#[I should do a sketch of his scars if only to give myself an actual visual to help figure em out]

[dragonofthestone]

@lunaferrous asked:

scars, chronic

scars:  how many scars does my muse have? where are they located on my muse’s body? how did they get them? what do they look like? 

Alright so given his unique body and it's heightened ability to heal you might think that would mean a lack of scars. Quite the opposite in fact, as while his body may does heal faster then the average person and given enough time has a better chance of surviving from potentially fateful wounds it still heals in much the same ways any living creature (barring like magic / anything that can go beyond natural limits like the Philosopher's stone or something)

It does take a little more for his body to form a scar- so something that may leave someone with only a small / faint scar would probably heal up fine with no scarring.

He has a lot of scars,

the most prominent of course being the one over his eye- the how is something that tends to vary depending on verse, typically it's one of the many acquired during his time as a lab rat.

Although in time he had no trouble healing from the injury not even his healing was capable of repairing the damage done to his eye.

The nerves around that side of his face are kinda screwy- there's a few small spots where in he actually has no feeling, while others are a bit more sensitive to touch.

It's not a clean scar to say the least, the skin is patchy and scarring actually makes it hard to hold it all the way open so most of the time he keeps it closed- also because the tear ducts / eyes general ability to keep wet is kinda fucked so keeps it protected/avoids drying out.

(Modern verse- it was an injury recieved when he got caught in the blast of an old detonated mine that killed his little bro)

He's got a lot of scars all over his body, many being quite faint / not as noticeable as others, remains of the many different experiments. Some were from genuine accidents, an experiment gone wrong or results no one had expected. Others were more intentional as part of an experiment with wanting to be able to see the extent of not only what he could heal from but how long it would take. Or simply as a result from wanting to see how he'd react to certain stimuli,

and of course more then once pitting him against another Chimera (or worse Alchemist) to see how he could handle in a fight.

He does have one sizable scar on the back of one of his calves from when he fell out of a tree as a kid and got a rather nasty cut from a tree branch

Slightly less obvious are some faint areas of scarring caused by the Alchemical process. For most alchemy when a transmutation is done that changes the form of something it leaves behind a trace, so why wouldn't the same be true for Chimera? Typically they aren't to noticeable often hidden by fur or feathers, hidden among the textures and patterns of their skin or perhaps in a place most wouldn't notice.

For Tim most of those marks are generally hidden by clothes, the largest and likely most noticeable is on his back near the base of his tail. At a glance it really looks just like a slightly discoloured patch of skin that if touch has a slightly different feel then other parts of his body.

(Do Mental/psychological scars count? He's got a bucket load of those too lol)

chronic: does my muse have any chronic health conditions / illnesses? how do these affect them from day-to-day? 

Coming as a surprise to no one who's spent anytime on this blog (or around Tim) He suffers heavily from Chronic pain, his worst/most problematic areas being his hands, one may commonly see him rubbing his hands usually by the wrist, and back- mostly lower back especially the closer you get to where his tail connects- which in combination with general balance problems is why his posture isn't always great.

But those are just the worst sources of pain and frequently deals with joint and/or muscle pains else where. Such as his eye which sometimes he'll just get bad phantom pains from it- due to the rather messed nerve signals around there.

He's not one to complain about his discomforts whether it be from the innate animal instinct to not show weakness / hide the pain or simply not wanting to cause any one unneeded worry and be a bother. Like a lot of medication, pain management treatments tend to be a gamble on whether or not they'll be of any affect to him, he does tend to respond better to more natural remedies, herbal stuff and the like you know. Heat / warmth go along way to help ease the pain, another reason you'll find him seeking out the warmest spots.

Most days it's manageable enough that even if not pleasant it's at a level he's become accustomed too and can deal with.

One can usually judge his pain levels by how active he's being, less active or less willing to be active assuming there's no other potential outside factors, the more pain he's in that day. If it's really bad he may also come across as a bit snippier then normal and just in general has a lower tolerance for certain things

Storms are no fun and tend to make it worse is frequently when the pain to his eye will flare up too- which does often make him a decent predictor on whether bad weather is coming.

headaches/migraines aren't uncommon for him either.

Pain isn't the only issue,

His other main health problem would be his Chronic insomnia -if not having full Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (I'm hesitant to officially drop the label on him but just various symptoms/signs of it a lot of the things very much apply to him at the very least he's borderline)

Some nights he just won't/can't sleep at all, and when he can/does will often frequently wake up.

Now in part it is once again another trouble created from his Chimeric design, with an internal clock that's more suited to Crepuscular bordering Nocturnal in combination with being an attempt at wanting someone/ a creature that could go without sleep for extended periods. Add on chronic pain plus nightmares and you've got a nest recipe for one sleepless guy, and is why you may frequently find him taking short naps through out the day.

Much like with pain the only truly affective remedy tends to be natural ones, such as drinking Valerian tea.

Has some mild lung problems do to scarring- which again can be attributed to alchemy and his creation process, because forcefully changing something into a form it was never meant to be is damaging (imperfect as it is the Pseudo, half-baked attempt at stone in his body is quite honestly probably the only thing that's saving him/his body from just rejecting itself- like a body rejecting an organ after a transplant)

It doesn't cause him too much problems for the most part- both stamina and endurance are in the above average range but it does take him a bit long to catch his breath and can get winded easier then one might expect. The cold, especially cold, dry air plays havoc with it.

Also affecting his breathing is the fact his heart isn't exactly in the right place, it's sort of pushed more to the right, closer to center of his chest kinda, which creates pressure against his lungs/makes everything else all wonky.

Quite honestly Tim's a medical marvel not for being a Chimera but simply for the fact that he's not dead.

You can probably also add his laundry list of Mental Health issues here too if you want.

[literallyjusttoa]

Finally got around to doing this, here are some rough sketches of my idea of how Lester looks each book! Some books are more different than others, like I don't think much changed between books 1 and 2, but I had fun doing this! Look under the cut for some notes about things I added for each design.

Book 1: Not much changes from how he's described in the books. All of the clothes he borrowed from Percy are a bit too big for him, but the flannel he borrowed from Will fits pretty well, only being slightly too long (I think Will has like, an inch over Lester)

Book 2: Basically the same as book 1 Lester. He keeps the flannel Will gave him, but it gets pretty beat up over the course of this book so he has to switch it out before book 3 :(. Hair is just a lil bit longer, and he gets clothes that fit a bit better. Headcanon time bc if Rick won't give me substantial Thalia and Apollo interaction I'll make it myself: Thalia gives Lester archer's gloves at the end of TDP, which he wears for the rest of the series. He didn't even think to wear gloves bc as a god he wouldn't need them, but Thalia noticed his beat up to shit hands at the Waystation and went "bestie... bestie no...." and gave him a pair.

Book 3: Will's flannel has been swapped for a big coat and Lester get his iconic pink camo pants. His hair is long enough to start getting weighed down a bit, and also way messier bc he's been in the labyrinth for like a month. The beat up sneakers he was wearing in books 1 & 2 get replaced with much more reasonable boots. Eyebrow scar shows up, a reminder from one of the many concussions this poor man has suffered. Also another HC time! Georgie gives Lester a little handkerchief that he wears for the rest of the series (I was gonna use Paolo's handkerchief, but Lester canonically gives that back so boo)

Book 4: The Lester looks like shit book /j. His hair is now long enough that he should really be doing something with it but he is not. He has a zip up hoodie now to cover up all his fun purple veins. Just more beat up in general honestly. Also I hc that Apollo actually lost some weight here (both bc he wasn't really eating well before getting to New Rome bc of stress/grief, and bc he got really sick and continued to not eat well while that was happening) But it obviously doesn't do anything to help his self-esteem or mood in this book. Kind've a visual way of being like "the superificial flaws Apollo clung to in the first book weren't the real issue, he was just hyperfixating on them to distract himself from what he was really upset about, so when the superficial issues get solved he doesn't even notice bc he's grown enough as a character to cut the bullshit and focus on what's really bothering him." or idk something like that. I like to contrast this with a hc I've mentioned before about the time between books 4 and 5, which is that the physical flaws Apollo whined about in book 1 (i.e. the acne and his weight) get "worse" throughout the road trip from California to New York, but Apollo truly just does not care that much about that shit anymore and that's why it doesn't come up in the narration.

Book 5: Final Lester! It's been over a month since the last book so I'm taking liberties and saying Lester's hair is long enough to pull up now bc I want him to be able to do that goddammit. Final outfit is borrowed from Percy again, so that's why it's so big. He also has a pendant that Lavinia gave to him bc they're besties. Also I forgot to mention it, but his shoulders are slightly broader here (and have been getting broader throughout the series) bc he's been working those muscles so much with the constant archery.

Also I didn't draw his quiver bc honestly I forgor, but I like to imagine he's been getting little pins and bobs from a lot of his friends that he's been sticking on his quiver strap. A few examples that come to mind are:

Kayla: A classic hot topic pin with a sun with sunglasses on it.

Leo: A pin made of scrap metal with the alchemical symbol for fire carved in.

Agave: Pinned a clover to Apollo's quiver for good luck. It didn't stay on there long, but it was the thought that counted.

Hazel: A piece of citrine decorated with metal cords.

Lavinia: Another classic hot topic pin, this one is heart shaped and has a picture of Hatsune Miku on it.

Jason: One of the monopoly houses he'd been using to mark the positions for the temples. A lot of the little houses had fallen off the diorama during the car crash at the beginning of TTT. The night after, Apollo asked Reyna if he could make sure the diorama was fixed. Reyna agreed, and he put it back together based on what he remembered. He spent an hour or so gluing on houses and hotels for Mars, Somnus, Fons, Salus, and on and on, until he got to the last one. A red hotel meant to show where the temple of Apollo would go. Apollo poked a little hole in it, and fastened it to his quiver with a bobby pin. It's nestled close to where the strap meets the quiver itself, so it's less likely to fly off.

Meg: Pinned a rose petal to his quiver right before he went to fight Python. It lasted for even less time than Agave's clover did, but again, it was the thought that counted.

[karaokebearwithal]

Mutuals Mutuals Come one COME ALL!!!

Put your various sona's and appendages together for the unveiling of a lil' something I've been working on while being distracted from animating Dame Aylin's wings (Its long, hard, fun as all hell but the concentration required to do so seems physically impossible for a beast of my genus)

I drew all my moots tavs/pseudo-companions!!! It took a bit, but it was well worth it! Everyone's design is so unique and fun to figure out. (10 is a big number of moots)((which I am very grateful to have :3)) So without Further Ado!!! (there will be so much more Ado):

(page break cuz the images are 400x400 each but 10 times, I also go on for a bit about how much I like each Tav/pseudo-companion character) ((if anyone can give me tips on how to size pieces in a normal style digitally i'd be very grateful))

First of all is Sivvus the Fey Prince (he/him)! This elusive Eladrin Tav belongs to @thedomesticanthropologist! A gorgeous yet seemingly cold-hearted druid who tends to keep his cards close to his chest. Though if you want the challenge you can see for yourself if you can try and get close to him to see if Sivvus is as closed off as he seems to be. To be quite honest, Sivvus really grew on me. A very fancy Eladrin with a high society (fey society) upbringing ( with very good looking mood boards to match) and the like only for him to be thrust into the bg3 world with a worm to boot. He is charming! Also his backstory? <3 Defienetly go read it! 10/10 would draw the snob again :)

Second off we have Gum (He/They)! A Githyanki Cleric of Mystra. Being @piipaw's Tav you'd find this charming fruit lover trying to live a peaceful life after escaping from the creche that raised them. I like Gum a lot as the concept of a githyanki trying to find their own way in Faerun while also having no idea about any of the social customs is very gripping to me. I recommend greatly to check out the blog for Gum fics, fanart and a very cool moot . :)

Next is H'rayn of Verkos (she/her)! Now different from all the character's I drew, H'rayn is not a Tav! She's actually a pseudo-companion character with a lotta lore and history! She even has her own quest, party banter, approval and disapproval things. It's the whole deal!! @githkisser made an amazing post all about H'rayn . If you want a ton of indepth and fun info that's really really well documented, I cannot overstate how much you should it check out! I find myself going back to learn more about H'rayn as she really is as well thought out as in game companions! It's quite fun thinking up of ways tavs can interact with her and the art is mwah!!! very good indeed :3

4th! Tavern (Tav) the Bard! (they/them) This darling bard ran away from the circus.....from birth! Created by @avocado-writing, Tavern plays their way into your heart with their silly antics, warm heart and eldritch pocket dimension in their chest!

Tavern is a doll to doodle and I am amped to draw them even more in the future. The heterochromia and the inclusion of instruments does make them a fun challenge (i will draw instruments accuratley with these paws eventually). Go check them out!! :D

5th! Hvinidyr the Barbarian (he/him)! @star-bear-art (I just realised after all this we aren't actually mutuals. Which is funny since we kinda have the same name and theme with the bear thing XD) If you wanna see wonderous art of Hvinidyr as well as the other companions, go look right over here!

Winnie (Hvinidyr) has a lot of forms depending on the time period you wanna look at. The one I chose was the most recent with the large scar tissue all over the left (right? I'm horrible at directions, my paws don't make an L shape for me to tell). He was really fun to sketch out (and probably later colour in) and has a really unique design that I appreciate :)

6th Vierlin the Enchantment Wizard (and a lil' bit rouge)!!!(she/her) @sybaritick's Tav!!! Now!! This classic drow has a keen intrest in enchantment magic, teaching her crafts to nobles in Amn. After the whole tadpole fiasco, she also finds another use for her multitude of arcane skills. Most notabley depicted with a local wizard.

Now I won't get ahead of myself here but the fics that Sybaritick wrote about Vierlin are like....licking a warm pan of thickened maple syrup or a fancy meat meal with so much demi-glaze you're left smacking your lips for at least 20 mins after eating. Its indulgent. And I couldn't recommend it enough!! Read it!! (it took me a good 8 times to get the 'ie' part of Vierlin's name right, the letters look the same to me)

7th Fink the Spores Druid (they/them) belonging to @causticcontemplation! They're a pretty short Tav a 2.5ft and have a whole modern AU fic about them!!! You can read all about it here! (the pun name is amazing!)

I found it cool to use the fic to figure out how to colour them in, I ended up sending an anon ask instead and it helped great! Lovely Tav 10/10!

8th Korydass the Druid!! (She/her)!!! Conjured by @cfcreative, this seemingly non-emotive bronze dragonborn lights a spark in viewers as her tail and love for nature portrays otherwise. Art of Kory is many and also very good. Reading through her lore is fun watching her dynamics with the different origin characters change as she opens up to the party.

Now I do have slight bias, I like drawing Kory the most since her head shape is less humanoid. It's just so satifying, also her design is crazy awesome to work with so all around its great recommend I like her a lot :3

9th Asheera the Paladin (she/her) produced by @optiwashere.

To be quite honest I wouldn't even have a blog if it wasn't for Asheera's fics. They are EXCELLENT. If you want to go through a journey of a half orcs struggles, successes and gripping romance with Shadowheart, VAULT YOURSELF into Opti's A03 page and devour. You will have negative regrets about it just like I! Asheera is great I love her a lot I am the most normal about her.

(I'll keep it brief since this post is long enough to cross a river)

10th Quin the Bard (he/him) composed by @quinthebard (who'd have known?)

This darling plucky bard is the star of an ongoing comic that is very dynamic and very gripping. (My fave panel is this one). Despite being 100, Quin still maintains his joyful and kind nature when traveling with the tadpole gang.

Definetly one of the most friendlies Tavs out of all the ones i've drawn. (he was also the first i drew out of all of these!) He's a delight!! Go check him out! Thanks to all my moots for giving permission, having such great characters and being such lovely moots! <3 <3 <3

(Any pronouns or other changes that want be changed, feel free to DM about it. I love those! )

[novaiya]

The Portrait of Charles Smith - Charles x Reader

Summary: Based on this request: Can I get Charles catching the reader drawing him? I feel like it’d be so cute to see him all bashful n embarrassed that someone finds him attractive enough to make art of. 

