#their entire work force so. i think its very flattering that he thinks ill be able to fit in there as a co-worker

[paralien]

Hey, ik idk you and your friends, but since apparently your other friends don't take your side - B sounds like a dick the way he's treating you and you're right to be mad about it!! And like, why would your friend even ask why you're not going to his place if she KNOWS what's up, wtf!! I'm so sorry that you're going through such a shitty situation!!

Sorry for the late reply; I didn't see I'd received an ask! ;; But it's so so so sweet of you to reach out to me to reassure me. I genuinely appreciate it so much you have no idea ♡

But yeah it is, an extremely shitty situation. Esp bc they seem to assume I've got the same information/am in the same situation as them when I'm, very much not and I've been vocal about that since everything happened ... + the whole ... "oh he's not ignoring you/he still cares abt you/you just need to reach out" spiel that same friend has been going on abt for months too just. Makes me feel so alienated from the reality that I'm experiencing, if that makes sense? Like. She knows he flirted w me, had sex w me, and then stopped talking to me after that under the excuse that he was oh so busy .. and yet I'm still the one that needs to reach out?

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if I've overreacted just bc of the way that I feel everyone underreacts. Not to even mention the fact that mutual friends of me and B will say that hey what happened sucked and i didn't deserve that and B is being a dick, but as far as i know none of them have actually said to his face that hey B you've been a dick. Not that i want him to be alienated by his own friends bc I know he's genuinely struggling rn and I'm a pushover but, if he can't take my feelings seriously when they come from me .. would he take them seriously and actually reconsider the entire situation if someone else said it...? Idk .. I'm just talking out loud here but, still, thank you for reaching out ♡ It made me feel less alone

[heyjude19-writing]

Im the list anon again and boy do I have more for you but this time I also have some questions as well if your time allows and you are willing to answer of course. First with the other things I loved:

1) the fact that Ron warmed up to Draco so quickly! I genuinely think thats so much in character. Ron is not a distrustful person and as a middle child as they come is very easygoing and would for sure make stupid jokes at Draco

2) The patronus. My god the Patronus. I seriously put the phone down and made a small slow clap during that chapter. At first I was like hmmmm *insert unsure kombucha girl face* because almost all fanfics have him with a dragon patronus and leave it at that (and lets be honest at this point my expectations of you were quite high dont blame me blame your bloody brilliant writing) but then, and I dont know if you did this on purpose or not (I have a feeling you did) but the fact that the dragon was the same (pale white) wounded but still feral dragon that Hermione FREEED (!) from a bank (£££) dungeon, malnourished and used for its nature, surrounded by darkness, wealth and misery!! And it was Hermione who broke its chains!!!!! Is just *chefs fucking kiss* slow clap*

3) the way you describe sex scenes are so natural! Ive never read a fanfic or book that doesnt make me gag a little bit (I am not a fan of smut at all but ill go with it because of a good story) until I read yours. Its so simple but yet intricate and you make the entire act so intriguing and normal and intimate. Bravo.

4) I LOVE SASHA. I love that Theo fell for her head over heels and the way you portrayd her reminded me of a friend of mine who works as a sous-chef in London so I always pictured her when reading it!

5) Dracos inner voice is ON POINT. Like I genuinely think you shoud own the rights to that character now.

6) Ill say it again. I love Ginny. You should also own the rights to her character too.

7) my interest for Quiddich (even when reading the books/wathcing the movies) was on par, if not lower than Hermiones. You managed to get me interested in that too so yes another slow clap to you

7.1) Also such a clever career for Draco!! Made si much sense!

Now to some questions

A) What was the deal with Malfoy referring to Ginny as Weasly and refusing to aknowledge her Potter surname. And why did everyone kept correcting him? It was hilarious granted but I wanted to know whether the reason you included this time and time again had to do wih something deeper? Or was this included as just a funny recurring joke?

B) Why did you choose for Draco to have a “fantasy” to produce a patronus and not for example for him to have had to do that after theyd exchanged “i love yous”. Very interesting angle and i liked that it was sort of a loophole to all the ‘death eaters cant have patronuses’ but quite curious on the thought process

C) Why did you opt for Draco to remove his mark? Do you think that stands as reward for him more or for Hermione? Very smart solution by the way

D) if you have the time- Could you please elaborate a tad more on what the soul-bonding means? Why was it so taboo? At furst hand it seems like a very romantic/amazing thing to do with your partner right?

Lastly- Do you ever itch to make a second part to this? And in the most acceptable case that you dont, I always wondered what you had in mind for them in the future- because of the soul bonding thing, you mentioned that the generational curses will be erased, which means I guess that the Malfoys can have more than one child now, and girls as well. (I cannot believe im asking for this as I am the one to avoid any pregnancy fanfics but) do you imagine them with children and if yes, how many? How do they integrate muggle devices(I know youd agree wit me that Hermione would definitively bring some muggle stuff over!) and which devices would Draco really secretly like?

Pleasewriteasecondpartwhereyouelaborateyourthoughtsonthisthankyou.

Ok rant done. :D

List anon! You’re back with another amazing ask. I’ll do my best!

1.) I like to think Ron matured a lot post-war (not enough to stop making terrible jokes, though.)

2.) Regarding your beautiful analysis of my specific dragon breed for Draco’s patronus: How many points would you like for your Hogwarts house of choice? I will add that according to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the Ironbelly’s scales are normally a metallic grey. I will also add that I subscribe more to book canon than movie canon. In the book version of events of the Gringotts escape, Harry breaks the chains and Hermione (with eventual help once the boys catch on) destroys the ceiling so it can have a way out. The partially blind dragon does the rest of the work on its own.

3.) Thank you, that’s very flattering.

4.) Does your friend also get you into fancy restaurants and can they make salted caramel bread pudding???

5.) Thank you, it was one of my favorite aspects of writing this story.

6.) Thank you, she’s so fun to write and flesh out from her book portrayal.

7.) Haha, I felt so validated by that line of dialogue in Cursed Child when Draco tells Harry he wanted to play quidditch professionally, but wasn’t good enough.

Now to some answers:

A.) It’s definitely a recurring joke. It’s up to the reader to interpret Draco’s actions here: is he doing it to be a massive troll? Or is he genuinely not retaining the information of her married name because he considers this fact so unimportant that he does not bother to keep it in his brain? Troll, snob, or both, you can decide!

B.) I’ll address the second part of this first, because it was not intended as a loophole. I 1000% do not understand the “death eaters can’t have patronuses” thing. It makes absolutely no sense. Snape has a Patronus. But beyond that… Umbridge has a Patronus (a cat). If we’re letting that woman have a Patronus, then yeah, I think Draco can cast one. As for the vision that Draco used to conjure it… up to you whether that’s a fantasy or a glimpse of a certain ritual actually working. Draco’s thoughts on the matter: “An image of such striking tangibility that he might have already lived it, or perhaps experienced time in such a way that he lived it now.”

C.) I wanted Draco to have a choice, obviously a recurring theme for him in RN. For my characterization of him, that symbol on his arm causes him nothing but shame and self-loathing (see the end of chapter 36 during his heart-to-heart with Hermione). He’d already exercised almost every known avenue to rid himself of it before Hermione entered his life (he lists these in chapter 44). Hermione already loved him (and has told him so) by the time she’s figured out how to remove it: “I love the man you are today and I will love that man tomorrow, bare forearm or not. I simply wanted you, for once, to have the choice. It’s your body.”

D.) Ooh anon, you are tempting me here. I really hate to be coy, but you might see some future writing on this very topic.

I can at least answer the taboo part: I think soul magic in general (horcruxes, the use of unicorn blood) is quite taboo in the HP universe. As no one knows what happens after death (not even ghosts, Nearly Headless Nick says as much when Harry asks him point-blank in OoTP) I think most magical folk would think the intense ritual (blending magical cores) an unnecessary thing anyway. As Draco explains in chapter 48, since no one actually knows the effects or if it works, it’s considered a bit over-the-top since it’s probably futile anyway. It is also not a Vow with a death component; Narcissa is obviously alive in this story even though Lucius is already dead. I wrote the generational curse protection theory in as a dig at Cursed Child for the way they handled Astoria’s character.

The idea of it I think is romantic, but I will stress it is very dependent upon the intent of the two participants. To quote Draco in chapter 48 again: “To twine one’s soul to another showed a willingness to not only physically tether one’s self during your time here on earth, but to commit to a blending of your magical cores, putting faith in your magic to recognize its bonded counterpart in another life. Should other lives even exist.”

If you re-read Draco’s experience during the bonding ceremony in chapter 51 (starting from this bit: “The cognizance of his own powers never felt sharper, more familiar, but suddenly another power pulsed within to join with his.”) you might find it bears a resemblance to the trajectory of their relationship.

Lastly- I’ve left Draco and Hermione to their wedded bliss. I’ve got nothing planned for them beyond where they are in the final lines of chapter 51. I don’t have that itch to write more into their future because it would feel forced. Draco laid out his two envisioned futures with Hermione in chapter 48 when they discuss having or not having children. They are happy and content in the life they chose together. That’s all I ever wanted for them.

You will see more from this story though. I have an entire series of one-shots and outtakes from the published Remain Nameless timeline that I’ll start posting soon.

Thank you so much list anon! These were fun to answer!

[honourablejester]

Ideas for Sorcerers (D&D)

I do love a bit of innate, chaotic magic, the forces of the world writing themselves onto people. Whether said people wanted them to or not. Heh. I will admit I’m a bit more attached to the ‘touched by cosmic forces’ angle for the sorcerer, it’s really great for backstories, but the bloodlines are also fascinating for the ‘family lore’ and ‘really adventurous ancestors’ ideas. So!

I’m mostly focused on the classic sorcerers and then the horror-adjacent sorcerers, because I’m me, and we know what I like. Apologies to fans of the Divine, Storm or new Clockwork sorcerers!

Draconic

Because dragons (and dragon ancestors) are the best. There’s a lot of fun and aesthetic with choosing your dragon ancestor too. The little scales you get with draconic resilience just make for some really cool-looking characters.

I love the idea of mixing ancestries with a draconic sorcerer. Compare and contrast. For example, a tiefling draconic sorcerer with gold dragon ancestry! Combining a ‘tainted’ bloodline with a respected one. Maybe the clan lean heavily into the lawful reputation of gold dragons, as well as a sort of internalised racism against their own darker ancestry as well. They view the fact that they were once favoured by a divine dragon as proof that their bloodline can redeem themselves of their demonic pact/ancestry, and they lean towards lawful occupations, city watch, soldiers, clergy, etc. So your sorcerer has a bit of internal conflict going on. (Also, a red tiefling with gold scales is an awesome look – tiefling skin colours with dragon scale colours is a really fun combination)

Other cool-sounding ancestry combinations: high elf & white/silver ancestry, for that ethereal immortal feeling (also fun to add stereotypical dragon traits with the white dragons, in that you’re an ethereal immortal who really holds a grudge and does not do ‘forgive and forget’), half-elf & green ancestry, for a strongly outcast, political bent, halfling/gnome & copper ancestry, because if you’re going to go for a tiny trickster you might as well go all out …

Or we have my old favourite, a tortle sorcerer with (somehow) a dragon turtle ancestor, because great-grandpa Uhok never met an older and (significantly) larger lady he didn’t want to pursue, and great-grandma Korthalok was honestly rather flattered. (Yes, I am aware that dragon turtles are not high dragons, but they are intelligent, and they’re probably innately magical/elemental enough to put a bit of magic in the bloodline)

Shadow Magic

The sorcerer’s gothic option! I do love it. Your magic comes from a strange, grim shadow realm, either because you were touched by said realm, or one of your ancestors was an entity from said realm. You get a demonic shadow hound, teleportation from shadow to shadow, and later an actual shadow form. Lots to work with there.

I feel like there’s a lot of Lovecraftian, Dreamlands, William Hope Hodgson sort of feeling here. The dark touch of a strange realm. Emphasis on isolation, desolation, alienation. Loneliness. This is also the subclass where I really, really like a later-life coming into your powers, a traumatic event causing a normal person to suddenly develop horrifying magic.

So. Any of your gothic/cosmic horror backstories. You were kidnapped and subjected to a horrific ritual. You were created in a horrific ritual (hi Warforged!). You suffered a severe, inexplicable illness as a child, and remained pale, half-dead, and possessed of strange powers for the rest of your life (I love the shadow sorcerer quirks list). An insane ancestor entered the Negative Plane and your line was almost annihilated by the resulting Nightwalker, but you somehow survived. Your parent was an extremely powerful magic user studying the Shadowfell, and you only realised much later on in your life that your childhood ‘imaginary friends’ were actually Sorrowsworn (Lost and Lonely?) that haunted your ancestral home and that your parent was somehow keeping from killing you. You tried to steal from a powerful, vindictive wizard, who flung you into the Shadowfell for your temerity, and you don’t fully remember how you survived. You slept in a barrow as a dare when you were younger, and an allip whispered secrets to you that lead you to dream of a dark realm, dreams that seemed to gradually change you as you ‘recovered’ …

This entire subclass is just very much ‘go nuts on the horror tropes and have fun’. I love it dearly.

Aberrant Mind

A new one from Tasha’s, but the other Lovecraftian/horror themed sorcerer subclass now. Which is perfectly fine, because I can always roll with more Lovecraftian horror! If shadow magic was themed strongly towards undead, Aberrant Mind seems strongly themed towards aberrations. Body horror and psychic powers! Boo yeah!

I do like the suggested origins. Particularly the parasitic twin and the imaginary friend ones. I think there’s a lot of fun to be had with those. Aberrant mind does feel more … on the science fiction end of horror, more than the fantasy? There’s a different flavour compared to shadow magic. We’re talking alien abduction and Carrie-esque childhood trauma here. Particularly when you get to the higher level actual physical transformation elements. Bit of Akira in there, bit of Innsmouth. So.

I’m liking characters who are a bit ‘aberrant’ on their own merits, even before their powers kick in as well. The outcasts from the get-go. The albino half-orc abandoned by the tribe as a child and befriended/kept safe by their possibly-imaginary flumph friend. The fallen aasimar whose blessings allowed them to survive where their stillborn twin did not, but who still feels the touch of a ghostly hand in theirs (I’m not sure how well it fully gels, but I feel like an Atropal is a very interesting concept to lay alongside this – stillborn gods and blessed, aberrant champions – celestial guides and the whisperings of parasitic twins … not sure how well it fits, but there’s a lot of crunchy concepts there)

Also, there’s your chance to have some fun with the Underdark races. Duergar, Deep Gnomes and Drow. Or sea races, when we have fun with Aboleths. Or non-sea races who still had a bit of fun with Aboleths, if we want to fully embrace the Innsmouth vibes and have normal land-based elves/humans/halflings who come over all Deep-One in the end. You come from a quaint little village on the coast, where the coming-of-age ceremony involved something of an opening of the mind. Nothing to worry about, everyone does it where you come from. Yes indeed! Heh.

And then, to bring us back to the less-horrifying end of sorcerers, and to revisit my childhood in a big way, we have:

Wild Magic

Schmendrick the Magician! Sorry, I grew up on The Last Unicorn, you’ll have to forgive me this. (Is Schmendrick actually part of the inspiration here, I’m wondering?)

But honestly, wild magic really lends itself to down-on-their-luck characters, running ahead of their own chaos, or striving to learn to control their powers. Or, on the flipside, incredibly laissez-faire types who decided to just roll with and eventually enjoy or perpetuate a little chaos. So. Tricksters, shysters and earnest young things trying to do their best.

So. You could do a straight Schmendrick. A down-on-their-luck kid who really, really wants to be a real wizard, a great magician, but their magic just will not cooperate. It has a mind of its own, and their struggle is learning to either minimise or lean into the chaos and power of it. (I like a background as a tailor/seamstress for this, partly because of animated Schmendrick’s memorable patchwork robes, but also as a little practical detail in that, if you can’t trust your magical mending not to do a ‘Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ on it every damn time, you probably would learn to darn your socks the old fashioned way)

For a variation, you could do a bit of a snake-oil salesperson sort of deal. A down-on-their-luck sorcerer turned shyster/criminal to make ends meet. Wild magic works very well as a sort of bloodline curse, bad luck and chaos following a family. A woman of the Witchbottle clan pissed off an archfey way back when, and so every girl born to the line since has struggled with wild magic. So the clan tends to move around a lot, both individually and as a whole, and individual members of it tend to work around their inevitable getting run out of town for magical mishaps in their own ways. The clan has a lot of travelling entertainers, salespeople, criminals, etc, and tend to be very loyal to each other, even if they don’t see each other all that often (concentrations of wild magic in a single area tend to be bad for said area, so family gatherings are discouraged near civilisation).

And then there are your straight trickster characters. Ones with a more philosophical approach to chaos, a belief that you should be able to deal with the unexpected, and that maybe other people should be helped along in experiencing and dealing with it too. I like bards for tricksters, but wild magic sorcerers work very well too. Heh.

I know Wild Magic might not be the most functional of the subclasses, but it’s got a direct line to my childhood, and I feel like it’s still a really fun idea.

In summary? I like the squishy spindly magic people. They’re fun.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A New Arrangement [Part 1/9]

Part 2 ->

Summary: Left with severe burns all over his body, the vain Dr. Frederick Chilton has retreated from the world, and will not let anybody see his face. One day, he decides to get his affairs in order in case he dies, or nearly dies again. That’s when you enter his life. 

Frederick Chilton x Female Reader

CW: mentions of hospitals, death, end-of-life planning

820 words

An uneasiness swam in your gut as you rang the doorbell of the looming mansion that looked too expensive for you to be touching. It was the centerpiece of a swanky gated community outside of Baltimore and you had come here for one reason.

A man named Frederick Chilton was preparing for his death.

People don’t think about how much there is to take care of, from advanced directives, to living wills, estate planning, funerals, calculating life insurance requirements… That was what your startup company dealt with—end-of-life planning. You were the one-stop-shop for all of it. A sort of death concierge service.

People assumed from your job that you were compassionate. That your heart was wide open with nurturing and a desire to hug people on the worst day of their life.

The truth is, you were a glorified accountant, and you did not like making home visits. They could get too personal. Too emotional. But this client was very fussy, particular, and most importantly, very wealthy, and he had insisted. He would only do business over the phone, email, and any in-person meetings would be at his home, not your office.

So here you were. At his doorstep. Praying that you wouldn’t have to hold anyone’s hand while they cried.

Or worse—that he wasn’t just some creep luring you out here. This guy was much younger than your usual clients, which either meant he was dying of a tragic terminal illness, or he could afford the sort of lawyers to make murder charges go away, and was maybe stalking you? A string of bad internet dates had you a little paranoid.

So your heart jumped when he opened the door. And then it leaped clear out of your throat when you saw him.

He was wearing a very sharp suit and tie (complete with an old-fashioned gold tie pin), leaning on an audaciously silver-embellished cane, but the thing that made you vomit up your vena cava was the fucking mask.

He was wearing a Venetian masquerade mask that covered his entire face with smooth, sculpted white porcelain. Fine engravings serpentined around the eye sockets, inlaid with silver and black, as if the mask were wearing its own mask.

“Nope.” You backed up from the door. “Oh no. No way. Sorry, I am not getting dragged into some Eyes Wide Shut thing.”

His eyes, though a bit shadowed, were visible enough to for you to see their dramatic rolling skyward, paired with an equally annoyed sigh. “Do not flatter yourself,” he said tersely. “Apparently you do not know who I am?”

“Should I?” You narrowed your eyes. Fuck. You knew you should’ve googled his name.

“I suppose count myself lucky my misfortune is not so public. Do you recall the Dr. Frederick Chilton who was maimed and set on fire by the Red Dragon last year? It was in the papers. I have a clipping of it framed,” he said dryly. “My book, The Dragon Slayer was on the New York Times Best Sellers list for ten weeks.” He scoffed when you showed no sign of recognition of him, personally.

“The Dragon…” you nodded. “Yeah, I remember that was all over the news. He set you on fire?!” You definitely should have fucking googled him. Now you felt like an asshole.

“Given the state that maniac left me in, I have the choice to be gawked at for my disfigurement, or for the tedious quirk of wearing a mask. I prefer the latter.” His voice had a slight sort of lisp to it, suggesting the placement of some of his injury. “Ironically, being maimed near death is precisely why I contracted your services—one can never plan too early when one associates with the criminally insane. Now if you are finished? Believe me, if I wished to engage in an ‘Eyes Wide Shut thing,’ I would hire one of the many high-end escorts Baltimore is home to… not some drab clerical worker.”

Your eye twitched. You were not insulted the snobby weirdo didn’t want to fuck you. That was a good thing. You forced yourself to smile and your jaw creaked like an old wood floor with the effort.

“More people should be planning ahead proactively, so you’re setting a good example,” you chirped, towing the company line. “All right, let’s get to work. Sorry about the misunderstanding. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chilton.” You introduced yourself, extending your hand for a professional shake.

He leaped backward, nearly tripping over his cane in the process, as if you were extending a poisonous snake. The mask stayed perfectly calm, but his eyes flashed. “It is Dr. Chilton. Doctor.” he hissed. “I did not spend eight years in medical school to not have my proper title used.”

“Sorry—Doctor Chilton.”

You followed him inside, never in your life more certain you were going to hate somebody.

[featherwriter]

<< Read from the beginning! >>

Sylvanni woke up, back in her cell, which in and of itself was an odd experience. Not a resurrection back up out of death, not the horrific torture room, just a normal awakening from unconsciousness. A sharp scent hit her nose as she breathed in and she quickly reached up to pull the now-spent sedative rag from her face. She couldn’t fully remember having been brought back to life or what had happened after her ‘show of loyalty.’ Whatever they’d given her to knock her out must have clouded her memory. 

Out of some vain, foolish sense of hope, she held her hand out and tried to call her Ghost to it. But of course, he didn’t come. Was I really expecting that to work? 

She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position and was surprised when something pinched at her lower chest. Frowning, she looked down, noticing that her garments were different. Rather than the undershirt and soft pants that she had been wearing during her captivity up to this point—the same things she normally wore beneath her armor in the field—she had now been dressed in something distinctly more Fallen.

A rough-spun garments of loose brown fabric tied tightly with marigold wraps acted as a makeshift sleeveless shirt and trousers, though the rigged contraption of cloth pulled in strange places when she moved. She half-feared the whole thing would come untied and fall off if she pulled it the wrong way. Over top of the awkwardly assembled clothing was a more presentable long tunic in the House Kings golden color, painted with the white House symbol at the knee-length ends. Upon closer look, she realized it was fully open on both sides, more of a tabard than a tunic. 

Securing this tabard—uniform? livery?—was a strange contraption wrapped around her lower chest and upper waist, and the source of the pinching discomfort she’d noticed. It appeared to be one solid band of a bronze-colored metal, bent and warped to completely encircle her body. It had been fitted to the narrowest part of her waist, and therefore dug in sharply at her lower chest and at the top of her hips, ill-fitting on both sides. 

Reaching behind, she felt around at the back of the flat plate, trying to find a joining mechanism, some kind of lock or a clasp. Instead, the metal felt crumpled where the two ends met, almost as though it had been wrenched into place by force. This thing, whatever it was, wouldn’t be removed by normal means, she realized with some discomfort. At the very least, the pain from the poor fit of it was nothing compared to the tortures she’d been through. She could deal with an over-tight wrap of metal if it meant no one was killing her in slow, creative ways anymore.

She pushed herself back to lean against the rough stone wall of her cell, pulling her knees up in front of her and trying not to think about being drugged unconscious while her Fallen captors stripped and redressed her in their colors. The thought of Eliksni claws on her skin made her nauseous, despite the endless other violations they’d inflicted upon her already.

Lowest of House, Erxaris had said. Kings Slave. And Sylvanni had promised to serve, hadn’t she? Paid their price in blood by her own hand, even. Not that the empty words about “loyalty” held any kind of weight after what House Kings had put her through, but if it would mean an end to the ceaseless cycle of pain and death, she could play the role. She could duck her head, let her captors believe they’d tamed a Guardian into something docile and obedient, endure whatever other humiliations they had in store for her. She didn’t have shame left, after all that. 

