#Hehe. Gingers.

[camelspit]

Thank you once again to @tw-5 for the great art!

[neocitycafe]

Nightwatch (Mark)

♡ genre: ginger tea - sageuk/historical; a little bit of everything--romantic fluff, soft smut, light angst

✎ words: 7.5k

✓ summary/notes: Mark Lee, loyal guard to the crown prince, unexpectedly meets court nurse!reader in a palace where everyone has dreams a little bigger than their roles seem to allow. Featuring small appearances by other NCT members: prince Jaemin, illustrator Renjun, royal physician Doyoung, and more. Inspired in part by Neo Zone’s “Kick It” concept.... (a few extended thoughts here) Enjoy!!

P.S. I realize that the name “Mark” is out of place for a historical Korean setting… Please imagine that there’s some sort of inside joke or creative story where Lee Minhyung’s nickname became Mark :P @nctsworld tagging you, cee! thank you for the endless fun chatter and fangirling every day, and for the real encouragement too, through the years.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　One: Medicine at Midnight　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

When you sneak into the herbal pantry room at half past midnight, the last thing you expect is someone else already there, rummaging through the musty drawers. A lone candle casts strange shadows dancing between the herb sachets hanging from the ceiling.

Holding your breath, you map out the fastest path back to where you slept. You had waited until your fellow court nurses were sound asleep, tiptoed past Doyoung’s quarters and his light snoring, and followed slivers of moonlight on the familiar floorboards.

You turn to make your escape, but it’s too late. The person in the room spins around and blows out the candle lighting the room. He pins you against the wall and sends the surrounding room into dizzying darkness.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low and commanding, and his body is held like a string strung taut, ready to meet its target. As your eyes adjust to the dimness, you find that he’s wearing all black. Gold threads swirl into the figure of a dragon, glimmering softly across his chest. He must be a royal guard. You’d never spoken to one before. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” He repeats himself and tightens his hold around your wrist.

You whisper your name, keeping your head bowed. “I- I work here, sir. Nurse under royal physician Kim Doyoung.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Lee Mark. Eastern Palace.” You look up to meet shining eyes and a face softer than the voice it held. For a moment, you’re mesmerized. In his eyes, stars twinkle with a youthful wonder that you didn’t expect to discover there. You realize your position and cast your gaze downwards again.

Mark takes in your lashes, the quiver in your lip, the loose white cotton wrapped around your shoulders. He draws a quick breath. You must be the one. The court nurse Prince Jaemin keeps talking about. The one who brews seemingly magical healing drafts and whose laugh is like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. Noticing your proximity and your lack of proper attire, he backs away and the warmth of his hands leaves you.

You’re grateful the palace guard doesn’t question further about why you are here for medicine in the middle of the night. But to direct attention elsewhere… “And may I ask what brings you at this hour, naeuri?”

He smiles sheepishly before pushing back his right sleeve, revealing several cuts and a scabbing elbow. “It hurts just a bit.” His voice is sweeter now, almost innocent. “Doyoung said I could let myself in and put something on to help with this. As long as I tell him what exactly I took. I didn’t know we’d finish training so late after hours.”

It looks like it hurts more than a bit. You wonder if they are battle scars, but you save the questions. You find a small bowl of water, the correct ingredients for a salve, and fresh linen to clean and dress the wounds. Mark expects to wince when you press down on his arm but instead, a feeling of cool spreads through his elbow.

Maybe it’s the quiet of the night and tight space that makes Mark feel like he can let down his guard and trust you with anything. “Actually, I got like this tripping on my own feet this morning. Nothing heroic. But don’t tell anyone. I’ll never hear the end of it if Donghyuck finds out.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” You laugh softly, and it does seem like a breeze on a warm day, Mark can’t help but think to himself. It reminds him of the lightness of his younger years, before palace life, duties, and always being on watch.

You almost share your secret too, with the way he smiles and asks about the cooling ointment, intrigued by how you made it. But after he leaves, you creep back to the medicine drawers. You take a fistful of what you were looking for and hide it in a pocket you’d sewn inside your skirts.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Two: Night Watch Walks　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

You try to drop a silver coin into Renjun’s palm, but he pushes your hand away.

“Please, no need! I promise I’ll get it to your mother.”

“It’s the home closest to the lake. My father’s usually fishing before dawn, but by midday he’ll stop by with lunch.” You keep rambling, and Renjun tsks impatiently but good-naturedly.

“I know how important this is to you.”

It’s not the first time Renjun is doing a delivery for you. He has also transcribed, illustrated, and read letters for you. He did this all under the guise of selling parchment pouches and bags needed for drying herbs, of course. He slips away with the setting sun.

Most of the nurses had wrapped up for the evening and withdrawn to their quarters early, glad for the extra rest. But your mind is a storm cloud. You’d seen firsthand how the queen barely recovered in time from her ailments last spring. You hope your father described your mother’s condition with accuracy and that the combination of herbs is correct. It was always dark when you picked them out of Doyoung’s drawers, relying on your muscle memory for where everything was stored. One ingredient is very rare and expensive, and you pray Renjun doesn’t get delayed, or worse, found out.

“Are you following me?” A voice shakes you, and you’re surprised to see Mark a few steps away across the courtyard. You had wandered with no destination and found yourself with the guard you met last week.

“No… Just taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep.” He nods in response. His eyes scan the surroundings and he keeps walking, but you feel him slow his gait for you.

“Well, I’m on night watch duty.”

“Then I’m on night watch duty too,” you reply.

“Oh, you are?”

“Yes, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet again.”

Mark stops and laughs. “It was a one time thing!”

“How’s the elbow?”

It has healed up nicely and the rest of your path around the Eastern Palace is spent getting to know Mark. You stay one step behind him, landing your foot where his shadow would’ve been in the day. There’s something comfortable about being together, and you almost forget about your worries. Mark’s voice is like gentle rain, a pitter-patter, interspersed with an occasional giggle, and you could listen to it forever.

Mark doesn’t trip once following the familiar route around the palace grounds. But he notices the beating of his heart, faster than usual for the pace he was walking.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You find yourself walking with Mark the next night, and the one after the next. It’s like your feet are naturally pointed towards him. You learn that Mark enjoys writing and poetry. He sometimes gets lost in his thoughts. His nose gets scrunched up in an endearing way when he’s too focused on something. He is skilled with his hands, especially with shooting arrows, but a bit clumsy with everything else. You are impressed that Mark is part of multiple units in the palace, and you admire how upright and hardworking he is. He makes you want to strive to be a better person yourself. You understand why he was selected as one of the crown prince’s closest guards.

“If you enjoy language and writing, maybe you can become an author and publish some poems?”

Mark shakes his head. “I have one job for life. Protect the prince, the palace, the city.”

“But what if you could?”

Mark wants to tell you he has started writing more in the past few weeks. Late at night, when he can’t stop thinking about you. Instead, what he says is, “But you know I can’t.”

“Alright then…” You would come back to this but you change the subject for now. “I was wondering, is Prince Na as handsome as the court ladies say he is?” Mark’s eyes become comically round at your question.

“I hope you were about to say he’s even more handsome than they say he is?”

It’s dark out, but the sweeping royal blue of the crown prince’s clothing is hard to miss. You freeze and hold a deep bow, but Jaemin waves it away, as if dismissing the formalities. His smile is swoonworthy, if you’ve ever seen one that fits that description. The corners of his eyes crinkle in mischief.

“I need a word with you,” the prince nods towards Mark, and you bow three more times, backing away.

Mark waits until you are out of earshot, the anxieties surfacing unbidden. Did Jaemin have his eyes set on you? Mark pictures you with lavish gifts that only a crown prince could afford. Or better yet, the prince could grant you status and freedom, he could support a large, happy, growing family—

“What is she like?” Jaemin’s question breaks his thoughts. And then all the things that Mark loves about you come rushing to his mind.