Words: 1369

Warnings: None.

A/N: Guess who just finished the Picture of Dorian Gray and is now making it her entire personality.

Your pencil was making swift strokes on the paper as your eyes flicked between the journal on the table and your subject. You watched his arms, muscular and thick, swing down as he chopped through a log. He used the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat from his forehead, and then reached out for another log, placing it down and once again chopping through it.

You enjoyed watching Charles work, doing different tasks around the camp such as cutting logs for the firewood, fixing up the old wagon or taking care of the horses. He did all those things with grace and ease that always captivated you and that’s why you were drawing him now. The way he was swinging down the ax captured your attention, the way his muscles flexed, and you couldn’t help but get out your journal, quickly scribbling down before he finished his chore.

“Drawing him again, aren’t you?”

You almost jumped out of your chair when you heard Tilly’s voice behind you. You were so engrossed in your thoughts and your art that you didn’t hear her approach you from behind.

“Tilly,” you breathed out, your hand on your chest, “You can just sneak up on people like that.”

“Sorry,” she said with a smile that said she really wasn’t.

You tried to discreetly push your journal to the side, but Tilly was quicker, snatching it away and looking over your sketch. You tried to pry it from her hands, but her grip was solid, and if you kept fumbling with her, you were bound to bring more attention to the two of you. So instead you huffed and turned your head to the side, not wanting to see her face as she looked over your drawing of Charles.

She said your name, making you turn back towards her. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You have to show it to him!”

“I can’t, Tilly,” you said, shaking your head. “I have put too much of myself into it.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he sees the drawing, he’ll surely understand how I feel about him.” You took the journal from Tilly’s hands and looked over the sketch that you’ve done so far. “Every line that I have drawn is like a love confession. This drawing is nothing if not a love letter to him.”

“Love letters are meant to be sent, not kept in the sender’s possession.”

“That, you might be right about,” you said, closing your journal. You looked in the direction where Charles was chopping the logs, but he was gone now. You’d have to find another opportunity to finish the portrait.

It was a few days later when an opportunity presented itself. You have just finished your chores for the day, and saw Charles by the hitching posts, tending to the horses. He was, as always, engrossed in his work, oblivious to you as you took a seat in by a tree nearby, taking out your journal and drawing him.

The shade from the tree kept you cool and safe from the sun's rays as you sat against it. With the journal in your lap and the pencil in your hands, you went to work, continuing where you left off. The portrait, at that point, was almost finished, it just needed some minor alterations with the shading and the details.

Charles was none the wiser, you thought, as you kept looking at him, memorizing every detail that made him him and transporting it onto the paper. When you told Tilly that every line that you drew was like a love confession, you weren’t exaggerating. If someone was to see the portrait, they would easily tell that it was made by someone who loved Charles. The attention to details, to every freckle, wrinkle and scar, could only be done by someone who loved the subject, loved Charles.

“Tilly was right, it is a beautiful portrait.”

Your head snapped up to where the voice came from. Charles was leaning against the tree, looking down at you, a soft smile on his lips. You could practically feel your face heat up and your heart beat wildly against your rib cage. The mix of embarrassment and surprise that flooded through your veins was so strong, you felt you were gonna faint.

You turned to look at your journal, and then at Charles, stammering and trying to think of something to say. Should you apologize? Give him the drawing? Mount one of the horses and ride out into the sunset?

In the distance, the sound of camp could be heard; a mix of chatter, arguments, and laughter. But where the two of you were, it was quiet, and Charles swore he could hear the sound of your heartbeat against your chest.

He sat down next to you so he could better look at the journal in your hands. The drawing was indeed beautiful, just like Tilly said a few days ago. She pulled him away from his chores to tell him about the portrait that you’ve been drawing, and how beautiful it was and that he should see it. He thought that she might’ve been pulling his leg. A portrait of him? Who would in their right mind spend time to draw him, of all the people, he thought. Seems that that person is you.

After a moment of silence, you mustered up the courage and said, “Do you like it?”

He chuckled and replied, “I do, but…” he trailed.

“But?”

“It’s too beautiful, and I’m anything but that.”

“The portrait doesn’t lie, Charles. I simply captured what I saw.”

Both of you were surprised at your boldness, and Charles asked, “Is this how you see me?”

Charles wasn’t the most confident man when it came to his looks. He was confident in his strength, in his intelligence and his skills, but beauty wasn’t one of them. He was okay, he thought, not the worse, but also not handsome by any standards. So to see this portrait, and see the love with which it was drawn, to see all the details that you paid attention to such as his scars, his lips, his eyes, it struck him.

After a moment of silence you replied, “It is, Charles. You’re beautiful, don’t deny it.”

Despite seeing the portrait you’ve drawn, he was still surprised to actually hear you say it. The words left him speechless, and he found himself averting his gaze, a light shade of pink already making its way to his cheeks.

The effect of your words didn’t go unnoticed by you. You reached out and placed your hand on his cheek, turning his attention back to you. How could he think he was not beautiful, you couldn’t understand. You traced a scar on his cheek with your fingers; you wondered where he got it. You took liberty, and traced his lower lip with your thumb; his lips were big and plump, and you have caught yourself way too many times thinking about how they’d feel against your own, the same thought now coming back full force.

You wetted your lips by an instinct, the act not going unnoticed by Charles who kept his eyes on you the entire time. You raised your gaze, and your eyes met. The air was thick with tension as you inched closer towards each other, more and more, until you met, your lips colliding against each other.

Your imagination couldn’t do this moment justice; it felt so much better than anything you could imagine. His lips were soft and gentle against yours, and the kiss itself was nothing if not tender and soothing. Your journal fell on the ground, forgotten, as your hands made their way to Charles’ hair, tangling your fingers in his locks and bringing him closer to you, deepening the kiss. One of his own hands was on your cheek, caressing your skin, wanting nothing more than to memorize the feeling of you.

If the two of you weren’t busy exploring each other’s mouths, you’d see, in the distance, Tilly smiling to herself, proud of her work as a cupid. You’d have to thank her later, she thought. Maybe you could draw her a portrait.

[twh-news]

Interview: Makeup Artist Douglas Noe on Loki’s Looks Through the Years & Creating Anew for ‘Loki’ [EXCLUSIVE]

Douglas Noe has been in Hollywood for three decades. An award-winning makeup artist, he’s worked on projects such as World War Z, Planet of the Apes, Spider-Man 3, I Saw the Light, and Birth of a Nation. On top of these impressive credits, he’s also been Tom Hiddleston’s personal makeup artist since joining the MCU in The Avengers, designing all of the looks for Loki’s subsequent appearances.

Noe has been nominated for three Emmys with one win, and five Makeup Artist and Hairstylist (MUAHS) Awards resulting in two MUAHS awards. His skills include creating making natural and period looks, prosthetics, hair, and tattoos.

Along with being the head of the makeup department for the most recent Disney+ series Loki, Noe is also creating looks for the new Netflix comedy series True Story starring Kevin Hart and Wesley Snipes.

We had a chance to chat with Douglas Noe about his work on Loki, The Avengers, the incomparable value of teamwork on set, and most importantly, Richard E. Grant.

Nerds and Beyond: So you started your Marvel journey with The Avengers, but what drew you to your field in the first place? And how did you get your start?

Douglas Noe: Star Wars was a huge influence to me as a young boy, both sketching and drawing, and a little bit of sculpting but not much. Cut to 1983, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” comes out and I find a magazine called Fangoria on the newsstands where I can order blood and wax and pencils and fake hair. So, I started playing with these things. I was also taken with the horror movie craze that was happening in the early 80s — Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th, and others, obviously.

In High School, in 1984, I joined choir thinking I would get an easy credit, but my voice had not changed. So the choral instructor had been waiting for a boy soprano to do a theatrical opera presentation. So with that I sang the lead, I quit choir after that, because my peers were merciless, but, I learned the world of theatrical makeup which I hadn’t been introduced to.

I did years of theater. I went to a performing arts high school — it’s called Fort Hayes School for the Performing Arts in Columbus, Ohio — graduated, went to beauty school, and continued working in Ohio doing industrial, commercial, theater, and opera [makeup]. Worked for Maybelline and Revlon, got restless, worked in Cincinnati on my first film in the summer of 1990, it was July so 31 years ago, A Rage in Harlem. And my boss said you come to Los Angeles, I’ll make sure you get on your feet.

Nerds and Beyond: So you mentioned that it’s been about 31 years since your career started, what’s changed over the course of those 30 years in your field?

Douglas: How much time do we have? I’d say the biggest, biggest change would probably be the way we make these things now. Although another large change, more specific, would be the materials that we use. There’s a constant evolution and reinvention of almost all aspects of the materials that a makeup artist uses. That said, I have to shine a light on the way we do things now with the onset of digital and digital cameras. Shooting on film now has almost completely fallen by the wayside. Film was very forgiving, quite frankly, and now it’s not so forgiving. And because of that, the bar has been raised. The wonderful thing about this journey is watching my peers just get better and better and better, my colleagues rising to meet the challenge of not having anything to hide from with this new way we make films.

Nerds and Beyond: So, sometimes you kind of throw prosthetics to the wayside in favor of a more traditional makeup. How do you make that decision on which one to go with?

Douglas: That’s an excellent question. The decision is based purely on what are we going to see. That’s where I start, what is the lighting? I have a conversation with the director of photography and I find out what is the dynamic. Obviously, I know from the script whether it’s an interior or exterior, or if we’re exterior but we’re going to be on a stage, if it’s day or night. These variables all play into my decision as to whether or not I should rely on my theatrical experience and ability to paint 2D to appear 3D, or go ahead and make small prosthetics and put them where I need to put them and use actual prosthetics in lieu of paint.

That has everything to do with lighting, locations, logistics, and because most of his [Loki’s] wounds appear on his arm and some on his face in the Void, it’s all very moody and very dark. And again, the theatrical quality of the paint is not going to be altered by the changing light, it’s just going to react the same way the rest of the face is going to react. It’s purple light, it’s going to make everything have a purple hue. There was no accounting for any correction that didn’t need to be done. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. It’s real.

Nerds and Beyond: So, you did make up for not only Tom on Loki, but you helped plan out the looks for everybody?

Douglas: Yes, what I do is I surround myself with strong talent. It’s all about team. I designed Wunmi Mosaku, Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Sophia DiMartino, and Tom [Hiddleston]. Regarding the rest of it, Neil Ellis, both Dennis Liddiard and I, added to the elements of his scars and wounds, which you would only see in close-ups.

The rest of it, the parameters are set — Blade Runner to Mad Men — and stay in those confines. And obviously, I choose color palettes for the women and there are parameters set for the men, but then it’s about team. I’m a big one on a team and not putting my thumbprints on other people’s work, but rather build other people up so they feel like they own what they’re doing.

My team consists of artists that also have stronger resumes and quite frankly, skills that exceed mine. It’s the mutual trust that allows us to keep a high level of artistic integrity in every aspect of the job. It also means I get the very best from my team, and it shows on the screen.

So, I didn’t have every look in my hand. Dennis Liddiard designed the Mobius character and I had Ned Neidhardt run with Gugu and turn up the volume on some of the elements that she already possesses that we can play with. Her eyes and lips, I think Ned turned the volume on both. And because we’re shooting in order, it’s a progression in the makeup you did.

Nerds and Beyond: When it came to Sylvie and Loki, when you when you’re doing those, did you try to kind of plan them both to have any similar things to give them a Loki look?

Douglas: It’s a fair question, but the answer is no. So again, I think the characteristics and traits that were going to be similar among them, aside from wardrobe and costume hints, were all character driven. And I did nothing with the makeup and hair to try to make them look or even closely resemble each other.

Nerds and Beyond: I want to kind of back up a little bit to Tom in the first Avengers film. That was by far one of his most standout looks. Can you tell me anything about what went into the creation of that absolutely tormented, haunted look that he had throughout that entire movie?

Douglas: Yeah, and that’s probably one of the elements that, because the character has evolved, we kind of left with Avengers because by the end of Avengers, and we carried it into Endgame, he does have a bit of an edgier look in Avengers, and not many people pick up on it. But the reality is he’s a little sculpted in Avengers.

I remember sculpting his cheekbones and temples, and doing a little play on his forehead for when he’s in the cell on the Helicarrier carrier with all that overhead lighting. I did like a little devil horn shadow, which is so subtle. The only person who’s going to notice is anybody who looks back at it and having read this and knows what to look for, but it is so nuanced and so subtle. And that’s the only place I think we did that. But the rest of him is very much chiseled and sculpted, but it’s a light touch.

And I think, again, as he evolved through the Marvel Universe and into the other movies that was something that was easy to leave behind, because I think that look played directly into his evil desire to rule over Earth. We rested that design element with that storyline.

Nerds and Beyond: It’s very clear too and I’ve always loved looking at that, because I’m a huge fan of the character. I’ve always loved kind of comparing how he looked in that movie to the rest of them.

Douglas: You’re on to me!

Nerds and Beyond: I’m not! I swear [laughs] So, what’s your best method for making the actors comfortable in the makeup chair? And with the final outcome?

Douglas: It’s dialogue; listening, talking to them, talking to their representation, whether it be an agent or a manager, and doing my homework and doing my due diligence to find out what’s going to make them comfortable the moment they walk through the door. I do my homework on them. It’s not just IMDb, it’s an internet search. So, I spend some time on the web and find out who these folks are, and if I find out, for example, they’re not one that likes to talk a lot, well, the writing’s on the wall, we’re not going to talk a lot, we’ll cut to the chase and get to the point. But also, it’s about building a rapport and building a relationship. Also, knowing that, I’ve said this in previous discussions, knowing it’s necessary to get out of the way.

Like if, for example, I’m not a proper fit for somebody, I have to be plugged in, I have to be aware enough to understand that it may not be working before somebody says to me, “Hey, this isn’t gonna work.” So it’s just about being open, especially as Tom’s personal on these projects and running the department, knowing that I don’t get to do everybody. I don’t get to put my thumbprint on other people’s work. Because not only is that disrespectful, it’s very often unnecessary, because I hire good people. I hire contemporaries and peers. Truly, you’re only as good as your weakest crew member. I surround myself with good people.

So, take Owen Wilson, for example, it would have been wonderful to do Owen’s makeup, but there were times when he was not going to be shooting with Tom and I was going to need to be ready for Tom or available to Tom, so it didn’t make sense. So I never touched Owen, I had Dennis Liddiard design that look and run with it. And then Ned Neidhardt took over that look when Dennis had to depart. That’s just one example of not trying to do everything.

Another one was the Classic Loki. I wanted to do Richard E. Grant’s [makeup] so bad, I can’t even tell you. I’ve been a huge fan since 1987. I wanted so badly to bring that full circle, didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make sense. So again, I never touched him. It wasn’t necessary. Ned was always there. And I think the same thing happened to me on Ragnarok reshoots, which I ran in Atlanta again with Dennis Liddiard. I wanted so badly to do Sir Anthony Hopkins makeup, but it didn’t make sense. So I was happy to hand it off to Bill Myer.

Nerds and Beyond: Oh man, I loved Richard E. Grant in this show so much.

Douglas: He’s amazing.

Nerds and Beyond: He’s so good!

Douglas: He really is. And he’s that good in person. He’s just so fun and interesting and alluring and attractive. He’s such a wonderful, wonderful person and, of course, a phenomenal actor.

Nerds and Beyond: I was watching little videos that he posted and he just seems like the warmest person.

Douglas: You know, just one last tidbit about Richard Grant is he’s got wonderful stories and as he’s telling them he’ll often stop and pause and just laugh. Just laugh, not for the sake of the stories or for anybody that he’s telling the story to, but because recounting the story brings him true joy. So he’ll stop and embrace that joy. Oh, it’s so wonderful.

Nerds and Beyond: That’s so amazing to hear. What is the most memorable job that you’ve done?

Douglas: The most memorable … That’s a tough one because I have so many fond memories of so many projects. The first Avengers film was memorable because there was a buzz, there was a vibration, a frequency, that was in the air when we were shooting that. We kind of knew we were making something big and something special. I don’t think any of us knew how big or how special it would be, but that certainly is one of the most memorable and most special projects.