That is, after all, what I’ve always been good at, isn’t it? Following orders. Doing what I’m told. She’d bide her time as long as she needed to. 

“Well, well, Duv. I thought for a moment there that we’d lost you.” Uldren’s face appeared in the barred gap between their cells, clearly wondering where she’d been. His eyebrows raised when he saw her. “You’ve clearly found yourself something like a promotion. New clothes, even a cot to sleep on. What’d you have to give them for that?”

Sylvanni glanced beneath her, not having even noticed the rough bundle of a cot she’d been lying on. It wasn’t by any means comfortable, but it was technically softer than the floor. She sensed the hook in his question, trying to goad her into giving him an answer. He wanted to know if they’d broken her, if she’d given in to their demands. After everything that had happened, though, Uldren Sov’s needling barely registered. Nothing mattered anymore, not him, not the Fallen, not anything.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said blankly. She just kept staring forward at an unfocused spot between her knees.

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t I? You couldn’t have been gone for more than a week and then you come back wearing their colors, offered even a meager bit of comfort. Is this the measure of the Traveler’s chosen?”

“Maybe it is, then. What do you care?” She could hear that same empty tone in her voice, the words feeling as though they’re spoken by another person entirely.

He scoffed. “One week, that’s all it takes to break a Guardian, then. I’d have thought one with centuries of war and blood behind her would have greater fortitude than that. After all, I’ve been here longer than you, and yet, somehow they didn’t break me.”

“You have no right to judge me,” she snarled, a hot anger flashing within her unexpectedly. She started to lean forward toward him and then winced when that awkward band cuts into her again. “You couldn’t fathom what I have endured, Sov, because you’re still alive. Whatever you think they’ve done to you, it couldn’t even begin to come close. Do not speak to me of fortitude!”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t the hard smirk she was used to from the stuck-up prince, but something softer. Sympathetic. She thought the torture must have made her delirious, the expression was so inexplicable. “There she is,” he said gently. “Keep that spirit up, Duv. We’re both going to need it.”

Her face twisted, realizing what he’d done, how intentional the goading had been. She curled inward again, feeling a terrible vulnerability in how easily she was manipulated right now, even if it was ostensibly for her benefit. “For all you claim you haven’t broken,” she said with a quiet bitterness, “you seem to have been plenty loose-lipped with secrets about me.”

The statement seemed to catch him off guard, and he pulled back from the bars a bit. “What are you talking about?”

She laughed once, an empty sound again. “You’d deny it? House Kings all of a sudden knows things like how much sedative it takes to knock out a Guardian, knows how to disable Ghosts? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who could do that. How convenient that the Kings’ Splicers can do it too, now that you’re here. But no, just a coincidence. You haven’t broken under the pressure, right?”

“I….” He paused, eyeing her more closely. “What is around your waist?”

She almost snapped at him again, knowing he was trying to change the topic, but the knowing tone in his voice stopped her. She changed her sitting position to make it more visible, looking down again. “I don’t know what it is. I woke up with it. Some kind of… decorative armor, maybe.”

“Would you look at that,” he said cryptically, making her seethe again. “They must have needed to make it custom for you.”

“I know you only talk like that just to taunt that you know things that I don’t,” she says. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

Uldren didn’t answer that accusation either. “If you wish to know if I could identify it, you only need to ask.” As she opened her mouth to do just that, he cut her off with the answer. “It’s a prisoner’s stay, I believe. I’ve not seen one used before, but I’ve heard descriptions before. Curious that they would place one on you.”

“That isn’t exactly descriptive, Sov.” Her patience with his toying responses was wearing very thin. 

“By all means, Guardian, allow me to elucidate.” He leaned back, settling into a more comfortable position as he started to talk. “When a House takes prisoners, as you are no doubt already aware, standard practice is to dock their lower arms, a demotion to drekh.”

She rolled her eyes at his clearly Eliksni pronunciation on the last word, but didn’t interrupt. Show off.

“For higher ranked prisoners, however—Barons, Archons, possibly a Captain if they troublesome enough—docking arms on its own isn’t sufficient. Large Eliksni like that have such ether-rich blood that their arms would simply grow back after docking; it’s the starvation rations of a drekh that keep them from regrowing theirs. So, after docking a powerful prisoner, the stumps are wrapped in a stay like that to forcibly keep them from regenerating until their ether levels have dropped to a much weaker state.”

She put a hand to the side of her waist, trying in vain to adjust the uncomfortable tightness of the stay. “That doesn’t make sense. I don’t have an extra pair of arms under here to regrow. And even if I did, Guardian healing on its own doesn’t regrow limbs the way the Fallen can. You need a resurrection to fix something like that. They… specifically tested that.”

Uldren made an interested noise at that, like it was a fact he was tucking away for later use, then continued. “Well, as you might guess, a stay is more than just a practical restraint. It is also a symbol. It’s a status symbol for the capturing House, to have taken a prisoner powerful enough to need one. They’re usually constructed of bright metals like yours, to draw the eye to the docking, a way of shaming a once-great foe. It is a simultaneous humiliation of the prisoner and a trophy for the captor. In truth, Guardian, you ought to be flattered, I think.”

“Flattered, to be paraded about as a powerful enemy laid low,” she said bitterly. “Somehow I don’t see that as a compliment.”

He chuckled. “To each their own. Being a prisoner of status is still some kind of status. I say use whatever advantages you can get your hands on down here. I doubt we’ll have much chance of getting out of here if you don’t.”

She gave him a very long and hard look at that phrasing. “We, Sov? What makes you think I’d break you out if I was escaping? I feel like I’ve learned my lesson about what happens to people who try to rescue you.”

He feigned hurt, an insincere little pout on his face. “After all we’ve been through together down here, you’re still hung up about the tiny disagreement we had on Mars? You wouldn’t really leave me behind in here when you make your grand Guardian break out, would you?”

“You tell yourself that, Your Highness. See if I don’t leave your royal ass to rot.”

That got another smirk out of him. He always seemed most pleased when she was being snappish back to him. “You’d miss my sparkling sense of companionship in your travels.”

“I think we should resume that language practice we were working on, actually. Can you tell me how you’d say ‘Go fuck yourself’ in Eliksni?”

He laughed, and then to her surprise, chattered and clicked an Eliksni phrase back to her, which her vague grasp of grammatical markers let her deduce was probably exactly what she’d asked. “You should note,” he said mock-seriously, “that the phrase in our language may be an imperative, but in Eliksni, it is interrogative. Technically, it’s a suggestion grammatically. In case you were confused about the conjugation.”

“I’m sure it would have kept me up at night wondering,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“In fact, if you want to be really vulgar about it in Eliksni, you should actually put the phrase in the most formal register, which would be–” Another set of clicked words followed, similar enough in sound for Sylvanni to recognize that they were the same phrase, if slightly tweaked. She tried to repeat the sounds softly to herself, trying to figure out where the word breaks were, what order they were appearing in. This might have started out as a way to insult him, but she did have a lot of learning to do still. 

“You should repeat it back louder,” Uldren suggested when he noticed her mumbling. “If you’re wanting an instructor’s corrections, that is. You’ll never learn just talking to yourself.”

She looked him dead on, then with as much precision as she could muster, she told him to go fuck himself in Eliksni. With a grin, he corrected her vowels, to which she quipped that vowels in Eliksni should hardly count since there were so few of them. From there, it was easy to slip into simply another lesson, and though Sylvanni would never admit it, she was unspeakably grateful for the distraction it lent. 

For all Uldren Sov’s flaws and their thorny history, he was the only ally in this place that she had.

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[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always Part 3: Thieves Like Us

Part 1

Part 2

The third chapter of a canon divergent kind-of fix-it set after Season 3. In which the past does not stay silent. You may recognize part of it from a Six-Sentence Sunday.

Warnings: brawling, mentions of hanging and gunshots

Word Count: 2231

The two fighters circle each other in their makeshift ring on the docks, stripped to the waist despite the chill night air. In the smoky torchlight, the scene could almost be a pirate camp. Margaret has woven her way to the front of the gathered crowd of bettors. She’s put coin on Vane, partly out of loyalty, partly because she remembers what a magnificent brawler he was. The other fighter is the clear local favorite; unlike Vane, he’s well-known in the area. He’s half a head taller than Vane and outweighs him as well, and he’s fast and strong, but Vane fights with a savage intensity, feral glee in his eyes at the challenge and the rush of it. And his technique and tactics are far better. Vane dodges the lighting-fast combination of punches thrown at him, getting in close to land blows of his own. It isn’t long before Vane’s ferocious onslaught has the other fighter down for the count. Yes, Vane is still magnificent, standing victorious in the center of the ring, sweat gleaming on his broad chest, long hair barely mussed, breath steaming in the cold. His piercing blue stare meets hers, and Margaret feels her pulse quicken. How does the bloody man manage to swagger while standing still?

Beside her, the merchant who’d been trying to chat her up during the fight notices the heavy look she and Vane are exchanging. He mumbles an excuse about how he “didn’t realize you were here to watch your man”, and hurries away as Vane approaches.

My man, Margaret thinks sourly. No, her man had brown eyes and a broad, easy grin. Her man never let anyone or anything come between them. Her man is at the bottom of the sea.

After Sully died, would-be suitors circled her like sharks. Most simply wanted an in with her father. Some were other pirates. Some were so-called respectable men, with their soft hands and their willingness to let others do their dirty work. She chased them all off with sharp words, and on at least one occasion, at the point of a pistol.

“Your friend didn’t want to meet me?” Vane’s raspy growl brings her back to the present.

“Alas, he wasn’t the sociable type.”

“Pity.” Vane’s right arm tremors ever so slightly as he puts on his shirt, and Margaret finds herself grateful that he’s left-handed. She assists him into his coat, briskly, before he can object. Back in Nassau, it took her too long to get a clear shot as Vane’s face turned purple and his body convulsed at the end of the rope. She prays to a god she is not entirely sure she believes in, for reasons she is entirely unwilling to name, that the delay didn’t cause him permanent injury.

They collect their respective winnings and make their way to a nearby tavern, less rowdy than some and known for its food and its anonymity. Margaret forces herself not to react when her leg brushes against his under the table.

“Do you think it’s wise, drawing attention to yourself like you did prize-fighting?”

“Hiding in plain sight.” The corner of Vane’s mouth quirks upward. “And you wagered on me.”

Margaret gives him an extravagant shrug. “Of course I did. I’m a chancer.”

“Ever the proper pirate.” There is nothing mocking in his tone or his face.

“These past couple of years, smuggling is where most of the work has been.”

“You mean after Sully…”

She cuts him off. “Yes.” She wants to snarl at him to keep Sully’s name out of his mouth, but there was a time when Vane and Sully called each other brother and meant it. She can’t begrudge him any grief he might be feeling, nor curiosity.

He raises his mug of ale to hers. “To Sully. And to thieves like us.” They both drink deep.

Their food arrives. Vane examines the bread that came with their oyster stew. “They’ve picked off all the weevils.”

Margaret smiles slightly, in spite of herself. “I’ll fetch you some, if you like.” An old joke. It’s all too easy to fall into old jokes. Margaret had extra duty once again for mouthing off at her father, and she was missing her meal because of it. She sat on the fighting top watching for sails, too proud to admit hunger or apologize, and Charles climbed up to bring her water ration, some dried meat, and some hard tack, though he’d have gotten in trouble himself if the captain caught him. She picked up a piece of the hard tack and examined it. “You picked off all the weevils.”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “I’ll fetch you some, if you like.” She started to laugh, but forced herself to be silent lest the sound draw attention to them, to the fact that he’d bent the rules for her. That bastard of a quartermaster, Israel Hands, already had it out for the both of them. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him to have another go at Charles.

She tells herself there’s no harm in reminiscing about the boy he was, with his rough voice and his rough demeanor and his tender heart that he tried so hard to hide.

That rough voice is quiet, even confessional. “All my life, there were consequences for wanting things. The taskmasters would take anything they thought we wanted, just to show us that they could. The bigger slaves would take from the smaller, and I was the youngest and smallest of all. So I learned it was safer not to tell, not to show, if I was to have any chance of keeping anything I wanted.” Vane almost sounds as though he’s thinking aloud, but he’s watching her face intently as though willing her to understand something he can’t quite bring himself to say. “Then she did more of the same, taking away anything she even thought I might want, just to prove she could.” There is no doubt as to who she is. Is Vane expressing regret? Trying to explain?

“There are also consequences for not asking for what you want.” She meant to sound arch, but it comes out harsh.

He looks down for a moment then fixes Margaret with a grave stare from beneath his brow. “So I’ve learned.”

The silence hangs thick as a fog bank. Margaret focuses on finishing her meal; it’s easier than focusing on the man across from her.

“I’m sailing for Nassau. Come with me.”

Margaret looked askance at her father. “Why would you ever want to return to that shithole? It’s nothing but backstabbers and cowards.”

“To get Charles out of there. They put a price on his head” he replied.

“He made his choices. He can live with them. Or die with them.” Margaret wanted to sound cold, wanted to be cold, but the ice in her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her ears. Why should the very thought of Charles still have the power to wound her like this, a decade later? What had ever been between them other than a few kisses, some confidences shared?

“I could use your skills, Margaret.”

“Yes, you could. But you’ll have to do without.”

He looks up from the brace of pistols he’s loading. “You think admitting you still care for him would be disloyal to Sully.” When she didn’t answer he continued. “Margaret, when your mother died I was ill-equipped to raise a daughter. You were so young and so angry, and her loss annihilated us both. All those wives, I was trying to replace what couldn’t be replaced. What I had with her.”

“All those wives were because you wanted a son.” This time he didn’t respond. “I’m glad you don’t further insult me by denying it,” she said grimly.

His nostrils flared but his voice stayed calm. Overly calm. “I loved your mother. I still love your mother. I’ve loved some of my other wives, each in different ways.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s possible for you to still love Sully and for that to be irreplaceable, and for you to love Charles as well.” He paused. “I must say I was surprised you didn’t choose him back then.”

“It wasn’t up to me,” she snapped. Damnation, he got her to admit it. If Charles had asked her to be with him, she would have said yes, without hesitation and without regret. But he didn’t, and Sully did. It was a good marriage, a happy one, right until the moment his brain ran out on the deck beside her.

“Will you be here when I return?”

“I’ll be here. But I don’t want to see him.” She turned to leave.

From behind her, her father's voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I wish you’d reconsider, for your own sake.” She left. The notorious Blackbeard, suddenly worried about her loneliness? This must be what going mad feels like.

“And people say I’m terse.” Vane’s teasing purr interrupts her thoughts. He’s trying to lift the pall that’s fallen between them.

Margaret risks a glance at his face. “I’ve been alone for a few years now. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” She drains the rest of her ale and slaps the mug down on the table.

“Surely you’ve no shortage of contenders.” His voice is still as light as the gravel in it allows, but his eyes remain serious.

“Perhaps.” A few days ago, she’d have said not a chance. Damn him. She sees him grit his teeth, the muscle flexing in his jaw. She stands. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He puts coins on the table and follows her. Outside, the clouds hang low and there is a sharp bite in the air. Snow is on the way.

She leads him to the back of the town, where the docks are even rougher and the respectable trades do well to avoid. To call the place a shipyard would be to flatter it, but it’s a yard and series of wharves where vessels of various types and in various states of repair are moored. She takes him to a sleek eight-gun sloop, built for speed and maneuverability, sitting in what might generously be termed dry dock. Recognition dawns on his face. “I haven’t seen a sloop like her since the last time I was on Ocracoke. Is that --”

Margaret completes his sentence. “The Adventure, yes. The old girl took a beating, but she’ll be seaworthy again soon enough.” At his look of consternation, she adds “Yes, I was on Ocracoke.”

He furrows his brows. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Take him, and get the fuck off my beach,” her father snarled. Turning to Margaret, who had witnessed the entire duel while hidden in the crowd, had started pushing her way to the front and was readying herself to throw her body between them before Charles threw down his sword, “Go after him, girl. Keep him alive.” At her dubious expression, he leaned in to add “Promise me you’ll try!” She nodded. By day’s end, she was sailing for Nassau. The Adventure was fast, but she arrived too late to prevent Charles’s capture…

“When she’s repaired,” he starts, then stops, his face a question.

“When she’s repaired, I intend to leave on her. No idea where the fuck I’ll go.” She looks away from him, studying the currents, weighing something in her mind, then turns to face him head-on. “Come with me?”

Vane’s thin lips part in surprise, and Margaret braces for the impact of his answer. He regains a grip on his composure, and smirks. “How am I expected to deny such a request.”

Margaret cocks one hip out, puts a hand on it, raises an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

They grin at each other as the first flakes begin to fall. Side by side, they make their way back to the garret.

Vane stands with one arm braced against the window frame, still in his coat, watching the snow dance and swirl beyond the panes. Maragaret finds herself touched by his expression of wonder. He’s always been gruff, his default expression becoming even stonier in the years since she’d last seen him. Seeing him wide-eyed and earnest soothes something in her. He’s still there, the Charles she was once so close with.

He stretches out an arm to enfold her in the coat as well, pulling her close. She leans into him, if only to savor his warmth. She still fits as though she belongs there, tucked beneath his arm.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” he admits. So many firsts with her. First taste of freedom. First time over the side. First kiss, clumsy and nervous and sweet as could be. And now, snow.

His hand comes to rest at the spot where the musket ball ripped through her side all those years ago. “Margaret, I…” he breaks off.

Her voice is soft. Matter-of fact, but soft. “I’d do it again if I had to. Even now, after everything, I’d do it again.” She extricates herself from under his arm, then pauses to press her lips to his temple. “Good night, Charles.”

Her door shuts. He takes a deep, unsteady breath and wills his heart to slow its breakneck pace. On the other side of the door, she does the same.

[emsartwork]

What are your winx couple headcanons?

Other questions about relationships also answered below

Like how they interact? I talked a little bit about the canon dynamics in an ask-dump here but I’ll write a little more and copy paste stuff here lol

BLOOM AND SKY:  so bloom and sky aren’t the most stable couple, and in my version it would take bloom a little longer to be ok with dating a prince. Bloom is fairly insecure in her relationships because of self worth issues, and tend to run away from problems instead of dealing with them. Sky on the other hand is confident but doesn’t really know how to handle people’s feelings and tends to push confrontation. Bloom is also prefers to move a little slower than Sky would maybe prefer, like he’s good with their relationship and tries not to push Bloom or make her upset but he’d probably like to be married already lol. Bloom and Sky have figured out that if they’re having conflict issues, one of the best things to do is for them to write out whats bothering them and send letters/texts/emails back and forth. This gives Bloom a safe space and time to process her emotions, and lets Sky express his opinion with out getting to intense and pushing for Bloom to talk to him. They’ve taken to doing this with non-conflict thingies too, like its not out of the norm for Sky to receive a wax sealed envelope with a beautifully calligraphied message on parchment that simply says Bloom saw a super fluffy dog that day lol

STELLA AND BRANDON:  They love each other so much its the best omg. Stella finds her worth in her appearance but she always seems to take Brandon’s complements in a less…. arrogant way? if that makes sense? like she truly appreciates them and wants his support. I wish we knew more about Brandon but he’s legit such a good boyfriend. I think they fight mostly when Stella is being a little selfish, or when Brandon is too busy to meet her emotional needs. I think Brandon and Stella are the kind of couple that could be married for years and still feel like they’re on their honeymoon, They would probably get married because of societal pressure but if Stella wasn’t a princess they wouldn’t bother with the ceremony since it wouldn’t change their devotion to each other. They flirt with other people pretty casually but neither would EVER cheat or go any further than idle compliments. Stella’s fear of being alone/disliked is still present, but Brandon will generally just pick up some chocolate, put on a movie and let Stella do his nails or hair or make-up whenever she’s feeling down. Stella was perfectly fine with Brandon not being a prince, she came to terms with the situation a lot faster than Bloom did. However, she does try to make sure Brandon knows she’s with him for him. One of Stella’s main love languages is gifts, and Brandon does appreciate it, but his main love language is actually acts of service, so sometimes he feels a little underappreciated (if Stella doesn’t pick up on this Sky will and let her know). In which case Stella will sneakily figure out what he needs and will take care of it (shopping for a new coat? done. its super flattering and makes his eyes pop. mess hall cleaning duty at Red Fountain? she’ll do it(with some magical assistance). he doesn’t have time to make himself lunch? she will try her best but it might be safer for her to order him some take out) Like Stella is silly, excitable, and can be self centered but she loves her people and wants to make sure they know that.

FLORA AND HELIA:  So Helia is more of a drama queen in the comics but we’ll ignore that for right now lol. Flora and Helia are probably the least problematic couple in the entire show. They met. Flirted a little. Confessed. and started dating with out any major problems. I think both Helia and Flora’s love language is quality time so they’re fairly low key and just like to be in the same space with each other. Unfortunately their issues stem from both of them being passive aggressive. Like Flora doesn’t want to cause problems or upset anyone, and Helia just doesn’t freaking talk. This can lead to slow simmering fights that build until one of them blows up. They learn to catch the signs of that starting earlier and earlier tho, so they’re both learning its better to bring up an issue earlier if its gonna be a problem later. Flora thinks Helia would be happier as a full time artist than as a warrior or mage, but knows he needs to come to his own conclusion.

TECNA AND TIMMY:  They’re super cute honestly. I think Timmy was probably the one to instigate the relationship and bonded with Tecna over technology since she wasn’t super emotionally available at first. They have issues when Tecna is unable to voice her emotions and Timmy needs to know what she’s feeling mostly, but after the first few times they’ve both learned to give the other space to figure their stuff out. Timmy will ask Tecna to use Emoji’s if she’s having a really difficult time figuring out what she’s feeling. He knows its not fair to Tecna but Timmy sometimes feels a little resentful because she’s had a fairly easy life, access to top rate tech, rich parents, stable environment, and barely had to study, while Timmy scrapped and saved and had to learn fast because of his environment.(his home isn’t exactly unsafe, but asteroid colonies are nomadic by nature which mean a certain level of instability is part of living in one)  

MUSA AND RIVEN:  Ok so, ignoring the several times Riven was LITERALLY MIND CONTROLLED his character is still difficult to deal with. I think Musa and Riven are both very intense people, and while that can be super fun and develop into a good relationship, it can also lead to LOTS of problems. For their relationship, I think they wouldn’t even start dating until like season 3 era at the earliest.(this is partially why season 4 is so rough for them, its a new relationship) a lot of their issues would stem from their attachment issues and how they respond to insecurity. Riven’s mom left him, just fucking dropped out of his life while he was a young kid, leaving him with an emotionally distant and dismissive father he could never please. So Riven responds by pushing people away before they can reject him, becoming controlling, or dismissing them in anger and pretending not to care about their opinion. Musa’s mother was taken away from her by illness.  I think it happened in Musa’s early teens, since it’s clearly still a tender subject in the first season. A parents death is painful no matter the circumstance, but a sickness that slowly steals the person you love away from you must be incredibly painful. As a result, Musa experience a lot of anxiety about the people she loves leaving her(whether by their choice or not), and becomes clingy, emotionally demanding, and sensitive. When Riven pushes her away to protect himself Musa tries to force her way back to him, when Musa wants Riven to act certain way or do something to ease her anxiety (even if its irrational and she is at fault) Riven dismisses her needs because it means he can keep himself safe from failure. They have similar problems but the way they respond to it ends up escalating every issue. They do eventually grow and become vulnerable with each other, Riven tries to express his affection more(even if it’s not through words) instead of hiding them in fear of rejection, and Musa tries to explain when her feelings are hurt more clearly instead of just assuming Riven knows what he did wrong. They also clash a bit over parentage, both only have their dads left, but Musa’s is involved and (now)supportive, while Riven’s is still distant. Musa has positive memories of her mother and misses her a lot, but Riven has very few memories and is terribly angry at his mother. I think that Riven still left at the end of season 6, but they didn’t exactly break up, they both recognized that Riven needed some time away from the specialists to work on his own shit and gain confidence in his own skills and self worth, so it turned into a low key long distance thing. (if he hadn’t come back in season 8  they would just decide to break it off but lol he’s back)

AISHA AND NABU:  ugh perfect couple. minus the kind of sketchy beginning lol. Aisha and Nabu generally don’t fight once they get used to each other. Nabu is a focal point that Aisha is kind of bungee corded to if that makes sense? like obviously not in a restricting way. Its just Aisha is hella active/independent and needs her own space to explore and grow, but Nabu is her solid ground that she relies on and always comes back to. Nabu and Aisha are both smart, but Nabu is a little more of a nerd than Aisha and has a lot of book knowledge. Nabu sometimes gets irritated at Aisha’s impulsiveness, he tries to let it go and jump with her sometimes but generally just lets her do her own thing, of course on the other hand, Aisha can get irritated at Nabu’s resistance to change, she knows pestering and pushing him won’t help tho so she tries to slow down and walk through it with him when she can. 

