#would you believe me if i said the base colours are mostly brown

[codgod-moved]

good luck thinking you’re not a toy after THAT, sheesh

hello i have harmed the boy . but do not fear! he’s fine probably

@veryfoolishgamers @t4tcecilos @empiressmp @the3rddenialist @moonlight22oa @rockydrago @funkily @renchanters @popcornsalty @suurrii @thatonesheep @cabbagetwunk @treeofwhimsy @weaselmcdiesel @peskybirb @flyingfish1234 @viridian-artist @cobrawaifu @griancraft @c0nstantparanoia @yanyawnyan @f4rlands @gayboybdubs @aquello-main @saiiboat @itsafangirlthing416 @booisghost @angiemelon

[marisol993]

For some time now I've seen, over and over again, that the Qunari in the Dragon Age Universe are apparently some kind of racist caricature of black people, muslims and other types of poc's, bipoc's, minorities, ....

From a personal perspective I never saw them as such, but since a personal view of things isn't very objective and can be skewed by ones life-experiances I was completely willing to admit, that I might have been wrong about that and had an opportunity to learn something new here.

The more I thought about it and critically examined this statement though, the less I agreed with any of it. Especially since a lot of arguments in favor of this view seemed to boil down to "this person of [insert relevant minority here] said so". I.e. another "personal viewpoint".

So let's get into a critical analysis of the Qunari and why I think that they are so very far removed from any kind of "minorty" (from a western point of view) coding that you couldn't even see it with the power of the Hubble and James Webb space-telescopes combined:

First of all, who are the Qunari? The Qunari are tall, medium to heavily built, horned (or unhorned, if you only played Origins) humanoids, that come in varying shades of grey skin, with whiteish hair. They are more intensly sexually dimorphic than the Dwarves, Elves and Humans of Thedas, with the males being sometimes nearly twice as wide (especially in the shoulders) and much more muscled than the females. They call themselves the Qunari as they are followers of the Qun (their guide to life and society), though the word is more of an umbrella-term, since anybody of any race is called a Qunari if they "convert" to the teachings of the Qun.

Here's a picture:

At this point some people might already remark, that the Qunari are very obviously "black-coded" since apparently nowadays any deviation from natural, real-life human skintones automatically has to mean, that the fantasy-race in question is meant to reflect black or brown people (even if they are green or bright purple), unless you literally give them a complete and utterly snow-white skintone. If that is the argument you want to go with, I would like to redirect your eyes to the picture above, as it already disproves this. As it is shown there (and in the DA:I Character-Creator), the Qunari can come in a complete spectrum of skintones (from very light grey to nearly ebony), just like all the different races of Thedas (even the dwarves for some reason, which doesn't make much sense for a race that lived underground for most of their history, but what can you do..). This basically means, that yes there are dark-skinned (or "black") Qunari, but there are also those that could be better described as "light-skinned", so the coding-qualifier goes away.

Then there are the people, who might want to say, that because they are tall and "burly", together with the unnatural skintone makes them "black-coded" which is something I never really understood, since the tallest people in the world by ethnicity are the Dutch and if you look at heights in correlation with body-weight the Russians take first place. Both countries not really know for their large populations of darkskinned-humanoids. Another coding-qualifier that goes away.

And then there are the people (who I would seriously suggest should maybe review their own "racial" views, if "black and brown people" is the first thing they think about when it comes to this), who say, that they are a stereotype of the "savages and natives", which is something that is actively contradicted in canon. One of the most prominent traits of the Qunari is that they are efficiant to a T, use every resorce at the disposal to it's maximum (including their people) and that they are more technically and scientifically advanced than many other race in Thedas (except maybe the dwarves) . This is shown through their mastery of gunpowder (which they call gaatlok) and the fact that they can use chemicals and drugs to literally warp the mind of people without needing magic. They are in no way presented as "savage" and if they are named such, it's usually by people who they are actively at war with, who want to insult them. They are also not "natives" of Thedas. Even their so called "homeland" in Thedas, which is called Par Vollen, was colonised by them, when they landed at it's shores in 6:30 Steel-Age and started converting the original population of Tevinter humans and elves, with whom they have been at war with ever since. Let me say that again: The Qunari are active colonisers and at war with the Tevinter-Imperium, who's people are the original population of the land. Not exactly a typical "native or black" stereotype in western media.

So who do I think the Qunari are actually modeled after?

Well let's summarise:

The Qunari came from across the ocean in their ships filled with cannons and guns, to colonise the land and convert the native population towards their beliefs. They are currently fighting a war against the Tevinter-Imperium, an old and powerful empire, that engages in widespread slavery and practices blood-magic by sacrificing said slaves, sometimes also to one of their many gods.

(If you can't guess who I think they are supposed to be modeled after by now, I would recommend to maybe picking up a 7th-grade history textbook again)

Yes, you can make a very strong case for the Qunari actually being these guys:

The Conquistadors (heck, if you cross out a few letters you can even anagram the word "Qunari" out of the word Conquistador). Who also came from across the sea with ships, cannons and guns to colonise the land (south- and middle-america) and convert the native population (to christianity) and fought an ancient and powerful empire with slaves and blood-sacrifices (the Aztec-Kingdoms).

So after pissing of one half of tumblr with that, let's start with the other half by talking about the apparent "muslim-coding" and how I disagree with that too.

Let's start with a rough definition of what a muslim is and how I think that that alone shows how the Qunari are in no way coded to be them:

I would define a muslim as somebody who is an active member of the religion of Islam. Islam is defined by it's holybook (the Qur'An), which was revealed to the prophet Muhammad by an all-knowing and omnipresent abrahamic god.

This in and of itself basically already disqualifies the Qunari from being "muslim-coded" since first and foremost the Qunari are not a religion. They do not have a god and they don't pray to any, the Qun is not a "holy-book" and Ashkaari Koslun (the guy who wrote it) was not a prophet, who wrote down the word of god, but a philosopher who basically crafted a "guide to life and society" with his works.

If you really wanted to find something that is slightly "muslim-coded" in the world of Thedas, you might actually have more luck with the chantry-stuff, since they do have a prophet (Andraste) who could talk to god (the Maker), they have a holy book based of her teachings (the Chant of Light) and they believe that the whole world should follow those teachings, so god will return to them (singing the Chant from all four corners of the world). They even have their own flavour of jihadist religious warfare with the Exhalted Marches (though all in all I do think that the Chantry can be better viewed as a take on christian religions since the split between the Imperial Chantry and the original one is similar to the split of the (western) christian church into catholics and protestants).

So what do I think is a better representation for the Qun in the real world?

Well lets look at it in the simplest way possible that the canon gives us:

The Qun is a guide for the life of the Qunari (the people of the Qun) that ecompasses everything from laws, legislative guides, too how society should be struktured and how everyone has to fit into and function in that society, from the most mundane and simplest tasks and jobs to it's highest administrative bodies. Everyone in this society is evaluated, so that they can be put into a position that is best suited to them and their skill-sets. There they will then each work according to their abilities and each be provided for according to their needs (see what I did there). Yes, the Qun can in my opinion be best described as a take on an authoritarian-socialist guide to life, written by somebody with a similar philosophie as Karl Marx.

So all in all, I don't think that the Qunari are in any way black-, brown-, bipoc- or muslim-coded, but a fantasy take on the Conquistadors, if instead of a bible they had all carried around "A Guide to Life, Luck and Community, written by Karl Marx (during one of his more productive weekends)", visually represented by giant Minotaur-People of many colours.

Also I find this obsession with finding every and any kind of reflexion of our real world in some random fantasy setting, by people who are most of the time actively looking to get offended by at least something and mostly every- and anything, quite contrived most of the time and that the day people on tumblr learned the word "codeing" a significant part of the internets critical-thinking skills and will just shrivelled up and died.

Thank you for coming to my TED-talk.

[patchies]

Shadows

Pairing: Dream x Reader x ???

Summary: An apocalyptic world where creatures of the night roam all around it. Searching for living beings to satisfy their hunger. Vicious creatures they are. It’s said that one person called upon their wrath in revenge. You awake in this place with another human being at your side. No memories whatsoever of the life you’ve had prior to coming here. In search of a way out, and your memories, you stumble upon multiple people with many personalities. Some can’t wait to meet you. If you take it the friendly or hostile way is up to you, but worry not… Nothing can hurt you. Or can it, now?

Warnings: nothing too serious

Word Count: 2.9+k

Author's Note: Another chapter, yay! Hope you enjoy, guys! I'm sending you all love. Each and every one of you matters!

Wattpad link: here

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Chapter 5: Uneasiness

As it turned out, you bumped into Nick as you were heading back towards your home. He was quick to pull out his weapon, but you recognised him immediately and called at him. You saw him look at his main hand that was holding the hatchet and upon following his sight, you rapidly retracted your hand from his and looked away. In awkwardness, you missed the confusion etched on his face.

You both apologised instantly, both in different reasons, and he stashed the armament back into its strap and ruffled your hair. Something you had done to Tubbo not so long ago, but you suppose you deserved it.

On your way home, you had talked about your ventures. Nick gloating about his glory and how he's been more productive than you were, claiming how getting a friend instead of proper gear is lame. You knew he was teasing you, but you caught a slight bit of hesitation and envy shine through. Though, you shrugged it off for the time being.

Nick gifted you a bayonet with a white string tied around the handle and a bandana of your favourite colour as you were standing before your home. You gave him a quick hug before putting the knife into your bag and tying the cloth article around your head. He whistled as you now wore one, too.

For the rest of the day, you stored away your findings with tales of your journeys. Mostly Nick's, since you had to be honest and say he did a great job at scouting the east side of the town. Though, you told him some details about Tubbo and your time with the boy, dodging certain parts as you felt it wasn't your thing to reveal to him.

You were a little scared to tell him about their settlement the bee boy mentioned to you, but Nick seemed to know exactly what you were talking about. He had seen it from one of the taller apartments and showed you an impromptu map that he drew quickly.

To your surprise, the portrayal was decently drawn and his handwriting was legible, though he still suggested he's willing to show you the place. What didn't miss him was the chance to announce how he'll turn it into a date where you'll lie under the stars with a wink to add to the spice.

You punched his arm while he laughed it off, slouching his hit arm across your shoulder and pulling you close. This time, you jab at his ribs and he lets you go voluntarily, still laughing. It didn't even seem like you had done something to him, so you stuck your tongue at him and rushed up the stairs to sort out your own things.

A feeling like something is going to go terrible wrong sits in the pit of your stomach as you rummage through the chest.

• • •

The night comes quicker than you expect, and a not-so-stray feeling of anxiety begins to flow through your veins accompanied by your pacing as the sun slowly falls beyond your view.

The first two knocks executed on the door go unnoticed by you. It's the third one that stops you in your tracks and you go open the door for Nick, resuming your pacing once he's inside. He notices your jittery movement straight away and quirks an eyebrow at you, “You okay there?”

“Do I look like I'm okay?” You mutter to yourself, but he hears it nonetheless, “Who would be at the thought of some dangerous creatures lurking in the town at night?”

Nick sighs and slowly saunters to your side, gently resting his hands on your upper arms and makes you face him, “You weren't scared yesterday, what has changed?”

“I don't know,” you shrug, “maybe the bad feeling in my stomach that has persevered since we came home?”

“Okay, okay, smartass,” Nick's retort is light-hearted, only meant to get a smile out of you, “We are both spooked, but c'mon… What's this scowl doing on your face, pretty?”

Before you can react quickly, or protest, he flicks the skin in-between your eyebrows and tugs your lips into a smile. You grasp his wrists with your hands to lower his down and a small smile does make its way onto your face. There's no denying that he makes this hell of a place better, but there's a tight feeling in your chest at the thought of what lies in this world. You don't know if you'll ever get used to this and you seriously hope you don't even need to do that. This is a nightmare come true on its own, why would anyone want this to be real?

Your eyes shift around the room and you step away from Sap, letting his wrists fall free in the process. The lights are turned off in case there really is someone else and they might notice the lit-up house from afar. You aren't going to give people the chance of figuring out where your base is, if there are more groups alive than you realize. Even if it's people similar to Tubbo. There might be some help to find in his group, but you aren't willing to familiarise with them. Nick is the only person that you truly trust as of right now and you believe that it could be okay like this for the time being. You'll survive this. Through thick and thin, hopefully.

“We'll get through this,” he raises three of his fingers while holding his pinkie with his thumb, straightening his back. His face changes to a stern look, but silliness dances in his brown orbs, “Scout's honour.”

He expects the roll of your eyes, but the small laugh that escapes you makes his heart swell with an unknown feeling. He doesn't pay it much attention, just silently watches as you sit down on the bed against the headboard. Nick joins you in a while and gazes at you as you rest your head on his shoulder, “I honestly don't know what to expect at all and I'm worried, Sap. It's so hard to rest when my stomach is churning like I'm going to vomit.”

You feel his arm snake behind your neck and his nimble fingers soon start working their magic on your scalp, “We'll be fine, okay? There's nothing that would separate you and me. I won't leave you.”

Just then, a whistling noise echoes throughout the neighbourhood. An eerie melody that travels across the quiet street. Visible confusion is etched onto your face as you exchange looks with Nick.

The tune starts to raise its volume and it puts you, along with your companion, on guard. You wonder who is out there and what they're trying to achieve. You aren't one to test your luck, so despite your heart telling you to check the situation, you stay rooted to your spot. You were hoping the feeling wasn't going to be true, but here you are; hearing the whistles of someone unknown.

“Hey, hey,” Sap takes your hand in his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. He leans into your view, trying to hypnotise your eyes to look into his. When he doesn't succeed, he shuffles in front of you and waits until your focus is solely on him. He gives you a soft smile, “I'm here with you. Nothing is going happen to us, I promise, and knowing you, you'd sass your way out of the situation.”

“Nick,” you start, “We've known each other for hardly three days.”

“So, what? It might be true, but your sass is immeasurable at times and you've hit me so much I lost count a long time ago,” he laughs quietly, then his laugh slowly transforms into a smirk. A teasing realisation present on his face, “You're literally hitting on me, baby.”

You groan, “I pity the person who will be with you, seriously, and don't you dare call me baby again.”

“You're with me,” he wiggles his eyebrows at you, squeezing your hand playfully, “and about the 'baby' part… By seeing your reaction, I'd say I'm going to use it more often.”

Nick isn't ready for the switch of your personality as you decide to smile at him sweetly, lifting one of his hands close to your face, watching him intently. He visibly gulps and you have to push back a laugh to maintain your innocent façade. You put his hand on your cheek and lean into his palm. You stay in that position for a few seconds before rapidly moving your head and attempting to bite his finger. Your attempt is unsuccessful as he quickly retracts his hand and clutches it to his chest protectively, giving you a shocked look.

“Did I render you speechless, baby?”

The pet-name rolls of your tongue with ease. It seems so natural coming from you and his heart clearly betrays him when he feels its pace quicken. He quickly recovers, though, acting like what's just happened actually didn't, “I mean, my tactic at distracting you worked, so who's the winner here?”

“Certainly not you.”

The mood drops when you finally register the quietness, looking around you for any signs that could tell you what's happening. No whistling is heard, and you contemplate checking the windows to gather some sort of information regarding the stillness on the street. Nick gives an affirmative nod towards the boarded-up windows and gets off the bed with you. He follows your footsteps in silence, hovering over your shoulder as you get nearer.

A bolt whizzes through the air and before you can say anything, it strikes one of the planks in front of you. You flinch back into Sap's chest, guard rising, “Go take something so you could defend yourself, too, please.”

He gives you a side glance, inspecting your features, but you've put on a neutral blockage, “Will you be fine?”

The shrug you give him doesn't lower his worry and he analyses you one more time. He walks off in search of anything sharp and usable after you signal your certainty. As he leaves, you eye the bayonet strapped to your thigh. The metal weapon giving you at least some sort of reassurance.

Pure silence follows and you hold your breath in as you glance through the gaps in the barricade. Someone is definitely too close to your preference, yet you can't see anyone outside. They're hostile, that's without doubt. The bolt that clearly sticks out of the wood is an obvious proof of the hostility.

The moon's glow then reveals a person standing in its light, illuminating their figure.

They have a pig mask on with small tusks protruding from the side and a hood over their head with thick white fur adorning the sides of it. Raspberry pink, clearly chopped, shoulder-length hair visibly poking out and the wind ruffling it a bit. A shiny golden crown, which adorns gems of multiple colours, rests atop. You can't phantom how it's holding on the hood. Their crimson red cape with golden clasps and rubies attached to it flows in the wind and the crossbow's metal parts are shining. There's a satchel of bolts attached to the side of their thigh as they balance on the roof across from you.

“Who are you ogling at?”

The whisper against your ear makes you swat at his chest, shushing him immediately. He feigns being hurt, but raises his arms to swat at you back. It's when the figure proceeds to speak do you stop and a realisation comes to you that it is in fact a male, “Dream, I warned you to not come here. Ever. Wasn't the last time enough for you?”

Your interest peaks at the mention of a past encounter the supposedly two people had, wondering how that one had gone. From his words, it doesn't sound like it went very greatly and completely not in favour of Dream's side. What moved him into trying to take over the land again if he knew he had lost the last fight?

Nick watches your investment in the conversation rise, so he just crosses his arms. The hatchet at his hip ready to be taken out in case something was to happen. Though, he settles for watching you for now.

“I don't care, Techno. I own these lands. It's only fair that you will surrender and hand it over.”

“Don't make us fight you, pig.”

Another voice; another male one. This time it's slightly higher pitched than the other two, an obvious British accent to its overall sound.

Just from a few spoken sentences, you can tell both sides are ready to fight. What you aren't sure of, is if they'll really start fighting here or leave to sort it out elsewhere. You're praying it's the latter. Although your hopes aren't high when you continue listening in on their conversation.

“And I don't care, because you're stepping foot into my territory,” Techno, or whatever they called him, continues, “I shot a warning shot to gain your attention, but I will make sure to be precise this time and aim for your vulnerable body parts. Especially you and not a wooden plank. You damn well know I hold poison bolts and the two of you surely recognise my capabilities with a crossbow. You get struck with one, just one, poison arrow and you can go back to your village to get it taken care of.”

Territory? What's he talking about– wait… Don't tell me he's protecting us…?

You can't see the others, but you get a feeling Techno is more important than them. For whatever reason that is, you aren't able to steer your eyes away from his figure. A sense of déjà vu flowing through your body as you marvel at the man. You believe you've seen this man before. Even if once in your life, but your foggy memory blocks any of this information from you.

Unexpectedly he turns his head towards the window you're looking out of and locks eyes with you. Maroon eyes that sparkle with mischief meeting yours. He cocks an eyebrow at you, as if challenging you. Unable to see it, nor perceive it as a challenge, you deliver no reply. You're more than curious by the exchange, but it doesn't seem to faze him in the slightest. Even though he noticed you, he doesn't do anything about you. Merely directs his gaze back to the people below him. Which strikes you as weird since you were guessing he'd do something. Literally anything. Yet, you're glad for his act of kindness. If it can be interpreted as such.

You completely miss the way Nick looks at you. The gears in his head turning at the strange stare off you two had. Do they know the guy? He doesn't like the look of the Techno guy at all and the ping of jealousy seems to agree with him as well. He knows it well, yet he just rests his hand on your shoulder.

“We have armour and there's two of us. You can't fight us both and win.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of your words,” the reply is overly confident, “I've fought many and still came out with no scratches. You're belittling my knowledge of fighting and tactical thinking.”

After Techno finishes his sentence, arrows and bolts go flying through the air.

The very first one coming from him as another warning shot. This time not aimed at your house, but at the ground. Another two come from the ground level but miss him by a few feet. Terribly aimed shots, if you have to say (not like you could do better, but you're just a spectator in this situation). They don't seem to be that good at aiming at the pink-haired man, rather missing him. To your bewilderment, he never flinches or tries to dodge. Basically, a still target for both of the shooters.

Not that his aim is any better, but you hear one of the guys wince multiple times as if the bolt scraped him. The distance is also something to take into consideration.

The final shot before the shooting halts is taken by Techno, who decides to truly aim at one of them and you can hear a high-pitched scream echo throughout the whole street.

This can't be good.

You start hearing the inhuman screeches from everywhere and Shadows start flying from the end of the street. You gasp in horror because this isn't what you were expecting. You didn't expect them to attract a whole bunch of the creatures and possibly doom you all.

“George! You idiot! You were supposed to dodge, not walk straight into his range!” Dream yells at the whining guy, “You've attracted Shadows now. Good job.”

“Look what you've–”

The rest of the words are tuned out by the screeches of the monsters. Nick squats down to the floor, tugging you along with him. He doesn't let you say a word as you sit next to each other, holding a finger to his mouth when he sees you ready to tell him something.

While you rest your heads against one another, both of you come to terms that sound attracts them very easily as you hear them bang against trash cans and dumpsters, chasing their intruders. You wait until you hear no more screeching, slowly rising to your feet and looking through the gaps once more to check for any signs of the creatures.

When you find none, you send Nick to his own bedroom, insisting you'll be fine. He gives you three chances to back down from your statement, but you persist through. As he has no reason not to trust you, he slowly retreats to his room with a promise that if you need anything, just to wake him up.

[dameronology]

the one that got away {poe x reader}

summary: based on the song the one that got away by katy perry 

this song has been my jam since i was about 11 and i’m now closer to being 20 than i am to being 11 and that’s making me panic! everywhere and not just exclusively at the disco but it made me produce this 

warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of smut 

enjoy, 

- jazz

Poe Dameron had always believed in true love.

He saw it not only within his parents’ relationship but everywhere he looked: in the couple who lived next door to his childhood home, in the bar where he worked during his time at the academy, in couples walking down the street. It was everywhere and nowhere; the kind of thing that you could feel in your soul but never physically grasp - or, at least that had been his initial understanding of it. 

Then Poe met you.

That was how he realised that love was very much something he could physically feel. Not only could he feel it, he could see it and he could hear it and he could finally understand it. You were the answer to every question he’d ever had. 

He could feel it whenever you held his hand and he could hear it whenever you laughed at one of his terrible jokes. Whenever he simply looked at you - whether it was under the blinding morning light or simply the outline of your and against his chest in the dark - it was there. What had started as a stupid fling in the academy had turned into something more. You were his whole world, his everything.

Poe was your soulmate; your best friend and your partner-in-crime (or as you had affectionally dubbed him, your poetner-in-crime). You were always on the same wavelength, emitting the same chaotic energy and terrible jokes. You had each other’s backs to no end, the kind of bond that spanned the galaxy and back ten times over. The love between was the kind that very few people were lucky enough to experience. 

‘Poe, quick!’ 

You were tearing down the corridor, fingers intertwined. Almost tripping over each other, you skidded around a corner and into a dark classroom, slamming the door behind you. You fell back against the door, Poe’s arms on either side of you as he leant against you, body shaking with laughter.

‘His face!’ The pilot could barely control his laughter. ‘Maker, I’ve never seen the guy so angry.’

‘That’ll teach him to fuck with us again.’ You smiled.

‘Us.’ Poe repeated your words back to you.

‘Yeah?’ You grin grew wider. You pushed a few strewn, dark curls back off his face. ‘Me too.’

‘I love you.’ His hand ghosted your cheekbone, resting on your face for a moment. 

‘I love you too.’ You leant up to kiss him, revelling in the feeling of his lips against yours. It was the feeling of home; warm and soft and welcoming all at once. 

‘Forever?’

‘Forever.’ 

Nothing could come between you - until it did.

The war. 

The beginning of another civil war were in the making. People who had lived through the first one had the same sense of unease they did the first time around; the appearance of more TIE fighters in the sky, more recruits coming to the academy, training increasing tenfold. There was discontent across the galaxy and nobody knew what was coming. 

Poe left first. He was a few years ahead of you in terms of training, having been piloting since he was a kid. That, paired with his admirable recklessness and natural leadership, made him perfect for the Resistance. You were his whole damn world but he had to fight for the galaxy; a galaxy in which you could both have a future. 

‘I guess this is it.’ 

You were stood in front of Poe’s X-Wing, hands shakily intertwined as you tried your hardest not to digest what was happening. If you did, he would probably try to say. Or worse, you would try to go with him before you were ready. 

‘It’s only a few months.’ Poe’s voice was wobbly, and he gripped your hands tighter. ‘A year at most, and then you’ll come out and join me. Right?’

‘Right.’ You nodded, a tear splashing down your cheek. ‘And we’ll talk all the time. Beebs always knows where to find me.’

‘I love you.’ He pressed his forehead to yours, lips momentarily brushing together as he trembled. ‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you too.’ You murmured. ‘If this is it, I’m always going-’

‘- we literally just said.’ Poe almost reeled back. ‘We’re going to see each other again.’

‘But if we don’t-’

‘- say it.’ Poe’s voice was firm, his grip on your hands inhumanly tight. ‘Say that we’ll see each other again. Promise me.’

