#when will my tablet pen return from the war

[saka-deamus]

Couldn't find my tablet pen so we've got a speedy miku for her birthday this year!

[hexonthepeach]

a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 5 : home

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate's clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound]

wc: 4.5k

chapter warnings: heavy petting inc. a little cousin action (mind the tags)

recommended listening: heaven, are you there - kim wooseok, entrancing - siyeon (dreamcatcher)

"I thought Taeyong's ears were expressive but look at that," Haechan says, poking at you with a cotton swab. You hiss, teeth bared at the younger canine from your vantage on the medical table. 

"What do they look like when you're happy?" he asks, baby face breaking into a smirk.

Now that you've spent time with him under less miserable circumstances you've found he's charming, if perhaps a little too playful. 

You let out a sharp cry when he grabs your tail mid-flick, twisting it to get a better look. You swat his hand away, claws itching beneath your skin unable to break out now that you’re no longer saturated in the contamination of the Wild.

"What an adorable color. Calico?"

"Melanistic cross fox," you sniff. Even abused you can't help but preen at the compliment.

"Yah," Taeil yells from his lab console, tossing a pen at the younger Alpha. "Don't provoke her."

"You looked so much cuter with ears," you deflect, running your nails through his tawny-brown hair before he can pull away. "Imagine if you had a cute little tail like mine. Would it be wagging?"

Your flirtation has the intended effect of making his eyes go wide, nostrils flaring a bit. He backs up into a tray table, startling at the sound before running from the room without another word.

You can't blame him for pestering you. He's the youngest of a pack of Alphas taking on the role of omega operatively, if not nominally. You'd been trained for how to survive in such a role with more demanding mates, so it's a relief to meet one that's fun. 

Unfortunately not a word you'd apply to any of the others in these barracks. 

"Your bloodwork is stable at the moment," Taeil says, bringing you a clear tablet to show you incomprehensible graphs and numbers. "I've given you supplements but the increasing concentration of felid DNA signatures in addition to your natural form means you'll probably want to maintain a higher protein diet."

At the mention of food your ears stand up, but the look he gives you kills your excitement.

"There is one more concern."

His gaze trails lower. You clutch your gown tight around your middle, along with your tail.

"Are you sure I can't just suppress this? The Imperial physicians were able to stop my other heats. Why not just put me in cryotherapy?" 

"Do you see a cryochamber here?" He pinches his nose over his glasses, mouth a line. "The formula I've been developing the past few years for . . . It's six times as strong. The issue isn't strength, its tolerance. We're working at multiple disadvantages." 

You stare at him with unfeigned misery. "What's your medical advice for getting through this?" 

He steps back, scratching his head absently. "It won't be pretty. We have a space for you to be alone and safe with scent exclusion. But . . ."

You crumble a little at the word alone. It was the preheat skewering your intellect of course, but you had never imagined that your first time would be without physical assistance. Your lessons in intimacy had strictly prohibited it to the point that some texts cited examples of fatalities. 

Taeil laughs darkly when you tell him. "Oh god I forgot what nonsense they fill your heads with. You won't die. You might feel like you're dying."

"Is that how a rut feels?" you ask. 

He looks a little surprised at your question. "Well, I believe it's the same. I haven't been in a rut before."

"Oh," you say with a polite dip of your head. "Of course, you trained to be an Imperial physician. I apologize–"

"No, that's not–" he protests, a little anger flaring under the surface of his usual casualness. He pulls a vial from his front pocket. "Chemical suppression only."

"Oh," you say, feeling your face grow warm. "I didn't mean to imply . . ."

"I've been working on a fool-proof suppressant for Alpha physiology since I dropped out of the Imperial clinic. For obvious reasons. Omega suppression is a much more complicated science with much more unknowns."

You nod seriously, keeping your face smooth to avoid laughing.

"You aren't taught this, of course, but certain animal physiologies have less aggressive mating cycles."

"Like yours?"

Taeil clears his throat, looking mildly embarrassed. "We're a hibernating species." 

You can't hold back your giggle, earning you a dangerous look as he leans back against a desk. 

"Considering you're in a den of eight Alphas and an Alpha-altered omega you should be grateful for the fact that I can control my rut. The others . . . Well, we'll see."

It's like that horrible plunge into cold water earlier, dousing your giddiness. 

"No one is going to force me, are they?" you ask, hands bunching in your examination gown.

"We're actively making sure that won't happen. But you will be in a state where we have to concede the risk you'll seek one of us out for sex."

"No," you say. "Never." 

"Do you need me to replay you footage from that rooftop?" He places a calloused hand over yours, hesitating before pulling away. "That wasn’t even a fraction of what you'll go through."

"So what do we do?" you ask.

"Prepare for the worst," he says. "I can give you a contraceptive biochip. But I have to put you under to implant it." 

"Why?" You'd been in surgery more than anyone should ever have been–first to heal your wounds, then the complicated spinal taps and procedures–most of them wide awake. The scars had healed but not your memory of the torture. 

"Because there's an even higher possibility than normal of you trying to rip it out while in heat," he says. 

His tone is clinical but you shudder at the knowledge that you'll be that, not yourself. Or rather, yourself–stripped down to the most animalistic of natures and drives. 

"Is it possible to give me more than one?" you ask. 

Sleep doesn't retract her claws until what you can only imagine is midday. You find yourself in an ancient hospital bed nearest to the floor-to-ceiling windows of Taeil's medical wing, his own quarters adjacent, sealed door shut. 

You hadn’t gotten a chance to explore yesterday, whisked through the commons for your examination and the procedure, but you don't recall there being such a fantastic smell emanating through your new home.

Not one of the many signatures of your new packmates–no, something much more delightful. 

Food.

You slip out of bed, a little groggily from the heavy slumber, and stumble on a pair of slippers. There's also, blessedly, clothing to replace the sweat-stained hospital gown hanging off you. The adjacent patient bathroom allows you to shower again–this time at a much more reasonable temperature–and you shrug into the clothing with a careful sniff.

If it wasn't obvious from the woods-and-meadow scent, the specialty button work of the soft pants is suitable for a tail like yours, though they are a tad long. You cuff them and roll up the sleeves of the luxurious sweater, shuffling down the tiled halls towards the main hub.

There's a cafeteria-like feel to the space–possibly repurposed from something older like the rest of the building. The higher ceilings–cut into the last three floors–allow light to pour into the center of the room like an atrium. The industrial rows of fridges and counters and stoves are clean but not barren, stocked with what looks like a treasure trove after days of field rations and horrifying stews.

A familiar face looks up at you from a cutting board, nose wrinkling at the sight of your messy hair and over-large clothing.

"Well at least you're decent," Taeyong remarks, dicing a root vegetable with a pungent aroma. 

"Thank you," you say, hanging back and scanning the room for other occupants. You find Doyoung curled over a screen at the large table near the windows, tapping away. 

"The others won't be joining us," Taeyong assures you. 

"You have my gratitude for your hospitality, Your Highness," you bow a little, genuinely pleased. 

"You don't want us to call you that, do you?" Haechan's head pops up from where he's retrieving bowls from one of the lower storage shelves. 

"Absolutely not," Doyoung says, eyes flicking up to you with similar distaste. "Are you feeling rested, Princess?"

"No formal titles," you respond quickly. "Just names."

"I always thought that Daughter of Heaven Eastern Lotus stuff sounded a bit stuffy," Haechan muses. "Is it true they don't have real flowers in the Dome?"

"The lotuses are real," you say. You'd spent a great deal of time sitting by them in your youth, watching a variety of iridescent carp mouth along the leaves for traces of food. Your grandmother's gardens had been a much-loved retreat, until she'd gone into seclusion. 

"I never knew what they smelled like," Doyoung says, waving his hand as if to shoo away the reek. "I don't suppose we'll be adding any to the conservatory, now."

"You have a conservatory?" Excitement crackles through you. You'd noticed the wealth of green in the upper compartments of the kitchen, including downwards-growing herbs and vegetables. Several well-cultivated box gardens had also been placed around the common room, short palms growing in the middle of the atrium towards the roof. It's a lovely contrast to the industrial feel of the concrete and metal interior.

"Taeyong's preferred form of offering is plants," Haechan says. "And fish." 

He punctuates the sentence with a knife chop through a large section of what appears to be cod. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Thank you but I would prefer to help myself," you say, opening the fridge. Inside is a chaos of packaged beverages in flavors unfamiliar to you outside of Betafax channel ads. You select a fruit-flavored tea, delighted to find a row of assorted mugs near the hot beverage dispenser. 

"These are incredible," you say, picking out one shaped like a blue cat with a friendly face. "Are they antiques?" 

You turn to see the men in the room staring at you as if you'd spoken an alien language. 

"Oh, she's adorable." Haechan gestures with the chef's knife. "Can we keep her?" 

Taeyong's red tail, usually flat, bristles. "Get back to work, kid."

Doyoung snorts slightly, less amused. "Surely they educate you in that hellhole." 

"Of course," you quip. "All the fine arts, including cuisine. Do you need assistance with the cooking?" 

Taeyong waves you away. "Maybe sometime else."

"You can't possibly know how to cook. Don't they just, I don't know, serve you on silver platters? I heard you eat beef every day." Haechan says, looking wistful.

"No, there's duck, and lamb. And every other meat," you say, innocently. "Our menus are customized to our essential diets."

"Rabbit?" Haechan asks, earning a glare from Doyoung.

"Rabbit cheeks stewed in wine is one of my fav–" you bite your tongue when Taeyong gives you a pointed shake of his head. 

"My apologies," you say, darting from the kitchen to carefully approach the man at the table. "I've never met a Lepid before."

"You can keep your distance, please," Doyoung warns. "I have enough to deal with because of you without you wanting to take a bite out of me." 

You open your mouth to assure him otherwise but you feel it would be inappropriate with how much your mouth waters. Your stomach chooses that moment to growl even more inappropriately. 

You sit at the far end of the dining table, happily sipping at the cold tea. It tastes much better than anything served to you in state function, especially with the view of the hazy city that stretches out before you. 

Far below the span of projected advertisements thinned out in the daylight are the tiny glints of AVs and smaller vehicles moving along the skylanes. 

The water lines are low after the flood's recession but you can see where the seawalls are built up with new sediment and great swaths of flotsam. You imagine there's already reclamation teams picking through them for materials–every year precious relics were brought into the Dome for auction from the salvage.

"How high are we up?" You ask, breaking the comfortable silence. 

"This is technically the 122nd floor." Doyoung answers, tone bored. "Wind shear is too high for an open roof, what you see up there is the top of the building."

"Amazing," you exclaim. "Do you see many birds up here?" 

"No," he says. He looks up at you pointedly. "Wind shear."

"I saw a falcon, once," Haechan offers. "But that was at a lower altitude."

"It must be difficult to pilot," you say. 

The younger Canid puffs up at your attention. "Of course. But I'm good."

"I'm sure you are," you say, smiling. 

"Stop that, please," Doyoung says. You realize your tail is thumping against the chair and make the uncomfortable decision to sit on it rather than risk annoying him, again.

"My apologies," you say.

"That too," he says, slamming the console closed. "Break the habit of constantly apologizing." 

You open your mouth and close it, cheeks growing hot. 

"Never in my wildest imagination did I believe I'd be forced to deal with two of you," Doyoung says to Taeyong, breezing past the kitchen to the stairwell.

"Aren't you hungry?" Haechan asks. "We made your favorite salad–"

A rather rude gesture signals Doyoung's departure. 

"Don't mind him, he's always combative before a rut," Haechan explains, bringing you a tray of dishes and a bowl of rice. "Your first course, Your Majesty."

You look down at the amazing spread, each immaculate serving as foreign to you as if it were pulled from a different world entirely. 

"What's this?" you ask, picking up a silver utensil. 

"A spoon," he laughs, awkwardly. "Really?" 

"I'm joking," you say after a beat. He collapses in the chair beside you, relieved. "But honestly, I don't know any of this."

Taeyong brings a few platters to the table–grilled fish and a golden circle of cooked dough filled with chives. "They have unusual cuisine in the Dome. Let's introduce you to ours."

It's the best meal of your life, somehow made better by the constant attention you receive as Haechan layers each serving on your rice for you to try. You experience each new flavor and texture with relish–surprised to learn how much of it is preserved. 

"I love this thing here, the pasta." 

"Ramen," Taeyong laughs. "Street food. You can still get gourmet cuisine in the clancorp restaurants."

Your nose wrinkles in distaste.

"I don't want to eat anything else," you say. "There's so many flavors." 

"You're not used to synthetics," Taeyong explains. "But most of what's out here is what people can grow naturally. There's very little meat beside fish and some rare wild game. Or lab grown, if you can handle the texture." 

"Insects," you say, nose wrinkling. 

"An inexpensive protein," Taeyong says. "Fish is best for our species."

"It all tastes . . . More real?" You say, tentatively. 

"Because it is. Imperial palettes value form over flavor. The scent suppressants in the Dome have their advantages but they strip food of its essential sensory enjoyment."

"Sounds like hell," Haechan says, face practically buried in his bowl. 

You set down your chopsticks. "It is. But for other reasons."

"Why did you leave?" He asks, looking up. "Weren't you going to be a Queen?"

Taeyong quietly mouths a no but you shake your head politely. 

"I left because I didn't want to die there," you say. "And because I wanted to find my brother."

That piques both their interests, confusion settling over Taeyong's sharp features. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"There's no record of him. When my mother and I were brought back from the north we thought he'd told them where to find us but he'd never been added to the Imperial registry. He was born outside the Dome, like me."

"And you thought he went back to the Old Zones?" Taeyong asks, ears forward. 

"There were rumors of a few fox Alphas who'd defected–" you pause, searching his face for any indication. "You never told me what happened to the pack you found me with."

Taeyong's eyes dart to you, looking a little guilty. "Hala will need to lay low for a while, but they'll be fine. We compensated them for damages, and to keep quiet."

"Was anyone hurt?" You ask, appetite gone.

"Superficial only. More insult than injury." Taeyong huffs. "From what I know of Kim Hongjoong he's probably already telling anyone who will listen they let us go."

You breathe a sigh of relief. "They were kind to me. Thank you."