“Yes, well, she is very bright. And genuine. Kind of daring. Creative. So funny sometimes, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Carefree, beautiful… very beautiful.” Mark gushes almost reverently before realizing he may have misspoke. Prince Jaemin liked to keep it casual, but Mark wanted to show his due respect. “Um, she is a loyal servant to the kingdom,” he tacks on lamely at the end, trying to sound more professional.

“Be happy.” Jaemin’s words are loaded with meaning, and he grins at Mark’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “It’s a royal command.”

Mark isn’t sure, but he thinks his long-time friend sounds resigned beneath it all. Despite Jaemin’s smile, he could tell that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You see, Na Jaemin had many things: a seal that dictated the law of the land, fine teas from the east, sweet tangerines from Jeju island, the smoothest of silk robes, and more. But the privilege to love? Not something he could place a stamp on, taste, or touch.

He wants to ask you, the miracle court nurse, is there not a draught that makes the heart a little lighter? A concoction to soothe the soul? But for now, it satisfies him to make the romance of those around him blossom. He smiles at Mark’s giddy expression, the image of one of the sharpest palace guards now bashful, shy, and in love.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Three: Holiday　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

You’re shaking while staring at the letter in your hands. You can’t read your father’s script, but Renjun assures you the message says your mother is now feeling much better. They followed your exact directions and her fever broke the next day. Renjun smiles as you tuck the paper away. He had always loved painting. As a child, he found scraps of parchment and spent hours recreating the world with strokes of ink. But his family’s paper-making business needed his support, and he put his passion aside as a hobby. Being able to illustrate your instructions and messages feels like a dream come true he never knew he could achieve. He has a chance to paint the fine lines of sesame leaves, the mixed white and yellow blossoms of crown daisies, and the rough texture of milkwort root. You thank Renjun profusely, telling him he’s a lifesaver with his artwork, and you exchange the next secret package and note. A neighbor’s baby has been colicky and you recommend a tummy-friendly catmint and fennel tea.

You know it is wrong to take from the royal physician’s storage, but these things aren’t being used. You can’t help the elation bubbling up in your chest knowing that people were feeling better because of what you were trying.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” You look up at the familiar voice. You want to gush all about it. It’s not that you don’t want to share with him. But Mark is so good, so honest. He waits until you finish your duties to invite you on night time walks now. With him, it’s always responsibilities first. You make sure the fire’s out, the lid covering the stone pot completely, before following him towards the Eastern Palace pond.

“Well, it’s my holiday tomorrow! I’m visiting my home, the fishing village by Resonance Lake!” While not the exact reason, this is true, and it is cause for your joy. It’s one of your few days off for the year, granted in exchange for your service to the kingdom.

“Ah, I see.” You notice that wistfulness tinges his voice. “Taeil said that there’s supposed to be a full moon tomorrow night. I was hoping to see it with you. But of course, you can see it from where you’ll be too!”

You feel your cheeks heat up at the comment. You want to tell him that seeing the full moon together sounds lovely, and you’ll be sure to return to the palace before the Western Gate closes for the night. But he’s being called away by another guard, ending your walk abruptly. He gives you a small nod and then you watch as Mark speeds away like an arrow, silent and unswerving.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Home is running into open arms, tearing up when your father tells you you’re his pride, and holding your mother’s weak hand. Her health has improved dramatically, but she still needs rest, so she sends you out to the market to enjoy the sunshine on her behalf. Your father kept one of his best catches from the morning instead of selling it, and you promise to fetch the freshest vegetables to complement it for dinner.

While the town market does not carry the fine ingredients for a king’s many side dishes, it does have the goods that local commoners scrounge up to barter and trade. Seasonal wild greens, mushrooms and roots of all kinds, fresh and dried. Just thinking of the colors and scents has your mind drawing connections. Bean sprouts for soup, maybe some bellflower root to boost immunity...

Someone steps in front of you, and you almost knock into their chest. Instead of his black guard’s outfit, it’s a jewel-toned hanbok he’s dressed in and a commoner’s hat shielding his shining eyes from the sun. With high cheekbones ready to rise with his laughter, he looks so dashing you think you may be daydreaming.

“Mark!” He breaks into the hugest grin. “How are you here... Are you following me?”

“Nope. Just taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep.” He gives you the most dramatic wink, and you laugh because it’s midday and you’ve never seen him like this. “Actually, I took a holiday today too.” Prince Jaemin was more than happy to authorize it, as long as Mark helped him sneak out for a day of fun too. (He took off with another guard, Lee Jeno.)

Mark lets you pull him along through the merchant stalls and he claps along to the beat of traveling pansori performers, happy to shed his usual role and responsibilities. He becomes just a young man with the lovely one he wants to pursue.

The youthful wonder in his eyes is back, and when he sees the way your eyes light up too, his heart wants nothing more than to be the reason. He plays point-and-learn encyclopedia with you and all that you see.

“What are those funny things?”

“Ginger, silly. But I like to get them from another lady. And these are eggs, you know. The thing you have for breakfast sometimes.”

“I know what eggs look like! I can cook them!”

“Debatable.”

He pouts and points at some whole grains. “What about those?”

“These are good for your digestion.” You place a hand on your stomach as if to demonstrate. He points to the next row, curious about the bottles of dark liquid kept in the shade. “Ah, eel extract. That’s good for…” You gesture a bit lower and he gawks.

“What?!”

“At least that's what I heard. Want to try?” He shakes his head quickly and you think you hear him mutter, “Don’t need that…”

The ginger seller is chatting with another customer about unrest in the east, and Mark tilts his head in interest. His visit to town in regular garb is not without a mission after all. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. His eyes have dimmed to something more serious, but with the softness of an apology. “Hey, can I find you after dinner?”

You nod, understanding his signals. “Okay, the lake. By the last house, around the corner of the village.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Mark is true to his word. You’ve only made yourself comfortable in the grass looking out to the lake for a few minutes when he joins you, plopping himself down.

You can tell he doesn’t want to talk about his work, so you don’t pry. Instead, you let him ask all the questions. You share memories of swimming in the lake when you were young, the first time you gathered berries from the forest outside of the palace and almost got lost, how you wish to sneak out to see the cosmos flowers next autumn. You conclude that it seems like your penchant for trying new things always gets you into trouble. Mark reassures you that they do make for marvelous stories though.

“Remember when we talked about how I’d be a writer if I had the chance to do anything? How about you?”

“Me?” You pause, eyes following the ringed patterns left by dragonflies touching the still water. “I’d become the best physician. Even better than Kim Doyoung.” It’s exhilarating to say it out loud.

“You want to take his place as head royal physician?”

“Oh. No, not in the palace.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know.” You’d never allowed yourself to dream what you wanted any further. You turn back to gaze in the direction of the town, thoughts drifting towards the bustle of the market earlier in the day.

“I think you’d be amazing.” Mark’s voice brings you back.

“I’m not amazing now?”

“That you are too.” He transforms your joke into sincerity, just like that. It’s his turn to pause this time, and you move to face him. His breath warms your cheek with how close you are, and his eyes are brimming with something that you can’t name. “I… I’ve come to care for you,” he confesses. He takes your hand in his.

It’s love. It’s adoration. It’s a little fear for what may come. It’s hope. It’s desire.

You lace your fingers together and Mark feels that his heart may burst. “I care for you too, Mark.”

The full moon rises, but both of you are too busy to notice tonight.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Four: The Space Above the Library　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

“Where are we going?” Mark’s tugging you off course from the path you usually walk.

“A secret!”