AISHA AND NEX:  So like I said Aisha is an active, independent woman, and if Nabu was a separate, stationary, focal point for her, I think Nex is related, moving, counter point. So like Nex can actually keep up with Aisha, and push her and challenge her. Which isn’t a bad thing in relationships so long as a mutual respect is there. Nex is aggressive and can be hot headed but I think he actually takes life at a slower pace than Aisha who is a master of multitasking. Aisha admires Nex’s drive but wishes he would be a little more directional with it. When they’re not being competitive, they have a very weird calming effect around each other. Aisha and Nex don’t seem to notice this, but the rest of the group picked up on it one day and could not for the life them figure out how two such intense people could have such a chill vibe. 

Daphne and Thoren actually met when they were kids, but didn’t spend much time together because it was at a formal event. Daphne is technically 20 years older than Thoren(only a few years older than Sky), but they’re the same physical age because Daphne spent so long as a spirit. I also like to think Thoren met her as a spirit(with out recognizing her) during his paladin training. They probably wouldn’t get married as quickly in my version, especially with Daphne’s trauma. Daphne was actually receiving physical and mental therapy on Ohm when Thoren visited the planet as part of his paladin duties. They didn’t hit it off right away, but didn’t dislike each other or anything. They actually bonded over scars, Thoren has scars from some paladin related incidents, but also has a scar from when he attempted suicide. Daphne asked him about his first, she eventually explained hers to him but since they were more recent it took a little longer for her to come to terms with what happened to her. Thoren finds her scars beautiful, partially because they’re a part of Daphne, but also because they mean she survived and that she’s healing. Daphne will have nightmares sometimes and Thoren has a whole routine for comforting her and helping her feel safe and grounded. Thoren gets anxious easily, and Daphne will use her magic to subtly change the environment so he feels more comfortable. They like to watch reality tv together and yell at stupid dramatic people. Daphne is terrified of losing her loved ones and can be over protective of Thoren even though he can take care of himself, and Thoren hesitates to ask her to do anything for him because he’s (irrationally)nervous about overwhelming her. In the future, Daphne is a little unsure about asking him to marry her, not because of their relationship, but because he would assume the role of King of Domino and that’s a lot of pressure but they discuss it and work through everything together. Neither of them are good at gardening, but they have a little section of the Domino castle gardens they like to try and grow things in. Thoren also does fine metal work with wires. 

Their families are very pleased with the relationship. Thoren’s mom and Daphne are pretty different but vibe together really well. Thoren and Oritel take up sparing together and Oritel has no problems with Daphne’s choice of partner. Thoren’s dad finds Daphne to be a very fine young lady, though he has concerns that his son is with some one who has so much recent trauma and he worries it’ll kick start Thoren’s depression again. Marion doesn’t think anybody is good enough for her girls but Thoren comes pretty close, Thoren has expressed interest in learning magic, and Marion is eager to teach him, though he may regret letting her once the lessons actually start lol. 

Oritel and Marion like Sky well enough, and they recognize he’s still young and is growing, but they privately think Bloom could do better. Erendor and Samara are concerned about Bloom’s civilian background (how will she handle ruling a kingdom when she has no political training?) and though the Dragon flame would be a huge asset to Eraklyon in power it could also draw unwanted attention and attacks so they’re also concerned about that. But besides those issues, Erendor actually really likes Bloom. Samara.... is very stiff and formal so its hard to tell if she likes Bloom or if she’s just being civil and tolerating her. 

Brandon’s parents LOVE Stella, they think she’s hilarious and cute and they dote on her whenever possible. If Stella and Brandon ever broke up they would probably still invite her to family events and stuff lol. Luna and Radius, when they’re not dealing with their own relationship issues, enjoy Brandon’s company. They kind of wish Stella had chosen a Solarian partner, but its customary to let Solarian children follow their heart and pick their own partner. 

Timmy’s mom hasn’t met Tecna in person, but Timmy talks about her all the time and Timmy’s mom thinks she sounds wonderful. Electronio and Magnethia were unsure of Timmy at first. They ran the numbers through the Zenithian Compatibility and Success in Relationship Indicator and Timmy + Tecna didn’t do so well on paper. However, Tecna was absolutely firm in her decision to be with Timmy even if it didn’t make sense to her parents, which was unusual for her. They like him a lot now, even if they don’t fully understand how he works lol. 

Helia’s dads think Flora is a total catch for Helia like “damn son how did you convince her to date you???” Helia just groans and rolls his eyes. Magic dad likes to talk nature magic with Flora and Warrior dad is always trying to teach her some new self defense tactic when she visits, much to the embarrassment of his son. Alyssa and Rhodos like Helia, even if they think he’s a little out there. Like Flora, they try to encourage his pursuit of art. Miele likes to mess with Helia and pull pranks on him, Helia pretends to be horribly offended but he actually thinks she’s hilarious.

Aisha was a dream match for Nabu’s parents, they cared more about her status as princess than her as a person at first. After Nabu’s death they blamed Aisha and rejected all of her attempts to contact them. In the process of healing, they’ve reached out to her and are trying to appreciate/get to know her as some one their son loved and not just a rung on the social ladder. Aisha’s parents liked Nabu, they didn’t really get to know him very well, but thought he was a smart, capable, and well mannered young man. They saw Aisha was happy with him and left it at that. 

Aisha’s parent’s were less sure of Nex, Andros is a fairly planet centric culture, and Nex, as a Mare Lynphean especially, didn’t quite fit into their Land/Sea dichotomy. Aisha of course, isn’t one to follow social norms if she doesn’t want to. Nex is a little worried about her parents approval, but Aisha insists that the only approval he needs is hers. Niobe and Teredor are currently leaving the relationship as is, knowing fighting Aisha will just make her dig her heels in more. Nex eventually wins them over with his bravery, charm, and devotion to Aisha. When Nex told his parents he was dating a princess, they were kind of surprised. They were also surprised when Aisha turned out to be an athletic, independent, and brash young woman instead of a delicate, dependent, and prissy princess. They absolutely approve and love spending time with her.

Musa hasn’t met Riven’s dad. Riven and his dad aren’t close, they talk maybe once a month and its usually a text from his dad with “update request; academics, physical health, extra curricular, and relationships statuses.” and Riven usually just responds with “update; fuck off.” Riven’s dad does know he’s dating some one but doesn’t have a lot of information. Musa’s dad DID NOT like Riven at first. He didn’t like his look, his reputation, or his attitude. however, Ho-Boe comes from a warrior background, though he prefer(ed)s musical pursuits, he came to respect Riven’s discipline in those areas, and eventually was able to relate to Riven’s rejection of his heritage.  

Bloom and Daphne are a little.... one sided, at least in the beginning. When Bloom first meets Daphne (that she remembers) Daphne isn’t even a real person, she’s a dream or at most a spirit. Even after Bloom learns her name Daphne is a mystery, and its not until like end of season three that they start talking regularly. On Daphne’s side, Bloom was a toddler, and then is suddenly grown up. Daphne still thinks of her like her baby sister, even tho the two of them are, physically, almost the same age now. Daphne also always knew she had a sister, while Bloom thought of herself as an only child for the majority of her life at this point. So while they love each other and get a long pretty well, they have misconceptions and don’t always view the other person as they actually are.

Sure! Stormy likes cream puffs, like A LOT. She owns only dark red lipsticks. She likes doing her makeup but has no patience for her hair, she usually chops a lot of it off every couple months and just lets it do whatever it wants. Stormy has a “worry stone” made of metal she keeps in her pocket. She’s got adhd and Darcy sometimes magically helps calm her brain down when she needs to focus. Stormy of course, loves thunder storms, she gets little electric shivers when they’re getting close. She collects static like nobodies business. Stormy is primarily Omegean and Androsian, tho a little Dominian, Zenithian, and Melodian blood runs through her veins as well. She likes cats. 

yaaaaaaas, ok so I actually gave his dads names finally Vaonaaj dad is Bi’ran (bee-ran) and Lynphean dad is Reed (last name is Deshene). When Helia was born Bi’ran used magic to like float him around and keep him out of trouble and stuff and it annoyed the hell out of Reed (like “for natures sake please don’t hex my son” “im not hexing him its just a floating spell!!”) Reed gave Helia a little sword really early and Bi’ran was appalled ( ”why would you give him a weapon he’s like FIVE” “good he can learn early”) When Helia started to express interest in art his dads were confused af because neither of them have an artistic bone in their bodies. They try to be supportive but honestly have no idea what Helia is doing lol. Helia really wants to please them both so he spent a year at Lynphea College in the basic magic course. When warrior dad(Reed) started to pressure him to learn to fight as well, Helia’s grandfather Saladin offered him a place at Red Fountain, partially because he could see Helia needed his own space to figure himself out and partially because it would appease Reed. Helia was only planning on staying at Red fountain for a year but his relationship with Flora and his friendships with the rest of the group extended his stay. Bi’ran and Reed know they need to let Helia make his own path, but they worry and just want the best for him so they tend to stick to what they know and are comfortable with when advising him(magic and fighting respectively). Bi’ran and Reed have a standing date night every week, and usually they get really out of hand as they try to outdo the other in excitement and romance (dinner and movie one week leads to a 5 course meal and an play the next which leads to a private chef, a one of a kind meal, and an entire theater rented out for a personal performance etc etc etc) until they both realize they’re being ridiculous and promise to keep it simple from then on and the cycle repeats itself. Bi’ran really likes to play with Reed’s hair. Helia always beats them both at card games.  

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from @wingardium-letmefuckyou. I’m a genie in a bottle, baby, gotta catch me the right way, honey… I’m a genie in a bottle baby, come, come, come in and let me out…

Words: 2027 Warnings: sexual themes, mentions of violence and slavery

The Grandmaster was known for owning… curiosities, given his brother was The Collector himself and he never failed to brag with his possessions. Especially when an alleged God of Mischief called Loki crashed on his planet and sweet-talked him into telling him the darkest secrets of Sakaar. Loki was unbelievably charming—and it did not take long for him to build his trust, for his advice on ruling had both helped and impressed the Grandmaster exceptionally.

A reward was due if Loki was to become a true, free and cherished citizen of Sakaar. And he knew just what to get him. There was one piece in his personal collection he was particularly fond of. He had saved it for a special occasion, albeit considered using it himself. But then again, what would be the fun in that? He already had everything he could wish for. He did not need to rub a dusty old lamp to free a genie—not even for his personal good times. Loki on the other hand might find use for the dust catcher.

Besides, in all honesty, the Grandmaster was rather reluctant to give up one of his very obedient pleasure slaves to hand them to Loki. The genie would do—after all, last time he had freed you (accidentally, that was) he had promised to kill you if you failed to obey.

“Ah, there you are, there you are. Come here. You will like this.” He started enthusiastically, waving Loki into the room when he saw him entering. The God of Mischief took a long and deep breath as he strode further into the vast hall, his yellow cape flattering behind him majestically. Usually, you will like this translated to another idiotic idea this ancient man came up with on this godforsaken planet. One that Loki was anything but fond of.

He led him over to a plain pedestal, on top of it a golden lamp. It was old, oriental—Loki recognised it from history books. According to legend, these pieces of décor housed magical genies which, upon being woken, were sworn to obey their new master and grant them three wishes.

“So, Loki, I was thinking and… you’ve been very helpful to me recently. Very helpful indeed. So here’s a little… a little something to show you my gratitude.”

“That is very thoughtful.”

“Oh, so, you’re familiar with these? I guarantee you she’s a beautiful one. Oh and remember—once you’ve used up your three wishes, she’ll be free to return to her lamp.”

Loki smirked. He really was a lunatic. With the power resting in his hands when he accepted the lamp, he could take over this trashy planet within the blinking of an eye. But the key, of course, was it to never use up all of the wishes. The genie was mostly meant to be his plaything, after all. A very interesting reward indeed.

Loki thanked him again for his generosity, returning to his spacious living quarters with the lamp and chuckling darkly at the Grandmaster’s stupidity. His seidr never failed him—his manipulation skills had worked wonders.

Absentmindedly, he sat down on his bed and rubbed the lamp only to feel it grow hot in his grasp. He refrained from dropping it and instead clutched it even tighter when suddenly, purple mist erupted from the small opening and slowly transformed into a solid being right in front of him.

He had not lied. You were beautiful. Loki’s lips parted when he let his blue gaze dart over your entire form, taking in every single detail. Delicate skin, gorgeous hair and golden necklaces decorating your cleavage. Now he knew you were obliged to obey his every wish and serve him as he saw fit, yet if you lived with the Grandmaster, you should be happy to do so anyway.

He smirked when your (Y/E/C) eyes locked with his, realisation hitting you in the face like a harsh wind gust.

“Master?” You whispered timidly. Loki’s heart jumped at the sound of your voice. So innocent and pure… he might actually begin to enjoy his stay here on Sakaar. Oh… the possibilities! The sex was one thing—he had not had a woman in years—but the fact that the whole universe was now an open door ready to bend to his will alone was beyond thrilling. It was exciting. Overwhelming.

“Hello, pet. Do you have a name?”

“(Y/N)…” You stuttered. Nervously, you began to play with your purple dress. It had been peaceful in your lamp. Every time you were conjured, you learned about what it meant to feel pain, disappointment and humiliation. How could it be different this time? With him?

“And do you know my name? You recognise me.” He stated unimpressed. You nodded shyly. Of course you did. Most genies worshipped him, the one and only God of Mischief. You only remembered him as the man who attempted to rule the realm you had secretly lived on before your arrival on Sakaar.

“I… I do. You are Loki, Master. The God of Mischief.” You replied obediently. Loki nodded, pleased with your response.

Three wishes. The faster he asked for them, the faster you could return to your lamp. There was a reason humans spoke ill of genies in stories. They were cunning, tricking you into wishing for trivial things so their services would come to an end quickly. You had always admired them for this ability. After the last time, however… the first time you had been freed on Sakaar… you knew well to behave if you wanted to save yourself from suffering.

Loki smirked. The throne. Recognition. Power—invincibility. Thanos forgetting about his existence. His brother’s love. The fierce words and desires tumbled around in his head so viciously they almost made him dizzy. You were going to come in handy for sure.

“What is your first wish, Master?” You mumbled devotedly. You could see the excitement in his blue eyes. They all went mad from the possibilities. To be rich, to be famous, to have their best friend’s wife… that promotion, to be reunited with an old friend or even murder… you had done scary things over the years too.

“You are to obey me for as long as I am your Master, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then take off your clothes.” He ordered sternly, making your heart jump. Of course. That’s what they always wanted first—especially here on Sakaar.

Loki took a deep breath. It had been a while since the last time he had seen a beautiful woman in front of him, naked, entirely exposed and willing to share his bed with him. Now he did wonder what had made you decide to join the Grandmaster’s side but as long as he got to have his fun… he was not going to care about it.

Your sigh was shaky and anxious when you slowly did as you were told, unclasping the hooks of your purple dress so it fell on the floor silently. No underwear, no bra. There was no need for those things in a magical lamp.

“How?” You asked barely audible.

“On the bed. Come. You are stunning, pet.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. At least he did not look violent. Some of them were—they preferred to leave bruises on your skin rather than passionate love bites. Not that you wanted any.

Mutely, you did as you were told and climbed on the mattress with shaking limbs, your backside on full display for him when you did.

Moments later, he was already towering above you, admiring your curves and breasts with both his blue eyes and surprisingly soft and warm hands. You closed your eyes. It did not feel as unpleasant as usual. Quite on the contrary… it actually felt good. Loki was incredibly gentle. He took his time to explore your body, worshipping every inch of your skin until suddenly… one of his hands sneaked between your legs. You ripped your eyes open again immediately when he found your little nub and began to coax it out of its hiding place, bringing you bliss which you had never felt before. It surprised you. And it scared you.

“You don’t have to… I mean, just… take what you want.” Nothing you can do will make this more enjoyable for me anyway.

Loki frowned. “I am not going to force myself on you.”

What, did you think genies like to serve in such a humiliating way? You almost blurted the question out loud. Instead, you simply bit your lower lip and closed your eyes again, hoping he would be quick. Having Loki inside you, for some reason, filled you with excitement, too.

And yet, the God of Mischief hesitated, his frown deepening. As much as he wanted you… he couldn’t. You did not want this; despite your body reacting to him in the most delicious ways—he could practically smell your arousal already, he was not going to become a rapist. He had been forced to do awful things under Thanos’ influence already. But this—this was him.

“Alright… get up, get dressed.”

“W-what? Please, don’t send me back to him. He will kill me if I didn’t please you.”

Loki paused. An awful moment filled with suspense and your rapidly beating heart. “It’s alright, pet. I will not send you away.”

-

Loki kept his promise. He disappeared in the attached bathroom when you finally dared to indeed put your dress on again. Once he returned, he found you standing by the huge window offering a view over the hideous city the Grandmaster had built.

Silently, he joined you. Then, for several moments, you waited for him to react. Say something, command something.

“Your wishes, Master.” Your reminded him quietly when nothing happened.

Loki chuckled. “You see, it’s funny. Everything I ever wished for… the throne, the recognition of my family and my people, them looking up to me as I care for them as their king… it seems so insignificant now that it is within my grasp.”

He was not lying—and he was being reasonable, too. He would do well to think about how to phrase his wishes. Besides, there was something about you that thoroughly intrigued him. He had wanted you for selfish purposes when he manipulated the Grandmaster into giving you to him and then… when you had shivered underneath him, naked, vulnerable and so innocent… he could not bring himself to hurt or harm you.

“A… a lot of my former masters have felt that way. The sheer possibilities were so overwhelming some of them went mad. Others simply used their wishes for trivial and insignificant things. You… seem different, Master. You think.” You admitted timidly.

Loki nodded appreciatively. And he would only make it worse if he used his three wishes right away. You would return to your lamp and return to the Grandmaster’s collection until someone else came along to abuse you. He loathed the imagination. He wanted to keep you. He wanted your body and your undying obedience for sure… but this strange, irksome and irritating part inside him also wanted to win your heart, see you smile and happy. With him. Because of him.

“No wishes for now...” He said after a long break. Tomorrow, he would show you the market and maybe the only bearable thing on this planet—a rather beautiful lake in the suburbs. It would be nice to have some company for a change. Someone who would listen to him and consider what he had to say and perhaps… perhaps there was one wish he already knew how to use. There was no guarantee you would stay with him if he set you free… but at least, there was hope. There was more of it than there ever had been with his so-called family. Loki smiled at you.

“Well, except for one. In time.” He mused mysteriously. Your lips parted when you realised, making him chuckle.

He had an oddly good feeling about this. Like this time… he had found someone who would understand. All it would take was a little time.

 -

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente ♥

[the--sad--hatter]

No Survivors - Chapter Two

Fandom: None, this is an original work of fiction.

Genre: Sci-fi, fantasy, space opera

Rating and warnings: 18+ ONLY. Contains scenes of graphic violence, death, gore, cursing, and scenes of a sexual nature.

Disclaimer: All content and characters are created and owned by me, and my work is NOT to be reposted anywhere else without my explicit permission. Reblogs are fine, and very much appreciated.

The No Survivors Tumblr Blog | Masterlist 

Blurb:

6000 years into the future and humanity is thriving, having made their home in The Emerald Galaxy, lightyears away from their home planet. They’ve come a long way since the days of Earth. Lifespans have tripled, interstellar travel is a daily occurrence and humans have successfully integrated with alien species. All is well.

But for Captain Ice, nothing has been well for a long time. The once distinguished Captain is now a disgrace and a liability, carrying the weight of the cost of war on her shoulders. All Ice wants to do is carry on drinking herself into an early grave pod, but the Emerald Empire has a use for her yet.

Deep in The Emerald Galaxy lies Sector 12, or The Empires armpit as it’s referred to in polite company. When Sector 12’s Captain retires, General Felicity Hart decided to rid herself of a nuisance and instructs Ice to form a new crew and take over the job of glorified janitor.

Humanity survived the annihilation of its home planet and a journey across the universe, but can it survive the adventures of a disgraced Captain and her mismatched crew, or will there be… No Survivors?

The tall towers of the citadel were dark and imposing, carved from the black obsidian that was abundant in the mine shafts of Heart. Inside the looming spires the same darkness was copious, dark marble and stone as far as the eye could see, onyx around every corner that J`ess`inca ‘Jess’ Crowley had turned on her way to the laboratory she spent every day in, though she’d come to see it more as a self-imposed prison. She idly pretended to be diligently taking notes as her boss talked very quickly and very inaccurately about cell stabilisation until she couldn’t take it anymore.  

“Doctor Marx it’s impossible, even if you were able to create a shield around each individual cell, the rapid shrinking would damage them inside it and that’s before you displace them and then resize. Teleportation just isn’t possible” She interrupted.

He paused and looked up from his screen, putting extra effort into his sneer so his lowly assistant knew how little he thought of her.

“You’re my assistant, you’re here to take notes not give your opinion.” He snorted derisively, the white wispy hairs of his unkempt moustache fluttering from the breath.

She didn’t know his exact age, but the wrinkles and grey hair indicated he had to be at least 260 years old. How someone could live for two and a half centuries and be so tactless and obstinate, she would never understand.  

“It’s not my opinion, it’s the facts.” She argued calmly.

Doctor Marx could look down on her all he liked, she would never let the opinion of someone she didn’t respect have any effect on her. Before Doctor Marx could foolishly rebut the logic, a sharp rap on the labs open door had the two doctors turning around.

“Yes? What do you want?” Marx demanded impatiently.

He was more than used to having to provide his services to the Empire’s army so he wasn’t overly concerned, though admittedly most Captains didn’t bother to come to him directly. He might have been disinterested with the woman standing impassively by the door, cutting an imposing figure but Jess was intrigued. Captains were not a rare sight in the Citadel, in fact the base was crawling with them, but none like this. She was clad in the standard garb, the leather Captains coat they were all identified by, but she didn’t wear it the same way every other Captain did. It was loose, worn and battered and ill-fitting and yet the woman wore it more naturally than any of the stuffy uptight Captains that roamed around.

“I’m recruiting for my new team and I need a scientist.” The woman shrugged.

Jess felt a little jolt of jealousy run through her. All crews required a scientist and a medical doctor to to accompany the teams across the galaxy and partake in their adventures. It was the kind of adventurous life she had dreamed of, but as bright as her future once seemed, she knew better now. Her life was never going to be more than surviving, never living.

“Well we’re busy. Go away.” Marx snapped.

He clearly thought his research was too valuable to be abandoned in favour of running around the galaxy with a group of trigger-happy goons but that was no excuse for being so disrespectful, especially to someone who outranked him. Jess sighed and walked over to her, extending her hand with an apologetic look.

“I’m Jess Crowley, Doctor Marx is in the middle of something. He doesn’t mean to be so rude.”

The Captain smirked knowingly and took Jess’s hand in her own, grasping it firmly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Crowley. I’m Captain Ice.” She introduced herself, watching carefully for the inevitable reaction.