"Do me a favor and don't tell anyone you met them," Taeyong says, tiredly. "They have a reputation."

"I swear it," you say. You wouldn't have anyone to disclose that information to, anyway.

You hesitate for a moment, staring at the cold bowl of seaweed soup in front of you. "Do you think you can help me find my brother?"

Taeyong stands up, beginning to clean. "I don't know. But I can put out some feelers."

You place a hand under his, stopping him from picking up another plate. His palm is rougher than you imagined another royal or omega's might be–clearly he'd seen his share of hard labor compared to you.

"I can't repay you, ever, for what you've done for me," you say. "But I'd like to try."

He doesn't move, hand shaking slightly over yours. 

"Let's start with clearing the table. And then I'll tell you what I need from you."

You never thought you'd see this much natural color in the city. Certainly not in the heart of winter. The multi-story glass tower is filled to the brim with a jungle of flowers and leaves, tastefully trimmed and maintained.

Your heart swells as you inhale the humid air, rich with oxygen, the burble of water echoing through the chamber. 

"It's beautiful," you murmur, looking at the man beside you. Taeyong's mood seems heavy for such a fantastic setting. He crouches down to trail his fingers over the raised pond.

You gasp as orange and silver and white mouths break the surface, begging for a treat. He pours a handful of green pellets from an urn into your cupped hands, letting you feed the carp for the first time since you’d been a child. 

"Some of these are from our grandmother," he says.

"You knew her?" It was hard to break the habit of using past tense, unfortunately, with how often you'd heard others refer to her. 

"I wasn't able to spend much time with her growing up, but she remembered me at my coming-of-age ceremony."

Of course, you think. He'd been allowed to stay in the Dome until he came of age, and would have been forced to self-exile. Abdication was just a formality for your clan.

"She sent me a lotus, too, but I don't think it was ready to be transplanted," he says, sadly. 

"You're lucky. There's so many of us. I'm just glad she recognized you," you say, hand settling on his arm. He's dressed similarly to you–comfortable, black clothing in layers that are soft against your skin. 

"When's the last time you saw her?" He asks, ears turning toward you with the angle of his rust-colored head. 

"Two years ago, I think? Right before she closed the Palace." 

Time really had little meaning in an endless cycle of formal meetings and ceremonies, days filled with intricate arts training. You'd presented her with a gift—an embroidered veil that surely did not befit an Imperatrix but had delighted her all the same.

"She always had that snack—what was it called?" 

"Turkish delight," you say. "I used to have to serve as an attendant in her court. I'd sneak it out in my sleeves."

"I haven't found anything like it out here," Taeyong says, standing up straight. "If you manage to find some–"

"I'll see if I can," you nod. "If I go back."

He holds, hands in his pockets, clearly uncomfortable with what he has to say. You're used to the weighing of words in your company, everyone assuming you could not bear the burden.

"When I go back," you correct. 

He collapses a little with the break in tension. "It will be inevitable for us both. When we–"

You refuse to go down that line of conversation, deflecting. "You left because of your status, didn't you? Aren't you afraid they'll find out?"

Taeyong walks away rather than answer, leading you deeper into the indoor garden. Here, on the highest floors, the glass pinnacle of the tower has aged with scum on the outside and green algae blooms on the inside, but the light of the afternoon sun still melts through in a golden haze. 

Spores from the plants and pollen from the many flowers drift down like dust, a kind of dance in the movement of the recirculation of the air. 

You're fascinated by it as you follow him past pyramids of potted plants, trees with exposed, smooth roots spilling past containers and breaking through the white tile and black grout for the earth far below.

"What I'm going to tell you, only a few people in this circle know. I can't command you to keep it in your heart but I can ask you to," he says, stopping at the farthest glass wall. 

It faces north, and a break in the foliage has been made for a shrine of sorts–broken glass and painted tile cobbled together as a dais for a timeless, weathered stone statue. 

Other offerings have been placed at the feet of the effigy, remnants of a history where such things had meaning: half-burnt candles in burnished holders, faded paper flowers mingling with dead ones. 

You can't tell if the statue is a woman or man–not beneath layers of moss–but the figure holds an unbloomed lotus in their arms, a larger bloom as its base, their face in peaceful repose.

"I think, if things had been different, this marriage would have been arranged by our parents," he says. "I grew up being told I would be the Imperator someday, had my father not rebelled. You would have been the natural choice for my mate."

"I understand," you say.

You knew woefully little about his parents outside of his father being one of the Two Tigers. The fight between the four eldest sons for succession was why the last Imperator had passed down the decree that no second generation child would rule, recusing his own offspring entirely.  

All hopes had shifted to the third generation, strategic alliances formed before birth between the other clancorps and their lesser branches. It was the reason the Imperatrix had rallied her daughters to protect their children when it became clear their fathers would eat them alive.

You wait for him to continue, heart racing in your chest. 

"I was the first and only son after my sisters' births stripped my mother of her health. My father knew it would kill her but he demanded an Alpha son," he says.

It's difficult to know how to comfort him, afraid that touching him will break the calm.

"From what I know, your mother was someone who inspired others. The omegas still hold vigil for her in the Dome every year,” you say.

He nods, face falling. "My sisters aren’t designated but were able to remain in the Dome. I rely on them for what I know."

His shoulders slump. 

"I was born in the Palace, but I grew up like you–out there."

That's a surprise to you. "During the war?"

"Yes. Practically raised in it," Taeyong says. “I didn’t return until the surrender. And then I left just as quickly.”

“Is that how you managed to hide?”

He nods, solemn.

“They had an early start, trying to correct me. Ten years of genetic therapy and surgery, but I'm still who I am. I know I should have told you before you agreed to this, but I had to make a choice–" 

You place a hand on his arm, quieting him mid-apology. Fat tears slide down your face. 

"They tried to fix me, too," you murmur. "I understand."

He turns to you, sweat beading heavily on his skin. This close and quiet you can note how he looks without the distance of viewing him through a screen or the noise of Alphas around you.

In the warm light you can see the gradient of amber to gold in his irises, the way his pupils dilate as he brushes your face with his thumb. You fixate on the tiny scar below his right eye—another point of commonality.

"I won't be able to give you anything you deserve. You'll be in danger more than you will be safe," he says. "But I can at least offer you equality in our partnership."

You lean into his ministration, a little dazed. It's not just the heat settling in that has you soft. Like you, no matter how fully grown, he has a kind of innocence that can't be snuffed out. Something to be exploited or used in your understanding, a weakness.

But it's not that, you know. It's kindness.

Only a true leader would value that above all else. Regardless of designation, regardless of what biologically compels you, a part of you feels like you've found your match.

"Do you believe in fate?" you ask.

Taeyong doesn't have an answer, too preoccupied with stroking your cheek, fingers drifting down to your scarred neck. You have to blink to right your thoughts, suddenly infused with warmth.

"Can I ask a favor of you?" you ask.

"Anything," he breathes, eyes on your lips. 

You pull away, your fox protesting the removal of touch. Later, you think.

The sanctity of this place is apparent in its care, formality finding you as you hunch down to clear a bowl of sand of the unburnt remains of incense.

You find more beside it, along with a spark flint–something you'd become accustomed to in your time in the mountains. You carefully light a candle at the base of the statue, using it to ignite the ends of two sticks of incense.

After a moment, you hand your cousin the other.

In the low light his expression is neutral, but you can scent his uncertainty. 

"I promise you, from now until forever, to share your burdens and your secrets," you say, recalling the words, or at least a version of them. "A life for a life."

He doesn't speak, faltering. 

"I can't," he says, holding the stick away from him. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I don't want you to promise me anything," you say, feeling tears well up in your eyes just the same. "I know you can't. But please let me help you. You didn't hesitate to help me."

He breathes out shakily, kneeling down beside you. Together you place the incense at the feet of the unknown deity, as if in perfect synchronization.

"Under the eyes of heaven," he repeats, taking your hand. His palm is clammy against your own. "A life for a life."

You brush the tears from your face, turning to him to offer a shaky smile, but are enveloped in a warm embrace instead. Taeyong sets his chin on your shoulder, furred ear against yours. 

"Thank you," he says, voice a rumble. 

"I think that's how the vows go," you answer, humming your assurance. "It's better than signing some documents."

His laugh is thick with emotion. "You'll still have to sign some documents."

You burrow into his chest, scenting him, skin tingling with the phantom of your winter coat. He's musky and sweet at the same time, and you find yourself nuzzling into his throat until he's dropped to the ground, sidling away from your claws running over his wide chest and snagging on the knit. 

"I'd rather you marked me," you say, sniffing at the wound on his ear. "It doesn't hurt does it?" 

Whatever he's going to say in response twists into a strangled cry as you lick the scabbed fur, hands curling against his neck and back. Somehow you've climbed into his lap, smothering his face against your chest. You feel hot breath through the fabric, your nipples plucking against it. You let out a small moan of relief.

He extricates himself quickly.

"This is a little too fast," he laughs with a faint hint of terror. "We can discuss this arrangement after we've broken our heats." 

"I wish you'd help me through it," you whine, oozing back up his spread knees. "You don't wish to mate me?" 

Taeyong's mouth is agape, throat bobbing as you lean in. You've been thinking about this since you'd tasted his blood–how good it would be to draw it from his lip or tongue when you shared your first kiss. 

"I . . . I really don't think that's a good idea," he says, trying again to back away and colliding with one of the garden benches. His tail swishes in agitation across the tile, brushing dead leaves aside.

"But you can, right?" you ask, cocking your head.

He laughs in relief at your naked curiosity. "I would think that a question you asked before you agreed to marry me."

It isn't a no, you think, body throbbing with need.

He offers you his hand, beginning to stand up. "Let's both go down for a check-in–"

You don't follow, catching his wiry arm and locking your teeth around his wrist. He freezes, waiting in terror for you to embed your fangs in, but you're in control, you think, peering up at him through your lashes as you softly lick his pulse point. 

It's a little magic trick in itself–the man in front of you is suddenly overtaken with ecstasy, head thrown back as his knees hit the floor. You rub and lap and scrape your canines over the gland, replacing the target of your attention with his neck once he's pliable and no longer resistant. 

Touching him, wrapping around him again, feels like heaven. He's lean and hard beneath you but also tender as a baby kit, ears soothed by the gentle carding of your fingers through his hair.

You want to make his fox keen for you the way yours does, want to bend your neck and have him return the favor with his own tongue and teeth. His eyes flutter as you press a kiss to his closed, pink lips, coming back to reality by slow degrees.

"Please, don't–" he says weakly, hands absently reaching beneath your sweater–his sweater–to brush soft circles into your bare skin. You sit up to guide him to the base of your spine, purring when he strokes above your tail. 

"I want my first time to be with you," you say. "Isn't that only right?"

"Not here, no, not now," he says, but you feel his hips unconsciously twitch upwards, his mouth ghosting your temple. "We'll take care of you, I promise." 

"But I want you," you murmur. "You feel safe to me."

"No," he says in your ear, exhaling shakily. "I can't." 

"Please," you beg, grinding down on the soft bulge in his pants, distantly aware of the growing slipperiness between your own thighs. "Please help me."

Somewhere in the floors below you hear a distant crash, followed by a horrifying roar. It shakes you both out of your stupor long enough for Taeyong to grip you by the waist and push you off of him.

"Let's get you back to medical–" Taeyong says, right before you bite him for the second time. 

This time it's with malice.

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[scotianostra]

On 26th November 1917 Elsie Inglis, the Scottish nursing pioneer and suffragette, died.

There are very few people who were neither born or died in Scotland that are as highly regarded and respected as Scots, than Elsie Inglis, the only other that springs to mind is Eric Liddell.

Elsie parents were Scots Harriet Lowes Thompson and John Inglis, who worked for the East India Company, when her father retired from his job in 1878 the Inglis family returned to Scotland and settled in Edinburgh.

Having studied medicine at the Edinburgh School of Medicine for Women Inglis subsequently established her own medical college. She qualified as a doctor and secured a teaching appointment at the New Hospital for Women.  A keen suffragette Inglis was later to found her own maternity hospital entirely staffed by women.

In 1906 Inglis played a notable role in the establishment of the Scottish Women’s Suffrage Federation.  The outbreak of war in Europe in August 1914 brought about a temporary ceasefire where political - including suffragette - issues were concerned, and Inglis promptly suggested the creation of women’s medical units on the Western Front.

The British government reacted to Inglis’s idea was frowned upon, she was told  “‘my good lady, go home and sit still’. .  Nevertheless a similar offer made directly to the French government was warmly received and Inglis travelled to France within three months of the outbreak of war, with the Abbaye de Royaumont hospital, containing some 200 beds, in place by December 1914. This was later followed by a second hospital at Villers Cotterets in 1917.

Inglis was active in arranging for the despatch of women’s units to other fighting areas aside from the Western Front, the first Scottish Women’s Hospital field unit was formed in December 1914 in a town called Kragujevac in Serbia.others followed  at Salonika, Romania, Malta and Corsica in 1915 and to Russia the following year.

Inglis herself served in Serbia from 1915 until the Serbian government and army withdrew to Corfu ,she had been held prisoner for a period until U.S. diplomatic pressure brought about her release.   Thereafter based in Russia she was taken ill, the government demanded she come home but Elsie refused until the Serbian soldiers were guaranteed safe passage. The boat brought them back to Newcastle and Elsie, who was crippled with illness, could hardly walk as she greeted Serbian soldiers on deck. She was so frail she had to be carried off to a nearby hotel where she died on 26th  November 1917.

Elsie’s body was taken “home” to Edinburgh where it was interned in Dean Cemetery, beforehand it lay in state in St Giles’ Cathedral.  Her funeral there on 29th November was attended by both British and Serbian royalty.

The SWH continued its work for the duration of the war, sending out more units and raising money for the work. Remaining funds were used to establish the Elsie Inglis Memorial Maternity Hospital in Edinburgh in July 1925, it closed in 1988.

There is a Memorial Drinking Fountain “Crkvenac” in Mladenovac, Serbia commemorating her work for the country. A plaque commemorates her at 8 Walker Street, Edinburgh. A portrait of her is included in the mural of heroic women by  Walter P. Starmer at  St Jude’s Church, Hampstead Garden, London. In 1922 a large tablet to her memory (sculpted by  Pilkington Jackson)  was erected in the north aisle of St Giles on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.  