You sighed, trying to calm yourself for a moment. You wanted to be hopeful, to think of a future where two could find your way back to each other - but you had a feeling that wasn’t going to be the case. The galaxy was getting darker and darker by the day and the light at the end of the tunnel seemed impossibly far away. 

‘I promise.’ The words were barely a whisper.

‘Take this.’ Poe reached up to the chain around his neck, pulling the ring off. 

‘Poe, I can’t ask that of you-’

‘- you’re not asking. I’m telling.’ He shook his head. Taking your hand in his, he slipped his mother’s ring across your middle finger. ‘Forever, right?’

‘Forever.’

You would both come to learn that forever was a long time - almost as long as the months you spent apart. 

At first, you would talk every day. You would talk to him via the holo-link in your droids, sharing stories about your day and talking about what you were going to do when you saw each other again. It felt like you were hopelessly clinging onto a distant dream, desperately wishing that the promises you were making could ever be fulfilled. You spoke about where you were going to live (Coruscant, probably) and what you were going to name your kids (Leo for a boy, Shara for a girl). 

But then your calls became less and less regular. Poe was being taken all over the galaxy on his missions and you were busy trying to finish your training. What had been a daily thing turned into one of a weekly nature, and before you knew it, it was a two-or-three-times a month affair.

You were tired whenever you spoke, and Poe was grumpy. You’d been worn down with your training and his body had been torn through eleven different timezones in a week. The hope that you’d both once had was almost completely faded, replaced with concern for the war. All your energy was going into fighting - sometimes for the Resistance, sometimes with each other.

Then the calls stopped. 

You couldn’t exactly recall when you realised it was over but some part of you just knew; there was no conversation, no closure. It was over, just like that. You didn’t even have time to think about it or to cry about it. The fact that you’d lost Poe Dameron was just a reality of life - a painful one, but a reality nonetheless. 

You took the ring off, putting it in a safe space to give back to him should you ever cross paths again. You wouldn’t - not for a few years. 

Almost a year to the day that Poe left, Leia Organa recruited you into the Resistance. It was a different base to your former love, systems away in the Outer Rim. Your work was focused mostly on communications and collecting data for building new bases. It felt good to finally be doing your part for the cause but you couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. 

(It was Poe. Poe was the thing that was missing). 

Time flew by. You were jumping between planets, having a few near misses and experiencing your first real sense of loss; not only for your flyboy, but for your team-mates who didn’t make it back. You were haunted with thoughts of the same thing happening to Poe, of the idea that he could have already left for his last mission without knowing it.

So, you started wearing the ring again. Even when you met somebody new - Perry, a six-foot-tall blonde gunner with a kind smile and a moderate sense of humour - you kept it on. You wore it when you kissed Perry for the first time and you wore it when he declared his love for you. 

He wasn’t Poe. He didn’t hold your hand the way Poe did or kiss you in the way that Poe did. He didn’t make you laugh like him or smile like him or feel like him. He wasn’t the same. Nobody could ever compare but you weren’t going to find the love of your life twice. It was like you’d won the lottery on your first ticket. Nobody won the jackpot twice. 

‘This is the bar that Leia said most of the other guys went to.’

You and Perry were stood outside a cantina; it was dark on Ajan Kloss, the sky lit in a low navy colour by the yellow of the moon. The signs of the establishment flashed before you, a welcome invitation away from the cold night. The air inside was stuffy in comparison, smelling of stale beer and filled with the sound of other Resistance pilots chortling and chatting. 

You were on a two-day lay over at another base. The whole squad needed a drink, given how rough the mission had been - whilst they sat down, you ditched your jacket and headed to the bar up front. 

Falling against the wooden counter, you let out a small oof! as somebody dropped against the bar next to you, He was too busy talking to someone, but you could have recognised him from anywhere. 

Poe Dameron had a warm presence; there was an aura about him, something welcoming and sweet. He still wore the same after shave and laughed with his whole body - that’s how you knew it was him. 

‘Poe.’ Your words weren’t really there, but he still managed to hear you.

‘Yeah?’ He spun around, doing a double take when he saw you. ‘Oh, shit.’

He looked tired; his hair was still dark and curly, but littered with more greys than it had been five years ago. His warm brown eyes were decorated with dark circles and he had a five-o-clock shadow on his chin. Still, he looked good. 

‘I - wow.’ You couldn’t find the words. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ A small smile fell onto Poe’s lips. ‘Hi.’

A moment later, he had dropped his drink and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He hadn’t held you since the day he’d left all those years ago; a day that felt so alien to you both. Your immediate feeling was one of relief - Poe Dameron was alive, drinking in a bar and doing exactly what he said he’d always would (saving the galaxy). 

‘You’re...’ You trailed off, pulling back to stare at him. ‘You’re alive.’

‘Just about.’ Poe smiled at you. ‘And so are you - and you’re a Lieutenant.’

‘You’re a commander.’ Your eyes fell to the markings on his jacket. ‘That’s amazing, Poe.’

You were both thinking the same thing: we should have done it together. 

You should have been there to witness him rising through the ranks and he should have been there to welcome you to the Resistance with open arms. But life could be a bitch and she’d dealt you both the worst cards. The galaxy had done everything within its power to tear you apart.

‘It’s so good to see you.’ Poe bit his lip, brown eyes refusing to move from holding your gaze. ‘I know that we said-’

‘- don’t mention it.’ You shook your head. ‘We were pretty fucking naive, right?’

‘Right.’ He breathily laughed, nodding. ‘I still think about you, though.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘I think about the academy, and the day I left and - is that my mum’s ring?’

Poe’s eyes had fallen to your hand, where the metallic band still sat on your middle finger. You’d always promised yourself to give it back if you ever had the chance. After all, it was supposed to be a symbol of commitment, of your love for one another. It was a promise you’d made to each other before either of you knew what shit life was going to throw your way. 

‘Oh, yeah.’ You went to pull it off. 

‘No.’ Poe moved his hand to cover yours. ‘Keep it.’

‘Poe, it’s yours.’ You reminded him.

‘And I gave it to you.’ He replied. ‘I know...I know things didn’t go the way we wanted but I still mean everything I said.’

You smiled, nodding. ‘Thank you. Me too.’

‘Are you around later?’ Poe asked. ‘We should catch up. There’s a lot to talk about, right?’

‘Of course.’ You took a sip of your drink. ‘I’m staying in-’

‘- babe!’ Perry’s voice suddenly cut between the two of you. Your boyfriend appeared beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. ‘What’s taking so long?’

Oh, yeah. Him. 

Maybe you weren’t around tonight. 

Five minutes with Poe Dameron had been enough to make you forget two years with your current boyfriend. He’d made you feel more in that brief conversation that Perry had in your whole relationship.

You didn’t mean to compare them, truly. It was just that there was no coming back from Poe Dameron; he was your soulmate then and you had a feeling he was your soulmate now. In fact, it wasn’t just a feeling; it was a certainty. 

That was what you told yourself when you snuck out of bed that night to see Poe. 

It was what you told yourself when he kissed you for the first time in five years. 

It was what you told yourself when you made love for the first time in five years. 

But repeating it over and over in your head wasn’t enough to make you stay the next morning. Even when you woke up in his arms, pressed against his bare chest with scratches on your back and bruises on your thighs, finally feeling like you were at home for the first time in five years, you couldn’t convince yourself to stay. You couldn’t fall back to him; you couldn’t let yourself get hurt all over again.

Perry didn’t ask where you went that night - and you never told him. 

You didn’t confess when he found you the next day and he confessed his love for you. You didn’t confess when he asked you to marry him six months later. 

There was now another ring sat next to Poe’s; shiny and expensive and far too big for your hands. It was where his ring should have been; instead, Shara Bey’s ring stayed on your middle finger, a constant reminder of what could have been - of what should have been. 

You were glad for that night with Poe. It felt like a goodbye for you both; like you’d finally got closure. At the same time, you didn’t want your time with Poe to reach a conclusion - you still wanted to hold out hope that the promises you’d made as a twenty-something would come true. You were engaged to marry another man but for some reason, you couldn’t see a future with anyone else.

Then there came a point where you couldn’t see a future at all. 

The First Order was closing in; the war was getting rougher and rougher. There were losses left right and centre. Missions were becoming longer and darker. The bags under your eyes were getting darker and each day, you strayed further and further from the light. It was hard to hold on, hard to see past the dark forces at play. 

That’s when you’d think back to another time; six or seven years prior, when it was just you and Poe against the world. You’d let your mind wander back to the times that you would stay up late, laughing and crying together. You remembered all the pacts and promises you’d made. How did you get here? 

Before you knew it, you were back on Ajon Kloss. Everyone had gathered to begin making preparations for the final battle. Nobody was calling it that - final was too scary of a word, after all - but everybody knew it. You were powering up your jet for what felt like the last time. 

‘Trident Squad, you’ll be behind Dagger. You know your orders.’

You were hardly listening to your commander, hands shaking as you played with the straps of your helmet. You were leaning against your X-Wing, trying to calm your breaths with clammy hands and a pounding chest. 

‘Hey.’ 

You looked up, eyes meeting Poe’s. Despite everything, you smiled. ‘Hey.’

‘You got engaged?’ His words were breathless. There was no greeting, no question of how you were. There was just the hurt in his words; the disbelief and the grief. 

‘I got engaged.’

‘Fuck.’ 

‘Fuck?’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ You nodded. ‘Fuck.’

Dropping your helmet to the ground, you met Poe half-way across the gap between you. He took you in his arms, lifting you off the ground for a moment as your bodies collided. He held you in his arms, a sad imitation of the last time you’d been stood together in front of an X-Wing. 

‘Do you...’ your words were muffled by his shoulder. ‘Are you sure you don’t want your ring back?’

‘That’s what I was trying to say last time I saw you.’ Poe put you back down; his hands stayed on your waist. ‘My mum told me to give it to whoever I wanted to spend my life with.’

‘Poe-’

‘- I know.’ He cut you off. ‘You promised to marry Pete-’

‘- Perry-’

‘- whatever.’ You couldn’t help but laugh at his flippancy. ‘Just because I can’t spend my life with you doesn’t mean I can’t want to.’

‘That makes no sense.’

‘None of this makes sense.’ Poe corrected you. ‘Normally I’m more than happy to respect the boundaries of another guys relationship but...but it’s you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I gotta ask.’ He have your hips a light squeeze. ‘If we make it out alive, there’s no chance at all that you and I can finally be together?’

‘Poe, I-’

‘- Captain!’ The sound of your commander’s voice came from around the corner. ‘We’re heading out now! Power up!’

‘I have to go.’ You took a step backwards, but he still clung onto your hands. 

‘I love you.’ Poe gave you a watery smile.

‘I know.’

‘Forever?’

‘Forever.’ 

tags: @blacksquadron-rougetwo​ @drinksomecoco​ @obi-wankenobae​

[thecomposerofstories]

Information on Amy.

(Be warned it's a ~little bit~ long, any other pieces of information you want to know I'll gladly answer if you ask.)

~General Information~

Fandom: Toy Story.

Name: Amy the Ragdoll.

Nickname, if any: Amy, Ames, and Doll-Face(usually by more villainous characters or used in a joking manner).

Gender: Female.

Sexuality: ??? (I mean I know the gender of who she has a crush on, but I'm unsure on what her actual sexuality should be tbh)

Age: Mentally, mid-twenties in the first story second movie, thirties to forties in the third and fourth. Physically, she doesn’t have an age, but in regards to when she was made (the 1950’s) makes her fifty to sixty.

City they currently live in: San Francisco, apparently that’s where Toy Story takes place.

Any pets: Would Rex count? He just follows her around like a nervous puppy.

Current occupation: I mean she’s practically a therapist, but she’s a toy and she only treats Rex so it probably doesn’t count lol

~Physical Appearance~

Height: 10 inches.

Body type: Stocky, but a bit gangly too, similar to Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Eye colour: Black.

Skin tone: Light.

Clothing style: Pale green/turquoise shirt with short puffed sleeves, with a denim dungaree dress with a daisy print in the centre over it. She wears yellow rain boots.

Hairstyle: No style, it’s just there. It’s messy and gets in her face easily and is made out of dark brown thin string.

~Speech/Language/Communication~

Amy speaks quietly and politely, rambles a bit if left without a reply or under pressure, very nervous in front of intimidating characters.

First language: English.

Learned languages: A bit of Spanish (Ya’ll remember Toy Story 3!)

Accent: American.

Pitch of voice: High, but soft, not quite annoying, unless she’s stressed, then it gets very pitchy and shrill.

~Behaviour/Habits~

Amy tends to just stand there when she can’t find anything to do, and will immediately try to find Rex, Hamm, Buzz or Jessie if surrounded by strangers (Though she’s not sure if it’s for their comfort or her own) Amy is very polite.

Spending habits: She doesn’t like to be made a fuss of at all, the very fact of someone giving something to her is unnerving (even if the thing never costed anything at all) and she feels compelled to give the giver something in return.

Morning routine: She gets up same time as the others, but wishes she could stay in bed a bit longer though. Before she came to Andy’s room, her sleep pattern was all over the place.

Bedtime routine: Similar to above, now she goes to bed the same time as the others, but before she just slept and got up willy-nilly.

Nervous habits: Amy will try to find Rex if she’s nervous, and she’ll pretend it’s because she’s worried for him, which is quite true, but she also just feels most safe with him. Speaking of, Amy will let Rex hold her hand and squish it whenever he or Amy is nervous, it’s calming to the both of them.

Bad habits: Not a very good exerciser, but then again, she’s spend basically half her life in a small attic, so I’ll give her a break.

Skills/talents: She’ very logical, mind-over-matter, (mostly, very good at calming others down and/or convincing them. She’s very good at spelling and knows quite a lot of words, some of which others haven’t even heard of.

Hobbies: Reading, talking (especially with Rex, Jessie or Hamm), and generally just lazing about or walking around somewhere, on her own or with a friend.

~The Past~

Amy’s first owner was a little girl called Alice. Alice loved nothing more than to read Amy stories (Mostly fairy tales), but of course, Alice grew up like all kids do, and she left Amy in the attic for someone else to have her.

Amy waited for many years, and all that time she’d never given up that someone would find her.

She thought she’s hit the jackpot when Andy and his family move into Alice’s old house, but they don’t go up into the attic to collect her. Some weeks later, though, Andy’s mother brings a set of boxes filled with junk into the attic and leaves. Woody, Buzz, Slinky, and Rex were trapped in one of the boxes (Call me a cheater but this part was actually inspired by a Toy Story comic, where those four toys get stuck in the attic that way and have to escape. It struck me odd that they never met at least one new friend there, so I made one. It was also my first story, I needed some inspiration!)

Amy, in a fit of panic, goes and hides.

But then she’s found by Rex as he and the others try to find a way out.

They then decide to let the strange, dust-covered ragdoll come back to Andy’s rom with them. (well, Rex did, anyway.)

Home town: Would Alice’s old room count? But it’s now Andy’s Room, so it won’t count will it?

Happy or sad childhood: Pretty normal to be honest, as normal a life as a toy could have anyway. And as for sadness, having spent all that time on her own for all those years, having missed out on so much, is a little sad. But Amy made sure she never became bitter over it or used it as an excuse for anything.

Earliest memory: Waking up in her toy store, with a friend of hers for company (a ragdoll Prospector, a much as she remembers) and as she gets bought by Alice’s Auntie, she says she hopes he gets picked up by a kid. (Unbeknownst to her, she would meet him again in a while to find out he never got to experience it)

Saddest memory: One, being left by Alice, yet being so happy for her and how much she’s grown up, if she could cry tears of joy for her owner, she would. Two, some (or most) of the days she spent waiting for a new owner to arrive. And three, watching Rex have a mental breakdown of anxiety.

Happiest memory: One, the time she and Alice went to the park, (Amy absolutely adores nature) Two after sliding down a drainpipe to get to Andy’s room, and three, having known she’d helped her friend out.

Significant events: Being bought, being left in an attic, being rescued from the attic, while gaining some new friends.

~Family~

The entirety of Andy’s room, whether they like it or not, they’re all in this together and are some kind of mish-mash, found family in a sense.

Siblings: I’ve been thinking of giving Amy a brother (since I based her on Raggedy Ann, a matching bootleg Raggedy Andy seems reasonable) bur I’m unsure about it, since I’ve already mapped out Amy’s entire series of stories (Around six or seven all together, so far I’m currently writing only the third) and I can only fit him in the fifth or sixth if I can.

~Relationships~

Romantically? I’d like to say she has a crush on Rex, I don’t know why I thought of it, I was contemplating it one day as I sketched a rough (and terrible) sketch of her, and I drew Rex too because he’s just so fun to draw and I wanted to make a scale for Amy’s size, and one of my friends (who had been watching me) immediately said “I ship it!” and well, the rest is history, I made the decision to ship it too.

Friends: Jessie, Hamm, Buzz, and Rex are her closet friends, but she’d like to say that all the Gang are her friends. Later on she becomes good friends with Mr. Prickle Pants, Buttercup, Trixie and Totoro, and she absolutely loves the peas and Forky.

Best friend(s): Hamm, Mr. Prickle Pants, Jessie, and Rex.

What do people like about them? Amy’s pretty easy to talk to, she’s polite and attentive and will sit in companionable silence with someone if they need it. But she won’t hesitate to give hard truths and advice if it’s needed.

What do people dislike about them? Amy is quite a doormat, if someone is rude to her or breaches anything she just lets it happen, and sometimes she’s too indecisive about her own stuff, unsure whether she’s going to offend others or not over the smallest things, which annoys others quite a bit.

~Mentality/Personal Beliefs~

Amy is a toy of logic, and though she believes others can do it if they set their minds to it, she doesn’t quite believe in herself. She believes she must follow the rules of being a toy at all times, no matter what.

Phobias: Dust. She hates it. It took a good five weeks to brush all the dust out her hair and clothes, and even so there’s still some in her pockets and places she can’t reach. And being alone, too. Now she can’t be alone for more than an hour before she starts to get antsy and nervous. And for a short time books gave her a strange tiredness, after reading them for so long and for so many years she couldn’t even stand the sight of them.

But of course, not for long, since Amy found out Andy had a copy of Red’s Dream by a Mr. William Reeves.

Optimist or pessimist: Depends on the situation really, if her mind can’t come up with a solution, then there’s no point in trying anymore. Unless someone else can think of something, that is.

Personal philosophies: “You are here to make good things happen. No person here is made for one reason only, or even only one. There’s no point in pretending to be someone you’re not just for the attention of others, no matter how cool they are. We should find are own meaning, as we’re the only ones who have control of it.

It’ll take a while, but I swear, it’ll be worth it.”

Biggest dream/wish: Amy wants nothing more than to find meaning for herself, but finds it rather hard to do so. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’ll settle for someone else’s meaning. As cheesy as it sounds, she just wants an adventure. She doesn’t necessarily want to be the hero, though, she’s just happy to go along with the ride so long as it gets her out the house for a few hours. She also, above all else, wants Rex to find meaning too, even if she never does, it would be nice to know that he had.

Greatest strength(s): Persuasion, story-telling, logic, and good grammar.

Biggest flaw: Despite being a ragdoll, Amy can’t sew because of her fingerless hands, which are just soft mittens in shape. Amy is also quite a doormat, as I said before, so if her calm persuasion and reasoning doesn’t work, she’s left to be walked all over.

Regrets: Staying in that dratted attic too long, the window was open, she could’ve just climbed out, but no, she had to stay there for some mind-rotting decades. But if she had just escaped, she would never have met her new friends. Amy just wishes she had met them a lot sooner.

Achievements: Escaped the attic, slid down a drainpipe, leapt onto the windowsill (though nearly knocking Woody and Buzz over in the process) stopped her friend from having a panic attack, and managed to remember the entire Dictionary and is able to recite it down from A to Z, and even Z to A.

Secrets: Not much, just strange feelings for one of her friends, but it’s not much of a secret, Bo knows, and Mr. Potato Head and Hamm could see it from a mile away, and the others have their suspicions.

Goals: Read the entirety of Andy’s (and later Bonnie’s) bookshelves, become more confident in herself, have her own book-worthy adventure, and figure out what those strange feelings for her friend is.

~Likes/Favourites~

Favourite colour: Even before meeting Rex, Amy’s favourite colour was always green. Every time Alice had taken her to the park, Amy adored watching the sunlight pour through the leaves with a golden-green glow.

Favourite book(s): Because it’s sentimental to her, being her owner’s favourites, she loves Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Peter Pan, and The Wizard of Oz. They all hold similar plots (a little girl in a blue dress goes to a fantasy land, has a few adventures, and then leaves said fantasy land to go home to her family and responsibilities) but it reminds Amy of her old owner Alice (who was actually named after Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) and their playtimes together.

Favourite Book Quotation(s):

“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.”

“There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is facing danger when you are afraid.”

Favourite movie: Amy does much prefer books, since they allow her to imagine the setting and characters in her own way, but doesn’t mind movies, and isn’t picky on what they watch, though she does quite like horror films.

Favourite song: Amy likes any kind of music, new or old.

Favourite game: Amy never really cared for games, the competitiveness always bothered her and stressed her out. But she’s more than happy to watch Rex play his video games and cheer him on.

~Relationships with other characters~

~Rex~

- Hit it off pretty quickly.

- Amy helps him with his anxiety, and helps him find confidence in himself, she acts as a certain therapist to him.

- Both become very stressed without the other around.

- Rex will hold and knead at Amy’s hands sometimes; it calms him down.

- Rex will let Amy ride on his back if she’s tired or needs to see something (Because she’s so short).

- One of them can basically be talking about the most boring-est things ever, yet still the other will hang on to their every word.

~Jessie~

- Became friends pretty quickly.

- Will drag Amy along anywhere.

- Get along fairly well.

- Jessie does the talking and Amy does the planning.

- Jessie always pranks the other toys and makes Amy tag along (along with Hamm).

- Introvert/Extrovert dynamic for sure.

- Both were left in alone for years so like to find solace in each other.

~Hamm~

- Hamm begrudgingly warmed up to the timorous ragdoll.

- Surprisingly good pals.

- Have full conversations without saying anything.

- Like to sit and look out of the window together.

- Hamm makes Amy laugh when she really shouldn’t (mainly when he makes fun of the other toys, mainly Woody).

- Hamm makes fun of Amy having a crush on Rex every once in a while, though he doesn’t mean any harm.

~The Potato Heads~

- Mr. doesn’t really interact with Amy much, but finds her surprisingly tolerable, if a bit high-strung and annoying.

- Like Hamm, Mr. makes Amy laugh at the most wrong moments.

- She and Mrs. Are quite good friends, and she sometimes lets Amy take care of the aliens if she and her husband are busy.

~Woody~

- Are aquianteces.

- Don’t exactly interact much, even though the whole room practically revolves around him, in Amy’s opinion, though she would never say it to his face.

~Buzz~

- Amy thinks he’s super cool (then again, he is Buzz Lightyear, he practically invented coolness)

- Both are just as clueless as one another when it comes to social cues and interactions.

- Amy helps him with vocabulary and spelling every once in a while.

~Mr. Prickle Pants~

- Are absolute BFF’s.

- Go back and forth with book quotes to the point of driving the other toys insane.

~Bo Peep~

- Amy's not exactly sure if Bo has befriended her or not.

- (She has)

- They later become good friends.

- Amy misses their talks, Bo was one of the only toys she could talk to that could keep a secret.

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Halw Galabî

Part 15 of ‘A Deep Misunderstanding’.  Link to Series Masterlist.

Thorin falls for a Dwarrowdame raised by Elves, and tries to make know his feelings, but accidentally offends her, which leads to another and another misunderstanding between the two.

Based off of @immawriteyouthings​ ‘Falling Stars’

Note:  If you wish to be tagged for certain stories, just let me know and I can add you to a tag list!