Jess felt her own eyes widen as Marx looked back up from his screen in shock and awe. Captain Ice was more than legendary, she was iconic. Jess was too young to remember The War properly, the one that had taken her father from her, but she had heard the stories. Hidden away from the sharp ears of the Empire the truth was whispered reverently, ‘The Empire didn’t win the war, Captain Ice did’. Enough people had seen the Captain for her existence to be confirmed but she was so elusive that she had become something of a folktale. Nobody knew the truth about The War, who it had been with or why, all they knew was billions of people had died, an entire sector of the Galaxy had been destroyed and that when it was all over, Captain Ice had been the only person The Empress had personally thanked. Legend had it that The Empress had decreed that Ice was the only subject in The Empire who would never kneel for her, and that The Empress had herself knelt for Ice.

“Captain Ice, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Please accept my apologies. Recruitment you say? By Ice herself? What an honour. I would of course be happy to accept.” He stammered.

Even Marx wasn’t immune to the reputation of the Captain.

“You can go away, I’m here for her.” Ice dismissed him, not taking her eyes off of Jess’s.

Jess physically recoiled, trying to stuff away the spark of hope that flamed to life in her heart, even as she protested.

 “Me? Oh, but I’m Marx’s assistant I can’t…”

“Doctor J`ess`inca Crowley, you received highest honours in your graduating class from the Empire Academy. In all fourteen of your subjects. You are most definitely the smartest person in the Galaxy and yet here you are, taking notes for a crackpot.” Ice interrupted.

“I beg your pardon?” Marx spluttered.

“Get out.” Ice ordered with all the care of swatting a bug.

“This is my laboratory!”

“Now.” Ice snapped in a tone that brokered no argument, fixing him with a chilling glare that had him looking terrified and hurrying away.

As soon as he scarpered from the room, practically tripping over his own feet in the process, Ice turned back to the young Doctor with an expectant look. Jess inhaled shakily before she straightened her shoulders and stood tall.

“I’m flattered, really I am, but I’m staying here.” She said resolutely, hiding her disappointment in having to pass up the chance to live out her wildest dreams.  

Ice hummed thoughtfully and nodded, wandering around the lab, peering at the screens with scant interest. She found a large model of the Galaxy in the centre of the lab and reached into the centre of it to snap the model of Planet Heart from the display and tossed it in the air like a ball as she regarded Jess thoughtfully.  

“Humanity cracked the secrets of space travel, broke the light and sound barriers, invented gravitational force fields and synthetic atmospheres. We have eradicated most of the diseases that threaten us, slowed the aging process, tripled our lifespans and we did it all six thousand years ago. We still haven’t got teleportation right, which means we probably never will. Even if we did, Marx isn’t going to be the man behind it, which means you can’t steal the technology from him.” She announced, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Jess swallowed her heart back down as it jumped into her throat. If Ice knew the truth then she was done for. The Captain wasn’t here to recruit her, but to arrest her.

“Steal it? I wouldn’t, that’s not what... I mean why would you think that?” She asked thickly.

“Because that’s what you are being paid to do, so you can pay off your brothers considerable gambling debts.” Ice explained.

Jess’s shoulders dropped. It was over, she had been discovered.  

“You’re here to take me in.” She whispered.

“No.” Ice corrected.

Jess frowned. For one of the first times in her life she didn’t understand.

“I told you, I’m recruiting you. I’ve paid your brothers debts. You’re free, so is he. Welcome to the crew Doctor Crowley.”

Ice tossed the model planet through the air one last time before she held it out to Jess with an expectant look. Jess reached out, her fingers tentatively closing around the miniature replica of the planet they were standing on, the rich green sphere pressing into the palm of her hand.

“Why?” She asked softly, squeezing the planet in her hand.

“I have a new assignment and I need a crew for it, which means I need a scientist and a doctor. You tick both categories because you really are the smartest person in the known worlds. And because Captain or not, I don’t particularly care about the law.” Ice scoffed, pulling a small tablet from under her coat and passing it to Jess.

“Now, according to The Code, I still need at least one cadet, a first lieutenant and a mechanic. Let’s get going.” Ice finished briskly, making a beeline for the door.

Jess stood there for a moment longer, tablet in one hand and… the whole world in the other. She laughed softly in disbelief as it all started to sink in. Her brother was safe from the thugs who threatened him, she was free from Doctor Marx and a living legend was walking down the hallway after literally just handing her the whole world. Slipping the model planet into her pocket she hurried after the her Captain.

 ~~~

He knew that most of Earth’s history had been lost, or twisted beyond recognition, but believed that the old tales of warriors who fought for the spectators were true. Standing before the cheering crowds with sweat dripping down his face and his opponent groaning on the floor beneath him, he knew it had to be true. The allure of adoration, the thrill of victory, the burn of exertion, it was addictive.

“You have a long way to go before you’re ready to rise up the ranks, Corporal.” He scoffed, stepping over the bleeding person he’d defeated.

When he’d made lieutenant he hadn’t for a second imagined that he’d end up here, stuck on the same planet he’d spent his childhood, stowed away in the training rooms so he couldn’t embarrass his family any further. He’d made the best of it, acting like it was a choice, using the opportunity to show off his combat skills. He spent his days preparing men and women for a future he couldn’t achieve and his nights in the arms of whatever adoring fan took his fancy, all the while trying to convince himself that it made him happy. So what if he never made it to First Lieutenant, never advanced up the ranks, never achieved the same glory his sister had effortlessly snatched from her competitors? He had everything he needed here, in the training pits below the citadel.

He eyed the crowd of cadets and citizens, eyes drifting over them until he found one that stood out to him. Someone he could wrap himself around, bury himself inside, a distraction for the night. Beautiful men and gorgeous women alike were considered and discarded until his gaze fell on two anomalies. Two women, standing together, one in a lab coat and the other in a Captains. That wasn’t what caught his attention about them though, it was the lack of interest in him that had him walking over to them. The lab coat didn’t even glance up at him as he approached, her eyes glued to the tablet in her hand. The Captain just stared at him impassively.

“Captain. Doctor?” He greeted them, slamming his fist into his chest as he was expected to do in the company of a Captain.

“Lieutenant Hart.” The Captain responded, stating his name blankly.

“I see my reputation precedes me, but I don’t know you two. Which is strange because I know most of the Captains, especially the beautiful ones.” He tried, turning on the charm that always had people warming to him.

“I’m Doctor Crowley, we actually have met. You tried to buy me a drink once.” The lab coat informed him, finally looking up at him.

“Tried?” He pressed, bemused.

“Tried.” She confirmed, firmly no less.

He nodded respectfully, accepting the unspoken terms of their interaction she had set out for him. The Captain cocked her head at the Doc, amused or confused he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m Captain…”

“Ice.” He interrupted her introduction. “The whole citadel’s talking about you. More than usual that is. The legend has finally returned and she’s taking over Sector Twelve. I’ve heard about your little recruitment drive and as soon as the doctor introduced herself I knew who you were. I thought you’d look more intimidating.” He noted.

The same day she’d been made into a legend was the same day he’d been branded a failure, and yet he had never crossed paths with the woman before. He knew all about her of course, well, as much as anybody knew. Probably a little more than most, though not much. The woman was shrouded in so myth and mystery that to see she was just flesh and bone, and not very tall, was anticlimactic.

“I’m not the only one with a reputation.” Ice reminded him.

He dropped the friendly grin and clenched his jaw at her vicious remark.

“You should be nicer to the people you are trying to recruit.” He snapped.

He knew why she was here, there was no other reason for her to seek him out.

“Trying to recruit? I’m a Captain, you’re just a lieutenant. I can draft you to my crew if I want.” She pointed out, far too smugly for his liking.

“My sister is the General, you can’t force me to do anything.” He spat, furious at having to bring up Felicity.

“I don’t see any other Captains offering you the chance to add First to your Lieutenant title and it was your sister who said I could have anyone in the Citadel for my crew, and look where you happen to be standing.” Ice told him, looking pointedly at the ground.

“I have no interest in patrolling the Armpit of the Galaxy for a washed up has-been of a Captain. If you want me, you have to fight for me.” He sneered, his lip curling back over his teeth.

He issued the challenge hoping to get a reaction of some kind, but she disappointed him, slipping off her coat without blinking. The Doc held her arm out for it, already so obedient for her new master. Ice stepped forward, rolling her shoulders to loosen them up.

“Terms?” She asked, raising her hands defensively and placing her left foot back.

“First person whose back hits the ground loses.” He suggested, a little shocked he’d been goaded into issuing the challenge and that she had accepted so easily.

Ice was unreadable, nothing tangible or recognisable behind her eyes. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that someone who could wear a mask that effectively only showed emotion if they wanted it to be seen, so he had a sick feeling in his gut that he was being played. She had reminded him of his reputation and put him down just to get his hackles up. Most likely so she could humiliate him, break him down and prove she was his superior.

He clenched his hand into a fist and struck out, aiming below her raised arms for her ribs. His fist never connected, she moved back and trapped his wrist between her forearms, twisting his arm between hers and pulling him forward, off balance. He let himself stumble forwards, falling to his knees and twisting his upper body so he could slam his elbow into the soft flesh of her waist. She didn’t even grace him with a grunt of pain, but it clearly hurt her because he was able to free his trapped arm and spin away, getting to his feet and facing off against her again.

“You’ve got a lot more fire than your name implies.” He snarled at her.

“Ice can burn you just as badly as fire can.” She smirked, waving him forward to try again.

He feinted left, like he was going for the bruise he’d likely already left and she didn’t flinch, reading his body expertly. He felt a flicker of begrudging respect. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was frozen in place but before he could get the words out she stepped forwards, faster than he had ever seen another human being move. He never stood a chance, the impact of her fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath out of his lungs. She wasn’t overly strong, but she was strong enough. It was her speed and dexterity that made her deadly, because as soon as her knuckles left his ribs she fluidly turned her back to him and stepped into his body, wrapping her arm behind her - around his waist. It all happened in a split second, too fast for him to realise what had happened, never mind defend himself against it as she leant forward, pulling him with her so he was flipped over her shoulder.

As his back slammed towards the ground something twisted inside his heart and it was only decades of Empire training that saved him. He got his feet on the ground first and threw his hands underneath his body, holding his back centimetres off the ground. He saw her raise an eyebrow at his gambled manoeuvre, and her nod of approval sent a wave of anger blazing through him.

He neither wanted nor needed her approval. She was the darling of the Empire, respected by every person residing within it. A life that should have been his, had he not fucked it up. He was the first son of the first family of The Emerald Empire, in the days before the democracy that ruled The Empire now, he would have been a Prince. She was a nobody who had risen through the ranks on nothing more than her own ability, earning what should have been his birthright. She was better than him in every way, and they both knew it. He didn’t want her approval, because it was just thinly veiled pity.

He used his upper body to flip to his feet, holding back the snarl inside his chest as he attacked, raining blow after blow down on her. Most of them were blocked with ease, but a few landed. The seconds ticked away as they engaged in a violent dance, spinning across the floor in a macabre and dangerous waltz. For every blow he managed to land on her, she retaliated with two more. They were far from evenly matched but though she was faster and nimbler, he was stronger and built to take more damage, thus neither of them achieved the upper hand. He realised it was going to be stamina that won the fight, and there was barely a sheen of sweat on her skin. If he wanted to win he wasn’t going to do it by playing to his strengths, he had to play to his weakness.

He waited for an opening, a chance to step forward and leave his face unprotected, steeling himself for the hit that would be coming as a result of it. He’d known it was inevitable, he’d opened himself up to it, and yet he still didn’t see her move. It was only after the side of her fist slammed into the space between his neck and his shoulder that he knew she’d done it, by the pain shooting through him. Agonizing as it was, it was what he needed. He stumbled back, wincing in pain. Ice almost casually followed and kicked his legs out from under him, letting him fall to the ground. At the last possible second he grabbed her wrist and pulled her body into his, cradling her against his chest.

The dull thud of them hitting the ground signalled the end of the fight, the silence that followed only broken by his laboured breathing.

“You lose.” He whispered, pushing himself upright until he was kneeling on the ground.

Ice lay on her back, stunned. He’d used his own fall to bring about hers, pushing her under him in a move she couldn’t have foreseen. After all, she was a warrior and in a real fight, he’d have just gotten himself killed.

He stood up and held his hand out to help her up, but was unceremoniously shoved out of the way.

“Are you alright? Did your head connect with the ground?” The Doc demanded, clucking worriedly and looking over her slightly bemused Captain.

“No, it didn’t. His hand was cradling my head, because he didn’t stumble at all. It was a manoeuvre wasn’t it?” Ice deduced, looking up at him with more of that respect he hated.

He forced a smirk onto his face to mask the ire, glancing around as he only just registered that they’d had an audience. They were clapping for him. For the first time in his life he turned away from the adoration and watched as Ice climbed to her feet, gently swatting away the Docs attempts to help.

“Well done, nobody’s bested me in a long time. A deals a deal, I won’t recruit you.” Ice declared, tugging her coat out of the Docs arms and slipping it back on.

“Seems you’re not washed up after all, you are as good as people think you are,” He admitted, “It just so happens that I’m better.” He added, unable to help himself.

She just nodded, seemingly agreeing with him and walked away. Apparently she meant it, she wouldn’t be trying to recruit him after all, and that meant she had no further use for him. Shaking off the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach he turned back to the crowds and held out his arms.

“Who’s next?”

~~~

“I want to ask if you let him win but I can’t think why you would let your ego take a beating like that.” Jess muttered, side eying Ice with lingering concern as they left the training bays.

Ice pulled the door open and held it for her, frowning slightly.

“I don’t have an ego.” She stated as Jess passed her.

It wasn’t a rebuttal or protest, just a simple irrefutable fact.

“But you’re….”

“I’m what?” Ice pressed when the doctor trailed off.

“Captain Ice.” She uttered, like it should be explanation enough.

“Putting that massive IQ to good use I see. See Daniel, he has an ego,” Ice said, waving her hand in the direction they’d come from, back towards Lieutenant Hart, “And people with ego’s are easy to manipulate. They either develop an ego because people inflate it for them or because they need to inflate it themselves as a shield. Either way, you bruise the ego and you’re an enemy. I need a First Lieutenant, not an enemy.”

“So you don’t have an ego because you don’t want to be weak?” Jess formulated, trying to make sense of her new superior who was more forthcoming than she had expected.

It occurred to her that Ice wasn’t really being all that talkative, she was just answering Jess’s questions, treating her like an equal, letting her work her brain. It was refreshing.

“I don’t have an ego because I am weak, and I know it. Most of the tales they’re telling about me these days aren’t true, and the ones that are have been embellished. Listen to me Doctor,” She demanded, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor and staring Jess down, “Better people than me died in The War… My reputation is fuelled by their bloodshed and built on a foundation of their bones. You’re a scientist so don’t put stock in fairytales, examine the evidence yourself and form your own opinion.”

It was said gently, she wasn’t being scolded, but still, she had to prove that Ice was right to seek her out for the job, to save her from monotony and crime.

“Who’s coat are you wearing?” She asked.

Ice quirked her eyebrow and tilted her head to the side slightly, curious about the sudden line of questioning.

“Captain’s coats end at mid thigh, yours ends mid-calf. There are creases in the leather around the elbows from the amount of times you’ve pushed the sleeves up. The coat wasn’t made for you, it was made for someone much taller.” She continued, pointing out her deductions calmly.

The corner of Ice’s lip twitched minutely in a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ motion.

“You’re right, I was someone else’s. It’s mine now though.” She validated, starting to walk onwards again.

She wanted to ask whose it was but it somehow didn’t seem kind to press the issue any further. After all, most Captain’s didn’t retire.

“Why Lieutenant Hart?” She asked, moving to what seemed like a safer question.

Apparently she’d assumed wrong because Ice just shot a blank look over her shoulder instead of actually answering.

“Why do you need a crew at all? What’s the assignment?” Surely Ice would answer that one, since Jess was going to find out sooner or later anyway.  

“I’ve been assigned to Captain a sector.”

“Which one?” Jess gushed, rushing to fall into step beside Ice again.

A new solar system, dozens of potential planets to explore. The things she could learn and discover, the adventures she could have. Her mind filled with visions of the acid rains of Tregelorth in Sector 3, the black diamond moons of Artemis in Sector 412, the iridescent hallucinogenic gas from the trees of Fairthorlia in Sector 77….

“12.” Ice announced as she swung open the outer doors and stepped outside.

“The armpit?” Jess asked somewhat dejectedly, her daydreams shattered.  

“You were raised here on Heart weren’t you?” Ice scoffed, glancing up at the teal skies above them.

“Yes?”

“Then the armpit is an upgrade considering you grew up in the Empire’s asshole.” Ice informed her.

“What?”

Ice held her arms out, gesturing to the expanse of the Planet.

“This is where all the Empires shit comes from.”

NS Taglist (OPEN) 

@cateyes315​ @severepienerdturkey @justellu​

I can’t explain how grateful I am to everyone who has read this. I’ve had this concept in my mind for years and I have wanted to tell this story for so long. 

Reblogs (especially reblogs), comments, likes, anything you’re willing to give is massively appreciated. 

[notapaladin]

you just gotta let it go

Teocatl sickfic, because Acatl deserves to have someone watch over him when he’s ill and it’s highly cathartic for me. Acatl is, unfortunately, a grumpy patient. Also on AO3!

-

The second day of an illness was the worst.

Granted, the first day had been no garden of roses either. Acatl had gone home at the end of his long working day (two vigils, several hours’ worth of investigations into a nasty murder near the markets, endless accounts to square away) to a hastily-put-together dinner and the comfort of his own mat, but he’d barely lain down for an hour before his guts had begun to cramp and the first swelling of nausea had begun to travel up his throat. He’d thought—hoped—that it would pass. He’d always had a reasonably strong constitution, after all. Perhaps it was merely the heat.

And then he’d started vomiting. Poison had been his first thought, and he’d wiped his mouth and tried to stagger to the door only to faint after a single step. Praise the gods for Ichtaca; the man had heard him groaning as he passed and had leapt into action, sending runners for a healing priest before he could even think about protesting. Not that he’d been doing much thinking by then, honestly—whatever he’d eaten had come back for revenge, and he’d been far too busy trying not to completely disgrace himself. He’d still been retching when the priest of Patecatl had arrived.

At least it wasn’t poison, he’d thought bitterly when he’d gotten the diagnosis. But the sort of illness you got from food that had gone off was downright humiliating, and to make matters worse the only cure was rest and plain meals. Plain. No chili. No other spices. Barely even any salt. If he’d been able to contemplate food without feeling nauseous again, he would have been miserable; as it was, he was waking only to drink water and drag himself to the chamber pot.

Because apparently, even when whatever had been in his guts was now quite comprehensively out of them, it had left its mark behind. He was exhausted. Even his experience with the plague hadn’t left him feeling quite this flattened; each limb felt like the Great Temple had come down on top of it, and he could barely rouse himself from his mat. When he spoke, he slurred his words like a base drunkard.

And of course he was forced to speak, because he had visitors.

He was awoken shortly after dawn by the arrival of not one but two priests of Patecatl. Their cloaks marked them as part of the upper echelons of their temple’s hierarchy, and so he managed not to actually snap at them when they entered. It felt like an achievement just to speak coherently. “Thank you, but I’m feeling much better—“

The older one gave him a stare so full of judgement that he shut his mouth with a pang; it reminded him too much of Ceyaxochitl. “We have to monitor your condition, Acatl-tzin. You are our High Priest for the Dead.”

Right. I don’t stop being High Priest for the Dead, no matter how sick I am. He made a face, but grudgingly sat up a little straighter. Or how much I’d rather be left alone.

At least submitting himself to a full examination didn’t require him to do much except be manhandled, and the healing priests were coolly professional and not inclined to make small talk. It still tired him out, and when the younger priest—Cuetzpalli, apparently—began casting a spell to strengthen his stomach, he actually found himself dozing off. The cut-grass smell of Patecatl’s magic was remarkably soothing when you were more than semi-conscious for it.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He blinked awake. Cuetzpalli had stopped chanting and was eyeing him with mild concern as he offered a hand to help him sit up again. He ignored it; he was not so far gone that he couldn’t manage that, even if the motion made his muscles ache. “My apologies. What’s the verdict?”

Cuetzpalli didn’t seem fazed by his curtness. No doubt he’d seen much worse, though he was barely a few years older than Teomitl; healing priests saw people at their very lowest, after all, and an irritated High Priest probably wasn’t even worth noting. “No poison nor magic that we can detect. Your dinner seems to have simply...disagreed with you. You’ll feel...ah, reasonably terrible for a week or so, but you are in no danger.” His face twisted in singularly unhelpful sympathy.

Acatl’s fists clenched in his lap. A week? Duality, I cannot afford to be laid low for that long! Horrible visions of his temple in disarray and the boundaries crumbling like old paper flickered through his mind, and he fought a grimace. No. It would be fine. He would return to his duties tomorrow, suffer through bland food until his guts settled, and everything would be fine. “Hrm.”

“You’ll be alright, young man.” The older priest—Necalli—didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly as he looked him over. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

He couldn’t make any promises, but he was spared from having to lie; their visit apparently being over, Cuetzpalli was packing up their supplies. Soon they had both left, bowing very politely, and he’d collapsed on his mat again. Some vague twinge in his belly suggested he should attempt food, but even fetching one of the bland flatbreads Ichtaca had left for him seemed like a monumental effort. No, he would just lay here for now until he felt...well, not better, but at least more alert.

He slept. He woke, found the ache in his stomach had progressed to actual pangs of hunger, and choked down a few mouthfuls of dry flatbread and a cup of water before his gorge rose in protest. Right. No more food for me. He slept again. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the sunlight moving across his floor, the humid air laying on his skin like a blanket. He lay like a lizard on his back, gently baking in the heat.

And then the entry curtain jingled. “Acatl?”

Oh, gods. Mihmatini’s voice. Groaning, he heaved himself upright, muscles protesting. “Ngghhh…” At some point he’d closed his eyes, and it seemed to take real effort to keep them open. Duality, he hoped it was only an ill-chosen meal, and not something more serious.

She sounded concerned. He was sick of concern. “We brought soup.”

...We…? The thoughts floating through his head were slow to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, but finally he realized that she wasn’t alone and managed to wedge his eyes open. There was Mihmatini, brow furrowed, holding a clay jug in both hands. And beside her, face twisted in worry, was Teomitl. “...Oh.” He felt vaguely nauseous again.

She didn’t wait for him to invite her in, or even to rise; he watched, still feeling three steps behind reality, as she set the jug down on his table and went looking for spoons. “I really can’t believe I had to hear from Ichtaca that you were ill, Acatl, really—do you know how worried I’ve been? Food poisoning is nothing to dismiss!”

“It’s passed.” It had. Mostly. He had decided against making any sudden movements.

“Nobody gets over food poisoning that fast.” That was Teomitl, leaning in the doorway and frowning down at him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

He frowned back, even as some part of his heart felt unaccountably warmed; Teomitl’s concern might be touching, but by the Duality it wasn’t as though he’d tried to get sick. “...I take care of myself just fine.”

Teomitl turned his face away, glowering at the wall as though it had insulted his honor. Acatl knew by the face he made that he was probably chewing on the inside of his lip plug again; he wondered, not for the first time, if Teomitl had ever realized he only did that when he was agitated. He hoped he didn’t; it was oddly endearing, and he’d miss the sight. “What did the healing priests say?”

He grimaced at the reminder. “Very plain fare. And sleep.”

Mihmatini uncovered the jug, and the odor of plain, hot, and—suddenly most important for his stomach, which growled loudly enough that he blushed—salty turkey broth met his nostrils. “Do you think you could keep this down?”

For his sister, he’d try. Slowly, he nodded. “...Thank you.”

