole time? No one can know, because before questions start being asked, he looks to the camera, and raises his hands, beginning to form gestures and movements. And then---... the camera cuts out.

EIGHT:

Beck Baxwoll

A younger sibling to Emory Baxwoll, not so small anymore, looks tired and worn from the day’s work as he steps onto the stage. It’s like there’s no room to process the pain of it all before he stands there. This is just another job he has to do, isn’t it?

Chrysanthe Silverhair

The local clothes maker. Sewist of all things even remotely appealing within Nine. Chrysanthe became friends and primary caretaker of Dahilia Feher years ago. A victor, now in her nineties, with no living family. Chrysanthe has always been a beloved force within the community, and there are sobs heard when they step onto the stage.

NINE:

Sola Honimoore

The reaping of Perri Honimoore’s son is met with silence. There are some in the crowd who are old enough to remember the story. The birthing of the young boy who became attached to Perri’s leg. The boy scooped up in the wreck of the Games. And now, as much as Perri has fought against it, it seems his ties to the Games is not ready to release yet.

Holly Nightwing

“It’s not fair!” She shouts only seconds after her name is drawn. “I didn’t ask to be loved!” She’s young. Maybe her mid-twenties. She looks at stocky as the grain that blows in the wind behind them. Only in whispers do they know of Holly’s secret companionship to victor Kuds Full, a victor from the 72nd Games. A Victor who had been married to someone else only monthsafter returning from victory.

TEN:

Ginger Flatlock

The daughter of the 32nd Hunger Games winner, Archer Flatlock, ascends to the stage with trembling knees, if only for a split moments before her back straightens into something that resembles forced confidence. Looking to her father, his face is pale, almost green, but makes no noise. He’s frozen in silence.

Bire Wildvale

Tall, but not especially built. Bire had a tendency to work on the fields. Just a simple man, in his late twenties. Bire married Fennel two years ago, the son of Archer Flatlock. Bire, while not blood related, was just as much a son in the Flatlock house as his husband. His eyes are read and he’s squinting from the son but he stands beside Ginger, hand on her shoulder. The Flatlock family, and specifically Archer, feels no mercy this year.

ELEVEN:

Birch Peaceroot

It’s a swift reaping. Elven is far too sued to their loved ones and their promising youths being ripped from their cracked fingertips. The young Birch, Rigg’s Nephew, hurries to the stage. It’s hard not to spot the horror that’s on his face as he looks out to his expansive district, and their forced apathy.

Parsley Fairwillow

There’s not many victors in Eleven. Not that are alive anyways. But Parsley, who’s close to middle age, peppered with silver makes in her hair, looks confused as she steps onto the stage. Her father, a victor of the 13th hunger Games, had died thirty-four years ago. As she’s lead on the stage by Peacekeepers, the horror registers on the face of some of those in the crowd. Even in death, your loved ones aren’t saved.

TWELVE:

Wren Thornewood

There’s an audible wail that comes from the crowd the second the name is drawn. Though it’s hard to find, without much fight, the young girl ascends to the stage, her hands joined together at her front. The crowd looks disturbed. The girl they came to know and adore. The girl who just barely got by last year from her sister. Her time as finally come.

Gage Overgrove

It’s horror on the man’s face as he starts for the stage. He looks back towards his wife, who looked plump with her pregnancy, that she was about ready to give birth at any moment. The Overgrove family doesn’t console, only stands frozen, and Gage can’t even look their sibling Hudson in the eyes as they stand beside the young Wren.

OOC --- THE MEAT AND BONES

Let’s just get into it. You guys voted, shockingly unanimously, wow. So, this is just a quick drop! We will have this plot drop for two days (two for my sanity because the next drop is huge and I need some time to write it all up), which is mainly meant to give you some time to write a self para reacting to this drop. It’s not mandatory. If you’d rather take the break, by all means, please do! I just ask, if you plan to write a self para, please take this time to get it up before the next drop.

For in character timeline, from here there will be quick movements. Characters get rushed to the train and there will be no meeting with loved ones (similar to Catching Fire, Katniss didn’t have a chance to talk to her family before being sent in again). You can write of your character getting on the train but do not write further than the first night on the train. The next drop will begin on the morning of the train ride to the Capitol.

Plot with other members if you’d like to mention conversations or interactions between characters in your self paras. I do not recommend this time to have threads since there will be so little time. But hey, if you can write a thread in two days, go off. 

If you have an fc for your designated npc, send it my way (or if you want me to pick, bc I can def feel some vibes from the ones you guys have). I might make a graphic since I definitely have some npcs in mind for some folks on this list. Not guaranteed but... I might make one.

You might be wondering if you will be able to write against any of these npcs. The answer is... maybe. 24 npcs sounds like a lot to me so I’m trying to figure out how to best write npcs that doesn’t burn me out and gives everyone a chance to write with and npc (doesn’t have to be the npc tied to your muse, could be any of them). If that’s something you might be interested in, message me. By gaging how many people are interested in how many npcs will give me an idea of the work it’ll take. It’s not a guarantee but it is a check for level of interest.

Many characters talked about volunteering in their threads, it’s up to you whether they did or not but if they had, it wouldn’t have been successful, and their volunteer would have been rejected. I am kind of bending some rules because I assure you, putting your character in the games would be really boring and not as much juice as what I have planned for what happens outside of the game. I don’t plan to metagame/godmod this hard as an admin beyond this, but hopefully you guys understand that I am just trying to keep everyone from writing themselves into a corner.

Also just want to say, I know not every character has a loved one that were reaped. I had tried to keep things pretty strategic and fair. The hope is that this creates an interesting dynamic to potentially cause conflict. Those who have loved ones at stake vs. those who have love ones that were spared. I am always open for feedback and if you feel that this plot doesn’t set your character(s) up for success, please let me know! We’ll try to work something out.

I think that’s all I’ve got to say. You know where to put questions. Happy Hunger Games. Heh

Start date: Right now

End date: April 28th

Tag: The Reaping (this is not a chapter because there is no time threading.)

[hopeisour4letteredword]

personal furnace, ch6

Summary: Winter renovations at the inn in Zaphias leave Yuri in need of a warm bunk for the night. Good thing he can always count on his good buddy Flynn.

Read it below or at the link to AO3 in the notes.

When Yuri clambers through the window for the sixth time in as many days, Flynn glances up from his book, then does a double-take as something suddenly occurs to him. Sure enough, Yuri is still only wearing the thick, woolen tunic he stole from Flynn as his top layer. Flynn still doesn't mind lending it to him, but—

"I could have sworn you said you had better jackets with you when you first arrived."

"I do," Yuri says. He grabs one of Flynn's blankets and dives over to what's rapidly becoming his spot at the hearth. It's incidentally also at the base of Flynn chair. Has Flynn been subconsciously inching his armchair closer to this spot? He feels like it was at a different angle relative to the fireplace at the beginning of this week. "But the really good winter stuff sucks ass to climb in."

"Really?"

"Yeah. At least the coat I got in Dahngrest does. I complained about the range of motion when we were getting it and Raven said it was probably better that I couldn't try to climb sheer ice, anyway."

Well, Raven wasn't wrong.

"Hang on," Flynn says, exasperatedly, as Yuri's point sets in. "You aren't wearing your coat because it would make it too hard to climb to my window? Yuri."

"What?"

"There is frost in your hair."

"The coat wouldn't cover that."

"I really don't know what to do with you sometimes," Flynn sighs. He puts his bookmark in and leans over to tuck Yuri's blanket-cloak in around his neck. Yuri leans into the touch with a grateful hum. "Please just wear your coat and come in through the front. I can talk to the night shift guards in advance if you're worried about it."

"I don't want the Knights to know my plans for the evening," Yuri mutters.

"I am the Knights."

"Oh, gods, spare me." Yuri shifts his weight so that when he leans back, his nape bumps against Flynn's knees, and he can tip his head back into Flynn's lap to give him a withering glare. "It's not that weird to not want strangers to know my business just because you're a big shot now."

"Maybe it isn't," Flynn says, more to avoid having this recurring argument distract from his main point than because he believes it, "But that's not worth freezing to death over."

"I won't freeze to death," Yuri says. "I'm not running around like this the whole day or anything. I wear the coat for most of it. I just take it off at the end of the night to come here. That's only fifteen minutes or so."

"At night, when it's coldest."

"I'm fine, Flynn."

"You did that after Ted's pipe burst, too," Flynn realizes, aloud. He sighs again. He lets his head dip forward, bending at the waist until his forehead gently bumps against Yuri's. "If you won't do it for yourself, will you do it for me? Please?"

"If you're really that worried about it, fine," Yuri says. He reaches up and pats at Flynn's head. "I'll wear the damn coat."

"...You're still going to try to climb in it, aren't you."

"Not to offend any kind of weird pride you have in the security of the castle, but this isn't exactly the kind of high-caliber infiltration where it could cause me injury instead of mild discomfort."

Flynn decides it's far too late in the evening to be weighing his options between tightening castle security for very legitimate safety reasons and leaving them lax enough that Yuri can easily visit the way he's most comfortable with. He knows he'll be more sensible about it in the morning. He sits back upright, shaking his head.

"I'd say something absurd like, 'as long as you're sure it's safe,' but I'm certain it's not. Please just try to be careful."

"I know what I'm doing," Yuri says, indignantly, and Flynn feels confident about that, at least. Even if Yuri won't confess to the exact level of danger aloud, he's aware of whatever it is he's getting himself into. "Also, just to go back to an earlier point, not wearing that coat is the only reason I didn't get frostbite from helping Ted. It shielded me from the worst of the water, but then it was completely soaked for the rest of the night. I'd have hurt myself more insisting on wearing it than I did just booking it back to warmth."

"Where in heaven's name did you dry it?" It would have frozen stiff if he'd just left it in the cold, and then he wouldn't have had it the next day, either.

"Mariam's front room. She's got it warm enough for customers. Felt bad having her hang my sopping coat out front where the guests could see it, though."

Flynn strongly suspects that there's another warm room somewhere in Mariam's inn that Yuri's coat was relocated to for the night. Quite possibly that room is Yuri's.

"It probably wasn't the worst thing that's been in Mariam's front room," Flynn says, instead of any of that.

"Eh, that's probably true." Yuri's head is still in Flynn's lap, so Flynn can see it when he grins. "You should see the stuff Espie keeps dragging in."

"Strays?" Esperanza is a friendly young lady. She seems like the sort that would be hopefully bringing mangy cats and dogs back to Mariam. But perhaps Flynn only thinks so because she reminds him of Yuri, when he was a peppy kid who ran around collecting animals in need and bringing them back to Mariam. Esperanza is much older than Yuri had been when he did that, but... Flynn doesn't mean to be rude, but Esperanza at sixteen seems to be at approximately a ten-year-old Yuri's level of naivety. Perhaps it's merely the learning curve of a recent entry to the Lower Quarter.

"Oh, yeah. Strays. Cool trash. Whatever muck she's gotten on herself messing around in the canals."

"You shouldn't encourage her to mess about in the canals, they're disgusting."

"We don't encourage it. Mariam gives her exactly the same dressing-down she used to give us, and Espie listens exactly as much as we used to."

"And what do you do?"

"Stay out of Mariam's way."

"Smart man," Flynn says. Yuri probably isn't around often enough to be egging Esperanza on too much. Hopefully she'll grow out of it on her own in good time. Then again, did Yuri ever grow out of it, really? "Well, as long as I'm pestering you about staying warm enough, can I persuade you to take another hot bath?"

"Are you saying I stink?" Yuri says, with good humor. "Mariam's communal bathrooms are working, you know. I've been taking showers."

"I'm not saying you stink," Flynn says. He brushes some hair out of Yuri's face. Yuri's eyelids flutter closed. "Just thought you might like to relax and be warm for a while, since you have to spend all day running around in the cold."

"Warm enough now," Yuri says. Flynn will accept that, if somewhat dubiously. He is camped in front of the fire with an extra blanket and whatever body warmth Flynn's legs give off. "I'd rather go to bed, honestly, since you're going to get us up stupid early again."

"I keep telling you you can sleep in."

"Even if I wanted to, I can't anymore. I'm afraid Cece will stab me if she comes up with breakfast and I don't partake."

"I really wonder what's gotten into her," Flynn murmurs, bemusedly. She hasn't asked how long Yuri will be staying in Flynn's quarters or when to stop bringing extra food. She just keeps stubbornly bringing two servings of breakfast. She had looked rather cross again the last time she brought it in and Yuri had been half a step away from leaving too soon to eat.

"Who knows," Yuri says. "Are we going to sleep or what?"

So they do.

Flynn does foist an extra pair of gloves and a scarf off on Yuri after breakfast the next morning, though. Who knows what other nonsense Yuri is getting up to without his coat. Flynn might not be able to keep him warm all day, but he can at least try to convince Yuri to keep himself warm.

Yuri wraps the scarf around his own neck with a look that warns Flynn he's accepting it as an indulgence to some idiocy of Flynn's. The gloves he shoves into his pocket.

But then he does climb out the window next, so Flynn supposes he'd rather Yuri had the grip he wants and expects for his own idiocy.

[rune-writes]

I'll Come Visit

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

@zerith-week » Day 2: Promise

Word Count: 2344

Rating: G

Summary: All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises: promises of a date, to see the sky, and to come visit after he returns from Nibelheim.

Chapter 2 of Of Wishes and Promises: Zerith Week 2021

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises. The first was the promise of a date, the first time he met her when he dropped out of the sky and onto her flowerbed. The second was to show her the sky, because it wasn’t as scary as she thought, and he wanted her to see it. Then he bought her a ribbon and said they should make fun, little promises for when they next met.

“For example, when we meet, you always have to dress in pink.”

Aerith giggled and said that was silly, and it was, but it’d be fun. So she nodded and said okay and wondered what kind of pink dress she had that she could wear.

Then just before he left for Nibelheim, they went to the Sector 6 playground to sell flowers. Operation: Midgar Full of Flowers, Wallet Full of Money seemed to have a good start. The blooms were a big hit. One woman wished she could see them grow all around the slums.

“Yeah, that’s me and Aerith’s dream,” Zack said. “Not just the slums, either. We want to fill the whole of Midgar with flowers!”

Only a dream then, one he hoped would come true once he returned to Midgar, when he could finally take her to the city above and sell flowers under the sky together.

***

Zack sighed at the heavens above as he lay on his back. Thin wisps of cotton-soft clouds drifted past; though, did anyone really know whether clouds were cotton-soft? An age-old imagery that originated from how it looked from the ground, made by people who had too much time on their hands with too little thoughts in their minds.

Zack had too much time on his hands now. With Sephiroth having locked himself in the mansion’s library and still no lead on their investigation, there had been nothing to do but check on the reactor every day. Everything stayed the same. The monsters still slept in their pods, no more reactor malfunctioning, no more signs of Genesis—or any other intruders for that matter.

Cloud would grab any chance he could get to accompany Zack. Probably to escape the town and its people. Probably to be near their ebony-haired guide. He couldn’t blame the guy, and he had no intention to interfere, but sometimes, Zack would look at his stubborn younger friend and wish Cloud would let loose and show them who he really was. Not a SOLDIER, but still a proud member of Shinra’s infantrymen. They’d understand.

When the time came to return to town, he let the two kids go on ahead, saying he wanted to explore more of the mountain. Tifa offered to come with him, but Zack refused. It was still light out. If he’d gotten lost, his SOLDIER pride would be at stake.

Zack had expected a chuckle at the very least, but his guide only stared at him and said, “Okay.” Then she looked at the grunt and nodded her head down the mountain path. “Shall we, then?”