“What about your duties?”

“It’s Yeongho’s turn for the night watch. He’s the One Two Seven squad captain, and he says we need to rethink the security. Something about northeastern borders. This way.”

One moment you’re outside, at the back of the palace library, and the next Mark has leapt on top of the roof. He reaches down and lifts you with surprising ease. You hang on, letting out a squeak and hooking your arms around his neck as he holds you snug against his chest. He carries you further upwards and you close your eyes tight, trusting him. After a few more minutes of lurching and movement, you feel Mark settle down. Could you be on the rooftop? He places you in his lap, your back against his chest.

“Whoa, where’d you learn to scale buildings like that--?” The question dies on your lips as you open your eyes to look out to the view spanning before you. Mark tightens his arms around you.

From this vantage point above the library, your eyes follow the path of a crane as it takes flight from the palace pond. It glides upwards towards the western gate where the sun has already set with colors between lavender and forget-me-nots and into the forests. And further, the expanse of N City beyond the palace gates unfolds, lights glittering like fireflies. A river courses into a lake, the lake by your home that looks like a tear-shaped puddle from this distance. The stars are rising and Mark kisses your hair. The moment is perfect.

“Oh, I got something for you,” you tell him, trying to sound laid back. An excited anticipation bubbles up in your voice anyway. You turn in Mark’s hold so you’re facing him and straddling his lap, and you try not to notice how he has trouble shifting into a comfortable position. From Mark’s perspective, you’re very close and warm. He makes a poor attempt at composing himself and keeps one arm around your back, his free hand taking the little package you fish out of your pockets.

Renjun had said he could loan you one of his old ones from home, but you insisted he find you a new one and a nice one at that. It cost more of your allowance than it should, but Mark’s curious expression is worth more than every bright coin you owned.

He slowly unrolls the ink brush from its cloth wraps, jaw dropping in silence, admiring the smooth wooden handle and soft bristles. “For all the stories you will tell,” you breathe softly.

Mark’s mind is often filled with so many words, but right now he is rendered speechless. He carefully places the gift into a pocket of his own and draws you in to thank you with his lips.

The kiss starts sweet and strong like steaming honey citron tea, deepening when Mark tilts his head and brings his hands up to hold your face. When he tastes you with his tongue, it’s like the world around you fades to night and he is the only light you see. Mark shivers as you card your fingers through his hair. You lean in so you’re as close as possible, feeling aware of every part of you that’s touching, the heat blooming between you, his unmistakable excitement now pressing into you, and your hearts beating rapidly.

You tug on his collar, wanting to trail your kisses down the column of his neck and further, but Mark untangles himself from you and holds you at a distance. He swallows thickly. “I am a man of honor. Let me wed you first.”

“Mark, bed me…” You barely believe the words coming out of your own mouth, but you know you want him desperately. “Please.”

At your plea, his eyes grow wide, and then they narrow, swirling with desire. He makes a noise between a chuckle and a groan and moves to get to his feet. For a moment, a pang of rejection creeps into your chest, but Mark reaches for your hand to help you up too. He can’t believe how easy it is for him to give in to you, but he knows he wants you too, with his whole heart. “Come on then!” His smile is boyish and free, and you are quick to follow, treading carefully along the eaves and through a well-disguised door at the side of the roof. With you, Mark feels all the straight lines he has built up loosening into the loops and curls of ribbons. For you, he dares to step out for a new adventure.

Mark’s space above the library is plain. You spot a few scrolls and stacks of books, and you wonder whether his thoughts and writing fill the pages. You wonder what kinds of stories he has been reading lately. But those are questions for later. You fall first into the place where he sleeps and pull again at the fabric of his collar, until he’s almost lying on top of you. Mark is careful with his weight, holding himself up on his palms by your face, and he pauses to ask, “Do you trust me?”

“Completely.”

You try to pull Mark’s top off, but the sleeves get caught on his elbows, and you both giggle, momentarily breaking the heady rush you were in. Once he has peeled off the rest of his guard’s uniform, you stare unabashedly at how lean and toned he is beneath his clothing. With you, Mark realizes he doesn’t feel shy or embarrassed. He feels free to be goofy, to make mistakes, to be himself. He appreciates how you eagerly touch him. You trace a star-shaped scar on his chest and kiss the tiny moles on the side of his neck and near the corner of his lips.

There are too many knots and ribbons tied in a hanbok, Mark grumbles aloud. You shake with laughter because really, it’s more complicated to put on and pretty easy to remove. Slowly, he loosens the bow on your chest, admiring every part of you revealed, kissing your skin reverently, before pulling at the one around your waist and marveling more at the wonder of you.

It’s a bit drafty and cold when you’re unwrapped and bare under him, but Mark’s lips are soon emblazoned along your jaw, your neck, your shoulders. His fingers are hot as they dance across your skin, down your sides and dipping below, between your thighs and finding your desire for him evident. He reaches lower and trails a fingertip along your inner thigh. His touch is slow and light, drawing upwards toward your center. You realize he’s writing something on your skin when he whispers “love you” close to your ear, sealing the words into your heart. Mark’s finger trails upwards along your other thigh, tracing shapes and lines. And this time, he says “forever.”

Mark knows you’re eager and ready for more, so he lets you help guide his hand until he’s at the perfect spot. He begins to draw circles earnestly where you want him, watching you intently as you sigh in pleasure.

“Good?”

“Mm-hmm. Very.” You extend the “very” and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. Mark’s so good as a person, as a friend, as a lover, that you’re almost overwhelmed by it all. He spells out his love for you, over and again.

When you reach for him after some time, longing to please him too, Mark simply moves his hands to hold yours in his own. He presses his body down closer to slide his length against you without entering you, and the both of you moan at the friction and new sensations. Heat courses through you, warm in your belly, right down to your toes, and back to your core again as he moves against you. Back and forth he rocks, your fingers clasping his more tightly, stars spinning above you, until you’re coming, coming undone beneath him, chanting his name. Mark slows down until you’ve caught your breath. He untangles his hands from yours to reach up and smooth the hair from your forehead.

“Will you have me?” You lift your hips in response to his question, digging your fingertips into his back, pulling him close.

“I’m yours.”

You let out a gasp as Mark presses the head of his cock into you. He’s careful and tender, kissing your breath away before moving to push in all the way. With effort, you open your eyes to look up into his. You hold each other and behold each other, connected from beginning to end. He drags along your warmth, languid and loving, and dives back in again.

Mark could write verses, he could write volumes, he could write songs about you.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Five: Embroidery Needles　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

Kim Doyoung immediately reports the missing contents of his storage shelves. Rose hips, cinnamon bark, and licorice root. Not to mention, the garlic, gingko, ginger, even ginseng! The contents that had vanished far outweighed what the palace guards who occasionally dropped in without notice could take. At first he thought it may be just that, but completing his personal annual inspection revealed otherwise. In retrospect, you should have known that Doyoung would be the type to measure and catalog all of his work. Perhaps you were getting too carried away in your fantasies, distracted by the romance of your dreams.

Doyoung doesn’t mean to be an exacting person; he is just an exact person. But he wasn’t always this way. The voices in his memories remind him why.

“Must’ve wasted them, feeding it to those beasts he keeps!”

“That little thief. Always thought he looked different from everyone else.”

“Glad he and his family were exiled.”

Hot tears well up just remembering it, and Doyoung bites the inside of his cheek to keep the anger down. His best friend in his younger years. Lee Taeyong. Taeyong who cared so much for life, for animals, large and small. Taeyong who once placed a tiny green frog in Doyoung’s palm. It scared Doyoung half to death, but Taeyong kept going on about how cute it was. When the queen’s herbal remedies had gone missing, there were no records kept at the time. The scheming political officials were quick to separate themselves from the situation, shifting blame on the innocent. Taeyong, their scapegoat, was branded as a thief and banished to hard labor. Doyoung vowed to catch the actual culprits next time. He would take careful notes and calculated steps if he needed to. He rose in the ranks as head physician over the years, hoping he could one day gain the power or connections to exonerate his friend.