A movie is set to be made of her biography, penned by her sister, Eva called The Woman With the Torch, no date yet about a release, work is ongoing as far as I can see,

Edinburgh is set to have a statue erected to Elsie, it will be the first woman to be commemorated with a statue on the Royal Mile at the site of her hospice on the High Street, which is between the Bridges and The Netherbow.  Unfortunately controversy has meant it has been put on hold after a bitter row about the choice of sculptor.

Anger erupted after the trustees suspended their open call for designs and instead commissioned Stoddart, the King’s sculptor in ordinary in Scotland. 

In late September, they tweeted: “The call to artists has been suspended indefinitely owing to considerations that have been brought to the attention of the trustees in recent weeks. This information has therefore rendered the brief as published suboptimal to ensure the successful outcome of the project at design scheduling and budgetary levels.”

The furore has brought fresh attention to the absence of female statuary in Edinburgh, which has dozens of monuments to male soldiers, kings, intellectuals and physicians. Those include one of Stoddart’s best-known works, a large bronze of the philosopher David Hume outside the high court near St Giles’.

Part of the problem is that some say the statue should be made by a woman, and I agree, why should a woman not get to make a a statue about a woman who did a lot for their rights. Edinburgh should be making a stand on this. 

[carolinemillerbooks]

New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/perchance-to-dream-17/

Perchance To Dream #17

When an email with an attachment popped up on my computer screen,  I snapped to attention. The message was from a New York book agent.  I’d queried the woman about my memoir Getting Lost to Find Home two years ago. Having heard nothing, I’d written her off.  Yet, the  email’s subject line read, “contract attached.”  Like a dog gazing up at a picnic table, I salivated. Was this agent making me an off I couldn’t refuse? My index finger hovered above the attachment while my mind raced. Should I scrap my plans to self-publish? Was that wise? And was my attorney available to read the contract? After a moment’s pause, I dialed a set of numbers, but they weren’t my lawyer’s.  The computer guy answered. I asked him if the attachment was a scam.   He didn’t keep me in suspense.  “Open that puppy, and I’ll spend hours cleaning up the mess. The address has been hacked.”  Sadder and wiser, I deleted the email before my computer guy could hang up. In the “good old days,” when the mail arrived by stagecoach, the cost of sending a letter was exorbitant and the inability to hack into someone’s communication was nonexistent.  The system may have been inconvenient but the mail was seldom tampered with unless the carriage was hauling gold. Further back in history, cuneiform tablets offered an additional benefit. Given the time it took to stamp a nasty message into the wet clay, a person could repent and make a pot instead.   But back to my point. Convinced no agent wanted my book, my thoughts returned to the question of how to promote it. With or without an agent, all writers face the same challenge. Genius doesn’t get noticed unless there’s chatter. And, there’s no chatter unless the author dances naked in Times Square.  And, maybe not even then. The usual route to fame is to plead for book reviews, readings, television appearances, and guest shots on podcasts or YouTube.  An alternative might be to hire trained squirrels to dance the can-can around the book’s cover on TikTok. Famous or known only to their mothers, writers climb the same rocky slope.  Though my memoir isn’t set to publish until November, my begging has begun. Like confetti, I’m offering advance reader copies (ARCs) to anyone in the writing world. A word to neophytes.  Never send an arc without receiving permission. Otherwise, your book will end up unread in a landfill.  On the other hand, if you get the nod and the reviewer likes your work, don’t be shy.  Flaunt it! That’s what I’m doing here. New York Times best-selling crime writer Rebecca Morris agreed to read my book and, though she is busy writing her own, she’s penned a full review.  That makes her more than a generous person.  It makes her a saint. Below are her remarks which I share with a grateful heart. Review for Getting Lost to Find Home By Rebecca Morris After Elizabeth Gilbert published Eat, Pray, Love (2007), and Cheryl Strayed wrote Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail (2012) hundreds, maybe thousands of women wrote memoirs about finding themselves. They went to Antarctica, the Alaskan wild, and around the world to do it, the more remote the better. A book that should be shelved with the best of them is Getting Lost to Find Home, by Caroline Miller. It is more poignant because it takes place in the 1960s English Midlands, with its post-war hardships, and Africa, where British rule is waning.  Miller, just out of college, is pursuing a British fiancé who finds numerous ways to stall marriage. While she waits, she teaches students in Englands (unable to understand their dialects) and in segregated Rhodesia, where her students catch insects in the air and eat them. At each teaching post, there is either no heat or too much heat.  Her experiences with her students, fellow teachers, and members of the many tribes she meets are told with a companionable self-deprecation.  Miller grew up to be the first Hispanic woman elected to office in Portland, Oregon, a strong advocate for citizen involvement in government and health care, and a prolific author and playwright.  The better-known memoirs stop in middle age. Elizabeth Gilbert and Cheryl Strayed became best-selling authors and their books were filmed. The poignancy of Getting Lost to Find Home is the coming-of-age story is told in the present tense by the author, now an elderly woman. Never married and with no children, she is the odd resident in her retirement center. She feels more like a stranger in a strange land than she ever did traveling. But, oh, the stories she can tell!

[siebenschoen]

Ivan doodle, because of course I have the intense urge to draw him, when I can't find my tablet pen

[notyetneedcoffee]

Soul Seer, Pt. 12

Loki Master List

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Angst, 18+ Smut

Author’s Note: Takes place right after Avengers 1, with time travel elements and hints of Infinity Wars. Does NOT follow cannon after Avengers.

Sorry for taking so long to update... there’s only a couple parts left to go!

“We have a problem.” Tony Stark strode into the conference room Steve Rogers had taken over as his head quarters for the rescue and clean up operations. Cap looked up from the tablet he’d been studying. Tony didn’t usually sound that angry even in the middle of a fight.

“What is it?” Cap stood up.

Tony looked around the room. You felt the wave rage, betrayal, flowing off him and looked over at Loki with confusion. The other three men in the room, Army General Ramirez, Colonel Whitehall and the FDNY Fire Chief all stopped, waiting.

Tony flicked his mobile unit, sending a holographic display over the table. A huge group of citizens was gathered outside the damage zone. They were chanting and carrying signs with things like “Justice Must Be Served”.

“Someone leaked who our out of town help really is.” Tony flipped the display to a news anchor. An image of Loki taken from the battle sat next to an image someone caught on their cell phone of him in his “Luke” disguise. Tony crossed his arms and scowled. “They’re calling for him to be turned over to authorities.”

“He’s helping us.” Steve scowled. “He’s been held accountable by his own people.”

“Anyone know who leaked?” The General slapped his notebook down.  

For all of the confusion and anger flying around the room, Loki was a center of calm. You stood, walking slowly to Loki’s side. You placed both your hands on his chest. His eyes remained on the holo image, but his focus was elsewhere. At your touch, his hands came up to cover yours.

“Loki?”

“The secret is out and cannot be put back. There are now but two choices. You deny your people a justice they deserve and watch as dissent and violence erupt amongst the masses, or you turn me over.” His eyes lowered to meet you wide stare.

“No.” You shook your head.

“That- “ Tony waved his finger around. “That is not going to happen. God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this! But we actually need your help.”

“He’s right” Steve rubbed his forehead. “We would not have accomplished what we have in the last three weeks without your help.”

“Loki is also right,” General tapped his pen on the desk. “If people know he’s here, even if we prove he’s helping, they’ll call for blood. People are terrified. This was an alien attack on American soil. It’s going to be ugly either way.”

“Excuse me.” Jarvis cut in to the conversation. “Sir, Secretary of State Wallace is calling for you.”

“Fuck.” Tony shut down the holo image.

“Buy time, Tony.” Steve folded his arm. “We need to talk about this before we agree to anything.”

“Yeah.” Tony brought his mobile to his ear. “Hey Jack! How’s it hangin’?” He marched out the room for his office.

“Loki, why are you so calm?” You studied his face. “Oh, no. No. You knew this was going to happen. You’ve been waiting for it to happen.”

His cool hand cupped your face, thumb ghosting over your lower lip. “Yes, my pet. I knew.”

Within an hour, you found yourself sitting beside Loki in a room filled to the brink with Avengers and US officials. You listened to the arguments fly around the room, felt level of animosity rise. Fury insisted if Loki was going to be incarcerated it should be with SHIELD. Others insisted there be a trial. Some wondered if sentenced to death, could he even be executed. What it mean in the public opinion if he couldn’t be killed. Bruce was adamant that Loki had already been tried by Odin.

“Are you alright, my pet?” Loki’s baritone voice cut through the noise.

“No.” You shook your head, realizing how close you were to tears. Anxiety, anger, and frustration raged inside. “You can’t let them take you.”

Loki stood and held his hand out for you. Before you made two steps from the table, Rogers called out. “Loki. Where are you going?”

“Captain, I believe you know my intentions in regard to the work you are doing here. I am bound to whatever order is given me. Being here, while my fate is decided, is not necessary.” Loki’s gaze moved to you then back to the Cap. “Don’t you agree?”

He understood. This was about you. “You’re right. The conversation may even be a little more honest with you out of the room. We all know the weight of Dr. Banner’s opinion. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”

Loki tipped his head and led you from the room with a hand at your back. The calm radiating off of him was infuriating. He was normally full of fire and fight. It scared you and you hated being scared. You managed to keep quiet until the elevator doors closed.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re just giving up.” You growled, staring at the readout taking you to your floor.

“I must do as Dr. Banner orders. What is there to give up?” Loki sounded distant.

“What is there – “ You spun, instantly furious. “My entire life, my entire existence, has changed! Do you have any idea what would happen to me if they took you! Do you know what that would do to me! What is there to give up?! You selfish- “

Loki’s mouth crashed over yours. His hands roughly pulling you flush against his body, lifting you off your toes. Waves of possessive need, protective outrage, wrapped around you as tightly as his arms. Your fingers slipped through his silky hair as you clung to him.

The elevator doors opened, Loki waltzed you onto your floor. A tickle dance across your skin just before he dropped you down on the soft sheets of your bed. The cool air tickled across your bare flesh. Loki pinned you to the bed, hands holding down your wrists.

His face hovered over your, eyes blazing. “You are mine. I will not allow you to be . . . taken . . . from me. I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”

“But you were so calm.” The tightness in your chest began to unravel. “What if they decide to. . .”

“It doesn’t matter what they decide.” Loki’s nose ghosted over yours, his breath mingling with yours. “The only word that matters is Banner’s.” His tongue slipped along your lower lip. “He is a man of reason.”

“You’re not concerned?”

“No, my pet, worry not.”

“But…”

His mouth covered yours, tongue dancing around your, drawing a moan from your throat. He nipped your lower lip between his teeth. “Whatever may come, I will protect you, my feisty little pet.”

“Don’t laugh at me. I was furious.” You rocked your hips up against him, causing Loki to growl. You twisted your wrists until your fingers entwined with his. “You are mine.”

Loki fell upon you like a man starving. He bit marks across your neck. His body slid along yours. The coolness of his skin against your flushed skin sent shivers over your body. His teeth grazed your nipple. You pulled at his hair, calling his name. Loki marked your delicate flesh.

“So fine.” Loki growled. He pushed apart your legs, teeth nipping, hot tongue painting wet trails along your inner thighs. It sent fire racing through your veins. His fingers slid through your wetness, delving into your depths. With a wicked smile, Loki licked his fingers. “My sweet.”

“Loki, don’t tease.” You clawed at the sheets.

He pressed your knees toward your shoulders, his tongue taking a long sweep across your sex. His voice rumbled deep. “Don’t tell me what to do, my pet.” He flicked your clit with his tongue. “I do what I want.”

You wrapped your legs around him and twisted. He allowed you to flip him over onto his back. Straddling his waist, hands on his chest, you nipped at his jaw. “I wanted to stand in front of you, and dare anyone to take you from me. I would rip them apart. You are mine.”

His fingers dug into your ass as you rubbed against his hard cock. Loki’s eyes fell closed. Your declaration feeling more intoxicating than any Asgardian mead he’d ever tasted. “You are a marvel, my dear.”    

“Loki,” you breathed, lowering yourself on him. “Loki,” you sighed, relishing in the stretch and the feel of him. “Oh, fuck, Loki,” you panted sitting up and rocking on him. His cock hitting you perfectly.

His feet anchored on the bed, thrusting up. So powerful. Your cunt clenched around him. Loki growled, holding you in place and fucking you harder. You reached back, balancing with a hand on his knee. Heat coiled in your center.

Loki watched the sweat break out on your skin, delighted in your tits bouncing for him. He extended a tendril of magic. A cool vibrating thrum pressed against your clit.

“Oh fuck!” You began to quiver.

“Do not come until I say.” Loki ordered. You whined, but nodded. The onslaught of his cock and the vibration overwhelming.

An icy pinch nipped along the edge of your breast. You yipped. A series of them circles your breasts, making them feel tight and hyper-sensitive. Ghost finger pinch your nipples hard, sending a shock to your cunt that near pushed you over. “Oh, god, Loki!”

He growled, a smirk upon his face. The thrum upon your clit became stronger and pushed against you harder. “Not yet.” Loki slammed into at a brutal pace. Wet, skin slapping skin. You panted. Shook. You couldn’t help it. The pinches upon your nipples pulled hard, coming free, the flash of pain making you snap.

Heat burst forth. You flooded, squirting over his cock. Soaking everything. Shaking uncontrollably. Falling forward. Loki wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him. Burying in you deep, coming hard with groan.

You lay boneless on his chest, breath slowly returning to normal. Loki stroked your skin, holding you gently. He allowed himself to get lost in your breath and heartbeat. You sighed and drifted into near sleep. He would not say it aloud, but if Banner makes any decision that takes you from him, he would tear everything to the ground.

You’d become his salvation. Loki once again wondered if the Norns laughed at him. A fragile little mortal.

He let you sleep, just holding you.

In short order though, Jarvis quietly alerted him of visitors. “Loki, excuse me, but Captain Rogers wishes me to inform you that he and the others are on their way to your suite.”

You lifted your head, sleepily.

“Thank you. Have they come to a decision?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Time to get up?” You sat up, the worry returning.