I’m pretty good about focusing on the positive aspects of all these things, regardless of how difficult the project may be for whatever reason. The pros always, always heavily outweigh the cons, but I have a lot of wonderful, memorable experiences. Another one, it’s the polar opposite only because of the conditions in which we shot, but Birth of the Nation was one of the most memorable and exceptional experiences of my career. I was on the wrong side of 40, had 25 years of experience, and had still never worked so hard in my entire life. We did a 50-day shoot in 27 days. So proud of the work we did.

It was 100 degrees with 99 percent humidity, we shot it in the summer in Georgia, in Savannah, so it was hot, humid, and just getting the makeup necessary to be on individuals to stay put was its own challenge. And then the other challenges only added to that. But Nate Parker, the director, writer, producer, and lead actor, he is a special human being. And he was inspiring from start to finish. Usually, the first people in are the teamsters, transport department, and usually I’m second. He beat me in almost every single day. He’s in three hours before he needs to be. That was a very special experience.

Nerds and Beyond: Finally, are you excited about the news of Loki Season 2?

Douglas: I’m beyond thrilled! I invite being in the dark a little bit, I kind of like surprises and I like not knowing, so I suspected, but hearing the news confirmed, I was thrilled, naturally. What are they going to dream up? This is amazing. How do you top season 1 of Loki? That’s the burning question.

[mvnvgedmischief]

unremarkable days.

summary: sirius black is trying to be a good man, a good brother, a good person. Sirius has a steady job designing book covers for a publishing house, a flat he never leaves, and a traumatized brother who was just removed from the custody of his parents. All in all, it's wildly unremarkable.

chapter:  4/?

characters: sirius black, regulus black, wolfstar, background marauders

tags: tw: canon compliant abuse, child abuse, social services, abuse

words: 3. 8 k

read it on ao3 here

read the last chapter here

Sirius knew that work was going to be high stress all day. He felt sick to his stomach, thinking about the way he would continuously have to talk to people, when all he wanted was some peace. He wanted downtime. Time when he didn’t have to think about how he needed his paycheck to put food on the table, clothes on his brother’s back, pay bills to keep his lights on, wifi for homework. Regulus occupied his thoughts at all times, protecting him was Sirius’s only priority these days. He didn’t have time for anything else. Not his friends, not his interests, not music. Nothing could come between his focus and his brother’s wellbeing, because if it did, Sirius would never forgive himself. The consequences were too dire. So instead, he just wished for downtime that wouldn’t come, and prayed for the weekend to approach even faster. 

The weekend, when he could finally sleep again, albeit not well. The weekend, when he had the time to take a breath, even if it was only brief. Because his weekends were also spent finding ways to better equip his apartment for his younger brother, going to long grocery runs so Regulus had lunch to take to school, meal prepping all of the things he couldn’t bring himself to eat for dinner. He was definitely tired of all of the ways his mind was spiraling out, he didn’t have the time. He didn’t fault Regulus for it, it wasn’t the teen's presence in his life that was causing all this stress. It really was his own fault. A bit of crying at that first hearing had given Walburga and Orion the satisfaction of a victory over him at that first hearing, and they seemed to crave more of that chaos. They wanted to watch their children suffer, and this was how they chose to do that. So instead he spiraled in the privacy of his own home, because he could practically hear the words they burned into his mind whenever he saw them, and feel the ache of old beatings. 

But it was only Thursday, and that meant he still had to do this all day, and  then get berated by the rest of the team for not attending their weekly bonding happy hour. If he was lucky,  no  one would ask him to go. He knew he should be less terrified of them asking, most of the people on his team were his friends. There was simply the question of Remus, and Sirius didn’t have the time to be thinking about him in the first place. 

He didn’t have time to think about  the way his hair curled just the right way to fall into his eyes when he slept, or the way his caramel freckles made him look sunkist. He didn’t have time to think about the  pink scars that ran down Remus’s face or how they got there. He definitely didn;’t have time to think of the comfort  of his hand combing through Sirius’s own mop of unruly curls. So instead, he needs to  put  all of that out  of his mind. It wasn’t going to help him do well at work. It wasn’t going to solve his problems. He didn’t have the  time for this, nor did he have the emotional bandwidth. Perhaps that was why Sirius was conveniently avoiding the idea that he had asked Remus on a date. With some luck, Remus would think he was just an asshole who ghosted him. That was definitely complicated by the fact that they worked together, that he couldn’t just disappear. He wanted to, he really did, because there was simply no time. 

He set up his deliverables as though he had made tons of them, because his employment in this company  rode on it. Just two months ago, he was pegged to be promoted within the next two cycles, and now he could barely hold on to his sanity enough to handle his workload. He was so fucking tired, and he had so much on his plate. He needed to mentally prepare himself for the long day of meetings ahead of him. He had no true motivation to do his job right now, all he knew was that his exhaustion was no excuse. He knew that his boss, Alice, was giving him a whole lot of leeway right now. She was probably doing more than she should to help him. Being a mentor on the senior design team didn’t mean she needed to keep tabs on his personal life and pick up his slack. 

“Sirius–” 

When Sirius focused back into the meeting he was calling into, it occurred to him that they’re talking to him. So he did what he always did, blamed it on a shoddy connection. 

“Oh, sorry, can you repeat that? My audio cut out.” 

“Remus was saying that some of  the poems could probably use illustrations, and he was wondering if you had any ideas on which ones needed it.” 

“Thanks, Peter.” Sirius was glad that he knew the people on this team, that Peter and James were as close to him as anyone could be. Because otherwise, he’d probably be fucked. 

“So I was looking through them, and I was thinking Bite, Magick, and Love I could probably use larger scale illustrations. But at the same time, we don’t want to crowd the book. How attached are you to the current order or page arrangement?” 

It felt too close, but he was lucky that he had at least read the titles of some of the poems in the first half of the book. Sirius knew Remus didn’t actually know what his level of involvement was. He thought it was just doodles, but Sirius would be responsible for presenting everything from kearning and font choice within the pages, to illustration and cover art to the design team. He was integral to the success of this book as a product, and he  needed to start acting like it. 

“I’m pretty attached.” Remus sounded cold to Sirius, and he wondered what exactly he had done wrong in this meeting. And yet, he didn’t have time to think on it. He needed to keep things moving, keep getting valuable information out of the author. Hook up be damned, Sirius needed this book to actually get off the ground. 

 “Okay, well we should get a meeting on the calender to discuss. What poems and what scale of illustrations you want–” 

“Shouldn’t you be deciding what the illustrations look like and the logistics of those. Isn’t that what you  get paid for?” Remus really wasn’t making this easy on Sirius. But he had dealt with bigger demons and divas then whatever this attitude was. So he put on a light and airy smile, one they’d never know didn’t reach his eyes over the low quality webcam and nodded. 

“If you’d like to take a hands off approach with the design work, that can absolutely be arranged. But in the case of a fledgling project with a new author, the design team, myself included, really hope to prioritize your artistic license so that we can get a better sense of your vision for your literature, should Quill move forward with other publications in the future.  We can provide a completely in-house service, with as much input as you feel necessary during the design process, and deliver collateral towards the end of the project when final edits are done, if you would prefer, Mister Lupin.” 

Sirius practically wanted to scream. He needed Remus to stop fucking with his job, with his livelihood. He couldn’t lose this project. He needed all of the billable hours he could get if he was going to justify the overtime he needed in order to provide for his brother. This was ridiculous. But his clinical and polite answer must have thrown Remus, because he didn’t get much more attitude out of him. The back and forth had ended. So instead, Sirius pulled up his deliverables for the week, which included new iterations for the covers, and twelve illustrations for the three poems he had mentioned. 

He noticed the way Remus looked at his drawings, like he was pained by whatever his thoughts were, and Sirius wants to scream that he’s under no obligation to think that they’re good. But then he remembers that Remus seemed to be nitpicking on purpose, based on his critique of the design system itself. Sirius didn’t have the time to deal with that level of petty, just because he hadn’t been answering. He was too busy. He had too much on his plate. So instead he continues his presentation. 

“I don’t like any of these. Maybe you should start over.” Remus sounded vindictive, even mean. Like he was doing this out of spite.  Sirius could feel his heart drop in that moment. He didn’t want to start over. He didn’t have the time. 

“What do you not like about them?” Sirius is trying to salvage his work while he can. 

“The vibe is off.”

“Oh, is there something specific that throws it off or...” Sirius trailed off, wondering what exactly he needed to change. 

“No, it’s the whole thing. All of them are just off.” 

Sirius needed to think quick on his feet. He didn’t have the time to start from scratch, so he pulled up his original thumbnails that he had discussed with Remus. 

“These are the original sketches we discussed. I moved forward with the ones we talked about. I’m happy to rework those sketches,” no, he wasn’t. “But if there’s another sketch that you think would fit your vision better, please let me know.” He felt like he was pleading with Remus not to hate his artwork. He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t a blow to his self esteem to hear that everything that he did was bad. 

“No, I would suggest you start over.” 

Sirius nodded, his mind immediately whirring with ways he could start over and re-design this project. He really didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to do hundreds of thumbnails to get set on thirty, only to be destroyed in a meeting again. Especially when Remus seemed so excited about all of his illustrations before the meetings. It felt like too much. He didn’t have the energy for this kind of behavior. 

Luckily, Marlene directed the conversation away from Sirius’s work. The rest of the call went on without a hitch, like the only person who’s work Remus had a problem with was Sirius’s. He knew that it was more likely for Remus to have a problem with him, because design work was usually something an artist thought of as easy; however, this felt calculated and cold. If Sirius had been avoiding Remus before, it definitely wasn’t about to get better. So instead, he listened to the end of the meeting, and started the project all over again. He could do this. It was an unremarkable critique. It didn’t matter.

[malfoymanortings]

fluorescent adolescent PART 1

summary: Fred Weasley has been drawing the eldest Malfoy daughter since his third year of Hogwarts. Elara Malfoy has fancied Fred Weasley since her fifth year at Hogwarts. It is during their final year, that the two of them do something about the mutual attraction.

pairing: Fred x OC older Malfoy sister

not related to flames and snow!! just a different perspective on Fred x older Malfoy sister. 

Fred Weasley was an artist, and a damn good one at that.

His special skill was normally used to sketch out the beginnings of a prank plot he and George were thinking of, and it slowly progressed into making designs for actual products and contraptions he and George planned for their joke shop.

He also found, during his third year, that he was fond of drawing a stunning silver haired goddess with bewitching grey eyes. He was enamored with drawing her in every position he could think of, staring out at the black lake, walking down the corridor, sitting at the Great Hall. Any position he found her in, he immediately itched to sketch it out. 

Why, exactly, was Fred so obsessed with drawing Elara Malfoy? He didn’t have a clue. Yes, she was beautiful there was no doubt to that, but her personality… Well, it needed some work.

She rarely ever smiled and normally had the look that she had smelled something unpleasant. Her free time was spent cajoling with the other Pureblood families she deemed worthy of her time, and although he hadn't seen her bully the other kids the way her brother Draco liked, he had seen her hex a few students that didn’t appear to deserve it. She certainly believed in the awful blood purity ideals her family believed in, and she was snarky and rude neary every time he had heard her speak.

Not only that, but he had even seen the girl cosying up to Umbridge of all people. The nasty woman who made students carve words into their arms and hands as detention. Elara Malfoy was the furthest thing from the type of woman Fred Weasley should spend his time thinking about.

Yet… he knew she thought of him too. Granted, he was certain she didn’t have a sketchbook filled with drawings of himself, but on more than one occasion he had caught her staring at him. The first time was at the Yule Ball, and Fred was dancing with Angelina Johnson while Elara looked bored and slightly uncomfortable with Theodore Nott as her date. 

As much as Fred found Angelina pretty, she paled in comparison to the grace that was Elara Malfoy. Elara had worn a dark green, shimmering dress, accentuating her curves and flowing to the floor with a regal look that had every head turned. Her hair had been up in some complicated look, and her creamy neck was adorned with a silver necklace with the Malfoy family crest sitting arrogantly on her cleavage. Fred could describe all the little details about Elara, but couldn’t even tell you what color Angelina’s dress was. 

It was when Fred was twirling Angelina up in the air, the both of them laughing, that Fred noticed Elara with an odd look on her face, as she was held in Theodore Nott’s stiff arms. It took Fred a moment to place the look as jealousy. Their eyes met as Fred set Angelina back down on the ground, and Elara’s lips screwed down in a scowl worthy of her father, and swiftly turned away from his gaze.

From that moment, he had seen her staring several other times, and he was able to draw her eyes in more detail as he was finally getting to see them more often. George was the only person who knew of his obsession, and frequently switched between making fun of him and worrying about him.

“Mate,” George had said one night, when Fred was up later than he should have been, furiously getting her eyes just right. “This girl isn’t worth the stress. She’s a Malfoy.”

“Georgie, I’m well aware of her heritage,” Fred had replied, pausing his pencil to look at his twin. “I know nothing will come of this. But I just can’t stop thinking of her.”

It wasn’t like Elara was all bad, either. Thanks to his obsession, he had seen her more than once secretly hex her brother when he was being mean to younger students. And Fred noticed that anytime she saw an older student from any house doing anything to make the younger students of any house feel uncomfortable or bullying them, she would silently hex them too. She did care, Fred knew, it just didn’t seem to be a priority to her.

Fred’s moment to shine, however, came in the form of a Potions class that he and George had arrived late to. There had been no seats left, except for one next to Lee Jordan, and one left to Elara Malfoy. George had given him a swift wink before setting his things down next to Lee, while Fred was left to make his way to the back corner where Elara had her head bent over a brightly colored journal that seemed out of place in her usual dark attire. 

“Afternoon.” Fred tried to say the word cheerfully, but it came out funny and stuck in his suddenly dry throat, giving the impression that he had regressed in puberty.

Elara looked up then, her black lips pursing and her grey eyes narrowing. This close, he could see there was actually a ring of blue and flecks of green in her eyes, and his fingers twitched as he thought of drawing them later. 

She parted her full lips to say something, but was interrupted as Snape informed them to turn to page seven hundred and thirty eight in their Potions book. She settled for a sneer instead, and Fred had to hold back a laugh as it fully mirrored her brother’s infamous look.

“Something amusing, Weasley?” She uttered, her long black fingernails flicking through the pages.

And Merlin, her voice was something else. It was throaty and light at the same time, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hear her rasp as he fucked her over a counter- and he had to stop himself there.

“Just the family resemblance, is all.” Fred replied smoothly, cocking an eyebrow as he met her contempt gaze.

“Hm,” Elara paused, looking him up and down. “You’re right, family resemblance is a funny thing, Weasley.”

With that, she went back to flipping through the pages of her Potions book. And yes, Fred knew, he just knew  that was an insult, but he couldn’t get over how attractive she was up close and how delectable her voice was to him. This close, he could see that her bottom lip was slightly fuller than her top lip, her eyebrow had a small slit in it from what appeared to be a long forgotten scar, she had dimples, and she smelled like lavender and vanilla mixed with fresh laundry. She wore rings on every finger, small dainty silver ones with different jewels and designs, of course one with the Malfoy crest, and her hands themselves were smaller than he had imagined. 

Fred couldn’t stop staring at her.

She suddenly stood from the table, and walked towards the front of the room. That made Fred remember that he was supposed to be brewing a potion, and he hastily found the correct page in the book, and then jotted down the ingredients he would need. He made his way up just as she made her way back, and although he offered her a smile, she didn’t return it. 

“How’s it going, Freddie?” George nudged his side with his elbow as they gathered their ingredients.

“Exactly as you’re imagining, mate.” Fred replied snarkily to his twin, who laughed at his misery. It was rare that George got to see Fred in a position like this, and he had to admit he was enjoying every second of it.

“Good luck!” George winked at Fred, cheerily going to sit back down with Lee Jordan.

Fred would get George back for this.

Elara was busy crushing up dried nettlefish when Fred came back to the table, her sleek silver hair tied back from her face. Fred dumped his ingredients on his half of the table, reaching out a quick hand to grasp the jar containing a bat spleen before it rolled off the side of the table.