Tags:

@kumqu4t​ @pixierox101​

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Estel

Word Count:  1,900

Warning(s):  Mention of time of the month, curse word(s)

Translation(s): Halw Galabî:  Sweet Words

Zirizkhîe:  My Gold One

Gaihithe:  My Little Dove

Sasakhabiya abnâmul:  You look beautiful

Ra sasakhabi abnâmul:  And you look handsome

Amrâl:  Love

Karkith:  Little Raven

Nê akhshum:  Don’t worry

Sindarin:

Mae loboth:  Furry rabbit

~~~~

I hated walking with every fibre of my being.  Eru, it was an unnecessary action; especially when I was currently bleeding profusely.  

Stupid periods.

A scowl decorated my downcast face as I walked behind Thorin on the open terrain of the meadow we were tromping through.  Not even the beautiful flowers planted by Yavanna's hand; swaying slightly in the vague gusts of wind could brighten my mood with their vibrant colours.

"Zirizkhîe, come here."  Thorin's rich tones brought my head up to look up into sapphire blue orbs; orbs that displayed a concern I was used to seeing these past few days.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, I quickened my pace till I was by Thorin's side, shooting him a sideways glance.  "What do you need?"  I grumbled, and Thorin let out a soft laugh.

Cheeky bastard.

"I just wanted to talk with you.  Do you want to stop for a moment and rest?"  He asked, slipping a hand around my waist to gently grip my hip.  Merciful Manwë, his touch had my grouchiness fading just the littlest bit.

"No, I'm fine.  The faster we walk, the faster we reach the place where we are camping tonight."  I said matter-of-factly, leaning my head against his furry shoulder.

"I cannot argue with your logic there, Gaihithe."  Thorin said, giving me a look that sent butterflies throughout my stomach.  His sapphire blue eyes flickered over my body, sending little shivers down my spine.  "Sasakhabiya abnâmul."  He murmured, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Ra sasakhabi abnâmul."  I countered, and Thorin grinned, giving my hip a gentle squeeze.  

"Would ye tone it down?  None of us want to watch ye get all cozied up!"  Dwalin growled from behind us, and both Thorin and I turned to shoot a glare at the tattooed Dwarrow.  

Catching sight of each other doing the exact same thing, Thorin and I shared a look and began to laugh.  

"By the Valar, I've been spending too much time around you..."  I laughed, and Thorin gave me a frown that I saw right through.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing, Amrâlimê."  He said, and I elbowed him in the side, disappointment filling me for a moment when I didn't elicit a response from him.  Eru, it wasn't fair for him to be so muscular and tough!

Seeing my furrowed brow, Thorin gave me a cheeky grin.  "Did you really expect to hurt me, Amrâl?"  He asked, and I shrugged.

"Perhaps..."  I murmured, and he let out a rich, baritone laugh.  

"It'll take a bit more than that to hurt me...  I thought you said you were strong?"  He teased, and I glowered at him.

"I am!  It just doesn't seem like it when I'm up against a Dwarrow that's a few inches taller than me, much burlier, and of the opposite sex!"  I defended, crossing my arms over my chest and giving Thorin a petulant look.

Thorin raised his hands in a show of surrender.  "I apologize for offending you, my lady."  He said solemnly with a stiff nod, and I fought against the laughter bubbling up within me.

It wasn't fair how easily my emotions were swayed right now.

Losing the fight against it, I began to giggle, staring at Thorin and marveling at the twinkle his eyes took on when he smiled.  By the Valar, it made me fall harder for him.

But then the amusement in his eye was replaced with wide-eyed shock and he began to reach out a hand towards me.  "Estel, watch out for--"

I didn't hear the rest of his sentence due to the fact that I stumbled over something, and fell face-forward onto the ground.  Eru, this mirrored the occasion when we ran from the Wargs...

"Owww..."  I groaned, grimacing as I pushed myself onto my knees.  Looking down at my hands, I made a face as I took in the scrapes they'd gathered upon bearing the burden of my fall.

"Karkith!  Are you hurt?  Let me see your hands..."  Thorin dropped to his knees beside me, gently grabbing my hands in his large ones to look them over.  

"They just got scraped up...  I'll be fine, Thorin."  I said, trying to tug my hands away from Thorin.  "Really, it's just a few scrapes that'll heal up in a few days.  Nê akhshum."  

"Amrâlimê..."  Thorin murmured, looking at me with blue eyes that were alight with worry.  "I cannot help but worry."

A few groans emanated from the group around us at Thorin's words.  "Oh Mahal, there they go again..."  I heard someone mutter, but I ignored them.  

Gandalf appeared suddenly overheard, and I tilted my head up to look at him.  "Bilbo has some ointment that is good for scraped hands."  He said, and I shot a look at Thorin, finally pulling my hands away and standing up.

"I'll go see if I can borrow a bit of that then.  Thank you Mithrandír."  I said, nodding to Gandalf and turning away from Thorin to go find Bilbo in the crowd of Dwarves.

The Hobbit was easy to find--mostly due to the fact that he'd heard his name mentioned--and was quite willing to give me some of his ointment.

"Thank you, Bilbo."  I said gratefully, gingerly spreading the salve over the palms of my hands.  Perhaps it would be wise to find a pair of gauntlets that didn't just cover the tops of my hands.

Bilbo just nodded in reply, his gaze focused on my hair.  "Why do you wear beads in your hair--if I may ask."  He asked hesitantly, and I gave him a reassuring smile.

"Of course you may.  They are kin beads and show that I'm courting someone."  I explained, and Bilbo nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes.  

"May I have a closer look at the beads?"  He asked, motioning towards the braid in my hair.  I nodded, taking a seat on a nearby log and turning my head so that he could easily grab the beads to look at them.

Turning my braid in his hands, Bilbo murmured to himself as he looked it over with curious eyes.  "Aquamarine, blue jasper, citrine, clear quartz, garnet, howlite, lapis, moonstone, rose quartz, emerald, ruby, sapphire and opal...  Interesting."  He mumbled, and I pondered over the name of the gems he was reciting.  Some I had heard of; others I hadn't.  But why were they 'interesting'?

"MASTER BAGGINS!"  An outraged bellow sounded behind me, and both Bilbo and I jumped at the sudden noise.

Turning quickly, I saw Thorin striding towards me, dark brown hair flowing behind him as he walked swiftly.

Manwë help the Dwarrow if he was going to complain about Bilbo being too close.  I didn't have any patience for his 'possessiveness' today.

"Thorin?"  I called softly, but he blew right past me, glaring furiously down at Bilbo who inched away from him.  "What in Eru's name is your problem?"  I asked, standing up to stand beside Thorin and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"He was touching your hair."  Thorin growled, and I gaped at him in disbelief.

"Touching my hair.  You're that mad over him touching my hair?  Oh Eru, I don't believe you."  I groaned, resting my hands on my hips as Thorin turned his body towards me.  

"He was touching your courting braid!"  He said, shooting a withering scowl over at Bilbo who seemed to want the ground to swallow him whole.

"I'm sorry, she said it was okay--"

"NO!  It was NOT OKAY!"  Thorin bellowed, and something inside me snapped.  I was sick and tired of having to deal with Thorin's supposedly 'perfectly justified' outbursts.  

"What the bloody hell is your problem?!  Why do you care so much that Bilbo was touching my braid?!  By the Valar, you act as though he's doing something sacrilegious!"  I yelled, giving Thorin a harsh look.  "Bilbo wasn't doing anything wrong; he just wanted to look at the beads in my hair!"

Thorin took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.  I could see the fight visibly draining out of him, but I didn't care about that.  I was all fired up, and wasn't going to let him draw back so easily.

"Halwûna..."  He began, but I shook my head.

"NO!  Don't you sweet talk me, Master Oakenshield!"  I growled, and Thorin let out a sigh.

"Estel, in Dwarvish culture, touching someone else's hair or braids--particularly if they're courting or in a relationship of any sort--is practically a crime."

I scoffed, "well that's stupid."

A grin tugged at the corner of Thorin's mouth as he struggled to remain solemn.  "Perhaps, but we still take our hair very seriously, Amrâlimê."  He turned to look at Bilbo and nodded to him.  "I apologize deeply for yelling at you, Master Baggins.  I overreacted, and I'm deeply sorry about that."  He murmured, and I watched him in disbelief.

Oh Eru, was he ill?  Why else would he be voluntarily apologizing--quite genuinely at that--to Bilbo?

Bilbo just gave him a shaky smile, waving away his words.  "It's fine, perfectly fine..."  He stuttered, edging away from the two of us nonetheless.

Turning back to me, Thorin eyed my expression apprehensively.  "I apologize to you as well, Estel.  I forgot that you didn't know about that particular custom."  He said, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Uh huh.  Perhaps next time you'll keep that in mind before you go around yelling at people."  I said dryly, and Thorin ducked his head, laughing.

"If only D��s could see me now..."  He muttered, "she'd have a good laugh over how tightly you've got me wrapped around your finger."  

"Of course--Wait, what do you mean I have you wrapped around my little finger?  Does it mean what I think it does?"  I asked, and Thorin just smiled slyly at me.

"You'll have to figure that out for yourself, Amrâlimê."  He said, motioning for me to follow him as he turned and walked away.

Trotting after him, I quickly reached his side and looked up into his darkly bearded features.  "The gems in my beads...  Bilbo was naming them off.  Do they have some sort of meaning?"  I asked in a soft voice, and Thorin looked down at me, his expression guarded.

"Yes, they do.  The same goes for the beads you've put in my hair.  I'll explain them to you soon, alright?"  He said in voice so tender I wanted to melt like a snowball on a hot day.

"Yeah, that's fine."  I mumbled, moving closer to Thorin's side as we began to walk again.  "Perfectly fine."

Thorin laughed beside me.  "You sound like the Hobbit...  Do I scare you?"

I smirked, glancing over at the Dwarrow walking beside me.  "Not a bit, you mae loboth."  I said, and Thorin turned to look at me, confusion furrowing his brow.

"What did you call me?"  He asked, but I just shrugged, laughing.  

"That's for me to know and you to never find out, Halwûn."  I giggled, and Thorin smiled back at me, shaking his head.

"Oh Mahal, I love you..."  He said, ignoring the mutters rising behind us at our words.

They'd just have to deal with it for awhile longer; till we set up camp.  Then they could disperse and leave me and Thorin to our sweet words.

And something told me they couldn't wait for that to happen.

[gorewhoreonthedancefloor]

Elizabeth is a Guro-Sue.

Summary: Elizabeth Alby has been working at a London strip club for several years, and she's always kept herself aloof. She has secrets, and fantasies, but she's in it for the long game. When the strip club is finally bought out and taken over by someone nice, a man she can befriend and manipulate in order to get what she wants, she's excited.

But her old boss just can't keep his sleazy self away.

She's not about to lose out on a chance to better the club for herself and all the dancers. Maybe it's time to finally give in to what she wants to do oh so badly. Again...

A/N: This is a piece detailing my OCs second ever murder - the one which pushes her into continuing her enjoyment of such. It's set in an original universe based around a strip club called The Deadly Sinners, which features several of my OCs as well as friends of mine! If you're interested in getting to know her more, feel free to ask anything you like! And consider following my new gore centric twitter as another way of talking! I'm very open to expanding the universe and talking about my characters and what makes them tick, etc. In present day, Elizabeth is 28, and has a kill count of maybe a dozen+ kills. This is just the beginning...

WARNING: Explicit detail of murder, violence, and death. Involves stabbing, head trauma, broken bones, and additionally sexism and sexual misconduct. Please do not read if such topics may trigger you!

~🔪 Enjoy 🥰🔪 ~

2015.

About an hour ago Elizabeth had been in the back office with Alix, the new owner and boss of the club. She'd met him almost a year ago when he walked into the club and draped himself over a bar stool. He didn’t square up to any of the girls, didn’t stare them down with carnivorous hunger - he just laughed with the bartender. Elizabeth walked up to him, ready to offer him a dance, but he beat her to introductions. 

"Oh Jesus, you’re a stunner! Sorry, sorry, where are my manners?! Forgive me, I get a little tongue tied around beautiful women, and if I can be so bold, you’re one of the most breathtaking women I’ve ever seen.”

Usually compliments don’t leave Elizabeth speechless. She’s used to them. They’re like white noise for the most part. Him though, Alix, he was different. He had wide eyes, and a smile to match, and he looked at her like she was a friend before he even knew her name. It was like the rushing wind that encapsulates a person when they’re falling from a 50 story building. She felt like she’d finally taken the cleanest, deepest breath in a long time. 

Now, Alix is the new owner of the strip club, and he has big plans to refurbish everything. He wants to tear down walls, redecorate the whole place, give dancers a better backstage area - for a man who’d made the decision to buy a business on a drunken impulse, he was surprisingly serious about making it something. 

The construction team will start working early afternoon tomorrow. An hour ago Alix had been telling Elizabeth his plans, what he wanted to do with the whole place, and that, to her surprise, he wanted her input. He really respects her, and all the dancers. Having a boss who treats her well, looks in her eyes and not over her scantily clad body, it was the kind of unbelievable luck Elizabeth didn’t believe in. 

The pair left each other in good spirits, excited for a new start, buzzing on a shared hopeful high. Alix offered to walk her home but she'd respectfully declined, wanting to enjoy some quiet before she was home. After a few blocks, she reached in her handbag and realised she forgot her keys in the office. She turned around and walked with an urgency to pick them up - ironically, she had the spare key to the club Alix gave her, but not the ones to her flat. Her dad and sister were out of town, so she had to go back…

That’s when she saw a shady looking figure at the club’s entrance. He couldn’t see her from the distance, and if he did, if he caught a glimpse of her when looking over his shoulders in a haste, she’d just look like any other blurry figure walking home. It wasn’t a break in, he had a key, and knowing that, Elizabeth realised who it was. So she waited, let him enter, and snuck in herself a few minutes afterwards.

Now, Elizabeth stands behind the bar, filling a shot glass with vodka, and throwing it down her throat swiftly. She makes it look easy, cracking her neck and muffling a cough in reaction to the burn. It's how she likes to start her shifts usually, with liquid courage. 

Now it’s 3AM on an ordinary Tuesday. The rain has suddenly begun to pound the pavement outside, loud enough to rattle the building - it punishes the world, cleansing the treacherous stains left by sinners.

Vodka splashes out of the glass and onto the bar. Elizabeth takes the nearby rag and wipes it up. She turns around and peers into the wall mirror behind the bar shelf, liquor lining the wood and obstructing a clear view. She pulls out the dark red lipstick from her bra. It's accustomed for her to look her best at every given opportunity, addicted to perfection. She runs it over her plump lips, pouting and popping them to rub in the smooth colour, then stares at her reflection for a minute. Honey brown eyes stare at her, understanding what is about to happen has to happen...  

Now is the time to kill someone again, and not just any random patron off the street. She gets to revel in the joy that her old boss, Stewart, will die by her hands.

She's been working at the club for around 5 years now. It wasn't what she had planned, but it kept her safe in a way she couldn’t explain. She only started working there as a side gig, to get some decent money while she studied. The plan was to be an electrician, get a secure job working on the railway lines. She enjoyed tinkering with electrics. She got her qualifications with ease, but nowhere would accept her at the time. Whether it was the lack of positions available, or the familiar judgement that a woman like her couldn’t possibly be competent, she will never know. Life got hectic, after her mother's death everything began falling like the devil's dominos. Stripping should have been a cash grab, but she adapted to fit the narrative that the dancers she worked alongside became like family.

She’s well liked, though mostly from a respectable distance, with only a few exceptions. Some people find it hard to know what to say around her - she’s usually so quiet, with a look like she’s always thinking. She's never been a shy character. The correct term is aloof, bordering impassible, and smart. She let her co-workers find comfort around her, and she gave patrons the illusion they were her saviours. Everything Elizabeth did was calculated to cater her neverending poker game, and now, still in to win at life, no one truly knows who she is. 

No one knew she thought about murder every day. No one knew she craved the crazed euphoria of killing someone, that which she felt when she’d blugend her mother to death. Every day for the past 4 years she’s been wondering if she’d get the chance to relive that high, planning over and over again in her head when she would do it, who would be her victim - she didn’t expect it to be on a whim like this.

It’s titillating just thinking about it. Damn near erotic. Since she started working at the club, she’s had to deal with the sleazy stare of her boss almost on the daily, knowing his eyes linger on her ass, while his hand cups his groin. He licks his lips staring at her tits, and when she meets his eyes with her evil glare, she can see the unsure arousal lingering in his pupils. He’s putried, truely, pleasuring himself in his office during work hours after watching a performance. Stewart is a predator. He preys on his vulnerable staff, and uses them to gratify his animalistic cravings.

"If you want to rake in the money, sweetcheeks, you’ve gotta smile more. Guys like tits, but they don’t like miserable bitches, kay?”

Elizabeth had imagined his death a thousand times over the second he said that. When he dared to raise his index finger under her chin, condescend her in such a way, she hoped there would come a day she’d get the courage to kill him.

After a few more minutes priming herself like a proud peacock, she reaches into her handbag and pulls out the hunting knife she keeps on her at all times. She used to just have a switchblade, until she passed an antiques store one day and saw the beautiful blood red hunting knife calling her name. She conceals the weapon in her thigh high boots, checking the handle is at a viable point she can grab it with ease. Wrapping her hand around the sturdy rubber, a rushing anticipation of her murderous excitement buzzes through her fingers and up her arm, just like electricity. Her heart is racing. 

She leaves her coat over the bar top, walking out from behind the bar on the first floor and heads downstairs. She can hear his grunting every so often, the slamming of desk drawers and flustered footsteps as he searches for something. Last time she saw Stewart, he'd been wishing Alix the best of luck. Now he's breaking in the day before renovation is scheduled. 

She stands outside the office door and knocks. Light, flirty knocks. A loud gasp followed by a rough, irritable command to enter. Elizabeth hides it well but she's beyond excited to gut Stewart like a fish. She wishes she'd been more prepared for the moment - wishes she made plans, figured out specifics and wasn't going off instinct. There were so many nights she thought about the how's, knowing if she had to feed that beast inside her, it had to be perfect. This isn't perfect like she wants, but it's perfectly good luck, she can't bear passing up the opportunity.

As she walks in, she sees Stewart sitting behind the desk, leaning back, cheeks furiously red and his forehead clammy from sweat. His thinning hair is swept back, more sweat than gel, and clearly only styled by his hand brushing it back. He looks like he always did, in a tight white shirt and scruffy tie, the years of loneliness aging him more than his crow's feet. His lips pull up into a shark like grin when he sees her, all teeth on show, and he chuckles, darkly, kind of like he's been expecting her. Out of all the girls, it's clear that Elizabeth was his favourite, and she plays into that favour by popping her hip to accentuate her curves. His eyes unashamedly fall down her body, taking in the sights, and though it repulses her to let him have the pleasure of just looking at her, she knows the payoff is worth it.

Maybe she can gouge his eyes out while he screams for mercy, deprive him of the tools he wastes on depraved thrills. She's had so many fantasies where she wriggles the tip of her knife's blade into someone's eye socket, and pops their eyeball out their skull.

"Lizzy, sweetheart...what're you still doing here?" He asks, almost timidly, like he's nervous, but still maintaining a confidence he can no longer afford. Elizabeth gently closes the door behind her and leans back on it, crossing her legs over one another. His line of sight hasn’t actually met her eyes yet.

"I left my keys," she nods toward the set on Alix's desk, and smiles when Stewart visibly gulps. "But then I thought I heard someone rustling around in here. Strange to see you here." She pushes herself off and struts seductively toward him. The space between them is only a few steps, but Elizabeth manages to walk it like it's a runway. She leans her head to the side, looking at the mess of paperwork on his desk. "You looking for something?" She asks, just barely above a whisper. Stewart's hot breath pours out on her arm, distracted, then jerks back to the subject matter.

"Oh, yes! Uh I left some paperwork, very important documents, uh confidential actually, so you should--"

"All of this is Alix's." She picks up one of the sheets and inspects it. It's a building permit. She looks over the other papers - a scattered mess of plans and expenses and permits but all distinctly Alix's. Elizabeth hums and sits against the edge of the desk, crossing one leg over the other. Her legs are long, gorgeous, and she knows he wants to touch them. He practically looks enslaved to her beauty, he's forgetting about being caught up to no good. "Nothing here is yours."

"Right. I'm still looking," he answers too easily, but the sweat on his brow is a give away. Elizabeth chuckles under her breath and places the paper back down. She shakes her head at him in disbelief.

"You should have gotten a business partner to help you run this place." Her tone is devilishly flirtatious, dripping in false promises. She looks around the cramp office and shrugs. "A second set of eyes to help you spruce the place up. Maybe then the club wouldn't have been failing and you wouldn't have had to sell it."

His mocking laughter hits her hard. Her gaze snaps back to him.

"You're so naive, Lizzy." Stewart muses, too cocky for Elizabeth's liking. He wiggles his finger in her direction and chuckles. "But naivety doesn't mean shit when you're a stripper, so who cares!" And with that he starts rummaging through the drawers again, unbothered by her presence.

Her blood boils with a heat as intense as a volcano. It takes every inch of her being to resist grabbing the bunch of pens in the coffee cup on his desk and ramming them down his throat. He's still chuckling, like he's the funniest man to walk planet earth. She hates him, truly, but she doesn't let that show on her face of course. All she can do is keep smiling. 

She crosses her legs over, exaggerating her leg outwards so he notices how long and slender she is. She tosses her hair over her shoulders and leans back accentuating her breasts. It doesn’t take a lot to distract Stewart. Her leather skirt and bralette reflect under the dim office light, clinging to her figure, squeezing her curves like a boa constrictor. Her mesh top sparkles like it's covered in every constellation, it’s a wonder she can breathe carrying such beauty. His fingers ache to feel her melt. She tips her head to the side and bites her lip, hypnotising him. 

"What did your girlfriend think of you working all those late hours surrounded by half naked women?” She smirks when he laughs.

"I don’t have a girlfriend.” He pushes himself out of his chair and rolls his shoulders. He’s nervous, hands shaking at his side and sweat dripping down his brow. God she wants to slice the skin off his face and make him screech in agonising pain. If he could read her mind, he might run for the hills. “What about you, Lizzy,” He places his hand beside her and leans in uncomfortably close. “What does your boyfriend think of you, dressed like this,” he motions his free hand around her breasts, “Alone in your bosses office?” 

Elizabeth is almost insulted that he thinks he even has a chance with a woman like her. Of course she represses the disgust in favour of chewing her bottom lip, reaching out to toy with the loose tie around his neck. "Ex boss," She corrects, smugly. His breathing gets heavier, halting only when she harshly tugs on the tie to bring his face mer centimeters to her own. He pathetically puckers her lips, and she snickers, looking at him darkly beneath her eyelashes. 

"Do you really think I’d care what a man thought of me?” Then she throws him back forcefully, standing up and dusting herself off as he stumbles to regain his footing. The force practically winds him. “Besides...I don't have a boyfriend. Boyfriends annoy me too much."

Stewart bumbles through an exasperated laugh, insulted by her statement as if it somehow could apply to himself. He straightens his tie and puffs out his chest theatrically. "You've obviously never been with a decent guy."

"A decent guy?" Elizabeth repeats. "Does such a thing exist?"

"Of course they do."

"Where?"

"Well me for starters!" Stewart blurts out, too wound up to consider the implications of what he's admitting. Before the words settle, she's already looking at him with disdain. A wicked smirk slithers across her face and she rolls her eyes, to his annoyance. "Hay, I'm a nice guy!"

"Nice guys don't break and enter places that don't belong to them," she sharply closes the space between them and backs him up against the back wall, her sweet devil's grin swapping for solid rage. "Nice guys don't make advances on their barely legal employees. Nice guys don't cut corners paying the people that keep their shitty business going."

"Woah, what are you--"

"Why don't you save the bullshit and just fess up to whatever the fuck you're actually doing here, hmm?" She puts her hands on her hips, staring him down. There's a tense silence, his eyes wide and frantic, thoughts visibly racing in the wind of his dilated pupils, and Elizabeth wonders if the pounding drumming of her heart is as ear shattering for him as it is for her. 

She could slit his throat so perfectly at this angle. One sharp sweep of her blade, watching the flimsy pale skin tight across his neck rip too easily, allowing blood to spill and move like a glacier. She could wedge her thumbs into the tight wound and bury them further into his flesh, feel the rigged bone surrounded by squishy meat and warm blood. He'd feel her inside of him, invasive, denying the boundaries no one should know, and she'd laugh as he slowly dies. She wants to rip him apart like a wild animal on a hunt. 

The cracking of bone. The squelch of flesh. The adrenaline rush. It's always just out of reach.

Stewart looks intimidated, but just as Elizabeth starts to enjoy the clouding of her twisted fantasies, he laughs boisterously and daringly places his hands on her hips to move her over. He picks out another folder from the drawers and opens it up, looking over his shoulder to laugh at her, looking at her like she’s some hysterical woman. All Elizabeth can do is stare back at him in disbelief, the clouds suddenly vanishing in favour of making him a clear cut target. Him with his sweaty upper lip, the uneven stubble shading his jaw, his figure a few weeks skipped from the gym - he who dares to break into what isn’t his and still look down on her. It’s a bloodthirsty rage, almost delusionally so, she wonders if it’s all a hallucination, but his laugh is sharp and loud, and she wants to rip his tongue clean out of his mouth.

"Look, babe, you should get out of here, alright? You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Elizabeth doesn’t move though, just stands her ground, secures her stance and practically growls at him. He rolls his eyes and drops the folder he’d been flicking through on the desk with a loud thud. 

“Fucking hell, what’s it gonna take to get you to fuck off, huh? What, money?” Stewart asks, ridicule thick on his lips as the corners of his mouth curl upward. He digs into the pocket of his trousers and fishes out a worn out wallet, waving it in her face aggressively. She doesn’t flinch, even when he throws it to her feet forcefully and glares at her. “There ain’t shit to even give you.”