He hadn’t expected them to linger, but—evidently realizing that he absolutely wouldn’t be able to finish all of the soup by himself—they took their own seats at his table. It was pleasant not to eat alone in his own house for once. Teomitl was uncharacteristically quiet and kept glancing at Acatl out of the corner of his eye; before he thought of commenting on it, Mihmatini spoke up. “How is it?”

He looked down at his bowl and realized with a start that he’d nearly finished it. Each lift of the spoon to his mouth had been like trying to move a boulder, but he’d clearly been hungrier than he thought. “...It’s good. Did you make it?”

Mihmatini snorted, shaking her head. “From the palace kitchens. I’m not this good a cook.”

Teomitl huffed, “You’re a wonderful cook.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “And you are a shameless flatterer.”

“I am being perfectly truthful—tell her, Acatl!”

Acatl blinked. He’d briefly felt himself in danger of falling asleep in his soup bowl, and it took him a moment to reapply himself to the conversation. True, Mihmatini was a skilled cook—but it was equally true that no priest of Patecatl would prescribe her food for him. It had entirely too much flavor, and the way she made soup would put meat back on the bones of a corpse. “...He’s right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m in no state to appreciate it at the moment.”

She looked supremely unimpressed. He could actually see the moment she swallowed a sharp retort and picked up her spoon again. “I can see that. You look awful.”

He felt awful. Eating had helped briefly, but as soon as it settled in his stomach he had to battle another spike of nausea. If he stopped leaning on the table, he had a feeling he’d fall over. “Thanks.”

Mihmatini sighed, pushing her now-empty bowl away. “I wish I could stay, but I have to get back to the Duality House.”

“Guardian lessons?”

She made a face. Acatl couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t told him much of what her unexpected ascension to Guardianship had entailed, but what little she’d let slip suggested it was unpleasant. If nothing else, she was having to learn in weeks what took most women years. He did not envy her. “Guardian lessons.”

Teomitl reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and for a moment Acatl was concerned. Had they had a fight at some point? But then she smiled, warm as always. “You’d better. Remember what we were talking about earlier.”

Teomitl swallowed hard and nodded. “Mm.”

And then she rose gracefully, favoring Acatl with that same narrow-eyed assessing look. “And as for you, you’d better take it easy. Ichtaca told us you collapsed a few times last night.”

It wasn’t like he’d made a habit out of it. Besides, the floor had been comfortable even with last night’s nagging, irrational concern that he might fail to wake up. He glared back at her. “I’m much stronger now. I’ve no intention of fainting on anyone.”

“Don’t worry.” Teomitl smiled, and the brief flash of radiant warmth made Acatl’s face heat. “I won’t let you.”

She sniffed, unswayed. “Hm. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

And then Mihmatini left, and they were alone. Acatl found, suddenly, that he couldn’t quite manage to look Teomitl in the face. The gods knew Teomitl had seen him injured before—had taken care of him, even, and Acatl knew he’d never forget confident hands bandaging his wounds or strong arms helping him to safety—but injuries were one thing. It was entirely different to be ill and run-down in front of Teomitl, who valued strength so highly, when he could barely muster the energy to stand. In a moment. In a moment I’ll get up and clear the table. I don’t need a—a nursemaid, Tlaloc’s lightning strike me. He just needed to brace himself and move slowly.

Teomitl beat him to it. He was already on his feet and clearing away the remnants of their meal when Acatl set a hand on the table to heave himself up; when he caught sight of the movement, he glared down at him. “Stay still. I’ll handle it.”

He could force himself to his feet; he’d worked in worse conditions and through much greater pain. But somehow, it didn’t really seem worth it to argue. So he stayed where he was and prayed for patience. “...So you’re to keep me company, then?”

Teomitl turned to look over his shoulder at him, eyes dark and serious. “Someone should.”

He took a slow breath. Even through his exhaustion, the reminder of his state stung bitterly. Gods, isn’t it bad enough that I’m ill? Must I have witnesses? “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t.” And then Teomitl smiled, teasingly innocent, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat even as he continued, “But isn’t it the job of the student to tend to his master’s needs?”

His eyes narrowed. Irritation was starting to revitalize him; in some small part of his mind, he suspected this was Teomitl’s plan. “...And you aren’t my student anymore.” He hasn’t been since...the courtyard? No, before that. It just took me too long to see it. He is my friend, my brother-in-law, and one day he’ll be my Revered Speaker. But he’s not my student, and he shouldn’t have to take care of me even if he was.

Teomitl sat down by him, within arm’s reach but not touching. Acatl found himself glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he was alert enough not to give in to any...urges he might have. His former student’s shoulders looked appealingly solid. “I know that, too. But...let me anyway?” He paused, looking him over with soft eyes. “Please?”

Oh, no. Not the please. It struck him harder than a physical blow, and he had to look away. Duality preserve him, he’d thought those feelings would fade; it was a terrible time to be proven wrong. I should be stronger than this. “...I won’t…” He blinked, suddenly almost too tired to make his tongue work. The soup had only been a temporary boost after all. “’M sorry. I won’t be a very good host.”

“...That’s alright.” Teomitl was smiling at him again, and he couldn’t bear it. “Rest, Acatl. I’ll be here when you wake.”

He couldn’t let that pass without comment, no matter how much that same small, treacherous part of him was warmed by the thought of companionship. “...Your own duties…”

Now Teomitl did reach over, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. It warmed him to his bones. “Over for the day. Lay down.”

He couldn’t do anything but obey. Even the simple act of sitting up and eating had wrung him out like a damp rag; he could have passed out on a bed of obsidian shards. His thin mat was a miracle in comparison, and he managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to watch as Teomitl settled down on his haunches and swept him with a slow, considering look. The thought that slid through his mind like a snake—gods, you could kiss me if you wanted—still wasn’t a match for the tides of sleep pulling him under.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Teomitl’s back. It was, he thought idly, a very nice back; he’d shed his cloak for the sake of the heat, and so Acatl had an excellent view of the line of his waist and the curve of his spine. There were no scars upon it, for he would never be one to willingly turn his back on a foe. The knowledge lifted his heart with a kind of soft pride. My fearless man. You who will lead Tenochtitlan to glory. I cannot wait to see what kind of Emperor you’ll make.

Then Teomitl stretched, back arching, and the affection curling gently through him sparked into something hotter and darker. Gods, he’d almost forgotten. He could go days now without thinking about the warmth of Teomitl’s voice or the strength of his hands, but here he was being reminded—viscerally—that they couldn’t be ignored forever.

He must have made a noise, because Teomitl turned to look at him. “Acatl? Ah, you’re awake. What do you need?”

His mouth had gone dry at some point. Swallowing didn’t help. “...Water.” If nothing else, it would be cold. He could use the cold.

Teomitl rose to fetch water, and he busied himself with trying to sit up. It took a few attempts as his heavy limbs fought his control, but by the time Teomitl returned he’d managed the disgustingly difficult task of rolling over. Teomitl’s hand between his shoulderblades steadied him as he heaved himself up the rest of the way, and for a long moment he drank in silence.  

It wasn’t until Teomitl took his hand away and sat down next to him that he found words. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Teomitl jerked away, glaring at him; for all that he’d only spoken the truth, Acatl still felt himself flush. “Did you think I would leave you alone?!”

“It must be late.” It was. The afternoon sun had turned dim and gold, sinking into Teomitl’s skin and hair. Sunset couldn’t be far behind, and he would be well enough to properly offer blood to the gods again. There was no need for Teomitl to watch over him like a mother jaguar with cubs. But he wants to, whispered his mind, and he took another sip of water to cool the heat of his skin.

“I don’t care.” Duality, and he growled like a jaguar, too. Though he huffily turned his face away, Acatl saw his hand twitch; it was all the warning he got before it came down to rest atop his own free one. “You stayed with me when I was ill, and that was contagious. Do you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

He couldn’t think. Teomitl’s hand was on his, calloused and warm, and he was fairly sure all sensation in his body had been rerouted to that single point of contact. He was surprised he hadn’t dropped the cup, and managed to set it down before he could. “I—uh.” He was unconscious, deep in his delirium. I didn’t think he’d remember. Gods, I was so afraid he’d never even wake. But he did...and…

It seemed to take an eternity for him to dredge up a full sentence from the mire of his thoughts. “You don’t...have to…”

Teomitl might as well have been making a royal proclamation; his voice held nothing but certainty. “Yes. I do.”

“...Oh.” It seemed to be all he could say. There was more locked behind his teeth—you are the best of men, I don’t deserve you, you’re a reckless fool sometimes but that’s alright because you still hold my whole heart safe in your hands—but he didn’t dare open his mouth and let it fly out. If he started down that road, he’d never stop.

For a long while, Teomitl was silent. Though he sat as still as a statue, the fingers covering Acatl’s own twitched as though he wanted to curl them around his hand. Finally, still without looking at him, he spoke. “When I heard you had been taken ill...gods, Acatl, I was terrified.”

Storm Lord’s lightning blast him. He couldn’t even attempt a reassuring smile, for Teomitl’s words struck him to the core. Still, he mustered up the energy somewhere to make an effort. “I’ve felt worse than this and lived. You needn’t have worried.”

Teomitl swiveled around to glare at him, eyes hot and suspiciously bright. “Don’t say that! Don’t you know how important you are to me?”

“Ngkh.” He knew he was blushing again, but he couldn’t have torn his eyes from Teomitl’s face if his life had depended on it. “I…” I am High Priest for the Dead. His teacher. His friend. That’s all he means. “But—“

“No buts.” Teomitl shook his head, squeezing his hand tightly. “You have to take care of yourself, Acatl. Understand? I don’t...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I can’t lose you.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a dizzying moment he thought he was going to faint again. “You won’t.” He knew as he said it that it was an empty promise, but it was true. Even if I die tomorrow. Even if I die right now, he’ll never lose me.

He inhaled. I have to tell him. “Last night...I thought I was going to die.” It had been a fleeting thought somewhere between the second time he’d collapsed and the dozenth time he’d vomited, but it had stuck with him until he’d simply been too tired to fear it anymore. There was only one thing he would have regretted, after all. Now Teomitl was staring at him in horror, but he made himself press on. “And I thought of you. I thought—if I died here, I would never get to tell you I—“ But courage failed him, and he swallowed with a dry click.

Teomitl was still staring at him. “...Acatl?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a coward’s move, but then he had always been one, hadn’t he? “I love you. I wanted to be sure you knew.”

He heard a slow, deep breath. A shaky whisper of “Acatl,” more shock than outrage.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

His mind went entirely blank. There was only the soft pressure of warm lips on his, slow and careful and gods, so gentle. He had no idea what he was doing, but Teomitl clearly did; he tilted his head just so, parted his lips just a fraction, and Acatl was lost. Gods, he thought dizzily, I love you so much. Teomitl slid strong arms around his waist, and for a moment he thought that hold was the only thing keeping him upright. He wondered if it was possible to swoon just from a single kiss.

When Teomitl pulled away, his eyes were shining. “I can hardly believe...Duality, Acatl.” He gave a little shake of his head, as though to express the utter impossibility of their situation. “I was half convincing myself to give up.”

Acatl blinked at him as the words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. “You...what?!”

Now it was Teomitl’s turn to blush. “I have wanted you for—gods, for years. I knew it was hopeless, but when I thought I would lose you…”

Things clicked slowly into place in Acatl’s mind. Years, he said. Years. “...Does Mihmatini know?” He remembered her hard-eyed stare, the way Teomitl had looked almost nervous. He wouldn’t be the cause of strife between them, no matter how much Teomitl made his heart race.

Teomitl sighed, dropping his gaze. He was still flushed, but Acatl judged it more embarrassment than guilt. “She does.”

“Then...what she mentioned, about you two having spoken earlier…”

“She...suggested I consider the possibility of mentioning my feelings.” Knowing Mihmatini, suggested was probably far too polite a word. But Teomitl quirked up a smile, then, and added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to it.”

He swallowed. “I had to let you know. You have to know—you’ll never lose me. Ever. I love you too much for that.”

For a moment, Teomitl simply stared at him—face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes heated—and Acatl knew he was going to be kissed again. Knew it and welcomed it, lingering illness be damned. He would figure out a way to be kissed by Teomitl if he were dead.

And then he grinned teasingly and murmured, “Then you’d best focus your energies on getting well again, hadn’t you?” and Acatl had to stifle an urge to groan.

[monkeymindscream]

What are your thoughts on Krinkle?

Random question, but I can work with it.

A couple years ago I made a post talking about how Krinkle was my least favorite character in the show. I’ve since written for him a fair bit, and have come to realize he is really fun to write.

Like - y’know how actors will talk about how much fun it is to play a villain, because they get to do things they wouldn’t normally get to when playing a hero? It’s kind of like that. When things happen with other characters, their responses need to be within certain parameters of logic. All that goes out the window with Krinkle. Something can happen and instead of moving from point A to conclusion B, Krinkle can jump all the way to point XIII. The plot he’s following will always be four steps to the left of whatever the main cast is doing, because he willfully exists in a narrative all his own. That is immensely entertaining to write, and to date the pieces I’ve written from his perspective are among the things I view least critically of my work. I’ve become paradoxically fond of him as a result.

...to a degree. I unfortunately still find it really difficult to sympathize with him at all. Frankly I find it difficult to understand how anyone could sympathize with him. Him specifically, I mean; I can completely understand feeling sympathetic/bad about the position he ends up in. But towards him personally as a character? Ehhhhhhhhh...

Something I realized while pondering how to phrase this whole thing was I never really interpreted Krinkle as a depiction of mental illness. I mean that’s absolutely what he ended up being, and regrettably not an especially flattering one at that. Which I mean - early 2000s, what can ya do besides try to be better moving forward? But anyway yeah even as a young kid watching the show for the first time, I always saw Krinkle as more of an exaggerated parody of a crazy fan, not a crazy person. Primarily because he was exhibiting traits I’d seen around forums and in fanfics at the time, just cranked up to 11. 

For example, his first appearance sees him attempting a very popular method fanfic writers would use to get their OCs on the Team. Specifically the Team would be in trouble, the OC would swoop in to help, and BAM now they’re a Hyperforce member. Plus his entire second appearance is basically one giant spoof of a self-insert fanfic as a whole: The aforementioned insert takes the main character’s place on for no reason, the insert has all of the same powers of the main plus a lot they don’t, they have a tragic backstory, the whole world (and plot) is centered around them and their whims, all that. 

That’s how most of Krinkle’s plans play out, honestly - he tries to apply fanfic logic to his actual life, and then gets angry when his leading actors don’t stick to his script. And his actions seem too... how to put this - pointed? from the writers’ end to not have been intentional. Which is why I don’t think he was supposed to be a stereotype of mental illness, but rather a playful jab at the fandom. 

He turned into a stereotype of mental illness anyway (showing him in a padded room certainly didn’t help), but for what it’s worth I don’t think it was the goal. Which calls forth a separate conversation regarding writer intent vs. fan interpretation, but that’s a whole thing just on its own. So I’ll drop this point here. 

Going back to me not personally feeling any sympathy for him - I openly acknowledge that’s maybe a little weird considering how ardently I’ve played devil’s advocate to some of the other villains from this show, but hear me out.  The others are often SO over the top and Saturday morning cartoon supervillain-y that I have an exceedingly difficult time feeling a genuine emotional response to their actions beyond “mm. bad. don’t do that.” Moreover, the worst of what the other villains do would be rendered impossible if the fantastical elements of the show were removed, which again makes it hard to feel especially offended by them.

Krinkle, though? All else stripped away, a considerable chunk of what Krinkle does is still both very possible and very unsettling. You can connect a lot of his behaviors to real-life stalkers. And it gets really hard for me to reconcile this stuff with the kids’ show he’s in, sometimes. What I’m trying to say is sometimes he feels a little too... real, for me, I guess.

Further muddling my opinion on Krinkle is that - whenever I see him being discussed - I get unreasonably defensive on the Team’s behalf. It always seems to swing back around to how badly they handled the situation. For example there was one comment I saw on A Man Called Krinkle on YouTube years ago (like I’m talking "if you wanted to upload the episodes you had to split them into three parts” YEARS ago) where someone basically said how sorry they felt for Krinkle, and was berating the Team for putting him on Ranger 7.

Ohhhhohoho y’all-

So, first issue I take with this, just straight off the cuff: What the hell was the Team supposed to have done differently? Kept him around, tried to fix his issues themselves? Visited him at Ranger 7, fed into his delusions to make him feel better, perhaps? Does this person expect real life stalking victims to make an active effort to help their stalkers get well, too? 

Also- ALSO: The Team is comprised of five (canonically somewhat socially-isolated) monkeys and a freshly thirteen-year-old child. The “adults” in the situation’s response to their first leader going ‘round the bend was “PUT HIM TO SLEEP FOREVER,” presumably because they just didn’t know what else to do. How could any of them possibly know what to do with some rando who had mental health issues clearly beyond what they were capable of helping? One who - I’d like to remind everyone - broke into their home, took them hostage, attempted to force them to unwittingly kill the kid they’d adopted, and then tried to commit murder-suicide?

(I realize that this is swiftly turning into me just getting feisty about this one comment from a minimum of 14 years ago. Look at me care.)

Also... this might just be me interpreting things wrong, but Krinkle kinda, sorta... doesn’t seem to want any help? Or acknowledge that his actions are in the wrong at all? Because okay, he claims he built his own “perfect world”  because he was sick of humanity (and wherein everything has his face and his every whim is immediately catered to; don’t try to tell me that shit don’t mean anything). And to even get the chance to build that world, he had to forcefully take over the facility that was conceivably trying to help him get better. That feels... pretty indicative of how much (or little, rather) he must’ve cared about improving. Which, if this is accurate, means that Krinkle was actively choosing to continue risking harm to other people and putting his needs and wants over theirs.

So um. Those are my thoughts, I guess? I think it’s interesting to explore his psyche but I really, really dislike him as a person. Obviously if you do like him/feel sorry for him/disagree with me on any count that’s completely fine. You’re absolutely entitled to your opinion. But yeah, that’s personally where I stand.

[mendesmelancholy]

Marks - Chapter 1

A Shawn Mendes Series

Chapter 2 Synopsis: A series where Shawn meets a fan in a tattoo parlour and gets a matching tattoo with her which sparks an unexpected dynamic between two people, learning how to love regardless of their mental illnesses. Warnings: mentions of past self harm Word Count: 4k Author’s Note: I’m actually so unbelievably excited to share this series with you. A massive thank you goes to @shawnscheekscar​ who helped me figure out this idea and let me talk about my ideas and encourage them. I think this series is so important to people our age who suffer with mental illnesses on what a healthy relationship is. It is possible to be loved and to love. And I hope this series shows you that. With love, Isabella x Post A.N.: If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know!

     The last thing he expects when he walks into the tattoo parlour was for his song to be playing over the speakers. The heavy sound of the needle moving swirls with, yet contrasts against the gentle picking of the guitar flowing through the small space. He bites at his lip, trying to hide the smile so unmistakably tugging at his cheeks. He adores the tattoo artist’s sense of humour, and whilst some singers find a tattoo artist listening to their music uncanny, especially if the artist was unaware they would be early, he found it flattering and amusing.

     He unconsciously starts humming along to the end of the song, walking up to the counter and ringing the bell, placing the cardboard coffee carrier he’s holding on the counter. The music was so powerful he isn’t sure the artist could hear it, but he waits and he glances around the parlour. 

     The artist, Tony, had made a house call to his apartment in Los Angeles when Shawn was around and wanted his new ink. Now, Shawn insisted he actually came into the parlour this time, that Tony driving all the way across LA for a small tattoo was idiotic and Shawn was more than able to make time in his hectic schedule to drive to the parlour. He’s glad he did, as the parlour is spotless compared to his messy bachelor pad apartment, with a receptionist desk pushed up against the left wall and comfortable lounge chairs in a circle on the right side of the room. The walls are dark grey and the floors are gleaming white marble, contrasted by the black furniture and picture frames littered in the lobby.

     Shawn peaks down the narrow hallway, the several tiny areas sectioned off for each individual tattoo artist. He only hears one gun going along with the song slowly fading out. He glances at the clock on the wall above the desk and saw the gleaming 5:55 am. He originally figured Tony would open early for him to avoid any gawking fans or nosey people. He didn’t think there was someone before him.

     And on top of his song playing over the speakers, Shawn certainly doesn’t expect for it to loop back and start over again. That’s when he hears a small voice that doesn’t belong to Tony speak up,

     “Thank you for letting me listen to this song whilst you do this tattoo.”

     “Of course,” Tony’s hoarse voice matches his appearance. It was deep and burly - just like Tony. His entire body was covered in tattoos and his head was shaven, “You’re getting a tattoo for it. It’d be dumb if you didn’t listen to the song.”

     Shawn’s breath catches in his throat at Tony’s comment. He grasps his coffee from the carrier and cautiously steps forward, closer to the voices.

     “How’d you get his handwriting?”

     “Jenny met him at LAX and got it for me. She was waiting at the airport for me to get in and my flight had been delayed and she saw him in the queue for coffee. She had gone up to him and gotten him to write it out for me. By the time I saw her, he was gone,” she lets out a soft laugh and Tony replies, but Shawn’s brain is elsewhere.

     He wracks his brain for the memory and finds it concealed away somewhere in the corner. He remembers the girl coming up to him. He can’t remember what she looked like, other than her light brown hair and full smile. She briefly mentioned she was waiting for her friend’s flight to get in and her friend had been dying to get him to write a tattoo out for her. He didn’t think much of it as it was 4:03 am and he didn’t process the word ‘tattoo’. But, he smiled slackly, took a picture with the girl and wrote out the tattoo in Sharpie. The girl thanked him over and over again before finally answering her phone that had been vibrating ever since he started writing the lyrics on the back of a piece of paper - with what he assumed was her friend’s flight information.

     Shawn’s initial small smile he donned when he walked in the door was now a full-blown grin as he gets closer to Tony’s station. He remains silent, Tony’s glance flickering to him quickly before dropping his left eye into a small wink and turning back to the girl sitting in the tattoo chair. It clicks for Shawn then. Tony knew the girl was coming in with Shawn’s lyrics, early one morning and arranged Shawn’s appointment to be right after hers. Whether the interaction was for Shawn or the girl was unclear, but he can’t help but think Tony is a fucking genius. 

     Shawn cranes his neck to see the tattoo he’s working on. It’s on the girl’s upper right thigh, all the way at the top where her joint is. He notices the faint glow of red on her skin from the irritation of the needle and the blood Tony periodically wipes from her skin. The thick letters of his writing are permanently being embedded in her skin right before his very eyes. Also embedded in her skin are thick, white lines. Scarring, that was certainly intentional. Her tan, olive tone skin shows the white lines very clearly. Some of them are tinted with pink, suggesting they aren’t especially new, but they are the most recent ones out of the dozens, maybe even hundreds, on her legs. Shawn feels his smile dim slightly, trying to think of whether or not the lyrics he originally wrote down are being tattooed in a positive or negative light, ‘Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I just can’t - it isn’t in my blood.’

     He looks at the girl, noticing her dark, curly brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and the several piercings in her ears. Two are in her lobes with three more in her cartilage. Shawn shifts to the other wall to get a better look at the girl and the work Tony was doing. He wonders to himself if he should make his presence known or simply sip his coffee and observe and do what would be considered eavesdropping. He decides on the latter, knowing the perfect moment to introduce himself would occur when it was ready and he shouldn’t force it.

     Tony starts the word ‘like’ on her tattoo when she speaks again, in the same delicate voice she uttered in earlier, “Thanks for the other few tattoos. Sorry I’ve gotten so many today.

     “Not a problem, dear. They’re on the house anyway.”

     “No way,” her voice is quiet yet rigid, surprising Shawn slightly as she sits up, “I’m paying you.”

     "Dear-"

     Her voice is now a whisper, "No, Tony-" 

     “-It’s the least I can do,” he glances up at her with a look in his eyes and a character in his voice Shawn thinks is a mix of guilt and regret and sorrow and she pauses, sighing and settling back in her seat.