Elara noticed, and the side of her mouth quirked up into a smirk. Fred swore then and there that his heart had stopped for a second before starting back up again.

He quickly launched into getting his ingredients put together, running through the motions rather quickly and confidently in an attempt to impress Elara, who already had the correct color and consistency of the Potion they were brewing. Fred swore under his breath as his potion switched from a pale blue color, to a murky green.

“You’ve added too much wormroot,” Elara sighed, pausing in the stirring of her own potion. “Add a pinch more of the dried nettlefish, and it should be fine.”

“Define a pinch.” Fred scratched the back of his head, grimacing in frustration.

Elara huffed, and suddenly she was invading Fred’s personal space, her heavenly scent washing over him as she quickly added the ingredient to the potion, going so far as to stir it for him. She nodded at him when it finally turned to more of a blue than a green.

“It won’t be perfect, but unless you’d rather start over that’s the best you’ll get.” Elara shrugged, turning her attention back to her own. It was the perfect shimmering blue, and Fred was mesmerized as he watched Elara gently stir it once more, before raising her hand for Professor Snape to come take a look.

“Thanks.” said Fred, unable to take his eyes off Elara’s beautiful face. She had gorgeous cheekbones, high and hollow like they were carved by Aphrodite herself. Even as she sat there with her hand raised, she had the grace and poise that could only be associated with traditional pure blood families. 

“Ah, Miss Malfoy,” Snape pulled a vial from his bat like robes, streaming her potion inside of it and placing a rubber stopper to hold it in place. “Interesting company you have with yourself today.”

“Yes, indeed,” Elara replied, and it was only because Fred was studying her that he noticed her jaw clench, and her fingers clench around the edge of the table top. “Perhaps if you had more tables in your classroom, I wouldn’t have had to subject myself to a Gryffindor.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at her, and then darted his gaze over to Fred, who felt insulted at Elara’s words. “Weasley, I see you did only slightly better than your brother.”

“Well, at least I still came out on top, hm?” Fred retorted, giving a wide smile to the slimy git. Snape rolled his eyes, and swiftly gathered a vial of his potion before moving onto the next table.

“Didn’t mean to subject you to my presence, by the way,” said Fred lightly, focusing on gathering his ingredients together. “There were no other places for me to sit.”

“Aw, did little Weasley get his feelings hurt?” Elara said the words almost seductively, teasing most certainly, but with a little spice. “What’s he gonna do about it?”

Fred paused, looking to see that Elara had a smirk on her beautiful face, her long fingernails tapping against the counter. She leaned forward slightly, and Fred noticed that she had undone the top three buttons of her blouse, and he could just barely see a lace bra underneath the fabric. He swallowed hard.

“Perhaps you should meet me at the astronomy tower around midnight, ey?” Fred said the words casually, ignoring the way his dick twitched at the thought. 

Elara bit her lip, and sat back in her chair. She slowly crossed her legs, and Fred had to grip the table in front of him. 

“I’ll be there.”

part two

[aloysiavirgata]

In The Gale

Title: In The Gale

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG

Category: MSR

Author's Notes: For @perplexistan, who asked and helped me make it better. This is shortly after settling into the Unremarkable House. I tried making sense of their legal status, but it’s simply impossible and I gave up.

Our heroes quote from Melville, Shakespeare, Sagan, Baudrillard, and (Emily) Dickens.

***

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

***

She recites The Raven to herself on the drive in, lists all the state capitals in alphabetical order, and goes through the periodic table. Her body fizzes like a shaken soda, tiny anxious bubbles rising through her blood. They’ve done so much for this, called in so many favors. Mulder put his book on hold for a month, quizzing her with dog-eared notecards. 

“Immediate treatment of myocardial infarction,” he’d call, and she’d say “MONA TASS.”

She feels a pang for the simplicity of the other life, the hiding one, where she just had to ring up cigarettes and herbal Viagra at gas stations.

***

She’s the new girl at the cafeteria table, awkward and alone. Mulder had prepared her a lunch like it’s the first day of school, and she stares at it, wishing for an appetite.

From the corner of her eye she sees two colleagues - an MRI tech and an obstetrician, she thinks - talking softly and glancing over. Scully thinks she hears “FBI,” and she looks up and smiles, uncertain.

They blink at her, look away.

***

Ybarra comes around the corner, gliding in his cassock like a disapproving ghost. “Dr. Scully,” he says, in his pinched voice.

She smiles thinly. “Father Ybarra.”

“Nurse Mossing was looking for the chart for Mrs. Sullivan. Imagine my surprise when I found it in Room 314 instead of Room 413. That’s a potential HIPAA violation, Dr. Scully. That’s a federal law.”

Scully curls her hand so that her nails dig into her skin. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Father Ybarra, please forg-”

He holds up his palm. “It won’t happen again,” he says, and glides onward.

Scully closes her eyes and leans against the wall. She breathes through her nose until the ringing in her ears stops.

***

She wants to collapse into his arms and cry when she gets home, but that would be giving in. It would be letting them down.

“How’d it go?” he asks. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a Knicks shirt, a five o’clock shadow.

She smiles brightly. “It was good. Learning curve, but good. I think Father Ybarra might be a tough nut to crack, is all.”

Mulder rubs his cowlicked hair. “Put your feet up, Scully, since you won’t wear sensible shoes.”

She does, and accepts the glass of wine he holds out. “Thanks. I’ll sleep well tonight, anyway. There are miles of hallways.”

He sits next to her on the couch. “I wrote a few pages,” he says. “I deleted a bunch, but I think there was a multi-paragraph net gain.”

“I’m glad you’re able to stop focusing on my stuff now,” she says. “Both back in the saddle.”

“Go team.”

She clinks her glass against his. She drinks her wine too fast.

***

Ybarra had come in during her rounds that morning and startled her into knocking a metal bedpan onto the floor. Scully thinks the reverberations of that sound will follow her to the grave.

She’s now in the chapel, tucked into a back pew. She’s been staring at the small altar, at the stained glass windows flanking the crucifix. The Blessed Virgin smiles beatifically down at her, a wretched sinner.

Scully laces her fingers on the back of the pew in front of her and bows her head against them. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”

***

Mulder wakes her with tea and eggs. “You haven’t been eating,” he says, brow furrowed. 

She rubs her eyes, yawning. “What?”

He sits next to her on the bed, sets the plate and mug on her night table. “You just push your food around your plate, you hardly talk when you get home. What’s going on, Scully?”

She sits up, looking at his worried face. He’s sun-browned and tousled, beautiful, with a mouth that still makes her weak in the knees. “Nothing. It’s just a lot to jump back into.”

“I’m sure it is. And I still want to help you with it.” He pulls the flash cards from his pocket, touches her wrist with his other hand. “Let’s see - causes of upper zone pulmonary fibrosis?”

She looks at the ceiling, back at him. “I don’t need help.”

Mulder blinks, stung. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. You just don’t need to hover over me. You have your own things to work on. Work on your book, patch up your henhouse. ” Her voice sounds snappish to her own ears.

His changeable eyes, now mossy green, darken. He chews his bottom lip, nodding slowly. “I thought you were one of my ‘things.’ Sorry to bother you.” He rises, walks downstairs.

“Mulder,” she whispers.

The tea goes down fine. Scully tries to eat the eggs but feels bile rise in her throat. She flushes them down the toilet instead of leaving them behind, because that is love.

***

She arrives at the nurses’ station on the second floor with three dozen donuts and two cardboard boxes of coffee. She deposits them on the desk. “Good morning, Annabel,” she says.

“Anneliese,” the woman says.

Scully nods, walks away.

*** 

He slides his hand up her pajama top, tracing circles on her ribs, sliding his fingers around to her breasts. He kisses the back of her neck. “Scully,” he whispers, his breath warm and ticklish in her ear.

She wants to pretend to wake up, to turn towards him and lose herself in his body. She wants to tell him everything, to be held and loved and petted and reassured. She wants him to remind her that she once stared down Congress, that some backwater priest and his prickly staff should be a joke to her. She wants them to laugh together at these silly, petty people.

But she can’t, she can’t disappoint him. He’s been so proud of her.

Scully stays still, breathes evenly until his hands move away and she’s alone again.

***

Her car rattles over the driveway, through shimmering waves of heat that rise from the crisping grass. It is the kind of late July afternoon where the sun is a hazy white ball in the west, and clouds of gnats are a permanent feature of the landscape. 

Scully parks, avoiding a puddle in which a peacock is standing. Mulder has recently become enamored of yard fowl. She narrows her eyes at it while opening the car door. 

“Good boy, Kevin,” she calls to it, wary.

Scully picks her way over the gravel in her thin heels. The peacock mews an alarm as she approaches, but doesn’t charge. She lets herself inside, shuts the heat and sun and wildlife outside. The house smells of coffee and microwave popcorn.

She walks into Mulder’s office and finds him hunched at his desk, typing. “Hey,” she says, and drops a kiss on his head. There’s a sketch of Baphomet taped to his monitor, her worn flash cards atop a tome about Raëlism.

He turns in his chair. He puts his arms around her hips. “Hey.” 

“Kevin behaved himself,” she offers.

“You two will be friends yet, you’ll see.”

She peers at the computer. “You get a lot done today?”

Mulder shrugs. “Eh, a bit. Waiting on a few emails, and I had to run that tubing to drain the sump down into the woods. Ate up most of the afternoon.”

Scully shakes her head in admiration. “I don’t know how you manage all the multitasking.”

“Well, the book helps me avoid the house, and the house helps me avoid the book. It’s a perfect system. That Ybarra guy still riding your ass?”

She chews her lip. “No,” she lies. “I think we’re okay now.”

“Good,” he says. “I’d hate to have to beat up a priest.”

***

Scully gazes at herself in the empty locker room. She looks thin and tired, and her hair is frizzing up, even pulled back like this. All her makeup has sweated off except for smudged crescents of mascara. Her bra is the color of a Band-Aid, her underwear white and sensible. Between the two is the hard white rose of her gunshot scar, like a second navel, an artifact of a second birth. It is numb when she touches it, indifferent. There are no stretch marks from William, a tale missing from the anthology of her skin. She unhooks her bra, lets it slide down to the damp floor. Scully turns to observe her body in profile. The scar is gone this way, the tattoo hidden as well, and she smooths her hands along her ribs. Her breasts seem out of place to her when they are unbound, frivolous somehow. Vestigial. 

She looks away.

***

The hospital is labyrinthine, having been constructed of various additions when funds allowed. There are dead ends, pointless staircases, and a mysterious storage closet filled with old televisions. She makes little maps on notepaper. 

“So where did you work before this?” an orthopedic surgeon asks her.

A diner in Wyoming. 

“I was out West for a while,” she says.

***

A week in, and Mulder has made a cake to celebrate. A bouquet of Kevin’s shed tail feathers ornaments the table.

An offering, Mulder calls it, tickling her chin with one.

A week down, she thinks, and blows out the candle. She wonders when she’ll stop counting the time.

***

Shy, he gives her a chapter to read. It’s good, and she tells him so. It’s very good. She hears his voice in her head when she reads it, his passion. She loves the esoterica tucked into his gyri and sulci.

“Your prose was never this clear in your reports,” she remarks. 

“Hey if you can’t blind them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”

Scully laughs. “You want to read a few medical reports?”

He looks at her, suddenly serious. “Yeah,” he says. “I would. It would be nice to hear about your day for once.”

She wonders if love is the weapon that lets them wound so casually.

***

“You’re late,” Ybarra says softly. 

She doesn’t explain that she’d somehow ended up at the TV closet again, that the room numbering system in this hospital had been designed by nihilists, that the nursing student had Dermabonded her glove to a patient’s forehead.

She lowers her eyes like she did at Catholic school. She promises to do better.

***

“What’s going on?” Mulder asks her for what feels like the hundredth time. “Talk to me, Scully.”

She presses her hands to her face for a moment, drops them to her sides. “Nothing,” she says again, frustrating them both. “I’m tired. It’s a hard schedule.”

He places a throw pillow on his lap and pats it. “Come here,” he says. “Please.”

She acquiesces, curling on her side with her back to him. He runs his fingers through her hair, traces the Fibonacci spirals of her ear. She wants to relax, to melt into his touch. She indulges in a Mulderesque conspiracy theory that the hospital microdoses the water with tetanus toxin to keep everyone rigid and tense.

Scully gazes at the windows, at the hard white light of summer streaming in. The curtains are blue with an arabesque pattern, and they looked very chic in the store. She wonders now if they seem desperate in this odd little house. She thinks of Meg March, dressed up in borrowed finery at the Moffats’ ball.

***

Scully clomps up the steps to the porch and kicks her rain boots off next to the umbrella stand. It contains four umbrellas and a gnarled hickory limb that Mulder claims is going to be polished into a fine walking stick one of these days. She goes into the house and is dismayed to find it stale and stifling and dark. Dust motes waft in Brownian motion through shafts of sunlight, undirected by fans or air conditioning. 

“Mulder,” she calls, and there is silence.

She twists her hair into a bun as she pads upstairs, old wood satiny under her bare feet. She pushes open the bedroom door, and the air is hot and still. 

“Mulder?” She needs his help with her zipper, but there is no reply.

She wrestles herself out of her silk sheath, sticky and irritating, and lets it puddle on the floor. Her bra follows. She feels guilty, as Mulder has turned out to be a surprisingly diligent housekeeper. His office is filled with perilous stacks of home improvement books and arcane journals about lake monsters, the walls papered with clippings and blurry photographs, but he seems able to quarantine his own entropy.

She is trying to do the same.

Scully pulls on soft cotton pajama shorts, a gray tank top imbued with the compressive powers of Lycra. She uses lotion to rub away the mascara beneath her eyes. She goes downstairs and out the back door, shielding her eyes against the piercing sunlight. A mosquito whines at her ear and she pinches it out of the air.

“Still got those reflexes, kid,” Mulder says from somewhere off to her left. 

She turns and sees him crouched next to the hulking green block of the transformer. “All the lights are off, and the house feels like a rainforest. I take it you’ve had an eventful day?”

He sighs. “Not really. Well, not the event I was hoping for, which is the power coming back on. There was a pretty heavy thunderstorm around one and that’s when the electricity blew.”

She sits on the bottom step, knees drawn up. She likes to watch him working, a side of him they’re both still learning about. There was never much call for home maintenance at Hegal Place, or living out of cash-only motels. “You call the power company?”

He huffs. “Yeah, they told me they had no reported outages and the power should be fine. I explained that I was trying to report an outage and that it definitely was not fine and she promised someone would be here between tomorrow and eventually.”

Scully smiles. “And that’s why you’re out here toying with death?”

“Not much else to do, really. Can’t write with the power out.” Mulder sits back on his heels and shrugs. “You, uh, have a good day?”

She hadn’t. “Yep. Starting to feel like part of the team.”

“Good. You need to get your career standards as high as your standards for men,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Oh, well, that’s an obviously unattainable bar.”

“Obviously.” He sits next to her on the step. “You wear that to work? You know I think bras are a tool of the patriarchy and you shouldn’t bother, but I’m just surprised Our Lady of Perpetual Shame takes such a liberal view.”

She laughs a little. “I figured as long as I tossed a lab coat over it, I’d look like a real doctor. It worked when I was a kid.”

“Hey, that’s what I did with my badge half the time. Listen, Scully. The house is pretty tropical. You want to bunk up in a hotel until they get the power sorted out?”

Scully thinks about the convenience it would afford. Maids and room service and maybe a pool, depending. But she is tired of hotels, even nice ones. She is tired of polite signs that remind her that the pillows and towels and hairdryers aren’t hers, the tiny toiletries an indicator of her temporary status. She is tired of living out of suitcases and dressers that made her clothes smell strange, tired of running from her own life.  She wants to be home.

“Nah,” she says. “We’ll manage.”

Mulder looks surprised, but doesn’t question it. “I’ll call Lowe’s about getting a generator delivered tomorrow. We ought to have one anyway out here.”