Word travels to the crown prince about trouble with one of the court nurses stealing from the physician’s storeroom. Naturally, word gets to one the crown prince’s closest guards too.

Mark wants to understand, but he can’t afford to. His role is to guard the prince, and his team needs his complete focus and commitment, especially now. He had shown you his everything. His favorite spot to watch the sun set, his corner above the library, his innermost thoughts, his whole being. The hurt and betrayal felt bitter like poison. He thinks back to your chance encounter which he so treasured in his memories, now tainted with the thought that you might have been in the act of stealing that very night. His brows furrow and he doesn’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched. He’s torn between following the rules which condemn you as a thief and siding with his personal knowledge of what you are like. He wants to talk with you, but he can’t seem to find you in all the usual spots. And now he hardly has the time to look for you with his new schedule. The palace guards have ramped up on meetings, and he’s exhausted from splitting time between all the units he’s in. Jungwoo’s sword nearly nicks his neck when Mark realizes how far his thoughts had wandered. The more he aches, the further he pushes into his training, exerting the pent up emotion in combat practice.

Prince Na, having lost his sister to spies from a neighboring kingdom in childhood, had no room for deceitfulness. It was merciful enough that Doyoung would be the one to deal with you directly.

“Sir, I… I’m sorry I tried making something new and overcooked it and threw it out. I’m willing to make up for it. I also got some of the ingredients mixed up. I’ll wash up all the bowls for the next month. I’ll gather the roots too! I promise, I--”

“I don’t need your excuses. I thought better of you.”

You hate to admit it, but his words stung. Doyoung had been like a mentor to you.

Doyoung knew you never mixed up the ingredients though. He knew you could probably identify them without even seeing them. And your new concoctions often became the best remedies, never failures. As much as he was angry, he was not one to be cruel. After probing further and finding no other double-dealing plots or secret orders you were following, he lets out a long sigh and tells you his next orders.

You should have been grateful that you weren’t sentenced to something more serious, but you would rather lose your bi-annual rice stipend than this. Or reorganize all the drawers to the picky head physician’s standards. Instead, you are relegated to beginning embroidery. Embroidery! Not allowed near the food or medicine, and in a completely opposite wing of the palace. Doyoung warns you that all the guards are informed and will be watching you.

Oh but there is one palace guard who must not want to see you. Since the news broke, you haven't seen him anywhere. No night time walks, definitely no night time views, only emptiness in your chest and no place to run.

Would Mark misunderstand that you were only skin deep with him? You know that isn’t it, but you also know you broke his trust. You are a thief, no matter the intentions, but you feel a tangled mix of shame, anger, frustration, and a sense of powerlessness that you cannot unravel. You think it might be better for him not to be associated with you after all. You wonder if he regrets meeting you.

You have to ignore the many new inquiries that Renjun tries to deliver to you, telling him it’s no longer safe to make the exchanges. Worry creases his brows when even his beautiful new drawing of the cosmos field you want to visit one day brings no change in emotion to your face.

You do your best to pore into your daily tasks, but it’s monotonous work, embroidery, with nothing more exciting than occasionally pricking yourself with a needle. You curse under your breath.

But what hurts most, perhaps, is the blank expression and emptiness in his eyes the one time you finally do catch sight of each other across a hallway. It’s brief, like two strangers passing. And as you haul bolts of silk upon your shoulder, you will yourself to think that it’s the burden of the weight and the sharp-pointed embroidery needles. Actually, you are quite certain what hurts most.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Six: Fire　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

It’s that nightmare again. You’re falling from the library’s rooftop and into a bottomless lake. Mark’s sparkling eyes turn wounded, guarded, cold. What happens next is plunging into utter darkness and a numbing freeze taking over your limp body. But this time, the dream takes a turn. The waters around you swirl, sweltering hot, and start closing in. Instead of a deafening silence, voices are screaming. You try to decipher what they are saying, kicking to tread water and struggling to stay afloat.

“To the West Gate! To the West Gate!”

You jolt awake. The commotion of your dreams collides with reality. You piece together the hazy outline of Doyoung’s figure past the doorway amidst smoke and chaos. He’s shouting instructions, pushing people in one direction. The palace is under attack.

Crawling on your knees and holding a sleeve over your nose and mouth, you make it to the courtyard. White-gray ash and embers flicker through the air and you fight to breathe. You can’t see anything for a moment, but the wind picks up, carrying the thick smoke away. You turn to take in your surroundings and you stop in your tracks at what you find. In the exact opposite direction to the throngs of courtesans fleeing, an orange glow is consuming the Eastern Palace and the library right next to it, dark plumes of smoke billowing out.

The words of love, of history, tales of wonder, poetry and promises. Burning.

There’s nothing you can do but to cry out, “Mark!” Your lungs burn, and you struggle to stand to your feet and shove against the bodies of those trying to escape. “Mark!”

The singing of arrows across the air brings your focus sharply back to your feet on the ground and you find that you are being pushed along with the crowds, dragged towards the West Gate. And then you are running, into the forest, aimless, with tears streaming down your cheeks.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾ Seven: Healing, Again ☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

The bitter, earthy scent of herbal infusions fills the temporarily transformed gisaeng house where you are working. Several of the women are already well versed in medical care, and all are ready to help. The house sits in the center of N city, near the market, an area easy to access and luckily, untouched by fire and the following destruction.

Days feel like weeks and weeks feel like days with the new routine you suddenly find yourself in. Early morning rounds with cool compress cloths to treat the ones with burns, gathering the berries and calendula flowers before the sun got too hot, brewing teas in the afternoon, a hurried supper so you can continue your work before it got too dark.

The time is long, but the moon has grown from waning crescent to waxing gibbous again before you know it, with the many people that come and go after receiving the care they need. The citizens are healing, gaining strength to rebuild again.

It’s late one evening when you see from the corner of your eye, an unmistakable design on a visitor entering. Midnight black, silky fabric with the emblem of a dragon. The ladle in your hand clatters to the floor and you pull up your skirts to run to the entrance.

As you get closer, yes, it’s the gold embroidery, yes, it’s the palace uniform. But he’s taller in stature. He’s not the one you’re looking for. Your steps come to a slow stop. Jaehyun recognizes you immediately and is equally quick to spare you of the suspense.

“We haven’t seen him yet.”

When your knees give out, he holds onto you and lets your tears soak his clothing.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It is a bizarre sight to see the crown prince enter town, not supported on a fancy palanquin but on the arms of Doyoung and Jeno, all in commoners’ clothing. You’re on the side of the street when you spot them, and you freeze in place before remembering to bow deeply. Jeno motions you to straighten. There’s no need to reveal identities, he whispers into your ear. Nodding with understanding, you help them to the house and find the nearest available space for Prince Na.

Word had spread that a powerful shaman was practicing in the center of town, but Doyoung had an idea of who that might be. He shares this with you with the slightest of gummy smiles. It took them a tumultuous journey to hide and travel safely, and it would take too much time to tell the tale. The prince’s health needs more immediate help first. You’re grateful the lost prince is alive, if not well, but the questions snowball in your mind, a thousand desperate thoughts begging to be answered. How did they escape? Did he survive too? But Doyoung explains the prince’s condition, symptoms, and what they’ve tried so far, and you need to pay utmost attention. Jaemin must have inhaled a large amount of smoke. His breathing is weak. He’s unable to speak. You fetch a jar of honey water to help with calming his cough and think of a few things that may reduce the swelling that must be inside his chest.