Grunt Cloud jerked, and for a fraction of a second, his wild, panicked eyes met Zack’s through his helmet visor. Zack waited until Tifa had turned and walked away before he slapped Cloud on the back and whispered, “You got this.”

“I got this.” A self-reassuring nod; Cloud gripped his rifle tighter before following Tifa down the mountain. They walked with a little distance between them, but never too far apart. Zack watched, a little grin playing across his lips.

He’d set off in another direction then: a greener, more life-abundant direction; a contrast to the barren, jagged mountain he’d left behind. He’d found the clearing shortly after, with trees on one side and a sheer drop on the other. It overlooked the Nibel plains and the small town below with the clear blue sky stretching far into the horizon.

Fragments of a cloud broke away into little dots, collecting in places that, somehow, reminded him of the yellow blossoms he’d find growing under the shades of a dilapidated church. Thoughts of the blossoms led to thoughts of the flower girl, and Zack couldn’t help but draw another long breath.

It’d been a week since he arrived in Nibelheim, longer still since he last saw Aerith. The closest interaction he'd gotten was the phone call mere days after reaching the mountain village. His PHS had rung when he’d been about to go to the mansion, and it had taken him by surprise when her voice came out of the receiver. But he’d been too busy then, so he’d told her that he’d call later.

“No, no, you don’t have to.” There had been a slight drop to her tone.

He'd pressed his lips together. “Okay, then I’ll come visit.”

“I’ll be here.”

Zack hadn't missed the momentary pause or the wistful sigh, hadn't forgotten her downcast eyes when he told her he would leave Midgar for a job. There had been nothing else he could say but: “I’ll see you, I promise.” He could almost see her smile as he hung up, hoping it had been enough until he returned to her side.

The drifting clouds offered a brief respite from the sun's harsh glare. Summer had long since gone and autumn was well on its way, but Zack still felt hot. Hot and restless and sweaty and wishing he was back under the cover of the church, where a ray of pleasant sunlight slanted in through the broken rooftop right onto her flowerbed. He’d doze on her lap, and Aerith would weave a flower crown to put around his head, and when he opened his eyes, he would see the brightest smile he had ever seen.

Zack reached for his PHS in his pocket. He had half a mind to go to his mails before he realized Aerith didn’t have a PHS. She’d borrowed Tseng’s when she called him before. Zack didn't want to call Tseng. The last time he did, the Turk had chuckled and said that he was at work, that he had one of his men watching her and that she was safe. He would, however, send her Zack’s regards the next time he saw her. Zack's mouth twitched at the memory.

What if he called her house? Elmyra probably wouldn't mind. The last time he met her, she had acted like he was already part of the family. It made him smile and miss her homemade stew, miss the warmth of the kitchen and the vibrant colors in her garden, miss that motherly touch.

But as good as the idea sounded, it was still daylight and Aerith was probably not home. He stared at the open mail draft on his PHS screen, then typed in Kunsel's name.

‘What are you doing?’

The reply came shortly after: ‘If you resorted to mail me in the middle of a mission, I can only imagine how bored you must be feeling right now. So let me tell you some good news, friend. I visited that church your Aerith frequented and I gotta say, she is such a lively fella. You have no idea all the little details she’d asked me of you.’

Zack jumped, glaring into his PHS screen as those last few words hammered their way into his head. He dialed Kunsel’s number. Kunsel immediately picked up.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

On the other side of the line, Kunsel cackled—a shoulder-shaking, back-bending, stomach-hurting cackle. “Gods, I can’t believe you fell for that one.”

Zack blinked, too mortified to catch up with the joke.

“I’m on a mission, if you remember—or maybe you don’t. Different from the one when you left for Nibelheim. With our Firsts out on a mission on the other side of the Planet, it seems the top brass has decided to have the rest of us—meaning us, Second-Class—take the lead on the remaining jobs. So I’ve been away, again. Far away from your lovely girl. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Another blink. Right.

“How’s the job anyway?”

A short pause, and maybe it was the easy-going tone of his voice that made Zack's tongue loosen up and tell Kunsel about the current state of his investigation, the current state of Sephiroth, the current state of his restlessness. Then at the end of it, Kunsel chuckled.

“Even in the middle of a mission, you still got time to worry about your girl.” Zack heard a scoff, soft and amused. “She’s fine. Aren’t the Turks watching her?”

“They are…” But even knowing that, there was a disquiet in his heart that he couldn’t quite figure where it was coming from.

“Well, if it’s any help at all, I promised to check up on her, didn’t I? Once I get back from my assignment, I’ll see how she is. Does that ease you?”

It did, even if only a little.

“So just focus on your assignment right now and make sure you get your ass back in Midgar. Quick.” Then he added, “You know I have a whole folder of you sneezing out snot, right?”

“Kuns—!”

The line was cut. The last thing Zack heard was his friend's laughter. It still echoed even when Zack had put his PHS down and stared at the screen, when he laid back on the sunny grass and covered his eyes with an arm. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Kunsel check on Aerith. Who knew what the guy would show her? All the embarrassing details of Zack's life! But Kunsel was the only person Zack could trust in SOLDIER right now…

Zack let out another quiet exhale. He lifted his arm. The clouds drifting past looked uncannily like the girl with the brightest smile.

***

He called a little after dusk. Zack was alone in his room; Sephiroth was still not back; Cloud and the other grunt stood watch somewhere. A few moments passed with only the dial tone filling his ears. And then:

“Hello?”

The smile came unbidden. Like a dam about to burst, his lips wavered at the intensity of the emotions overcoming him—overwhelming him.

“Aerith?”

“Zack?” Her surprise was almost palpable. He could imagine her wide-eyed stare as she stood beneath the warm lights of her home. “This is a surprise. You're not busy?”

“Aw, don’t you miss me?”

She giggled, and it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. “Silly.”

They talked about everything and anything: what she was doing, how her days had been. "Same old, same old," she said. Tending to her flowers, running errands around the slum, then just as she’d headed for the church, the Leaf House kids had crowded around her and asked where Zack was.

Zack chuckled. “And what’d you tell them?”

“That Zack is on a very important job right now, but he’ll be back very soon and give everyone presents.” Her laugh made him smile, and he imagined her sitting next to the pots and vases, swaying her feet and twirling her hair. He closed his eyes, committing it to memory.

“Hey, Aerith.”

“Yeah?”

When he made that promise to visit, Zack had thought they would finish their mission soon and he'd be back by Aerith's side before she knew it. But it had been a week since then, and he was still stuck in a small mountain town with nothing to do but look for missing persons who refused to be found and wait on a stubborn comrade who refused to leave.

“Think I’d have to take a rain check on that promise. I don’t think I can come back soon.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Okay.” Then, because maybe she’d noticed the hesitancy in his voice: “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong.” He was quick to answer, quick to ease her worry, even as his mind went to the mansion sitting on the town's outskirts, where Sephiroth was still perusing the many thick volumes stored in the basement. The last time Zack had checked on him, he'd been unaware of Zack’s presence. It’d been like talking to a statue, if statues could walk and talk. Ceaseless mutterings; unending strides; then at times, Sephiroth would stop and look up, and Zack would sigh and thought, finally! Because the meal the townspeople had prepared still lay untouched on the table, and all of Zack’s attempts to tell him to rest had flown over his head. But like a man possessed, Sephiroth had only walked past without truly seeing him, then discarded the book in favor of another.

“Zack?”

Zack blinked, then said again, “Nothing’s wrong.” It was less convincing. “Anyway,” he went on, brightening his voice. “Did you really tell the kids I’d bring them presents?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice too chirpy, as though she’d noticed his unease and opted to play along with his act. “Well, you have to give them something , after all their efforts to learn your combat moves. They’re really taking this Protection Squad business seriously, you know.” She giggled, and he chuckled too.

The kids had been hounding him every time he took the trip beneath the plate. What was supposed to be a quality time with Aerith always ended up as sword-fighting lessons with a bunch of children. Not that he minded them. The more time Zack spent with them, the more endearing they all seemed to him.

“Then I’d better get them something really good.” He wondered if the store next door sold souvenirs. He could ask Cloud for advice. Or Tifa. “But don’t tell them yet. It’ll be a surprise.”

He could feel her smile as she said, “Sure thing.” In the distance, he heard Elmyra’s call. Aerith had to hang up. “Do you think we can talk again tomorrow?”

“Of course. I’ll call you. Or you can call me too, if you want.”

“Really? Then maybe I’ll do that.”

Zack’s lips parted into the slightest grin. “I’ll be here.” Another promise. Her goodbye was the last thing he heard before Aerith ended the call.

~ END ~

[the-darklings]

“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” with Hector x reader or Hector x V from COA? ( don't really mind which one ) Because he honestly looks so tough but I just wanna give him a hug! Love your writting!!

⤫ prompt: “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

⤫ pairing: hector + v (coa)

⤫ wc: 2.3k+ (I clowned, your honour)

⤫ notes: So I changed it up a touch, sorry anon. Camorra!V ft everyone’s least favourite event ever…..Tokyo.

You don’t remember most of it. 

Not after the taste of blood has washed away all else, leaving nothing behind.

They had come for you. Your idiot friends—family, by Camorra’s standards. By your standards. The Four had found you quickly. But not quickly enough. 

“You still breathing?”

His rough voice makes you recoil and he halts sharply a few steps away. 

Hector was the one who found you stumbling through the tunnels. Covered in cooling blood and delirious, every inch of you bruised and battered, every fresh cut bleeding. All you can remember from your reunion was the sinking horror that it was him. Him seeing you weak—the one man who would never let you live down such a failure. 

You wish it had been Julian or Dario or—heck, even Step would have been better than Hector finding you. 

Much like now, he had halted in the shadowed passageway at the sight of you, and his harsh face still covered in the blood of those he had killed cracked for just a second. So tiny, so insignificant, you might have missed it if you hadn’t been frozen in shock and staring at him.

It was a blur after that. You think he carried you, or maybe dragged you. There are brief recollections of others, even Cassian. Then Ares. The horrified silence at the state of you. The unspoken rage.

“Take her,” Cassian’s voice. Distant and rough with anger. “Make sure Santino and Gianna don’t see her like this. Take her to—”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

The grip on you had tightened and a strangled sound of pain escaped you. 

“You’re hurting—hey, you’re hurting her, asshole!” 

Step’s voice followed and there were hands on you—

You had tried to pull away from them and back into the hardness that you thought might have kept you safe. It promised you it would. Or did it? You hadn’t been able to recall but there were hands and they were trying to pull you away and into another embrace, leaving your feet shaking beneath you. A hard tug like when Kishi was about to force you under the water—

A wounded scream had torn itself free from you and you had lashed out on instinct. Tearing, and screaming, screaming—

It took a joined effort of multiple pairs of arms to pull you back and away from Step.

Hector had dragged you away from the scene by force, his powerful arms now inescapable shackles, your back pressed against his broad chest. You lost consciousness somewhere between seeing the bloody scratches around Steps’ throat, shortly accompanied by his devastated, wide-eyed stare and Cassian calling it in that they found you. 

When you woke up next your wounds had already been cleaned and bandaged. 

That doesn’t mean you hadn’t screamed and trashed when you didn’t recognise where you were.

Hector had been there, too. Ready to subdue you. Not your first fit. Or even second, apparently.

No one could approach you without unleashing a torrent of terror and violence.  

“Hey, did you hear my question?” his voice snaps, and you can tell he’s trying to be more…amiable. Perhaps he’s worried you will dissolve into hysterics again and he’ll have to deal with it. “V? Snap the fuck out of it.”

You blink slowly, lifting your head towards him. The slight movement exhausts you. 

He’s fresh out of the shower. He had “clean up” he had to do and returned only 20min ago covered in soot and blood. Even more than you’re used to seeing on him. You had taken one look at him walking through the door and flinched. He had looked furious at your reaction. The weakness, no doubt. You know what Hector does for “clean up” though. You’ve seen him break every finger in someone’s hand for daring to touch him inappropriately once. 

Even if he lacks resources, his viciousness—his sheer brutality—has no bounds.

He’s in a simple white t-shirt, baring the colourful lines of tattoos snaking up his arms and showcasing the mighty wings around his throat. For once, he doesn’t look like a killer. He just looks harsh, restless, like a corned animal but almost normal. His jaw keeps clenching every few seconds and the deadly cut of his jawline only accents his poorly leashed temper. 

“Did you kill them?” you whisper, your voice a croak; distant and strange. 

He takes another step closer, measured, his bare feet appearing in your line of sight. You’ve seen him in far less before but Hector is always an impenetrable wall regardless of his condition. Nothing gets to him. Except now, apparently. This fury is different somehow. 

“You look at me when you ask me that,” he says, his words terse. Your eyes flicker up and meet his piercing pale blue and his lips curl; there’s not even a scrap of warmth to be found in the motion. “You want to know if I returned the favour, sweetheart? Wanna know how I bled them dry slowly? Like pigs? How many bones I broke and how much blood I shed? You really think it will make you feel better?”

You stand to your feet, swaying, but he doesn’t move. He simply watches you, unimpressed. His full mouth is pressed into a resolute, merciless line as he waits for your response.

You nod your head. Once. 

He regards you silently, knowingly. “That’s not really what you want to ask me, is it, V? What do you need.”

The last part comes out not as a question but as an order, and you try to force the thick lump in your throat down. What you need…

“You can—” your voice cracks and you swallow again, focusing on his chest instead, unable to handle his overbearing stare. “You can think I’m…weak. Call me a-anything you…want. But—”

He steps closer this time. For once he doesn’t smell like tobacco mixed with his favourite rich cologne you could recognise anywhere. That musky, heady scent has been replaced by soap instead. “But?” 

Your eyes meet briefly. His expression says that he already knows. But he will still make you say it. Normally, you might have felt resentful about him being such an asshole even now but…

“If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.” 

It’s such a pathetic string of words. They tumble from the tip of your tongue and you feel tiny for saying them. For wanting comfort from him of all the people. But you’re…scared. Just so scared and it hurts—

Hector doesn’t reply. He simply gazes at you, his large hands unmoving by his sides. 

Finally, he drawls out a low, “You sure it’s not Santi you want for comfort cuddling, sweetheart? Maybe that chicken shit Step, huh?”

You should have known better. 

What were you thinking? That Hector will have some shred of empathy in that crevice where most people have hearts? You’re murderers. Both of you. Camorra’s deadliest, most proficient. Practically Giovanni’s pride and joy. 

You move past him but his arm snaps out suddenly, grasping you by the back of your head as he tugs you close. The motion is harsher than he likely intended it to be and it’s clear that he’s never done anything like this before. Your forehead cracks against his collarbone and you release a breath. And then another. 

Hector holds you to him by the back of your neck without a word. The rest of him hasn’t shifted so much as an inch. 

You haven’t realised how badly you’re trembling till his fingers flex against your skin. “I’m not kind enough to kill them, sweetheart. They suffered.”

Coming from him, you can’t even begin to imagine what he put them through. 

You bury your face in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and can’t help but feel oddly at ease despite every hard edge of him not being made for kindness or comfort.

Monster. Demon. Giovanni’s most bloodthirsty and loyal hound. 

Your arms wrap around his waist even though you know he will hate it, even though he has told you plenty of times how he doesn’t enjoy it when people touch him without his expressed permission. Old hurts, you know as much. Gained from a darker time before Camorra. Before he was respected and hated and feared. 

He lets you cling to him. 

Doesn’t so much as shift in his spot. 