“Yes.” Loki stood and held a hand out for you.

With a shimmer of magic, you were both clean and dressed. You smiled, leaning into him. “Magic is so cool.”

His lips covered yours in a gentle kiss just as the door to your suite chimed. You both walked out of the bedroom just as the living room filled. Rogers was joined by Stark, Banner, Romanoff, and surprisingly Fury.

“You’ve come to a conclusion.”

“Yeah.” Banner was smiling. Good sign.

“We explained about Odin’s orders and the oath.” Cap began. “But the court of public opinion is a pretty powerful force.”

“Indeed it is.” Loki agreed. He took you hand in his to keep you from fidgeting. Everyone’s emotions were bounding all over the spectrum.

“We couldn’t exactly ask some of the others to defy direct orders,” Fury continued the story. “So we figured we’re going to have to handle this one on our own for a while.”

Natasha smiled. “We are the spies after all.”

“So what did you finally decide to do about Loki?” You finally blurted out.

“If we’re going to get the happy ending we all want,” Tony smiled. “Loki has to die.”

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[everdino]

Probably this is my last art and I can return to drawing again only after a month, when i'll ger new pen, or, at least, after I get used to the old semi-live pen from the tablet. Because, even an ordinary sketch with a very "cheap" color was very difficult to draw and my hands hurt, because old pen the old pen is just disgustingly uncomfortable.

Whining is end, now about art.

Lately, I thought about au, where a megaop found themselves on an unknown planet and survived there for a while. I decided to create my vision for this au, with Blitzbee and, yes, Bumblebee is triplechanger, I'm sorry, i regret everything.

This idea is not new, I saw several posts on this au, but I would like to show it exactly, as I see it. I cant write slowburn fanfiction (especially in English), and there is some problems with drawing, so I’ll just write the whole idea here. I own nothing, so if one of you wants, he can take this idea, you do not need my permission.

The first branches from the canon in this au occur at the very beginning, when Lugnut and Blitzwing arrive on Earth. A closer acquaintance with Bumblebee begins even before Megatron returns. At first it’s just a banal desire to take a break from the hostilities and annoying teammates, then friendship, quite strong friendship, then something more. Something reaally more. Blitz and Bee successfully hide their relationship by inventing a scheme, by which they can meet, without getting caught. (Note, Blitzwing invented this, and then for a very long time taught a stupid bug to stick to a plan). This continues until the moment Blitzwing captures by Elite Guard. (I note, that Wasp was partly to blame, because using the Bumblebee form, he drowned the vigilance of the triplechanger.) Another offshoot from the canon, Blackarachnia captures both Bumblebee and Wasp, for experimentation. She turns one into a triplechanger, and another into predacon, to figure out, how to solve her techno-organic problem. Sentinel tries to get rid of both, but Optimus prevents him. Bumblebee begins the rehabilitation course, trying to get used to the new body, but the hatred from the elite guard and the prisoner sparkmate strongly affect his mental state, not to mention the fact, that being a triplechager already means being unstable.

In this au, Blitzwing retreats with Lugnut, during the battle between Decepticons and the Elite guard, so only Starscream clones are brought to Cybertron Prison. The Final Battle is coming, Bumblebee is participating in it, which has more or less recovered from the operation. He fights against Blitzwing, however, right during the fight, Bee swears, that he don't allow anyone to put his sparkmate in prison ever again. He actually had many plans, and all of them were somehow related to leaving Autobots. Megatron defeated, prisoners of the Decepticons transported to Cybertron. Bumblebee prepares to escape from the ship with Blitzwing. Only Sparkmate becomes his meaning of life, since he is sure that Autobots betrayed him, treating his upgrade as a disabled person. Accidentally, being under the affect, he frees Megatron, along with Blitzwing. A new fight begins, during which Megatron and Optimus find themselves in a rescue capsule, which was prepared by Bumblebee, and crash on an unknown planet. The Elite Guard is trying to help, but during the battle some mechanisms of the ship’s engines are damaged and it’s much harder to get to Cybertron, especially with dangerous Decepticons on board, although without Megatron. Bee realizes, that all this happened through his fault, therefore, goes for the last signal of Optimus, which they managed to detect. Despite his grudge against the Autobots, he didn't want any of them to suffer. Blitzwing follows him, trying to protect him from reckless decisions. These two also have to endure a crash on the planet, where Optimus was supposedly. Bumblebee injures his leg and they have to hide in a cave, until Blitz comes up with some kind of plan.

Meanwhile, Optimus and Megatron are trying to continue the battle after landing on the planet, but soon realize, that they are too wounded and tired to fight. They disperse to find shelter until their factions find them. Time passes and both leaders come to the conclusion that surviving alone on a semi-organic planet is very difficult. Therefore, they unite and roam around, in search of an energon or communication devices. Instead, they find creatures that live on the planet and almost die, but at the last moment they are saved. This case forces both to appreciate the fighting qualities of a temporary teammate. Some time passes again, they both begin to starve, but still don't give up. Along the way, they both learn more about each other and the opposing faction, and their enmity slowly fades, giving way to respect. Optimus no longer experiences internal fear at the sight of a warlord, and Megatron allows the Autobot to stay closer. But as before, they did not find anything that resembled an energon. They find a poor mine later, but, with the mine, they find their triplechangers. Both Optimus and Megatron are shocked, seeing how these two, not so much as hostile, but, on the contrary, treat each other with such tenderness, like they have been married for several centuries. Megatron is furious at this betrayal and, despite Optimus’s protest, is attacking. Triplechagers obviously did not expect this, but it only made Blitzwing angrier. Both Decepticons start to fight violently, but battle is interrupted by Optimus. Leader of the Autobots is trying to convince others, that all of them are in a very critical situation, without communication, energy and medical assistance, so the war is the last thing they need. Although, Optimus also admitted that he didn't approve of such behavior on the part of Bumblebee. After long enough persuasions, Optimus manages to convince the others and the four stick together to survive, until someone finds them.

At first, Blitzwing very violently defended Bumblebee from leaders, given that Bee had damaged leg and mind, but soon all four have to trust each other, as survival is becoming harder and harder. While Optimus and Bumblebee sort things out, trying to understand, why Bumblebee wants to leave the fraction, Megatron becomes curious why, of all the Autobots, Blitzwing chose Bumblebee. He still cannot accept the fact, that Blitz betrayed him, but has already stopped being angry about this. He just becomes interested. Because with each new day, Megatron notices, that he is beginning to understand his soldier. Dark Lord more and more respects Optimus, who, despite his fairly young age and lack of experience (regarding Megatron himself, of course) is incredibly brave and strong. Respect slowly flows into a warmer but unknown feeling for Megatron. However, it was obvious that Optimus shared his feelings.

Bumblebee, meanwhile, is undergoing panic attacks, so, against the background of the rest of the team, he looks very weak. Old love of life is no longer observed in the optics of yellow Autobot. But, still, he holds on, for the sake of Blitzwing, who does not, not even for moment, leave his precious sparkmate alone. The moral damage was too strong, but Blitzwing is not thinking of retreating.

The four continues to roam the planet in search of the mines of the energon, fighting off the creatures and hiding from the weather, simultaneously solving their relationship with each other. Bumblebee, over time, thanks to Blitzwing, will cope with his mental problems, and Megatron and Optimus will become much much closer to each other.

[freddy-ryland]

scene ii: the art of memory

turn up the volume I'm not listening the dialogue is static and I start to panic and the music fades

The dull roar in her ears was familiar as she stepped out of the glowing green flames, hurrying forward a few steps to make room for the tell-tale whoosh of a similar traveler. The teenager was sure to wipe her sooty palms off on a handkerchief, straightening out her jumper before approaching the visitor's desk. There was a long winding line behind the little gate, stamped with the Ministry Seal, but she sidestepped it and waited for the man to wave at her. 

There were a few noises of annoyance as Freddy cleared the line, but a singular glare from the attending Auror shut them up. Freddy patted Amara Bone's arm, who flushed and continued to stand ramrod straight. The elder Hufflepuff had always been kind to her at Hogwarts; she'd woken up with Amara carrying her back to her room many times after passing out around the castle. Amara always cut a surprisingly imposing figure, despite being one of the softest people Freddy had met in her life.

"Another top-secret meeting with our magical mimes eh Lil' Ry," The man had a shockingly bad case of bedhead and a lazy eye, he told her tales that he popped the eye out during the war to scare Snatchers so he could get the drop on them in a fight, and it never healed right. "Thinkin' that you might as well become a mime yourself, missus."

"Gerald, I think I've had my fill of our devout Unspeakables," she flashed him a smile as he continued to process her wand, a rigid formality, "and I've every intention to make a grand escape of them once I graduate."

"A grand escape, eh?"

"Oh yes, it's all very planned out, our lovely chats will come to an end. I'll be sure to send you a postcard." She had a map of every place she wanted to see, already marked up and pasted to her wall.

"You do that girl," Gerald smiled, he was missing his front tooth, and it always gave his words a distinctive whistling sound, "you get outta here an' far away from those mimes before they trap you in their circus."

"I was thinking of joining the circus actually, as a fortune-teller. Get some real-world experiences," Freddy grinned, "though I have plenty of experience working with mimes and clowns." Gerald's whistling laugh followed her through the marbled Atrium as she squeezed by, fixating her visitor's badge to the front of her sweater. 

More than a few ministry workers recognized her, between Micah and Uncle Kinglsey and her Mum being the Healer for the rich and pure, Freddy had been around these halls since she was born. Most offered small smiles and mayne some gently awkward small talk and returned to their lives. An older red-haired woman held the elevator door open for her as Freddy thanked her profusely, having nearly missed it after being waylaid by some friend-of-Mom's-patients-nephew. It wasn't unusual to see teenagers at the Ministry, between internships and family, but it was unusual to see 'Department of Mysteries' embossed on her visitor's badge. It earned her a few looks on the crowded elevator so Freddy simply smiled and watched the arrow tick. Slowly the overfilled elevator began to empty until it was just Freddy left. Kicking her heels against the ground, the teenager started to gently sweat under her loose top, a pit opening as she watched the arrow tick down and down towards 9.

Finally, the door opened, and the Hufflepuff stepped out into the Atrium, a cold desolate place. The floors were disconcertingly white, the kind of white that reminds you of dying, shined to such a high polish that Freddy could see up her own skirt. The walls were covered in etched runes and spells in Latin, Greek and possibly more than a few ancient, dead languages. There were no portraits adorning the sparse walls, only four statues in each corner of the room, all of which were humans in some sort of distorted way. Unspeakable Hawkins once told her they were reminders of how the human soul can twist when experimenting with unknown magic, a warning of sorts to the workers. A reminder. One she didn't need as Freddy looked away from the child chimera hybrid writhing on the ground below the impatient glare of an older woman who held a gnarled rod above it’s body. There was a distinctive clicking noise that was the only sound in the room, and Freddy moved towards it, keeping a careful eye on the statues. 

The Hufflepuff hated when they moved, or decided to watch her.

A woman sat behind a similarly Spartan desk, typing away and glaring at the man sitting at the lone mid-century chair that looks like a child's under his bulk and stature. His shock of royal purple and gold robes were dazzlingly out of place in this room, and as the receptionist sniffed at Freddy in her voiceless greeting, Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up. His lips pulled into a comfortingly wide smile.

"Uncle King?" Freddy hurried across the marble, taking care not to slip on the slick surface, "what are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to check on your progress with Madame Basnet--"

"Unspeakable Basnet, Mr. Shacklebolt," the receptionist, Alisha snapped, her box braids whipping around her head so she could level a cold glare at him, "do remember her title, Sir." The clack! clack! clack! continued it's metronome and paper continued to feed into it with twitches of her pinky.

"Forgive me, Madame Kieta," his grin might’ve been charming to anyone else but the living statue at the desk. 

Her face pinched returning to her typing, the clack of the typewriter going faster as the door in front of them began to open. Freddy never understood how she opened it when her fingers never left the typewriter. "Mr. Shacklebolt has already taken his Vow of Silence, he may enter. As for you, Ms. Ryland, the statues will tell if you've been following your end of the contract."

Following her end of the contract, a contract she took when she was still a child and was somehow so binding it made her keep having to coming here every goddamn week. Just the notion of still being forced by a decade old scrap of parchment was enough to make her want to cuss Ms. Kieta out. 

But, Uncle Kingsley held his arm out, and in the fashion of any proper young woman of magical society, she took it with a gentle bob of her knees. Long schooled into her by her Mum. She kept her mouth shut, teeth grinding on sharp words until they became soft powder. 

The statue from the corner crawled over as they crossed the invisible barrier between the rest of the world and the Department of Mysteries. It was an eyeless thing, mouth carved open and gapping with marble streaks of drool. Truly it would’ve been an impressive piece of art if it wasn’t so gruesome. Its movement caused a grinding sound of stone on stone; the magicked creature prowled around her ankles before coming up behind her shoulder.

Freddy stood stock still, eyes screwing tight. She'd seen what happened when someone broke their Silence Vows, and the statue found it. The teen remembered how fast they moved and the high-pitched whistling sound they made for an alarm. She remembered how the woman's skull cracked when marble met marble with a body between. Freddy had been tugged in by Unspeakable Ellie, and sat down with comforting head pats from folk who didn’t know how to pet a cat without being constipated.

The teenager let out a sigh, not unlike a balloon, as the statue nudged her hand, cold and hard, before retreating to its sentry position in the corner.

"Horrible creatures," Kingsley whispered; his knuckles were white, and the bulge of his biceps were stone beneath her tightened grip, "wholly unnecessary for someone of your position." For all that he was a war hero her Uncle always did take far too much pride in their family position at the Ministry, but that was just pureblood upbringing for you. 

"The Department must have their protections, even from someone overly familiar."

Kingsley made a noise of disapproval before they entered the real Atrium. The place was a madhouse in truth, positively Frankenstienan compared to the cold room they just left. Messenger papers were flying above their heads and the distant sound of a boom. Desks were smashed together while massive runes covered thick paper; one desk was dedicated to writing implements -- quill, pen, pencil, charcoal, blood ink, unicorn blood ink, paint, chalk. In addition, there was a large bookcase stretching from floor to ceiling and filled to bursting with papers, books, and more than a few stone tablets. 