You learn from Jeno that the One Two Seven Squad is regathering. Though he doesn’t share many details, you read between the lines that what had happened was an unsuccessful coup. You hull soybeans while you talk, using low voices to avoid bothering the patients in your care, the water sloshing and providing cover for the classified information. Prince Na is asleep now, but Jeno’s gaze is fixed on him as he speaks.

Though the city is safe for now, he and the others are still on high alert. They would keep Prince Na hidden until they strategize their next move. You remember that Jeno used to train with Mark when they were younger, so you finally gather your courage to ask whether he heard any news, heart thumping hard.

“Ah, Mark… We parted ways just a few days ago.” Jeno’s voice always holds the most even, balanced tone. You can’t decipher what that meant.

“Parted ways?”

“Yes, he said he had somewhere he needed to visit.” You breathe out the breath that you had been holding, relief washing over you.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If he could put it simply, you are a vision. Mark made his way back to the city in sorrow and disappointment, to where he knew his colleagues would bring the prince, not knowing it would lead to you. He had thought he lost you, just as you had thought you’d lost him.

Your back is to him, but he could identify your shadow anywhere. You have one palm against your forehead and the other on a child’s, checking her temperature. They call it your healing touch, your intuition, your experience, or your willingness to try, but for Mark, he knows it’s all your heart. He regrets ever doubting your intentions. He thought he was serving the kingdom, but all along, you… you were truly serving its people.

Mark waits until you’ve finished your work for the night, not unlike many nights before, in a different setting that feels so long ago with the events that had transpired. He knows you’ve found your place at last. One without rigid roles and gates to keep you back. He only hopes that he can be by your side again.

After whispering instructions to the nurse taking the next shift, you wrap your arms around yourself and rub them up and down for some warmth. You’re about to start on a brisk night time walk outdoors to clear your thoughts when he leaps from the rooftop and into your line of sight.

You think you may be delirious. But you amble towards the figure of Mark anyways until you’re standing right in front of him. You open your mouth to say the first thing on your mind, a heartbroken “I’m so sorry” on the tip of your tongue, but Mark doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He throws an arm around you. And when you circle your arms around him tightly and lean into him too, he kisses you full on the lips. You relish in the feeling: passionate, bold, connected once more. You open up and let him in. Then gently, he draws back to kiss your eyelashes, wet with tears, only stopping to murmur, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry I took so long to return to you.”

You move to press closer into his embrace but look down to find his left arm in the way, poorly wrapped and held against his chest. He is the definition of a hero and a protector, and you want nothing more than to be his healing balm from now on. “Oh, Mark… I’ll make it better. I promise I’ll make it better.”

“You will. I know you will.”

You have many questions and Mark answers as you walk together, the moon shining brightly above.

“Where’d you go these last few days?”

“To the lake. To your home. I didn’t know where to find you.” You look up at Mark in wonder, and he pulls you closer with the arm around your waist.

“The roads have been restored?”

“Partly.”

“How… how are they?”

“Your parents and the villagers are safe. They… we… I thought you were gone.” It’s your turn to give him a squeeze. “We can send them a letter first thing tomorrow morning to let them know you are well too.”

“How’d you get hurt?” You start to inspect him, touching his shoulder gingerly and feeling the muscle in his upper arm.

He turns sheepish and glances away. “I actually tripped and fell on my arm when saying bye to your parents. It was very embarrassing. Please don’t tell anyone!”

You stop in your tracks and shake your head in laughter, glad it wasn’t too serious after all. Then you are pulling on his shirt collar so he knows what you want. “At least it wasn’t your writing arm, I guess.”

He’s glad too. And he knows there will be many stories to write about, with you. Mark leans in to close the distance again. Because sometimes, often-times, kisses are even better than words, and kisses heal even better than medicine at midnight.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾ the end ☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

Thank you for reading! Hope your heart is full of love and wonder, and that you may dream a little past what you believe is possible.

Writing references: Joseon female physicians uinyeo | historical drama/sageuk vocab | korean herbs 1 & 2

[gingermintpepper]

Hi Ginger :DD Time to spill some tea >:))))

🌤️🌩️🌪️

Heyyy Pen, always glad to spill my guts (seriously, I'd never post anything any other way)

🌪️Sum up a WIP with a few fic tropes/Ao3 tags.

A particular Zeus + Apollo centric wip I have can be summed up as 'No beta, we die like Persephone', 'Father-son bonding', 'The not-so-glamourous side of being the god of Prophecy' and 'Zeus is a Complicated Father (he is doing his best)'

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

From the same wip as mentioned above:

"You should have a drink."

Apollo slaps the kylix out of his father's hand, nectar sizzling when it splashes on his heated skin, "Fuck your drink! What good will drinking do us now?! What problem could it possibly solve?"

Past his heaving breaths and the frazzled curls of his hair, Apollo can only see his father. Stalwart and tall, not a single hair of his ruffled by Apollo's outburst save for a single raised eyebrow. Shame is a lightning strike through his chest, regret its swift twin. "Father, I -"

"You know," and Zeus gathers the fabric of his thick chiton round his knee, stoops low on his haunches, "the same could well be said of your anger." He grabs the spilled cup. There's a chip in the lip, an ugly fracture whose cracks now stain the once pristine depiction of his father and stepmother's wedding day. It was Father's favourite drinking cup and now it's ruined.

Zeus kneels in front of him, and Apollo wishes he wouldn't. He wishes his father wouldn't look at him with such understanding eyes. It's Apollo who broke his favourite cup, Apollo whose inaction have doomed Persephone, Apollo who will forever speak destruction and doom into being.

"Phoebus," he says, and his voice is so calm when all Apollo deserves are curses, "lashing out will only cause more pain, more destruction." His father pries his fingers out of their balled and quaking fist, gently rests the ruined kylix in his palm. "Have a drink with me. It'll help, I swear it."

🌩️ Share something funny/cracky from your WIP.

Naturally, from the same wip:

"Phoebus."

Five small white heads poke out from the tangle of dense brown curls laid out against the rug. Zeus snorts, amused, "Phoebus, it is time to get up."

The sprawling lump of fine hair and limbs shudders. His crows all scatter, the tinkling of their adornments like chimes as they search for new perches in the high walled room. A muffled sound dully echoes about the room. Zeus laughs, crossing the threshold and making peace with the ten sets of talons now seeking purchase atop his horns and shoulders. "I didn't quite catch that, child. You'll have to raise your head so I can hear you."

The crow closest to his ear begins picking at the sapphire in his earring. Zeus brushes it off, looking away for just long into to miss Phoebus digging himself out of his miserable pile of pillows and furs, "I said, it is not yet morning, father. Whyever would you have need of me now?"

What a cute thing-! Blue eyes bleary with Sleep's heavy touch, pretty curls all frayed and thick from being teased by his birds and crushed by his pillows. Oh, if only dear Hear could see him like this, surely she'd forget even her distaste if faced with such a charming side of the boy. He can't help but try flatten some of those poufy curls with his hands, "Training of course. You've until your birds find new perches to grab your sword."

Phoebus blinks, "What?"

Zeus smiles, he tilts his head, filling the room with the roar of thunder, startling both Phoebus and his flock of birds. "I'll see you at the field."