If it weren’t for the strong beat of his heart against the flesh of your cheek, you would worry that he’s not real. That maybe you’re still back in that pit and saving yourself had been a wistful dream. 

Your shallow, uneven breaths are the only sound in the otherwise silent room. 

“I saw what you did to that fucker,” he voices eventually and you pull your face away from his chest, your eyes snagging onto the wet patches on his shirt. Tears. So that’s why your cheeks sting. Your head tilts away from his, ashamed, but his fingers squeeze against the back of your neck, stopping you before you could move away. His pale eyes are two slits, his stare icy and unforgiving. “You did good. Went right for the jugular. The bastard didn’t stand a chance.” 

His words are a low rumble but he sounds…proud, almost. 

Such a contrast to the disgust you feel. The awful, animalistic thing you did and felt good doing. Killing can be clinical if you do it long enough. It becomes dull and repetitive with time, easy to digest. But what you did to Kishi—

Your head spins and you sway slightly, Hector’s hand snapping upwards to grip your forearm. He leans over you and scoops you up into his arms with startling ease. You groan softly, a flare of pain shooting through your body at the handling but don’t protest. Once you might have punched him right in the teeth but now you just…

You want to fade away from here for a bit. Disappear.

He moves you from the lounge and into the adjoined bedroom. His steps are slow and steady as he walks, and you can’t help but wonder just how much strength truly lives inside his body if he makes carrying you seem like he’s carrying a pillow.    

“Why are you doing this?”

He glances down at you after a beat—as if he’s just remembered he’s carrying you in the first place.  

“Figured finding you with a cracked head on a hotel room floor is on no one’s to-do list right now, sweetheart.”

Asshole. 

He lowers you onto the bed with surprising care, pulling back the covers with one arm and holding you up around the waist with another. Despite your spark of annoyance at his typical cocky bullshit, you cling to him, leaning into his shoulder. Your eyes snag onto those mighty wings around his throat again, and you don’t know why it’s this specific tattoo from so many others that never fails to capture your attention.   

“I don’t need your pity,” you breathe as he lowers you onto the pillow and his mouth twitches, an eyebrow arching. “Nor do I want it.” 

He chuckles; a cold, rough sound, lacking joy as usual. “Do you really think I’m in the business of pitying others, huh?”

He isn’t. 

You know that. But—

You didn’t know his hair curls at the edges after it gets wet. 

He drags the covers over you harshly, uncaring, completely focused on his task. Menial as it is.  

You exhale quietly, watching him through bleary eyes. “You’re being…nice.”

The word almost chokes you. 

This time he’s all teeth, clearly amused, and glances at you. 

“I don’t do nice, sweetheart,” he reminds you and you both know he’s right again, but you’re not sure what else you can class this as. Hector shakes his head once and drags the warm covers up to your chin. “You can go back to hating me tomorrow morning if it makes you feel better.”

Blinking a few times, you frown faintly, “I don’t hate you,” you whisper quietly and he stills—a second, a breath, you would have missed if he wasn’t a hand reach away—and feel a brittle smile appear. “I just figured you would be happier without me around.”

His eyes drag up to you, and the dark circles under his eyes appear like two sunken black holes. If it weren’t for the iciness of his stare, he would be a devouring dark that eats away at all else. 

He leans closer, his stare flat. “That so?” he mocks softly and clicks his tongue. “Nah, Camorra would be pretty fucking boring without you around, wildcat. Sleep tight.”

He leans back with that but you speak before he can walk away. “You’re really…not going to call me weak? For failing?”

You had expected him to. Maybe he’s waiting for the right opportunity to do so—to make sure that it truly hurts, truly stays with you. A chance to rub your failure into your face the same way he has always done with you and others. 

“You’re the furthest fucking thing from weak, sweetheart, you got that?” he snaps and the venom in his voice—the rawness there—surprises you. He doesn’t look at you when he says it but when his eyes do find yours in the darkened hotel room you suddenly find it harder to breathe. “Never say that self-pitying shit to me again.” 

Trying, and failing to find an appropriate reply to that, you choose to remain quiet instead.

He turns to head towards the door, the ripple of his tightly coiled back muscles giving away his lingering wrath. You’re not quite sure at who exactly it’s directed at.   

“Sleep. No one is getting to you now. Others will not allow it,” he calls out and pauses by the door, his hand gripping the doorframe. He hesitates again. “And they’ll have to go through me,” he adds, the promise of bloodshed, of pain, clear in his deep baritone. 

It shouldn’t be comforting. Not when coming from him—a man you can barely tolerate on a good day.

But it is.   

[supercalvin]

I love all your ficlets and stories! It honestly makes me very happy reading what you wrote. Was wondering for a prompt if you can do Immortal Merlin fighting for queer rights. Not really a set period i had in mind i just always imagined Merlin would be front row to a lot of the protest and riots. Arthur and or leon could be there to!! I like imagining leon is also immortal and hangs with merlin every other century. Thank you for the amazing stories!!

Whoops it’s been a hot minute since I got this prompt. A lot has happened since I wrote this, so first of all, Happy Pride! Second of all, with all the riots (the heart of which are happening literally just down the street from me) I wanted to say that black trans women were the heart and soul of the queer movement in the U.S. so therefore: Black Lives Matter, Queer Power, and Trans Rights. Hell yeah.

CW/TW: Mentions of the AIDS Crisis

Prompts + Ficlets

***

“You’ll be alright on your own?” Merlin had asked for what had felt like the hundredth time.

Arthur had wanted to be insulted that Merlin thought so little of him, but to be fair, Merlin had had to teach him the ways of the modern world. And although Arthur had been back for almost a year now, Merlin hadn’t left his side for more than a few hours since he had emerged from the lake.

Magic wasn’t as common in the world as it had once been, but over the years Merlin had created a network of magical people. He taught them what he knew and put them in contact with each other. Merlin had gotten a call from one pupil who had accidentally cursed themselves while practicing and had called Merlin in a panic.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go!” Arthur had said, ushering Merlin out the door.

“It should only take a couple days at most,” Merlin said, looking like he would rather not leave Arthur alone. “I could call Leon.”

“Don’t be absurd. Leon is a ten-hour flight away. By the time he gets here, you’ll be back.” Arthur had rolled his eyes, “I’ll be glad for some peace and quiet for once. Go.”

Now, it was the evening of the second day, and Merlin had called him to let him know he would be back tomorrow morning. Arthur hadn’t been worried, but Merlin seemed relieved that everything was still the same back in their London apartment.

Arthur had found that the problem wasn’t so much an issue of taking care of himself, it was the boredom.  It wasn’t that he needed Merlin to entertain him, he wasn’t a child no matter what Merlin said, but he found that he rather enjoyed doing things, especially new things, with Merlin.

That night, out of sheer boredom, he found himself in Merlin’s room, shuffling through some of Merlin’s mementos. He had piles of knick-knacks from hundreds of lifetimes. Merlin had moved around a lot, so he didn’t have large objects, or really anything that seemed outwardly important. On the desk, there was a small silver brooch. The bookshelf had piles and piles of manuscripts, leather bound novels, and hand-written journals, all of which were in dozens of languages. At the foot of Merlin’s bed there was a chest, which Arthur had never seen Merlin open before. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t riffle through his friend’s things, but a long time ago Merlin had agreed that Arthur was allowed to riffle and ask about all his knick-knacks. They had decided that secrets were a thing of the past for them.

Arthur opened the chest, not expecting to find much. It was filed with an assortment of things, the first that caught Arthur’s eye was a grimoire written in the language of the Old Religion. It was probably the last of its kind. Below there was a small box wrapped in what appeared to be one of Merlin’s old tunics from Camelot. Inside the box was his mother’s sigil. It was worn, and as Arthur ran his thumb over the dove, he could almost feel the warmth of the fire when he had handed it to Merlin that night so many years ago now. He carefully set them aside.

The chest was filled with odd trinkets. There was a tube, inside of which Arthur found a rolled piece of canvas. He unfurled the painting to find a watercolor of Merlin, looking as if he had just rolled out of bed in a puffy white undershirt and a casual smile.

There were stacks of envelopes tied together with string. Arthur peaked at a few, noting that most of them were fairly recent, from the 1980s. The writing was messy and frantic. Arthur couldn’t read most of it, but he saw that the letters were from a man in the United States, living in New York City.

There was a box of photographs, ranging from what appeared to be old daguerreotypes to polaroid pictures. Arthur flipped through them. Most of them were groups of men standing together. Some were blurry night shots, but Arthur could still see men with painted faces and women dressed in suits. Others showed masses of people marching. One image showed Merlin leaning against a brick wall in a white shirt tucked into cuffed jeans. In his hand was a large black sign with a single pink triangle with white block letters that read, “Queer Power.”

Arthur spent the rest of the evening examining the photographs and reading through the letters. They were from people Merlin had met over the years. Most weren’t labeled so Arthur had to put the pieces together himself. The daguerreotypes were from a gentleman’s club in the late 19th century. The string bound letters were from a young man, talking of a disease that was spreading like wildfire through the city. The photograph of Merlin with the sign had a date on it, and with a little help of the internet, Arthur figured out that it was a snapshot right before a huge riot in London.

Part of him had known that Merlin didn’t care about gender when it came to love. In Camelot Merlin had never mentioned anyone by name, but that didn’t mean Arthur didn’t know Merlin had spent time with men and women alike. Over the past year it felt like Merlin had recounted most of his life after Camelot, but it appears he had left out this piece of the puzzle.

Merlin had always been stubborn, strong, and determined to fight for those in need. Merlin had told Arthur that while he was ‘away’ Merlin had travelled the world helping those that he could. The world was always in need of a physician, he had told Arthur. But he had never mentioned this. They had promised no more secrets, but Arthur supposed that even after a year, there would still be more stories for Merlin to tell.

***

By the time Merlin returned from his trip, Arthur had neatly put everything back to its proper place. He decided this information needed more research and luckily, Arthur had his own laptop once Merlin discovered it was a lot easier to explain the internet than everything that had happened over the course of a thousand years.

“Can I ask you something?”

Merlin was drying the dishes, but he looked over his shoulder to Arthur, who was sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open with several tabs open on articles about queer history, human rights, and UK law.

Merlin hummed an affirmative, turning back to the dish rack.

“Who was Ian?”

Merlin drops the glass he was drying but it doesn’t break, and Arthur can tell that’s only because it splashed back into the soapy water instead of the floor.

Merlin stops and Arthur watched the tension in his shoulder. “You saw the letters?”

“You said it was alright if I looked around.”

“I know,” Merlin said, obviously restraining himself. Arthur didn’t know if he was angry or just vulnerable.

“Was he…?” Arthur hated how he couldn’t get out the words. A green monster was stirring in his stomach, which wasn’t fair. Arthur didn’t have a claim on Merlin. Even if he did, the man was left to roam the Earth for hundreds of years, he was allowed a lover or two.

“I was travelling, and New York was a hot spot of people in need at the time,” Merlin said, “He was a teacher. He’d recently gotten fired when the school found out he was gay. I met him at a gay bar. He was…” Merlin stopped and Arthur could tell he wasn’t able to say much more.

“Did he make it?”

Merlin shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, his throat tight. “Did you love him?”

“In a way. When you get to be as old as I am, you love a lot of different people in a lot of different ways.” Merlin sighed and Arthur saw him wipe away a small tear. Merlin’s heart had to be as big as the sea. He had love in his heart for everyone he met, a tear for everyone he lost.

Arthur stood up, not taking time to think. He slipped behind Merlin and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing his face into Merlin’s neck. Merlin’s back was stiff for a second and Arthur felt his breath stutter in his chest. Merlin’s hands were wet as they came to rest on Arthur’s forearms, which were firmly wrapped around his middle.

“Camelot was different. No one minded two men living together,” Merlin’s voice was just a breath, barely audible. “Things changed.”

“But you didn’t,” Arthur said, noticing Merlin’s shiver when he spoke against his neck.

“Arthur…What are you doing?”

“I’ve been told it’s a hug,” Arthur said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Arthur,” Merlin turned his head to look at him, his eyes a mix of annoyed and maybe a hint of fear.

Arthur swallowed down the emotion that rose in his throat, “I’m sorry you had to watch the people you love die. I’m sorry you had to watch me die.”

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” Merlin turned in his arms, gripping Arthur’s arm with a tight hand. “By the gods, don’t ever apologize for letting me have those moments. You gave me your last moments, Arthur.”

Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin’s, and for a long time they just breathed in together.

Merlin reached up and tucked some of Arthur’s hair behind his ear, “I know I never said it, but I love you.”

Arthur smiled, “That’s because you didn’t need to say it.”

“Ass,” Merlin smiled. “I don’t know if I want to punch you or kiss you.”

“It’s a tossup, I suppose.” Arthur said, leaning in to give Merlin a kiss on the corner of his mouth, linger just long enough to feel Merlin’s gasp. “I love you too, if that wasn’t obvious, either.”

***

Prompts + Ficlets

[nautiscarader]

ZekkKiray: Me first! Me first! :smile: I wanna have a sweet romantic LadyNoir fic, where Ladybug is really frisky due to her rather advanced state of her pregnancy. 

For extra smutty points, you could incorporate whipped cream, strawberries and/or chocolate sauce :yum: , but you don't have to if that's not your shtick.

Well, I went with slightly different sweets, but I think you will like it.

Also, this is a sequel to smutember 28.

Ladynoir/Adrinette, pregnant sex, E, 1k

(Ao3)

Also, if you enjoyed my work, here's Ko-fi link if you'd be so kind ❤️ .

============ 

- Marinette, I'm home! - Here!

Adrien closed the balcony window and followed his wife's voice through their home. His keen senses picked up some alluring scent, though at first he couldn't quite detect what was it. But as soon as he stepped into their bedroom, he found out what was making his cat-sense tingle... but he quickly forgot about that, as he saw what Marinette was wearing.

Adrien had to admit, despite seeing it for the last seventh months, the image of his pregnant wife constantly aroused him, but there another one that would make his cat ears perk up even higher: pregnant Ladybug.

Marinette put away the box of strawberry ice-cream Adrien smelled all the way in their living room, and graced him with a charming, yet frisky smile, her domino mask only adding to the flirtatious pose she welcomed him with. She watched him as he circled their sofa, staring at her costume, and almost tripping on the chair, though his feline agility saved him from falling face-first onto the floor.

- I was gonna say that your kittens were hungry for something sweet... - Marinette licked her lips - But that would be a lie, I wanted to have some of it too... - I'm glad we share the same tastes, my lady - Adrien swallowed as he crawled towards her and placed first of kisses, as usual, on her enlarged belly - Though, I have to say, I didn't expect you in my bed... - What can I say, I'm feeling a bit... needy tonight.

Marinette spread her legs and hooked one around Chat's body dragging him against hers, until he was fully pressed against her belly.

- Is it your miraculous heat again? - Chat raised his eyebrow - You should tell Tikki that I can't make you *more* pregnant, no matter how much I would like to... - No, it's just me this time. - she smiled - And keep the suit on...

Adrien didn't have to be told it; though Marinette couldn't say a bad word about making love to Adrien Agreste, it was Chat who brought the most out of her, especially on nights like these, when she desperately needed company. And Chat gladly provided it, peppering her swollen belly with kisses.

He knew each and every single dot of her magical costume, and seeing them stretched filled Adrien with pride he could only express by making sure that each of the black spots would be caressed by his lips. But soon Marinette's moans told him she needed more, and Chat eagerly pressed his claw against her sex, hearing her moan.... only to slide it up. But with that, came his claw that gently cut her costume in half, revealing her sex and her pregnant belly.