Elizabeth softens her brows. She looks down at the wallet splayed out on the ground; bare of any family photo, like most the men who ask for a dance do have. “I don’t want your money.” She replies through her teeth, eyes looking up at him under her lashes. She clenches her fists and squeezes - tries to pop the tensions wrapping around her bones, making her fingers stiff, eager. Then she lifts her head. “I want you to get out.”

Stewart laughs again. This time as he looks up and down her body, it’s with disgust. “Or what?” He mocks, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. He sticks his tongue in his cheek and scoffs when she doesn’t respond immediately. “This will always be my place, it don’t matter who’s name is on the deed--”

“That’s not how it works--”

“Shut the fuck up, okay?!” He bites back at her, specs of spit flying from his lips, his eyes filled with impatient irritation. Elizabeth’s shoulders drop, something snaps. Not like a flimsy stick, more like an aged, cracking tree finally giving in to the woodsman’s axe. The falling weight, the impending thump, it’s all so familiar and yet intimidatingly unrecognisable at the same time. Stewart closes the space between them. He’s only an inch or two taller, but the way he juts out his jaw and looks down at her even with his head held high, he must see her as an insignificant little mouse. “You’re nothing special, sweetheart. You’re just another pretty face in a town with dozens of ‘em!” 

The muscles in Elizabeth’s body burn almost uncontrollably. She’s minutes away from a forest fire, it festers uncomfortably in her fingers. She digs a pointed nail into his chest and pushes him back, seeing shock briefly flicker across his features. “You’re a disgusting waste of space.”

He lets out a mocking laugh, clearly becoming more frustrated at her stubborn disdain. There’s a brief pause, and before she has time to react, Stewart grabs her by her shoulders and shoves her forcefully against the back wall, unconcerned when she grunts from the pain. Her hands grip his wrists to move him off, but he manages to keep her there, trapped by his sweaty palms. He leans in close with his teeth gritted, a smug, infuriating grin lifting his features.

“You think I give a toss what some slag thinks about me?” He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head, clearly enjoying how she struggles to push him away. “I need money, darling. I know some nasty fuckers who’ll leave me in a body bag if I don’t pay ‘em back, so I’m not about to let some skank get in my way!” He takes a deep breath, and growls softly, looking down to admire the plush of her breasts against her see through top. His hands slide down to grip her hips, force her to stay in place, perfectly for his pleasure, setting in the uneasy claustrophobia. 

Elizabeth already hates affection, it sets off alarm bells in her head, the overwhelming disgust ricocheting through her nervous system. The weight of his hand bruises her bones, aches her something fierce, she wonders how long it will take before the ground beneath her feet caves in.

“The things they’d do to a girl like you. I’m not against telling them who you are, the slut that prevented their pay back--”

“I’m not afraid.” She says through her teeth, quietly, confidently. She can feel the boiling adrenaline coursing through her system with every rage inducing second ticks by. She takes his hands and moves them with an uneasy calmness, offering them back to him like he'd lost them.  She lets her hands return to her sides. She tickles the top of her thigh, inching close to the handle of her hunting knife. “You’re a sad wannabe gangster, and nothing more. If I gave even half a shit, I’d pity you.”

Stewart’s face tightens with a frown. He growls some generic sexist insult and attempts to grab her again, but Elizabeth is faster. She finally reaches into her boot and whips out the knife, plunging it deep into his stomach before he knows what's happening. The impact of the knife rips through cotton and flesh with laughable ease, the burst of skin ripping around the weapon's teeth practically ricocheting through Elizabeth. The anger he had is replaced with fear. She loves it.

She keeps him steady with her hand firmly against his collarbone, eventually turning them around so he lands against the wall she was pressed against seconds ago, with the knife still firmly in her grasp, in his abdomen. Taking a guess, she figures the blade is caught amidst the small intestine, probably snagged the bottom of a kidney, maybe even severed a ureter too. She looks up at his face and smiles wickedly. Blood begins to trickle from the wound and down the pooch of his belly. Watching his face slowly fade a ghostly complexion fills her with glee.

A pitiful plea fumbles past his lips, but she can’t hear it over the drumming.  Her heart thumps like it wants out of her chest, pounding so violently like it's going to crack a rib. Her senses have never been so sensitive, the adrenaline sending her on high alert. She’s always so composed, always trying to be perfect, and now…

She pulls the knife from his body swiftly, dragging his breath on the end of the blade, and watches blood come through the flimsy wound opening, staining his shirt a crimson red. She brings her bottom lip between her teeth and flares her nostrils, mesmerized by her work. Stewart tries to beg for help, taking back the cruelty of his ego, but it’s white noise, only encouraging her to make her own music with the tunes of his screams.

She takes his chin in her hand and grips him tight, nails digging into his cheeks harshly. She lines up the knife with where the tear in his shirt indicates the wound and pushes it back inside, catching his flesh and tearing his torso open more than it previously was. She pushes the knife in deeper this time, up to the bolster of the handle, and twists the blade to grotesquely shift Stewart’s organs. The slippery feel is obvious even without skin contact. More blood begins to pour from his wound urgently. Angling the blade upward, she catches something squishy and tender, and swiftly rips it in a flash as she recoils the knife back to her side. Stewart groans in agony, as he has been doing throughout; Elizabeth was just too excited to notice.   

Tears spill down his face, wetting her fingertips where she still has his face in her hold. She tuts and shakes her head. "Here, let me distract you from the pain," and without wasting a second, she grabs a fistful of his hair and swiftly slams his face down on the desk. A loud sick, wet crunch bounces off the walls, his nose certainly broken. Blood pours from his nostrils and he howls like a wounded animal, dropping to his knees, hands pressing against the agonising pain in his belly. 

Elizabeth moves around to be in front of him. She kneels to get eye level and waits until he finds the energy to look at her. He's fading, it's clear in the whitening of his skin. She enjoys how the look of death illuminates the little colour left in his eyes. An endearingly manic smile lifts her face. The memories of her mother etch their way across Stewart's busted, bloody face.

"Fuck you." She whispers, pronouncing every letter with finesse, punctuating the words with venomous hatred. Stewart's face is more blood than skin, but she can still make out the aching fear as he realises he's about to die. Elizabeth wants to drink it up, savour it in a bottle so she can enjoy it again and again and again. She's been waiting for this. She's needed this.

As he opens his mouth in an attempt to speak, she quickly strikes upward with the knife and forces the blade to puncture through the bottom of his jaw. The jagged teeth tear without strain, pushing through his skin and tongue and the roof of his mouth like they’re delicate pieces of tissue paper, but the blunt surface of his skull catches the blade and brings it to a halt. With his mouth open a crack, Elizabeth can admire the grotesque bursting of his flesh. It resembles the inside of a cherry cobbler.

Stewart tries to scream, but his voice drowns in his own blood. The sound is horrendous, just garbled nonsense as he convulses and regurgitates blood, everything finally shutting down. Specs of blood fly from his mouth, a river of red pours out the corners, and Elizabeth holds eye contact all the way through to the end. When his body finally sags, his eyes hollow of any remaining life, she keeps staring like they have the secrets to eternal happiness. Maybe they do. Maybe this is her happiness. In the ravenous, depraved violence of a murder so messy, she can finally feel something real, something that makes her think everything in her life wasn’t all in vein, but rather were the stepping stones that brought her to her wonderland.

After a few minutes enjoying the glamorous solace, she takes a deep, cleansing breath, closing her eyes. Her heart and mind are both racing like they’re trying to outrun one other, and her senses that were so frantic in murderous pursuit begin to steady. She feels hyper-focused. The million questions filling her mind slot into place perfectly one after another, filing away for later inspection. Who was after Stewart? Will they try to come looking for him? Did he tell anyone where he’d be tonight? Important, but they can wait. Now, the seconds she has in the quiet, looking at the blurred reflection in the framed picture on the wall ahead of her, she listens to the cruelty that’s been haunting her for so long.

“This world’s gonna eat you alive, Lizzie. I can see it in your eyes, you have no fight in ya. Why are you such a weak little bitch, huh? Ever since you were small, I knew you’d amount to nothing...just a pretty face, nothing more.”

Her mother’s voice has been taunting her for too long. She carries on living, thriving, trying to forget her wicked memory, and she continues to abuse her. Things get harder, the stress eats her alive. Merry men throw their wallets with no care, supporting coke stashes, and hiding their wedding rings like they were method acting their bachelor days. Lingering hands, security that didn’t care, and the eyes of a predator always lingering out of view, no matter where she went. Elizabeth was the prey, just like any of the girls, relying on the generosity of vultures. All these years, the repressed rage her mother fueled just getting worse in the lion’s den. Killing the first time was like taking a deep breath before drowning again. Now she can really breathe in the fresh air. She feels clarity better than she ever has.

Elizabeth cracks her neck and pulls the blade out on a deep exhale. She stands up as Stewart’s body collapses in a heap on the floor. Now she has to dispose of his body, clean the office, and act like nothing happened. Tomorrow a construction team comes by to knock everything down and rebuild. Death won’t matter as long as it’s hidden, and Elizabeth doesn’t feel a shred of worry over covering her crimes. She has a plan.

Now she knows what she wants. She wants to tear people apart, see what's on the inside. She wants to do this again, and again, and again...

[scribblingfangirl]

NOT FAIR | The Witcher - Jaskier

not my gif!

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Author’s Note: I apologize if some of this might be off, my knowledge is based solely on the TV series and the bits of information I found on fandom pages and Witcher Wikipedias. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this first piece of scribbling I did after years of only writing for high school and university. It might sound a little bit academic from time to time. And just be plain weird, please, bear with me!

word count: ~ 2.5k

prompt: Person A and B have a red string of fate on their little fingers. It tightens up when they are looking at each other, making it feel as if there is a pull on the finger. However, only one of them can see it and is not able to talk about it to their soulmate.

warnings:  one swear word, angst, there are (probably) some inconsistencies in the story and (definitely) some sentences that are waaaay to long, punctuation mistakes (in general just a weak English vocabulary), rushed and weird ending

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You both grew up in neighbouring houses in Lettenhove. Your parents were ‘good’ friends, as noble people usually are, always mingling around each other, spying, fake-laughing, and holding each other accountable. This meant that you and Julian were able to spend time together too.  

Even back then, when you were still young enough to be able to run around the garden in nothing but your undergarments without getting judgemental looks from your mother, as this, later on, would not look good anymore for a noble young lady, you had this little red string on your little finger, that connected yours to Julian’s. Of course, you didn’t know what that meant. 

Still, you went through thick and thin together, without the slightest mention of that string. Soon the scenery of your playground changed from your gardens to the streets of the town. People knew you both and knew you were a package deal. If one of you appeared the other wasn’t far away. You were each other’s shoulders to lean and to cry on and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

However, that wasn’t the whole truth. You did ask him once, in the early beginnings of your friendship, if he felt the pull on his finger as well, whenever you were near him or if he found the red string just as fascinating as you. The only response you got from him that day was a puzzled look and you swore to never talk about it again. It would take a few years for you to find out, that you wouldn’t be able to do it a second time anyway, no matter how hard you tried. 

It was when Julian started to receive his early education in a temple school and you were getting a training worthy for a noblewoman at home when you found out about the true meaning of the red string. “The first thing you ought to know,” your mother had said when she sat you down for your first lesson, “is the tale of the red string of fate. The two people that are connected by the string are supposed to be destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.” Astonished you had marvelled at the red thread around your finger and when your mother saw your facial expression, she quickly added, “however, only one of the two connected people is able to see the string and some greater force out there forbids them to talk about it. Not that you should worry about this my dear, your father and I already have a promising future prepared for you! After all, it is just some silly old tale!” 

As much as it was a silly old tale for your mother, it wasn’t one for you. You started to hear a lot about the myths and listen to the tales people told each other and you were over the moon. How lucky you were to have your best friend as your soulmate! The one person you could always count on! 

On the day Julian finally returned from the temple school, you stopped by his house to tell him about your luck. Though, just as your mother had warned, the words didn’t want to leave your mouth. It was as if you just forgot what you wanted to say as soon as you opened it, even though your mind was screaming at you to finally say it out loud. So, instead, you invited him to the ball that would be held at your house later that week. An event none of you actually wanted to attend, which Julian pointed out to you and you just muttered something about having changed while he was gone and that it was expected from a noble young lady as you looked down to your hands and examined the red string. He softly grabbed your chin and tilted your head up, so that he was able to look into your eyes. The feeling that emerged when you looked into his blue ones, that might as well had something to do with the pull on your finger you had almost forgotten during his time away, painfully reached your heart. His usually light blue eyes were darker, full of new, and to you unknown, information about the world and felt farther away than ever. How could you have known that that would only be the beginning of the end for you? 

Neither you nor Julian were very popular among your peers in the town and none of you ever made a lasting impression during past social gatherings or balls that were held or visited by your families. Which is why it came as a surprise to both of you when suddenly Syrena de Stael, the daughter of the visiting Earl de Stael, asked Julian to dance with her. Of course, as the gentlemen he was, and the additional scrutinizing glare of his mother, he couldn’t say no to her. How you then ended up knocking a young suitor for yourself to the floor, after he started a fight with Julian, thus allowing the latter and Syrena to leave without being disturbed, was, however, beyond you. 

Shortly after that, it became official. Julian declared himself in love with the Countess de Stael and your time as his best friend came to an end. Sure, he still considered you his best friend, but you started to spend less and less time together. Syrena here, Syrena there. That was, after all, the Julian you knew. Once he had an obsession, a fleeting thought of a possibility, he couldn’t stop chasing it. In the end, you were only able to meet as long she was there too, so, after some weeks, you didn’t saw each other anymore at all. 

Before losing contact, however, you had asked him if he thought that Syrena and he were meant to be. “Yes, I think so. I love her, what’s more to want than that?” he had asked back. Your soulmate was the small and simple answer. He had laughed. Laughed the laugh you missed so much that it had hurt your heart hearing it again after such a long time. “That’s just… shit. I’m sorry Y/N, but you can’t actually believe this? I mean, come on! One sees the red string, but can’t talk about it? If you can’t talk about it, how come everybody knows about this tale, this myth? And if you can talk about it to other people, how come soulmates don’t tell their friend or families who their soulmate is, and they pass it on? No, it just can’t be real! Syrena is my love and I don’t need fate to tell me that.”

You had just nodded, he had a point after all. You had felt the pull on your finger one last time and had suppressed your tears after he had said that, trying to smile at him. To implement his suggestion now, telling your family or friends that he was your soulmate, would have been clearly futile now. He wouldn’t have believed you, or them, and might have possibly gotten angry at you. 

After some days, however, you started to feel how the string pulled at your little finger, regardless of how close you were to him. It pulled you towards him and you asked yourself once, after weeks of feeling the pulling, if he felt it too, but you knew it to be hopeless. The string became longer and longer, but it never lost its pull and strength, until one day you woke up and saw it laying on the floor, tied loosely to your finger. That was the day Julian left to study at Oxenfurt University without saying good-bye. It was the first time you let yourself cry over Julian Alfred Pankratz. Additionally, it was the last time you would ever call him by that name and it was the day part of you turned into nothing.

You didn’t see him, or anything of Lettenhove for that matter, for years after that. While he went on to study, you went travelling around Redania and then the whole Continent, after learning more about this ‘promising future’ your parents had prepared for you. You left your noble life behind, taking the odd job opportunity here and there, which mostly consisted of helping out in taverns, and it gave you enough coin for a more or less comfortable journey.

Jaskier, as he called himself now, after quitting university life and pursuing his musical talents, never left your mind. It hurt that you missed him so much, but every time you thought that the string must have finally snapped, you looked at your hand and it was still there, giving you the faintest feeling of hope.

Then how you met him again. He passed through the village you were currently staying in, his Witcher friend in tow, though it might just have been the other way around and played in the tavern you were currently working at. He looked the same, not a day older and was wearing a colourful, unlaced doublet and his undershirt slightly unbuttoned, letting everyone get a peek at his soft chestnut brown chest hair. 

He saw you as he went to get himself some ale after his performance and invited you for a drink after your shift ended, an offer which you stupidly enough gladly accepted. Talking and laughing together was almost like during the good old times, hadn’t it been for the fact that almost all he talked about was his travels with Geralt and the way he missed the Countess de Stael. That night you ran up into your room and slammed the door, screaming at nothing and everybody at the same time, ignoring the fact that the other guests, and even Jaskier, might hear you. You grabbed the gods forsaken red string and hoped to pull it off your finger, so it wouldn’t remind you of your sad fate anymore, as some things obviously wouldn’t change. 

Again, years passed after that fleeting encounter in which you didn’t even heard of him, as you went as far as leaving every tavern, place and social gathering at the slightest mention of the word ‘bard’. Or at least, you did the best you could to avoid any possibilities. 

As fate would have it, however, you met Jaskier again. He had walked into the tavern in Cintra you were in, this time as a guest rather than a barmaid. You had just gained a new job offer, protecting Cintra from the inevitable attack from Nilfgaard and wanted to drink what was possibly the last ale in your life.

At first, you didn’t even realise that you were looking at the face of your soulmate as he took a seat at the bar, straight in front of you, his lute thrown carelessly at his feet. Then a little breeze caught the red string and pulled at your finger and you heard his voice, so miserable, so broken. You drowned the last of your drink, wanting to forget this image, not wanting it to be the last memory you remembered of him as you went into this war.

Jaskier had wandered into Cintra in the hopes of meeting Geralt, knowing that he couldn’t keep running from his child surprise, from his destiny. Hearing your voice as you thanked the barmaid and passed her coin as payment, before grabbing your belongings and exiting the tavern without acknowledging him in the slightest, wasn’t part of his plans. He didn’t know how long he was staring after you, but it was only the hand on his shoulder that brought him back to the present. “My friend,” said the barman, “you do not look like a soldier to me. Run as long as you still can. Get out of here.”

As useful as that advice might have been, everything that happened afterwards was a blur to Jaskier, but he knew that it was too late. It was dark and yet ghostly shadows were dancing across the walls and the streets due to the growing fires, accompanied by horrific screams and the gruesome sounds of clashing swords. Villagers were running around, and he had just been pushed into a narrow back alley when he felt a pull. A pull he first felt when he was a little kid running around in his garden, a pull that was always there when he heard Y/N’s laugh or saw her sparkling eyes. A pull that disappeared for a long time before reappearing that time in the tavern.

His heart sank and he forgot about the whole situation around him, about the attack on Cintra, his search for Geralt, about the Nilfgaardian soldiers that were still running around. He just felt a pull and looked at his hand. There it was, a beautiful and delicate red string wrapped around his little finger, pulling him out of the narrow alley… pulling him to you.

You were laying in midst of the chaos, soldiers, as well as villagers, scattered around you, some breathing, some not, an arrow in your chest and you were groaning in pain, eyes closed. With a sob he sank to his knees beside you, softly touching your fragile and trembling form, moving your head to rest on his knees, afraid to hurt you even more. Gently he rested his forehead against yours and it was at that moment, blame the gods for their wicked ways, that he remembered the one question you asked him a long time ago. “Do you feel the pull around your little finger as well, whenever I’m near you? Do you find the string fascinating too?”

“Yes”, he started to sob, feeling your body react to his voice, but not caring if his sudden outburst made any sense to you, “I do feel the pull whenever I’m near you sweetheart, I do! But now it’s too late! How could I’ve been so stupid?!”

His breath was warm against your face and the fear and pain that you should have been feeling vanished the moment his sweet voice reached your ears. “Shh, shh. It’s not,” you croaked, breathing shallow and opened your eyes. While trying to smile, your hand automatically searched for his, but you were too weak to move, nonetheless, feeling a faint pull too. “It’s never too late. At least we now know how it works. How people found out about the myth. The death of one means freedom and knowledge for the other.”

“No,” he lifted his head, his hair glued to his sweaty forehead, not breaking the eye contact you established earlier. “No! I don’t want freedom and knowledge if it means to have a life without the possibility of having you in it!”

“Then save me.”

[icarus-suraki]

If you're still doing them 72, 121, 136 :D

Suuuuure, and I'm feeling down, so...

72. What colour are your towels? Blue. Technically. I have a couple of light blue towels that I got...longer ago than I realized until just now lol...and they're technically "my towels" but I supplemented my supply with a couple of very old and slightly tattered towels that I snagged from the linen closet at my parents' house that actually, like, absorb water? Where the blue ones won't (yet, at least). I supplemented those with a couple of cheap white towels because I had some sweaters that were supposed to be dried flat. I don't have the sweaters anymore but I do have the towels and I throw them in the dryer sometimes to help a load along. And then I got a couple of dark brown ones for cheap because I was messing around with henna hair dye and I didn't want to stain my other towels. Oh, and I think I got a dark blue towel for Christmas one year, but see above re: light blue towels that don't absorb any water and are just rude like that. Hopefully these inferior ones will improve with washing. Also my bathmat is yellow. Because that's what someone gave me, I think. I'm not very aesthetic, I guess. I'm just functional.

121. Are you mean? If you asked my "Mean Girl" classmates in high school they would definitely say yes. My college classmates would probably say yes. Given how I would argue with my parents and the things I’d say to them, they’d say yes. And if you ask me, I'd say yes too.

I mean, I'm snappish and angry and depressed and impatient and "bellicose." I'm bitchy and a bitch and sometimes a super bitch and sometimes a Super King Kong Mega Mega Biatch. People irritate me. I'm a snob. I'm grumpy and crabby. I used to be fucking anxious all the time, which didn't help, though now I'm not really anxious at all so I have a hard time giving a fuck about anything. I'm way too quick with cutting remarks and takedowns and shit. I'm always thinking I'm the smartest person in the room or at least being a giant snob.

Yeah, I mean, looking back on me in middle school, even the latter part of elementary school, even earlier than that--like, I was 2 and a half and tormenting my baby brother or fighting over dress-up stuff in 4 year-old preschool. Girls in my classes in high school were always like "Why can't you just be nice?" And I was like, tch, what does "nice" mean, anyway? And they'd say "It means not mean!" And I hated them because I thought they were shallow but also because they got way more positive attention that I ever did. They had people who liked them and boyfriends and nice things. I didn't have any of that and I knew I never would, so I wasn't left with much. I always wanted to be the smartest person in the room but I never was. I was just a snob, so I ended up covering it up by being a fucking asshole. I think I would have counted as a bully on a few occasions. I wanted people to like me, but that shit wasn't going to happen. I ended up with a couple of friends, not that that was always pleasant. I started shit with them a lot, probably out of envy.

College, I was always trying to bring on the sharp comments and starting arguments for the sake of starting arguments (I still think I'm right on a lot of what I said). I was made the editor of the school literary magazine by default, which was a fiasco, and I was bitchy about all the submitted works. I had basically no friends because I hated the people I thought I was supposed to spend time around despite our being complete opposites from art to politics to religion.

"Ha ha, I got so wasted in college all the time! What was college like for you?" Well, I was a sarcastic little shit in my literature classes and full of myself because I got to skip Freshman 111 English, but I mostly remember being woken up at 2 in the morning because my roommate needed her bible and concordances because one of our hallmates believed in predestination and my roommate disagreed.

And then I can look at how unbelievably shitty I was to so. fucking. many. people. from about c. 2007 to c. 2014, at least (probably more like 2016 or 2017) when I was involved in first Livejournal-based multifandom RP and later Dreamwidth-based multifandom RP. Like I was, in popular parlance, "a fucking psycho." I would fight with anyone about anything. How the fuck anyone put up with me I do not know. Ev.er.y.thing pissed me off and yet I couldn't walk away. It's literally been the closest I've ever come to an addiction because the very thought of leaving upset me, and let's not even get started about my constant fear of my games closing or just dying. I needed my RP fix. I needed it! But needing it like that made me an absolute shitheel. People who knew me both in person and online at that time can probably vouch for how shitty I was at the time. There's a huge number of people I would like to apologize to--not so they can forgive me or anything, but just so they can hear that I'm sorry. Won't get that chance, I don't think.