[krampuscrump]

pookiebear is a 30+ year old fictional man 🥺

[djnart]

hehe

i love her a lot, she means a lot ☹️

her name is peaky btw! she likes to play around of course, shes sneaky and got me peeking around for her haha, and i like that spelling instead of peeky 😭

i saw that video on tt where it went like, "and when the vet handed me back his ashes he was just as small as the day i got him." i cried and and GAHH

[vangreunen-art]

Cat

[polaroidcorner]

i drew the art for this one! go support megabaz and all of their other works 🫶

full original piece under the cut

[general-kalani]

One of you mother fuckers broke my cat and I wanna know who

[anxietyfluffy]

saw a cool ass pic n used it as a ref for a Ginger drawing!! love her sm <33 

[purpleleafsyt]

You didn't give me a character, so I decided to go with Ruri :]

Palette challenge can be found here

[laiosynth]

Flauto (introduction and lore post)

hey guys do u wanna hear about my dunmeshi oc

too bad here we go

Introduction

Flauto is a well known reconnaissance and dungeon cartography expert on the island. Anyone who's met him has something different, but no less interesting, to say.

"He acts like an elf, but he sure bargains like a half-foot." "His eyes are so weird and piercing-- I swear, they're magic-altered!" "He wears bells all over him like an odd jester, but heaven knows he doesn't act like one."

The man is known for running with the oddball outcast party 90% of the time now-- not a party you want to get on the bad side of, if rumors are to be believed. They're freaks, but they're dangerous and protective of their own.

Flauto himself is a man who has no direction-- barely can be called a man, really. Only one year above maturity, and yet, with the weight of a lifetime's troubles on his shoulders, he finds his only anchor with music and his best friend, Ginger, a fellow half-foot in his party.

His party holds him in high regard and affection as a leader, strategist, and mage. They trust his judgement and skill enough to defer to him in any combat situation.

He uses music and sound, along with math and calculation, to do what he does. He explores and understands the world around him in the context of sound and how it interacts with the environment. He uses small but effective spells that create sound at hyper-specific pitches and amplitudes, setting them as alarms or even drones, allowing him to be aware of almost an entire dungeon floor at once with very little mana used.

Although a powerful and respected mage and adventurer, Flauto is rather soft-spoken and non-emotive. He can come off as hoity-toity or rude and dismissive to people who don't know him well, but he's a very kind soul at heart. He is well-acquainted with the half-foot union, and half his party members chose to join from rough circumstances only because of Flauto's steady determination and heart.

History

Flauto wasn't always an explorer- before everything, he was a small, strongly loved half-foot toddler. Unfortunately, his natural aptitude for magic attracted attention from unwanted sources. At barely a year old, he was kidnapped by 2 trainees for the research division of the Canaries-- and to his parents, it only seemed that he disappeared.

Flauto spent 11 years of his life in the labs of the elves, experimented on and manipulated and poked and prodded. At one point, they stole his face, just to see what he would do. They gave it back after a month, but then they took his arm.

He never got that one back.

He was trained in combat and magic, if you could call it training. It was more training in the way you would say you trained a dog, rough and dehumanizing and based in harsh conditioning. He figured out what he could from what he was given, thrown into puzzles like a lab rat.

He escaped when he was 12 with barely a thing to his name other than the lab uniform on his back and the staff he'd grown himself beneath the elves' noses.

He stowed away in the first ship he found leaving the western continent, and never looked back.

Of course, an amateur teen half-foot with a big stick, tattoos, a missing arm, and an elven army uniform is going to be noticed by the ship's men. They corner Flauto, more confused than angry, but a cornered animal is going to strike, so they get an earful of terrible noise for their troubles. Flauto is weak and worn out, though, so it isn't very powerful, and he's (gently) taken to the captain-- a kind half-elf half-foot.

Flauto is allowed to stay and provided with food and a place to sleep without question. He grapples with the realization that he is not the only one who's survived and escaped hell.

When the ship reaches the island, Flauto is let off peacefully and left to his own devices. Of which he has none.

It's only luck that has him finding a shed to sleep in for the night-- but he is discovered in the morning by the owners of the shed.

An elderly half-foot couple named Timturn and Morndoll, upon discovering the terrified child in their shed, decide that there is no better option than to take the child in and raise him the rest of the way like their own. And so, Flauto gets 2 relatively peaceful years of healing, and growing in an environment that cares.

And then, because time comes for us all, Timturn and Morndoll pass away of old age in the same night. They've left a lot to Flauto, but the house is not part of that, understandably, so Flauto leaves.

Once again, he's lost completely, and now he's grieving the loss of the only parental figures he ever knew.

What better way to lose himself and figure out who he is on this island than to throw himself into the dungeons?

And as it turns out, dungeon life was practically made for him. His skills all gain power and relevance in the enclosed environments of the dungeon, and his instincts make him highly useful. He starts to work for pay, seeking out the island's half-foot union.

And then, by pure chance, he meets Ginger.

Storyline

Ginger is the one who chooses Flauto, really, but Flauto finds that he wouldn't be anywhere but with her quite quickly.

A young half-foot seeking money to support her three younger sisters at home, Ginger specializes in tools, repair, and invention inside the dungeon. The skilled way she uses her tools draws Flauto in, and then her unconditional friendship, teasing, and support have him permanently hooked.

The deal is as sealed as a contract with the devil when Ginger shows Flauto the prosthetic she created for him. Up until that point, Flauto had been tackling dungeons one-armed, not seeing the need for extra weight. But Ginger's prosthetic made life easier-- and added new ways for him to use sound and wield his staff.

They team up, now a package deal for any job. But then, their 'package deal' expands by one small beastkin girl, and then a tallman fighter, and another half-foot, and an elf--

And before Flauto realizes it, he's amassed an entire party of his own, skilled adventurers choosing to trust him and follow his lead.

That's when, unfortunately, fate conspires, and Ginger is eaten by a red dragon.

Flauto isn't willing to accept that, though. He doesn't hesitate to trail the dragon until he has a good enough plan to take it down. He sends his party back to the surface. Of course, they aren't having any of it, not willing to lose their leader and friend, and the tallman drags him practically kicking and screaming to the surface.

It's clear: "Flauto, we will find Ginger, but we can't lose you in the process. You need to recover."

Flauto doesn't believe it. It isn't fair. He's lost what he thought he had twice now, and in less than 2 years. It isn't fair, it can't be, it's not fair! For the first time in his life, Flauto finds himself breaking almost completely under the weight of his own emotions.

It should have been him-- it will be him. He'll make sure of it.

He thinks that, but, well... he can't actually escape the watchful eyes of his friends.

They do head back down to the dungeon a week later, once Flauto and the rest of the party are in better physical condition.

When they reach the red dragon, on a level it never should have been on, Flauto and the party watch quietly as another party excavate ginger's remains, along with another girl's, from the stomach of the dragon.

And then, the elf-girl uses what looks like ancient magic to completely revive both of them.

Flauto is quick enough to escape any of the friends who would have tried to pull him back as he sprints towards the blood-soaked body of his partner, unable to stop the tears that are running down his cheeks as he skids to a stop on his knees, ignoring the party that was already there to grab Ginger's arm, then feel her pulse with his good hand. It's there. She's alive.

There's someone else there helping Ginger cough up the blood in her airway and lungs, Flauto vaguely registers, but it's over soon, and she breathes in, then looks at Flauto as she breathes out.

Flauto embraces her tighter than he thinks he ever has anyone, begging her not to do that again.

And then, that night, after the two parties eat together of the meal Senshi of Izganda had prepared from the dragon, Ginger wakes up. She follows Farlyn.

Flauto follows close behind.

And is too late to stop the mad mage from transforming both Ginger and Farlyn into full-on chimeras.

He doesn't remember a lot of what happens after that.

By the time he's back in his own body, Sureau and Kabru's parties have already arrived and left, and his friends inform him that they have no idea where Ginger went.

So, they make it their mission to find her.