He crawled over her, and continued his precise claw-work, until he reached another part of her body her blessed state has enlarged. With equally delicate cuts, her breasts were freed as well, making him temporary stop and ogle their size. Marinette knew what to do to bring him back from the trance, and she shivered when a small dollop of ice-cream made it to her swollen nipple, attracting Chat's tongue.

- Extra milky. - he spoke, after he scooped the pinkish blob, together with a healthy gulp of something extra Marinette had the abundance of. - Perfect for my kitty...

Marinette moaned, as Chat continued his caresses around her right breast, swinging to her left one, as his body coiled around her pregnant bump. She let out another moan when his tail sneaked between her legs to her ultra-sensitive folds and slid between them.

- Chat, no offence, your tail is great, but I need something more substantial.

Adrien gave her breasts one last kiss before he seated himself between her legs, stroking her belly with his hands, admiring the sheer area he had to caress. Their eyes met, Ladybug nodded, and as Chat's hands moved to her thighs, he pushed forward, fulfilling the need Marinette had this whole evening.

In her advanced state they couldn't do nearly as much as what Chat was known for, though he still liked to move her legs up to his shoulders, wishing he could press them against her chest to mate with her. But even his shallow, slow thrusts were delivering what Marinette desired. She wished she could thrash and writhe her body like she used to under Chat's caresses, though paradoxically, remembering that he was the reason why her movements were limited only brought her closer to her climax.

- La.... Ladybug... - Adrien groaned, trying to keep his moves under control, though with her breasts and belly gently bouncing back and forth with them made it more than difficult. - Whe-where... - Inside... - Marinette moaned - That's where your seed belongs...

Adrien cried and with the only slightly more aggressive move, he hilted himself inside her, filling her with his warmth. Their climaxes were a bit more subdued and not as explosive as the ones they were having just a few months ago, and yet, they were exactly what the two needed the most. Marinette three her head back into the pillow, moaning with each shot of his virility, until she felt his mouth around her nipple once more.

- Don't worry, Chat, we still have half a box left...

[buirbaby]

Thistle & Thorn: The Letter

Rating: General

Masterlist

Dawn always brought blisteringly bright sunlight with it, lancing through the sheer curtains and smacking Nessia right in the face. Summer in the highlands was mild, temperatures typically peaking just beneath 20°C (the 60s°F), the cracked window trailing in a refreshing breath of fresh air that caused the shades to dance. Rolling in her quilts, untangling herself from the fussed sheets, and nearly falling out of the bed to land upon the hard wooden floor, ivy green eyes peeled toward the window as talons scrabbled at the edge of the sill and an unfamiliar owl poked its head past the threshold and into her domain.

"Allo there," Nessia yawned, finally dislodging herself from the hazard of her restless sleeping arrangements. Her eyes pulled over the creature groggily, inspecting the tawny feathers banded with black, ear tufts quivering as the eagle-owl blinked pumpkin orange eyes at her. "Hae'na seen ye before. Post usually goes downstairs by the kitchen, big windows over the sink. Hoggle typically handles—" she explained, pausing when the owl offered a letter toward her. "Or is this for me?"

The owl preened, feathers lifting momentarily before it allowed her to take the parcel and bunkered down in the sunlight that streamed against the window, basking in the warmth.

Nessia hummed, turning the letter over before realizing what it was, her fingers becoming clumsy and wrists quivering in blistering excitement as she started to vibrate at the sight of the Hogwart's crest. Now, she'd known that one day that the school would send her a letter, just as all young witches and wizards in the area received one. However, she'd felt anxious because she didn't display her magic as brazen or spectacularly as Logan had when he'd been her age. Hoggle had told her all about how he'd caused a mess of the manor, from causing statues to come to life from laughs that echoed like lion's roars and knocked paintings from the walls. The most that Nessia had ever done was hiccup out a bumblebee, which Hoggle said was much more preferable to Logan's messes.

Breaking the seal, Nessia's eyes became watery, as if she'd gotten potting soil in them again from rubbing her face with filthy hands. This was no farce, written in beautiful emerald script was a letter addressed to her, welcoming her to Hogwarts for her first year, and hosting a list of supplies required as a student. Finding the acceptance form in the very back, Nessia scrabbled for an inkwell and signed her name, aware that the resting owl was roosting for the journey back and likely to also send her own reply so that she could officially be added to the roster. She wondered if anyone ever declined.

"Och," she placed the new letter before the owl, an orange eye blinking open suspiciously. "When yer all good and rested, can ye take this back? Ye can stay here as long as ye need. Here's some water too," Nessia grabbed one of her pails and filled a cup she had laying around in her room, pushing it up her desk toward the raptor. "Mind the plants, but make yerself at hame."

The owl shook its feathers out and gave a low, trilling hoot before bending down to lap up some of the offered water. Nessia took the pieces of parchment, threw on a proper dress—which was little more than a corduroy sack over her shift—and burst out of her room with more fervor than the typically quiet girl displayed. Sputtering around a corner, her socks slipped beneath her and she slid an extra few paces before a hand snapped out and gripped the bannister, redirecting her path so that she could sprint toward her grandfather's solar.

Located on the opposite side of the heirloom cottage, the home that she'd grown up in as long as she could remember, even when her parents had been alive. The MacDougal Manor, situated within the misty rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands, flanked by Loch Linsor and relatively removed from neighbors muggle and wizard alike. Despite the sheltered, rural location, the home was a hive of familiar faces including Hoggle, the house elf, to other friends and servants. In the lake was a pod of merrow, many of which didn't mind popping above the surface to spare an afternoon of conversation with Nessia, to their gardener, a centaur named Rowan who was estranged from the local clan and happily made his home amongst the MacDougal family.

Even if their own grounds were limited to those that worked and kept stock of the care and daily routines, they were often frequented by visits that related to her grandfather's connections. He had been an important man in his prime and despite the years of his youth slipping through the hourglass that was time, many still came to him for advice or whispering happenings within the shadows.

Being so early in the morning, Nessia hadn't expected it to be another day where Bhan was entertaining a guest, sputtering to a graceless halt in front of the oaken door wrought with intricately carved designs depicting the MacDougal alliance with the centaurs and merrow of this area of the highlands. Their family had always had close ties with other Beings (even if the merrow and centaurs disregarded this classification), including their own house elves which lived a much more comfortable life than most elves in similar positions. She had only just raised a tanned fist to knock upon the door when she overheard voices on the other side.

"He's escaped Azkaban?" it was her grandfather, Angus, hissing in frustration at the revelation. "How in Merlin's name? If I werenae so hoachin' I'd join the hunt for him meself. Where aboot did he get loose?"

"Further south and put a little more faith in the department assigned to hunt werewolves," the other person retorted calmly.

"Faith?" Angus huffed in indignation. "I had faith that the sleekit dug wouldnae escape from Azkaban in the first place!"

"Things happen, Angus."

"Things happen, me arse. When I worked for the Ministry this wouldnae happened. Folk be gettin' too relaxed noo that Ye-Ken-Who is pushing daisies. Noo the Ministry gets all gallus and let's a bloody lycan loose. How many ye think will be turned or killed, eh?"

"Angus, I only came here to deliver the news so you could keep your eyes and ears sharp. I doubt he'll come up here, not when there's nowhere to hide and far too many centaurs roaming the moors," her grandfather's companion sounded bone weary, exhausted by toiling with the idea that innocent people were going to be cursed, maimed, or killed.

"Makin' a habit o' eavesdropping?"

The sound of Hoggle's voice made Nessia leap up, fumbling her letters before giving the house elf a bashful, guilt ridden look. "I-I," she stammered quietly, worried that those inside the solar would hear her. "Got me letter to Hogwarts. I only wanted tae show Bhan."

"The MacDougal has a guest. Come downstairs fer now and break yer fast," Hoggle shook his head dismissively, but a tight smirk betrayed the elf's amusement by the girl's dolefulness. "A letter tae Hogwarts noo? Suppose it's aboot time ye had yer own turn there."

"Do ye ken anyone who works there?" Nessia trotted after the house elf, his ragged tartan swaying behind him, pinned in place by a rusty pennancular pendant that Hoggle took deep pride in.

"Got a few cousins who do work in the kitchens," Hoggle admitted, giving her a sideways glance. "Course they're nothin' like me."

"No one is like ye, Hoggle. Everyone's different," Nessia pointed out chipperly.

"Nay," he shook his head, batty ears swaying from their position where they'd been slicked back like hair. "The MacDougals are a fine clan. Good witches and wizards. Treat all their servants right. Hogwarts is good too, but... most places dinnae treat me kind like people. The MacDougal gae me a room, a stipend, clothes—this is a job. For other elves its servitude, slavery and they bow willfully. We were made that way... tae want tae serve. I wouldnae trade whit I hae here for anything. Me cousins... they're happy, because the folk at the school are kind and they dinnae ken better. So they might seem a bit odd compared tae me."

Nessia cocked her head, having never met another house elf aside from Hoggle. Truth be told, she thought all of the elves were servants who had their own respective quarters and free time. But slaves? Her wide lips pulled down in a frown and her steps started to trudge as she contemplated the situation others of Hoggle's kind might be subjected to. "I'm sorry, ye sound sad."

Hoggle blinked. "Is na yer fault, Nessie. Jus' the way things be."

"That's wrong though. Just like it's wrong that the centaurs and merrows are classified as beasts," Nessia huffed.

The house elf's lips tugged up in a smile. "World needs more witches who think like ye, Nessie. Be a much kinder place."

"World would be weak if it were more like me," Nessia muttered, mostly to herself as the pair stepped into the kitchen. Yet another one of her favorite rooms in the house, with high ceilings, a long table in the center of the room that functioned as both an island and where informal meals were hosted. With a wave of a knobbly hand, a stool danced toward Hoggle and he hopped up onto it.

"The world needs kindness, Nessie. It doesnae make ye weak," Hoggle assured her. "Yer bhan is kind."

"But he's also braw," she countered, plopping down on a barstool by the island.

"Och, yer bum's oot the windae, int it?" a third voice joined the conversation, the tall visage of her adult brother sauntering into view as he fixed his tie. The siblings, while having the same parents, reflected each parent in their own way. Nessia took after their mother, with tanned skin, thick curly black hair, and a flat nose-smattering her nose like a constellation was her father's Scottish freckles and the MacDougal green eyes were another telltale sign of her heritage. Whereas Logan was a shade fairer, strong jawed, tall and broad, a head of russet curls hashed with strands of auburn and gold. Whilst he looked more akin to their father, Bhan always claimed he had their mother's fire burning in his heart. Despite their differences, they did share their mother's nose.

"Ah umnae!" Nessia squeaked, cheeks darkening at the insinuation that she was talking rubbish.

"Whit hae ye got there?" Logan gestured to her folded parchment while he was adjusting the cuff links on his shirt.

"Oh! Me letter to Hogwarts," she stood on the pegs of the stool and leaned over the counter to wave it at him.

In just three strides, Logan met her and took the parchment from her, whistling low as he thumbed through it thoughtfully. "Who wouldae thought they'd accept a lil mandrake like ye. Did ye send a letter back sayin' ye'd only want tae study plants?"

"I can learn other stuff," Nessia grumbled, crossing her arms as her brother.

"Well, if that's the case, when ye get yer want, how aboot I teach ye some spells?" he offered, handing the parchment back and pouring himself a cup of tea that Hoggle had on the stove.

"I thought I couldnae practice magic outside o' school," Nessia recalled smartly.

"In front o' muggles. Otherwise, who's gaunnae stop ye? Most other students are na lucky enough to hae a big brother who's an Auror," Logan retorted glibly.

"Am not tryin' to be an Auror," Nessia reminded him.

"Och, yer too wee tae ken whit ye'd like tae do yet," Logan played off dismissively. "I do ken we hae a lot of the supplies ye need here—like the cauldron, scales, phials, telescope. I might even hae some of the books, I ken ye have the One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi one in yer room."

Nessia gave a stout nod, pleased that she wouldn't dirty new books, as she had the uncanny ability to smear dirt on them as well as the inclination to make notes in the margins. Even if the clan had a manor, comparatively Nessia wouldn't claim they were the richest or most influential family. Most of the sacred twenty-eight turned their noses up at the accepting tendencies the MacDougals practiced. They lived comfortably, but if items could be repurposed or recycled, there was no use in wasting it. Both Nessia and Logan had been raised to be appreciative of what they had, what they acquired, and to not discard belongings without regard. An old book still held the same words as a new one and personally, the old one had more character.

"Suppose I'll need tae get a wand and robes, ye were a skinny malinky longlegs when ye went tae school," Nessia pointed out.

Logan sputtered into his mug, Hoggle chortling at the description.

"Keep the heid, young master," Hoggle taunted before the man could offer rebuttal.

"Whit's this noo?" Heads swiveled in the direction of the voice from under the awning, Angus having his hands propped up on his hips as he surveyed the crowd and began carving his path toward the tea kettle. "Yer gaunnae be late fer work, eh?" he prompted, turning verdant eyes to pin Logan where he stood, still gobsmacked from Nessia's prod.

"It's an important day. Na everyday that yer little sister gets an acceptance letter to Hogwarts," Logan preened, taking a glance at his watch.

"Sounds like an excuse tae me. Whit time are ye supposed to be in?" Angus countered suspiciously.

Logan grumbled. "Och, I'll go!" With a snap the man's silhouette rippled inward and he disapparated from the kitchen, fluttering a nearby towel that was folded over the oven handle.

Plates were beginning to float from the stove, landing soundlessly on the island as Hoggle moved as if he were conducting an orchestra. Silverware, plates, and cups followed—the door banging open, followed by the clopping of hooves as Rowan entered.

"Mornin'," he greeted, pausing to wash his hands in the sink.

"So ye got yer letter to Hogwarts? Aboot time," Angus remarked, returning to the island to glance over the parchment. "Might be time tae head to Diagon Alley for the rest o' yer supplies. Hoggle, ye think ye can scrounge up the auld books? I ken Logan had a few of these."

"O' course," Hoggle agreed.

Diagon Alley had been a less than often frequented place of Nessia. To be honest, it was busy, overwhelming, and cramped. Nothing about London was favorable to her, especially when she was so accustomed to the wide open moors and the loch that spanned her home. Additionally, it was humid and frizzed up her curls, turning them into a deplorable helmet. Usually, she let her bhan go without her, but managed to suppress a sigh because she knew that this outing would result in acquiring one of the most important items as a witch: a wand.

"Dinnae look so driech," Angus chuckled.

"It's gaunnae be gross, I jus' ken it," Nessia pouted, spooning hash onto her plate and settling on a scoop of eggs to join it. "Hogsmeade is closer, innit?"

"Tis," Angus mused. "I jus' thought ye'd want the full experience."

Nessia arched a brow at him. "Full experience? I'd prefer na tae sweat me breeks off."

"Lassie dinnae care fer the Sassenachs," Rowan observed mischievously. "Cannae blame ye for that."

"Most o' yer peers are gaunnae be Sassenachs," Hoggle wagged a wooden spoon at her.

"Well, if I can put off meetin' em for as long as possible-" Nessia suggested lightly, shoving some food into her mouth.

"Feart not," Angus declined. "We're gaunnae go to the Alley."

Nessia let out a plainative groan and nearly choked on her eggs, chasing it down with orange juice. The rest of breakfast went on as usual before she was sent off to get ready for the afternoon. London was going to be quite a bit warmer than the highlands, which forced her to choose thinner robes that she preferred to wear. Bundling her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck to save her the embarrassment of it being frazzled to hell, Nessia slipped on a pair of Wellies and trundled grumpily out of her room, the owl having left before she returned.