She’d always had a vague idea that Mulder had money - it was the only explanation for his complete disinterest in it. But when they’d come back, when they’d talked to his lawyers, she'd been staggered. The Vineyard house alone explained his casual international jaunts. They can have things now, endless things, and there is something frantic in her that wants to spend the money. Bingeing chocolate bunnies after Lent.

Mulder peels his shirt off, wadding it into a limp ball. He tosses it so that it hooks over the doorknob. “Still got it,” he says. He preens.

“Does the NBA realize the tremendous talent they’re missing out on?” she asks. “Do they even know that, at this very moment, a six foot tall middle aged white man is out here flinging his clothing a distance of several feet?”

He snuggles up to her, wrapping his sweaty arms around her shoulders. 

“Ugh,” she says, and pushes at him. “Mulder, you’re disgusting and it’s a thousand degrees out here.”  

“Hoping that cold, cold heart of yours might cool me off.” She sniffs disdainfully, and he releases her. “Scully, how do you feel about bees?”

“We have a history, bees and I,” she observes, tapping the back of her neck.

Mulder curls his hand over the scar, kneads the muscles there. “Well, these wouldn’t be fancy bees.”

“Hmmm,” she says. “I’m not inherently opposed. Why do you want bees, Mulder?”

He shrugs. “I’m getting older, and I’ve got to consider funeral plans. The last one didn’t really go as expected, so I thought maybe I’d mellify myself this time.”

She nods. “Makes sense. I mean, of course, there’s no actual proof that mellification actually occurred, but that’s never stopped you.”

“I also like honey,” he adds. “And bees are good for the planet.”

“Honey often contains botulism spores,” she remarks. “Botulinum toxin is the most lethal toxin known, and it’s estimated that as little as 40 grams of it would be enough to kill everyone on earth.” She doesn’t say you shouldn’t give it to babies, that she sweetened her smoothies with dates and maple syrup so that -

“Well, nobody better piss off my bee army and me,” he says darkly. 

“Everybody eventually pisses you off. Mulder, is that old tent in the shed still? We could sleep in that tonight.”

He shakes his head. “Heavy mildew and dry rot, so I threw it out. We could sleep out here if you want, though. We’ve got that big air mattress.”

“Let’s do that,” she says. “We can put it on the porch. Tell you what - you get stuff together, and I’ll even make dinner.” Scully doesn’t like cooking, but she wants to create order, to complete a finite task. She can be domesticated again, like a lost house cat finally returned to a hearth.

“We having eggs or peanut butter?” he asks, smirky.

“I’d hate to spoil the surprise,” she snips, and goes back into their sauna of a house. 

In the kitchen, she stands in front of the open fridge, letting the delicious leftover cold soak into her skin. She’ll deal with the spoiled food later. Eggs had, actually, been her plan but it’s just too hot. The stove doesn’t work, and she doesn’t have the fortitude to turn the grill on. She finds some leftover shrimp pasta that Mulder has made, some vegetables, and assembles it all into a passable salad.

There, she thinks, pleased. I’d pay twelve bucks for that somewhere. She uses her foot to scratch a mosquito bite on her calf.

Her skin is clammy, hair stringy and damp from sweat. Maybe they should just go to a hotel after all. Perhaps she should stop ascribing symbolism to every damn thing and enjoy herself once in a while. But she thinks of packing, of driving, of unpacking and somehow it’s all too much and her eyes start to fill and her sinuses sting.

Scully pinches her wrist until it passes, feeling weak and hating the weakness in herself. It’s the heat, it’s the exhaustion, it’s the heavy mental load. She considers going outside for a dip in the pond, but suspects the water will be unpleasantly warm. Instead, she drags herself back upstairs for a cold shower.

She sits on the edge of the bed, weary, and stares at a framed picture of a sea turtle on the far wall. If she lets her eyes drift out of focus, it looks like it’s swimming. She tips her head back for a better angle, watches it float across her vision. It slips away then, into the black of the deep waters.

***

She startles awake when he touches her shoulder, gasps.

“Jesus,” Mulder says, and sits next to her. “Bad dream?”

Scully sits up, dazed. “What? No, was I asleep?”

“You’ve been out cold for over an hour, but I wanted to make sure you got some food. Water at least, it’s too hot up here.”

She blinks, confused. “I don’t remember,” she says. Peering to her right reveals night outside.

Mulder holds a hand out and she grasps it, letting him pull her to her feet. She wavers and he steadies her, arm about her shoulders. 

“I just need some water,” she says, defensive.

He guides her down the stairs and out the front door onto the porch. The air outside is substantially cooler, a light breeze kissing her face. She settles into a chair, stares deep into the felty dark. She still can’t remember falling asleep. 

Mulder hands her a water bottle from the little table and she rolls it between her palms, the plastic crinkling. “Hey, I thought you were setting up the air mattress out here,” she says.

“No air flow behind the wall,” he replies. “Drink that up like a good girl and I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Scully obeys and feels better. The water tastes stale, but it’s cool and wet. “Maybe you should have my job,” she says, looking up. “Caring for live people is so much work.”

“Everybody eventually pisses me off,” he reminds her. “Come on, Doc.”

She follows him down the steps and around the side of the house. Their property is vast and feral, pocked with mole burrows and rabbit nests. The floodlights are out with the power, and the house is nearly swallowed up by the vast night. Scully glances up at the Milky Way, at the waxing moon, and marvels again at the sky they have out here. We are star stuff, she thinks.

“Moonstruck?” Mulder asks.

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.”

“As long as you can tell a hawk from a handsaw,” he says, and tugs her along.

She follows him to the back of the house and then stops, smiling. Mulder has hammered some old two-by-fours into a frame, draped the structure in white bedsheets. Inside, the air mattress is piled with sofa pillows. Outside, camping lanterns, candles, and two strands of solar lights make it into a kind of fairy circle.

“Mulder,” she says, delighted. “This is ridiculous.”

“Indian Guide saves the day,” he says.

“Your architecture badge is definitely more impressive than your fire badge,” she says, walking over to the little tent. He’s brought her salad inside, and there is a cooler packed with ice and water bottles. Cans of bug spray sit at the flap. She crawls inside, suddenly ravenous. 

Mulder joins her on the mattress, which bounces in response. “Remember my water bed?”

She laughs, piling food on a plate for each of them. “What a swinging bachelor you were.”

She remembers the water bed fondly, the leather couch and the fish and the postage-stamp bathroom in his apartment. It shouldn’t hurt still, but it does. She knew herself there, her place on the map. She eats her salad, wistful for Chinese food and beer at that battered coffee table.

“Scully,” he says.

“What?”

“Scully.”

“Just middle-aged nostalgia, I suppose,” she murmurs.

He reaches out to take her hand. “You’re scarcely middle aged.”

She smiles, squeezes his fingers. “If you go by life experience, we’re both about two hundred years old.”

“Like those Galapagos tortoises. But you need to tell me what’s going on at work. You won’t disappoint me.”

It can be very disagreeable to live with a profiler.

Scully drops his hand. She bites at the fleshy part of her thumb. This is real, she thinks. This place. It is not down in any map; true places never are. She can only deflect for so long, and her armor is rusting away. “I’m afraid,” she whispers, then chances a look at his face.

His eyes are soft, searching. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, I don’t…” Her sinuses sting again and she presses her palms hard into her eyes. “Please.”

Mulder’s hand on her back, in endless, gentle figure eights. He pulls the elastic from her hair and lets it tumble down to her shoulders. He shifts so that her back is to him, his long legs on either side of her body.

“Mulder, what -”

“Shhhh,” he says, and gathers the hair at the crown of her head. “It’s not a real sleepover if you don’t get your hair French braided.”

Scully blinks. “Since when do you know how to braid hair?”

“Little sister, absent parents. Now stop moving and talk.”

She keeps her head very steady, thinking of her own sister’s deft fingers when their mother was too busy for anything but ponytails. Mulder tugs at another little section of hair. Scully thinks she might be okay if she isn’t looking at him, if she can’t read herself in his eyes.

Moth shadows dance across the white sheet wall, drawn to the flickering candles outside. It fascinates her that they never figure out that fire burns.  “I don’t know how to do this,” she says, and her voice is thick.

“To talk, or to be still?” he says in his Oxford psychologist voice.

She isn’t sure of what she means either. “Yes,” she says, with a hiccupy laugh. “Both.”

“Me too,” he says, slipping his thumb through the strands behind her ear. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She swallows hard. “I just...I’ve always had something to consume me. I had the FBI, we traveled all the time, and then we were running and I thought it was hard but it was so easy to just survive. There were no decisions. I didn’t care about, I don’t know...plates.”

He pauses in his work. “Plates?”

Scully chews at a hangnail, frustrated. “Just things, the things you buy for a house. Long term things. I did with William and then…” she trails off, her chest tight. “I feel like I’m playing a game sometimes, like improv theater. Fox and Dana Build A Home.”

“Fox and Dana?” he repeats. “Surely not.”

“Well, we’re hardly Mulder and Scully anymore, are we?” Her stomach clenches and that’s it, she sees. That’s the fear.

He finishes the braid and fastens the elastic at the end of it. “Of course we are,” he says. “We are who we are.”

She turns to him then, the whispering anxiety back with a roar. “And who is that, Mulder? I was plain old Dana Scully until I met you. And we had this life, this strange and wonderful and terrible life where I was Scully because I was your partner and now that’s over. It’s all nothing.” She’s crying openly now, quietly, and it feels cleansing.

“You’re still my partner,” he says, and his eyes are shining too.

She wipes her nose with a paper napkin. “Am I? At what? I go to work and see patients but I forgot there’s no closure with the living. People get sick and get better and get sick again. It doesn’t end. And this house, the power is always going to go out and the chickens will always be hungry and -“  she stops, feeling hysterical.

“You don’t have to work,” he says softly. “The settlement from the FBI, my inheritance…”

She shakes her head. “You know I have to work.” 

He sighs, rubs her knee. “I know you do. But it doesn’t have to be this. It doesn’t have to drain you.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, but he’s also so terribly wrong that she wonders if he knows her at all. She has to be a doctor for her father, for William. For him. She has to see something through. Scully smooths her hand over the back of her head, feeling the even ridges of the braid. Mulder is so competent with everything he does, so easy with himself. He’ll get his damned bees and become some kind of honey magnate in no time.

“People at the hospital, they ask me what I did before. And I don’t know how to answer. How can I possibly answer that question? I just say I was with the government, but that isn’t really the answer, is it?”

Mulder shrugs. He’s never felt the need to explain himself to people. “It’s true.”

Scully stretches out on her stomach across the mattress, chin on the pillows, watching the moths again. They tumble like acrobats, untethered in the thick air. “There’s this number called Graham’s number, used in Ramsey Theory, which is, well, nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, it was in the Guinness Book for being the largest specific number used in a proof at the time. And Mulder, this number is so big that writing out all the digits would exceed the bounds of the known universe.”

“Nobody likes a math nerd, Scully.”

She rolls onto her back to glare at him. “Yes they do, they give them Nobel prizes. Anyway. A whole new notation system, Knuth Notation, had to be developed to express these massive numbers. Graham’s Number, Tree(3), et cetera. And I feel like that at times. That there’s this endless amount of vital, inexpressible information inside of me that is so essential but that I have no way to share.”

She blinks a few times, spent by this unburdening.

Mulder stretches out next to her, propped on his side. “You can express it to me,” he says, massaging her temple with his thumb.

Scully closes her eyes. “I feel like a ghost sometimes. How do you do it, Mulder? How do you just keep moving forward without getting lost?”

He sighs. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a tendency to compile people into perfect specimens, then measure yourself against that imaginary standard. It’s the precession of simulacra.”

She looks at him, indignant, then realizes he could be right. “Well,” she says. “It’s possible. But Mulder, is that such a bad thing, to want to hold myself to the highest goals?”

He tugs her onto her side so that she’s facing him, nearly nose to nose. Her lips feel tingly. “Yes,” he says, stroking her hair. “When the goal isn’t attainable. And when it puts everyone else on pedestals where we’re ill equipped to balance. And when it puts you in a constant state of frustration and anxiety. No one is perfect. Not even you.”

“I don’t want to be perfect,” she lies. “And I don’t need you to be either.” That part is true, at least.

He laughs in reply. “Apropos of being Galapagos tortoises, Charles Darwin once said ‘I am very poorly today, and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.’”

“He rode the tortoises,” Scully says, calming. “I can’t defend his methodology.”

“See? You’re better than Charles Darwin.” He kisses her forehead.

“Well,” she says. “Well.”

“Scully, look. You’re not alone here, feeling at sea. I went to the feed store and some guy picked a fight, shoved me pretty hard with his shoulder. And this reflexive part of my brain wanted to grab my badge, stick it in his face, and put him against the wall for assaulting a federal agent. But I ignored it and bought the chicken feed and just headed out. And I felt like, is this who I am now? Some pushover with yard birds and home improvement books?”

“You made a little fast and loose with your authority sometimes,” she says, thinking of Roche. She curves her palm against his cheek, thumbs the fine ridge of his zygomatic bone.

He bumps her nose with his. “You broke into a secret morgue.”

“You made me.” She sniffles, laughs a little. “The good old days.”

“These can be the good days too,” he says. “They can, if we work at it.” He traces her mouth with his finger.

“Okay,” she says. Hope stirs in her, a thing with feathers. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

He kisses her, in their small tent, in their ring of light.

[owillofthewisps]

rosemary & thyme

notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol

the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place

title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.

also this is my 900th post on here lol

rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief. 

pairing: eskel/fem reader

word count: 2.5k

on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.

“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.

You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.

Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.

She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.

“Must you?” you repeat.

She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.

You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.

Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.

Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.

Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.

The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.

She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.

“You owe me new flowers.”

She ignores you.

You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.

You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.

“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”

The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”

You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.

                                                      *******

“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”

She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.

“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.

“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.

“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.

Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Me neither.”

He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.

You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.

“Missed you,” you say.

He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.

You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.

Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.

“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.

“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”

His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.

“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”

“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”

You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”

He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.

Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.

You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.

Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.

Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.

“What do you think?” you ask.

Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”

You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”

“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”

“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.

Eskel stills.

That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.

You feel him draw in a breath.

“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.

Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.

Eskel always hears you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.

“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”

“Rarely is not never.”

You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.

“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”

He swallows.

He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.

The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.

Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.

You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.

“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.

You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.

The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.

Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.

His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.

“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”

Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”

“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”

He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”

You shrug. “It’s good sex.”

He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”

You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.

You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.

Things will be different once you cross the threshold.

With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.

You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.

You turn around and go inside.

taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore

[themusingsofafangirl]

Tutor

Characters: V (DMC5) x Reader (Gender neutral)

Warnings: Mentions of drugs.

Word count: 1597 words. 

Credits: all gif belongs rightfully to the creator.

ModernAU. High school. 

V is assigned to mentor you by your teacher as you were falling behind in studies.

      It’s half past 2 in the afternoon and you were sitting in the detention room staring outside the window feeling dead bored. Failing in school was not really a problem you cared so much about at the moment because you had other pressing matters to deal every day you leave the school grounds like how to make money to pay the bills and put food on the table for you and your younger sister. But the sob story of your broken family background was now a thing of the past and all you care about is how to survive. No one knows you lived the way you do. You did not have close friends but you were not so lonely either in school. You stand on the fence of isolation and popularity, dancing on it carefully ensuring you do not fall on either side for the sake of your sanity and protection.

      “___” a voice calls your name.

       You look up and notice your classmate V was standing in front of you with a bag on his shoulder. You wear an expressionless façade, rendering a nonchalant vibe about the whole mentor-mentee attempt of the academia saving you from failing in school. The boy then takes a seat in front of you and starts pulling out books and stationeries. You noticed the fingerless gloves in his hands and realising that he always wears them no matter what outfit he wore. You heard from other students that he wore them due to an accident and he was trying to hide his scars. He also almost never wore any outfit that was short sleeved. Your curiousness also tells you otherwise because you noticed a few black lines traced up to his fingertips. He has a tattoo, I bet for sure. You thought.