(and that's all i can give away without spoilers hehe)

Extras

Here is some extra art of him:

(flauto during his own party's run-in with the changeling mushrooms)

(flauto and chimera!ginger)

Small Fun Facts:

Flauto's musical tattoos on his left arm are magic-enhancing!

He is transmasc!

His full half-foot name is Flauton Chils, but he doesn't know that yet.

He fully believes alto clef to be the superior music clef to read in.

He is an instrument expert by necessity-- could tell you anything you wanted to know about the art of making and repairing bells, chimes, and similar instruments.

Yes Ginger is his girlfriend they are t4t they love each other very much <333

(@punkeropercyjackson thank you for encouraging me to make the full post this was very fun even if it took me two days)

[gingermintpepper]

This is taking forever to finish but just in case I lose my nerve and don't finish the other parts (which happens more often than you'd expect) I did want to post the one finished panel of this little interaction!

Hyacinth is a very pouty guy but he's having fun, he's just bad at showing it LOL It's really hard for me to keep motivation up, especially when doodling digitally but this, at the very least, is something I really enjoyed doing♡♡♡

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Thirty-Eight — Prognosis

I think those were the worst parts of it all; the waiting. That silence that left way too much time for the thoughts to get louder. Sitting on the stiff examination bed in a hospital gown felt more suffocating than a noose, the center of a horrible sort of attention.

4.5 k words | 15-20 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: Hospital, procedures, medical events

⚠️AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another chapter, another friend! How could I not let the world's best doctor be a part of this tale, especially when the RowlandRoweWhatever family needs someone with a special set of skills they can't get at just any ol' hospital? Thank you @infamoussparks for letting me steal your girl and show off her brilliant skillset, the inaugural first outreach towards the people who make this fandom fantastic.

I sat up as the patient couch pulled out of the scan machine, pulling the earplugs out of my ears and opening my jaws to force a pop. 

Dad had nearly blown a gasket when Dr. Sims explained what they wanted to do on Monday—or, moreso, how they wanted to do the imaging for it. A dose of diluted raythium with a dye in it for tracing the conducrine and every protein it produced in the time I was in there. “You want to put that stuff in my daughter?” Dad demanded, “A day after we just figured out how dangerous this shit is?”

Dr. Sims did his best to try and placate Dad’s worry, telling him it wasn’t the same. “It’s at least not gonna cause anything bad,” he assured him, “But it’s the only way to activate the proteins in her to observe them,” 

Dad eventually relented, letting Dr. Sims whisk me away as he stayed back with Brent; he wasn’t allowed in the radiology department while I was getting an MRI just in case the magnet became too attracted to his steel. 

“You did great, Jean,” Aunt Sia assured me with a low voice as I slipped off of the patient couch, Dr. Sims wheeling in a wheelchair. They wouldn’t let me walk, and I hated it—I wasn’t crippled, just broken. 

Didn’t matter—either way, I was pushed through the hall like some spectacle. 

Dad pushed off from his place leaned against the wall when the door to the exam room opened, rushing to meet me as Aunt Sia wheeled me in. He glanced down at me, smile stressed and forced, before looking up at Dr. Sims. “Get what you need?” he asked.

Dr. Sims nodded, taking the chair back from Aunt Sia. “Yeah. I’ll be back with the specialist in a bit.”

And there we were, caught in another waiting lull. 

I think those were the worst parts of it all; the waiting. That silence that left way too much time for the thoughts to get louder. Sitting on the stiff examination bed in a hospital gown felt more suffocating than a noose, the center of a horrible sort of attention. It didn’t help that they all had quickly shifted back to treating me like broken glass; Brent was silent and blankly watching me, seeming to examine every move, Dad was still acting as if I’d drop dead any second, and Aunt Sia insisted on coming. Said she wanted to support me. And I mean, sure, I was thankful that they cared…but it was suffocating. Demeaning. Even if that’s not how they meant it, it’s how it felt. 

There was a swift knock on the door, and Dad didn’t even finish saying something about coming in before the door opened—and the sharp click of heels against the hickory floor. 

The person that walked in most definitely wasn’t Dr. Sims. Her red hair was more natural auburn than Aunt Sia’s bright red, shoved away in a messy bun that somehow looked like it took twenty minutes to set. There was one fancy silver pen sticking out of it and that somehow looked deliberate too. If someone asked me to picture a ‘confident scholar,’ it’d probably be someone like her; white blouse, black pants, eyeliner that looked sharp enough to prick my finger for a blood sample. The lab coat swayed behind her as she walked confidently into the room, Dr. Sims closing the door. 

But her smile was warm and welcoming as she looked over the room, greeting, “Hello!” She regarded me first, smiling, “I’m Dr. Hutch—you must be Jean.” 

I smiled back sheepishly as Dr. Hutch’s eyes moved to Dad, something in them registering. “You must be Mr…Rowland? Rowe?” 

Dad chuffed, “I’m not even sure, at this rate,” 

Dr. Hutch accepted his admittance with grace, offering a hand to shake. Dr. Sims turned just as Dad stood, eyes widening when he moved to share the doctor’s hand—and with a shimmering sound and a flash of blue, he was across the room in an instant, gripping Dad’s wrist and yanking it upwards away from Dr. Hutch.

“You don’t wanna do that, D,” Dr. Sims warned, looking at Dad knowingly. The realization struck me almost immediately. 

She was a Conduit. 

Brent seemed to come to the same conclusion, eyebrows shooting up as he glanced at me. “Right, sorry.” Dad said, letting his hand fall. 

Dr. Hutch smiled, “I’ll go with Rowe, then,” she said simply, her own going to rest on her hip. She looked between Dad and I, getting right down to business. “I’m a certified genetic counselor, and I’m here to run one last diagnostic on Jean before we go over your test results—and what I found out from what you sent me,” she added, looking over her shoulder at Dr. Sims. 

I looked her over; nice outfit, a lab coat, and…quite literally nothing else. She made no move to pull anything out of the pockets on her coat, either. Hadn’t we established there was nothing wrong with my DNA? Why was there a genetic counselor here? Dad seemed to think the same, because he asked, “What sort of diagnostic?”

“I want to observe her health on the cellular level,” Dr. Hutch informed him. “It would give us a better idea of what could possibly be the problem here.”

“Do you—” I hesitated, not even sure how to ask what I wanted to ask. “Do you have to draw blood?”

Yeah, that’d have to do.

Dr. Hutch smiled gently, shaking her head once. “No. I’d just need about ten seconds of your time, and your hands.” 

My brow furrowed; my hands? How was she going to examine me with those? Was she gonna palm read her way to my diagnosis? I glanced over at Dad, who looked intrigued more than confused. “Alright,” he said simply, giving consent for whatever procedure she had in mind. 

Dr. Hutch nodded, beginning to roll up her sleeves before asking, “May I see your hands please, Jean?” I hesitated, looking at the cast on my right arm, and Dr. Hutch seemed to understand my concern, placating it with, “Don’t worry—just your fingers are fine.”

She brought her own hands out in a gentle show of faith, a soft coax of her fingers convincing me to lay mine in hers. Her manicured nails clicked gently against my cast as her hands closed over mine, and I could just barely hear her hum to herself as the seconds ticked by. 

Dr. Hutch spent the first few of those ten seconds looking down at where our hands met, but once she passed five, she looked up, eyes trailing along my body as she began to look for something. It was there that I saw it; her eyes were this rich green with golden flecks around her pupil, but the longer the time passed, the brighter that yellow got. 

She was using her power on me. 

Her brow furrowed further as she went from looking at me to around me, like she was searching for something in the air. Her counting progressed further, past seven, and she began to stare at specific spots like she was deciphering hieroglyphics, trying to understand something more than any of us could fathom. 