Upon passing her grandfather's solar, Nessia paused momentarily to reflect on what she'd overheard. Lycans? Escape from Azkaban? She hadn't caught a name, but a shiver traced down her spine at the thought of werewolves roaming the countryside in search of unsuspecting victims. Living in the highlands, she was reminded duly of the protection she was afforded so far north, so removed, and by plenty of other creatures that would chase the werewolves across the moors before letting them bunker down and cause a ruckus.

Waiting by the main hearth, Angus had already dressed in his afternoon robes, including a small sash in the clan's tartan which slashed across his breast. Adjusting his balmoral cap, his heavy brows raised at his granddaughter.

"Try na tae look too enthused," he retorted sarcastically, mustache twitching up at the 11 year old's dismay.

"It's gaunnae be driech, Bhan," Nessia whined, dipping her hand into the basin filled with Floo powder. "And they talk weird."

"Whit if we're the ones who talk weird?" Angus challenged.

"Doubtful," stepping into the fireplace, the sand sifting between her fingers, Nessia tossed the powder down with pizzazz. "Diagon Alley!" Careful to speak clearly, envious green flames lanced up in front of her, obscuring her vision completely. Holding her breath to prevent breathing in the fumes and ash, she narrowed her eyes in an effort to witness her voyage up out of the tippy top of her home's chimney. Arms pinned, up becoming down, skipping from north to south, Nessia groaned when she made impact with the public fireplace of the Alley.

Immediately, she was rebuffed by the humid air of London, the cool and refreshing summer of the highlands replaced by an unusually hot day, peaking at the high 20s (nearly 80F). Pushing a few stray curls from her forehead, Nessia grimaced and stepped out of the way as the chimney above her thundered with the warning of another traveler approaching. Never a pleasant experience, her nose wrinkling as she huffed a sneeze and barely managed to move as a wizard threw a haughty glare in her direction. Rolling her eyes, she waited another moment before her grandfather materialized, dusting off his robes and tartan, ruffling his mustache and sneezing just as loudly as she had.

The mimicked fashion made her grin widely and he chuckled. "Blasted Floo. Never been tae fond of it," he grumbled, striding up to meet her.

"I dinnae think anyone 'likes' it, Bhan," Nessia pointed out to his chagrin.

"Shoulda just disapparated," he muttered, rubbing beneath his nose again. "Noo, where do we need tae go?"

Unfolding the list from her pocket, Nessia could already feel sweat beading on the back of her neck. Maybe she'd worn too heavy an outfit, the corduroy like a smothering blanket amidst the humidity. Thank Merlin Hogwarts was in Scotland. "Robes, parchment, note books, a wand-" she recited, aware that most of the other supplies could be scavenged around the MacDougal grounds. Hand-me-downs didn't bother her too much, though it wasn't as if they couldn't afford newer items; Nessia just didn't see a point when there were perfectly good ones at home.

"Generic supplies," Angus admitted. "Och, well let's get started then. Get ye some robes, 'course yer wand—it's the most important item ye'll get. Maybe if yer not too cheeky, we can stop for some icecream."

Nessia beamed in spite of the blistering weather and flanked her grandfather as they started through the brimming streets of Diagon Alley. From the sloping roofs held up by only magic, defying gravity's expectations, to the gayly hued robes that bespeckled the populace, she settled into the hum of activity. From the freshly baked pastries that filled her with fragrant thoughts of Hoggle making holiday desserts to the owls ruffling their feathers within their cages, she relaxed slightly, keeping close beside her grandfather who parted the crowd as if he had a wand out and was thrusting folks aside. Be it the prowess the broad man moved with or just the heavy expression he always wore, most steered clear of the highlander. He was easily recognizable from his hints of traditional garb and the pride each shoe fell with.

Nessia wished she possessed an ounce of her grandfather's confidence or vindication, but as close as they were they couldn't have been more unlike each other. He was outgoing, strong, ambitious, wise, and willful. Nessia was quiet, reclusive, and shy. Only those that she knew did the girl have the heart to sass, but under the scrutiny of strangers she felt nervous and sweaty. The sheer idea of having to go to school without him made her falter. For today she should have been rejoicing, as excited as the other children around her that she would be going to school soon and beginning the next endeavor of her life. Truthfully, Nessia was terrified.

"Bhan, whit house do ye think I'll be in?" she asked him as they continued down the road toward the wand shop.

"Dinnae, bit o' a toss up for ye. Yer smart, so maybe Ravenclaw. Yer also too nice fer yer own could, ye could be in Hufflepuff," he answered honestly, which made her frown slightly.

"Weren't ye in Gryffindor, Bhan?" she prompted.

"Aye, do ye think ye'll be put into Gryffindor?"

Nessia wanted to be in the same house as her grandfather, almost as if it'd prove that there was more to her than the demure plant-loving witch, but she didn't think herself very brave. Just contemplating how desperately she wanted to be in the house made her eyes prickle with tears, which she quickly blinked back. "I hope Ravenclaw," she decided, knowing that Logan wouldn't let her live it down if she got placed into Hufflepuff. Not that the house sounded bad, but when her family came from a long history of Gryffindors, it made her balk at being placed in the 'softest' house at Hogwarts. After all, she was a highlander and only Ravenclaw or Gryffindor would do.

"Dinnae fash. Ye'll do well wherever ye are, lassie. Ye ken I'm proud of ye, even if ye got placed in Slytherin. No house will change me mind," Angus assured her, tapping her on her nose, having noticed that she was fighting back tears.

The shop in front of them was dusty, but then again, many of the store fronts around here were. It was strange, considering how busy Diagon Alley was, that time was rarely allocated to clean off store fronts or afford a new repaint. Considering all it would take was a swing of a hand or wand to set brooms or dustpans to work, Nessia cocked her head as she stared at the grimy pillow in the display and itched her nose at the anticipation of stepping into the shop. Hoggle would have lost his mind.

Bell tinkling upon their arrival, Nessia shielded her eyes—not because the shop was particularly bright, in fact it was rather dim. No, it was the chain reaction that her presence caused, a box on the wall jetting out amongst the rank and file and pinging right into the side of a rickety desk. An elderly man jumped, his thin white hair going astray as he glanced from the box, the mess the wand had created by acting so spryly—spilling at least two dozen others from the wall—before bending down to pick it up.

"Mr. MacDougal," the shopkeeper smiled, placing the box up on the counter and glancing between them. "I don't think either of you will be spending very long here."

"Nice tae see ye, Ollivander," Angus greeted, palming his granddaughter's back and thrusting her forward from where she'd frozen. "Seems yer wands got minds of their own."

"I see it... from time to time," he smiled gently, turning his wizened eyes down toward Nessia. "This must be Nessia? You look a lot like your mother when she came to get her first wand."

"You remember her?" Nessia's trepidation was trumped by the man's memory of a mother she barely recalled. Both of her parents had been killed when she was little, amidst the wizarding war that had made for a tumultuous childhood for her.

"I remember every person I sell a wand to," Ollivander winked, lifting the lid to the box and revealing a wand. "She had a 12", dragon heartstring cored wand, made from red oak. A very handsome wand."

"Whit happened with that wand?" Nessia inquired, gesturing to the one that had flown clean off the shelf.

"Ah, well let's take a look," he picked up up, holding it to the oil lamp beside him, scrutinizing the ribbing and the fine lattice work of knots around the grip. "Made from vine. They have a tendency to display their attraction to potential partners. I've only seen it happen a few times before, but they're not always quite a brash as this one."

At the insinuation that the wand had reacted to her, Nessia's tanned cheeks darkened and she sputtered. "M-me?"

"Certainly not your grandfather. I'm afraid this wand would not suit him," Ollivander betrayed. "This one has been collecting dust for a while. A very long while," he insisted, reaching over to offer it to Nessia. "I made it many years ago, while I was still experimenting with other cores aside from dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or phoenix feathers. Honestly, I thought it might never sell. Griffin feathers are quite particular, perhaps even more so than phoenix feathers. Prideful creatures."

Accepting the wand, a tingle lanced up her hand, into her elbow, and caused the girl to shudder all over as if a strong gust of cold highland wind had knocked right through her. She could smell the rain on the moors, fresh air whistling through her thick curls, and roasted apples over a fire. A smile curled her lips and she opened her eyes to glance curiously at the wandmaker.

"A perfect fit," Ollivander declared. "It would seem MacDougals are always the quickest shops. I seem to remember when my father had a wand nearly jump into your hands, Angus."

Her grandfather snorted, removing his wand to offer it to the artisan, who ran his fingers along the wood with a sad, but pleased reminiscent expression upon his face. "Nessie's a MacDougal through and through," he puffed up in pride. "Griffin feather, ye hear? Makes sense, a good deal of griffins migrate to the highlands in the warmer seasons."

Always having felt that maybe being a witch was not suited perfectly for her, Nessia clutched the wand. She couldn't have wished for anything more than this perfect union with the unique wand. A tendril of confidence bolstered the girl's frail spine and she grinned up at her bhan. A griffin feather? Of all the cores, she wouldn't have expected such a braw one to choose her, but her heart soared like the creature it was made from.

"I always thought your core was so strange. How my father managed to acquire will-o-wisps and fashion it into a wand always eluded my skill," Ollivander commented, turning Angus' wand over a few times. "I would have expected the reverse for the two of you, but such rare cores are fickle and don't sell often enough to warrant making them in masses. I realized this once I had taken over, but it still warms my heart to see these wands finally find their partners."

"Served me well, it has," Angus assured him. "And dinnae forget that I wasnae always how I am noo. Nessie's got a much better head on her shoulders than when I was a lad," he patted his granddaughter affectionately.

"You were a bit naive if I recall correctly. Bright eyed and bushy tailed," Ollivander chuckled, returning the wand as he began drafting up a hand written receipt.

"Bhan?" Nessia gasped, as if the idea of her grandfather being anything other than the strident retired Auror that she'd known for the entirety of her life.

"We all grow up, Nessie. I was no exception," he mused, mustache twitching in amusement. "Mr. Ollivander is one of the few who still remembers. Though I hae no doubt Professor McGonagall might as well. We went tae school together."

"I think there are still quite a few more who do, but you're unwilling to admit," Ollivander smiled. "That'll be 10 galleons."

Mr. Ollivander packed up the wand for Nessia, which he shared was about 13.5" and had a relatively hard flexibility to it, but he assured her that the wand was rather delighted to have her. Keeping the bundle tucked close to her chest, she followed her grandfather through the streets which had only grown more busy and sweltering as the afternoon peaked. Past the shops with the pets again and to the robes shop. They passed the front of a second hand store, about to continue when a voice called out.

"Oh! Mr. MacDougal—"

Nessia didn't recognize the voice as one of the typical visitors to their homestead and glanced up inquisitively toward her grandfather who froze and wrinkled his nose. A bemused smile tucked on her face as he turned mechanically and forced a pressed, but polite look onto his face. "Allo there," by the second hand shop was a man with a head full of bright, coppery red hair. "Been a while, Arthur. How's the Ministry?"

Arthur was tall, had a face full of freckles, and beamed excitedly up towards Angus. Beside him were two boys, both of which appeared to be of similar age to Nessia, but she didn't know for certain. Just as ginger as their father, they spared her curious looks. One tall, the other a little shorter and broad. Subconsciously, she waned toward her grandfather, but still stared nonetheless.

"Not half as well since you left for good, but it's nice to see you. I hear you don't often leave the highlands, so I'm surprised to see you in London," Arthur admitted politely. He didn't look like an Auror, but Nessia supposed that was a rather rude thing to think by assessing his weathered robes.

"Me granddaughter, Nessie, starts Hogwarts this year. We came tae get the last few things we needed. Logan had quite a bit o' supplies she can put to good use again," he patted her back. "These yer bairns?"

"Ah yes, my eldest Bill, who is in his third year. My second eldest, Charlie, is starting this year. Perhaps the two of you will be in the same classes or house," Arthur suggested, motioning to his sons respectively. "Boys, this is the legendary Auror, Angus MacDougal. He headed the Aurors for many years, fought against Grindelwald and helped during the Wizarding War with intel. I'm surprised you didn't stay around, join the Wizengamot-"

"Bunch o' pompous pr-" Angus started at the mention of the Wizengamot, cutting himself off before he cursed. Nessia snickered behind her hand. "Ah, too many years workin'. Aboot time I enjoy me home, avoid the stress of the Ministry. How's work been for ye, Arthur?"

"Good!" Arthur chirped, but even Nessia caught the fleeting anxious look on the man's face and her grandfather stiffening. "Busy as always," he chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

"Well, it was nice to see ye. Nessie and I still hae to get some supplies before headin' back north. Tell Molly and the other bairns I've said allo."

"It was nice tae meet ye," Nessia squeaked quickly, following Angus' lead, but still finding her manners. "I'll see ye at school."

"Will do. It was nice to see you," Arthur said, parting ways.

Once out of earshot, Nessia glanced up at her grandfather. "Ye dinnae seem tae happy to see him."

"Arthur is... very passionate," Angus grumbled. "He's a good man, but he's obsessed with muggles. Half the time I see him, I worry I'm gaunnae be stuck listening to him prattle on for hours."

"Oh, he's not an Auror?"

"Oh, nay, nay," Angus shook his head. "Works for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Tae be honest, that department's a bit ignored and underfunded... Ministry doesnae see the importance of it much, but we could learn so much from the muggles if we allowed our folk to study with better pay. Used to run into him when I grabbed me morning tea. Realized who I was, was a bit feart at first, but warmed up when he realized I wasnae gaunnae bite his head off. I suppose many other Aurors got their heads far up their own arses. Think they're better than people like Arthur. If any of them had as much passion for their job as Arthur, perhaps we wouldnae had so much of an issue with dark wizards like Ye-Ken-Who."

"Clan MacDougal always mingled with muggles."

"Aye, before Catholicism took hold. We had tae hide our abilities after, but we remained friendly with the muggle clans in the highlands," he added duly. "But not every wizardin' family thinks the same as we dae."

"I ken," Nessia shuddered. "That's why ye never accept those invitations that come from those other families. The Malfoys? Rosiers?"

Angus hummed in agreement. "Jus' posturin' to them. 'Look at what we have', when they dinnae work a day in their lives. Jus' takin' up space and lookin' pretty."

"They dinnae work? Whit do they dae?"

"Merlin kens," Angus rolled his eyes.

Madam Malkin's had a violet store front, a dapper, well dress family in the store display. She thought this one was considerably less dusty, as the mannequins were probably changed out enough that they didn't have enough time to collect half as much dust as the pillow in Ollivander's window. A plump, bright witch hummed around the shop and had her laden with packages as Angus commented about how thick the cloaks were and that a true highlander wouldn't need these to brave the winters in Scotland. While growing rosy cheeked at her grandfather's complaining, they acquired the necessary materials and hurried to collect the last few miscellaneous items. Without having to struggle with books, a cauldron, and the other items they had at home, they were able to easily settle down at the ice cream shop for a much needed treat amongst the heat of a strangely warm afternoon in London.

The path to the Floo hearths was a little choked up, various other patrons just as eager to head home after a successful day in acquiring their needs on Diagon Alley. While waiting in line, Nessia glanced up toward Angus.

"Bhan, we dinnae hae tae come back here, dae we?" Sweat was pouring down her neck, trickling down her back.

"Nay, not til September when ye hae to catch the train."

"The train!" Nessia whined. "But Hogwarts is not too far frae home."

"It's aboot the experience. Ye may meet yer best friends on the train," Angus wagged a brow at her.