     “Okay,” she’s quiet afterward, “I’m gonna change the song.” She changes the topic as Shawn senses the unease rolling off her shoulders at what appears to be a heavy topic.

     “If you’re sure,” Tony’s voice is back to its original tone, the flicker of history gone as soon as it had appeared. The girl being in early made more sense if Tony knew her from somewhere else. He was too young for her to be her daughter and their body language was too foreign for them to be brother and sister. Shawn tries to decipher the dynamic between them when the song suddenly switches. 

     The introduction of the song seems tame, but fifteen seconds in, the guitars drop into a sequence of riffs, the drums crash and the bass threads through the speakers and scares the absolute shit out of Shawn. He yelps, the original quiet ambience of the tattoo parlour gone as the heavy rock song takes over. His coffee hits the floor with an unappealing smack, his beverage spilling all over the meticulous marble floors.

     “God damn motherfucking shit,” he swears, lurching to Tony’s metal tray next to the chair and fumbling for the roll of paper towels.

     The girl squeaks in surprise, shifting to look at the commotion as Tony stops his work and starts laughing. He switches the needle off and puts it down, handing Shawn some paper towels as he and Shawn bend down to clean up the hot coffee.

     “Goddamnit, I’m so sorry,” Shawn splutters, his cheeks heating up to a temperature that feels hotter than the coffee and keeps his head down.

     “Oh my God,” the girl whispers, recognising the curly brown hair from anywhere. She looks down at his hands to confirm her suspicions. There lays a swallow tattoo and it sends her into a spiral. Whether it was from her lack of sleep, the amount of caffeine in her blood, the pain of her tattoo or the shock of seeing the man who wrote a song that meant more to her than she could put into words - she becomes unstable. She leans back in her chair, looking at the ceiling as her mind fumbles to find a way to cope with the dizziness and anxiety that has crawled its way into her throat. 

     The steady strumming of the lone electric guitar grabs her attention and makes her listen to the song. She shuts her eyes and concentrates, “I reserve my right to feel uncomfortable, reserve my right to feel afraid, I make mistakes and I am humbled every step of the way, I want to be a better person, I wanna know the master plan, Cast your stones, cast your judgement, you don't make me who I am,” she shakily murmurs along to the lyrics of the song, trying to steady the pounding of her heart and the fuzziness in her head. The lyrics repeat in the song and she follows, eventually, the melody coaxing her out of her head and into a calm state.

     Shawn doesn’t hear her mumbling to herself or even notice she recognises him, as he’s down on his hands and knees, soaking up the coffee as Tony laughs at the fright. Tony helps, not saying a word to Shawn as he throws the soaked paper towels in the bin, holding out a hand to Shawn so he can throw Shawn’s away as well. Shawn gives him a sheepish smile, walking around the chair, glancing at the girl with her eyes closed and immediately panics,

     “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He asks hurriedly. The girl’s eyes snap open and she takes a sharp breath at his proximity. It takes her a moment, but she answers with an exhale,

     “Yeah, I’m good.” She runs her hand through her hair, giving him a weak smile. He nods, reading the anxiety on her face with ease as he understands the look well. A look he’s all too familiar with when he would look in the mirror. He turns away, giving her space as he turns to the small sink on the counter of Tony’s station. Next to the sink is a neat array of ink pigments, unopened needles and transfer paper. His station is just as meticulous as the lobby.

     When Shawn finishes washing his hands, he dries them off on his jeans, turning back to the girl who had been observing him. She doesn’t blush, but rather offers him a small smile,

     “Sorry, I’m not usually this anxious.”

     “I understand, honey,” he says, pointing to the empty seat in the corner of the room, behind Tony who’s changed his gloves and picked up the tattoo gun again. She nods in confirmation and Shawn notices the song switching to something still rock, but not quite as startling.

     “Hey, it’ll be a while longer,” Tony mentions to Shawn who takes a seat and looks at the girl. He notices her eyes, which are several shades darker than his, and the sunspots that decorate her sun-kissed cheeks. Her lips are rosy and plump, her upper teeth dug into her bottom lip as Tony presses the needle back into her skin. Shawn watches as Tony continues his work, fixated on the way his words are being inked into this girl’s skin, for the rest of her life.

     “That was nice of your friend,” Shawn finally states, looking up at the girl who makes eye contact with him at the sound of his voice. She sends him a small smile, grimacing a little as Tony’s needle moves closer to her inner thighs, the tender skin despising the pinch of the needle, 

     “Hey, it’s okay,” Shawn coos, getting up and pushing his chair closer to hers. He sits in his chair, laying a hand on hers which is gripping the edge of the tattoo chair.

     “Told you it’d be sensitive,” Tony grunts, trying to move quickly, but accurately so he can start the line beneath it and move from the fragile space.

     “Shut up, Tony,” she replies quietly and Shawn laughs. Tony rolls his eyes in a light-hearted manner, continuing his work.

     “You can hold my hand if you want,” Shawn tells her and she looks at him, nervous and unsure if he’s being serious. He nudges her hand with his and holds out his palm for her to take if she wants. She slowly nods and moves her hand from the death grip on the leather seat to the soft hand held out to her. Her hand is much more petite than his as she threads her fingers in between his. He nods encouragingly at her, ignoring the tickle in his stomach, while she relaxes and drops her head back against the chair.

      “Thank you,” she sighs.

     “My pleasure.” His touch seems to relax her, her shoulders releasing themselves from the tight position that hugged her neck. She rolls her head to the side to look at Shawn,

     “I’m also pretty good with pain.”

     “This is the most reaction I’ve ever seen out of you,” Tony comments, finishing the comma after ‘up’ and moving to the outer part of her thigh where the ‘but’ is stencilled under the freshly tattooed ‘sometimes’. She audibly lets out a groan of relief, her grip on Shawn’s hand lightening, but not completely letting go.

     “It’s also 6 am, you’re allowed to be all of these things,” Shawn’s voice eases over her pain and anxiety like butter and she nearly melts at the tone. Her rough exterior which usually occupies her face and posture is gone, the exhaustion and pain catching up to her and letting her put her guard down. The girl who claims to have a stern voice and high pain tolerance is gone and replaced with the anxious, tired girl who’s having a hard time with this tattoo. Whether it was Shawn startling her that set her nerves ablaze, the change of a heavy song to a smooth song or the exhaustion catching up to her was not certain, he just hopes she was okay and comfortable.

     “Thank you,” she yawns, closing her eyes as her small nose scrunches and the silent movement of her mouth takes over her features. He feels her arms tense slightly and her shoulders raise, but she relaxes them and settles back in her seat.

     “Of course, honey,” Shawn coos, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

     “What are you getting done today?” She asks, trying to create a conversation. Shawn notices the delicate nature of her voice, a soft, silky tone that seems to suit her small stature, but powerful presence.

     “A butterfly… I’ve always wanted one,” he admits.

     “Can I see a picture?”

     “Of course, darling,” Shawn adds another pet name and it makes her cheeks flush, but Shawn doesn’t notice. His gaze turns towards his phone, his left hand never leaving hers. She looks at him with interest, noticing the small things like his hair being free of product, his curls sticking every which way. His cheeks are flushed from she assumes was exhaustion, but what she didn’t know, it was really from the warmth of her fingers between his. He sports a worn, salmon jumper and black sweatpants, which both seem to fit him perfectly and swallow him whole. His normalcy at 6 am is comforting.

     When he finds the picture, he turns the phone to show the girl with curious eyes. Her face seems to light up, looking at the design,

     “Oh my god, you’re getting it?”

     Shawn chuckles, locking his phone and shoving it into his jumper, “Yeah.”

     “I think it looks fantastic, honestly,” she says, a little accent to her voice.

     “Where are you from?” He asks suddenly. She’s surprised at his attention to her broken tone.

     “I was born in America. I live in London for school and come back to America for the summer. Right now I’m doing a paid internship in New York.”

     “That’s incredible,” Shawn admires, watching her plump lips move. They glisten in the fluorescent lights of the tattoo parlour and he can’t help but wonder what they taste like.

     “Yeah, I love it in London, but I wouldn’t trade my internship for the world,” she smiles, glancing down briefly at the tattoo Tony was working on. Shawn follows her gaze, not daring to look any further up her, what seems like, silky skin. His eyes flicker over the scarring as they had earlier, noticing how deep most of them went. She notices his eyes trailing along with the scars,

     “This might be oversharing,” she starts, reaching over to the countertop where her coffee cup lays, almost as if she’s trying to distract herself, “But, the lyrics, kind of relate to those.” Shawn blushes at being caught staring at something so incredibly personal. He thinks he wouldn’t have ever known they were there if she wasn’t getting her tattoo on her leg, so why is he mindlessly staring at them?

     Her voice takes him out of his thoughts, “If you’d care to-”

     “-Of course,” he looks into her eyes and they’re warm and calm and seemingly open to sharing.

     “Well, the scars kind of represent how badly I wanted to end things, even though I didn’t have the courage,” she takes a deep breath, sipping at the coffee still in her hand, “But, I didn’t. I felt like giving up, but I couldn’t. And I got through it.”

     Shawn’s watching the way her eyes never leave his or show any sort of pain as she explains her thought process. There’s no pain from the tattoo or pain in her eyes. The peace remains and Shawn can’t help but feel completely and utterly at ease in her presence.

     “Yes, you did,” Shawn reassures her and she gives him a small smile. It’s so unbelievably genuine.

     “What’s the butterfly for?” She pries, taking the topic off herself again. Shawn quickly wonders to himself if she doesn’t like talking about herself. Or anything about her past. Her vague answers shed enough light on why she was getting the tattoo, but not what she went through which inspired her to get the tattoo. And Shawn thinks maybe she changed the subject so he wouldn’t have a chance to ask.

     “I’ve always had a fascination with them,” he admits, “They’re so delicate and beautiful in this incredibly dark world and I kind of want to get it as a reminder to stay positive and beautiful in dark times.”

     “That’s beautiful,” she admits, looking at the swallow on his hand and the guitar-shaped landscape on his arm. He takes a second to glance at her exposed skin for other tattoos. He notices a small satellite on the side of her left knee, wrapped in the tattoo bandage. His eyes follow the skin of her arm, noticing a healed tattoo on her left wrist, a new tattoo on her left forearm and another new tattoo on her inner bicep. The simple admiration of other artists work and the thought process of either of them is evident as silence takes over them, the details becoming evident to one another as they look at the swirling designs of ink.

     “You’re going in today, aren’t you?” Shawn teases quietly, already knowing the answer, trying to lighten the mood and match hers. She looks into his eyes, a certain emotion passing briefly, a flicker Shawn wants to stop and take a better look at. Her lips pull into a crooked smile instead of her small one,

     “Yeah. I’ve been saving up for ages. I just have a lot of ideas for tiny tattoos.”

     “She’s got a great mind on ‘er,” he comments, wiping away the blood around the word ‘can’t’ and starting the small dash before the words ‘it isn’t in my blood’ which are darker than the rest. She seems to blush at his words, ducking her head at the compliment. Shawn can sense her timidness and wants her to feel as comfortable as he does, so he changes the subject,

     “What other ones did you get today?”

     “Three. They’re all tiny. I got a 7 underneath next to my underarm, a rejection slip on my left calf and a ‘xo’ on my right upper calf in the corner.”

     “I like the placements,” Shawn comments, his eyes flickering to the places she mentioned. He can’t see the actual tattoo, but he can see the wrap around them. So, he looks at the girl in front of him, looking into her eyes which swirl with stories and history and emotions and thoughts and Shawn finds himself wanting to know all of them and he finds himself blurting out, “How about one more?”

     “Huh?” She asks, her head tilting to the side slightly.

     Shawn surprises himself at his own words, “I want to get a tattoo with you.”

     “You want to what?” Her voice squeaks. Shawn’s brain begins working a mile a minute at his impulse decision. A small bit of anxiety crawls in his throat at the sudden decision, as he always has to be one hundred per cent sure he wants a tattoo before he gets it, but something in his heart is telling him this idea is perfect, 

     “Well actually, not a new one, but... I think I want a second one today. And I need your help.” She’s watching with pure astonishment as she can see the gears turning in Shawn’s head. His eyes begin to squint and little wrinkles make crevices in his forehead as he thinks. He licks his lips, coming to rub at his lips with his thumb and forefinger, but never removing his hand from her.

     “How would you want to write out some lyrics for me, from ‘Something Big’?” He suggests, his voice slightly nervous whilst looking at the lyrics being tattooed on her leg. He would get the same placement, with different lyrics, in her handwriting. No matter where he would go, he would remember that his music helps people and that people relate to it. And he’d always remember the girl who got his handwriting permanently added to her skin.

     “You want my handwriting on you?”

     “Yeah,” Shawn replies, his voice more sure of his decision, “I want your handwriting on me.” He emphasises the same words she did.

     “Are you sure?” She asks, her voice small and timid as she asks the man she relates to more than she was willing to admit if he wants her handwriting on his skin forever, “I don’t want you to make an impulse decision.”

     “Do you believe in fate?” He asks her abruptly. Her brows furrow but she nods, “This feels like fate is screaming at me. Like, this is what I’m supposed to do,” he runs his fingers through his hair, his grip on her hand tightening slightly, “I can’t even describe it.”

     She brushes her lips with her tongue, watching him with uncertainty before looking at Tony. Tony is finishing the last word on her tattoo, nodding his head, encouraging her.

     “Okay. I’ll do it.”

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

Moonlight Chapter 13: Mad Meg

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 13/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

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Severus hated the Malfoy Christmas party. It was a grand affair, full of dignitaries and the upper crust of wizarding society. He knew that many witches and wizards would give up their wand in order to procure and invitation and that he only merited one due to his personal connections to the Malfoy family. Unfortunately, he found it a tedious waste of an evening. To be sure, the food and drink were incomparable, but he hated small talk and most of the other guests. He considered declining the invitation every year, but he knew that would cause more trouble than it was worth. So, every year he put on his dress robes and made a game of seeing how long he could make it through the party without having to talk to anyone after greeting Narcissa at the door. His record was two hours and he sincerely hoped he would break it this year.

He was loitering near a column in the drawing room, nursing a glass of champagne and avoiding making eye contact. Between Nagini’s failed attempt to either retrieve the prophecy or murder Arthur Weasley in the process and Albus’s growing concern about the Dark Lord’s access to Harry Potter’s mind, he had plenty to occupy his thoughts. And there was always the small matter of preparing seven levels of potions work for the spring term to consider. However, he was thinking of none of those things tonight.

Since his brief and unexpected conversation with Miranda the previous week, he had been applying much of his deductive reasoning to devising a way to renew their affair without admitting that he had perhaps been a bit hasty to end it in the first place. He was never one to apologize, but he did realize that he had probably upset her and she might be less than eager to return to his bed. He needed to find a way to lure her in without actually admitting fault—he did have his pride after all. After seeing her though, he was finding his pride rather a cold bedfellow. He felt that if the foolish woman was determined to put herself in harms way by remaining in England, he might as well benefit from her stupidity. But he expected that saying something along the lines of ‘Darling, since you are bound to get yourself killed whatever I do, do you fancy a shag or two before that happens?’ was not the best way to ingratiate himself to the lady in question. While he was brooding about all of this, his thoughts were interrupted by the aforementioned lady.

“Isn’t this a Bruegel? I think it looks like one,” Miranda was saying.

“It does, but it was almost certainly done by Pieter Huys or one of his other followers,” Aaron answered. “I’ll ask Narcissa about it next time I talk to her. She’s the art critic in the Malfoy family.”

“So I heard.”

Severus sighed inwardly. What was that idiot woman doing here? Did she really have a death wish? He turned and saw Aaron and Miranda peering at a painting on the wall. Miranda was dressed in purple and silver tonight, a stately off-the-shoulder a-line gown that somehow inspired more imagination with its relative modesty than what she’d worn last time at the Manor had with its lack thereof. Her hair was swept up in another complicated mass of braids and she wore a pendant of a primitive looking bird around her neck. He shifted so that the column was between them and continued to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Rachel’s had her ‘round for tea a few times,” Aaron went on.

“Really?” Miranda said dubiously. “How’s that going?”

“Fine. Narcissa comes off as a bit cold, but she’s really a peach and smart as a whip.”

“Why do you have to deal with the Malfoys? Shouldn’t the Ambassador be doing that?”

“It’s our pure blood—Robert’s only half. Only the best for the Malfoys, you know.”

Severus could hear Miranda rolling her eyes. “That does come in handy. I’m surprised Mrs. Malfoy let a filthy No-Maj born like me in. Maybe I should go help in the kitchen.”

“Hey, she was very understanding about it. I told you, I like her. And you promised to behave.”

“If you get me another drink, I will continue to behave.”

“As you wish, old girl. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best.

Aaron obligingly headed off to collect more drinks, and Severus silently stalked up behind Miranda. She was still studying the painting intently and he was at her shoulder before she noticed him at all.

“That was fast……oh” she began without looking. Her eyes snapped from the picture to Severus and back again, and a blush started creeping over her cheeks. “Hello Severus, I didn’t realize you would be here.”

“For a woman who continually protests that she is not an idiot, you certainly offer plenty of evidence to the contrary,” he observed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“If I had a galleon for every time you demanded why I was somewhere, I would be able to retire,” she replied, still looking at the painting. “Do you like Bruegel? Or whoever this is?”

He opened his mouth to make another remark about her intelligence, but controlled his tongue with great effort and turned his attention to the painting. It depicted a mad scene of an army of peasant women storming a hell-mouth. After a moment he admitted, “Yes. I do.”

Miranda looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “See? Was that so hard?”

He let his eyes slide sideways and the corner of his lip curve upwards slightly. “Yes. It was.”

“I imagine it gets easier with practice. Do you think Mrs. Malfoy was trying to tell Mr. Malfoy something by putting a Mad Meg picture in the drawing room?”

He actually smiled at the idea. “Perhaps. I seem to recall there is a proverb of some sort that goes with it.”

“Yes, something to the effect of the Devil himself having no weapon against six or more women.”

“I shudder at the thought.” Silence fell for a moment as Severus attempted to formulate a way to steer the conversation in a more productive direction, but Miranda preempted him.

“If you’d like to continue flirting, now would be a good time to comment on how nice I look,” she prompted.

He raised an eyebrow. “I see no reason to waste breath telling a woman she looks enticing when she is already well aware of that fact.”

“Professor Snape, nice to see you again,” Aaron said, stepping neatly between the two of them. He handed Miranda a fresh glass of champagne and Severus frowned as he noticed Aaron’s fingers dwell on Miranda’s much longer than was necessary. “How was the rest of term?”

“How is it ever? A waste of time and effort attempting to force incompetent students to retain the most basic amount of knowledge,” Severus answered.

Miranda and Aaron exchanged and inscrutable look.

“Would you like to join us?” she asked, taking Aaron’s arm. “We’re giving ourselves an art tour.”

Her casual intimacy with Aaron stirred Severus’s anger. “No, thank you.” he replied coldly.

Miranda pursed her lips and said, “Good night then.”

He gave them a short bow and they strolled off. They had reached the other side of the drawing room when they were intercepted by Lucius Malfoy. Severus was too far away to hear their conversation, but he could tell from Lucius’s expression that he was enjoying it immensely. He could also tell from the set of Miranda’s shoulders that she was not. Before he could wonder overlong about what Lucius was saying, he was completely distracted by the fact that Aaron’s fingers had drifted to the back of Miranda’s neck and were stroking it gently. So, that’s how it was. Severus suddenly found the noise of the drawing room unbearable and left to find somewhere quiet to regroup.

*****

One more word out of Lucius Malfoy and I’m going to hex him—I don’t care what Aaron says Miranda thought as she stormed out of the drawing room. Men! Between Lucius’s baiting and Severus’s vacillating she had had enough of them to last her for a long time. She found that she was near the library and decided she would retreat there to calm her anger. With any luck she and Aaron would be leaving soon and she could focus on everything she needed to do to prepare for her Romanian adventure.

She slipped into the library and closed the door behind her. Fires crackled merrily in the fireplaces and the candles in the lamps gave the room a pleasant glow. She sighed and leaned her head against the door for a moment, trying to let go of her anger. She knew that Malfoy was nothing more than a bully and that she shouldn’t let his stupid remarks get to her. She decided to find something to read for the next half hour or so and turned to find a likely shelf to start perusing. As she did so, her eyes fell on Severus standing near the bay window, studying her disapprovingly.

“I’m beginning to believe that the storied Mrs. Lee is a will ‘o the wisp,” he said bitingly.

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “Rachel?” she asked. “She wanted to stay home so I said I’d come instead.” What in the world was wrong with this man?

“Still ill is she? How convenient for you and Aaron, is it?”

“Not really. Spending the evening here isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make the most of it. Really, could the two of you be more shameless about your affair?”

“Affair? What are you talking about?”

“If he were more obvious about his fondling, he would be undressing you in the drawing room in front of the entire company.”

“Fondling?” A slow smile spread across Miranda’s face and she came a few paces into the room. So that’s how it was. “Severus, I think you are jealous.”

He snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m merely making an observation.”

Her smile widened and she sauntered over to an armchair. When she reached it, she leaned her elbow on it and rested her chin on her hand. “Yes you are. You’re so jealous you’re turning green. That’s so strange—I thought you didn’t even like me.”

His look of disdain became one of exasperation. “I told you I like you well enough when you aren’t acting like a child,” he snapped. He frowned and his tone became a bit less caustic. “I’d even say that I respect you, and I can count the number of people who have won my respect on both hands.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “How romantic. If you were any more florid I’d have an attack of the vapors.”

He stalked across the room, jerked her into his arms, and kissed her furiously. Her hands pushed against his chest for a moment in surprise, but then they slipped up around his neck and her fingers wound their way into his hair. He made a strangled sort of noise in his throat as he crushed her against him. Merlin, she was sweeter than he had remembered. His lips found their way over her neck to explore the flesh just above the neckline of her dress when he realized that she was shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

“Severus, I swear you are giving me whiplash,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t suppose you could make up your mind as to whether or not you want to be my lover for longer than five minutes, could you?”

“I might accuse you of the same crime, as I cannot seem to escape from you,” he replied as he searched for that lovely spot on her throat that always forced the most delightful sounds from her. “I would swear you had slipped me a dose of Amortentia if I did not know that you lack the proficiency to brew it.”

“Why you arrogant…” she began, but her voice trailed off as he found that vulnerable spot. He worried it for a while to keep her from finishing her thought.

When she was sagging against him, he drew back and demanded silkily, “Now, you are going to tell me exactly what your little friend was doing to you earlier.”

She laughed and looked up at him, her eyes twinkling. “It’s a code.” He raised an eyebrow at her and she explained, “It was invented by a No-Maj painter. Papa made all of us learn it as children and I taught it to Aaron at school. It’s very simple, but extremely useful in wizard society where no one recognizes it.”

He brought her wrist up to his lips and bit her lightly. “Show me.”

She put a finger on his cheek. “Each letter of the alphabet is assigned a combination of long and short pulses. Then you simply spell out what you want to say. For instance,” she started tapping gently on his cheek and spelling aloud as she went, “Y-o-u-a-r-e-a-n-a-s-s”

He snapped at her finger with is teeth and she laughed at him again. “And what was he telling you so secretly?”

“He was telling me to get lost for half an hour so that I didn’t kill Malfoy, who’s on my last nerve. Then Aaron and I are going to consider our duty to MACUSA finished for the evening and get out of here.”

“I see.” Severus glanced at the clock above one of the fireplaces. “That means you should go now before Mr. Lee thinks you are dead.” He released her and fixed her with a stern look. “Go to his flat and I will follow you in twenty minutes. Then you will use that primitive spell you know to take us to your cabin. I feel the need to renew my acquaintance with all the bits of you I may have forgotten.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do tell me why I should be letting you boss me around without even a please?”

He put a long finger on that useful spot where her neck met her bare shoulder. He slowly ran it down to the top of her dress, and then traced the skin above the neckline to the middle of her chest. From there he drew his finger up over her throat. When he reached her chin, he tilted it up and leaned in until his lips were almost touching hers. “Please.”