Unspeakable Hawkins was rushed past, jostling a cauldron and a papyrus scroll. He offered a cursorary wave before cursing as he tripped over a series of tangled wires. In a distant corner, Freddy noted a man talking to himself, Keith? Kai? Kyle? She couldn't remember his name, nor what they spoke of, nor anything about him. His name started with a 'K,' and he always looked half beaten to death with exhaustion. Unspeakable Ellie (who refused her surname for security purposes) was orchestrating a jostling crowd of marmosets, succulents, several hummingbirds, and a single cacti in a floating box headed towards a door marked with green. Freddy could see the bone thorns on her shoulders and arms peeking between the folds of her bulky Unspeakable robe even from this distance. There were doors all around them, moving in and out of existence. It reminded Freddy remarkably of Lib-Con, without the fun of it. Only hurried, furious magical workings, the scent of stale coffee and the ambiance of lab rats on a wheel chasing only certain death via science (or magic). The doors that led to the various Halls of Magic were locked to her personally, but employees busted in and out at breakneck pace. The smaller doors belonged to offices and various other tinkering workshops where booms and clangs shook the floor and no-one batted a single eyelash. It was an orchestra of chaos, with no conductor keeping track, time or tempo.

Above all the noise Cassandra Basnet walked like a whisper, in a tight business uniform that seemed more in place with the Department of Law Enforcement. Not even a single item of turquoise or jade adorned her person, no jangle of obtrusive jewelry or an obnoxious scent of sage or patchouli marked her for a Divination expert like others in the field. There were no stray tea leaves or frog spawn in her pockets, nor a deck of tarot cards in hand. Hair pulled back in such a severe bun that it would make Headmistress McGonagall wince. Yet, even with the power walk of a misandrist girlboss, no one could deny that Unspeakable Basnet is beautiful with her high cheekbones and startlingly green eyes, always decorated with minimal make up and on occasion wire frame glasses. Her walk slowed, dodging desks, the tenseness in her arms softened as she came closer before wrapping Freddy into a familiar hug, tugging her straight from her Uncle's arms.

Freddy tensed but hugged back, politely but wincing as she felt the surprisingly heavyweight of Cassandra's arm. It was a show of dominance, and all parties knew that as she pulled away, keeping a possessive arm around Freddy's shoulders.

"Mr. Shacklebolt, I had no idea you'd be joining our little shindig today." Her smile was florescent bright. "My little crystal didn't send a word."

"I simply wanted to do a quick drop-in. It's so difficult to plan these sorts of things these days."

"Well, I am always happy to have someone of your esteem in our halls. Come to my office. Today is hectic, we've had more than a few breakthroughs, so everyone is very excited. They'd probably want to drag Freddy to show off, and we can't have that." 

Moving through the zoo, they found a deep maroon door that came into the similarly stark office, the wall covered in crystal balls, palmistry books, more than a few photos of Freddy in various states of having a Sight or Vision. Several papers on her desk and a bronze paperweight in the shape of a jaguar, which Freddy knew to be her Patronus. A plush couch pushed up against the wall with a gauzy veil over it to block light. Freddy had passed out many times on that couch after long days working with her powers and had woken up an unknown number of times under a heavy weighted blanket that laid folded up neat against the arm. The desk was minimalistic, and there was a single dark brown leather armchair in front of it, where Kingsley settled his imposing mass into, without so much as an invitation, lounging like a panther.

Freddy dropped herself onto the couch, pulling her sweater tighter around herself, wishing with all her might that a pit would open beneath her butt and drop her from this incredibly awkward situation. 

"So, Mr. Shacklebolt, have you any questions about Freddy's instruction here with me? Concerns?" She kept her voice even and relaxed, puttering around the office shuffling and filing papers, pulling out an all too familiar folder more than three inches thick. Quills marched to their places on the desk with muttered incantations. She was absolute crap at wordless magic for all of Basnet's abilities, and her wandless magic was abysmal. All in all, Freddy regarded her as a less than average witch, but no one could deny that she had some sorta latent power and her mind was a whetstone on which she sharpened it. 

"Just wish to observe as much of Freddy's instruction as possible. Our family has begun to worry that perhaps she has grown stagnant in this environment. Our Freddy may need some more... varied instruction" though his tone remained polite, there was a distinct sense of 'fuck you' in each curated word. She knew her parents were worried, but she hadn't realized how nervous her Mom had asked her esteemed cousin to attend. "You know, young wix, always needing to be pushed in the right direction, teachers can make or break a future."

"Of course, however," Basnet pulled down several more books and smiled, "there is a point where I will have to ask you to leave. Your Vow of Silence only goes so far when it comes to more... delicate magical workings."

"I will respect that; however, if Freddy should ask me to stay, then I'd like to push that envelope."

"We'll see if you have any questions--"

"Believe me," his eyes flickered towards Freddy before back to Basnet, steel entering his voice, "I will speak up."

"Alright, now," Basnet turned her piercing gaze onto the teenager who squirmed in her seat, "Freddy, what did you have for breakfast?"

It seemed a harmless question if it weren't for the fact that she couldn't remember. 

"I believe I had some toast and tea."

"Do you believe or know?"

"Believe," Freddy answered, clipped and strangled.

Basnet noted something down on parchment, "This morning, what time did you wake up?"

"Seven o'clock; I went for a walk with Micah." She could smell the lavender, see the brick they walked on. She was sure of that.

"Where did you walk to?"

"The shops down the road had to pick up some things." The man greeted them, or was it his daughter? What day was it... Tuesday? His daughter then.

"What things? List them."

"Milk, bread, some cleaning supplies for mum. I wanted one of their cookies."

"Flavor?"

"Chocolate." Her fingers ran over the packaging still in her pocket, the embossed words 'Ghirardelli' guiding her answer.

"Good, you had breakfast when you came home?"

"Yes, I had a small vision while we were walking, just a flash."

"What was it?"

"A child screaming."

Basnet frowned, "Just a flash?"

"Just her and the sound, then it went away, lasted less than half a second."

Kingsley was watching Basnet's hands like a hawk, no doubt trying to decipher what she was writing. 

"So you believe you had breakfast, then you came straight here."

"Yes." Freddy shifted her weight.

"Who helped you at the Visitors Gate?" The question came fast, a little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Tierney whispered 'Your Mom.'

"Gerald, we chatted for a few minutes, nothing crazy. He was asking about my plans for post-grad." she ground her teeth. "I told him I was leaving after graduation, maybe to join a circus." That earned her two eye-rolls from both adults. "I said I had enough experience working with mimes and clowns." Basnet sneered and continued to jot things down.

"Who was the Auror on guard?" 

Freddy stopped.

Fuck. Wait, no, she had seen them. They had waved them through. She knew them, but their faces were blurred. Their robes weren't trimmed with any color.

"I'm not sure of their name!" She answered brightly, "I don't know everyone in the Auror Department." She hoped the lie would stick. 

But Basnet pressed further, steepling her fingers and peering at her over the tips of her chipped manicure. "Who were they, Freddy? Surely you would know most of the Aurors; give me an image, a gender."

"Now it's insulting to assume they use one of the binary genders, Madame Basnet!" Freddy was grasping at straws now, plowing through her memory over and over again. Who was standing there? Had they smiled? Did Freddy touch them? Sometimes the Aurors give her high fives or slip her a candy. She patted her pockets; they were empty except for the cookie wrapper and some lint. So who was at the Gate? "I can't-- I don't. I wasn't paying attention."

"It was Auror Amara Bones," Freddy's mouth went dry, and unshed tears came to her eyes, "but you can't remember that can you? Who held the door open for you on the elevator?" It was a woman, right? Freddy began to tug on the sleeves of her sweater. Maybe it was a man, a tall man? That didn't seem right... "What did you have for dinner last night? Who did you have lunch with last week? What is the name of the delivery boy at your work?" 

Questions began to pile up before Freddy finally shook her head.

"I--"

"What. Is going on." Kingsley stood from his chair, coming around to press a hand to the top of Freddy's head. "What are you badgering her for?"

"Short-term memory loss," Basnet finally said, "her memory it's," she wiggled her fingers, "going wonky for lack of a better term. Her power is a mental one. The more it gets used, the stronger it gets, the more it affects the brain."

"What does that mean?"

"What it means, Mr. Shacklebolt is that Freddy is losing her memories, short blips of time are being lost in her day-to-day life, and your visions are getting stronger, more detailed, aren't they? What did your vision smell like?"

"Piss." It came sharp, "The child was screaming and smelled like pee, the ground was brick, and it was cold out."

"All that in a flash requires a mind to remember. As they get stronger, her daily memories get lost."

"What is your plan?"

Basnet shook her head, "There really isn't one; we can just continue to manage the Visions, work on keeping them longer or stopping them when they start. But the memory loss is a side effect, like her migraines, like her nosebleeds. So it can only be managed, not healed."

"So what you're telling me is that all this is a waste of our goddamn time?" Kingsley was angry now, but his voice boomed from deep within his chest. "She is coming here just to have you manage her? 

"Teach her to handle it better, Mr. Shackle--"

"Get up, Freddy," the teenager flinched as Kingsley seemed to dominate the room, though Basnet sat pristinely and seemingly unaffected at her desk, "we are leaving. I will not have you waste your time as it gets worse."

"Freddy, stay."

The teenager hovered at the couch, her fists tightening under their equal gaze.

"Freddy, you know you can't leave yet, don't you?" Basnet's voice was sugar-sweet, "Your time isn't up today, as agreed upon." 

Persephone chose her place with Hades, she decided to eat the pomegranate seeds, and Freddy desperately wished to throw hers up. 

"Uncle... The contract says 8 hours a week during non-school time. I can't leave yet."

Her Uncle was breathing thunderclouds before sitting back down in the chair, "Continue," he ground out.

Slowly Freddy walked through last week. She could count up at least 20 instances of purely lost memory. More than 50 flashing visions, and 5 of the longer ones. They continued to record and tally up each one until finally they were done at the two-hour mark. Taking a deep breath, Freddy leaned against the back of the couch, her legs pulled up against her chest despite being far too tall for such a position.

"I think that is enough for the day," Basnet finally hummed, "We can make up the hours later this week, perhaps Friday?"

"Sure, I don't work that day."

"Excellent, now I want you to keep a notebook, make notes of when you forget things. Then, start playing some muggle brain games. I've heard Sudoku is helpful, and we'll talk to St. Mungo's about their memory-impaired patients and what they do. So that'll be my homework." Freddy nodded, hopping off the couch and stretching out her tensed limbs as her Uncle stood by the door, opening it.

"Mr. Shacklebolt," the man didn't look at her, "next time, do tell me when you plan on dropping by, we can have a more formal session planned, and it won't be as startling then while we do our work."

"Thank you for your time. Freddy, let's go."

The duo strode through the Department Atrium. They passed into the white marble room, where the receptionist quirked a brow. She knew that Freddy's sessions were usually much longer. Then they stepped into the elevator, and with a murmured silencing charm, Kingsley looked down at her. 

"I want to see that contract."

"Dad has it."

"I want a legal team to search it," there was a lightness in her chest, "she is a goodman quack, you are getting worse, and your control is minimal at best."

Freddy grimaced because, in truth, it was better than it had ever been, but neither her Uncle nor Basnet needed to know that. She didn't need Basnet poking around her head any more than she usually did. 

"We can find other help. There are many bright wix in the world who can help you, other Seers."

"I know. But we need to stop talking about it, the wards..." watching the arrow tick up and up.

"Of course," they both fell silent as the voice rang out -- "8th Floor!"

Freddy leaned against her Uncle's arm, and he curled her tighter against him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I had no idea how bad your condition has gotten." She nodded slowly, trying not to let a tear fall. "We'll get you out of this contract, get you some real help. Basnet has done well with your control, but frankly, it's not enough anymore."

"She tried--" Freddy started weakly before closing her jaw together with a click. The wards were in place, and Freddy was far too terrified to talk too much about what Basnet had her doing. What envelopes she was pushing. Freddy could only think of the swirls of the room, the way she'd wake up, her memory blank and energy drained, the way she'd vomit blood up, and the glare of a timer going far, far past the agreed 10-minute mark. Breaking the Vows of Silence for the Department of Mysteries led to tragedy. Though Freddy had looser restrictions than any regular Unspeakable, she hardly wanted to test the boundary here.

"Trying to use the wrong family's kid is what she’s trying to do.” He was tense, every inch of him and every movement militaristic. “I'll have the Head of the Department investigate her. Then we'll see where we're at with getting you a new teacher. I’ll speak with my Mother, she has connections with the other magical schools." So this really was a family matter.

But, Freddy knew that it would take a lot more than the Shacklebolt name thrown around to get her out of the contract. But she let her Uncle have the optimism and simply let him crack jokes and tell funny anecdotes for the rest of the elevator ride up. Freddy popped in on occasion, exchanging a quip or describing a new story about her friends from school and things going on at the candy shop. 

Freddy hardly noticed they were already at the Visitor's Gate, a low thrumming headache forming at the back of her skull. She rubbed gently at her eyes; they were aching too. Maybe she ought to get checked at St. Mungo's to see if they could get her any more potent headache potions. 

"Gerald! I didn't know you were working today."

"Huh, lassie? You were just here, not even 3 hours ago? I checked you in, remember?" Gerald gently took her visitor's badge, "We were chatting..."

Freddy's face fell, and Kingsley tensed as she tripped over her words before finally exiting. Amara stood there, concern blatant; Freddy peered up at her before sharply turning away. They paused at the fireplaces, and Freddy looked at Kingsley, tears in her eyes, and whispered quietly. He seemed deep in thought.

"Uncle King?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you know if I Flooed in this morning?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked down on her, a feat with her height, and gently slid his hand into hers and tugged her into the Floo, gently calling out "Ryland Residence, Falmouth." 

Freddy let her world go up in flames and didn't remember stepping out of them this morning.

[scotianostra]

On August 16th 1864 Scottish suffragette, Elsie Inglis, was born at Naini Tal hill station in India.

There are very few people who were neither born or died in Scotland that are as highly regarded and respected as Scots, than Elsie Inglis, the only other that springs to mind is Eric Liddell. 