Grousing quietly to herself, Nessia didn't shed light on the anxiety she felt surrounding the idea of having to find somewhere on a train to sit, let alone deal with not knowing a single soul. Sure, she knew the names of those two boys, but she didn't know them. To be fair, she didn't really know anyone. It was easy to get lost amongst her jungle at home, the pages of her journal, and the garden outside. There was Hoggle, Rowan, and Logan. Plus the merrow in the loch, which were quite conversational once she'd learned how to understand them. The centaurs were a bit standoffish, but they'd been polite to her.

Hoggle had located the books she needed for school, a couple of which were nearly falling apart because Logan had abused the spines. While the pages were intact—minus his maddened scribblings in a few books—she had to do some repairs of her own to prevent them from breaking further and threatening to actually spill necessary reading material everywhere.

"Knock, knock future Puff," Logan announced his presence, rapping upon the frame of her open door as he poked his head into the jungle.

"Och, ye dinnae ken that yet," Nessia huffed, blowing a few strands of hair from her face as she was sewing another binding back into place.

"Where else would ye go?" Logan stepped in, teasing his younger sister. "Ooh, sorry there. Those look as if they've weathered bein' beat by hippogriffs."

"Oh, yer sorry? Might've fixed 'em before ye handed em down tae me," Nessia quipped, but honestly wasn't that upset. The books still functioned.

"Well, how aboot I make it up to ye?" he offered.

"Ye gaunnae buy me new books?"

"How aboot I do ye one better? Ye got yer wand today, didn't ya?"

Opening the box in front of her, Nessia pulled out the pale wooden wand. "Aye, but I'm not supposed to practice magic outside of school."

"Not around Muggles," Logan corrected. "And if I remember correctly, there arenae any here. Yer perfectly allowed tae practice at home and we're quite remote. If anyone questions it, ye got me to vouch for ye."

Her brother's beguiling reassurances did little to quell the twanging nerves, plucking like an out of tune violin as she contemplated taking the bait. "Whit are ye gaunnae teach me?"

"A few defense spells—Och wait!"

"I dinnae need those. I'm not ye! I'm not gaunnae get into any fights—" Nessia objected immediately.

"Better to ken them and not need them than to be dumped on yer arse. Yer a MacDougal. Like it or not, we have a reputation to uphold and while Bhan will not say anything aboot it, I want to be certain no one picks on ye," Logan interrupted, raising a hand to deflect her disquiet.

"No one is gaunnae pick on me," Nessia snorted. "It's not like when ye went to school."

"Slytherin is still just as nasty as when I went. Yer better off, Nessie."

He wasn't going to drop it, causing her to groan at his insistence. "Fine, but I ken I'm gaunnae be foul at spellwork. Never been good at it before."

"Ye never had the chance tae really try. C'mon, let's go oot in the garden."

[percabeth4life]

I Accidentally Vaporize My Pre-Algebra Teacher

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter (coming soon) || AO3

And we’ve reached canon timeline!

Ms. Dodds clearly has something out for me.

I can tell.

She watches me with narrow eyes, a dangerous look on her face.

I can feel the magic that clings to her, it feels like the strange itch of a curse, but not quite.

There’s an almost buzz with her, cloudy and indistinct.

I really don’t like her either.

Thankfully I’m good enough at Math to do alright in her class, or I really fear what she would do to me.

But as it is, I’m very worried.

“There’s been a theft.”

Triton was worried, he hasn’t contacted me since that letter.

“Keep your head down.”

I miss him, is he okay?

“Stay away from the ocean.”

I’m worried and scared, what’s going on?

“Don’t contact me.”

I need to tell someone about Ms. Dodds, I need to do something.

“Stay safe.”

What am I supposed to do?

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

Ms. Dodds almost seems to follow me around, I don’t dare use my waterbending outside of my room nowadays.

I haven’t used it much outside of my room anyways, but I played with the water in my cups and spilled some people’s drinks when they were rude.

They deserved it.

Nancy is more than happy to try to get me in trouble with Ms. Dodds though, it’s annoying. I’m not sure how to keep off her radar when Nancy tries to blame everything on me.

I’m just really glad for all of Triton’s lessons now. Triton might not be here, but his lessons still help me.

“There will be enemies you cannot match. They will be stronger than you, you will lose in a fair fight.”

Triton taught me a lot.

“There are two main paths to take. They depend on the situation.”

I don’t know if I’m treating the situation right, but I’m going to do my best.

“If you have no choice but to fight, anger them. Make them angry, mock them, tease them, attack their pride, their honor, their hair. Do whatever it takes to throw them off. An angry enemy is a dumb enemy.”

I smiled in the face of Nancy’s accusations and did my best to always be around at least two other people. I will have an alibi this year. There won’t be a repeat of previous year’s situations.

“If you can though, try to defuse the situation. Manners, sweet smiles, agreeing with them in everything they say. Don’t antagonize them, be the kindest, sweetest, most well-behaved person you can be. Make it so they don’t want to fight you.”

Ms. Dodds is scary, and I want Triton, I want the sea, I want home.

But I have to stay here, so I smile and nod and say yes ma’am and I hide my power.

I acted as ordinary as I possibly could.

I don’t think it’s working.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I tried to read the ex-cursed book from first semester. It’s all in Latin though? I can’t read it very well, just picking out certain words here and there. How annoying.

The paper felt old, but it doesn’t look it? It doesn’t seem to have any power in it anymore, at least I don’t feel anything other than the constant buzz around me.

Oh well, I’ll have to get better at reading Latin to read this book I guess.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I talked with Carl the fish a lot, while researching how to make him human again.

At this point I think I just need more power, the person that cursed him is stronger than me, so I have two options for undoing the curse. I could pull the curse apart at its base, but that would require me understanding how the curse was laid, and what the exact nature of the curse is, and so many details.

I learned a lot about curses, I’m so glad I had these books before whatever happened on the solstice.

The curses can be of different natures, woven ones where the curse is weaved almost like making a cloth, layered ones where it’s parts are all laid on top of the other, overwhelming ones where they just force their will on the subject, and twisting ones where they shift the nature of the object, that one is usually done for objects already enchanted though.

If you know the nature of the curse you can pick it apart, pull at woven ones until the fabric of the curse comes undone, peel the layers up one by one for layered ones, slip underneath and yank the overwhelming ones off (though it’s recommended to be sure of your skill to counter those), or just re-twist the twisting ones back to their original nature.

I thinks this one is either twisting or woven, but if I mess up doing the careful way of unwinding it then I could make it worse. Twisting a woven curse tightens it and makes it harder to undo and pulling a twisting one does the same.

So, I was probably going to do the second way, which is just plain overpowering it. But that requires a lot of power, especially if it’s twisting or woven. Those two are the hardest to undo through sheer power.

Ugh.

But Carl was at least nice to talk to, he helped me stay calm even though I have no idea what’s going on.

I should figure out how to make a bubble of water to bring him with me. That would be easier then leaving him with Gabe. I doubt it’s safe for him there. It was only safe last summer because Gabe didn’t find out about him till the very end of the summer.

Yeah, I’ll look into making a way to carry Carl.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I frowned over the book on healing, and the medical kit spread out in front of me. I want to get better at healing, unfortunately I need to figure out the tools.

I picked up one of the tools, this is just the basic set but it’s so varied.

Okay, so this is treated seaweed, for binding the wounds that you can’t heal all at once. This is purification stone to cleanse the wound to make it easier to heal. The slim shell knife is for working with the wound? And for cutting the seaweed to the right length. There’s an antibacterial mix, made from… something. I don’t know how this is made, I should probably learn.

The shell paste that hardens into a cast is cool though. And the spider crab thread is cool. I didn’t know the spider crabs made thread but looking through the manual it says that’s what the thread is from. Maybe there’s a mythical one I don’t know about? There’s also a jar of enchanted fish, enchanted to sleep until you open the jar, to eat dead skin.

There are also the basics, like in any land first aid kit. Tweezers, scissors, painkillers (though these are made from a fish with paralytic abilities that cuts off pain, it’s cool), and a thermometer (though again, it’s a type of coral that’s very sensitive to changes in temperature and enchanted to live).

Then there’s some stuff I’m not sure about? I don’t know if land kits have them, the one at home doesn’t.

There’s a large soft blanket made of woven sea grasses (so soft) that has one side woven with coral shielding, the kind that keeps in heat, a type of woven mix of sea grass stuffed with anemone puff that cools rapidly when exposed to water.

The manual shows how to use it all and one of my extra books shows how to combine them with healing. It’s interesting, I just wish I had someone to practice it on. I’ll just have to try it with minor injuries that I get?

I sighed, oh well. It’ll come in handy some day I’m sure.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

Mr. Brunner is acting strangely as well.

I saw Mr. Brunner and Ms. Dodds talking, well, actually it sounded more like threatening each other from where I was standing.

I still don’t know if Mr. Brunner is safe, but he doesn’t have the itch of a curse on him. So maybe he’s okay.

He certainly seems safer than Ms. Dodds.

Mr. Brunner has started teaching us how to hold swords during lessons.

I don’t like any of the swords, they don’t feel right.

But some of them have that feel to them, a buzz in my head. They aren’t normal, they definitely have magic of some kind.

The one Mr. Brunner uses has the most powerful feeling, and it reminds me of Elei’s trident, made in the ocean of her power. Made of her.

I’m pretty sure that sword is of the ocean.

I pretend I don’t know that Mr. Brunner has what’s likely the essence of a being of the sea, even though it makes me ache. It’s just like Elei’s, what if there’s a being out there missing their essence?

I smile and nod again, hiding my fear, my worry, my anger.

Triton will be upset if I fall apart just because I can’t see Triton.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I stood at the edge of the pit again. This time there was someone else there, though I can’t see them.

I could feel something I hadn’t noticed before, sliding sand, soft and soothing, prickling over my hands, pinpricks of warmth and a feeling of numbness. The feelings together are strange, a bit uncomfortable, but they don’t bother me too much.

“-rry Master. I couldn’t get it to you, but I won’t fail again! I will find a way to let it reach you, I swear it.”

“Your failure has put back our plans by quite a bit, I now must expend energy to keep the wayward god under my control, I do not have the power to spare yet.”

“I know, I- I have no excuse. I failed you because of my own arrogance.”

The voice murmured something, I think it’s the Thalozan language, which is really, really, old but Triton knows a few words and taught me them.

I have no idea what the voice is saying though, I just recognize the sounds.

“I will make arrangements, return to your sleep.”

“Yes Master.”

There was a faint whisper, then the other presence was gone.

There were more faint murmurs in the other language, possibly Thalozan? Before it suddenly went silent.

“Ah, I see you’ve returned little Half-blood.”

“It’s Percy,” I reminded.

The low chuckle returned, “Indeed.”

I heard a faint murmur, “Fainter, less than before, not sure,” before he hummed, “How-“

I woke up.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I hate the stupid detention I’m stuck in.

I didn’t do anything! But Nancy Bobfit decided to blame me for stealing something, and my alibi didn’t work.

I have to clean the classroom for this detention, I’m pretty sure I’m just supposed to sit quietly in a room and listen to a lecture for an hour, but Ms. Dodds doesn’t go by normal rules.

So, I’m stuck in that room, with a rag and a spray bottle, reluctantly cleaning the room.

I’m staying polite though, I’m not going to let Nancy ruin all my hard work at making Ms. Dodds not kick me out at the first opportunity.

I sprayed the desk and wiped it down, this is nowhere near as hard as cleaning the river. I’ll be fine.

“Now honey,” Ms. Dodds started, “You know why you’re here yes?”

Ms. Dodds was apparently an expert at torture.

A faint buzz nudged at my senses.

The next hour was spent with her subtle implications that I’m a horrible thief, shouldn’t be in the school, brings shame to everyone, am a horrible person, and am probably cheating and she just couldn’t prove it yet.

It was getting harder and harder to resist the urge to lash out. But I need to keep my temper.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I blinked in the room I’m in, looking around.

I’m back in the undersea palace, Oceanus’s palace.

I’m in my probable dad’s palace.

…

I should look around.

For… research… yeah.

I promptly left the room to explore more.

It’s pretty, I like the walls, covered with glittering murals. I passed an opening and stared in awe at the dark waters filled with lantern fish and other glowing beings.

I decided I like it, it’s comfortable in a different way than the places I’ve been with Triton.

“Back again I see.”

I whipped around to see Oceanus there once more.

“Er… Hi.”

Dumb, stupid, idiot, don’t just say hi!

I quickly twisted my hand into the proper motion of respect.

Oceanus’s lips twitched.

“Perhaps introduce yourself first this time little half-blood, you have the unfortunate habit of disappearing before you can.”

“Ah, yeah… sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at me expectantly.

“Oh uh, I’m Percy Ja-“

“Oceanus! Who is that presence? Where does it keep coming from!?”

I decided I should resign myself to being entirely unable to ever introduce myself to my probable dad.

Maybe he just hasn’t gotten a chance to see me in a while? So, he doesn’t know what I looked like?

I hope so.

“Tethys, my love, that presence would be this young Half-Blood.” Oceanus motioned to me.

I bit my lip but ignored the pang in my chest at Oceanus calling Tethys his love, of course he would! Tethys is his wife, even if my mom is amazing and incredible and deserves the whole world, Oceanus wouldn’t have married his wife if he didn’t love her.

The Titans didn’t do that nonsense like the gods did.

The mermaid that approached was familiar, it’s the one I saw in my first dream to the undersea palace. A feeling of just general clean washed over me, curling currents swaying over my skin, interrupting the cold deep currents that I hadn’t even realized I felt.

Her tail the flowiest of any, glittering brilliantly in silvers and blues.

“Oh? The little half-blood from a few months ago.”

I quickly gave her the proper motion of respect.

Her lips twitched like Oceanus’s, “And who might you be little Half-Blood?”

“I’m Percy Ja-“

I woke up.

Why me.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

We’re going on a fieldtrip!

I hate fieldtrips!

Yay!

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I sat next to Grover, resisting the urge to drown Nancy.

Murder is bad, murder is bad, murder is ba-

Another sandwich piece in Grover’s hair…

Maybe murder wasn’t so bad.

“Don’t, you don’t need to get in trouble with Ms. Dodds here, she has it out for you.”

Grover was holding my arm.

He clearly could tell that I’m ready to fight Nancy.

I scowled but stayed seated.

“She needs to get some taste, peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches in your hair? She might as well just toss her lunch in the trash.”

“Ha just stay calm and hope Ms. Dodds doesn’t see anything.”

I sighed, “Fine.”

It’s probably for the best that Grover stopped me, Triton would be disappointed in me if I let my temper win over in a fight that I can’t win with it.

You’re not supposed to get angry, you’re supposed to make your opponent angry.

I sighed and forced myself to not snap and drown Nancy with the water from my waterskin when she threw another piece of her sandwich at Grover.

This was going to be a long fieldtrip.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

See, I like fieldtrips, in theory.

They could be really fun! But things keep happening on them and well… I’m extremely wary of fieldtrips now.

I tried to not be worried, Mr. Brunner is running this trip after all.

I’m still not sure if he’s trustworthy, but he still doesn’t seem to mean me any harm. Grover nervously wrung his hands now that we were out of the bus.

Ms. Dodds walked right behind the two of us, I worked very hard to keep a happy expression on my face. Don’t need her getting on us about being suspicious or something. That would be bad.

We walked through the museum, Mr. Brunner leading us.

I smiled as I studied the different displays. It wasn’t as cool as what’s under the sea, but it was still pretty impressive.

Oceanus’s palace was cooler though.