And that overlapped with retail hell and graduate school. Retail hell will make anyone mean. Graduate school was first boring and then frustrating because I was definitely not among the smart set there. I mean, I got my MLS, though I'm not using it anymore lmao.

Hell, even applying for jobs after graduating, I was given feedback that I have a reputation for being "grumpy and huffy" with patrons in the library. So fuck me, I guess. I got a library job where, if the library system sat down, that library would be immediately plunged into total darkness. The "red-headed stepchild" if you will. And that was like retail hell with less cash. Was I mean? Sure, I guess, because I got called to the manager's office more than a couple of times--once because I got tired of a creepy dude talking to me, so I brushed him off to go on my lunchbreak, and he told the managers and I got in major trouble for being "dismissive" of this guy. So then I wound up standing there from 5:15 (when my shift ended) until 7:30 while this guy talked at me and told me shit like "never cut your hair because it's such a beautiful color" or tried to figure out what color my eyes are and creepy stuff like that. And all because I just didn't want to get fucking fired. Nice, huh?

I'm meaner externally now than I used to be. I'm putting that down to a lack of anxiety again. I used to be totally unable to contain my frustration and irritability with other people. Then I got to be afraid of what someone would say or do to me if I was irritable at them. And now I'm just like "fuck it, we're all going to die, climate change is real, why do I have to play by these rules?" I mean, in a hundred years, everyone I know will be dead. Whomst cares?

So am I mean? Fuck YES I'm mean. And I have been for most of my life.

136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed? O P E N and they must also be pushed ALL. THE. WAY. OPEN. Because of Boo Radley. "What?" I hear you cry. Here, I’ll let Scout explain.

Ever since seeing that scene in about 8th grade, I have had to push my door all the way open so far that the door is touching the wall just so no one is hiding behind it. Boo Radley is a sweetheart, so I don't want to vilify him and I actually feel bad about my whole response now, but I'm just not keen on having anyone standing behind a half-open door.

"And this is what you remember from To Kill a Mockingbird?" No, I remember plenty of it and I'll quote the opening passages with my mom in about late June when it's really hot and if you're from around here then you just about know all the characters personally, but I was briefly terrified by poor Boo hiding there--which says a lot about how people saw him, or didn't see him. It's actually a brilliant reveal, even if it did kind of unnerve me at age 13. (And now I watch horror movies like they're nothing lmao.)

Doors shut just feels kind of stifling to me. That's an easy answer.

You can ask the bitch who owns this blog stuff if you want.

[lukatheselkie]

June 17: Letters

This is based in a Royal, Cinderella-like AU of a fanfic I’m writing but haven’t completed to post yet lol. Basically all the women in the land were invited to a masquerade for Prince Kiku to find a wife. Plagued by poverty, Mathias, Berwald, Lukas, and Emil all agree Tino is the most feminine in appearance of them, and send him to the masquerade dressed as a woman. He and Kiku fall in love immediately, and revealing he’s not a woman only makes Kiku happier, as he didn’t want a wife. A jealous party-goer overhears and rats on him, causing him to get thrown into the palace dungeons. There, our story starts, months into his imprisonment.

    My dearest, most beloved Tino,

I am working night and day to get you out of there. You may have claimed my heart, but what you did to claim it was illegal. There is only so much of that I can fix without going into dangerous territories myself. If I weren’t prince I would break you out on my own, but as of now that will not set a good example for my citizens. They always come first, no matter how much I want my love back. And, believe me, I want you back in my arms. So very much. I dream of dancing with you again. Literally and figuratively. I promise I will get you out of there. No matter how much I have to sacrifice. I love you so very much. My bed awaits you. I await you.

Love always, Kiku.

    Tino sighs heavily after reading the letter. As always, he wants to write one back. But receiving them is already suspicious enough. Thankfully, the guards don’t know they’re coming from the prince. But they do know they’re sealed with the royal crest, which is why none have dared open them yet. Yet, because he knows they’re super curious, and it wouldn’t take much to get them to tear into his letters. He crawls under his bed, and tugs up a loose floor tile. He brings the letter up to his lips, closes his eyes, and kisses the paper lovingly. “I won’t let you do all the work,” he mumbles. He opens his eyes slowly, and places the letter under the tile, with all the rest of them. He removes the one previously on top, and stares at his own handwriting in the gloom. He’s been writing on it every time he receives a letter from Kiku. Only a sentence at a time, but he’s gotten so many the entire page is nearly full. He’ll never let his prince see it, of course. It’s entirely too cheesy, and not at all put together well. It’s mostly flirtatious lines, but there are some of how much he misses the prince. He takes a deep breath, and adds I await the day I can be in your bed with you as well.

    He hears steps coming down the hall, and shoves the letter and tile back into place. He withdraws from under the bed, and hops onto the dusty covers of it. He coughs softly, swatting his hand in front of his face to clear the air a bit. A guard shoves a tray of food into his cell. “Who’s sending you letters from the palace?” Tino’s head snaps up, and he snarls at the guard. The man laughs softly, then lowers his voice. “Relax. Prince Kiku sent me. He can’t stand not hearing from you any longer. He wants you to write a letter. I’ve got the supplies. No other guard will be down this way. They were ordered to leave you be until you finish your meal. I was instructed to stay until that happens. Of course this was a placement from the Prince, but they don’t know that. So take as much time as you need. Here.” He hands him a cloth bag, smiling slightly. “I hope you don’t mind using the same type of parchment he does.”

    “Of course not. I’m actually really happy I get to use it!” He laughs, opening the bag excitedly, food forgotten. “I miss him a lot.” He frowns deeply. “We probably sound crazy. We knew each other for a few hours before deciding to get married. Then, they discovered I was in disguise.” The guard shakes his head.

    “You’re not crazy. You’re in love. Love at first sight is a very real thing. I found my own at a similar party. It wasn’t a masquerade though, so our meeting wasn’t as mysterious. But it was just as perfect.” He smiles at the Finnish man. “And, in your defense, the masquerade was so he could find someone to marry. He was supposed to find a woman, which is why you wound up down here.”

    “I know.” He sighs softly, closing his eyes. “They wouldn’t have let me in if I weren’t dressed as a woman though! I wasn’t expecting to fall in love with Kiku. And I definitely wasn’t expecting him to fall in love with me back.” He shakes his head. “He didn’t want a wife. He was so happy when I told him I wasn’t a woman. Why did no one listen to him?”

    “He’s our prince. It’s tradition he marry a woman. But he’s threatened to run away and live with you as a peasant if he has to, the moment you are released. He’s brought it up to next week.” He brings a hand up to his mouth. “I’ve said too much. Write your letter and eat. I will give it to His Highness as soon as I can. And if there is anything you wish for me to tell him without putting it in writing, lest it get taken from me, I will relay that information to him as well. We are very close.” Tino opens his eyes slowly, and looks up at him. He nods solemnly, and gets to work writing.

    My beautiful, kind love,

I am so very thankful you have been sending me letter after letter. They have helped keep me company in this lonely place. I can almost hear your voice in my head as I read every perfect word. You have an elegant way with everything you do, especially writing. I only wish I had a sliver of that talent. All I can do is write how very much I love and miss you. Perhaps I could send you some tales of my time here? But my love first. I adore you. I have since the first moment I saw you. I wasn’t looking for love at that moment, but I could no longer deny it when I saw your eyes. They may be what most would consider a boring colour, but brown eyes show the most emotion. Even with your expression set firmly, I could see the curiosity dancing in that brown. Such a wonderfully infectious curiosity. And the trust. I have learned you do not trust easily, but there was so much of it on the night we met. You will never know how much that means to me, but I will try my hardest to show you, once I am out of here.

Speaking of here, it’s been… interesting. The guards gossip a lot. The halls echo, but the cells do not. The guards cannot say anything we all do not learn. But there is other knowledge here. Knowledge the guards do not know of. It is incredibly easy to spread information within the cells. The further back you go, the less likely you are to be overheard. Everyone here is bonded. From what I can gather, they have all done trivial things. Any serious criminals seem to go deeper, or get sentenced to death. I have made a friend I wish to speak with you about releasing, once things have settled between us. I do hope we can settle things. We are still supposed to marry, aren’t we? I know I am no woman, but I will love you with everything I have. I already do, so even if we cannot marry I will love no other. I shall wait for you.

Eagerly awaiting your company,

Your dearest beloved.

    “Please inform him I kept it vague so he would not be tried if it falls into the wrong hands. No one can trace who it is to for certain, and it will be difficult to trace it back to me as the sender, but not impossible. I have someone in mind if I am asked who it is to.” He folds the parchment carefully, and hands it to the man.

    “I am sure he will be thankful for that. Eat now, so I can return with an empty tray. But please, try to hurry. We have already taken enough time to become suspicious.” He nods, and hurries to eat the food offered to him. It tastes better than normal. He doesn’t ask what was done to it; he’s too hungry. Decent food is leagues better than the horrible slop he’s been given up until now. “This will be your best meal until the prince can get you out of here. He was able to distract the guards with his orders long enough for me to be able to slip some spices onto your food. He loves you very much, and thought this was the least he could do for being the reason you are here in the first place.”

    “Thank him for that. Please. This is gourmet compared to what I’ve been given. When I am out, I plan to take over cooking for them. I know what each one is allergic to, what they love, and what they hate. I know which cells they are in as well, so it will be easy to have it delivered to the proper place, if I cannot do it myself.” He bows his head shyly. “If Kiku will allow it.”

    “I am sure he would be more than happy to allow that. You have taken your time to get to know them, despite being put in here wrongly.” Tino shakes his head quickly.

    “I am not in here wrongly. I believe this was the reason I was caught. I was meant to improve their lives.” He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, smiling sheepishly. “We are an unofficial family now. And I won’t stop fighting for them.” He nods confidently, then holds out the empty tray that previously held his food. “Here. Hurry. Thank you for all you have done.” He watches the man leave without a word, and falls back onto his bed, letting his eyes fall closed. Maybe he’ll get out, one day.

~

    A week later, the door to his cell opens, and a hooded figure makes their way inside quickly. Tino tenses up, fear coursing through his body. Who on Earth could it be? “Beloved?” The anxiety leaves him in a rush. He throws himself into the man’s arms, pushing the hood away from those beautiful black locks.

    “Kiku,” he breathes out, before kissing him passionately. He’s never felt more free.

@aphrarepairweek2020 I had SO MUCH FUN with this one!

[panda-noosh]

The One Who Wasn’t {Klaus x Reader}

Words: 5.3k

Summary: Reginald Hargreeves thinks you’re special. So does Klaus, but for two very different reasons.

Genre: angst

Warnings: themes of abuse. themes of neglect. themes of obsession. explicit violence/torture. Reginald is a complete fucking psychopath. 

Notes: yeehawwww again. 

---

He thought you were special. He thought you were something you weren't. He put you through hell because his tests had been wrong, and he refused to see it.

  The world had become nothing more than four stone walls and a white chair. There was nothing beyond that – nothing you had ever seen. The manacles around your wrists and ankles were as familiar to you as jewellery was to a person with freedom; you never questioned them, because you'd never looked down to see they weren't there.

    You never questioned the pain. For years, you had been convinced it was normal, that everybody's professors did this. Everyone was getting strapped down and torn apart, right? Everyone was getting screamed at and beaten for the simplest of mistakes, right? Everyone fell asleep on a cold stone floor, locked away in a room with no windows, no air, no life.

   Right?

   You thought it was normal, and that was why you often felt guilty when the pain became too much. The complaints nestled on your tongue, but you would never say them to the Professor – that would get you in trouble. Even more trouble, which was something you couldn't risk. Your body wouldn't be able to handle it.

  The only person who ever truly listened to you when you were in pain was Klaus.

  Klaus Hargreeves. A walking Ouija board. A man of many talents, a man with a loose tongue, a man who risked it all just to clamber down to the basement and see you.

  In the beginning, it was a function of accidents. You were familiar with his screams, because it wasn't rare that the Professor locked him up in the room next door to you; you weren't sure what scared Klaus so much, but he screamed and screamed and you would listen to it so closely, unable to pull away because sometimes, that was the only noise that had stimulated your ears in weeks.

     He managed to get out one day. You remember hearing the door bang open, the sound of his gasps as he threw himself out of the mystery room and straight into your own; he was reaching around for a light switch, he was crying out for someone you didn't know, he was begging it to stop, stop, stop and you could do nothing but pull your knees into your chest and listen to him chunter on and on about something you didn't know.

  He looked up then, and you saw his face. The innocent face of a twelve year old boy – only a year older than you – doused in sweat and tears, mud streaking his cheeks, his knees scraped with the typical scars of a playful child; maybe he fell from a tree, or maybe he had fallen during a game of football. You had never done either of those, weren't sure if the blood dribbling down his leg was appropriate for that of a childish game of football.

  His eyes widened. They were the colour of the earth, blue around the edges, sinking into a pleasant shade of green that was only illuminated further by the tears brimming along his water line. He narrowed them at you, took a step into the room as if deciding whether or not to approach you.

  At the time, you didn't want him to. He was one of the only people you had seen beyond the Professor, certainly the first young person you had ever been in the presence of. His scraggly form and long limbs startled you enough to have you sinking deeper into the corner.

  His eyes widened, noticing your fear. “No, no, wait, sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

  You flinched. His voice was too loud. The light from the hallway was too bright.

  He paid your wince no attention, but had the decency to close the door as he stepped fully into the room. His own hands trembled. His voice was hoarse. He was scared, too, but he did a fantastic job of shielding it.

  “I'm Klaus,” he said softly. “Klaus Hargreeves. Who are you?” He paused, bit his bottom lip, evaluated his next sentence. “What are you doing down here?”

    It was only then that you noticed he was wearing the same thing as you, only much cleaner. The Professor called it a uniform. Yours was extremely dirty at this point, but Klaus's looked fresh out the wash. Smelled fresh out the wash, as well.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You don't talk?”

  “Of course I talk.” Your voice broke. You spoke. You knew the English language, could make conversation, but that didn't mean you did it often.

  Klaus's eyes softened. “Good. That's good. Great, even.” Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor in front of you. You resisted the urge to flinch again. He'd been confused when you did it the last time. You didn't want to confuse him. “Can you tell me what your name is?”

  The Professor always told you that names had a lot of power. “Y/N.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Y/N. That's a nice name. My name's Klaus.”

   “You said that before.” He had. You were just pointing out the obvious.

    He nodded. “I thought I'd tell you again. Just in case you forgot.” He paused. “You're meant to compliment my name now. I think that's the way it goes.”

    You stared at him, unmoving, unblinking, trying to decipher what exactly he was trying to do. The Professor had told you he had kids – surely Klaus was one of them. He looked nothing like the old man, but you struggled to believe that anyone looked like the Professor – he was too old, had bushy grey hair that seemed most unrealistic.

  Klaus was ethereal. His brown hair was caked in dirt. His cheeks were streaked with a similar substance. His knees were grazed, and there was a bruise on the side of his head that was turning purple – you looked down at the bruises indented in your own flesh, couldn't help but smile at the fact you had finally found someone who had similar marks to you.

  You looked up, met his eyes again and said, “I like your name. I think it's pretty.”

  ---

  “I don't think many people actually realise how good pineapple on pizza is.”

  You narrowed your eyes, kept your hands on your knees. Again, you remained pressed against the wall, even though you wanted nothing more than to sneak forward and catch a glimpse of this strange food Klaus was describing.

  He peeked up at you. Fifteen years old now, and he still managed to look ungroomed beyond anything. His brown hair dangled in his eyes now, having gained a nice little wave to it, courtesy of the rain he barrelled through only moments before. He hadn't even taken the time to dry off before he came down to visit you.

  And in his hands was a cardboard box. You initially squeaked, pulled away when he set it down in front of you – the Professor always carried his syringes in a cardboard box.

  “You can have some, you know,” Klaus said, holding the slice of pizza out to you. “I brought it down so we could share.”

  “What is it?” you asked, craning your neck to get a better look.

  Klaus nudged the box closer. “It's pizza. Bread, cheese, tomato sauce – my brother Diego likes it with a barbecue base, but I think that's illegal.”

    “He's breaking the law?”

   Klaus nodded as if this was no big deal. You watched him take another humongous bite out of the food, failed to disguise the way your stomach growled. It did look appetising; you were familiar with the bread part of it, at least. The Professor was often nice enough to give you onion bread. It was your favourite.

   Klaus sighed, looking up. “I heard that, you know,” he said. “Have a piece. I'm not leaving here until I've watched you eat.”

   You blinked. Hesitated. Thought it over and realised Klaus was serious – he wanted to share his food with you. He was offering. You smiled lightly as you reached forward and scooped a bit of the pizza out of the cardboard box, watching in awe as the cheese stretched. Klaus reached over, swiped his finger through the thin strand of cheese before he motioned for you to take a bite.

  You did just that, and your eyes immediately widened.

  Klaus laughed. Loudly, boldly, much too bold for someone who wasn't even supposed to be in your presence. “See? I knew you'd like it!”

   You nodded enthusiastically, taking another bite. And another. And another, until eventually you were left with nothing but the crust – that was gone in a matter of seconds, too.

  Klaus chuckled, nudging the box closer still towards you. “Dig in. There's plenty where that came from.”

   He was offering, you reminded yourself, forcing the guilt out of your head to allow room to marvel at the new flavours you were trying out. You took another slice, and another, holding the both of them in your two hands. Klaus raised a brow, grinned around his own slice of pizza before he took another one, mimicking the same greedy pose as you.

  And together, the two of you ate, laughed about the stupidest of things, and for a moment, the world didn't seem so bleak. For a moment, your world consisted of more than four walls and a white chair.

   ---

  “I always thought dead people would be really rude.”

   Klaus nodded, shifting his leg beneath your head; the cold floor dug into your back, but you paid it little attention. You were comfortable, head resting in Klaus's lap, a book that he stole for you hanging above your head. His back was leaned against the wall – the two of you had switched places now. He was eighteen. You were seventeen. Things were changing.

  “They can be,” he said. “But mostly they're just depressing as hell.”

  “Well, I can imagine. It must not be very nice being dead.”

   Klaus fell silent. You glanced up at him, past the pages of your book until they met his face. Sharp jawline, deadened eyes, a blunt hanging from his lips that he struggled to relight. You screwed your face up, nuzzling your head into his abdomen. He looked down at you, plucking the blunt from his lips to watch you properly.

  “What?”

   “That stuff stinks,” you said. “The Professor is gonna know you were in here if he smells it.”

   Klaus shrugged as if it was no big deal, as if you wouldn't get the beating of your life if the Professor found out about your and Klaus's ongoing rendezvous. “I wish you'd stop calling him that.”

  You started. “What?”

  “The Professor,” he replied, lowering his voice to dramatic levels. “He's called Reginald. Just call him Reginald.”

  “I don't like calling him Reginald.” You shifted on his lap again. He dropped one of his hands, gently played with the ends of your hair as he watched you get comfortable. “Besides, he's never told me his real name before. If I start getting into the habit of calling him Reginald-”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Klaus grumbled. “He'll know I've been here.”

  “Exactly.” You patted his thigh. “I'm glad you're finally starting to understand.”   Klaus rolled his eyes, but he couldn't possibly hide his smile – not from you, not whenever you were watching him so closely.

   You did this all the time, and he asked you about it just as frequently; why you stared at him. Why you would sometimes get so lost in the sight of him that the rest of the conversation went in one ear and out the other. He would poke you for it, make fun of you, laugh when you quietly told him to shut up and turned away in embarrassment.

  But he would never understand. That was something you had to remember.

  You and Klaus got on so well. So, so well. He made your heart race and your palms sweaty, but he wasn't like you. He spent a few hours each day with you, keeping you company and making sure you weren't driven to that paralysing point of insanity ever again – but then he would get up and go back upstairs and be met with a Sunday roast and siblings who he could talk to and tease. The conversation would go on for him, whilst you went back to silence.

    The Professor insisted there was something special about you. He took you in when you were a baby – you didn't remember your birth parents, your place of birth, if you had a name before the Professor had tacked the label Y/N onto your person. He was adamant on the fact that you were one of them, and he wouldn't give up until he unlocked that part of you that he believed was so special.

  But you weren't. You had just been born on the same day as his kids.

  Klaus's hand tugged on a strand of your hair, pulling you back to the present. “Hey. I thought I'd lost you there.”

   “Sorry,” you mumbled, folding the page of your book and placing it beside you. “Thanks for the book. I was getting bored on my own.”

   Klaus smiled. “Any time. You can ask me any time.”

   “I know I can.”

   You reached up, intertwined your fingers with his, tugging his hand out of your hair and instead placing it on your stomach. His fingers trailed down your middle, dipped beneath the bottom of your shirt, messing idly with the hem of your shorts.

  He inhaled deeply, leaned his head back against the stone wall. “I don't want to leave again, but Dad will be down here soon to check on you, won't he?”

   You shrugged. “Him or Grace.”

   “Well, either way.” Klaus shifted, boosting you off of his knee so you were sitting upright beside him. His hand slid away from your stomach, landed on your thigh instead. “I should get going.”

 You nodded, smiling to hide your disappointment. Nonetheless, Klaus could see it. His eyes softened before he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek – it was something he had been doing recently. In the beginning, it startled you. It was one thing having his hands touch your flesh, but his mouth? At the time, it seemed utterly bizarre. But then he explained it – it was what everyone did. Just like everyone got tied down to a white chair. Just like everyone slept on a cold stone floor. Just like everyone cried themselves to sleep most nights.

   It was normal.

  And besides, you liked the feel of it sometimes.

  ---

   “And what, do tell, is this?”

   You jerked awake, heart hammering against your rib cage. The nightmares, the terrors, the torments of your own brain – they had been banished in a matter of seconds by the Professors voice.

  The worst nightmare of all, only you couldn't just open your eyes and escape this one.

  He was early this morning. He stood in your doorway, shadowed by the light, barely visible as your eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. You sat up slowly, palm pressing against the floor. You curled your fingers, grabbing at the stone – your sleeping stone. It was special.

  The Professor was holding something in his hand. Tightly. So tightly that his knuckles were turning an even paler shade of white. His lips were pressed together so the colour was leached out of them, as well. In his white lab coat, he looked nothing more than a piece of paper, flying through the wind. You smiled, remembering the book Klaus had stole for you.

  It was instinctive when you reached out to touch it in its hiding place behind one of the many stone pillars in this room.

  It was horror when your fingers wrapped around nothing. It was pure, unfiltered horror when you looked up and realised what it was the Professor was holding.

    “Oh god,” you whispered.

   He threw it to the floor. It crashed against the stone, startled you. You squealed at the loud BANG that immediately echoed through the room, scrambling upright and tugging your knees into your chest. You leaned your head against them, closed your eyes, whispered the words Klaus taught you; “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.”

    “And if you're really scared,” he had said in his high pitched thirteen year old voice, “add the number eight.” He had grabbed your hand, putting up eight fingers before pinching the eighth one. “Number eight can be you, but they only show up when you're really, really scared.”

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.”

   “Where did you get this from?” the Professor demanded. He stepped into the room, slammed the door closed but he did not make an effort to move towards you. “Have you been stealing from me?”

    “N-no, sir,” you stammered out, still pressing your head into your knees. “Please stop shouting. I don't know-”

   “I'm not here to listen to lies, Y/N,” he growled, stepping forward. His heel clicking off the stone was paralysing. Your mouth wouldn't move. You couldn't talk, couldn't look up, couldn't find comfort in the numbers because you couldn't do anything. “You're going to tell me the truth, or so help me god-”

   “I don't know where it came from,” you cried out. The words burst from your chest, exploded, echoed off the walls-

  And then his hands were wound in your hair, dragging you upright. You screamed, kicked and stumbled. He didn't give you a chance to catch your footing before he draggedyou out the door towards the room you were so, so terribly familiar with at this point – he called it the Test Room. It was where all the pain came from.