Elsie parents were Scots Harriet Lowes Thompson and John Inglis, who worked for the East India Company, when her father retired from his job in 1878 the Inglis family returned to Scotland and settled in Edinburgh.

Having studied medicine at the Edinburgh School of Medicine for Women Inglis subsequently established her own medical college. She qualified as a doctor and secured a teaching appointment at the New Hospital for Women.  A keen suffragette Inglis was later to found her own maternity hospital entirely staffed by women.

In 1906 Inglis played a notable role in the establishment of the Scottish Women’s Suffrage Federation.  The outbreak of war in Europe in August 1914 brought about a temporary ceasefire where political - including suffragette - issues were concerned, and Inglis promptly suggested the creation of women’s medical units on the Western Front.

The British government reacted to Inglis’s idea was frowned upon, she was told  "'my good lady, go home and sit still'. .  Nevertheless a similar offer made directly to the French government was warmly received and Inglis travelled to France within three months of the outbreak of war, with the Abbaye de Royaumont hospital, containing some 200 beds, in place by December 1914. This was later followed by a second hospital at Villers Cotterets in 1917.

Inglis was active in arranging for the despatch of women’s units to other fighting areas aside from the Western Front, the first Scottish Women's Hospital field unit was formed in December 1914 in a town called Kragujevac in Serbia.others followed  at Salonika, Romania, Malta and Corsica in 1915 and to Russia the following year.

Inglis herself served in Serbia from 1915 until the Serbian government and army withdrew to Corfu ,she had been held prisoner for a period until U.S. diplomatic pressure brought about her release.   Thereafter based in Russia she was taken ill, the government demanded she come home but Elsie refused until the Serbian soldiers were guaranteed safe passage. The boat brought them back to Newcastle and Elsie, who was crippled with illness, could hardly walk as she greeted Serbian soldiers on deck. She was so frail she had to be carried off to a nearby hotel where she died on 26th  November 1917.

Elsie’s body was taken “home” to Edinburgh where it was interned in Dean Cemetery, beforehand it lay in state in St Giles’ Cathedral.  Her funeral there on 29th November was attended by both British and Serbian royalty.

The SWH continued its work for the duration of the war, sending out more units and raising money for the work. Remaining funds were used to establish the Elsie Inglis Memorial Maternity Hospital in Edinburgh in July 1925, it closed in 1988.

There is a Memorial Drinking Fountain “Crkvenac” in Mladenovac, Serbia commemorating her work for the country. A plaque commemorates her at 8 Walker Street, Edinburgh. A portrait of her is included in the mural of heroic women by  Walter P. Starmer at  St Jude's Church, Hampstead Garden, London. In 1922 a large tablet to her memory (sculpted by  Pilkington Jackson)  was erected in the north aisle of St Giles on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.  

A movie is set to be made of her biography, penned by her sister, Eva called The Woman With the Torch

 In April 1916, Inglis became the first woman to be awarded the Order of the White Eagle (First class) by the Crown Prince Alexander of Serbia at a ceremony in London.  She had previously been awarded the Order of Saint Sava.

[squawks]

feelin rly mmmMMBAD, gotta toss messy vent art into the void because apparently launching myself into the void is ‘‘‘‘physically impossible’’ and ‘‘‘‘‘maladaptive behavior’’’ whatever that means (as a fellow Certified Mess I feel like morrison knows the feeling)

[thevastnessof]

when will my tablet pen return from the war

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Documentation Gathering, Sanitization, and Storage: an excerpt from "A Public Service"

[Yesterday, we published my review of Tim Schwartz's new guide for whistleblowers, A Public Service: Whistleblowing, Disclosure and Anonymity; today, I'm delighted to include this generous excerpt from Schwartz's book. Schwartz is an activist whom I've had the pleasure of working with and I'm delighted to help him get this book into the hands of the people who need to read it. -Cory]

Collection

As you collect documents and bring new information to light, be aware that you are in an escalating digital arms race. There will always be new ways that data forensics can identify you, or uncover information based on data that you inadvertently leave in your files, or data that is retained in logs noting who has accessed what files on what network. Recently it was discovered that noise from electrical grids can be used to quite accurately pinpoint when, and potentially where, an audio recording was made. The best way to win this war—or at least to avoid becoming collateral damage—is to work outside the standard methods and find partners who have experience.

Of course, the actual collection of documents has changed dramatically over the years. In 1969, Daniel Ellsberg systematically removed documents, including the Pentagon Papers, from the RAND Corporation in his briefcase, taking them to an advertising agency where he (sometimes with the help of his 13-year-old son) photocopied them, one page at a time. Though this took enormous courage and psychological stamina—and in 1969 all that copying was certainly time-consuming and undoubtedly tiresome—it was also technologically straightforward and relatively safe. As long as the guards didn’t stop and check his briefcase, and as long as no one saw him remove and return the reports, Ellsberg could duplicate the papers undetected.

If Ellsberg was trying to do the same thing in 2019 with physical documents, he would have to be sure there weren’t cameras looking over his shoulder. He would have to make sure that the documents themselves didn’t have watermarks that would lead back to him. And he would have to make sure that the copying method didn’t log his activity. If Ellsberg’s 21st-century counterpart were to take digital documents, there would be many more potential technological risks and traps to avoid along the way.

Take Notes

Before you start collecting documents or even trying to tell anyone about the wrongs you want to expose, start documenting what you see. Jesselyn Radack, who heads the Whistleblower and Source Protection Program at ExposeFacts and has worked with Thomas Drake and Edward Snowden, says the first step is to “just keep your own little record at home in a little notebook.” This should be a notebook where you methodically record everything pertinent to the wrongs you want to expose: everything that you see, everything that you hear, and everything that you say. Do this as often as you can, the same day that incidents occur. Note the time and date of each occurrence. Above all, your notes should always include any complaints you raise and to whom, as well as any retaliation against you for doing so.

This approach to notetaking played a critical role in the big Russian sports doping scandal in 2016. Grigory Rodchenkov, the whistleblower and former doctor of the Russian Olympic team, took incredibly detailed contemporaneous notes that became compelling evidence. The notes included Rodchenkov’s interactions with Russian coaches, officials, and athletes, such as how and when he provided performance-enhancing drugs to athletes, and how the doping was hidden from Olympic observers and their drug tests. Aside from all of these incriminating notes, as the New York Times reported, Rodchenkov also noted his daily activities details such as “6:30, I took a shower, had a smoke, got ready, had hot cereal and farmer’s cheese at breakfast.” These seemingly trivial details helped convince the judges to allow the journal to be considered credible evidence in the court case.

The technology you use to take notes can either help or hinder those who might seek to access and/or destroy any information you have, depending upon your situation. You can use a physical notebook, good old pen and paper, or notes on an anonymous laptop or tablet. But be sure to stay away from making entries at work or on your personal computer unless you are highly technically confident of your computer’s security.

“Documentation is very important,” says Debra Katz, founding partner of Katz, Marshall & Banks, LLP and the lawyer who represented Christine Blasey Ford when she was called to testify during the Kavanaugh confirmation hearings. “We increasingly have people who show up with videotapes of harassment. I’ve had clients who’ve had their iPhone rolling as their employer, predictably, would come in and do back massages or make sexual remarks.” Logs of text messages on phones or even recordings of interactions can be crucial to demonstrating that harassment is taking place. Save logs of all of your conversations and interactions, because you never know how they might prove useful later on.

The text messages sent by Mike Isabella and partners to Chloe Caras (who was also represented by Debra Katz) were used as evidence in the lawsuit that eventually took down Mike Isabella Concepts restaurants for sexual harassment. If you are going to attempt to record interactions as evidence, be sure that you are aware of the relevant recording laws. In some states and countries, you must inform the other party that you are recording and you must obtain their consent to be recorded. These laws are collectively known as two-party consent laws. Do more research into your context before you start shooting video or recording audio as documentation. You don’t want your evidence thrown out of court. You don’t want to be sued for releasing the recording. The Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press is a good place to learn more about two-party consent laws in the United States.

Recommended Collection Approach

In New York City in 1953, a newspaper boy was finishing his day, jingling his coins around, when he noticed that one nickel felt lighter than the rest. When he dropped the coin on the floor, it split open, revealing a tiny photograph with numbers. This turned out to be microfilm that was destined for Soviet spy Reino Hayhanen. In 1957, Hayhanen defected to the U.S., where he exposed the spycraft of the Soviets to the FBI. This included the use of microfilm and dead drops for communication. Though this example may seem far from the world of computers and smartphones, taking photos of documents with microfilm is much safer than taking the actual documents, in the same way taking a digital photo is safer than copying the digital document. In such a case, there is far less potential for a log of the interaction.

The current best way to gather information is by taking pictures of documents or computer screens using a pseudonymous digital device. This method effectively circumvents all of the normal digital surveillance systems that might come into play when you copy data off of a network or onto a USB stick (e.g., logs of the copying or digital watermarking). It also circumvents any logging software that may be installed on your computer. Company or government tracking software can record the actions of taking screenshots or other mouse and keyboard actions. Evidence from one of these loggers was used by the FBI against Terry Albury, an FBI field agent who was sent to jail for disclosing classified information to The Intercept. In an affidavit in support of the search warrant, the FBI cited a number of facts, including that Albury had “conducted cut and paste activity” while viewing one of the classified documents. This fact could only have been gathered by latent logging software installed on his computer or built into a viewing program. By skipping digital copying or screenshotting, and instead simply taking a picture of the computer screen, you can circumvent some of these monitoring systems. Of course, if you are logged in and have a document open, you should assume that there is a log of the access as well.

Keep these tips in mind:

Only use a pseudonymous device for taking photos; never use your personal or work device.

Use a small tablet with Wi-Fi turned off instead of a phone; this way there will be no location information stored as metadata in the photos.

Make sure the photos don’t have any identifying information in them; this could be your hand, your reflection on the computer screen, images of your office, or other identifying information or marks on your computer screen.

Be sure to check the images afterwards for any metadata or accidental information captured, and make sure to sanitize the images if necessary.

Audio and video recordings can potentially replace taking photos, but these types of files can be harder to sanitize.

Be sure there aren’t video cameras that could capture you in the act of taking photos.

Microdots

Do not trust printers. Color laser jet printers and copiers embed metadata in the documents that they print in the form of microdots, which are patterns of tiny yellow dots that are almost invisible to the naked eye. These dots encode information, similar to QR codes. This includes the printer’s serial number, the time and date, the network address, and potentially other information. This data can be used to pinpoint when and where documents were printed, and potentially by whom. If you want to find out more on the topic, research the terms “printer steganography” and “machine identification code.”

Regular and enhanced image of a printed page from an HP Color LaserJet 3700 showing yellow microdots. Photography by Florian Heise, Druckerchannel.de, in the public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Copying Digital Files

It is nearly impossible to copy files to a USB stick without leaving a trace, particularly if you are using log-in credentials at work or on a company device. Computers and networks are built to track and log file access, transfers, and printing. Do not try to make a digital transfer or to copy information onto a USB stick at work unless you can be positive that this process isn’t being logged somewhere. Use the Tails operating system, or a computer that is offline, when you copy data.

If you must copy digital files, be sure to collect all your information as anonymously as possible: use a shared computer at work (not your own). Do not use your own login credentials. Also, consider your physical location. It is best not to attempt this in your own office, for instance. Gathering information in the office will become even less viable as technology and employee surveillance software evolves.

Aside from the issues around copying digital files, some sensitive documents (particularly from government agencies) come with “phone home” beacons embedded in them or with digital rights management built in, making it impossible to view or print documents if you aren’t logged in. This could be a remote image or link embedded in a document, such that when you view the document, the image pings back to a server owned by the government or creator of the document. This allows the creator to see the IP address and potentially more information about you as a viewer. Microsoft files such as Word documents have been known to have “locating beacons” placed within them. PDFs may also include this type of beacon, though Adobe now tries to notify users before documents call a remote server. To combat this type of tracking, either convert a document to a safe format such as plain text with the command line, or view a document on a computer that is “air-gapped,” meaning that it is not connected to the internet. Make it impossible for your adversary to know you have the documents.

Uniqueness and Backflushing

If you are one of a limited number of individuals with access to the information you are releasing, then no matter how careful you are, it will be easy to trace you. This was the case with Reality Winner. In the criminal complaint filed against Winner, the FBI noted that only six individuals had accessed the document that was disclosed to The Intercept. When this document showed up on the website, the FBI had six individuals to start investigating, including Winner. Her unique trail quickly made her the most likely suspect. One way to combat uniqueness is by increasing the number of individuals who have access to a document before it is released.

Danielle Brian, executive director of the Project on Government Oversight, described a method that has been in use in D.C. for years: “backflushing.” Before disclosing a document, send it through official channels to as many legitimate places as possible. For example, include the document in a report and send the report to other departments. This makes it so others have the document as well, vastly reducing the uniqueness of your connection to the document. When you disclose the information later on, it will not be clear that you were in any way connected to it.

Another way to combat uniqueness is by gathering the data through a shared digital account, e.g., if someone else is logged into a computer and you copy a file while they are logged in, the document-gathering will be connected to them, not you. Of course, this should be done carefully and ethically, so as not to inadvertently cast blame on someone else. If possible, it’s better to hijack a shared network account. So consider how unique the connection between the information and your identity might be. There is protection to be gained by hiding in the crowd.

Theft and Misfiling

Corporations sometimes lash back at whistleblowers by filing criminal charges for theft of company property. So be aware that by taking documents off company property, you may open yourself up to a legal battle. This was one reason that SOC, a government security contractor, gave for firing Jennifer Glover, a security guard who had been sexually assaulted and harassed at work. Her termination letter stated that Glover had used her smartphone to take a photograph of the daily schedule, an act that they viewed as justifying her termination.

As an alternative to taking physical or digital documents, consider the misfiling technique. Hide copies of documents at work, either by misnaming digital files or by storing physical copies or USB sticks somewhere at work. In the future, you can “stumble upon” the copies, providing investigators with the information. They, not you, would then be removing property from company premises. The bottom line is that it might be helpful to have a backup copy of any important material stashed somewhere at work.