      “We don’t have to do this, V” you said with arms crossed.

      V pauses from flipping the pages of the textbooks and stares at you. Suddenly he lets out a scoff, “Do you think, I wanted this as well?” he says.

      You grabbed your bag and stood up, “Well then we should just stop before we start and save ourselves time,” and turned to leave.

      “Wait.” V grabs your wrist to stop you.

       You look down at your hands and tried to pry them off from him, but he keeps them firm.

       “You and I are one and the same. We don’t want to be here but we have to. If it’s too much to ask, let’s just pretend to have you study. They’re watching me.” V explains.

       You scrutinised your eyes at first after hearing him say that. They’re watching me. What does he mean by that? You thought to yourself. You looked at V and noticed his eyes was signalling something; his eyes quickly looked to the right and you caught on. You looked to your right and noticed your homeroom teacher was watching you both from the door.

Yo, creepy much? You thought to yourself again.

      “Okay Mr. Poet. Let’s play pretend. With my conditions. Firstly, you’ll tutor me like how you should. But I’m not going to give a damn about a word you say. Agreed?” you proposed to him.

      He rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. “AND!” you suddenly interrupted,

      “You have to tell me, why is the academic board watching you.”

       His mouth hung open when he heard this proposal as his brows began to form a knot in between his forehead. “Fine, ____. So long I can save myself from trouble.”

      You both came to an agreement. The first lesson he tutored you was on World History. You let him rant on explaining to you about the Great Depression, and the Korean War while you were pretending to listen, you were doodling on your notebook and creating little sketches of things that comes to your mind randomly. Three weeks passed and V was still tutoring you. However, whenever the teachers from the Academic Board leaves the detention room both of you relaxed a little and drop the charade. During times like this, V and you would have a small chat on everything else except studies. You learnt a lot about him; his favourite music, season, his pet peeves and noticed that he was not too different than you at all. Though, one has been itching in your mind since the day he first tutored you,

They’re watching me

           “V, you haven’t told me yet.” You spoke up. Your friend stopped whistling Claire de Lune and looked at you confused.

            “Told you what?” he asked.

            “Why they watching you for?”

      He sat up straight and placed both his elbows on the table, his hands perched under his chin.

      “Yours truly, is on the verge of expulsion.” He sighs.

      “Expulsion? A kid like you? No way.” You replied.

      “Yes. Well, I was framed that’s all I know,”

       “Framed? By who?” you asked.

       “I don’t know, but I was framed for supplying ‘the good stuff’ in school.” He answered. “Only your homeroom teacher believed I didn’t do such a thing.”

      “Miss Fayeman?”

     “Yup. So, she gathered all the members of the Academic Board and told them that if I manage to tutor you to pass this term, then it proves that I’m no dealer.” He added on.

      You sat there confused and in disbelief that a man like him would do such a thing because based on your observation, you damn well knew that V would not go that low to do such a thing in school. He has his pride and his motivation to achieve and drugs were out of the question entirely.

      “And that is why ____, I need you to pass this term.” he says quietly.

      You felt guilty after hearing his plead; but you did not want to show him your emotions. You too had your pride and image to maintain so you just looked elsewhere instead of him.

      “I have to go,” you said. You packed all your things and rushed out immediately after that. You knew that you were the weakest in your class in terms of academics but you felt ashamed that someone else with other problems was dragged into yours just to help you clean up your act. You were out of mood the entire day, so much so that your sister left you a piece of Twinkie in front of your door. After going through some thinking, you decided that you wanted to help V clean his name. You still put up with the charade after school hours with him when he tutors you under the watchful eyes of the teachers, but when you got back home, you would recall all that he explained and revise them again in your room – the constant burning of the midnight oil even put a strain on your shoulders and back from slouching at the study table too long.

      Exam season came, and you were ready to ace everything. V doesn't say much on that day, but the look on his face somewhat shows that he did not expect too much from you. You still kept your act; pretending to be unbothered about studies. When the results came, your homeroom teacher called you and V into the office.

      “My, my.” Miss Fayeman says. “Looks like no one is getting expelled.”

       V and you shared the same expression of confusion.

      “Here, look for yourself.” Miss Fayeman added and pushed a slip of paper towards the both of you from across her table. You both scooted closer to the table and eyed the results carefully. Every single one of the subjects either had an A- or A on it and lastly the commentary from the Principal down below wrote,

Extraordinary improvement. Congratulations. Keep it up.

      When the both of you left Miss Fayeman’s office, you held onto your result sheet and bolted out of the school building leaving V behind. You did not know what to feel. You could not believe that you actually studied to save a friend of yours whom you suddenly had feelings for from expulsion.

       “___, wait!” he shouted and chased after you.

      You ran out of the school building and made your way to the football field. You climbed up the bleachers and just sat yourself there, gasping for air. Not knowing how to react to everything that just happened. V made his way to where you were too, panting for air in his frail looking body. The poet made his way up to where you sat and crashed on one of the seats beside you.

      “Jesus.” He exclaims. “What is wrong with you?”

       You were still panting, but a smile slowly grows on your face. You felt like you have won the lottery – but most importantly, you saved someone from being expelled.

      “V,” you said.

      “Yeah?” he answers still gasping for air and cooling down his pulse.

      “Would you come with me to homecoming?” you suddenly proposed.

      “W-wha-“

       “Homecoming, silly. I want you to be my date.” You said.

      “I- uh. Yeah sure,” he says wearing a look that leaves him so puzzled.

       “You and I are one and the same, indeed.” You added.

      You got up from the bleachers and wanted to walk away, but V stops you from doing so by holding your hand and turning you around to give you a kiss. This caught you by surprised but you guess that your feelings for him was valid and mutual. He lets go from the kiss, smiling as he says,

    “Joy is my name, - Sweet joy befall thee.”

     “Blake, oh, Blake,” you said and pulls him in for a kiss again.

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

The Dark Soul In The Glass

I’ve wanted to join in on Flash Fiction Friday for forever but it was only this week that I saw the prompt and something...exploded in my head. A revelation one could say, though I know it’s several hours too late @flashfictionfridayofficial​ I’m hoping you’ll at least see it, and others will, and enjoy the first piece of original poetry I’ve posted publicly in...a long time. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One deep, navy-blue night I looked into my looking glass and was surprised by fate

Met with an uncanny mirror image of my soul, but another person’s kind face

Enshrouded by a darker world, gloomy and cold, with storm clouds accumulating above their head

Whereas my darkness held hopeful pinpricks of stars shooting through city light, as I watched from my bed

There was sadness and regret I could feel whenever they spoke 

A person who’d fought hard, batting at the clouds and the smoke

The wispy tails of misery that I’d felt so vividly more than once myself

Prompting me to reach my hand out, beyond my fears and darkness, hoping to help

The darkness started to fade and the figure’s movements followed my own

I twirled, they followed, I raised my hand to wave, I jumped up and down

They reflected me but I soon realised their every move was the opposite of mine

Yet still, I ran and skipped, swayed from side to side, and they mirrored me every time

Like a well-choreographed dance I stepped forward, so did they

I took a peek through the glass into their world as the clouds cleared out of the way

Behind them was a twisted, almost overgrown path covered with gorse and roots

There were worse paths veering off, made of sharp, upturned rocks, leading to dark woods

I recognised that twisting, heartaching path, it mirrored the winding one behind me

The same twists and turns, but opposite again, left turns where they should be right, strangely

The same tree roots jutting out, sharp splintered hands groping to make travellers fall

The same side paths that wound up at the same torn up cliffs, with the whistle of lost souls

Around them stood tumbled down structures like mine, beautiful spire castles collapsed

There were wilted flowers and broken marble tiles, torn and coffee-stained books scattered

I can’t...enter, the glass separating us, but on it I give a tap-tap-tap and hope they look up

They do and I hold up a flower bouquet, and read from my own stack of coffee-stained books

Books and journals, one and the same with stories of characters both invented and real

I show them small sketches of theirs and my tumbled down towers rebuilt 

Different from origin but still the same fairytale fortresses we once played in

Praying wholeheartedly that with the right tools, our castles in the air would rise again

By their feet, lay a dull, chipped sword with spiky, greyed rose vines coiled round it, engraved 

On the broad side, under the dust and dirt, the deteriorating steel said “faith” 

The handle was leather-bound, and aged, like mine but instead of being held by a weak fist

It was lying on the cold, stone floor, slabs and sword alike blood-stained from an accident

Day after day, tap-tap-tap and the clouds of mystery and enigma around them clear

Colours dance in the sky, lilac and blue, as clouds blow a snowflake flurry everywhere

The Wind Woman hums, the breeze of her laughter brushing the smoke away

And the glass shines translucent, allowing me to see a compassionate face

There’s sorrow, and a cold quality to the sharp pretty features, like an artist’s charcoal sketch

A slim figure with dark-chocolate strong eyebrows and curly, dark hair to match 

But looking closer, sparkling, amused eyes that through trial and hardship have stayed bright

A good-natured, ghost of a smile dancing on those pursed lips and dark eyes

A dark reflection in many ways of myself but with a spirit identical to mine I know

Behind a diamond-glass wall that may take eternity to break through

One day I leave the glass untapped, shrouded by grief darker than black

Then I hear a muffled voice over my heartbroken sobs, and behind me a “tap-tap-tap”

There he stands, a sight I’d never seen, someone calling, wanting to reach out to me

Around him are...books mended, flowers tended, growing and cared for, and in his hand I see

That sword, no longer covered in soil and dust but shining brightly, polished by his efforts

The clear, compressed carbon crystal between us holds a few scratches, but he looks worse

He’s tired, hands are bloodied, stumbling forward and yet still so strong 

raising the sword above his head to do what he can to chip away more

Of this unbreakable crystal wall, staring me in the eye, “I won’t let you go easily”

I peer behind him and am shocked by reflections of my castle sketches, half built, that I see

My vision blurs as heartfelt tears fill my sad, glassy eyes and trickle down my pale, scarred cheeks

Tracing translucent tracks of happiness over old paths of suppressed fiery anger, heartache and grief

There’s an icy determination I feel in my spirit flowing through me, a cold burn in my chest as I stagger forward

Inspiration has struck, so I make my dua and intention to fight, mirroring him as I face the diamond wall with my sword

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

I wrote this today, took a few hours because I was for some reason very stubborn about getting it perfect on the first draft. Somehow, I actually feel I have, the imagery is so vivid to me that I may even draw this out in the future, a full comic, who knows? 

Edit: Tumblr is not co-operating on formatting, this is meant to be split into quatrains but never mind

[sunnyie-eve]

2 | One of a kind

Series: Terror (Simon Kalivoda x OFC Fraser!)

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: language, mention of drug use

"No creeping around and no sneaking in. Also to call you."

Previous

Later in the day mom made me go to the grocery store with her because she didn't trust me at home if she wasn't there. "Ugh, I don't understand how you are friends with that druggie." She eyes Simon from afar. "Because he's a nice funny guy. You would know if you talked to him when he checks us out before we leave." I tell her and I get a disgusting look from her. "You need to be friends with non-druggies." She continues to talk shit about him then Kate and Denna. "I'll be right back." I walked away since I saw Kate talking with Simon. "You got off the lease?" Simon jokes. "Haha, funny." I fake a smile. "We'll she keeps making you follow so close to her." He makes a point.

"Have you been watching me since we got here?" I ask him. "Yeah, so I could pop in to give this back to you." He shows me my necklace I never take off. "I didn't even notice. Thank you." I take it and put it back on. "How the hell did it even come off? I ask myself. "Who knows it was a wild night. When I got home after walking you I felt it in my pocket." He explains to me. "Huh? What am I missing? There are a lot of holes in this story." Kate looks between us. "I got high with Simon last night at the park. We took two different pills and fell asleep there." I keep it short. "You what? Miss goodie goodie when it comes to drugs, took drugs?" She whispers shouts. "What did you give her for her first time?" Kate turns to Simon.

"Being completely honest with you, I don't remember. I just knew it was the ones that take away all your worries and make you feel like you're flying. Nothing too serious and it was only two pills." He tells her and she keeps hitting him. "You're so fucking stupid!" He just takes the slaps. "Duh." He agrees with her. "What all do you remember?" Kate turns back to me. "We played around at the park. On the swings, playset, and monkey bars. On the monkey bars, we took a different pill and that's all I remember before waking up." I let her know. "Same thing. I guess we just passed out after running around." Simon tells her.

"Oh, by the way, my dad grounded me for coming home this morning so." I let both of them know. "So I can still sneak over but just can't sneak you out again?" Simon says, making me look at him. "No, you're the reason I'm grounded, dude. No more sneaking over. And start to call instead of creeping around outside my window." I hit him as my mom comes with the basket ready to check out. Simon goes around to scan and check us out. "Find everything okay?" He asks her. "Fine." She keeps it short not wanting to have a conversation with him. When he was done he tells her to have a nice day and again she ignores him. "See you guys Monday." I smile at Kate and Simon.

"I don't want you being friends with them." She tells me as we drive home. "You can't tell me who I can't be friends with." I laugh, earning a backhand slap from her. "I'm your mother so yes I can." I just nod my head staying quiet till we get home. When we got home I went straight to my room putting on music to zone out. "What happened?" Sam comes into my room. "Nothing." I started to sketch a picture. "Tell me." She slaps my bed. "She told me to stop being friends with Simon and Kate. I told her she can't tell who I can't be friends with. It earns me a backhand so." I let her know. "Why did you do that? Just do what she says." I stop so I can look up at her. "Okay then, so you agree to stop seeing Denna then." I smile at her. "That's not what I meant." She sighs.

"You told me to do what she says so shouldn't you too then?" I ask her. "I do what mom tells me to do most of the time unlike you. You choose to be the stereotype of someone from Shadyside. Gets in trouble, doesn't follow the rules, etc." She says pissing me off. "Get out of my room and don't come back in here." I point at my door and she leaves. "Bitch." I throw my stuff across the room. I end up spending hours laying on my back staring at the ceiling wishing I had a different family at times. Mostly a new mom and sister. "Time for dinner." My dad opens the door. "I'm not hungry." I let him know. "Fine." He shut my door. I get up picking up what I threw hours ago to start sketching again.

As I was drawing there was a tap at my window. I get up opening it, "What did I tell you?" I ask Simon. "No creeping around and no sneaking in. Also to call you." He smiles at me. "So why are you still doing this?" I laugh letting him in. "I was wondering if you can do my nails again." He walks over to my black nail polish. "I guess I can. Come sit down after locking my door." I tell him and he does. "Thank you." He puts his hand out to me and I take off the old polish. "I don't have much of a choice now do I?" I laugh. "Even if you did, you still would. Wanna know why?" He smiles. "Why?" I ask, looking at his nails. "You love me." I can't help but smile so I look up at him. "Then maybe I should stop because I don't." I close the nail polish bottle.

"But you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't have let me in." I shake my head at him. "You are so annoying, Simon." I started to paint his nails. "Just don't mess them up." I reminded him. As I was working on his second hand he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Sorry, I messed this finger up." He shows me his index finger. "I hate you. I'll fix it after this hand." I huff. Once I was finished with painting his nails, he made me blow and fan them so they could dry. "My mom backhanded me across the face leaving the store. She told me to stop being friends with you and Kate. I told her she can't tell who I can't be friends with, which earned me the backhand." I say as I can his nails. "Bitch." I agree. "Then my sister said I should listen to her. We got in a fight about how she does what mom tells her to do most of the time unlike me. I choose to be the stereotype of someone from Shadyside. Gets in trouble, doesn't follow the rules, etc."

"You aren't the typical Shadysider. Yeah, you break some small tiny rules, but you only ever get in trouble at home, not at school. And etc... what? You don't do drugs, except last night, which was a one-time thing." He makes a point. "I know." I sigh. "Lizzy, I can't think of anyone else in Shadyside that is as good as you when it comes to being the best they can be. You don't do anything that could fuck up your future. I have faith in you getting out of here on your own." I wrap my arms around his neck giving him a hug. "That's really nice to hear." I squeeze him. "And I really mean it. Hopefully, you will remember me when you make it." He says as I stop hugging him. "How could I forget you." I kiss his cheek, "You're a one-of-a-kind, Simon Kalivoda." I mess up his hair.