My eye twitched as annoying students kept talking and interrupting Mr. Brunner. I was having a hard time hearing his explanation.

I resisted the urge to tell them to shut up, that would get a look from Ms. Dodds, and I did not need that.

Mr. Brunner moved on to talking about some funeral art, explaining the significance and-

“It’s just a naked guy on a wall,” snickered Nancy.

I sighed, “It’s not just a naked guy on a wall, it’s a stele, as Mr. Brunner said it’s a column of stone that has the image of the god that the girl that it once served as the gravestone for worshipped. Honestly if your brain wasn’t the same size as a jellyfish’s then you’d know that Nancy.”

The group laughed as Nancy flushed, glaring at me.  Mr. Brunner paused in his story.

“Did you have a comment Mr. Jackson?”

“No sir, sorry for interrupting.” I flushed slightly, whoops.

He nodded then pointed to one of the pictures on the stele, “Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?”

I brightened, “That would be the Titan King Kronos, the Titan of Time and Agriculture, eating his kids the gods.”

Mr. Brunner nodded, but made a motion with his hand, “And he did this because…”

I bounced on my feet, resisting the urge to smile, “He got a prophecy that said his child would overthrow him, so he ate his children to prevent it. But then his wife, Rhea the Titaness of motherhood, gave him a rock instead of feeding him his youngest, Zeus. Then Zeus grew up, raised in secret by some nymphs, and he tricked Kronos into throwing up-“

“Gross!” A few kids muttered.

“-his other kids by feeding him a mustard and wine mix. Then the gods got together and ended up over throwing him. They cut him into a lot of tiny pieces and threw the pieces into Tartarus.”

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, “Like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Mr. Brunner started, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

Grover snickered softly, “Busted.”

“Shut up,” Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair.

Just more proof to me that Mr. Brunner wasn’t human, I could barely hear her, and I was right next to her.

“Because we can learn from the mistakes of the past to improve ourselves in the present, and it’s also just very interesting.”

Mr. Brunner nodded, though he didn’t seem fully pleased, “That’s very nearly correct Mr. Jackson. Full credit. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it’s time for lunch. Ms. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?”

The class drifted off to follow Ms. Dodds. Some of the girls were holding their stomachs, most of the guys were shoving each other and acting like doofuses.

“Mr. Jackson,” Mr. Brunner’s call stopped me from going too.

I paused, turning to him, nudging Grover onward.

“Sir?”

Mr. Brunner looked at me solemnly from an ancient gaze, another point towards him not being human.

“You must learn the answer to my question,” he said seriously.

I chewed my lip, I know what it means, but I also can’t know more until Triton says so. He said it’s dangerous, so I would listen.

“Yes sir.”

“What you learn from me,” he continued, “is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson.”

I wanted to get angry, it’s unreasonable of him to hold me to higher standards than the rest of the students. It’s frustrating! I tried as hard as I could, and he was a better teacher than many I’d had, but…

I glared at the ground as I nodded, I tried so hard to learn all the names and match them to the proper facts and make sure it was spelled right. It’s so hard to do in English!

I don’t know who he is, if he’s safe or a threat, but I’m so frustrated that he’s holding me to these standards and no one else.

He told me to go outside and eat my lunch as he stared at the stele mournfully.

I wonder if he killed the girl?

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I stepped outside to see Grover waiting for me right by the door.

I idly noticed Nancy and her friends (I know it’s shocking that she has any) standing nearby too. A storm was forming outside.

We started walking past the fountain, right next to the stairs.

“Detention?” Grover asked as we reached the stairs.

I put my hand on the fountain as I took the first step, “Nah, not-“

“Whoops.”

And Grover was falling.

Nancy laughed, her hand out.

Grover was falling.

My vision went red, roaring in my ears as I yanked.

A scream from Nancy, a cry from Grover.

When I could see again Grover was alright, if soaked.

Nancy was gasping for breath in the fountain, looking like a drowned rat.

The other students were gaping.

“The water-“

“It just reached out-“

“Did you see that?”

“Percy pushed me!” Nancy finally gets the air to speak.

I ignored her, moving to check on Grover.

He coughed, rubbing his butt, but otherwise seemed okay.

My chest loosened. Thank goodness.

“Now honey-“ Ms. Dodds had appeared.

I glared up at her, did she not see what just happened.

“Come with me,” She said.

“Wait!” Grover yelped, “He was just trying to help me!”

Ms. Dodds looked down at him, “Violence is never the answer Mr. Underwood.”

“But-“

“You – will – stay – here.”

I shook my head when Grover looked at me worriedly, pulling my waterskin out of my bag and fingering my trident charm.

“Hold my bag? I’ll be back soon.”

Ms. Dodds turned and walked back up the stairs, “Honey, Now.”

I swallowed and followed, shooting my deluxe I’ll-kill-you-later stare that Triton helped me master at Nancy.

I looked back to Ms. Dodds and was unsurprised to see her at the top of the steps.

The buzz around her was weakening, and the itch of the not-curse was getting stronger. She’s going to attack me.

I walked up the steps regardless, better away from everyone.

She kept going deeper into the museum. When I finally caught up we were back in the Greek and Roman section.

She stood with her arms crossed in from of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She was also growling low in her throat.

I swallowed.

“You’ve been giving us problems, honey,” She snarled.

The buzzing was fading, the itch making me want to scratch my arms.

I raised my chin, slid my “princely” face on, and responded, “I’m sorry for any problems I’ve caused Ms. Dodds.”

I held the waterskin tightly, one finger pressed on the lid.

“Did you really think you would get away with it? Or that a simple apology would pardon the crime?”

She looked angry, furious. Her face was creased, I could almost see the change that was starting, the buzz was almost non-existent.

“I don’t understand Ms. Dodds, what crime am I being accused of?”

Thunder boomed as the storm that had been brewing outside broke.

“We are not fools Percy Jackson,” Ms. Dodds continued. “It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain.”

I frowned, there was only one thing I know that has happened lately that she could be accusing me of.

A theft.

Of what, I don’t know, but she seems to be blaming me for it.

My heart sank.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I- I don’t think I did whatever you’re accusing me of.”

“Is that your final answer?”

I twisted the lid, “Yes ma’am.”

Then the buzz was gone, and the itch grew almost unbearable.

Her eyes began to glow and then her fingers stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings.

She turned into a fury!

Uh oh.

I flicked the lid off in one quick move, but before I could call the water, Mr. Brunner wheeled through the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen that positively sung with magic.

“What ho, Percy!” he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.

Ms. Dodds lunged at me.

I dodged, snatching the ballpoint pen out of the air. I know this tone of magic.

The sword of the sea was in my hand.

Ms. Dodds spun towards me with a snarl and murder in her eyes, “Die honey!”

I went by the instincts that Triton had drilled into me, letting one hand flick out to send a water whip snapping around Ms. Dodds and yanking her to the side the other bringing the sword down right into her shoulder.

It passed clean through her body with a hiss.

She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot.

All that remained was a claw.

OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO

I walked towards the entrance of the museum again, a buzz was itching at my senses, the same buzz that surrounded Mr. Brunner and Ms. Dodds. Only much louder and much more spread out.

The pen that was a sword that was a pen that was of the sea was clutched in my hand.

I was shaking.

That was the first monster I’d actually fought, the empousai from before doesn’t count.

Triton was going to be furious.

I paused before opening the doors, taking a moment to choke back the sob that wanted to break out.

I want to go home, I want Triton, I want my mom.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.

I closed my eyes and pulled the “princely” face on.

I can break down later, to Carl. He won’t judge.

I swallowed once more and took a step forward, opening the doors.

Grover was sitting by the fountain, still wet from me using the water to slow his fall.

Nancy Bobofit was standing soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ‘friends’. When she saw me, she gave me an ugly grin.

“I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt.”

I frowned, “Who?”

The buzz grew worse.

“Our teacher. Duh!”

I frowned, is this a spell? Because I killed Ms. Dodds they replaced her with a spell?

The buzz had settled across all the students, but it was still itching at me. I really wanted to cover my ears, it wasn’t quite a sound by it was extremely disconcerting.

I turned away from Nancy, I was too angry with her anyways.

If I stay near her I might try to recreate turning Carl from a guinea pig to a fish.

I focused on Grover, who sucks at lying and who didn’t have an irritating buzz about him.

“Where’s Ms. Dodds.”

He faltered, looking away.

“Who?”

I held back the urge to roll my eyes or scream or cry.

“Nevermind.”

I snatched up my bag and slipped the pen into it. It’s of the sea, and Mr. Brunner gave it to me willingly. If he wants it back, he can ask. Then he can answer my questions.

I sat down on the fountain and pulled out my lunch.

This year is a trainwreck.

[advernia]

fic: the world in her heart, her heart in his hands

— there’s uncharted territory on the far side of the moon, like that forest near some village and that cottage on a hill. - the queen of hearts/alice the second.

1: yEEHAW you're welcome + thank you for requesting such a cute prompt!!! hope you enjoy this one! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ — additional post-reading notes here!

t h i r t y —

They land near a tree.

He lands first, light on his feet and grass crunching under his weight. When he raises his head to look up at the sky, there's a whole canvas of twinkling stars high above his head; but a mess of dancing blonde hair and multiple layers of blue cloth are about to fall upon him instead.

So he extends his arms and opens his hands, and within seconds there she lands - one arm comes across the fabric of her blouse and fingers grasp firmly onto the shape of her shoulder, while the other arm now supports her skirts and the back of her knees.

"Really now," he sniffs, looking down at her face that's covered by her hands, "is that what you're supposed to be doing when falling down from the sky? Close your eyes and wait for an inevitable impact?"

An eye tentatively cracks open, peeking out from lithe fingers. "Maybe - I mean, people normally don't just fall from the sky, Jonah."

"Do you realize that your statement loses all credibility when it's you of all people who says it?"

She huffs, a comeback at the ready but then the unfortunate oak tree behind them abruptly cries out in anguish: something crashes through its many fine layers of flourishing leaves, breaks loudly through a series of its branches, then announces its grand landing with a triumphant thump on the ground.

The pair just stare at the object for some time, stray leaves now floating about and around them.

"... What exactly did you pack into that suitcase?"

t w e n t y  n i n e —

The clock tower she calls the Big Ben is a magnificent structure - it stands impressively high and complete with a spire that could reach the heavens, whatever mechanism keeping half the building alight makes its copper paint body shine a regal gold, and each detail of the four clock faces it has are visible from even quite a distance. He watches the hour and the minute hands of the clocks meet at the twelfth hour, and what happens as a result is a resonating chime from the tower that he's sure could reach every corner and alley of the city.

The deep boom echoes reaches deep in his ears and echoes in his very being, not so insufferably loud but the bell's melody that pours out from the tower is almost spellbinding. He's standing very still until she tugs lightly at his sleeve, taking the opportunity to slip her hand into his and twine their fingers together.

"If you keep on staring with your mouth wide open," she giggles, urging him to move forward, "something might just land on your tongue!"

He wrinkles his nose, a touch of heat spreading in his cheeks. He pulls their shared suitcase along, and they continue with their trudge through the otherwise empty cobblestone street.

"Wha - could you not exaggerate? My mouth was not wide open at all!"

"Yes, yes. Now, let's try finding an open inn first, shall we? It's nicer if we tour the streets of London during the day, and even better if we're both well-rested!"

.

.

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The first inn they find is run by an aged couple - she's asking about the rates while he takes a look around the place, starting with the room's general structure.

Four wooden walls surrounding him, floorboards under his feet, lamps attached to a high ceiling - it's nothing new but at the same time it is, with how everything appeared... inexact, rough around the edges. If one would take time to observe the carpentry, nails on the same board took a different alignment to that of the other boards surrounding it, and every board didn't share an equal standard of security or alignment to the floors or walls at all. Then there's the ceiling, with some parts of its expanse decorated by planks over planks creating odd patch-like shapes... were those meant to cover holes? If so, it was a temporary solution at best, and it sacrificed any semblance of aesthetic in the process.

A true result of manmade labor, he supposes. The Land of Reason wasn't familiar with the luxury and convenience of magic, after all.

Even the sheets and covers drawn over their bodies were a touch different to his skin too - it wasn't a lack of warmth or comfort, but perhaps an issue of sensation. The air he breathes feels a tad too thin in his lungs, the noises outside their window unfamiliar and borderline grating, beams of weak light that managed to pass through the curtains forming shadows that were rather odd and suspicious.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her face coming into his line of view and slowly edging closer. The crease of her brow and the blue of her eyes are big and wide, and somehow it makes him wonder.

Is this what you felt the first night you fell into Cradle?

"I'm fine," he whispers, body moving closer to her side of the bed. "I was just wondering if you have an itinerary prepared, that's all."

"I wouldn't say it's an itinerary, but I do have a couple of locations in mind," she grins from ear to ear. "I've been thinking about them for a while now, and I think they're places in London that would interest you the most!"

"Is that so?" a mild discomfort ebbs away into a tinge of amusement, giving way to memories of staged dates that make him smirk. "Are you truly going to impress me this time?"

She seems to have understood his reference, because she's grinning more like a loon now. Her forehead presses lightly against his, her reply oozes with a nice confidence.

"Of course I will - just you wait and see!"

t w e n t y  s e v e n —

It's their third day, their third sunrise in London - he finds the complementary teas that the old couple brew during breakfast to be quite wonderful, and he's wondering about what blend would be served today when she suddenly pulls him over to sit in front of the vanity, a question on her lips.

"Can magic crystals alter appearances - of course they can! Why are you..." he trails off with a frown, brows knitting together as arms cross themselves across his chest. "... Wait a minute. Are you suggesting I alter my appearance?"

Her smile reeks of guilt. "Maybe I am? Look, I know you intended to use those crystals in case of an emergency - "

"So are you implying that how I naturally appear is some form of an emergency now?"

"Ahhh - you saw what happened yesterday when your hat was blown away by the wind! People couldn't just stop staring at you and the color of your hair, even when we were practically running away from the Trafalgar Square!"

"Ah, that? Can you blame them? If anything else, I'm delighted to have effortlessly achieved that kind of effect on the citizens of London!" he shrugs casually, then his lips quirk upwards. "Hm, by some chance... are you also jealous of the attention I received from all those women?"

"Jeal - I am not!" she huffs, turning her head to the side. She's mumbling something to herself as her arms cross themselves across her chest too, and that makes him chuckle.

"... Really?"

"Really!"

"Hmph. Alright then, can you at least explain why - " he leans forward, one hand reaching out to gently take hold of her chin and turn her head to face him, " - your cheeks are as red as a rose?"

He holds his gaze and his grip on her with a smug smile lighting up his fine, very fine features.

Despite the embarrassment burning even further in her cheeks, she couldn't bring herself to look away.

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The group of ladies seated at the table right behind them are staring while chatting, most definitely. She puts her teacup back down on its saucer and the china rings out, maybe a bit louder from what was considered to be polite - of course, he catches onto this and looks up from the newspaper he insisted on reading daily, those golden eyes set on her.

You and you alone, he promised.

"What's wrong?" his voice calls, bringing her back to the present.

She glances at that eyebrow, at his hair - what used to be silver was now a lustrous shade of inky black, a normal color to be seen walking around the streets of London. But that, combined with his ever so-noble bearing and a form-fitting suit of dark navy blue, made him seem... much more striking to the public eye, for some reason. The occasional passerby would even stop in their tracks and gaze at their direction with pointed looks, voices loud enough to be heard!

Royalty, she heard some say. A dapper gentleman, others would coo behind their feathered fans.

So much for being inconspicuous, she muses. Despite the not-so-subtle attention though, something like pride bubbled inside her.