Sanitization

Sanitization is the process of removing, concealing, or cleaning up information in documents before you give them to someone else. Whether the documents you’re dealing with are physical or digital, images or videos, the same general process applies: you should overwrite, obscure, or remove any sensitive information. This process is ubiquitous the world over in redacting classified material to prepare it for release to the public. When attempting this, imagine that you are in a heist film: be meticulous, wear gloves, wipe down surfaces to remove fingerprints, and don’t leave anything that contains your DNA.

For those who are trying to disclose information, the process of sanitization is a little more complex, but there are two goals: 1) the removal of any information that could identify you, such as fingerprints, email addresses, or unique watermarks on documents; and 2) the removal of sensitive information that might harm someone else or have undue consequences if released, such as any company or government secrets or any personally identifiable information. This is where ethics and judgment come into play. Who would be harmed if this information were released? You don’t want to accidentally victimize (or revictimize) a colleague, accidentally reveal personal information that could compromise one’s reputation, or put a field agent in harm’s way.

To sanitize physical items with nonporous surfaces, such as USB sticks or hard drives, wipe them down with a cleaning product and towel. Paper documents and other porous surfaces are more difficult to sanitize. There are a number of techniques for attempting this, but most involve using an eraser and potentially a cornstarch mixture to remove any oils left by fingerprints. If you are providing someone with a device such as a hard drive, remove any serial numbers or identifying information that would make that product traceable, and of course, be sure to pay cash when buying any hardware that you might use. If you must provide physical documents, redact them first with a black marker or white-out and then photocopy them, providing a redacted copy instead of the original.

For digital documents, the process of sanitization can be broken down into two strategies: 1) redaction, the process of obfuscating information within a document; and 2) metadata removal, the process of deleting identifying traces from the document.

Text

Any text-based document (rich text files, DOC and DOCX formats, CSVs, Microsoft Excel files, PowerPoint files, Adobe InDesign files, etc.) should first be converted to a PDF. This can be done on most computers with either “print to PDF” or “export to PDF” functionality. The PDF should then be opened, and each page should be exported as an image and then redacted in image-editing software. Draw black boxes over areas of sensitive or identifying information in the images. Note: If you try to redact the documents from within the PDF, it will be done in layers, leaving the actual data underneath the black boxes. This will not technically remove the sensitive information. Similarly, it is important to use only image formats that do not include layers. If layers are included, someone can later remove the redaction layer and see the sensitive information underneath. JPG is a great image format to use, as it cannot save layers. After all of the images have been edited, they should be either recombined into a new PDF using a PDF viewer or given to someone as a set of images.

An alternative option is to use PDF Redact Tools, which automates those processes for you. It is currently available on Linux or macOS and comes bundled inside the Tails operating system.

Images

Images should be redacted just the same as text documents. Save them in a format without layers such as a JPG. Draw black boxes over any portions that need to be removed, then save them.

Video and Audio

Redaction of video and audio files can be a bit trickier, but the same basic process of obfuscating information applies. For videos, open them in a video editing program and either delete portions of the video or add black boxes over sensitive pieces. Then export the edited video. Audio files should be edited in an audio editor (Audacity is a good free choice), and portions of the recordings can be deleted or replaced with a standard sine wave tone (like a censorship bleep).

Remember, though, that there may be other information in audio and video recordings that isn’t obvious at first glance. Is there background noise or imagery that can be analyzed to determine the time and place it was taken? Are there reflections or other subtle pieces of data that could compromise you or someone else? Be very careful when it comes to audio and video, because so much information is contained in each file that it can be hard to think of every single thing that should be redacted.

Metadata Removal

Of course, if you are simply trying to get a video out, but trying to make it less obvious who it was shot by, removing the underlying capture information might be all that’s needed. This is where removing metadata comes into play.

Example of image meta data created by an iPhone

The image above is just a selection of the metadata produced by one photo taken with a smartphone. The metadata contains the model of the phone, the time it was taken, and possibly the location of the phone at the time of capture (if GPS location was enabled). This data needs to be removed if you are trying to make the photo, video, or any other type of file untraceable.

Before anything else, check the filename for anything that could identify you or your means of creating the image. If you have any doubt—rename it.

All digital files inherently contain some distinct information that identifies them: filename, creation date and time, last modified date and time, and file size. Some digital file formats contain even more information. Microsoft Word documents, for example, are known for automatically saving additional metadata, such as the authors who worked on the document and the names and locations of the computers where the file was saved. Unfortunately, with these documents and particularly with proprietary file formats, it might be difficult or near-impossible to remove all pieces of metadata. Instead, convert proprietary formats to simple open-source formats that have consistent metadata formatting.

Some file formats use standard data wrappers to store metadata, such as EXIF (exchangeable image file format) or XMP (Extensible Metadata Platform). These are used for almost all image formats and PDFs. By converting other documents into these formats, it becomes much easier to delete metadata and know that it is really gone.

To actually remove metadata from an image, a PDF, or a video file, open it with its corresponding editing software and look for options such as “Properties,” “Inspector,” or “Document Inspector.” This should open up a dialog with a list of all of the metadata fields and entries. Delete them all. You will also want to research format-specific metadata removal methods for specific file types. Audio and video files, such as MP3s or MP4s, for example, can have proprietary ID3 tags embedded within them—such as PRIV frames—that make it near impossible to know if they have been sanitized.

Alternatively, a number of applications can scrub metadata from particular file formats. Several applications can remove EXIF data from images, but the Android application “EZ UnEXIF Free (EXIF Remover)” is especially useful for those communicating via an anonymous smartphone or tablet. This application removes all EXIF data, including geolocation, from photos taken with an Android device.

The Metadata Anonymisation Toolkit (MAT) provides a simple interface for stripping metadata from a number of formats, including PNG, JPEG, PDF, MP3, and Microsoft Office Document formats. MAT comes installed on Tails. However, MAT currently hasn’t been updated since January 2016, essentially making it abandonware. Fortunately, MAT2, the replacement for MAT, is under active development and currently in beta. This is a great tool that can be used to sanitize a variety of files, but please check on its current development status online before using it.

Storage

Be cautious about where you store documentation. Never store documentation at work, unless you are following the misfiling method mentioned previously. You may feel that your desk or office is a safe space, but it isn’t. You can consider storing documents at home, but this is an obvious choice for all concerned. In many cases, those who are trying to disclose information have had their houses ransacked and searched by their adversaries, both legally and illegally. If a subpoena is filed, information in your home will not be protected.

A good strategy is to either store documents outside your home or office or give a backup copy of what you will be revealing to a trusted person for safekeeping. Daniel Ellsberg gave a copy of a classified nuclear study to his brother, who hid the documents under a large gas stove in a garbage dump. Unfortunately, while this protected them for a while, the documents were ultimately destroyed by water damage, and Ellsberg spent years trying to reconstitute the information they contained. Instead of your brother, choose a lawyer. In the United States, information stored with your attorney may be protected from search and seizure through attorney-client privilege. Of course, there are exceptions to this, which was the case in the raid on the office of President Trump’s former attorney Michael Cohen. If investigators can make the case that attorney-client privilege is being used “in furtherance of a contemplated or ongoing crime or fraud,” then they will be able to search a lawyer’s office under the crime-fraud exception.

All digital documentation should be stored on either encrypted USB drives or on an encrypted pseudonymous device, such as an encrypted tablet or a Tails USB drive. Documents should never be stored in the cloud or on a personal computer or device.

Excerpted from A Public Service: Whistleblowing, Disclosure and Anonymity published by O/R Books. © 2019 Tim Schwartz

https://boingboing.net/2020/01/09/documentation-gathering-sanit.html

[adhd-wifi]

Do you have any meta on Suibian? I love that sword and I need more of it in my life!

Oh hell yeah I love SuiBian with all my heart and have a bunch of headcanons about it. Canon doesn’t give us much to play with unfortunately, but speculation games are always fun! Quick disclaimer, MDZS is currently the only story in the wuxia/xianxia genre I delve into, so my guesses and such are not at all based on the rules within the genre. Also, I grew up with both Chinese and Japanese folklore, so some details I talk about might’ve been merged or mixed up between the two cultures. So what I’m saying is that this post is 90% guessing games.

...Buuuuuuuuuut before we get into that I need a moment to gush about SuiBian's name. I love the name 随便 to a ridiculous degree. It's so silly and weird especially to a Chinese speaker like myself but oh so PERFECT. SuiBian's name alone does wonders for introducing Wei Ying's character early on, displaying his fickle and annoyingly'childish side so easily. Completely indecisive about the perfect name? Literally name it "Whatever". It also is symbolic of Wei Ying's carefree attitude in life before the war, with him being happy and doing whatever he wanted as a fun-loving teen, but he loses the ability to do "whatever" he wanted in life, along with losing the ability to wield the sword named "Whatever". SuiBian is the most brilliantly named weapon in the entire story and I have a stupid amount of feelings about the name itself. :D

Anyways, gushing aside let me ramble about the weapons themselves before talking about our brilliantly named sword. In a lot of the Chinese stories I grew up with, object spirits are fairly common, though it’s often believed a non-living being can’t form its own spirit naturally. For an object to create a spirit, powerful natural energy needs to be drawn into the object, with things like sentimentality or resentment making that attachment to a particular object stronger. I personally headcanon the cultivation swords as being forged with the cultivators’ spiritual energies and upon being given a name, the energy “awakens”, forming a spirit within the sword and thus a bond between wielder and weapon. Names are important in Chinese cultures (like many other cultures really), and not having a name tends to mean you’re unwanted or disgraced, so I like the believe that when the spirit receives its name, it’s properly “born”. 

I also personally headcanon the Yin Tiger Seal as nameless, because it’s a cursed object rather than a spiritual artefact, having absorbed an endless void of resentment from the tormented souls of those brutally killed by the XuanWu. This might be why it’s so disloyal and uncontrollable. 

That being said, the swords and other spiritual weapons don’t have personalities or a proper sentience. They have attachments to their wielders and through ZiDian in particular, we are shown that their “feelings” are a reflection of their wielders, most notably when Jiang FengMian believed he couldn’t wield ZiDian, but him being able to was a revelation of Madam Yu’s true feelings towards him. That being said, aside from ZiDian and SuiBian (through its self-sealing), no other weapon has shown this kind of loyal reflection towards their masters. (The Nie Sabers are a special case, but that’s for another post.) For the most part, the majority of the weapons/artefacts in MDZS are simply tools and are used as such. With ZiDian, the sentiments involving it are between its wielders rather than between the wielder and the weapon itself. Even Wei Ying treats SuiBian as a tool more than anything else (I mean this bitch used it to cut a watermelon and was implied to not OPENLY take care of it even when he could still wield it). Despite this, though possibly due to the third-person-limited nature of the story, Wei Ying is the only person we see having an actual bond with his sword. 

We know Wei Ying loves swordplay above all his other skills, being extremely confident when it comes to his sword skills (bitch didn’t even mention he knew how to hold a flute until he was tossed into death valley), and losing the ability to wield the sword made him extremely sad. Another note is that we ONLY see this sadness when it’s specifically SuiBian he’s looking at. I like to interpret this as him specifically missing wielding his own particular sword - that even if he could wield another sword, he would deeply wish it was SuiBian in his hands instead. Thinking about it, it was likely that SuiBian was the one object given to him by the Jiang Sect that was truly his own, because he trained hard to reach the head disciple position with that sword by his side. Going through hardships with one particular object will often make one feel sentimental attachments to said object, and I think this was what happened with Wei Ying with SuiBian. If you take into account my personal ADHD headcanons for Wei Ying, this is even more likely to me, because I, as an ADHD person, did that kind of thing multiple times whenever I improved in my own skills, such as getting EXTREMELY attached to a particular type of pen, drawing tablet, and note book. 

Bringing back the point of the swords reflecting the feelings of their wielders, I headcanon that Wei Ying’s love for his sword was channelled into the sword itself, and so SuiBian reflected its wielder’s sentiments right back to him. It was dearly loved, and so it returned that love back just as deeply in its own way. From what we know, SuiBian ONLY sealed itself after Wei Ying was truly gone. But while he was the Yiling Patriarch, it likely lay dormant while waiting for Wei Ying to pick it up to fight with again. We saw this very clearly in CQL, when Lan Zhan was able to unsheathe it when he and Jiang Cheng retrieved the confiscated swords from the Wens. But after there was truly no chance of being wielded by its master? SuiBian decided it would die with Wei Ying. For a sword spirit that knew no complicated sentiments, there was no other option. 

It’s interesting to me that SuiBian later recognized both Wei Ying in Mo XuanYu’s body, and Wei Ying’s golden core in Jiang Cheng. Those were two foreign bodies to the sword, and yet it recognized his wielder’s soul and spiritual power almost flawlessly. I think the only reasons it took a while to recognize the paperman-Wei Ying was due to taking a moment to “re-awaken” and also, Wei Ying’s spiritual energy in paperman-mode was low anyway. Considering the sword spirits are implied to primarily channel spiritual energy, the fact that it also recognized Wei Ying’s actual soul is pretty damning evidence of its attachment to Wei Ying. 

Of course, as a writing nerd I’m also nitpicking it a little, since it does also kinda come off as a pretty CONVENIENT way to reveal both Wei Ying’s identity and the golden core transfer, but eh, I prefer getting emotional over the sword’s bond with Wei Ying. :P

[siebenschoen]

I doodled the best girl(tm)

[hellenhighwater]

I would not mess with this bird boy. Please, fic authors, write me more wingfic, I will draw art for it forever.

(It’s still trackpad time. When will my tablet pen return from the war?)

[swellwriting]

Datapads and Love Letters

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Reader x Armitage Hux

Warnings: None.

A/N: It’s dumb and it's soft and I wanna write more Hux fics, I might do a “lemony” part two (oh god how I hate the word) but hey who knows?

Word Count: 3.6k

-

He writes a love letter to you, it’s harmless. It’s meant to be harmless. He needs to get his feelings out but he doesn't want anyone to know. His feelings though they are about you are his own feelings, they are private and he wants to keep it that way.

He knows you like him, “like” being a term he isn't sure how to define when it comes to you. You like Kylo Ren the Supreme Leader who is also your “master”, you like Phasma your only high ranked friend and you like any stormtrooper that doesn't slump their shoulders when you walk past them. Liking him doesn't necessarily mean anything spectacular. Not to say he isn’t grateful for it, at least you don't hate him.