///

Simon just smiles at Elizabeth, falling for her smile even more. "I know I am but thank you." He kisses her forehead. "Elizabeth." Her mother knocks on the door making Simon rush into the closet while she gets up, unlocking her door. "Yes ma'am?" She opens the door and her mother looks into the room. "Time for bed young lady." Elizabeth just nods her head. "Yes, ma'am" She shut the door walking over to her bed grabbing the clothes she sleeps in. "Time to go home Si." She tells him and he comes out. "Don't wanna leave yet." He whines laying in her bed. "How much longer?" She asks, walking into her bathroom to change. "I don't know." He shrugs his shoulders. "I guess you can stay a little longer." She walks back laying down next to him. He sits up moving to lay his head on her stomach so she could play with his hair and she does.

"How did we even become friends again?" Simon asks, closing his eyes. "You tripped me a month into the new school year when we were 12 because you said I was too cute to talk to you. You thought the only way I would talk to you is if I had to yell at you." Elizabeth laughs thinking back. "Well, you did end up yelling at me." He looks up at her. "Because you made me scrape my knees on the concrete." She tugs on his hair playfully as he starts to draw on her thigh with her pen. "And now you have a scar to remind you all the time of how we met and became best friends." He tells her. They both end up falling asleep for about twenty minutes before both waking up. "I should get going now." He gets off the bed. "Yeah, I hate sharing my bed." Liz laughs sitting up. "See you Monday. Goodnight." He opens the window. "Night night." She closes the window behind him as he walks off.

Elizabeth's body takes over, straddling Simon, leaning down to kiss him while his hands grab her hips. He rolls them over so he is on top kissing her then down her neck and collar bone. He moves his hand under her shirt, sliding his hand up and down her side. He pressed his lips against hers again, and trailed his hand down her thigh, rubbing it. Elizabeth jolts up out from her bed not believing what she just dreamed. It felt so real it scared her. She wanted to go back to sleep but she was nervous if her brain wanted to continue what she just dreamed. But then again part of her actually wanted to continue that dream. She falls back to lay down staring into the darkness of her room till she falls asleep again.

Monday comes quick and as Elizabeth was getting things ready to leave she spots Simon's watch at the foot of the bed on the floor. She picks it up, putting it in her bag before heading to school. "How was being grounded?" Kate asks, walking up to Liz at her locker. "Alright, my mom slapped me because I said I won't stop being friends with you and Simon." Liz lets her know. "Bitch." Kate leans against the other lockers. "Hey by chance-," Liz cuts Simon off, "You left this in my room? Yes." She pulls out his watch. "I was going to stop by Sunday but decided to give you a day off from me." He puts it on his wrist. "Thank you so much." She laughs. "Didn't she tell you to not sneak over?" Kate asks him. "Yeah, but do I ever listen? Plus I wanted my nails done." He shows them to her. Elizabeth can't help but be uncomfortable with the dream she had about Simon.

"Kate, can I talk to you in the girls' room?" She asks her. "Sure." She agrees, making Liz grab her hand, pulling her to the bathroom. "What up?" Kate leans against the wall. "I had a dream about Simon Saturday night," Liz whispers to her. "What kind of dream?" Kate gets excited on the inside. "We made out in my dream, but the thing is it felt super real." She hides her face. Kate's jaw drops, not believing it. If the dream felt super real to her then that means it probably happened after they took that second pill. "So you like Simon?" She asks her. "I guess... Maybe... I don't know... Yes, okay yes." Elizabeth whines. "What's the problem?" Kate asks. "I don't know if he likes me and I don't wanna mess up our relationship. Just don't tell him please, Kate." She begs her. "I promise. You're best friend will keep your secret safe." Kate smiles.

Next

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.  

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

[agentnorthdakota]

All odd numbers for Zarus. Feel free to skip any, especially if they're too spoilery

Thanks Spencer!! uwu Sorry this took so long! I love this funky druid and I'm curious myself if any of these answers will change as I develop them further and they grow in the campaign~

1. Why did they choose their class(es)? their subclass(es)? When Zarus was young (for a drow), they were taught about nature and other Druidic teachings, which inspired them to actually get out into nature more and be an actual druid themself. Part of the Circle of Dreams, they spent some time in the Feywild, which influenced their magic further.

3. What is their goal right now? They do aim to get back to the Feywild, but Zarus is lackadaisical and drow live a Long time, so despite being presented with a chance to return, they’re like “there’s time for that later~” They’re curious about their friends and have some “souvenirs” to drop off to their friend Cabal first, anyway.

5. Do they follow a higher power? what are their thoughts on divinity? Zarus isn’t really the religious types. The gods exist, certainly, but they’re more connected to the wild, chaotic power of nature than devoting themself to a specific god.

7. Which party member do they understand the least? Defs Caesin atm. They enjoy being in cahoots with him, but are still figuring out his personality and morals.

9. Do they care about their appearance? how much effort do they put into presentation? Zarus cares a fair bit about their appearance – but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. From the outside they seem like the sort of person that put makeup on a couple days ago and is like “eh it’s still good enough” (purely figurative, they haven’t worn makeup in ages). And yet they typically hold themself like they’re dressed in finery, despite the holes in their cheap clothes.

11. What skills are they proficient in? why? Arcana, deception, history, perception, persuasion, and survival. Each has their place in their backstory, but the specifics of why are a mystery :3c

13. What do they dislike about themself? why? He’s the type to be, like… overly positive and hard to ruffle. He also isn’t exactly the most self-reflective. I think he’d have trouble naming anything he dislikes about himself.

15. Do they trust their party? why or why not? Absolutely! :3 I mean they’ve known each other for like a whole day now! (Zarus trusts way too easily)

17. What do they dream about, when their dreams are their own? That’s a good question :3c

19. What haunts them? what doesn’t? Probably more than he knows, or would admit (even to himself).

21. Do they follow their head, their heart, or their body? Well it’s definitely not their head. I’d say a mix of their heart and gut – but they have terrible intuition and danger-sense.

23. How do they feel about nicknames, titles, or labels that have been given to them? how do they feel about their name? They’d be thrilled to be given any of the above! Nicknames mean fondness, titles mean status, and labels can mean community – all of which Zarus wants. They’re very fond of their name, which is one of the reasons they give it a little too readily.

25. What stories do they like to tell? what stories do they like to hear? Zarus is… probably not the best storyteller, struggling to remember parts, and completely making up others. They’ll talk all day about less linear events though, like various plants, storm clouds, etc. And they’re happy to hear almost any story, as long as the person telling it is enthusiastic and isn’t a stuck-up prick.

27. How do they mourn? If he ever knew how to mourn, I think he’s forgotten how. Death is a fleeting and intangible concept to Zarus, and so mourning would be much the same.

29. Who would they save? who would they be saved by? He’d happily save any of his friends, both new and old, and without regard to any potential cost. And so far he’d be saved by Grimshaw, the only person who’s actually stepped in tried to dissuade his recklessness lol

31. They’re given a blank piece of paper–what do they do with it? (answered this one in a previous post~)

33. What makes them cry? …what does make them cry? Again, Zarus is a very cheery individual. Probably something triggering an old, long-forgotten memory, or one of their friends dying and not coming back. They’d also defs be the type to start crying without even realizing it, still smiling, only noticing when they feel they tears streaming down their face, and reach up to touch their cheek in confusion.

35. Which party member do they worry for? Defs Maco. He’s young and seems naïve, so if there’s anyone Zarus would have the sense to actually worry over, it’s him.

37. What is their favorite thing to hold? Ooooh. Probably an old, worn leather-bound book, whether that’s a journal or a published tome. It would bring them a sense of familiarity and comfort.

39. Are their hands calloused, soft, or something else entirely? Their left hand and forearm are covered with burn scars, while their right is surprisingly soft for a druid, not nearly as calloused as you’d expect from someone who travels the wilderness.

41. What are they attracted to in other people? (also answered this one in the previous post~)

43. Why do they fight? I guess… why not? They aren’t exactly into fighting, but they’re definitely capable, so if the situation calls for it they will fight, especially if their companions are. But they don’t exactly fight to protect themself, and would just as readily try to talk their way out of a situation.

45. How do they hug people? Another interesting one! I think it’s been a long time since anyone actually hugged Zarus. Despite being more of an extrovert, they don’t always spend much time around people, and Zarus can be a little… off-putting. I think he’d melt into a hug, eager to share in the rare warmth and companionship – and having no sense of personal boundaries and how long a hug should last or how closely he should wind the other person in his arms or vice versa.

47. When they meet someone, what is the first thing they notice? How kind they are. Do they treat him with kindness, or disdain? Because the latter isn’t going to win that person any brownie points with Zarus, though they may not say it. Anything else – appearance, social standing, scars, etc – that’s all extra, and typically not of concern.

49. What makes them smile? Lots of things. Zarus is smiling, like, 90% of the time, even if it’s a small smile (and probably somewhat unnerving). One of the rare times they’re not smiling is when they’re pondering something. They’re definitely smiling when they’re mad or offended, there’s just more of an edge to it that an observer might not catch.

51. What is the most beautiful thing in the world, for them? Oh wow. I think… life, continuing on uninterrupted. TW for some gory descriptions for this one. ((A bird with a stick fused into it’s wing that still manages to fly, a deer whose antlers are tangled with the head of another, trapped in an endless battle until it sheds its antlers, flowers and fungi sprouting between the bones of a carcass, the decaying corpse of a whale that brings so much new life to the scavengers who feast on it. There’s beauty in death, and in the unstoppable circle of life – and it’s a privilege to them to hold such a special place in it.)) On a more… traditional note, they definitely do like pretty flowers, and thunderstorms.

53. Which is more frightening to them: day or night? Honestly… I think the bright light of day. There’s comfort and familiarity in the darkness, a sense of home. But in the harsh daylight that hurts their eyes, everything is so stark and clear, and deep down it triggers discomfort, of what they should recall but don’t.

55. Whose hand do they reach out for? Currently? Cabal. They’ve helped him to his feet more than once, and he trusts them. It won’t take long for this to apply to his party, as well, but right now Cabal is instinctually the first one he’d reach for. For the party it will probably be Grimshaw first, since he’s been the most protective of Zarus (even if he doesn’t exactly deem it necessary).

57. What makes them angry? Being talked down to certainly grinds his gears. Zarus is actually decently intelligent, but no matter what, being disrespected and treated like he’s beneath someone sparks his anger, especially considering his backstory.

59. What is a quiet passion of theirs? Making flower crowns, and to a lesser extent, origami. They also very much enjoy sketching various flora and recording information about it, but there’s a sense of work to that as well as passion. Also, fashion. They very much enjoy dressing up, they just rarely have reason to.

61. What kind of flower would they choose to pick from a meadow? Literally every flower they could find. They’d either pick none, leaving them to grow, or one of each variety (including colour variations). They are very passionate about flowers and flora, so if they started they wouldn’t be able to resist picking one of each.

63. What fight has scared them the most? They’ve only been in a few fights in-game so far, and it’s very hard to genuinely scare Zarus. There is one from their past that would, but that’s getting into spoiler territory ;)

65. What is holding them back? Their unwillingness to accept that anything is wrong.

67. What makes them laugh? Much the same as smiling, it isn’t difficult to make Zarus laugh. They’re quite cheery, so if someone tells a bad joke or makes a clever quip, they defs laugh at it (even when doing so would be impolite).

69. How would they describe their party members? (aaand I answered this one in the previous post as well, so that’s it!)

[all-cursed]

Meet my first OC to have a specific fandom they’re attached to!

So I’ve never created an OC specifically for the universe of a show before, they’ve always been fandomless, but I was excited to create one for Wynonna Earp. I’m going to give him a proper page on the muse list as well as give everyone more detailed biographies eventually, but for now, this should work.

DISCLAIMER: to anyone who may have concerns, please know that I myself am Native American (Blackfoot and Cherokee), and did a lot of research while creating this character to make sure I do them justice and create an actual Native character that isn’t just a stereotype. Some parts that might seem stereotypical - such as the name this character chooses to go by - just comes with the modern era the universe is set in and the character’s own reasons. Several of the struggles he faces as well are specifically chosen because I hope to raise awareness in some small ways to the struggles that IPOC face even today. None of it is meant to be fetishising or stereotypical - some of it just exists in that space as an unfortunate reality.

Alright! Here we go.

                                                       [    i.    STATS   ]

NAME.  meecha wo’i  " crow "  redwolf .   

AGE.  23 as of 1x01 .

DOB.  nov 29th ,  1993 .

GENDER. gender-indifferent cis male  :   prefers he/him or they/them pronouns .

PREF. pansexual but has a preference for men and nonbinary individuals 

SPECIES.  human ,  witch  ,   skinwalker .

RESIDENCE.  the  ghost  river  triangle  .

OCCUPATION. former cashier ; former lead guitar in an up and coming rock band ; current bartender . 

ETHNICITY. in simple terms: native american. specifically: hopi and creek. some scottish but not by much. 

 [    ii.    INTROSPECTION    ]

POSITIVE TRAITS.   curious ,   adaptable ,  perceptive ,   creative ,   passionate ,   loyal ,   perseverant , open-minded , compassionate .

NEUTRAL TRAITS.  persuasive ,   withdrawn (at first; nervous about other’s intentions) ,   secretive , free-wheeling .

NEGATIVE TRAITS.  temperamental ,   unrestrained ,  spiteful ,   reckless ,   capricious ,   hedonistic .

DISLIKES.  sounds of traffic or loud machinery in general &  the sound of metal on metal &  the smell of cheap perfume/cologne &  hot weather &  dust  &  houseflies &  being told (instead of asked) what to do &  rap music &  wool scarves &  fluorescent lights &  lack of hygiene &  orange flavoured candies/sodas/anything that’s not an actual orange &  deep dark waters he can’t see the contents of &  mistreatment of animals &  having assumptions made about him  &  mathematics &  onions &  football  .

LIKES.  the scent and sound of rain &  physical touch &  candles , lighters , and controlled flames in general &  the smell of cedar , pine , and the forest &  music and playing musical instruments &  italian food &  raving about attractive people with others; intoxication is a bonus &  leather; wearing it and the smell of it &  glasses clinking together &  late night talks &  stargazing &  drawing / sketching &  records and record players &  animals &  'stealing’ and wearing the clothes of people he’s close with &  running &  card games &  dancing and singing & creating something out of nothing &  getting the last word .

HOBBIES. drawing &  singing and playing instruments &  exploring / learning as many places as they can like the back of their hand & people watching  &  drinking and bar hopping &  seeking pleasure and adventure wherever he can find it & collecting random things he enjoys / likes .

WEAKNESSES. he’s standoffish until he knows he can trust a person and can come off rude or aloof  & the inability to let go of most grudges &  his tendency to follow his desires and his heart before logic or his mind  &  impulsivity when emotional .

STRENGTHS. independence and ability to function and thrive alone (even if he would prefer to have company it is not mandatory) &  ability to be resourceful and adapt to new situations quickly &  handles time-sensitive situations well due to his tendency to act quick and think later &  stubbornness to stick to a task and see it through &  quick thinking &  agility and speed of inhuman proportions (thanks to his less than human side) .

HABITS. clicking his teeth together repeatedly when annoyed &  flexing  fingers & playing with his hair in absentminded / lazy moments &  silently staring at someone when he’s done with a conversation until they catch the hint and stop talking  &  if there’s music playing within earshot he always ends up swaying to the beat  &  will often make less than human sounds (growls, etc.) when angry if he doesn’t catch himself .

EDUCATION. average  student  throughout  elementary ,  middle &  high  school .  graduated with an equally average gpa of 3.0 , &  decided against college, choosing to seek education in less typical places .  fed up with his family and much of the treatment of his peers, he began to learn magic from a witch he met on one of his regular trips to wander the ghost river triangle and explore & learnt magic and about the more mystical parts of purgatory - ultimately becoming a skinwalker via the witch’s guidance and training .