   The white chair was there. It welcomed you. It embraced you with open arms, manacles snapping round your wrist, your forehead, your ankles until you were pinned down on all sides by metal, metal, cold metal sinking into your skin and this time it was painful. He'd made them tighter. He made them even tighter now, even as you whimpered and whispered for him to stop. He sat beside you and he smiled until your hands and ankles were numb from lack of circulation and your head was pounding with the metal sinking into it.

    He stopped then, leaned in, and you couldn't help but wonder how it was possible that this man had raised Klaus. Your Klaus – the boy you loved so dearly, the boy who did everything he could to make you happy. How had Klaus been raised by a man who didn't even care enough to give his kids names.

   “You know, this book waves a lot of red flags for me,” he said, voice low, daring you to speak. “First of all, I didn't give you a book in the first place. Second of all, you don't even know how to read. I never taught you to read.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “So who did?”

    There was cotton balls in your mouth, an anvil on your chest, metal in your flesh. “I learned on my own. I got the book on my own.”

    He laughed. “We both know you're lying to me now. There's no way you could have gotten out of there. The door was programmed so only people on the outside could open it.”

    “Okay, okay fine!” you burst. “It was – It was Grace. Grace brought me the book because I told her I was bored, and she sat with me-” You cried out. He was tightening the cuffs even more. There was no blood, just pain, just pressure and it was driving you insane. “Oh god, no, please! Please, it was Grace!”

   “You really are more stupid than I thought,” he growled. “Grace is my creation! She would do nothing I didn't tell her to do.”

   You tried to shake your head. It didn't work. You were pinned down. You were trapped, and he was free, and he could do absolutely whatever he wanted to you right now and there was nothing you would ever be able to do about it.

  “You're gonna tell me who has been entering your room right now, or I will torture every one of them in front of you until I get my answer.”

  Your eyes bulged open. “Please, no-”

  “Then make this easy on yourself,” he growled. The manacles tightened just a little bit, just enough to have you gasping, squirming against the plush white chair. “Tell me who-”

   “Klaus!” His name was ripped from your mouth. “It was Klaus!”

   The guilt was immediate, accompanied by a sinking feeling of regret. The manacles started to loosen, and as soon as you could, you rolled onto your side and emptied the contents of your stomach. The Professor stared at you through those stupid glasses, slowly shaking his stupid head, staring at you with those stupid eyes that you would take great pleasure in ripping from his skull right about now.

  You fell back against the chair, closing your eyes, fighting to take a breath. “What are you going to do to him?”

  He didn't answer you. Just continued to stare, uttering the same few words over and over again.

   “Of course. I should have known. I should have known. I should have known!”

  He slammed his fist against the metal tray beside him, threw himself to his feet and grabbed your hair. He twisted until you were stumbling off of the seat, dragged to his side in a matter of seconds – he was so powerful, or maybe you were just weak.

    “I want to know how he got out of his chamber,” the Professor growled, so close to your ear, too close to your ear. “How long has this been going on?”

   “God, I don't know! I swear I don't know!” You did know. Years. Years, and he had no clue. You were smart enough to realise that telling him the truth would only make him angrier – the Professor didn't like being made a fool.

  His grip tightened on your hair before he tossed you into the corner of the room. You fell against a metal table, the equipment shattering to the floor. You just barely managed to catch yourself, dart upright before he had you by the throat, pressing you against the wall.

  And in his hand was a syringe.

    You had seen plenty of these. They were used on you on a daily basis, nothing you were unfamiliar with. Sometimes they made you feel woozy. Sometimes they put you to sleep. Sometimes they made your stomach turn, and those were the days the Professor would say you'd been poisoned – he always said poison was a good thing, that it strengthened your resistance.

  But this syringe was one you'd never seen before. It was filled with black stuff. It certainly wasn't poison, because he was aiming for your throat. He'd never injected you in the throat before.

  You tried pulling away, but it only tightened his grip on your shoulders even more.

    “I can't have this,” he growled. It was almost like he was speaking to himself, his watery grey eyes darting all over your upper half. “This isn't right. None of them were meant to know. You were mine. You were mine, and nobody elses. But now he knows. He knows, and he's going to tell people, and they're gonna want to share you.” He inhaled deeply, leaned forward so his forehead clipped against the wall. You could hear his heavy breathing, feel his springy grey hair touching your cheek. “I can't have this.”

    “Please,” you whispered. “Don't hurt Klaus. This wasn't his fault. He was keeping me company. I asked him to-”

  The Professor slammed his forehead into the wall, pulled back and dug the needle of the syringe directly into your throat.

     You tasted it. It went nowhere near your taste buds, but the flavour burst in your mouth, and your body, and paralysed you. It was an array of different things – sweet, sour, acidic all in a number of seconds.

    Then there was the burn. Your cheeks warmed. Your neck warmed. For a second, you could almost convince yourself that it was just a fever, because god only knew you'd had plenty of those in your time. But it got worse. It spread to your fingertips, and it was no longer just an uncomfortable fizzing sensation in your limbs – it burned. It ripped a scream from your throat. You were on fire, fire, fire, and the room was spinning and the white light bursting behind your eyelids was making it impossible to do anything but stumble and scream, claw at the Professor's arm pressed against your throat.

   He pulled away and you fell to the floor. You meant to catch yourself, but it didn't work, didn't work, your legs didn't work.

   He was crying. You could hear him, his pathetic little sobs as you gasped for air, clawing at your throat, trying desperately to get some kind of relief, but nothing worked.

    “I had to do it,” he whimpered. “You're mine.”

  “Yours,” you croaked out. “I was never yours.”

  You fell forward onto your elbows. Your head cracked against the marble floor.

  The Professor's desperate sobs were the last thing you heard.

  ---

  He still looked ethereal.

  Even with a blunt between his lips, his eyes heavy, his body sunk back into an unmade bed. He still looked absolutely breathtaking.

  You stood in his doorway, unsure how you got here in the first place, unsure how you had managed to find your way around so easily. The hallways of the Hargreeves household were confusing, and yet you were drawn to this exact place in a matter of seconds.

  He leaned back, inhaled so deeply that the buttons on his shirt swelled with the movement. His eyes were still closed, one hand draped across his belly whilst the other was knotted in his brown, wavy hair. He plucked the blunt from between his lips, crushed it in an ashtray beside his bed, rolled over onto his side-

  Screamed.

  Your eyes widened, the noise startling you so much that you flinched, stumbling back out of the doorway.

  But Klaus was in front of you in seconds. You hadn't seen him stand, had barely registered him rushing over to you until he was reaching for you, reaching, reaching, reaching-

  Grabbing nothing.

  His breathing stopped. You saw it, that aura around him that told you he was still alive, his heart was still racing. It suddenly stopped moving.

  His bloodshot eyes raked over your body. The aura started moving again, just enough for him to breathe out the word, “No.”

  You didn't know what to say, how to explain what the past few hours had been like.

    Klaus shook his head furiously, desperately. There were tears in his eyes now. You wanted him to stop, wanted to reach forward and grab his face in your hands and tell him to stop because what happened, happened, and his tears were going to do nothing but rip your heart from your chest-

  Not like it mattered.

    “No,” he said, louder this time. “No. No. He didn't-”

  “Klaus,” you croaked out, and he fell silent. He fell silent, and then he fell to his knees, and his head fell into his hands, shaking, trembling.

  You bit your bottom lip, looked to the ceiling, composed yourself before you kneeled beside him. “I'm okay.”

  “What did he do to you?” he whispered. His voice was quiet, muffled even further by the palms he refused to take away from his mouth.

  “I don't – I don't wanna talk about it,” you managed.

    “Why did he do this to you?” It was a demand.

    You blinked, tears building. “You're gonna hate me if I tell you.”   Klaus shook his head again. “Don't be stupid. Don't be fucking stupid. I couldn't hate you. Ever.” He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, took a steadying breath. “Just tell me why he did it. Why now? Why after all this time?”

   “I did something wrong.”

   “Bullshit.”

  “It isn't,” you insisted. “I didn't hide the book well enough. He found it when I was sleeping, and he got angry, and...” You trailed off, concentration zoning in on Klaus. His face had gone from distraught to utterly broken in a matter of seconds.

  Your eyes widened. “No, Klaus, no. This isn't your fault.”

  He shook his head. His lower lip trembled. He stood up on shaky legs. You followed behind him, you tried to grab him, you tried to get through to him but your hands fell right through his arm and there was nothing you could do.

  “Oh fuck,” he whispered, trailing his hands through his hair. “Fuck, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. This was me. I got you that book-”

  “It wasn't you, it was me. I should have hidden it-”

  “I got you that book,” he continued. “And he killed you for it.”

  You shook your head, stumbled closer to him. “He's a psychopath, Klaus. The only person who is at fault here is him.”

   Klaus looked at you. He tried to nod, but he couldn't do it properly. He just kept his eyes trained on your own, stabilized himself against the wall, tried catching his breath even if it felt like the walls were closing in around him.

  You took another step forward. “You're the only one who can see me now.”

  He nodded, swallowed, wiped some sweat from his forehead.

  “We don't have to. . . We don't have to hide any more, do we?”

   His mouth opened just a bit. His eyes widened just a bit. His body relaxed, but just a bit.

   You were smiling. In two seconds flat, you had come from hysterically shaking your head, resisting the urge to cry, to grinning from ear to ear. It felt so wrong. It felt so inappropriate at a time like this, but for the love of god, the realisation that just crashed down upon you was enough to make your knees feel weak and you were taking it and running as soon as possible.

  “Y/N...,” Klaus mumbled. “You're the only dead person I know who's finding the positive in being dead.”

  “C-can I stay here?” you asked. “I would very much like to stay here. With you.”   His features softened. Tears still trekked down his face, and his hands still trembled, but the tension in his body dissolved as if the question had somehow hit a nerve.

  He stepped forward, reached out to touch you. He realised his mistake, inhaled a shaky breath before he let his hand drop. He looked down at the ground and nodded. “I need you to stay here with me.”

  “Need?”

  “I need you, Y/N,” he said, firmer this time. “You've been the only constant in my life for years. I can't – I can't lose that. I'll lose my fucking mind if I lose you.”

    You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Nothing seemed good enough.

  “Do you think it'll be selfish of me to keep you around?” he asked.

  You shook your head immediately. “Please keep me around.”

  He smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

[bellatriestowritesometimes]

An Unexpected Meeting

Spencer Reid x OC

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: An OC request by @mevrouwrozestudios which I’ve included below the GIF, (sorry for the wait & I hope this is okay!)

Warnings: Brief mention of suicide.

(GIF not mine, credits to creator)

Katherine lost her mother due to suicide at a very young age. She was the one that discovered the body and it still haunts her, it’s also the reason she wears her gloves. Since then she has developed a very strong bond with her father who due to his bookshop introduced her to books on medieval history and her passion began. Her mother had been very fond of gardening and after her passing Katherine began to take on the responsibilities of the large garden her mother created at their home. Therefore, she also became very interested in plants and their uses. She has a twin brother to whom she is a bit estranged with. After his mother’s death he became more distant and cold due to the relationship forming between Katherine and their father. He decided to join the army and leave. Katherine went on to get her masters in Medieval History and minor in Botany. She decided to write a few books once out of school that caught the attention of the BAU during a particular case involving Medieval Weapons as the weapon of killing. Dr. Spencer Reid had stopped by her father’s bookstore to inquire about the books and what she knew about medieval weaponry. She was then brought on to help consult in the case which helped the team catch the unsub. From then on a small spark started between her and Reid resulting in them becoming friends.

-

“They’ve found another body,” JJ poked her head into the small conference room the team had been given at the police station as she pulled her phone away from her face,

“And it matches our profile?” Hotch asked, an immediate frown forming.

“Unfortunately, by the sounds of it, yes…” JJ waited for instructions in the doorway as she watched Hotch sigh and observe the board filled with images and information about their latest unsub.

It was an odd case and one the team struggled to draw clues from. Any theory suggested led to a dead end and time was running out.

“I’ve got Garcia on the line,” Morgan brushed past JJ into the conference room, “I think she might be on to something,”

“When am I not, chocolate thunder?” She chirped over the phone that was now on speaker, “Now that we got the obvious out of the way, l was running some addresses through the system and I came across one particular one that might help you guys out,”

“Go on,” Hotch encouraged and for a split second his frown was replaced with hope.

“909 Marshall Ave is the address of a small family run bookstore that might be worth checking out,” she hummed, “An author and expert by the looks of it works there that might be able to tell you more about all the strange things used to torture all of these people,”

“Are you sure he’ll be able to help?” Morgan asked,

“Again, you’re asking all the wrong questions sugar- I’m always sure,” Garcia paused, “and you’ll actually be looking for a she, Katherine Campbell to be exact. She’s in her mid-twenties with a masters in medieval history, no doubt that includes medieval weaponry and I’m no expert but with what was found at the first crime scene, it might be helpful to reach out to her,”

Hotch seemed like he was processing the information he had just been given and wasted no time telling Morgan to take Reid with him and visit the bookstore.

 -

Pushing the door open a bell above Spencer’s and Morgan’s head rang. The store seemed empty aside from an older man standing by a shelf that overflowed with books with one in his hand.

“Hi, we’re looking to speak to a Katherine Campbell,” Spencer spoke as he moved closer,

“Who’s we?” He simply replied and turned the next page of his book.

“The FBI,” Spencer began but quickly stopped himself when the man’s head shot up,

“The FBI?” He furrowed his brows as his tone changed from uninterested to alarmed.

“No not the FBI- well yes the FBI, we’re from the FBI- I’m Spencer Reid this is Derek Morgan,” he motioned behind him where Morgan stood with an amused smile, “We just wanted to ask Katherine Campbell a few questions, do you uh happen to know where she might be?” He nervously asked as he gave the man a tight-lipped smile.

“I might happen to know a lot of things but why my daughter is wanted for questioning by the FBI is not one of them,” the man snapped his book shut as his timeworn face held a stern expression.

“We’re in town for a case and we believe that your daughter would be able to shed some light on a few things that we might have missed,” Morgan explained as he moved past Spencer who was now behind him.

The man narrowed his eyes before turning around and moving towards a case of stairs, “Kate, you have visitors!” He called out and a quick one second from Katherine followed.

“So, what’s the case to do with to have the FBI here?” The man tried to make small talk with the two agents, “It’s a quiet town, this one. Must be pretty serious?” He continued but his question was left unanswered as Katherine entered the room, a confused expression covered her delicate features.

“Who are these people?” She directed at her father, but her eyes observed the two men in front of her.

“They’re here for you,” he replied meekly, “from the FBI, they say there’s a case you can help them with,”

“The FBI?” She asked just like her father had earlier, yet her tone was filled with curiosity as she expectantly looked at the man with the long hair and brown messenger bag waiting for him to introduce himself. And his partner. But mostly just him.

“Hi, yes we’re from the FBI, this is Derek Morgan and I’m Spencer Reid. If it’s okay we would like to ask you some questions about a case that we’re currently working on,”

“Sure, I guess,” Katherine shrugged, “But why me? Is someone I know involved?”

“No we don’t think so but your interest- and degree,” Spencer added “in medieval history might be of some use to us,” he explained as Katherine raised her eyebrows at him.

“Here,” Spencer said as he opened his messenger bag and pulled out a manila coloured folder, “are some photos that we would like for you to look at,” he explained as he scattered various images out of the folder on top of the tiny counter that everyone was now gathered at.

Katherine frowned at the sight of the pictures, her brooding eyes observing every mark visible on the photos of the strangers she had never met before. She had no connection to any of them but couldn’t help the immense feeling of sympathy mixed with empathy that took over her. The sympathy coming from being human and the empathy coming from her late mother who had committed suicide when Katherine was young. Though the deaths were different, the heavy feeling of trying to cope with it all was the same.

“And then there’s this,” Spencer went back into the folder and pulled out more images, though this time they weren’t of people but of objects, well object. There was just the one pictured from different angles.

Katherine reached out and grabbed one of them, a thoughtful hum leaving her lips that were slightly pouted.

“This was left at one of the crime scenes,” Morgan added and Katherine’s hand drifted towards a different photograph in the pile of many.

“And that would be the crime scene,” Morgan raised his eyebrows and shared an impressed look with Spencer.

“Would you have any ideas on where someone could get these types of items from?” Spencer questioned, “Are there any off the radar clubs or auctions based around medieval weaponry, ones that may be limited to members only?”

“Can I see it?” Katherine asked and moved her focus from the image in her hand to Spencer,

“The dagger?” He furrowed his brows in confusion,

“Yes, I want to see it, not an image of it but the actual dagger,”

“That won’t be possible, its being used as evidence in a crime investigation,” Morgan interjected.

“I can’t tell you anything about it from some blurry photos, I need to see it, feel it. You want me to tell you where it’s from?” Katherine questioned earning a nod from both of the agents that had barged into the bookstore, “Then I need to see it,” she bargained.

Morgan opened his mouth to protest but Spencer had grabbed his forearm before any words could come out and motioned to move further away from Katherine and her father.

“Kid what are you doing?” Morgan kept his voice low once Spencer had finished dragging him away by his arm.

“Maybe we should give her a chance to look at it, you said it yourself that we could use any help we get,” Spencer replied whilst glancing in the direction of Katherine who was observing the pictures.

“You seriously think it’s a good idea to- oh,” Morgan paused and a smile began forming, “I get it now,”

“Get what? What are you talking about?”

“You like her,” Morgan teased.

“What? No- I’ve barely spoken to her,” Spencer objected and glimpsed at Katherine again to make sure she had no part in hearing any of this.

“But you do think she’s cute,” Morgan smiled as he slightly shifted and followed Spencer’s gaze that was still on Katherine.

“I think she’s the best lead we’ve had on this case so far,”

“Right...” Morgan dragged out not buying his excuse, “Well if you can explain to Hotch why you’re letting someone unauthorised tamper with the evidence of a crime scene, consider me your best wingman pretty boy,”

Spencer didn’t reply, only shook his head in response and walked back over to Katherine and her father.

“Well?” Katherine dragged out,

“The dagger’s back at the station, if seeing it would help you help us, we can take you there,” Spencer informed the brown-haired girl.

“Great,” she gave the two agents a wide smile, “I just need to grab a few things,” she said as she excused herself and went back up the stairs and returned with a bag.

“Okay, I’m ready to go now.”

-

A quiet thank you fell from Katherine as Spencer held the door of the station open and guided her towards the back.

“I’ll catch up with you guys, I’m going to see if the others are back from the crime scene,” Morgan said as he turned the opposite direction of where Katherine and Spencer were going.

“There’s been another murder?” Katherine asked Spencer to which he gave her a small nod.

“That’s why we came to find you. Anything you could tell us could potentially help us solve this case,” Spencer disclosed as he opened the door to a room that was filled with stacked boxes and by the window a board stood that had many lines and images connecting everything together.

“Well I would say I’m flattered but under these circumstances it feels wrong,” she gave Spencer a small smile, “This it?” Katherine pointed to the metal object that was pinned to the crowded board in a plastic bag.

“Yeah,” Spencer replied as he flicked the lights on.

“Is it okay for me to take it out? I’m already gloved,” Katherine raised her hands to show the black gloves that covered them.

“Sure, just be careful,” Spencer unpinned the plastic bag with the dagger inside from the board whilst Katherine removed her bag and placed it on the table.

“So in how much trouble are you going to get in for bringing me here?” Katherine asked as she delicately removed the dagger from the bag.

“Depends on how much you’re able to tell us,” he smiled,

“No pressure then?” Katherine matched Spencer’s playful tone as she began examining the object in her hands.

“Is this one of the books you’ve written?” Spencer questioned as he noticed it in her bag that was slightly open,

“Yes, I brought it just in case I needed it. Not all of us have been gifted with an eidetic memory Doctor Reid,” she responded with a fact she had learnt about Spencer in the car ride over to the police station.

“And do you need it?”

“No. This is an old Roman Iberian iron dagger, and one that could be worth a lot if sold to the right collector- why would someone willingly leave this at the crime scene?” Katherine turned around to face Spencer who was now holding the book from her bag in his hand.

“Sorry!” He quickly replied, “I should’ve asked if I could take it out,”

“No, no it’s fine,” she cut him off, “If this were mine and I had left it somewhere, I’d want it back…” Katherine tried to theorise with Spencer, “The pictures you showed me back at the bookstore,”

Spencer nodded and she continued, “some looked a lot worse than others,”

“He’s angry,” Spencer added as he caught onto where Katherine was going,

“Because he wants his dagger back,”

“Which explains the overkill of his recent victims, I mean the dagger was found at the very first crime scene of what’s likely to be his very first kill, he could’ve been too overwhelmed and consumed by the adrenaline that he simply forgot his own murder weapon,” Spencer finished,

“You lost me at overkill, the whole multiple murders part is way out of my comfort zone,” Katherine said as she adjusted the glasses she was wearing with her free hand.

“I can take you back if this is too much, I understand that it’s a lot to take in for someone who’s not used to this,”

“I’m okay,” she assured him, “really, I am,” she added once he gave her a questioning look, “besides you might need me later…”

“What’s later?”

“There’s an event, like a collectors type of thing where people are able to trade and buy all things medieval related, that includes weapons too, you might be able to find your guy there trying to replace what he lost,” Katherine suggested, “however it’s a members only event and you happen to have a member standing right here in front of you.”

“I couldn’t let you do that, it wouldn’t be safe- wait,” Spencer paused and a smile began creeping onto Katherines face, “You knew there was an event on tonight this whole time didn’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” Katherine tilted her head to the side, “It’s not everyday I get to hold one of these,” she held the metal dagger up, “I just couldn’t help myself,” she said and was met with a smile from Spencer.

-

“We have SWAT on call and the rest of us will be just outside if anything goes wrong,” Hotch spoke to the team and Katherine. At first they were reluctant to let her be part of this though her expertise and knowledge outweighed any of the doubts the team had.

“Reid will be with you but if you feel overwhelmed once you’re inside, leave through the front entrance, okay?” Hotch directed at Katherine and she nodded to show she understood.

“Okay, we’re ready to go then.”

-

“Are you sure you’re okay with doing this?” Spencer asked Katherine as they walked up to the building of where the event was supposed to be held at.

“Yes, I was sure before we left, sure when we got in the car, sure when I got out of the car and I’m sure now,” Katherine looked up at a concerned Spencer.

“Katherine! I didn’t know you were coming today!” An older female who stood by the doors beamed.

“I thought I would stop by, I also brought a friend,” she pointed at Spencer who was next to her, “I hope that’s okay, just wanted to show him round,”

“Of course! You and any of your friends are welcome at any time, you know that,” the woman squeezed Katherines shoulder and moved away from the door,

“Thank you. It was nice seeing you,” Katherine smiled at her and headed into the building with Spencer.

“A friend of yours?” He asked once they were inside,

“One of the first people to have bought and read my books, her names Ava,”

“She seems nice,” Spencer acknowledged whilst observing the people around him.

“She is. So, what’s the plan now? Anyone look suspicious to you?” Katherine questioned as she looked around her.

Spencer shook his head,

“Well I’m going to go grab some water, you okay staying here?” Katherine asked as she nodded to the small refreshments table in the corner of the room.

“Yeah, I’m going to see if I can find someone to talk to,”

“You should probably start with him,” Katherine pointed at a guy in a green jacket to her left, “Names Deacon Wood, into all sorts of daggers but I’ll be right back.”

Katherine left Spencer and walked towards the table and grabbed two bottles of water, another friend had said hello and they made small talk until she felt an aggressive tug at her bag.

“Where the hell did you find this?” A man barked behind her,

“I’m sorry?” She quietly said as she turned around to face him. He looked like he hadn’t showered or slept in days. Tiny cuts were scattered across his face, his right hand still gripping onto Katherines bag.

“This is mine!” He shouted as he continued to wrench at the strap of the bag.

The dagger. It was in Katherines bag. Slightly poking out because it was too big to fit. They had brought it for this exact moment. To see if anyone reacted the way this man did. This was a good thing; Katherine had just wished Spencer was with her when it happened.

“Sir I have no idea what you’re talking about now could you please let go of my bag,” Katherine tried her best to stay calm, her frantic eyes searching for Spencer.

The man was a lot stronger than Katherine was so when he pulled at the bag again but with more force, she lost balance. She closed her eyes in preparation for the pain of falling, but instead was met with a soft grip of two hands on her shoulders catching her.

When she opened her eyes, the room was flooded with the police and a lot of guns. The man was now on the floor with Morgan who was cuffing him.

“You alright?” Spencer spoke above Katherine. She hadn’t realised that she was still leaning into him and that it was him who caught her.

“Yes,” she breathed as she regained her balance and stood up straight, “thank you,” Katherine whispered.