"Nothing," her expression smooths into a smile, then she directs her energy and attention to her food instead.

t w e n t y  t h r e e  —

They end up in the London Library two hours after breakfast.

It's a curious establishment open to the public that smelled of aged paper, dried inks, and cheerful sunlight streaming from large windows - occupying both sides of the room and reaching as high as the ceiling, every section of tall shelves that extended from the entrance to the end of the hall are filled with books of various shapes, spines, and sizes; and positioned carefully in the middle of the room are two long rows of chairs and desks waiting to be used. They go through each topic and sections of every shelf, made possible with the aid of a ladder - she points out what's fictional and what's not, and when he pulls out a book and goes through its contents out of sheer interest, she reads along with him in silence.

They fail to realize that they spend their time reading well into the afternoon.

"Alright - so from my understanding, you're saying that the current monarch, Queen Victoria, rules over these group of countries; and as a whole it's referred to as... the United Kingdom?"

"That's right. And in this part of the map, in the country of England... here's London! It looks pretty small, doesn't it?"

"It really is... and to think that London is just one of the many areas around the country! Have you gone to other places around England?"

"Mm... just a few. Okay, let's start around here - there's the towns of Taunton, Bridgwater, and Glastonbury that are pretty close to the village I was born in, and..."

  e i g h t e e n —

Repeated clanging of high-pitched bells rattle the group of birds that roost on tree branches, and the great noise is accompanied by the sharp squealing and creaking of metals till only the faint hiss of steam being released into the air remains. She pays no mind to the sudden disturbance to the peace of their sunny picnic in St. James Park, and instead proceeds to taking a bite out of her sandwich.

He's quite intrigued, though.

"Another mechanical beast has returned to the station, I see."

She manages not to choke on the lettuce.

"It's called a train, Jonah."

"I know. And if you have to be so technical about it, it's also called a steam locomotive, powered by a mechanism known as a steam traction engine."

"... I'm sure I asked this a few times now, but do you want to ride one?"

"Well! Since you keep on insisting, then I guess it wouldn't hurt to ride on that just once. Do you have a destination in mind, though?"

"Hmm... that's a tough question! Going up, we can visit Cambridge, Peterborough, or if you're alright with a longer ride, Nottingham! There's also Brighton, Winchester, and Southampton below... oh, or maybe Swindon, Gloucester, or Bristol! There's a chocolate industry in Bristol that I've always been curious about, and..."

"Anywhere sounds fi - oh, wait. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the town of Glastonbury is close to Bristol, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Oh, but there's a train that goes from London to Glastonbury, you know - do you want to take that one instead?"

"Not exactly. You see, I've been thinking about this a few days before we were to visit the Land of Reason..."

f o u r t e e n —

Her hand, warm as always, touches his forearm. When he turns his head to look at her, she's smiling softly.

"Are you nervous?"

He clears his throat, takes hold of her gloved fingers and squeezes. "Maybe. At least tell me that is going to be nothing similar to that terrible bus ride last week."

Her laugh sounds kind - she rests her head on his shoulder, thumb tracing soothing patterns onto his hand.

"Riding a train is much more comfortable than falling down from the sky, though. Oh, and it's better than teleporting using magic, too! No dizzying side effects."

"That's simply because you're not used to it," he rolls his eyes, but his lips are no longer a taut line. "Perhaps when we get back to Cradle, you should try getting accustomed to it."

She hums for a bit, but it's soon drowned out by a simultaneous ringing outside of their coach - seconds later there's the angry hissing of steam that joins the chorus of bells, shouts, footsteps; and on impulse he finds himself sitting straighter in his seat.

She chuckles, pointing to the blinds drawn over the windows. "Is it okay if I pull them open?"

He takes in a deep breath before nodding firmly.

"Yeah - it's fine."

n i n e —

Above and beyond his reach is the seemingly neverending stretch of a vibrant blue sky, no clouds drifting about and a bright sun leading their way.

Surrounding him are open lands of verdant green; from the swaying grass growing all around the mountains to the strange plants forming unkempt bushes away from the paths and to the groups of trees with their leaves clumping around each other. On occasion there would be a house standing tall or the body of a train moving towards some distance, but those sights would eventually be replaced by more views of the nature landscapes.

His boots follow the traces of a well-worn path that had long imprinted itself on the ground, each step a dull thump to the soil. Walking beside him, her boots make the same sound too; light and matching his pace.

They suit her better, modest blouses along with those skirts that go just a little further past her knees but not extending to her ankles or length on level with her feet. The fashion that women from London and Bristol adapted were skirts that were domed and bell-shaped, along with those tight bodices that would reach high up their necks. He has to admit though, seeing her dress similarly to the trend for weeks was unusual and... fascinating, especially when she started smoothing her hair into a neat bun that would rest at the nape of her neck.

The high ponytail she donned right now made her look equally adorable, too.

"Okay, now that we're walking from Bristol to Glastonbury, just like you asked..." her voice adapts a sing-song tune, "What do you think of the countryside?"

"It feels better, somehow. I don't mind the hustle and bustle of busy streets, but it's also comforting and necessary to have a change of pace," he turns to her, watching her blonde hair bounce along to her movements. "Are you really okay with walking all the way, though? That Bristol innkeeper mentioned that we would take at least eight or possibly ten hours on foot."

She puffs her cheeks and chest out with pride. "Of course I am! I'll have you know that I prefer walking to riding buses, carriages, or trains!"

"Is it because the fares can get too expensive?"

"There's that, but it's mostly out of personal preference!"

"Hmm, you sure sound confident. Does that mean I don't need to carry you even if you get tired?"

"Don't be silly - we can stop and rest in the villages we'll come across along the way! Besides, carrying me and pulling the suitcase along in this heat? That would be terrible!"

"Are you underestimating both my strength and stamina? I've gone through worse trials - why, I wager that I can carry you and the suitcase all the way to Glastonbury without a single stop for rest!"

"...! As if I'd actually allow you to do that!"

s i x —

There must've been some sort of celebration going on.

It's late and they're about to return to the inn, but then ecstatic voices, lively claps, united stomps of feet, and a happy number played out by the strings of guitars and violins catch their attention and have them looking their way to the Glastonbury town square; eyes wide open as they watched the spectacle not so far away from where they stood.

Pairs of men and women dance to the beat of the surrounding audience's encouragement and to the melody of a song, nimble footwork and spins of cloth all seemingly in sync. It's the pair in the middle that catches her eyes, though: she notes that the man is dressed in a dark suit, while the woman in a flowing dress of white with a veil on her head that's as long as her hair.

It's a wedding, she mouths.

That would explain the petals of colorful flowers thrown in handfuls, the great smiles and pelts of laughter, plentiful tables of food and tankards of ale on the sides, pretty lanterns and gas lamps burning their brightest to illuminate the whole square. The blanket of stars in the night sky seemed to agree with the occasion too, with even the smallest of constellations twinkling in their best light to congratulate the newlywed couple.

Jaunty steps and lively music played on as they continued to watch from afar - children close to the square catch them staring though: without even realizing it, they've been surrounded by the chirpy munchkins that tug at their hands and push at their backs, and they don't stop their assault until they've stepped into the square and are swept into the flow of the dance.

He had to hand it to those little brats, they went away as quick as they suddenly came.

"... Is this a dance commonly performed for weddings here in England?" he whispers as he mimics the movements of the pairs nearby - three quick steps forward, a dramatic sway forwards to draw one's face teasingly close to their partner's, then an abrupt retreat backwards in five strides. She chuckles as she chases after his trail in a series of twirls, and when she extends a hand to rest on his left shoulder, she also draws her face close and together they sway sideways.

"No," her voice is airy as he spins her once, and when they're facing each other again she's grinning. "This is a folk dance."

The men began to let go of the hands of their partners, and he finds himself doing that same motion too - her fingers slip away from his grasp and he watches her twirl away from him this time; her loose hair, skirts, and stray petals billowing around her frame as she went.

He doesn't need to glance at the pair across from them to know that he was to follow.

f i v e —

This is it.

They've arrived.

The wooden walls of the cottage on the hill are painted by the deep hues of sunset reds and golds.

Together they stand in front of a closed thatched door: she lifts her right hand up, curls it into a fist, knuckles about to rap on the surface.

But for some reason she stops halfway, lips pursed and gaze downcast. He waits for a few seconds before reaching out for her left hand, squeezing lightly.

She looks at the fine silver strands of his hair, the gold of his eyes, the confident smile on his lips.

He nods once, slowly but surely. She takes a deep breath before nodding back, then her knocks echo on the wood.

They wait for the door to open.

They wait for their future.

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When the door creaks open and a middle-aged man comes into their view, he hears a year and a half's worth of emotion catch in her throat.

"Father," her voice cracks.

z e r o —

Her parents did tell him that when she was younger, she enjoyed camping by the village's woods.

A long time has passed since then - the little girl had grown into a lady and the woods have flourished even further too, but it doesn't surprise him at all that she seemed to still know her way through and around the winding forest paths. They leave the comfort of their shoes and a roaring campfire behind them for all that matters now is the grass and soil under their bare feet, slivers of moonlight passing through the numerous crowns of seemingly endless trees, and the touch of her hand pulling him along to her whims.

It's almost shameful, how he just allows himself to be swept along by another's pace. But in this forest and in this world; no one recognizes him as the Queen of Hearts of Cradle's Red Army or as the rightful heir to the Clemence family's long-standing legacy. Here and now, he's just a man named Jonah Clemence; a mere visitor to the Land of Reason, a man who willingly chose to stumble into the world - the wonderland - of his beloved.

He chose to fall because he wished to see the beauty of her world with his own eyes, to stand in the park that had changed her life and explore anywhere else beyond that point. And well enough, he's gone through a city and towns of various shapes, sizes, and stories to tell. He beheld and found himself fascinated by preserved landmarks and proud monuments even if he couldn't properly comprehend their exact significance, stared at paintings and sights bursting with all sorts of colors and depth that he's never encountered before. He witnessed variations of how the sun of her world would rise higher and higher on the horizon, observed how the stars would gradually take their proper places in a dimming sky.

He chose to fall because he wished to gain an understanding of her world and to see how different it was from his own, to surrender himself to the culture of a land where magic didn't exist and science reigned instead. Many, many, things have baffled him and caught him off-guard; ranging from all sorts of areas like social standing and etiquette, currency and pricing, languages and speech patterns, beliefs and philosophies, and the list went on and on each day that passed by. Books, newspapers, observations, and her explanations could only tell him so much, and when he finds himself at a loss and no closer to a satisfactory comprehension; he develops a greater appreciation for the similarities in both worlds that he always managed to discover when he's at the peak of his frustration.

He chose to fall because he wished to have a taste of the flavors she enjoyed the most, to know the origins of the occasional odd recipe she would cook up. It's strange how even something plain like water tasted and felt different from how his tongue recalls it to be; and there began his exploration of various cuisines, treats and desserts, beverages, aromas and textures that were as vast and variable as a painter's color palette. Each meal or snack brought about another interesting point of craftsmanship and consistency to ponder about, carved new flavors and aftertastes that made themselves memorable in his mouth.

And most of all - he chose to fall in hopes of seeing the place where she was born and raised, to walk the road leading to that cottage on the hill and to finally meet her parents.

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A month's worth of time - years worth, even - simply wasn't enough for him to fully experience, see, feel, and savor whatever her world had to offer.

It wasn't enough time for him to learn, too - he's still in the process of pronouncing all those new words right, forming a clearer picture of the Land of Reason's extensive history, wrapping his head around the starkly different perspectives on what was called religion, analyzing the workings of the militaries throughout every country and continent.

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But he's been welcomed into her village, introduced to and was warmly accepted by her parents - so that felt like more than enough time well-spent.

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He's running in the woods.

The air rushing by is cool against his flushed skin, grass brushing against his toes soft and tickling, heartbeat roaring almost pleasantly in his ears. Tonight he relives the brief period of freedom he had as a boy, blood singing with the revival of childish enthusiasm and youth.

He's chasing after the fluttering ends of her white summer dress, after the locks of her blonde hair and her moonlight-touched skin, after the echoes of her giddy laughter and lighthearted taunts. It's like she's reliving her time in the woods too, and in an instant she is fleet-footed and so charmingly carefree.

He jumps over the roots of aged trees; she swings away using tall branches. She attempts to crouch and hide behind bushes and tree trunks, but he's already running towards her even before she can try. There were those close calls where he was sure that she was within his reach, but then she always managed to surprise him and slip away from his grasp.

They forget how their chase began in the first place and lose track of how long they have been running and running, but eventually they find themselves right back where they started: back in the clearing where their shoes are neatly set beside each other and where their campfire weakly burns, fireflies have appeared in their absence and taken residence around the area. They're a rowdy bunch that keep frisking up and down then left and right, go up in the sky then swoop close to the ground, and she becomes the first onlooker to the odd motions of their dance.

The moment she stops and stares is the moment he rejoices in the sweet joys of his victory - he finally, finally, gets to hold her; reaching out quick and circling his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and pressing her back flush against his chest. He buries his head on her shoulder and in the canopy of her hair, breathing in her distinct scent mixing with sweat and ears ringing with the sound of her surprised yelp. She squirms a bit but it's not enough to make them stumble and fall to the ground, to make them land on their unfurled sleeping bags that he insisted to be put very close to each other.

They just stay like that for a few seconds.

"You..." he breathes out when he finally lifts his head, and when he does she turns her head to see his face. "... you'd better not start running away from me again."

She giggles, resting her arms on his own. "I won't. I'm all yours, Jonah - and I always will be."

The bright full moon shines down on her face and illuminates her smile, highlighting the loving sparkle to the blue of her eyes.

There they were, standing in the middle of a sudden firefly-infested clearing, man and woman acting like silly children: they're both slightly out of breath, their skin is all sweaty, their hair and clothes are in mild disarray, and the soles of their feet caked in greens and browns.

She's a mess - the both of them are.

But that doesn't stop him from pressing his lips against hers, relishing her taste on his mouth, on his tongue - as if giving them some privacy, a modest cloud drifts by and covers the prying eyes of the moon, making the groups of fireflies silent witnesses to a love that transcended two separate worlds, swords and magic, conspiracies and a war, and most of all, of judgement and status.

When the cloud floats away from the moon their lips pull apart too - they share a knowing smile before they simply lean on each other and cuddle close to their mingling warmth, his arms still around her waist and the tips of her fingers drawing shapes on his skin.

They bask in the comforting silence, in the light of the moon and in the midst of jittery fireflies until his ears catch a play of strings - they're gentle and almost languid, the brief pauses in between plucks building up into a crescendo that smoothly shifts to the pace of an adagio, only to recreate the playful effect of the crescendo just a couple group of notes later. It's another tune he's unfamiliar with, but he supposes that it isn't unpleasant to his ears.

She could hear it too, her feet starting to tap along to the melody - seconds later he feels the shift of her waist as she sways, so he releases his hold on her and instead spins her around to face him.

The sound of the guitar still creeps into the forest, fireflies still flicker around the clearing with enthusiasm, their sleeping bags are still cold and their campfire has gone out.

"I recall someone saying that she would teach me the steps of her village's folk dance," he chides lightly.

She blinks for a moment, then a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.

"Someone has a sharp memory!" her hands draw themselves together into a soft clap. "Well then, does the good sir want to start learning now?"

He lets out a laugh, executing the elegant flourish of a bow before taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles.

"Only if the lady would be so kind as to start teaching me," he says with a wink.

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The laughter that tumbles out of her lips sounds like bird song.

30 days remain before the next full moon...