She shivered and replied softly, “Well. When you put it that way.”

His eyes gleamed at her arrogantly. Perhaps honey had its uses after all.

*****

Miranda tripped lightly back into the drawing room, delighted with the recent turn of events. True, she had neglected to mention that she’d be leaving the country soon, but that was a matter to deal with in good time. She wanted to put in another week or so learning Romanian before she left anyway. She had procured a volume of Pollyanna Polyglottos’s Romanian in Conversation and she expected it would take her at least that long to complete it, assuming that the new distraction of Severus’s attentions did not completely derail the process.

Aaron was not waiting for her by the piano as she had expected him to be. She loitered next to it, unconcerned, assuming that he would meet her shortly. He had probably assumed she would be late and she laughed to herself over Severus’s scrupulous punctuality. She had not been waiting very long when she was approached by a wizard. Unfortunately, it was not the wizard she was hoping to meet.

“Miss Rose. Alone at last,” Lucius said. “I had thought it would be impossible to separate you from your bodyguard and yet, here you are.”

Miranda pursed her lips, but attempted to maintain decorum. “What a lovely party, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for having me.”

He gave her that feline smile again. “It’s only just beginning. I must say, I was rather surprised that Severus did not request the pleasure of escorting you. But I supposed he would rather not have it known that his taste in women is so base.”

“Don’t you have better things to do than bait me?” she asked impatiently. “I really don’t understand why you find it so entertaining.”

“Because you offend me, Miss Rose. You are an upstart, mudblood tart who does not know her place. You are in my employ and I intend to teach you to respect your betters.”

“I think you’d be better off taking up some other hobby. Where I come from blood lines don’t mean much.”

“A tragedy I hope will be remedied within our lifetime.”

She scanned the room for Aaron, but he was nowhere to be found. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she found it irresistible to continue bantering with Lucius. “Honestly, Mr. Malfoy, what makes you think that you and your other in-bred pureblood friends are so wonderful anyway?”

His eyes narrowed. “The Malfoy family has been the elite of the wizarding world since its inception. We trace our line back to Armand Malfoy himself, the power behind William the Conqueror. We are—and always have been—the best of the best.”

She gave him an amused look. “Well, I was born on a farm in Kansas and I guess that’s just as haughty and respectable as living in a mansion, licking the Dark Lord’s boots. And if it isn’t, I’ll just have to stand it, that’s all.”

He grabbed her chin and said in a low voice, “My dear Miss Rose, I think it is time for us to retire to a more private room in order to finish this conversation.”

“Why Lucius, are you challenging little ol’ me to a duel?”

“Yes Miranda. Yes I am.”

“How grand. I thought you’d never ask.”

He let go of her chin and offered her his arm. She took it and the two of them strolled out of the room together.

*****

Severus was in a wonderful mood when he left the library, punctual as ever. He fully intended to be ensconced in Miranda’s cabin within the hour, enjoying her favors. It was one of the few times in his life he could ever remember being glad to have attended a party. He briefly considered finding Narcissa to make his excuses, but he decided it was early enough in the evening that her duties as hostess were commanding all of her attention. He would write her a note tomorrow to apologize for not saying a proper good night. Perhaps he would even use Miranda’s back as a desk in order to do so. He allowed his mind to wander along this train of thought as he collected his cloak from the house elf and strode out into the lightly falling snow. What an excellent night this was turning out to be.

*****

Lucius led Miranda into a long, torchlit room, away from the noise of the party. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting the members of the illustrious Malfoy family. Statues of grotesque beasts were spaced between the hangings. A beautifully carved dueling platform sat in the middle of the floor and he handed her up the stairs to one end of it like a courtier handing his lady into her carriage. He mounted the platform at the other end, and the two approached each other slowly, savoring the moment. When they reached the middle, they bowed low to each other, then retreated to twenty paces to begin.

They turned as one, slashing their wands silently through the air. Red and white sparks met in the center of the platform, sizzling wickedly. Another round, brighter and louder followed before the first group could fade and soon the cracks and pops of the magic echoed through the room. Lucius’s smile began to fade as Miranda advanced on him, flicking her wand like a whip and hurling curses at him almost faster than he could parry. He stood his ground, but could do nothing to curb her advance.

“Oppugno!” he cried suddenly, and a chandelier came crashing down, hurling shards of crystal at her. She ceased her assault and the deadly leaded glass bounced harmlessly off her shield charm.

“Confringo!” he followed, slicing his wand at her and she was knocked back to the edge of the platform by an explosion. She skidded to a halt and he ran at her, casting another bombardment.

“Crosse!” she shouted, and a white sling bloomed out of her wand. It spiraled through the air, catching Lucius’s hex and hurling it back at him. His eyes widened, but he was quick enough to cast his own shield against the blast. He slid back a few paces and she chuckled softly at his surprise. He gritted his teeth, flicked his wand, and a jet of flames burst from it, curling into a monstrous serpent and striking at her. She jumped over the fiery beast and it curved back on itself for another attack.

“Erstickte!” she commanded. A giant white shroud grew from her wand, wrapping itself around the snake and reducing it to smoke. She turned on him again, still smiling, but he was finished playing games.

“Crucio!” he hissed. She crashed to the floor, body contorted in pain. He stood over her, his smile returning as the red sparks form his wand tortured her. He let it continue until he was panting with the effort, his eyes shining with delight.

The instant the curse ceased, Miranda whipped her wand at him. A blazing white rope lashed out, wrapping itself around his ankle and pulling him to the ground. She drew herself up to her knees and snapped her wand upwards. The rope dropped away from the tip of her wand, but the rest of it remained shining around his ankle.

“Huhuk!” she said, her voice shaky from the pain of the Unforgivable. She flicked her wand through the air and a huge, white, swan-like bird flew forth, its forked tail trailing behind it as it soared into the room. Lucius could only stare at the majestic being in fascinated horror as it turned on him and a bolt of lightening hissed past his head, singeing his cheek. He rolled away as more bolts struck, leaving scorch marks on the dueling platform. He managed to scramble to his feet and run to the end of the platform. He jumped of the end of it, turned, and fired a bolt over Miranda’s head. The red sparks hit one of the jewels that lined the oaken doorframe, and the floor opened underneath Miranda, dumping her unceremoniously into a black pit.

She hit the ground with an awful crack. The trapdoor closed above her, shutting out the light and leaving her in darkness.

*****

Rachel yawned and drew her embroidered dressing gown around her shoulders as she headed for the door, wondering who could possibly be knocking at this hour. She had been up making her nightly trek to the bathroom. She hadn’t expected to need quite so many bathroom breaks at this stage of the pregnancy, but she tried to be patient about it. Aaron and Miranda weren’t home yet, but she thought it was early for them to have returned anyway. She opened the door and greeted her two visitors with a curious—if tired—smile.

“Hello, Mabel. Can I help you?” Rachel asked the house elf.

“So sorry to wake you Mrs. Lee,” Mabel said in a squeaky voice as she wrung her hands.

“It’s all right. I was already up.”

“Oh, good. This is Professor Snape. He says that Miss Rose and Mr. Lee are expecting him.”

Rachel eyed the pale, stern looking man in black dress robes with a bemused expression. Last she had heard, Miranda and Professor Snape were not keeping company, but she supposed sometimes things changed rapidly in that department.

“Thank you, Mabel, that will be all. Please come in, Professor Snape.”

Severus entered the flat, his expression blank, and Rachel closed the door after him.

“Do sit down,” she continued, indicating a chair at the kitchen table. “Would you like a cup of tea while you wait? Aaron and Miranda aren’t back yet.”

She started filling the kettle without waiting for him to answer. When she had it on the stove, she noticed that he had not taken a seat and that he was frowning darkly.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Lee,” he said coldly. “I had thought the others would have returned by now.”

“It’s still rather early,” she replied, bristling a bit at his tone and countenance. “Do you think something has happened?”

“I fear that may be the case.”

Her brow furrowed. “Well, I’m glad they are together, whatever the case may be. I’m sure they will be home soon.”

“I hope you are right,” he said, his tone implying that he maintained no hope whatsoever.

*****

It took some time for Miranda to regain her breath. When she did, she dug out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. She smoked it slowly and it temporarily reduced the pain from the Cruciatus Lucius had cast on her. When she had finished, she checked her limbs carefully for damage. She was bruised and sore, but nothing was broken. She gingerly got to her feet and found that she’d even escaped any damage to her ankles. She knelt back on the floor and started patting around for her wand. She froze when she discovered that it had been broken into pieces on impact.

“Shit,” she muttered. She picked up the pieces and tucked them into a pocket. After they were safely stowed away, she touched the pendant around her neck and started tapping.

***** Aaron reluctantly ended his conversation with Narcissa and headed for the drawing room. They had been discussing the merits of St. Mungo’s for childbirth versus Rachel’s plan to employ a midwife-witch and have the baby at home. Aaron was vacillating between letting Rachel make the decision and admitting that he was absolutely terrified by her idea. Narcissa agreed with him, but he knew if he even brought it up Miranda would come down on his head and take up Rachel’s cause. He was annoyed when he reached the piano in the drawing room and saw that Miranda was nowhere to be found. He was used to her tardiness, but he really would have rather talked to Narcissa a bit longer if he’d known Miranda was going to be this late. He was strumming his fingers on the piano when he felt the Thunderbird pin on his robes begin to pulse.

“AM IN PIT UNDER DUELING HALL WAND BROKEN COULD USE A HAND”

He sighed. Nothing was ever simple with Miranda.

*****

“How long ago did you leave them?” Rachel asked Severus calmly as she poured the water from the kettle over the tea leaves.

“Less than an hour,” he replied irritably as he paced the kitchen.

“I suppose that is long enough for them to have gotten into trouble.” She started handing him tea cups and saucers to give him something to do besides pace. He gave her a withering look, but set the dishes on the table and went back for the teapot without being asked.

She glanced at the clock “At this point I’d rather not send anyone to the Malfoy’s. For all we know Aaron got distracted talking to someone. If they aren’t back in two hours, I’ll send out an Auror after them.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but there was nothing else to be done, so the two of them sat down for an awkward late night tea party.

*****

The air was chilly in the pit. Miranda was still in total darkness and she stretched her hands out in tentative exploration. There was a wall three paces behind her and she felt comforted to have something at her back. She settled against it, expecting she could wait out the ten minutes it would take Aaron to find her. The nerve of Lucius Malfoy! She supposed she should have expected him to cheat, but really! What kind of nobleman was he? And a bout of Cruciatus too! Her nerves were still on fire, but she had enough adrenaline running through her system that it, combined with the smoke, enabled her to ignore the pain.

She started playing a parlor game to keep her thoughts from straying away into fear induced panic. “I love my love with an A because he is adorable,” she muttered. “I hate my love with an A because he is arrogant. His name is Adonis, he comes from Arlington, and I gave him an arrowhead. I love my love with a B because he is beautiful. I hate my love with a B because he his beastly. His name is Byron, he comes from…”

Her voice trailed off as she heard the distinct sound of an animal snorting and its hooves hitting the stone floor. She slowly pulled a piece of her wand out of her pocket and lit the end of it with a snap of her fingers. When her eyes adjusted to the new source of light, they widened in horror as she beheld a giant, ash-colored warthog.

“Shit,” she muttered.

***** Rachel did not bother trying to make small talk with Professor Snape. Although his face was completely composed, agitation was rolling off him in waves. She had known her husband and her friend long enough that she strongly believed in their ability to handle whatever mess they might have landed in. In fact, she wasn’t altogether convinced that anything had happened at all. Aaron’s gift of gab was legendary and she knew from personal experience that between making a decision to depart a gathering and actually exiting the door could take him an hour or more to execute. She acknowledged that the professor was convinced that something terrible had happened, and she really didn’t want to sit with him in strained silence until the others returned.

Mind made up she stood and said, “Professor, would you mind taking a look at our potions room? I’m sure it doesn’t hold a candle to what you have at Hogwarts, but it has everything required for the basic necessities. Could I trouble you to start a new batch of some items in case we have to use up our store of first aid tonight?”

She thought he looked a bit relieved to have something to do. “Very well,” he replied curtly.

***** Miranda moved quarter inch by quarter inch. After an unbearable time she managed to nestle the burning wand into a niche in the wall. Her hands now free, she continued the agonizingly slow movement to a slit in the side of her skirt. The tebo stared at her, confused by the light and frozen for the moment. She eased her pistol out of its holster around her thigh, ignoring the pain that shot up her hand as she grabbed it. She and the beast stared at each other for a long moment and she began to hope that it would decide she wasn’t a threat.

Suddenly the beast disappeared and she heard its hooves pounding across the floor. So much for that hope. She gripped the pistol and turned her thoughts inward. Her wand might be broken, but she wasn’t completely out of tricks. The hoofbeats pounded in her ears, echoing off the stone and making it difficult to tell exactly where they were coming from. She counted silently to herself, gathering her magic.

5…..4…..3….2…..1

She jumped, bounding up the wall and over the invisible beast. She rolled across the floor and, as she did not hear an impact she assumed the tebo had swerved away from the wall at the last second. She ran to the edge of the light cast by her wand torch and then stopped dead, listening for the tebo’s hooves. As she listened, she undid her skirt and pulled it off, forcing herself to move slowly and silently. She tucked the pistol into the waist of the trousers she was wearing underneath her dress. She was glad she had decided to put on her boots tonight rather than dress shoes.

Holding the skirt like a matador’s cape, she waited for the tebo to charge again. She could hear it snorting and pawing the ground again, but she kept herself poised and ready even though her heart was pounding. After what felt like an hour, it charged again and she held her ground to the last. She managed to catch her skirt on one of the beast’s tusks, but it tossed her angrily and she flew across the room, slamming into the wall. She dragged herself up off the floor with a grim smile, ignoring the slash on her arm that was bleeding freely. The tebo was furious now, trying to shake the skirt off its head. The fabric was caught on a tusk, outlining the head of the creature like an eerie No-Maj Halloween ghost.

Miranda drew her pistol again and crouched, waiting. The tebo stomped and spun wildly, head jerking against the impediment of the skirt. Finally it scented the cause of its trouble and charged again. Miranda took aim and waited. Saint Barbara, don’t fail me now, she thought.

Five feet. Four feet. Three feet. Two feet. Ten inches. Eight inches.

She pulled the trigger and the noise exploded through the pit, deafeningly loud.

*****

Aaron dropped lightly through the trapdoor in the abandoned dueling hall. There was a dimly burning something on the wall next to him. Rather than wait for his eyes to adjust, he cast Lumos and scanned the room for signs of his wayward friend.

“How much of that blood is yours?” he drawled when he saw her.

“Not much,” she grunted. She was methodically skinning the now visible body of the tebo with a wicked looking knife.

Aaron sighed. “How long is it gonna take you to do that?”

“I don’t know. An hour maybe. Can you conjure me a couple of bags? I want to take some of the organs and the hooves and tusks too.”

“Mother of pearl, woman! This is is a fancy party, not a hunting trip!”

She grinned at him and continued working. He conjured up the bags and settled in to smoke while he waited for her to finish.

*****

Narcissa stood at the door, waving away the last of her guests. She knew she had outdone herself this year and she hoped that Lucius would take the trouble to mention it. He had seemed in a particularly good mood earlier that evening, although it had been a few hours since she had seen him. As the front door closed, he appeared from the hallway and kissed her cheek, a smug smile on his face.

“Excellent work my dear. The best yet,” he said smoothly.

“It was my pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she replied, delighted to be admired.

“Lucius, Narcissa, I want to thank you for a lovely evening,” Aaron’s voice interrupted.

Narcissa turned and blinked, startled by the sight that greeted her eyes. Aaron was smiling at her charmingly, a large bag slung over his shoulder but otherwise looking as trim and dapper as he had at the beginning of the night. Miranda walked beside him, completely disheveled. Her hair had partially escaped from its braids and the top of her gown and her jewelry was incongruous with the trousers and boots on her bottom half. And, of course, she was covered in dried tebo—and human—blood. She carried a large bag as well and she smiled brightly at her hosts shocked expressions.

“It was wonderful,” she agreed. “I don’t know when I’ve had such a good time at a party.”

Lucius was staring at the two Americans incredulously, his lips pursed and his face pale.

Narcissa recovered first and gave them a tight smile. “All you quite all right, Miss Rose?”

“Me? Never better. Like I said, a most entertaining evening. Although you might want to send a house elf down to deal with what’s left of the tebo. There’s some meat you might be able to use if you hop to.”

“Tebo? Merlin, what happened?”

“Eh, Miranda needed the exercise,” Aaron put in, “but we’d better be getting home. I don’t want my wife to wake up and worry. Good night Narcissa. Lucius.”

A curious house elf scurried over with the Americans’ cloaks. Then Miranda took Aaron’s arm and the two of them sauntered out of the Manor into the snow together.

----------------------------------

End Notes:

Purple and silver are the Thunderbird house colors.

The painting is a copy of Pietor Bruegel's Dull Griet. The proverb mentioned is from a 1568 Antwerp book of such and runs: "One woman makes a din, two a lot of trouble, three an annual market, four a quarrel, five an army, and against six the Devil himself has no weapon."

The code is, of course, Morse Code.

I think that American spells would be in all sorts of languages, so I used a combination of French, German, and Pawnee for this set.

Saint Barbara is one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. She is the patron saint of firearms and is invoked against sudden death. As early firearms tended to explode unexpectedly, killing their users, this association seems to make a morbid sort of sense.

--------------------------------

Moonlight Masterpost+

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Chapter Fourteen+ >>

[tiaragqueen]

Benefit Of The Doubt: Chapter 1

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[Edited]

“You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. For you, my babe, I'll give my everything. You will always be always be my queen, and I'll love girl. I'll love you endlessly.” - Obsession [Consoul Trainin]

Unknown [07.30 pm]: This is the first time I’ve seen you wearing a dress, and I can’t say that I’m disappointed.

 Seen.

 Unknown [07.55 pm]: They say that red is a sexy color and they’re right. That color really brings out your beautiful eyes.

 Seen.

 Unknown [08.15 pm]: I’m so glad I have the chance to see what perfection is. It is a shame that I’m unable to see it from up close.

 Seen.

 Unknown [08.43 pm]: Nonetheless, the day shall come when you wear that dress for me only.

 Seen.

 Unknown [11.28 pm]: Those disgusting men were ogling at you. Should I get rid of them all?

 Seen.

 Unknown [11.33 pm]: Smart girl. I’m happy that you told them off. I wonder what other things can those luscious lips do...

 Seen.

 Unknown [12.17 am]: Aw... Did those heels hurt your legs, baby? Poor you. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll buy better ones for you. Just name the brand and I’ll have them delivered straight to your house. It doesn’t matter if they’re expensive.

 Seen.

 Unknown [12.20 am]: Your happiness is more important to me.

 Seen.

 You’d never seen a more hypocritical text in your entire life. Did they think you were happy being stalked like this? Did they think you were flattered by their attention? Did they think you wanted this?

 No, you didn’t. You weren’t some kind of a thirsty attention seeker. But, of course, they were too fucking blind to see the truth.

 Then again, what did you expect from a stalker anyway? It wasn’t as if they would just drop everything and leave you alone like any normal, sane person out there. They were delusional. They thought that by showering you with love and attention, then you would be grateful and thus, increasing their chance of ‘wooing’ you.

 Like hell.

 And how the fuck did they know your address? Sure, you’d never received any type of gift sent here before, but how would you know that they wouldn’t do that sometime in the future?

 Or worse, visiting you in person?

 Well, that would be both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, you would see your stalker and possibly recognize them, if you knew them beforehand. It was actually a scary thought, but it was better than having a stranger fell head over heels to you. While you weren’t a true believer in ‘love at first sight’, it wasn’t something so far-fetched in this world. If such a thing didn’t exist, then why would some people write love at first sight stories?

 And on the other hand, you wouldn’t know what they would do once they meet you. To actually breathe in the same air as you. There was always a probability of them kidnapping you, or raping you. Or even both. It would be naïve to consider a more mannered way they would ‘greet’ you since they were most likely mental anyway.

 At least, that was what you thought.

 Sighing, you locked your phone and put it on the nightstand. Maybe you shouldn't have to check those messages in the first place. They were giving you a headache now, and the day hadn’t even started yet.

 You ripped the covers from your bare legs and stumbled into the bathroom. Bleary-eyed, you stopped in front of the mirror to inspect your appearance. It was disheveled and had people see the state you were in, they would be convinced you were an escapee from a mental hospital. [h/c] locks jutted out in every direction, reminiscent to Medusa's hair. Makeup smeared over your tired face, and the fake eyelashes weighed down your already drowsy lids. Your breath was smelly, despite not consuming any alcohol last night. The red halter dress that your friends forced you to wear felt constricting, particularly around the chest area.

 Was it possible to gain weight overnight?

 Shaking your head, you shuffled through your morning routine and took extra care in cleaning the makeup. There were already a few acnes formed on your face, small enough for a powder to hide them well. You weren’t necessarily in the mood to put on another makeup, but you couldn’t risk angering your boss. Sure, he was nice – actually nicer than your last one – yet it didn’t mean you could take advantage of his kindness.

 Taeyeon had warned you, during your first day, that Kim Namjoon was rather strict with the rules. An employee once went home with a beet red face after he fired them in front of their co-workers due to some obscure reason. It might be common in the workplace, but the shame wasn’t something that you’d like to experience for the second time. Suffice to say, you strived to avoid his anger by working as hard as you could. This occupation paid you more than your previous job, and you would be damned to let it go.

 Breakfast didn’t feel very fulfilling despite it being the same menu you had every day; a peanut buttered sandwich and a glass of hot tea. Although you kept forcing yourself to not overthink and just stay in the present, this stalking occurrence had taken a huge space inside your brain. The cheery chirping of the birds outside became white noise to you like millions of questions muffled your hearing. You were beginning to get frustrated because none of them didn’t make any sense nor did they provide an answer.

 Thus, in order to clear your mind, you decided to hail a cab instead. You usually took a train or bus, but today you weren’t too keen on being around people. Their hushed chatters could worsen your already bad mood, therefore a change in scenery might be all you needed.

 A beep shattered the peaceful silence that you desired after reading those intrusive messages. Fishing your phone out of your bag, you turned on the device and found that your senior had texted you.

 Taeyeon [07.15 am]: Don’t forget my shift, okay? :)

 Oh, yes. You forgot about the promise that you’d made to cover her shift because she was feeling under the weather. Why did you agree, anyway?

 Right, because you pitied her. It wasn’t like you could say no to her, either. She’d done a lot for you to make sure you were comfortable with your new job. It would be rude if you reject her plea, not to mention unappreciative.

 Well, had you knew your stalker would strike again, then you would surely decline.

 People were right. You could be too selfless for your own good sometimes.

 You [07.17 am]: Yeah, sure. Don’t forget to drink your medicine and eat lots of healthy food.

 Taeyeon [07.20 am]: Thx! <3 You’re so considerate, I owe ya!

 A small smile graced your once frowning face. Well, maybe being too selfless wasn’t too bad if people could acknowledge and appreciate your assistance. However small it might be. The feeling of being able to help those in need was something indescribable, yet gratifying nonetheless.

 “Morning, [Name]!”

 A tall man, with a baby face that never failed to make you secretly gushed at its cuteness every time you saw him, waved from his desk. Chanyeol was the second senior who immediately befriended you after Taeyeon. His cheerful yet easy-going aura lowered your guard almost instantly, and you were glad that you met someone like him in such a fast-paced environment. It was hard for you to talk to new people, as you usually chose to analyze the surroundings first so you could get a grasp on the do's and don’ts.

 Nodding, you shot him a rather coy smile. “Good morning, Chanyeol-seonbae.”