“It’s okay. You sure you aren’t hurt?” Spencer asked worriedly.

“No, I think I’m okay,” she adjusted the bag that had left a red mark around her neck, “So I’m guessing that’s your guy,” she said with a slight laugh.

“Looks like it,” Spencer spoke as he watched Morgan drag the unsub out, “thank you for your help, it would’ve taken a lot longer to figure out without you,” he moved his gaze back onto Katherine and gave her a small smile.

“We happen to make a good team.”

-

It was past 10 pm now. Morgan had brought Katherine back to the bookstore hours ago. Her father had gone home but she was still there. She had a small greenhouse at the back of the store and figured after the day she’s had it was the perfect time to spend some time in there.

Katherine was halfway through potting a plant when she thought she heard a faint knock coming from within the bookstore. Heading inside she saw the shadow of someone by the door. The streetlights outside were very dim so she couldn’t make out a face.

She twisted the key and unhooked the small lock on the door.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?” She asked a puzzled look covering her face.

“I wanted to stop by before I left and the lights were still on, so I figured you hadn’t gone home yet. I also wanted to give you this back,” he held up Katherines book that she had left at the station.

“Oh,” she laughed, “did you read it?”

“I did,” Spencer nodded.

“What did you think?”

“I came back for the others,” he grinned.

“Do you want them signed too?” She giggled.

“That would be nice.”

“Come inside,” she motioned as she realised Spencer was still stood outside.

He thanked her as he closed the door behind him, “Has your dad gone home?”

“Yeah, he left a while ago. I wanted to work on the greenhouse so I stayed,” Katherine replied as she walked towards the back door.

“Greenhouse?”

“Yup, through here,” she nodded towards the open backdoor that led to a small garden with an even smaller glass house in the centre of it.

“Oh wow,” Spencer admired the plants that covered the greenhouse once he stepped inside after Katherine.

“I have a much larger garden at home, it was my mom’s actually. But since most of the time I’m here I figured it would make sense to have something small here too,” Katherine said as she put her hands into the pockets of the apron she was wearing.

“It looks amazing.”

“Did it end up being the right guy?” Katherine asked as she sat on a bench, Spencer doing the same.

“Yeah, it was our unsub. Thank you again by the way,” he turned to face her.

“I’m glad I could help,” she smiled and a comfortable silence fell between them both.

“Your mom, you said it was her garden, what happened?” Spencer spoke softly,

Katherine looked away and Spencer immediately apologised for asking.

“No, it’s okay,” she replied, “she died when I was young. Suicide.” Katherine kept her head low and focused on her feet.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer’s voice was delicate.

“You close to your parents?” Katherine asked and brought her gaze back up to Spencer.

“My mom, yeah,” he answered and Katherine nodded her head in response.

“Your neck,” Spencer without realising reached out and ran his fingers carefully over the mark that was starting to turn purple, “there’s a bruise,”

Katherines own hand rose to her neck and landed on top of Spencer’s, “It’s just from my bag, it’ll heal in no time,” she whispered, her hand still cupping Spencer’s, neither of them wanting to let go.

It seemed like they both started to inch closer. Not clear which one initiated it first. Their lips were only mere inches apart when Spencer’s phone began ringing.

“You should probably get that,” Katherine murmured disappointed at the loss of contact.

“It can wait,” Spencer replied and brought his hand back up to Katherines cheek, but the phone continued ringing,

“Answer it,” Katherine urged softly and Spencer reluctantly did.

“Yes?...Okay…I’ll be on my way…Bye,” he hung up and slid his phone back into his jackets pocket.

“Duty calls huh?”

“Plane’s leaving in less than an hour,” Spencer sighed,

“Well you don’t want to miss that,” Katherine smiled, “don’t be stranger if you’re ever in town, I’m here most of the time,”

“I won’t. But still need to do this,” Spencer said as he leant in and placed a gentle kiss on Katherine’s lips. Where the courage came from no one knew, but Katherine was glad.

“The Arnica plant is meant to help bruises heal faster,” Spencer spoke as he pulled away from the kiss.

“One step ahead of you Doctor Reid,” she nodded towards a pot that held the yellow flower and a large grin covered Spencer’s face.

-

requests are open

[kinderes]

fun little disasters

Summary: Virgil has his first sleepover with Roman and Remus. Not everything goes exactly to plan, but somehow he likes it better that way. 

Word count: 2265

Author’s note: part 2 of the boys will be bugs au (that’s what I’m calling it now, based on the song by cavetown! (it doesn’t make sense yet but it will later c;))! it’s mostly fluff, and honestly I didn’t expect to write this much about the sleepover, nor did I expect most of this to be them just trying makeup for the first time but that’s just what the boys wanted to do!!

“What?!” Roman and Remus both cried at once.

“Uh…” Virgil wasn’t quite sure how to respond, given that all he’d said was the street he lived on.

“That’s only a few blocks away from us!” Roman said excitedly. “This is perfect! Now we can visit each other whenever we want! Go on epic quests together! Or we could-” He cut himself off with an excited gasp. “Or we could have a sleepover!”

Virgil blinked. “Yeah, I guess we could that. I’ve never had one before, so that’d be cool.”

Roman made an affronted noise, as if it was a personal offense that anyone had never experienced a sleepover before.

“Oh you poor thing, so cruelly deprived!” Remus cradled Virgil’s face, who snorted and pushed him off. 

“Well now we have to do it! I suppose, seeing as you’ve never had a sleepover before it would be easier if we did this at our house. Okay!” Roman had a determined look in his eye. “You leave everything to us, Virgil. Well, me mostly. Remus has very… unique ideas about sleepovers.”

“We could sneak out at midnight and start a cult!” Remus suggested.

Roman groaned. “See? Remus, we’re not allowed to do that, remember? Not again. Anyway,” he looked back at Virgil, “just ask your parents if it’s okay and bring stuff for overnight!” 

Virgil shrugged in agreement. “Yeah, sure.” He was secretly glad they didn’t suggest a sleepover at his house. Partly because he wasn’t really sure how they worked, and partly because his dad often worked late and probably wouldn’t want to leave his brother Remy in charge of three kids. 

A few days and a couple of phone calls later, and Virgil was nervously knocking on the door of what he hoped was Roman and Remus’ house. 

“Coming!” A woman’s voice called from inside. The sound of footsteps followed, and a tall, brown haired woman opened the door. She looked down at him and smiled, in a way that reminded Virgil of Roman. “Oh! You must be Virgil!”

Virgil swallowed, suddenly feeling very small. “Y-yeah. Uh… are Roman and Remus here?”

“They should be down in a minute.” The woman, who Virgil assumed was Mrs Duke, leaned her head back through the door. “Boys! Virgil’s here!” she called loudly, before turning back towards Virgil. “Did your dad drop you off?” She looked around, trying to see if Virgil’s dad was behind him.

Virgil shifted on his feet awkwardly and tugged at the straps of his backpack. “N-no, he’s working. I just walked. It’s not far to come.”

Mrs Duke frowned slightly and looked like she wanted to say something, but lucky for Virgil he didn’t have to have whatever conversation was about to follow as there was a thud that came from upstairs, followed by Remus thundering down the stairs. “Roman!” He yelled, grinning at Virgil. “Get your butt down here!” 

Mrs Duke laughed, having apparently forgotten what she was going to say before Remus showed up, which Virgil was secretly grateful for. “They’ve been excited all afternoon.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in, Virgil.”

Virgil stepped inside just as Roman joined Remus at the bottom of the stairs. Roman pulled Virgil into a quick hug before grabbing him by the hand. 

“You have to come see what I made!” Roman said, dragging him up the stairs with Remus following close behind them. 

He led Virgil into the second room on the left, which was Roman and Remus’ bedroom. There was a bunk bed against the far wall - the top bunk was covered in a number of stuffed animals, the largest of which was a sizable stuffed purple dragon. There were also a couple of posters pinned to the wall, most of them Disney related. The bottom bunk, unlike the top bunk, was unmade, and there was only one stuffed animal on the bed, albeit a rather large one - a stuffed octopus that appeared to be missing an eye and only had seven tentacles. Instead of posters, there were scribbled drawings stuck to the wall with tape, most of which Virgil couldn’t make out to be anything in particular. 

But that wasn’t what drew Virgil’s attention first. Sitting in the middle of the room, held up by a couple of repurposed chairs, was a massive blanket fort with three sleeping bags laid out inside of it. 

Roman stood in front of it proudly. “Tada! It’s pretty spectacular, if I do say so myself! And it only fell down twice!”

“Only one of those was my fault!” Remus said, seemingly just as proud of that fact as Roman was of his blanket fort. 

Roman glared at him. “You’d better not kick it down again in the middle of the night!”

“I would never! Not while Virgil’s still here!” Remus’ mischievous grin led Virgil to believe that Remus would most likely destroy it the moment Virgil went home. 

Roman groaned, probably having deduced the same thing Virgil had, but didn’t comment on it and instead crawled inside the fort and took a seat on one of the sleeping bags. He looked up at Virgil and patted the sleeping bag next to him. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour!”

There were a few hours of daylight left, so after Roman had showed Virgil the inside of the fort they all headed into the backyard where Roman called dibs on Virgil being his sidekick for the day (a system which even Remus had to honour), and they spent the rest of the afternoon swinging sticks at each other as Roman and Virgil defended an imaginary castle from Remus. They stopped once the sun went down and Mrs Duke called them in for dinner. Afterwards, they all slipped into their pyjamas and settled into the blanket fort, where Roman had made plans for the evening.

“I couldn’t get much, but this should be enough!” Roman said, then lifted up one of the blankets to reveal a few small containers and some brushes. 

Virgil peered at it curiously. “What is it?”

Remus’ eyes widened. “Stealing makeup from our own mother? I’m impressed! I’ve clearly taught you well!” He gave Roman a few pats on the head.

Roman swatted Remus’ hand away. “I didn’t steal it! I just, you know, I borrowed it! She won’t even notice it’s gone!”

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Virgil frowned and chewed at one of his nails. “I don’t want us to get in trouble.”

“You worry too much, it’ll be fine!” Roman replied, already opening an eyeshadow palette. 

“Yeah!” Remus agreed. “And this is all Roman’s fault anyway, so if she asks we’ll just tell her he took it so only one of us gets in trouble!”

Roman huffed. “Well since you’re so eager to betray me, you can go first!” he declared, before dipping a brush into a purple shade of eyeshadow and leaning towards Remus. “Close your eyes!”

Remus grimaced, but obeyed and shut his eyes tightly. Roman did his best to apply the eyeshadow evenly, but every so often Remus would get impatient and start squirming, causing Roman to hiss “hold still!” before continuing. By the end, Remus had a fairly even layer of purple around his eyes, but Roman was so exhausted from trying to keep Remus from moving that he decided it was someone else’s turn.

Remus examined his face in the small compact mirror Roman had brought with him, and when he decided he was satisfied with what Roman had done he smiled and pulled the makeup brush out of Roman’s hand. “Now I get to do you!”

“Nope, no, you’re not coming anywhere near my face,” Roman shook his head, taking the brush back from Remus and handing it to Virgil. “Virgil’s doing mine!”

“Wait, what?” Virgil looked down at the brush in his hand nervously, then back up to Roman. “You sure you want me to do it?”

“Sure!” Roman gave him an encouraging smile. “Anything you can do would be better than trash boy over there!” 

Remus stuck his tongue out at Roman and Roman returned the favour, before sliding the eyeshadow over towards Virgil. Virgil cautiously picked it up, still not sure if this was a good idea, but Roman had already closed his eyes and was waiting for him. He looked down at the palette in front of him, and decided Roman would probably like the shimmering gold colour best. He swiped the makeup brush on his hand a couple of times to try and get rid of any excess purple eyeshadow, before brushing it back and forth over the gold and tentatively began applying it onto Roman’s eyelids. He swept the brush too wide in a couple of places and in trying to correct it, he ended up covering much more of Roman’s eyes than he’d intended to. 

Eventually he sighed and gave up. “Sorry if it sucks,” he mumbled, handing the compact mirror to Roman and bracing himself for whatever judgement followed.

Roman snapped the mirror open. “Oh I’m sure it’s not that bad- ooooh!” He gasped as he saw himself in the mirror. “It’s so bold and dramatic!”

“And shiny!” Remus chimed in.

“Yeah!” Roman examined his face in the mirror from multiple angles, watching as the eyeshadow glittered in the dim light. “I love it!”

“Really?” Virgil looked at Roman in surprise. “Oh… well, good.” 

“My turn!” Remus snatched up as much makeup as he could before Roman could protest. “Since my dearest brother wouldn’t let me do his, I guess I’ll just have to do yours!” He grins at Virgil.

“You’d better not mess up his face, Remus!” Roman must have seen the worried look on Virgil’s face, because he grinned nervously at him. “Er, I mean don’t worry! If it’s really bad we can just wash it off!”

That definitely didn’t improve Virgil’s confidence, but Remus looked so eager that Virgil reluctantly agreed. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

Remus almost broke the swatch as he pressed the brush into the blackest eyeshadow he could find. He leaned towards Virgil to begin, but Virgil instinctively flinched as soon as the brush got too close to his face. 

Remus sighed and lowered the brush slightly. “Relax V, I’m not gonna hurt you!” He raised the brush towards Virgil’s left eye and Virgil screwed his eyes shut. 

When the brush finally met the underneath of his eye, Virgil was surprised how gentle Remus was being. He felt the eyeshadow being put on it gentle circles, switching to his other eye after a while. Virgil thought that meant it was going well, until he felt the brush lift off his skin.

“Oh. Hmm.” Virgil heard Remus say. “Whoopsies.” 

Virgil opened one of his eyes and caught a glimpse of Roman and Remus’ nervous faces. 

“You ruined it,” Roman said flatly.

“Well I’m not finished yet!” Remus responded defensively. “I just need to- Virgil, close your eyes again! I can fix it!”

Virgil shut his eyes again. “Uh… fix what?”

“Hold on!” Remus didn’t answer his question, instead dotting the brush under his left eye. “...Oh wow,” Remus giggled. “That’s so much worse!” 

Virgil heard the sound of the brush being dropped on the ground, then felt a finger press underneath his eye and smudge the eyeshadow outwards. 

There was a moment of silence after Remus was finished before he said, “...welp! I ruined it! You can open your eyes now!”

Virgil was almost too afraid to now, but slowly he opened his eyes. Remus handed Virgil the mirror so he could examine the damage. He took a deep breath and opened it. His initial reaction was, yeah, it was pretty bad. Remus hadn’t put any eyeshadow on his upper eyelids at all, so it was all beneath his eyes. Beyond that, it was really dark and heavy, and it was clear that it had been smudged. But the more he looked at it, the more he didn’t mind it. 

“It’s… not that bad?” Virgil said, continuing to examine it. “It’s actually kinda cool.”

“Oh? Oh!” Remus looked pleased with himself. “Why thank you!”

Roman scoffed. “‘Not that bad’? He made you look like an emo nightmare!”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “And? What’s wrong with that?”

Roman spluttered. “W-well, I mean… ‘not that bad’ doesn’t mean good! But…” He sighed in resignation. “I guess if you like it, then it’s fine. We’ll have to wash this stuff off before we sleep though, or else it’ll get all over our pillows!”

As it turned out, washing it off was a lot harder than any of them had anticipated. Remus and Virgil both ended up with dark streaks running down their faces, and no matter how hard Roman tried to wash it off the glitter just seemed to stay stuck to him. 

“Well, this was a total disaster,” Roman huffed, traces of glitter still evident on his hands and face. 

“It was a fun disaster though, which is the best kind!” Remus said. He’d given up wiping off the dark streaks of purple, but he didn’t seem to mind them.

“You’re a fun disaster,” Roman teased, nudging Remus. 

Remus placed a hand to his heart and wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Aww Roman, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

Virgil couldn’t help but smile fondly. “We should, uh... do this again sometime.” He coughed, trying not to sound too sappy. “If you guys want to, that is.”

Roman returned his smile. “Yeah.” He looked down at his hands, still shimmering in the dark. “We really should.”

taglist: @jellopuffs @kai-the-person @fandoms-will-collide (let me know if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!! c: I can’t promise I’ll keep it going, but I’ll try to for at least the first couple of chapters!)

[unpack-my-heart]

IT Fandom Prompt Week - Day 4 - Medieval AU

This is the first chapter of my alchemy AU that i’ve written for IT Fandom Prompt week day 4 - Medieval AU.

Read it under the cut or on AO3 HERE

@constantreaderfool @tinyarmedtrex @xandertheundead @violetreddie

IGNIS AURUM PROBAT

The earth yawned open, and out lurched Chaos.

Chaos looked around, flexed its muscles, before immediately giving birth.

Out of the womb of darkness came Gaia, Tartatus, Eros, Erebus and Nyx. Five wriggling, squishy things. The five wriggling, squishy things collectively blinked, and Chaos retreated.

From Gaia came the Titans, and from Cronus and his sister-wife Rhea came Zeus. Zeus, King of Gods, who reigned with an iron fist and wandering eyes, relished the power he held over humanity. Enraged with Prometheus for giving them the gift of fire, Zeus’ fondness for humanity waxed and waned, before ultimately decreasing to such a pitiful degree that the God’s who sat on Mount Olympus looked upon Earth with kindness in their eyes no more.

When Christianity swept over Greece in the fourth-century, and the God who were sat upon Mount Olympus were eschewed by humanity for good, Zeus’ temper grew foul. Sparks of lightning scarred the Earth in the tenth-century, Atlas adjusted his grip on the Earth, and profane things rose from the wounds.

The God’s who sat on Mount Olympus, bored and ignored, were resigned to myth and legend.

But they remained, and they watched.

Edward Kaspbrak had been plucked from the bosom of his mother at the age of two, and whisked away to the dingy alchemical workshop of one Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim (or, to Edward and his closest friends, Paracelsus) to serve as his ward and apprentice. Edward quickly forgot about his mother, who presumably also forgot about him.

The reliable constants in Edward’s early life were glass bottles, bitter smelling herbs and the lingering metallic scent in the air. His childhood was fundamentally unlike other children his age, who worked on their parents farms by day and slept, exhausted and filthy, at night. Instead, Edward practiced the transmutatory art by day, and meticulously copied out complicated spagyric formulas by candle light at night. Paracelsus’ workshop was somewhat small, and it was endlessly untidy with stacks of leather-bound books balanced precariously upon every surface. There was one small window that provided daylight and helped the poisonous vapours emitted by the various burning metals to escape the room. Other than this, however, the workshop was claustrophobic. Russet coloured clay vases littered the floor, and more than once Edward found himself tripping over them, sending the herbs he’d spent all morning carefully collecting up into the air, only to rain down like green snowflakes.

First and foremost, Paracelsus’ workshop served as the first port of call for those infected with various diseases. Whether they believed they were being punished by a vengeful God, or had a constitution that made them prone to ill-health, they would come, pay whatever Paracelsus deemed appropriate, and then spend between four and eight hours screaming in agony whilst the alchemist rubbed a slightly silvery ointment into the infected flesh, followed by a hot press of guaiacum over the infected area. Edward had grown accustomed to the howls of the infected, as they lay on the straw mattress in the corner of the workshop. Sometimes they pleaded with him to rub the ointment off with a wet cloth, or to put them out of their misery in increasingly creative, but gruesome ways. Edward never said anything to them, ignoring them in favour of mixing a new batch of quicksilver to be spread onto the skin of the next unfortunate who stumbled through the door.

The first time Edward watched Paracelsus cure the pox with the ointment made from liquid mercury he’d been amazed – half convinced his eyes had deceived him, and half convinced Paracelsus was, in fact, some sort of demonic druid belched from the underbelly of Hell.

“Edward, the body works not according to the four humours, but according to the tria prima. The three principles of life. The spagyric art should not just be applied to the transmutation of metals, but also to the great microcosm – the human body, made in His image. We can use the same principles we use to purify metals to purify the human body – to separate the pure from the impure,” is what Paracelsus had told Edward one night, whilst they were both elbow deep in a watery stew that tasted more like turnip than it did beef. Edward was not a fan of turnip.

Paracelsus must have sensed Edward’s confusion wafting over the table, because he continued.

“See, you saw how the quicksilver burnt the pox straight off Mary Croft’s arms?”

“Is that why she screamed loud enough to startle the chickens in the croft?” Edward asked.

“Yes, child,” Paracelsus laughed, “It is a rather… painful … procedure. Disease is the infection of the body by bad seeds, and we use the spagyric art to refine the spiritual essence of these seeds, so that we might expel the poison from the body and from the soul. Of course, it is all the more painful when drank as an elixir but the risk of death is too great. An ointment, though painful, is a much safer way of administering the cure”

“Does it cure them?” Edward queried, a little too quickly.

Paracelsus visibly bristled.

“Did Mary Croft walk out of here alive?”

“Yes”

“Were her blisters gone?”

“I suppose so, Sir”

“Then, as far as I’m concerned, she’s cured. Not another word”

– X –

As time passed, and he became older, one thing became startlingly clear.

Edward Kaspbrak was, by all accounts, a terrible alchemist.

On his eighth birthday – a day that did not mark the day he actually turned eight years of age, but rather, a date that marked six years since Edward had become Paracelsus’ ward – Paracelsus decided that it was time to begin teaching Edward the most basic alchemical concepts. Fortunately, his decision coincided with catching  Edward with his nose in a copy of Galen’s De Facultatibus Naturalibus.

“There is more learning in my shoe buckles than in all Galen!” Paracelsus roared, smacking the book from Edward’s hand. The book fell to the floor, spine cracked down the centre.

“What have I told you about the humours, child! They are the misguided theories of irreligious heathens ignorant of true knowledge. Today we will begin your education in the spagyric art, and I will chase the Aristotelian knowledge from your head with a spear”

True to his word, Paracelsus began teaching Edward the art of alchemy.

– X –

“Try again, child. You must learn by doing, experience by the fire is the only way that you may become a true healer”

“The fire bites me, Sir” Edward lamented, rubbing the small red welt that was rapidly appearing on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

“That is because you don’t treat it with respect, Edward. The fire is the master of all things, and you must treat it as such. Now, try again,” Paracelsus instructed, wiping muddy brown sediment from the bottom of a swan-necked glass bottle.

The guaiacum in the metal pan simmered, and when Edward added the liquid quicksilver after bringing the pan off the heat, it spat at Edward’s hand, before solidifying into an unusable mass.

Paracelsus sighed.

“I have never seen somebody coagulate mercury before. Either you are a genius, or a fool. Again!”

Several days later, Edward found himself with nothing to do. Paracelsus was consumed by a large leather-bound book, not paying any attention to what Edward was doing, who took it upon himself to undertake some independent study.

Earnest as ever, Edward stood over the burning fire, wincing slightly from the heat, trying to turn a block of wood he had found in the workshop into … something. He was trying to simultaneously anoint the wood with the right amount of solution and heat it to the right temperature when, slowly but surely, the wood began to blacken, and pieces started to fall away in large flakes.

“Sir! Sir! I think, I think I may have done it!” Edward cried out, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, trying desperately not to let the rapidly blackening wood fall into the flames.

“Done what?” Paracelsus called out from his place at the table.

“Done… something! I have made coal!”

“From what?!” Paracelsus called out again, sounding vaguely more interested. Edward heard the scrape of the chair, and the characteristic thump of his mentors feet.

“Look!”

Paracelsus was silent.

“Sir?”

“Edward, what you have done is burnt some wood. That is not transmutation, that is not any form of alchemy, you have turned yourself into a conduit for the stove.”

“…Oh” Edward faltered, dropping the wood and watching the fire consume it hungrily.

Paracelsus must immediately sense his student’s disappointment, because he immediately steps forward to console him.

“The spagyric art is a fickle one. She will not be mastered by anyone who, on a whim, decides to try and tame her. You must practice. You must feel the force of all the great men who have stood before you, and channel that energy into your studies. I have faith in you, Eddie.”

– X –

Ten summers later, and Edward was eighteen years old and no better at the spagyric art than he was when Paracelsus had begun his education. Edward had been resigned to the position of aid, a status normally reserved for women. He prepared the ingredients, scrubbed the vomit and blood from the floors, and mostly, just stayed out of the way. When his education had stagnated, he had expected Paracelsus to turn him out of the workshop, and condemn him to a life of poverty. But that hadn’t happened. Over the past fourteen summers, Paracelsus had grown rather fond of the rather useless, but sincere boy. He’d watched Edward mature into a kind-hearted earnest young man, and despite his failure to turn base metals into gold, his heart appeared to made of the stuff. Besides, turning Edward away would require training up a new aid which was, quite frankly, too taxing. So Edward remained under the tutelage of Paracelsus, despite never actually applying his theoretical knowledge beyond mixing up the ointments.

Until Richard Tozier walked into the workshop.

– X –

Richard Tozier had the pox.

He assumed he’d caught the pox from one of the women he’d met at the tavern. This is what he told his parents. In reality, Richard knew he’d caught it from the young man he’d been secretly lying with for half a year. Announcing to your mother and father that he’d caught the pox from the local sodomite wouldn’t endear him to his parents any more than his alternative story, so he stuck to that. They wailed and lamented about divine retribution and how his mortal sins were manifesting on his skin. They, of course, send him off to the nearest healers as quick as his pock-marked feet would carry him.

That’s how he found himself standing outside the alchemists workshop, hesitating briefly before landing three swift, sharp knocks on the rickety door.

It opened almost instantly.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

The owner of the voice was small, male and inextricably beautiful. Richard knew that he wasn’t supposed to find men beautiful, and that God must have made a catastrophic error when creating him, but he didn’t much care for convention.

“Uh – Yes. Yes, I’m looking for the healer? The – the alchemist? My body is entirely covered with–”

Richard gestured to his skin, the angry red welts on his skin practically pulsing on his otherwise unblemished skin.

The young man’s eyes widened, before he schooled his face into something Richard assumed was supposed to be apathy, but still looked more like panic than anything else.

“The alchemist is not here presently. You will have to come back another day, when he’s here, which he is not right now, I mean – he isn’t here to help you, you will have to come back”