He knows he's a bit older than you, he’s your co-worker, though you’re both Generals in title so at least he isn't your superior, he holds no power over you and he likes that. You make him feel powerless.

He grabs his Datapad and opens up a private note and starts typing.

He starts with your name but quickly erases it and starts over. If this got out by even a chance he didn't want it traceable to you so easily as to write your name on it.

He dims the brightness of his screen, holds it close as he types and pours his heart out. When he's done he goes to delete it but Millicent spills his glass of water on the bed he is currently sat in making him jump up to fix the mess. Before he can get back to what he was doing there are Stormtroopers at his door and he's so busy, so focused on work that he leaves it there. But it should be safe in his living space, a private note like that should be perfectly secure in his private quarters.

But he forgot that today was a scheduled cleaning day, the cleaning droids and sanitation troopers with high clearance would be there any minute, they’d have to move the Datapad and with the screen just remaining open like that, how could they not accidentally read such soft emotional words and be so curious to read more, especially on the cold and mean Generals Datapad.

The trooper sent it to his friend, he took a picture of the screen with his own Datapad and it wasn’t supposed to spread around as quickly as it did but before Hux even gets to the meeting he was going to everyone with a Datapad at their fingertips has seen it.

Everyone except for him and you.

You’re too busy with your current conversation with Phasma, the only thing distracting you as she glances down at her Datapad to read the email she was just sent is the fact that Hux just sat down across from you. You offer him a courteous smile as if you hadn't noticed the second he walked into the room. As if you hadn’t wished he would have sat down beside you and started a conversation as easily as Phasma had.

She’s still distracted by her tablet so you think of something to say to him.

“Usually you’re the first one to show up at meetings.” You comment casually, not wanting him to think you're chastising him for being later than usual, which still wasn’t late at all.

“I was a bit busy, paperwork and such,” he offers in response, a wave of his hand as he sips his coffee.

Before you can think of anything else to say Kylo Ren Speaks from behind his mask, his deep voice unable to be quiet at all. “Paperwork?”

Hux nods and tries not to think too much about what he was actually doing out of fear that Ren would be in his head.

Kylo lets out a chuckle, it’s more of a reflex than him trying to have anyone hear it but it comes out muffled yet loud from the mask and you notice, wonder what on earth Kylo Ren could be laughing about regarding paperwork.

The meeting starts with long conversations about budgets, rebelling systems and politics as per usual.

Many officers are reading their Datapads during the meeting, a basic rule violation.

Hux’s fingers itch as he instinctively goes to just grasp his in his hands, that's when he realizes he left it behind, unlocked, on his bed with a dictionary of everything he feels for you on it. He panics then. His chest feels like its caving in on his lungs, his heart stuck in throat as he assumes the worst. An officer, much below him, looks at him from across the table and Hux only offers him a scowl making the young officer quickly look away.

He looks at you, your eyebrows are furrowed as you chew the end of your stylus pen even though you don't even have your Datapad out. It seems like everyone in the room is in on the joke except him and you. Well, he's in on it, it's about him and he knows it, fears it.

You look across the table at him to find him already staring at you, you offer him a sweet smile but he doesn't return it. His eyes are wide and he looks worried before he forces a smile on his face. Somethings wrong with him and you aren't sure what it is. When the meeting ends he basically rushes out of the room and locks himself in his quarters.

He finds that his room is cleaned and his Datapad had been moved. How could he have been so stupid? Why would he ever let his true feelings out when he should have pushed them deep inside and never let them see the light of day. He doesn't even know what to do with himself. He takes his uniform off piece by piece, throwing it on the floor as he walks and then sits at the end of his bed wondering what he has done.

Thankfully he didn't write your name on it anywhere, and maybe no one would know it was about you but the second you read it he knew you would know. He was kriffing screwed.

Hux ran away before you could talk to him so you decided to give him some time and then go to his office and see if he was there.

You knocked on the door but no one answered, a stormtrooper, and a bold one at that, walks up to you.

“He's not going to be in there and if he is he won't see anybody.”

“Why? What’s happened?” You ask with a worry-filled tone and the expressionless Stormtrooper lets out a laugh.

“You haven't seen it yet? Read it? If I were you I’d check your email and see for yourself. It’s pretty self-explanatory that he knows it's gotten out, I don't know when he'll come out of his room and if he does it will be to kill whatever person leaked it.”

“Leaked what?” You press further, too scared to even touch your Datapad.

“It’s a love letter, written by the General.”

Your eyes widen and your heart sinks. He wrote someone a love letter, a love letter that everyone has read. Given that this is the first you’re hearing of it you assume it isn't about you. You aren't ready to read it, have your heartbreak when you see the name in the letter. The name of some other person who had somehow warmed the cold General's heart.

You nodded at the trooper silently and then swiftly turned and walked back to your quarters, they were only around the corner from Hux’s.

Before you close your door Kylo walks down the hall and calls your name, his tone almost happy sounding. He enjoys when bad things happen to his least favourite General and he wants to quickly share the knowledge with you that he is certain you’re the object of the letter but you yell a, “Not now!” Before slamming the door in his face.

Maybe he should wait until another time.

You make your way to your bed and take your Datapad out, gripping the sides gently as you stare at it. You are filled with a mix of the fear of knowing and curiosity.

You tap the screen, unlock it and open your emails. More than ten different people have sent you this picture, it's a bit hard to read the letter but as you zoom in it becomes more clear, and as you read further on it become more evident as well.

~ I like the sound of your voice, it’s small most of the time, you sound unsure of yourself, when I pass you in the hallway and you're asking a question like you expect yourself to know everything.

I like when your voice is loud, when your laugh fills my ears and when you're explaining something you care about, like crystals and power and politics. I know how smart you are the way you explain intricate things so easily, though you brush it off as nothing.

I like that there isn't a planet in the universe you aren’t aware of, that no matter the state of it you dream of going to one day. I fear for any person who tries to stop you.

I feel for the way your past is like a weight on your shoulders but you never let anyone catch you slouching, masking the pain of the past is hard and I want nothing more than to relieve you of it.

When you smile your cheeks round in this perfect way that makes your eyes squint closed and your teeth visible to all, you always bring your hands up to hide it once you realize but that short moment of pure bliss and happiness is all I look forward to some days.

Your elegant composure, your respect for your work, and your pride in your position are almost as beautiful as any other of your features. You look out the windows into space as though you've never seen a star while simultaneously capturing the light of each one you behold in your eyes. Your touch is always gentle, your compassion is contagious and your intelligent outlook on life and war is astounding.

Perhaps I've never felt love before, I'm not entirely sure what feeling love entails. It seems as though it’s something you could be an expert in, I’d love to hear you explain it to me, the way you think it works.

I think it's in the way my cheeks go red when your skin fleetingly touches mine, the way my stomach drops when you look at me from across a room filled with important people. I think I love you because you're on my mind every second of the day, even when you're across the universe, the way I always want you closer to me. I'm no expert but I think this is what love feels like, I think I'm in love with you. ~

Your mouth was hanging open as you read it, he doesn't say your name in it but you can tell it's about you. You quickly close the tablet and your eyes, lying down in your bed as you think it over. Maybe it isn't about you, maybe you’re projecting yourself into it because you want so desperately for his ever so formally written love letter to be about you.

You can’t imagine anyone else making him feel such things, you can't imagine anyone else matching his description the way it so perfectly matches you.

The love letter is so clearly written by Hux too, even if you were given it with no context you could tell. The way it starts so unsurely, the formality of it and the properness, the lack of spelling mistakes and the way compliments are worded. Though it seems out of character for him to even write a love letter in the first place, this is exactly the way you would have imagined it.

You turn the Datapad back on, you reread it over and over and over again until you found yourself walking over to his door, knocking quietly.

He doesn't answer so you knock harder, you use his professional title to give you a bit of confidence.

“General Hux?” You ask boldly as you wait to be met with only silence.

You knock again, your voice softer this time. “Armitage?”

He’s standing on the other side of the door, face paler than usual and his usually steady hands shaking. He can tell you've read it, he can tell because why else would you be here other than to set him straight.

He needs to open the door, apologize, promise to keep his distance and then hope the Supreme Leader doesn't kill him the second you ask him to. He should have never fallen for Kylo’s apprentice. The smart force sensitive woman who knows too much about Sith and Jedi and the faults that lie with their practices to become victim to them.

He thinks you’re too smart to fall victim to him, and his foolish heart.

But you aren’t, you don't see it that way so you knock one more time and plead with him. “Armitage, please.”

He presses the button opening the door, the door you could have easily forced your way through if you really wanted, if you were angry with him, but you weren't.

He’s standing there, usual proud shoulders slumped as he looks at the floor, refusing to look at what sort of expression is on your face.

You walk in and close the door behind you.

You walk up to him and place your palm on his cheek and his lip quivers slightly before you make him look at you. You can tell he is filled with regret and is mentally punishing himself, as he often does.

Your eyes are filled with the same forgiving kindness they always are.

You let go now that he's looking at you and step back, you feel for a moment as though maybe you acted too soon.

“I read your letter.” You say quietly and he looks away again, unable to lie or do anything. Completely submissive to the way you decide this conversation goes.

“Was it about me?” You boldly ask and his hands shake at his sides, he goes to grab the edges of his uniform but that's when he realizes, oh to his horror, that he isn't wearing it.

Instead, he is wearing black cotton pants and a white undershirt, completely inappropriate for even a droid to see him in, but here you are.

He takes in a deep breath, looks around you and beside you and then finally meets your eyes. He can't lie, he can’t nod or shake his head, he just looks at you with sorry eyes before he starts apologizing, sorries coming from his mouth like a waterfall.

“I'm sorry, General Y/L/N, the letter was... unprofessional, completely erratic and I should have never written a single word. I'm sorry for my lack of composure, my inability to control and retain myself and it will never happen again. Our professional relationship will not be affected in this manner and I will never speak of it or think those things of you again.” By the end of it, his eyes are red, he's about to cry but he wouldn’t dare let himself show any more emotions to present himself as even weaker.

His hands shake and his lip quivers even more, his voice is wobbly and he doesn't even sound genuine, he sounds disappointed in himself, like a wounded dog begging their owner not to hit them. Though he’s been a situation like that before.

You bite your lip as you think over the words in the letter, again and again, silence fills the room.

“I think I know how it works,” you start and he looks up. “I could explain it to you. I could explain the way it feels to me.”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at you like you’re crazy, but his expression softens when he realizes you’re just as scared as he is.

You take in his soft expression and begin to elaborate, present your feelings so you’re both just as open and just as weak and exposed to the prospect of love.

“I like the way you look at me, you don't look at anyone else with such soft eyes and it makes me feel proud almost that I get that from you. I like your devotion to the order, your devotion to the galaxy and a realistic peace.

I like when your hair is out of place and I really really like seeing you outside of your uniform like this.

My feelings for you run deep, they have for a while and I know it’s more than something simple, because of the way I hide the thoughts of you from the Supreme Leader, the way my heart skips a beat when you return a smile to me and the way I can tell when your smile isn't genuine.

I think I'm no expert but I do think I’m in love with you too.”

You ramble on and he stares at you, his heart skipping beats and pounding against his ribcage, his hands are still shaking. He’s still scared even though he now knows your feelings are mutual. He is scared of how Kylo will react, he is still scared for the lower level officers to think he has a weakness, even if it’s true and it’s standing right in front of him, stepping closer and placing your hands on his to steady them.

It's in this moment the shy little boy of his past creeps into his skin. He wants to touch you, hold you or do anything but he's frozen solid. You bring his hands and place them on your hips, he revels in the way his skin tingles, his fingers squeeze just slightly to hold you a bit tighter.

You are worried and rightfully so about the Supreme Leader, about what people will think since everybody knows about the letter. But at this moment it doesn't matter, what matters is the way his pale skin shows his blush so boldly, the way his ginger hair looks so dark in the dim light and the fact that you can see a few scarce freckles across his nose because your so close it’s almost pressed to your face.

But it doesn't last long.

A Stormtrooper knocks on the door, terrified of being shot with a blaster the second the General opens the door. But when the door opens the General they weren't expecting is standing on the other side. You smile at the trooper.

“Can I help you?” You ask politely and the troopers heartbeat slows down.

“The Supreme Leader summons General Hux,” he states as confidently as he can, now unsure of himself since he thought this was Hux’s room, not yours.

“Does he now?” You tease as the Stormtrooper nods.

“We will be right there, thank you.” You say closing the door but before the door closes the trooper sees Hux is standing beside you.

The trooper decides himself that the love letter was definitely about General Y/L/N and that this was evidence that the two Generals are some sort of “thing” and that news spread faster than any letter ever could.

They are certain that such gossip is spreading around, they don't care much at all. Armitage doesn't care about anything except the way you smile at him as you turn back around and don’t hesitate to come closer to him again.

You grab his face, squishing his cheeks a bit as you bring him closer. He’s nervous, lacking experience and wondering how this wonderful person has any interest in him at all but he doesn't pull away. He feels himself leaning in, his eyes fluttering shut and he feels your breath on his lips before they touch.

The kiss is soft, a combination of hesitation and fear, like you’re breaking all the rules. His freckled nose presses against yours as you tilt your head and move your lips in a calculated manner. Both of your eyebrows furrowed in concentration like this important task was yet another thing for you both to perfect.

His hands remain pliant at his sides and you grab them, placing them on your hips again and oh how he loves to hold you there. He squeezes harder as you continue to melt your lips against his, he mimics your actions, breaths out his nose tickling your cheek, never wanting to pull away.

It’s at this moment he finally believes in the force. Not that he hadn't felt it before when it wrapped around his throat or threw his body across a room. In those moments he felt it as pain and power, though it was described so differently he never believed that side of it until now. They way it prickled his arms and travelled up his spine, it left a wake where ever your fingers lingered on his cheeks. He felt you and he never wanted to stop feeling you like this.

-

When you walked down the hallway with him by your side, close but not touching,  the troopers, the officers and the mechanics, they all stared, for how hadn't they seen before today that there was something more between the two Generals. It seems so obvious now that they’re in love, even when trying to conceal it.