[  iii. APPEARANCE  ]

FACECLAIM.  booboo stewart . 

HEIGHT.  5 ' 8 " ,  though when able to he wears combat boots that add a few inches to his height . 

EYES.  a very keen and observant hazel when he’s in human form .   when shifting , eye colour can range from yellow to red to green to blue depending on many factors - location , how far he shifts , etc .  always alert and bright unless intoxicated or in very rough shape emotion-wise . often wishes they were green or grey and has considered wearing contacts to change his eyes (human-wise) to those colours.

EYEBROWS.   defined  arch  but not so much so that it’s dramatic .  not too thin and not too bushy , and naturally neat - he rarely has to tend to them and usually only does so to shave a tiny slit or two through them as a stylistic choice .

HAIR.  long and dark ;  sleek with an ever so slight wave to it .  typically worn either down or in a loose ponytail , occasionally sections are braided .  falls just a few inches above his ribcage .  every so often he’ll dye streaks into his hair but has never dyed his whole head .

SCARS.  many . he has a variety of smaller scars from a rowdy childhood; a few faint ones on his hands and arms from scratches borne of cats and dogs . the typical scars that come from falling off bicycles or off swings ; scraped knees and cuts on chins . his forearms especially are covered in scars he prefers not to speak of .  there’s a scar on his forehead from a fight with his cousin as well as a few long scars on his back .

DRESSING STYLE.  it varies depending upon mood and whatever job he has at the time . especially fond of punk / alternative styles , likes leather , and enjoys the comfort of loose and flowing garments. whatever style he happens to choose at any given time , he wears well and somehow always manages to draw attention - whether from the jewelry he accessorises with (varieties of bracelets and cuffs , rings , pendants with gems , etc.)

LIPS.  naturally  full ,  scar at the right corner of his lip , occasionally  sore or split when he goes through anxious phases and tends to chew at his lips .

SKIN.   smooth , tanned . he doesn’t have much body hair , a fact that doesn’t tend to bother him much. he rarely engages in a skincare routine and much like his eyebrows generally stays neat and well-kempt without much effort . does not wear much makeup but enjoys eyeliner from time to time . if not for his skin tone, the dark circles beneath his eyes would be much more visible .

CHEEKS.  defined cheekbones ,   not easily flushed .  sports the occasional scars due to nervous picking when he was younger.

[  iv. ABILITIES  ]

LANGUAGES SPOKEN. english  [ fluent ] ,  hopi  [ conversational &  spellwork language ] , spanish  [ conversational ] .

THREAT LEVEL.  mediocre  to  high .

WEAPONS.  fairly efficient in his understanding of magic and can easily hold his own with either combative or defensive magic ,  but prefers when possible to rely on his own physical skills ; is proficient in hand to hand combat thanks to the speed , agility , and strength bequeathed upon him by his skinwalker nature . very skilled in knifeplay , whether throwing or up close . has little to no practise with firearms as of 1x01 . 

MAGIC. magic learnt by his mentor was primarily elemental based and neutral in that it could easily be manipulated for defensive or offensive ; he was never extremely proficient and left before he could complete his training so he is still learning his limits and the heights he can reach , and wants to branch out . as for the magical abilities granted by his status as skinwalker - he is able to shapeshift , which saps him of certain levels of energy that depend upon what creature he takes the shape of . he is also granted higher than average speed, agility, and strength because of this which he keeps with him even when not shifting.

 [  v. DETAILS  ]

➣➣ he was born in georgia originally to a loving but struggling mother and father - his mother was hopi and his father was creek, and while both parents had originally lived on their own respective reservations, they had met one another by chance during a trip and fallen in love, eventually deciding to seek out their own home outside of the reservations. his parents loved him but struggled financially; eventually his mother’s sister offered to take him in. as that was the better option rather than the three of them becoming homeless, crow’s parents sent him to live with his aunt in arizona on the rez. while they stayed in touch, his parents needed to stay in georgia, and as such he only would see them on the occasional holiday.

➣➣ while his aunt meant well, his cousins were another story. living with his aunt and uncle would have been fine had it not been for their two children; a son and daughter who constantly bullied him behind their backs for not being pure hopi as they were, often harassing him about being a ‘halfbreed’. a quiet boy at heart to boot, he faced bullying in school as well all the way through high school. his cousins, in tenth grade, snooped in his room and found his journal - which they used to out him as pansexual to the school.

➣➣ the moment he graduated, he spent as much time off the rez as possible, avoiding his cousins. on one of his frequent trips to simply explore nearby cities and towns, he found himself in purgatory. one drunken night led to following a mysterious woman into the woods. as it turned out, she was a witch. intrigued and excited at the idea of learning magic and having a way to defend himself, he quickly took her up on her offer to teach him. after a few months, she let him in on her secret - she was a skinwalker.

➣➣ she talked up how powerful she was because of it, and how no one would ever hurt her again. the more he heard about it, the more he wanted it. still unhealed from the way he was treated growing up and too caught up in the concept of never having to be beneath someone ever again, he agreed to let her hold the ceremony that would make him one as well without thinking of the consequences. when she told him that the final task he needed was to kill a family member... he almost faltered but agreed and went back to the rez. 

➣➣ he almost didn’t do it. it was night when he returned, and he could see his male cousin drinking on the porch. the concept of killing someone - even someone like his cousin who had treated him so poorly - was daunting. he might have changed his mind had his cousin not seen him arriving and was immediately being malicious; using homophobic slurs and accusing crow of having run off with a lover, talking about how disgraceful it was. and it all was a blur from there.

➣➣ bringing back a lock of his cousin’s hair to the witch, she finished the rituals and he became the creature she had promised - powerful but at what cost? still wrought with guilt despite having made the ultimate choice, crow left the forests on the outskirts of purgatory where he had been training and into the ghost river triangle itself, unable to go home after what he did and unable to stomach facing the witch. living out of his truck, he went from odd job to odd job, eventually landing a stable job as a cashier at a grocery store. around this time he chose to begin going by the name crow - both to distance himself from his past, and because if someone were to want to control or destroy him now as a skinwalker, they could do so if they knew his true, personal name. as such, a nickname seemed the safest bet. 

➣➣ fastforward to present day (1x01). after a few years of cashiering and attempting to rent rooms and apartments without success, as well as a stint playing guitar for an up and coming rock band, crow landed a job as a bartender at one of the local bars and instead of attempting to rent rooms or apartments, ended up moving into the trailer park. it was sketchy to say the least, but he couldn’t afford anything fancy and clearly didn’t handle having roommates well. a trailer seemed like the next best thing, outside of living in the woods or in his truck. his tendency to mind his own business and expect that of others meant that he mingled with normal purgatory residents and the revenants equally, pursuing his hedonistic nature as he pleased. which was all well and good, until things began to get... a lot more chaotic due to a curse and an heir he had originally had no knowledge of. 

               [ MORE TO COME THROUGHOUT                                               CHARACTERIZATION DEVELOPMENT ]

[just-dreaming-marvel]

SEVENTY ONE - ARC REACTOR

LEGACY: A Tony Stark Daughter Story

MASTERLIST

< previous

Word Count: 1,950ish

Summary: Bailey tries to come to grips with her new attachment.

The doctors and Tony were in the lab sketching, building, sketching, and then building some more for a few days. Pepper waited patiently by my bedside with Rhodey. Vision disappeared out of no where about a few hours after Tony went down to the lab. Tony was angry that Vision did not inform in on where he was going, but he also had more important things to worry about. Pepper carefully watched my heart monitor and breathing. They had been sitting there in silence for almost two hours before Pepper spoke up.

“I can’t lose her…” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “She’s my kid too… At least, it feels that way.”

“She is your kid, Pep,” Rhodey confirmed. “Ever since Tony brought her home, she’s been yours too. I know Bailey loves you like you’re her mother.”

“Then why doesn’t she call me mom?”

“I think… I think that she doesn’t know if she can… I think she wants it to be official. You and Tony are kind of all over the place with your relationship sometimes. It can tend to be confusing.”

“I wish it were official too.” She smirked.

“I’ll get on that after all this is over.” Rhodey and Pepper were laughing lightly when Tony and the doctors walked in. Tony was holding the finished reactor in his hands. 

“It’s finished,” Tony stated.

“We’re going to take her back now,” One of the doctors said. The doctors went around my bed and started pushing me and the machines out of the room.

The main doctor stopped in front of Tony as the others continued with my bed. “We’re going to save her, Mr. Stark. But I’m going to need the arc reactor.” The doctor held out his hand and Tony carefully gave it to the doctor.

“If anything happens to her,” Tony whispered in the doctors ear, “you’re the first person I go after.”

The doctor nodded. “She’s going to be fine.” And walked out of the room. Rhodey walked over to Tony and put his hand on his shoulder. Tony refused to make eye contact.

“She’s going to get through this,” Rhodey tried to comfort his worried best friend. “She’s going to be fine.”

“Will she hate me for agreeing to put an arc reactor in her chest?” Tony asked.

“We’ll just have to wait and see. It’s not like it’s a conversation you thought you’d ever have.”

Between the three of them pacing around the room, the floor should have been completely worn through. They waited for hours until the doctors finally brought me back to the room. There were less machines, no breathing tube down my throat, and the arc reactor was glowing in my chest. The doctors told them that the surgery went just as planned and that I should be waking up soon. So they all sat down and waited. I slowly started to regain consciousness. I was definitely breathing but I noticed something weird. There was something on my chest. It was cold and sort of weighing my chest down. I slowly opened my eyes. There was a hole in my gown and what looked to be an arc reactor showing through it. My heart rate started rising and the monitor began beeping. That’s when Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey noticed I had woken up.

“Hey there kid,” Tony said grabbing my hand with one of his and moving my hair out of my face with the other. “It’s okay… you’re okay.”

“Wh— what— w-why?” I couldn’t find the words to say what I wanted to. I was in shock. I looked at the reactor in my chest, then at Tony.

“There’s a toxin in your blood. It’s almost identical to the one that HYDRA used to scar you. There were only two options… either leaving you on machines for who knows how long, or this.” He tapped the reactor. “It’s filtering the blood before it gets to your heart. It will take all of the toxin out, we just don’t know how long it will take…” 

I started to do controlled deep breathing. I squeezed Tony’s hand. “Well…” I started, searching for the right words. “I guess I wished a little too hard.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wished a little too hard to be like you…” We smiled and then Tony kissed my forehead.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” I could hear the relief in his voice as well as feel it just a bit. But not like it should have felt.

“Me too… Can you guys get me my cell phone?”

Pepper laughed. “I was wondering when you’d ask about that.” 

She handed it to me. I glanced at it, there were many unread messages from Peter. I sighed and set the phone down. I needed to let him know that I was okay, but I was also too tired at the moment. I put my hand to my chest to feel the reactor.

“You’ll get used to it,” Tony broke the silence. The main doctor walked into the room.

“Good, you’re awake,” they said. “Now, let’s go over a few things.” The doctor moved to the front of my bed, so that they could look at the whole group. “You’re going to need to be carefully monitored while you have that reactor in you.”

“When will I be able to get out of this bed?” I quickly asked.

“Hopefully by tomorrow,” the doctor answered. “But you’ll mainly be stuck to one floor, you won’t be able to do stairs by yourself for awhile, and absolutely no training until I say otherwise.” I rolled my eyes, Tony saw it.

“The doctor is serious, Bailey,” Tony said. “And so am I, no training.”

“What about flying around in a suit?” I asked.

“No,” the doctor answered.

“What about… school?” I slowly asked, wincing as I did. Tony looked at me, worried that I was going to insist on moving out. “It would just be a few classes, online. Just to give me something to do if I’m not going to be allowed to train.”

“School should be fine,” the doctor said.

I turned to Tony. “I need my mail.” 

“We can get it in a minute,” Tony said. “I have one more question….” He turned to face the doctor. “Will she get her healing abilities back?” I squeezed Tony’s hand and looked at the doctor.

“She has them. We witnessed them in surgery. They’re just going to be on the slow side until the toxin is fully out of her system. We will also be collecting the toxin to try to create a— immunization if you will, so that this can’t happen again. We’re going to test them out on you—”

“So I’ll be an experiment.” To Tony, the fear was evident in my voice.

“No, no, no,” Tony quickly responded. “We’re just trying to heal you, trying to make sure stuff like this can’t effect you anymore.”

“We’ll let you know everything that we’ll be doing,” The doctor said. “And we’ll keep your file unlocked, so that you’ll be able to always get into it.” I nodded. “I’ll let you be.” The doctor left the room.

“How about we get some food in you and then we can open up all the mail you received while you were gone afterwards?” Tony suggested.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

Tony stood up. “I’ll go get the mail.”

Pepper stood up too. “I’ll get the food.”

“I’ll just babysit,” Rhodey said. We laughed as Pepper and Tony left. After they were out of the room Rhodey spoke up. “How are you, Bailey?” He moved his chair closer to me.

“I’m fine,” I answered, not making eye contact.

“Bailey.” Rhodey gave me a pointed look when I finally looked at him. “How are you really?”

“Scared. Something else is going to happen, I can feel it. And now I have an arc reactor in my chest. How am I suppose to go to college now?”

“One step at a time Bailey.” 

I looked around the room and noticed that someone was missing. “Where’s Vision?”

“He… Tony probably already knows but I’m still going to have you promise. You can’t say a word of this to Tony, alright?”

I nodded. “You can trust me.”

“Vision is meeting up with Wanda.” I gasped slightly. “Wanda found a way to communicate with Vision without letting Tony know. I found out because I caught him as he was trying to leave the compound.”

“I thought Wanda was in prison.”

“Steve rescued Wanda and Sam. Clint and this ant man guy, Scott, made a deal with the government so that they could stay with their families.”

“Aren’t you suppose to tell on them though, Vision and Wanda? You do work for the government and you did sign the Accords.”

“Yes.. but they are my friends and Vision already feels bad enough as it is.” He looked down at his legs. “He blames himself. But it was all of us. None of what happened should have happened.” 

I looked away, trying not to cry. Clint and Scott had made deals to stay with their families, wasn’t I that important to Steve? Why hadn’t Steve come to get me? Why hadn’t I heard anything from him?

“We’ll find a way,” he started. “I’m going to find a way for you to see him again. Even if it’s just to get closure.”

I reached for Rhodey’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Rhodey. But I don’t think that will help… Could you though, maybe help hurry Tony up?” 

“With what?”

“Proposing to Pepper. I’ve really wanted to call her mom. But I feel like it needs to be official.”

Rhodey chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll try my best.” 

Tony entered the room with my mail. “Mail’s here,” Tony said. He moved a chair next to Rhodey and handed me the mail. 

I took a deep breath. “What if I didn’t get in to any of them?” I wondered out loud.

“Then I’ll make a few phone calls,” Tony said. 

“No. I want to do this by myself. Plus no one knows that I’m your daughter.” Tony nodded. I grabbed the first letter. It was from MIT. “Your alma matter.” I ripped it open and skimmed through it. 

“What does it say?” Tony asked impatiently as Pepper walked in with food.

“You started with out me?” Pepper said.

“I got in,” I mumbled. 

“What was that, kid?” Tony asked. “Speak up.”

“I got in,” I said louder. I was happy and shocked and surprised. This was actually happening. “I got in and a full ride scholarship!”

“Thats my girl!” Tony wrapped me in a hug. 

“Yay!” Pepper squealed, joining in the hug.

“You guys are crushing me.” I said. 

“It’s cause we love you,” Pepper said.

We read the letters from Stanford, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Berkeley, and Duke all huddle up my bed. I got into all of them with full ride scholarships. I began to cry after reading the last one. 

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked.

“I-I did it,” I said. “I got in.”

“You did it, kid.” Tony kissed my head. “I’m so proud.”

“Me too.” Pepper said. My stomach growled. 

We laughed together. Then Rhodey passed out food. The three of them fought back and forth on what school I should attend and why. I laughed, just enjoying the scene. We were all together and happy, maybe not all that healthy and put together, but happy. A part of me though was holding on to hope that Steve would show up out of no where to join us. Then the scene would be complete.

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