 The said man grinned, satisfied with the more relaxed honorific. He’d told you that ‘ssi’ made him sound older than he actually was – despite the fact that he was a good few years older than you – and insisted on either dropping it or use a more ‘casual’ term like ‘oppa’. You remembered Taeyeon had slapped him with a folder and suggested ‘seonbae’ instead. Her suggestion was appreciated because a much as you wanted to shorten the emotional distance with him, ‘oppa’ was too lax and... intimate for you to use to a senior. Especially to someone you just met.

 “Where’s Taeyeon?” he asked. Leaning against your desk, Chanyeol watched you put down your bag and turned on the PC.

 “Ill,” you replied as you inserted the password on to the computer. “She texted me two days ago, said that she’s not feeling well. She wanted me to cover her shift.”

 “And…?” He raised a brow and tapped his forearm, waiting for your next response.

 You shrugged nonchalantly. “I agreed, of course.”

 “Aish, you.” Chanyeol reached out to muss your hair, a habit that appeared whenever he was displeased at something you did. However, your fast reflex allowed you to avoid his ‘destroying’ hand. “You’re still new in here, and yet you’re already covering someone’s shift? Talk about workaholic.”

 “It’s just a one-time thing, Seonbae.” You didn’t know whether you were defending your bruised ego or Taeyeon. Most likely both. “And I’m not exactly new, either.”

 “Of course you are! You’ve been here for, like, six months.”

 “That’s still considered long, though…”

 “Nope, unless you’ve worked for a year. Less than that, you’re still a newbie.” He grinned playfully as he leaned forward to pinch your cheeks. “My beloved junior~”

 You rolled your eyes, secretly basking on his brotherly affection. His teasing attitude was what probably you looked forward the most every day. Well, aside from the gossip and newest rumors Taeyeon always managed to get from other employees both inside and outside your department. You liked to listen to those pieces of presumably false information, although you didn’t care enough to dig further.

 “Is that true?” A deep voice inquired, startling you both.

 Chanyeol instinctively bowed to Namjoon while you straightened up. Namjoon dismissed him, muttering an order to return his desk. Chanyeol obeyed without another word and left after giving you one last nod. You returned the gesture and averted your gaze to Namjoon who patiently waited for your reply.

 “Um... What is true, if I may ask?” you asked, unsure of what he’d questioned.

 “About Taeyeon’s absence.”

 “O-oh,” you nodded repeatedly to show your understanding. “Yes, that’s true. I… I can show you the message if you want, Sir.”

 Namjoon lifted a hand to dismiss your offer. “No need. I just want to confirm it myself since she hasn’t texted me yet.”

 Pointy finger drew invisible circles against the grey desk as you subtly avoided his intense stare. “Maybe she forgot. I’m sure she’ll text you… eventually.” you mumbled the last part.

 “I sure hope so,” Namjoon closed his eyes and hummed. It was the kind of sound people made to indicate they were thinking about something, and somehow you had a feeling that it wouldn’t be pleasant. “It won’t be good if she loses her job,” he peered through his eyelashes, trying to gauge your reaction from the rhetorical question. “… Right?”

 You froze, eyes wide. Did you hear it correctly? Or were your ears playing tricks on you? There was no way he would fire Taeyeon just because she forgot to text him, right? Well, you supposed it was understandable. But still, it was just a simple mistake and besides, the clock hadn’t even strike eight yet. There was simply no need for such a drastic measure.

 “Um, uh, I…”

 “I’m kidding.” Namjoon suddenly chuckled. You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding, unaware of the mischievous grin he donned. “She actually texted me last night.”

 You weren’t sure if you should smile or click your tongue at his – frankly speaking – a cruel joke. However, for the sake of politeness, you chose the former.

 “That’s not why I’m here, to be honest.” He cleared his throat, still silently observing you through his peripheral vision. “I have a lunch meeting this afternoon, and I want you to come with me.”

 It wasn’t a request, nor was it an invitation. It was an order; one that you had to obey as his employee. Still, it didn’t make it sound any less confusing.

 “But… why?”

 “Why what?”

 You frowned, contemplating over the million reasons as to why he would ask you to come with him instead of his personal assistant. Because, what? You were just an ordinary worker. “You have Lee Chaerin-ssi, Sir. So why-?”

 “She’s busy,” he cut you off without batting an eyelash. “Unless you have some objections…?”

 “Oh, no, no. Of course not! I, uh…” you tittered, scratching your hair in both nervousness and confusion. “Of course I’d love to come with you, Sir! I was just, um… making sure there’s no mistake. Yeah, that’s it.”

 Namjoon blinked slowly, face betraying no emotion whatsoever. You hated that kind of expression, because what if he chewed you out due to your hesitation? Thankfully, he smiled before you could fall into another overthinking state.

 “That’s great. I shall come back later.” He reached forward and patted you on the back. “Now, finish your work.”

 You nodded, smiling through your discomfort of having his hand lingered a bit too long behind you. “Yes, Sir.”

[starbuck09256]

Dialogue Prompt: 10. “Don’t look at me… I’m sick!”

Season One Early MSR referenced

  He’s not sure why he bothered coming into the office today. He is clearly ill. But he has to finish his report to Skinner of the arctic ice core project. The death of Danny and Bear. How they will never know what all was buried up there. He sniffles again, trying to find the issues in his crowded desk, finally seeing a box on the other side of the office in Scully’s area. Bless her for being organized. He takes the entire box with him as he plops back onto his chair, loosening his neck tie even though it’s only 8:15 in the morning he already feels hot and sweaty. The cough syrup he had taken makes him feel a little loopy as he hits each key on the keyboard. Scully will be in any second, and he knows that she will spend a good amount of time reminding him that she is a medical doctor probably make him go to the hospital and finish his report for him ignoring the fact that the worms could be extressitrail and how imperative it is that further investigation is necessary despite the entire area being burned. She’s a challenge but in a good way. She trusted him up there when she could have easily just shot him. He knows the medicine is messing with his brain when he starts thinking about her soft skin under his fingertips as he reached around her neck. How those strong small hands felt running up and over his shoulder muscles. How cute she looked in that ridiculous jacket and how he likes seeing the casual side of her. He is going crazy, she is still probably a spy albeit a bad one. He’s actually been able to convince her of quite a few things and maybe that is part of some grand plan she has. But he is in trouble, when she fell asleep on the flight home against his shoulder, how she snuggled into him. This fierce brillant woman is going to take up a lot of his free time. He’s already hearing her voice in his head when he reads certain stories that sound crazier than him. He smiles dopily shaking his head as she comes through the door with her briefcase and can-do attitude. 

“Morning” she says brightly. 

Does her voice always sound like sweet honey? Have her eyes always look so simmery? He makes a promise to himself to never take that hydro-whatever cough syrup again. He is clearly losing his mind and should probably get a cab home at this point. He tries to smile up at her. Play it cool so she doesn’t see that he has a high fever and also grinning like an idiot. “Mulder.. Are you all right?” She is moving over to him. He can’t help it, he starts to cough. 

“Don’t look at me.. I’m sick.” he says trying to move his hand in front of his face and dissuade her from getting closer. Her eyes narrow at him. 

“Yea, I can see that.. You know I’m a” 

“medical doctor yes yes Scully I’m aware. But I don’t need you lecturing me or anything for a cold. I just have to finish my report turn it into Skinner and then I’ll go home, promise.”

 He clicks a few times as he stands up to make his way to the printer, his stumble forward and is caught by Scully. Who is way faster than she looks. 

“Jesus Mulder,” she says as his cradled in her arms his legs having given out. He looks up from her shoulder sheepishly. 

“Hi Scully,” he mutters. She helps him a little to the side chair. Her cold hands running up and over his face, god her touch feels amazing. 

“Mulder, do you have a fever?” 

He looks up at her chuckling as her shrugs his shoulders at her and then she leans down brushing a soft kiss to his forehead. It feels like a feather but leaves him feeling tingly and cool. 

“Sorry Mulder, my hands are freezing and kissing your forehead is the only way I was going to be able to tell if you were actually really warm.” 

He wants to make a joke, but he finds himself grinning and nodding happily. 

“Its ok, it felt nice.” Oh fuck… he thinks. He is going to throw out that bottle of syrup the second he walks into his door. Her hands stop removing his tie. Her eyes meet his. 

“Mulder, did you umm take anything this morning for your cold?” she asks her voice tentative. 

The Mulder she knows is professional mostlyish. They have a great partnership and while she finds the work challenging and inthralling she has promised herself Mulder will not become the new Jack or Daniel no matter how cute his puppy dog eyes are. 

“Yea yea I took some cough medicine from an old bottle.” 

“How much did you take, you seem so out of it.” She mutters as her fingers finally free him of his tie and he feels the sweet relief of the first 2 buttons being undone. 

“Mulder god you’re all clammy. Have you had any water?” 

Water sounds like a good idea, he shakes his head as it slides  a little to the left. 

“Ok Mulder here is what we are gonna do.” Uh oh bossy Scully. Bossy Scully is not his favorite. Bossy Scully will shut you down. You will get nothing past her and she will make sure you are acutely aware that she is in charge. Bossy Scully is also incredibly sexy and one of his biggest turn ons. Not good not good. 

“Scully I’m just gonna turn this thing in..” he makes a vague gesture to where he thinks the printer is (not at all where he is gesturing)

”and then I’ll go home, sleep this off. Be fine and ready to bother and inundate you with annoying theories tomorrow.” 

He moves to stand ready to focus every single muscle in his body to accomplishing this task. He makes it about one foot before Boss Scully puts her hand on his chest and pushes him back down into the seat. So much force for a tiny person. He sits abruptly looking at her as sternly as possible. Her eyebrow raises and the look she gives him is something he anticipates seeing a lot of in their partnership. 

“Mulder, you can barely walk, I will turn this into Skinner for you. Then I will come right back here and take you home with a few stops to get you all fixed up.” 

“No Scully, that is a lot of effort. I mean it’s just a cold.” 

“Mulder you are burning up, until I can get an accurate reading of your temperature and find out what the hell you took, you are not leaving my sight. Do you understand?” her stern voice leaves no room for argument, and honestly he would rather argue with her over something more fun than being sick anyway. 

“Fine, doc. I’m happy to wait, while you run upstairs.” 

Her tight smile as she grabs the papers off the printer stapling them quickly and walks out. He sighs slumping into his chair playing with the two ends of his unknotted tie, tries not to think about how his head still kind of tingles where she kissed him. How the faint coolness from her fingers brushing over his skin is wearing off and how she will most likely be helping him strip down soon to crawl onto his couch. Before he can think of anything else she is back grabbing her briefcase and bracing her legs to help lift him. 

“Scully don’t look at me like that, I'm fine.” he huffs out as he starts to stand much to quickly and almost falls on top of her again. “

Sure you are partner, sure you are” she mutters his arm is slung over her shoulders as they try to make their way to the far elevator that can take them to the garage instead of the bullpen. She presses the button quickly and leans him against the wall a little. He can’t help but chuckle as they walk to her car. 

Her car is clean with another box of tissues available for his use. He blows again finding a tiny trash can conveniently available in the back. He watches her drive past buildings that blur together as his eyes drift close. The next thing he feels is a small jostle of her hand on his shoulder. 

“Mulder, come on you have to help me get you inside.” 

His eyes narrow as he stares at her building. She has a brown bag of groceries in one arm as she tries to reach for him. He rubs his face, and he struggles to get out of the seatbelt. She huffs a sigh and reaches across him to undo it. Even with his stuffy nose he smells her perfume. She looks at him waiting for him to figure out that now he can get out. 

“Oh, uh sorry.” he says as he moves towards her. 

“I can carry the bag for you Scully,” 

“No you can’t even carry yourself. Come on just lean against me,” 

“Why are we at your place? Seems a little early for a sleepover dontcha think?” She chuckles as they struggle up the stairs to her building. 

 “You have no bed in your apartment, and no food. What I think you took for cough medicine was not in fact cough medicine but a weird liquid muscle relaxer, which is making you loopy and delusional. You are in no shape to walk or do anything but sleep. Plus all my fun doctor toys are inside.”she is smirking, he can see her smirking 

“Oooh a sleepover and exam, you spoil me Scully.” 

“Dream on Mulder.” she says as she fumbles for her keys sliding them into the lock and pushing the door open with the bag of groceries. 

She helps him in, turning slightly to set the groceries down as he heads to the couch. 

“No, Mulder, no.”  he starts to sit as she rushes back from setting the groceries on the table. She is trying to lift him off the couch, but it’s so soft and smells like her and is comfy and he is so tired. 

“Mulder, come on jesus you’re heavy” as she struggles pulling him up. 

“You can’t stay on the couch.” 

“Sorry Scully I can’t take your bed from you. That’s not very partnerly.” she huffs a sigh.

 “Just help me get you into the bedroom ok?” 

“That’s what all the pretty girls are saying these days.” She can’t help but laugh. 

He stands swaying back and forth in her bedroom. It is famine but minimal. Decorated with whites and blues, he looks down at the tiny buttons on his shirt moving his fingers to try and undo them. she moves his hands away. 

“Scully, whoa, look I got it.” the eyebrow is back. 

“Mulder look just pull your shirt up a bit and undo your belt.” 

“whoa, wait,” 

“Mulder seriously you are going to fall over any second and I really need to get you in this bed before that happens and have you at least somewhat comfortable ok? I’ve seen plenty of naked men before alright don’t flatter yourself.” 

“yea but Scully they were dead.” 

“Ha..ha...ha” she says finishing unbuttoning his shirt for him and pulling it off. 

She is the model of efficiency his Scully. Shit, she is not your Scully, she is your very beautiful partner. Not really the right time to think about that considering she is now pulling off your belt buckle and undoing your pants pushing them down. 

“Ok sit down.” all business that voice.

 Bossy turn on Scully is back. He sits in his white shirt and boxers as she takes off his shoes and socks. She moves quick and he is wondering if she is secretly the roadrunner, going beep beep as she avoids the coyote. Her hand is so nice on his shoulder as she helps him under the covers. 

“Your hand feels so nice on my skin Scully,” he hums happily. 

She sighs, lets her fingers cool his burning skin. 

“Mulder just lay here, I’m going to go take your temperature, get you a cold compress and some water. Then you need to sleep for a bit before we can give you anything else. But I’ll make you some soup ok?” 

“Can you cook too Scully? That’s good to know.” 

she shakes her head at him and rubs her face. 

“I’ll be right back, don’t roll off the bed.” 

It's so comfortable her bed. Maybe he should get a bed, be a real adult. Have Scully pick out the sheets because the ones she has are so soft. He should steal one of her pillows too as he closes his eyes against the fabric. 

He smells the most delicious thing, which is surprising since he wasn’t sure his nose could do anything besides leak mucus. He feels a cool cloth on his face lightly dampening his skin. It feels wonderful. Like tiny kisses from a water mist. He hums in contentment. 

“Hey sleepyhead.” he finds her sitting on the bed next to him. She smiles warmly at him. Her fingers dancing across his forehead again as she moves his bangs. 

“How ya feeling?” He still feels stuffy but not as achy which is nice. 

“Better,” he mutters. 

“What’s that smell?” 

“Soup, I’ll bring you some in a minute. First take these and drink this entire glass please.” she hands him a couple pills and a cold glass of water as she stands up and makes her way to the kitchen no longer dressed in the pantsuit she was wearing to work, but a light blue sweater and black pants. 

He sits up, moving one of her perfect pillows behind his head as she carries a tray full of soup and little crackers. He grins widely. 

“Gonna spoon feed me too Doc?” she sets the tray down across his lap grabbing the napkin and tucking it under his chin mockingly.

 “Sorry not part of the service,” her eyes twinkle she likes this. Likes bantering with him. 

He takes the spoon in his hand pours way more crackers than he should into her clearly homemade soup stirring to get a big bite. It reminds him of when him and Sam had played to long in the snow. It warms his whole body, the taste lingers on his tongue. She smiles softly. 

“Well let me know when you are done. Your fever has come down a bit. But I still think you should stay here until tomorrow.” he nods. 

When he’s done she moves the tray fluffs his pillows for him and makes him take something else that will help him apparently. 

In the morning when she is asleep on the couch and he feels a thousand times better he kisses her cheek before waking her. 

Years Later

He looks at the discarded tissues that liter the end table. The bottle of nyquil, and aspirin. The picture of him and Scully obscured by a disarray of snot and mucus as he feels his lungs fill up to cough for the millionth time that day. He can’t help but laugh as Scully comes over to him, with her sad face of pity and a big bowl of her homemade soup and crackers. She sets it down for him, pulling out a thermometer and telling him to lay back. He’s pretty doped up on nyquil and some other stuff as her fingers brush through his hair and around his neck as she helps him settle on their worn couch. She sits against his stomach while his feet pop up on the other end. She smiles at him sadly shaking the old thermometer slipping it under his tongue. He thinks about all the times she’s been there doctoring him. 

“I miss when you use to just kiss my forehead for the temperature” she smiles and blushes. 

“I didn’t have a thermometer at the time..” 

“Oh yea that was why you did it got me to come over stripped me down” he taps her thigh with his long fingers. She grins up at him knowing she never fooled him. 

He can’t help but chuckle which leads to coughing. She shakes her head grabs the crackers and dumps a giant amount into his soup for him. Just like he did years ago. The spoon reaches his lips and he already feels better.

Tagging @today-in-fic @improlificinsarcasm @lappina @scully-eats-sushi @baronessblixen @itotallygazeatscully @marinafrenzy @peacenik0 @suitablyaggrieved

#mulder and scully 

#xf fanfic

#prompt #fluff #s1 #sickfic #thexfiles #I love prompts

#written on my phone with no beta #shrug

[chestnutroan]

Who is Ben? Have you talked about this character before?

Ben is my sole survivor, and my longest standing oc. I’ve posted a LOT of art of him but I’ve always put off talking about him at length but now I’m out of the rough when it comes to having the will to do anything, ill talk about him!

Frank (Benjamin) Romara was born in 2044 in Arkansas to African/Italian parents. When he was 13, he, his parents and his younger brother Gene were uprooted to Boston under absolutely no single good reason given at the time from his father. His dad died probably not a year later, and combined with the massive change of life Ben’s education went down the shitter, and he had to repeat freshman year. At the end of what should have been his sophomore year he got put in a program for “at risk youth”. 

[Detail about him, about Nick Valentine and Fallout Lore etc under the cut!]

The program was basically about increasing the amount of people entering government related jobs, because due to rising contempt less and less people were going down that path, and that’s bad for a whole lot of reasons, for the government at least. When it was first conceived of, it was more of a support scheme for kids not going onto greater things, but it expanded to where it was mandatory for any teen that met the requirements to be put through the system and spat out with more allegiance to their country. Ben checked off a lot of boxes, being poor, having bad grades etc. And at first Ben didn’t really mind all that much, given his lack of direction it was comforting to know that he’d be able to find a stable job to support his family, and that was exactly what seemed to be promised to him. He hadn’t yet gained a fervent desire to see the government crumble, the only part of it he hated being cops, who brushed his dads murder off like it didn’t matter. plus, the program offered extensive healthcare (a leftover enticement from when the program was optional), and it looked like the only way he’d be able to transition.

It wasn’t long, however, before it became increasingly apparent how insidious the program really was. For one thing, he was to be put into work (or training for whatever he will be assigned) at 18, meaning he’d have to leave high school with a sophomore level education. This was, of course, by design to keep the kids entering the workforce in that same workforce. When he was 17, he took a GOAT and got given two options: enter the police force or the US army. He didn't want to do absolutely either, but he picked the former, just because it seemed like his only shot to stay with his family. By the time he was 21, he’d become a detective, and before he could ever start to work on his own soil he was transferred to Chicago due to lack of workforce there.

And all over again, he’d been plucked out of what he knew and dunked somewhere else, and worse yet, he doesn’t even have anyone he knows to help him go through it. Most of the people at his station don’t really want anything to do with him, but he gets on with his job (his efficacy depending on whether or not he thinks hes doing the right thing), and quickly becomes the new hotshot ass hole there for his attention to detail, if not his actual ability to decipher motivations and piece things together. And this caught the attention of Nick Valentine.

Nick was the original hotshot ass  hole ofc, and it was owed to this that Ben, despite being to be shown the ropes, that he didn’t partner with the new guy despite being the only person there who could have helped him out. Nick was very, very good at his job, and due to his insecurities he wasn’t about to stop being the best and give people the chance to realise he doesn't get better than how effective he is at his work. I won’t get into the root of his insecurities, but he genuinely believes that he would lose all respect and that if he ever stopped being a try hard people would lose all reason to bother with him at all, and all he wants is for others reach out and be a friend to him. hes dealing with a lot of the same loneliness Ben is, but so long as he doesn't lose the facade of being a fully functional adult with a good job and a ‘loving’ wife he wont have to introspect and face who he thinks he is deep down (i.e. a man incapable of loving his wife romantically because of some personality fault he cant comprehend of how to fix as opposed to him just being gay and having a lot of internalised homophobia).

It takes Ben and Nick both reaching the point where they snap under the weight of the world they live in and the people who occupy it for them to come together. Nick ended up actually asking to take Ben on as a partner, and it took a lot of the load off of emotionally crippling work (serving a government neither of them believed in but being wholly incapable of escaping it, status quo being almost the only thing keeping them in place as opposed to trying to physically escape what they're doing together) but better yet, for nick, Ben helped bring out a side of him that wasn’t so afraid to be known by others, and he started opening up to other people at the same time as growing closer to him. (I think its important to like.not that nick doesn't wholly rely on Ben for all of his self esteem etc Ben is just a positive impact who gives him a space where nick can learn for himself that his worth doesn't depend on other peoples perception of him.) Nick realises that a lot of his negative perception/jealousy/etc of Ben when they first met was because he saw a lot of himself in him, Nick was in more or less him when he started some 5 or so years ago, and Nick helps Ben out in the way he wished someone had been there for him because he cares a hell of a lot about him and wants him to have the best chance at things.

And they grow into better people and just at the pique of things, where Nick is enjoying not being in an abusive relationship and staying with Ben while he gets back on his feet, Ben gets drafted and is trained at first to become a power armored foot soldier (standing at nearly 6′6″ he’d be a monument of fuck you to the enemy) but do to his deliberately bad aim with weapons, hes instead trained to pilot a vertibird, where hes then shipped off to anchorage. its there that he goes MIA after going against orders with his co pilot to provide medical assistance to a group of people stranded off from communication he spotted in flight earlier. Ben ended up glad later on that he and his co pilot were shot down, because for all 25 hours he was left dying in the snow, it meant that he didn't have to justify him going against orders by bringing back Chinese soldiers who’d end up a lot worse for wear than him. By the time his KIA status was revoked (they weren’t about to announce the miracle of his survival before they knew he’d survive lol) he’d already had a funeral, which Nick had attended, because I write like everything's a soap opera. but yeafksf him dying and attending his funeral left nick in a lot of grief, because he’d thought he’d have forever with Ben to go slow with him into being in a relationship and now Nick thought he’d never get that chance. and when they meet back up after it all when Ben returns it’s romantically charged to say the least.

Obviously I haven’t been sticking entirely to lore with this but the lore presented in fallout 4 is fucking bullshit so. i hesitate to call this a fix but i need to put in this disclaimer before i start spouting off. hey how about instead of nicks fiance getting iced jenny lands was actually his partner once he transferred to Boston to be with his husband to be, and she was cruelly twisted against her own intentions to try and kill nick because Eddie winter put her family in jeopardy and Eddie doing this was a coordinated attack towards them both that hes not just powerful enough to get revenge he can do it in such a way that they cant even trust the people around them. And nick got his mind juices squeezed or brain scanned whatever because of the resulting trauma of being shot by his best friend jenny. and also ‘Shaun’ is Ben and Nicks kid Max and upon learning later as a gen 2 that his son is the leader of a great source of trauma for nick hes forced to introspect in ways that have more tangible effects because his ability to decide who he is as a man ties into immediate problems  And nick doesn't have to focus on revenge disguised as justice because he has a responsibility to live in the here and now.

Thank you for this ask!! I hope that was coherent enough to understand kjdsf if you have any more questions about him or anything else I talked about I’d be flattered to hear them!