The young man tried to wedge the door shut in Richard’s face, but Richard managed to stick his leather-clad foot out in time, so that the door could not completely shut.

“Excuse me, but I really must insist that you help me. I cannot go home before I am cured, for I fear that my father would beat me with a rather large stick if I did. Can you not help me? Who are you? Are you the apprentice?” Richard practically begged, nudging the door open slightly by wiggling his foot.

“I suppose I am, technically, but I really cannot – I have never – I have never successfully cured anyone, not on my own. I don’t think I can do this on my own, you really must wait for Paracelsus to return”

“I fear that I might drop down dead on your doorstep. Is that what you want? To have to step over my melancholy, rotting corpse to leave your house? To drag it to a shallow grave, to have to cover my body with–“

“Enough!”

Richard smiled wolfishly, watching the young man’s face contort into a picture of disgust.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I suppose I must”

“There really is no risk, I’m practically dead already.”

– X –

The concoction of herbs and water in the small metal pan bubbled furiously, and Edward’s forehead glistened with a panicked sheen of sweat. He had scrabbled around the workshop hunting for the vial of liquid quicksilver, before finding one lodged in the centre of an old book that Edward had watched Paracelsus pour over night by night, etching complicated alchemical symbols that Edward didn’t recognise into it with a quill. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he looked up at the stranger who was currently sat on the straw mattress. The room was full of thick grey smoke, and the bitter-sweet aroma of burning plant matter. Pouring the solution into a glass bottle, Edward closed his eyes prayed that the cure would work. He had seen Paracelsus anoint hundreds of people with the solution, and he was confident that he could brew the solution with his eyes closed. However, his hands still shook as he carefully brought the small glass bottle over to where the stranger sat.

“My name is Edward, what is your name, Sir?” Edward asked, trying to maintain a strong steadiness in his voice, and only just succeeding.

“Richard Tozier, but my friends call me Rich. You can call me that, if you like”

“So, Richard, have you ever had a quicksilver ointment applied to your body before?” Edward pressed, collecting pieces of somewhat dirty rag that he would use to press the ointment into Richard’s bleeding skin.

“I have not. Why? Am I in for a pleasant surprise?” Richard asked, tone too light-hearted to suggest that he knew what he was about to experience. Edward wordlessly tugged at Richard’s tunic, and Richard tugged it over his head, exposing his torso that was also littered with red welts.

“Not entirely” Edward hummed, pouring some of the foul smelling ointment onto the rag, hesitating for a second, before bringing it to Richard’s skin with an audible gulp.

As predicted, Richard howled like a struck cat.

“Keep still! Sorry – You must keep still, the application process is precarious and it’ll hurt even more if I wipe this on your uninfected skin” Edward snapped, but smoothed the hand that wasn’t holding the quicksilver over Richie’s trembling arm.

“Sorry, sorry. This hurts like nothing I have ever experienced before, and my father dropped me on my head when I was a child” Richard replied, wincing, causing Edward to laugh, loud and bright.

“Ah, that explains why you are … the way you are”

Edward continued to dab the quicksilver ointment onto Richie’s welts, concentrating hard enough that he feared his eyes might pop in their sockets. Richard was almost entirely silent, save for the occasional hiss and whimper. At one point, when Eddie rubbed the ointment on a particularly painful looking welt on Richard’s inner thigh, Richard grabbed Edward’s arm.

“Is this … okay?” Richard asked tentatively, flexing his grip on Edward’s bicep. Edward considered removing the man’s hand, wary of the fact that Paracelsus could walk back in and see his apprentice sat on the floor, between the legs of a pock-marked man, and throw him onto the street in a heap.

Edward didn’t move his hand.

Slowly, and with painstaking precision, Edward continued to apply the ointment to every scab on Richard’s body.

“You’re very quiet, little mouse”

“Mouse?! I am no mouse” Edward cried, sitting back on his heels.

“Well, you have tawny hair and a small nose and I’m sure if I poked you here,” Richard reached over to Edward’s side, giving it an almighty poke and causing Edward to shriek, “Ah yes. You squeak, Sir, exactly like a mouse”.

“I am not a mouse” Edward replied indignantly, but try as he might, his lips twitched at the sides, threatening to bloom.

“Well, what are you then?”

“I am,” Edward paused, before replying, “I am a fox”

“A fox?! Are you cunning, then? Wily and tricksy?”

“I suppose so. I have a vicious bite, so you better be careful or I’ll –“ Edward announced, and gnashed his teeth together, simultaneously a threat and something … different. Something entirely more.

“A vicious bite? Is that a promise?” Richie queried, but the wink he tried to aim at Edward mutated into a scowl as the quicksilver was applied to a scab on his shoulder.

A blanket of quiet settled over them. Edward continued to apply the ointment, and Richard watched him work. After a while, Richard grew tense.

“Edward, can I tell you something?”

“Um, I suppose. What is it?”

“It’s something that you might find repulsive”

“By God’s name, if you ask me to apply this ointment to your …,” Edward gestured vaguely at Richard’s crotch, “I shall force it down your throat”

“…Oh”

“So you were going to ask me to do that?”

“No, well, no I wasn’t but it was … somewhat related”

“Somewhat related to your…,” Edward gestured at Richard’s crotch again, feeling his cheek grow hot with embarrassment.

“No it’s related to me asking you to. It’s – oh, to hell with it, I do not only lie with women”

“Pardon?”

Richard sighed, shifting slightly on the mattress.

“I do not only lie with women”

Edward didn’t say anything, just let Richard’s words hang in the air like low flying birds.

“I lie with men. I like lying with men. It’s … different. In some ways, much better, it’s –“

“Why are you telling me this?” Edward interrupted.

“Because I am probably going to die, and this secret has been consuming me for weeks and … if I didn’t share it with someone I fear I might go mad”

“But why me?”

“Let’s just call it intuition, little mouse”

– X –

“How long have you been an alchemist?”  

“I’m not … I’m not technically an alchemist, for I – It’s complicated, Sir”

“Sir?” Richard quoted, eyebrow raised comically high on his forehead.

“Sorry, force of habit. Paracelsus instructs me to call the patients ‘Sir’”

“Hmmm” Richard hummed, his eyes glinting mischievously, looking ever the trickster.

“What now?”

“I rather like it when you call me Sir”

Edward spluttered then, almost dropping the bottle of ointment. Richard reached out to steady his arm, causing Edward to flinch even more.

“Are you feeling okay, Edward?”

“You are a nightmare, Richard” Edward cursed, but the smile that had fully bloomed on his face suggested otherwise.

– X –

The first time Edward had realised he was different he’d been sitting outside the workshop. The summer sun tingled on his skin, when Robert Greatrakes, the mason’s apprentice, had walked past without a shirt on. He was tugging a small wheeled cart loaded with stones, and Edward’s eyes remained glued to the young man’s body the entire length of the street. The way the muscles of his arms were taut under the strain of the cart. The glossy sheen of sweat covering his back. The way his hair, cropped close to his skull, glistened like molasses.

Something bubbled in Edward’s lower stomach.

He knew what this was. What he was.

– X –

With the ointment applied to every inch of Richie’s inflamed, oozing skin, all they could do was wait. Eddie busied himself cleaning the tools he had used to brew the ointment, as well as carefully replacing the vial of quicksilver into the book where he found it. He hoped that Paracelsus would not notice that it was missing several inches of glittering liquid. Richard is snoring loudly in the corner of the room, body entirely covered in a thin white sheet, with the intention of insulating his body to stimulate the ointment. Still staring at the snoring stranger, Edward absently picked up the glass bottle that had previously contained the quicksilver ointment.

He dropped it.

The bottle splintered into hundreds of tiny glass shards, and Edward flinched, expecting the ointment to have oozed all over the wooden floor.

It hadn’t.

What lay on the floor was a smooth, smallish round lump of what appeared to be solid gold.

Breath clogging his throat like wool, Edward bent down and picked up the small round object. It was entirely solid, and when he tried to crush it in his fist, it didn’t change shape.

Gold.

Edward had created gold.

He hadn’t meant to, of course. It had been a fortunate accident, and should Paracelsus, or indeed anyone, have asked him to re-create this feat he’d be unable. Nevertheless, he had done it. Gold from quicksilver. The ultimate aim of the spagyric art. He had done it.

Richard coughed, and Edward dropped the ball of gold. It rolls under the table.

Suddenly remembering how the gold had come into existence, Edward scrabbled over the vases and pots on the floor until he was standing directly over Richard, who, thankfully, looked normal. He was breathing, the steady, rhythmic puffs of air providing the only sound in the room. His face was somewhat dirty, but otherwise exactly the same as it had been when he’d first come into the workshop.

With shaking fingers, and shaking breath, Edward picked up the corner of the white sheet between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it back gingerly.

The shriek that clawed its way out of Edward’s mouth practically shook the walls of the workshop.

Richard’s body was entirely covered in small crescent shaped gold marks. Where there had been angry red welts, there were now perfectly even, perfectly repeated gold crescents and  Richard’s body was absolutely littered with them. Richard sat up with a start, pressing both hands onto the straw mattress, and suddenly, without warning, Richard was sitting on a solid block of … Gold. It was as if the mattress had always been gold. There was no evidence to suggest that this obscenely large golden cube had ever been made of cloth and straw.

“What – What on Earth … Edward? Edward, what is going on?” Richie demanded, voice quivering as he stood up gingerly.

Edward couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t claw his eyes away from the solid gold mass on the floor and the young man stood in front of it, body shining like an angel.

Richard didn’t appear to notice that he was covered in small golden marks, and Edward couldn’t open his mouth to tell him.

“How … How did you do this? Turn the bed into … gold? The bed is … solid gold? Mercy God, Edward, who are you?”

“Your – your arm, Richard, look at your arm”

“My arm? Never mind my damn arm, look at the – by God’s blood, what has happened to me? What have you done to me?”

Richard was now staring at the gold marks on his arm, face stricken with horror. Edward immediately decided that he’d have to delay Richard, just long enough that so he’d still be here when Paracelsus returned. Paracelsus would know what to do, he’d be able to fix this … whatever this was.

“Richard, you must – you must wait until the alchemist gets back. He will not be long, he is just in the next town. He’ll know what to do, what has happened to – to you. Please sit, please, Richard, I do not want you to panic, I –“

“Hell’s breath! You don’t want me to panic? Pray tell, how am I not to panic when I am covered in these … marks? What have you done? Cursed me? Is this a curse, for – for being a sodomite? You did not have to curse me, vile witch, just refuse to treat me and let me die in a heap like I should have done”

“No!” Edward cried, a hoarse, harsh sound that echoed around the room angrily, “That could not be further from the truth, Richard – Rich, please. Wait, sit. The alchemist will be back soon and he can help you”

Richard grabbed the broom that was lying against the wall of the workshop, and attempted to wield it like a weapon – to protect himself from whatever he assumed Edward was going to do to him. What actually happened, though, was as soon as Richard picked up the broom, it immediately turned to solid gold. Wooden handle, horse hair bristles and all. Completely, and perfectly, rendered in solid gold.

Richard screamed, and dropped the golden broom on the floor, where it landed with a loud clatter.

“By God’s bones, what have you done! You have turned me into some sort of … demon! Stay back, stay back or I’ll send you crawling back to hell, I’ll – I’ll … !”

Before he could finish his sentence, Richard Tozier, cradling his hands against his chest, ran out of the workshop.

– X –

Midas.

The name shot into Eddie’s head like a cannon ball, fast and painful and … Oh.

Midas.

Edward was scrabbling for the copy of pagan mythology on the top shelf of Paracelsus’ bookshelf when he alchemist walked back in.

“Edward? What in God’s name are you doing?”

“HELL!” Edward cried, toppling to the ground from where he was perched on the edge of a bench, the book of pagan mythology clasped tight in his hands.

Paracelsus rolled his eyes fondly, before striding over to where his apprentice was sprawled on the floor. Edward gratefully accepted his extended hand, and Paracelsus hauled him to his feet.

“Care to tell me what required this book so urgently, Eddie?”

Edward had no idea where to start.

Luckily, before he had a chance to speak, Paracelsus noticed the rather inconspicuous golden bed in the corner of the room. The mattress that had once been straw and thread-bear cloth.

“Edward,” Paracelsus said reverently, “Did you … Did you do this?”

“Yes” Edward replied, miserably.

“How?”

“Someone came in while you were out and they – they had the pox and they were so desperate for me to cure them and – and I … I did”

“That doesn’t tell me how the mattress became golden, Edward”

“I couldn’t find any quicksilver at first, but then I remembered the vial you were keeping in the manuscript you’ve been working on, so I … I took that and I … “

“You used … the quicksilver I’ve been keeping in this book?” Paracelsus exclaimed, holding up the leather-bound manuscript. The little vial of quicksilver that Eddie had used rolled out, landing on the table below. It stared up at him.

“Yes”

“Oh, Child… do you know what this is?”

“Quicksilver?”

“This,” Paracelsus held up the vial and shook it slightly in Edward’s face, “This is not just quicksilver. This is the most potent, most volatile form of mercury possible. It will turn almost any base metal to gold. And now, it appears, even materials that are not metal to gold. What happened to the patient, I assume they died? What did you do with the body?”

“Well –”

“And you really must be more careful, Edward. You must have spilt a very large amount of the ointment for the mattress to entirely turn to gold like this”

“Sir!”

“Yes?”

“They didn’t die”

“They didn’t?”

“No and I … I didn’t spill any of the ointment”

“You must have, for how else would …. Oh. Oh, Edward. What have you done?”

Paracelsus ripped the pagan mythology book out of Edward’s trembling hands, and thumped it down on the table. The alchemist flicked to the relevant page, and began scanning the Latin.

Midas, King of Phygia, was unsatisfied. He had riches untold, a great castle, and a beautiful daughter. Despite all this, he still wanted more. More wealth, more gold, more jewels. Midas would spend his days counting his gold, ensuring it was all still there. His greatest love, his greatest passion, his reason for living, all gold.

One day, Dionysus, God of revelry, was travelling through Midas’ kingdom. One of his fellows, Silenus, took a nap in Midas’ rose gardens, unaware that the King took early morning walks in the garden. Sure enough, the King found Silenus, and invited him in to feast at the castle. After the feast, Midas took Silenus back to Dionysus, who was so grateful for the safe return of his friend, he promised to fulfil Midas’ greatest wish. Immediately, Midas decided that he desired everything he touched to become gold. Dionysus pleased with the King to think about the consequences of his wish, but the King demanded that his wish be fulfilled. Dionysus resigned, and promised that from the next day, everything that Midas touched would turn to gold.

“So?” Edward fretted, “What does it say?”

“I think, my dear boy, you gave this patient the Midas touch”

“I swear on my own life that it was an accident”

“I know, I know. Without being needlessly cruel, Edward, you are not skilled enough to have done this on purpose”

“What happened then?”

“I fear that … I fear that someone, or something … intervened”

Edward started to panic.

“What do you mean, something?”

Paracelsus clicked his tongue, a well-practiced indication that Edward was not to push his mentor.

“Do not let that concern you, child. You let that concern me. Now, who was this patient?”

“His name was Richard”

“Richard? It wasn’t the Tozier’s boy, was it?”

“I’m not sure sir. He had wild curly hair and squinted a lot, if that sounds familiar? He also had a rather … peculiar sense of humour”

“Ah. Has to have been the Tozier lad. Now, Edward, what I need you to do is go and pay a visit to the Tozier’s and ask Richard to come back to visit me. I’ll have to – I’ll have to try and cure him, I suppose”

“Only try?”

“Well, as much as I am the greatest alchemist this side of Europe, I cannot perform miracles. Now, go and get the boy and I’ll try and correct your mistake.”

“But –”

“Go! Before I chase you out with –“ Paracelsus reached for the broom that was stood behind the door, “This rather magnificent golden broom. Shoo!”

Edward ran.

[davey-dammit]

Fashion often changes in broad, pendulum-like swings, and this is a good example of the phenomenon. But while the question is deceptively simple, the answer is complex, because it involves explaining several social and historical convergences. Bear with me, if you will, and I hope all will become clear: In the early 70's, there came about, pretty abruptly, a strong visual backlash against the electric, high-chroma,"psychedelic" colour palette that was such an iconic feature of the late 60's hippie culture; in short, the style got old very fast. The reasons were multiple: America was now deep in a quagmire of war; thousands were being drafted and returning home in coffins, mere weeks after their induction; protesters were being beaten and jailed; every day, the newspapers (!) revealed our leaders to be ever more egregiously stupid crooks, liars and fools. Madness and anarchy seemed to lie around every corner. Somehow all that celebratory, fun, acid-saturated colour now seemed ... silly and self-indulgent. It became as inappropriate as wearing a "Smile" t-shirt to a schoolbus rollover. And all the gentle social upheaval and genial questioning of institutional values that those bright colours once cheekily promised? Well, they no longer carried much appeal. In fact, they seemed frightening - just more uncertainty and conflict, in already uncertain and conflicted times. People were suddenly in the visual mood for something more muted, contemplative and restrained. The faintly mournful "autumn" colour palette - dark orange, oxblood, copper, brown, harvest gold, avocado green - filled that need so well that, as you point out, it literally became symbolic of the decade. Perhaps simply because it reminded folks of a less complex time, when subtle, visually digestible, vegetable-based dyes coloured our surroundings, rather than incomprehensible, knock-your-eyes-out chemical pigments (whose colours were actually meant to approximate the livelier visual effects of a hallucinogenic experience!). Concurrently with the shift in colour preferences, smaller, meticulously repeated patterns once again began to appear on fabrics and wallpapers, as sharp stylistic counterpoint to the free-form, Yellow Submarine-esque, "supergraphic rainbow" visuals that had overwhelmed every available wall surface during the previous decade. Those autumn colours also thematically supported, and were cross-fertilized by, the decade's nascent "natural" movement. Still inspired by the lofty ideals of their older siblings' recently failed hippie paradigm, and boosted by the first vague stirrings of the modern ecology movement, '70s boomers forsook (at least temporarily) their parents' blatant consumerim, and instead embraced the generationally dormant, homespun handicrafts of their grandparents: macramé, crochet, bargello, weaving, leatherworking, cutting down old beer bottles into drinking glasses. The handicrafts they created and proudly decorated their homes with were mostly made from organic materials, so they just looked better when surrounded with earth-tone colours. Chromatic colour was out, because it detracted from the workmanship - which was, after all, what differentiated handmade-and-unique from factory-extruded and common. This attitudinal shift towards muted, "homemade" colour and texture, and away from slick, obviously industrial colours and finishes was, at least in part, probably a subconscious side-effect of the 70's generation's fast-growing resentment of both the politician-buying industrial complex, and its ongoing material support for a war they despised. (Yes, the war ended in '75, but resentments lingered.) It was, if you will, a form of protest, or boycott: a generation's tentative, somewhat pathetic attempt to re-exert control over their own visual destiny, and to wrest whatever tiny part of their environment they still could, away from the overbearing and apparently malignant industrial and commercial forces that were threatening to overwhelm them socially, financially and politically. At the same time as these colour and design changes took hold in home decor, people began gradually shifting their wardrobes back to natural wools and cottons. After a decade and a half of collecting increasingly slinky, shiny, uncomfortable, odiferous and obviously synthetic garments - which were themselves a pendulum-swing away from the ossified white-cotton-shirt, gray-flannel-suit ethos of the two decades following WWII, the fabric-choice pendulum was again swinging back. And in clothing, as in interior design, autumnal, natural colours were generally seen to be more complementary to natural materials than chromatic colours. That all being said (whew!), the prevalence of the autumnal palette wasn't really as all-encompasing as retro media like That 70's Show would have us believe. (Btw, what was up with the anachronistic, so-90's, industrial loft-tech, cheese-grater kitchen lights? Obvious clanger.) Designers frequently go kind of over-the-top when they try to recreate a period look, a generation or more later. Frankly, even Mad Men, though certainly very well researched, is visually a little overbearing in its representation of the period; after all, not everything in the Sixties was of the Sixties; some of it hailed from the Fifties and Forties, even the Thirties. Just as we still occasionally see an 80's wood panelled Buick land-shark station wagon in the Walmart parking lot, or a suitcase-sized VCR parked under a friend's tube TV, I long to see a cheap postwar suit on some poor agency schlub who supervises the steno pool. Instead, everybody wears Brooks Brothers. All the time. It is also instructive to realize that within any fashion era "look" you'd care to examine, competing visual ideas constantly jousted with one another for dominance. Visual style is a roiling river, not a still pond. Remember that the "natural, homespun" 70's were also the era that gave birth to platform boots for men, polyester lounge suits, "designer" jeans, disco, the New York Dolls, foil wallpaper, smoked glass coffee tables, naugahyde sofas, spherical stereo speakers, shag carpet, gold-veined mirror tiles, chrome overhead lamps, and pink Christmas trees; and may God forgive my generation for those particular stylistic trespasses. For further proof, take another look at Goodfellas, with an eye to the set decoration and costumes; it is a veritable omnibus of questionable 70's design. (And a showcase for some very clever designers!) Next instalment: why the theme colours of the late '50s and early '60s were red, pastel green, chrome yellow and teal, and why commercial printers suddenly stopped putting type into straight lines. Source: Lived through it all. Also, history of design in theatre school.

theartfulcodger (reddit post from 2014)

A really well thought out and interesting answer to the question “Does anyone really know why brown and orange were so popular in the 70s?”

[littlehungrywarrior]

Absolutely go into more detail! Hand me the chromosomes and Punnett squares, I'm ready

TIME FOR INHIBITOR AND WIDEBANDING

There are a LOT of cat colours caused by the interactions of Inhibitor, Widebanding, and various tabby/non-tabbies. 

While Inhibitor is pretty well-understood, Widebanding isn’t so much. That’s partially because Inhibitor is a monogenetic dominant trait whereas Widebanding is polygenetic and only generally believed to be mostly-dominant. 

You probably already know how tabbies work but I’ll briefly cover it anyway. Tabbies “are” the colour of their stripes; the colour in-between the stripes is made up of agouti hairs, which are banded. 

The non-stripe hairs are not actually lighter or different in colour - just striped with a brown-yellow colour. 

That being said, tabbies of the same “base” colour can appear warmer or colder thanks to polygenetic factors which increase or decrease phaeomelanin in the bands. This is most obvious in eumelanin-base (B/black-based) cats: 

^ both black/“brown” tabbies, the latter has much higher rufousing/more phaeomelanin. 

This is important to know because of what Inhibitor and Widebanding do not to the cat overall, but to the cat’s individual hairs. 

In short: Inhibitor restricts/inhibits pigment at the base of the hair but allows it at the tip, and Widebanding widens the bands. So, Inhibitor makes the hair paler, and Widebanding makes the pale-ness bigger. 

Due to Widebanding being polygenetic and semi-recently discovered, and that we don’t know how to detect it aside from using our eyes, there’s a little bit of debate about whether silver tabbies have Widebanding. Regardless, silver tabbies definitely have (and are defined by) their Inhibitor. 

^ This kitten would be a “brown” tabby - with brown between the stripes - if not for their Inhibitor paling the yellow-brown into something that appears to be white-ish. 

As Inhibitor is independent of our 2 (or 3 depending on how u look at it) main base loci, ANY cat colour can be silver: 

Of course, in order to get those lovely stripes, we need…stripes. So what if an I/- cat is a/a? 

Something gorgeous happens. 

Without any agouti hairs to cling to, Inhibitor affects the whole pelt - leading to every hair throughout the cat having just one pale band near the base. This type of cat is called a “smoke.” 

Because each hair has just one band, when the cat’s hair lies short and flat, you can see “ghost” stripes. 

How well you can see these stripes is called “veiling.” This is most likely the effect of several modifiers. 

A longhair, however… 

It’s hard for me to find the words to describe the physics of what’s happening here but I hope I’ve done an acceptable job. The cat’s hair is longer and poofier around the chest so you can see those base bands better, and the ghosts blend together until they’re invisible (you know, like a longhair tabby tends to). You can still see the ghost stripes on their shorter-haired less-poofy legs. 

As you also probably know, phaeomelanin is a weak-ass pigment and a/a doesn’t really affect it. Even non-tabby gingers LOOK like tabbies… Thus, red smokes do exist, but they don’t look too different from red tipped tabbies. 

they’re called “cameos”: 

Wideband on its own, meanwhile, just makes those yellow-brown bands super long, making some sick-ass “golden series” cats of various kinds. 

Most notably, golden tabbies: 

and golden shadeds/shaded goldens: 

They also mix and create these gorgeous monstrosities who have no business containing no genetic white whatsoever: 

This bastard’s fur consists of so much pale-ass bands from a combo I/I Wb/Wb that they look white as a ghost. But no. This cat’s genes have never seen a piebald in their life. Wd? S? Fuck you. I’m a chinchilla. 

(usually chinchillas look more like this but people get NUTS with the selective breeding.) 

And just like with Inhibitor, Widebanding is independent of our 2 (or 3???) base loci, so ANY colour cat can be golden or chinchilla. however: 

1. it’s hard to find exotically-coloured (lilac, fawn, etc) golden cats bc Wideband on its own is relatively rare and breeders are picky bastards, and 2. red smoke more or less doesn’t exist. it exists genetically but they don’t look all that different, as explained earlier 

Here’s one of my favorite cats EVER: 

Lilac-golden lynx point siamese. Look at that. Look at how GORGEOUS that is. Look at her NOSE. I’m gonna die, 

Anyway Inhibitor and Widebanding are probably my favorite cat genes bc they’re so stupidly complicated and nobody fully understands them and there’s like 7-8 names to memorize and similar-looking phenotypes to decipher between just from the interactions of Thing 1 and Thing 2 fucking around over here. 

I highly recommend this chart:

found at Messybeast, which is a really great source for this sort of stuff (but of course go other places too). 

Feel free to come back for more cat genetics!!! I can go into other stuff if ya want or answer questions about this, whathaveya