“...ten.” She breathed. She glanced over at Dr. Sims and shook her head before letting go of the hand in a cast to gently pat the back of my other one before setting it in my lap, moving away to stand by Dr. Sims once more. 

Dr. Sims crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment before saying, “Thank you, Dr. Hutch.” 

Neither of them seemed happy. 

I think everyone else caught on to the sudden shift in tone in the room as well; Aunt Sia moved a bit closer, and her hand came to my back, rubbing it gently. Dad moved two steps to close the gap between us to put his hand on my knee, and Brent’s brow furrowed as he watched them both move. 

Dr. Hutch sighed hard before looking up at Dad. “I’d like to clarify, before we begin, that my power is magnification,” Dr. Hutch began. “I can essentially narrow in on the gene structure of any person and pick apart their DNA sequence just by ten seconds of contact, much like how an electron microscope functions when examining a blood sample. I prefer hand holding as it’s comforting and easy to mask with extended handshakes for those I simply have a hunch about. As I build up to ten seconds I can see the DNA sequence clearer and with that I can determine if anything is out of place or exists when it maybe shouldn’t. I’ve yet to find an instance where I’ve been wrong.”

Jeez, with a power like that, I don’t understand why we didn’t come here to begin with.

“So you’re sure you know what’s wrong with Jean?” Brent asked, looking at Dr. Hutch. 

“We had results before bringing in Dr. Hutch, however, she’s the best second opinion you could ask for. I wanted to make sure.” Dr. Sims said. He inhaled deep, looking like he was biting down on his cheek so roughly he was going to chew a hole straight through it. He looked between Dad and I, cutting right to the chase: “I’m diagnosing Jean with conducrinopathy.”

Dad’s grip on my knee tightened and his jaw tensed, and I swear to god he looked like he was about to start breaking down walls. “What’s…” I glanced at Dad before looking back at Dr. Sims. “What’s condu…that?”

Dr. Hutch took over the explanation, beginning with, “Well, your conducrine—between your shoulder blades, right about where she’s touching right now—is what gives you power. It produces rayacitins, the proteins that change this energy into your elemental conduvergence.”

Conduvergence—that was what they called the powers, right? Using a power was conduvergence. “Okay,” I hummed, nodding. But I didn’t understand; what did this have to do with what was wrong with me?

“A typical Conduit has a set amount of rayacitin proteins in their body, and when they’re running low, that causes that pain you feel in your shoulders.” Dr. Hutch continued, trying her best to dumb this down for me. “They’re also what influences other cells to heal faster. Less proteins, less power, slower healing. More, the opposite.”

Oh, okay. “So is my condushine—”

“Conducrine.” Dr. Sims interrupted. 

“Conducrine,” I corrected, looking back at Dr. Hutch. “Is it just not making enough proteins?”

She looked to Dr. Sims, who sat on my question for a moment. “Sort of.” he agreed hesitantly, head bouncing side to side gently like he was considering which way to go with his explanation. “Conducrinopathy is when the conducrine itself begins to dysfunction. Its protein output wanes, you’re correct. That’s probably the cause of your pain, currently. But it…I suppose the best way to understand exactly what happens is to consider it…a sort of organ failure.”

All my breath left in one huff, and it felt impossible to breathe in more. “What?” I whispered. 

“Your conducrine is in a manageable state right now,” Dr. Hutch interrupted. “But as the disease progresses, it will begin to produce corrupted proteins. Your power will…will turn on you.”

“Wait, like the old forced Conduits?” Brent cut in. He looked furious, but his anger wasn’t aimed at Dr. Hutch and Dr. Sims with his question. 

Dr. Sims nodded. “That’s the main instance we’ve seen conducrinopathy, yes. The conducrine is due to turn on a Conduit if it is forced to copy artificial proteins. It’s like using the wrong blood type in a transfusion. But it has happened to two Prime Conduits. A patient here, and—”

“Mom.” I looked at Dad. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? When she started looking gray a-and sick in the pictures. Her power was killing her.”

“We can’t assume that it was killing her,” Dr. Sims interrupted as Dad’s eyes fell and he stared at the floor, face void of any emotion. “But if we had to compare how she was to the data we have now, then…yes, she more than likely had the same condition.”

My fingers went to mess with my cast, and I couldn’t think of anything to ask. What the hell was I supposed to say? Cool, doc, thanks for the Conduit cancer diagnosis! I felt on the verge of a panic attack. 

Aunt Sia rubbed my shoulder like she was trying to ease the tension out of it, and that was enough to get me to regurgitate one of the thousands of thoughts running through my mind. “Can you cure it?” I asked, looking back at Dr. Sims and his partner with pleading eyes. 

Dr. Hutch looked down at the ground as Dr. Sims appeared to try and swallow back bile. “We…there’s no known cure yet, though in your situation, this has only happened to one other prime whose progression of illness could be followed. There are noted differences between the symptoms in primes versus forced Conduits, but we’re…these are uncharted waters. We don’t know what to expect.”

“What are the differences?” Dad finally asked, voice robotic. “What can we expect?”

Dr. Sims looked like he wanted to do anything but answer Dad’s questions. Like he hated being the bearer of bad news. “The pain and tenderness between the shoulderblades is common. That will probably be the most persistent symptom. However the amount of healthy rayacitin proteins in her body will…they won’t be replaced by healthy ones. The damaged cells will spread further instead, and it’ll…her powers will start getting weaker. Maybe disappear entirely. The healing is usually the first to go.”

Dr. Sims looked at the ground and scuffed his shoe on the wood before adding, “We don’t know how her power will turn on her, either. That will change the status of her condition from manageable to severe more than anything else. And…between Fetch, and the other prime Conduit we’ve observed, decline is…faster in prime Conduits. The way a forced Conduit is already stunted in power is enough to delay it significantly more than a prime, especially when considering how much weaker they are.”

“And you’re sure it’s this?” He asked, looking between the doctors. His eyes settled on Dr. Hutch. “How can you be positive?”

Dr. Hutch was trying her best to keep her face neutral. “When using my powers, I can see this aural ring around people. I can tell if they have the gene, if they’re activated—your daughter has both signs. But there is also something wrong with the aura on her. It’s turning black. The only other times I’ve seen that is when I’ve run diagnostics for Dr. Sims upon his request.”

Dr. Sims shook off the discomfort of the moment, moving a step closer. “Delsin, I’m gonna be here every step of the way in case something happens,” he looked at me, “We’re going to make sure you’re, at minimum, comfortable.”

I hated how he phrased that. Comfortable? It didn’t sound like he was offering to just help me with pain, it sounded like there was more to the statement. A promise for there to be a comfortable end.

And I wasn’t a fool, I knew how this was going for all the old DUP agents; they were either all ill as could be, or slowly succumbing to their illness. His words sounded like he was offering me management if it came to that, too. 

Fuck. Fuck. Tears immediately began to pool in my eyes and it was hard to keep them away. No cure, no help, no idea what was going to happen. But I needed to know one thing: “Am I gonna die?” 

That was the wrong set of words to use; Brent immediately threw his hand back to hammer the side of it against the wall, the hit so hard plaster immediately caved under his fist. He pushed off and stalked away, brushing past Dr. Sims to the door and throwing it open, disappearing into the hall. 

Dad sighed, head falling. “Sia, can you—”

“‘Course,” she said, patting my shoulder gently before leaving the room, heeled combat boots echoing loudly as she jogged to catch up to him. 

The silence in the room truly was deafening, the air thick as the remaining four of us grappled with what just happened. Everything felt like it was slipping away; the color in the blue hospital gown I had on, the noise of the cars on the street outside. This was it. I really was broken. 

And there was no way to fix it. 

Dad squeezed my knee three times, and suddenly I was shot back to when I was a little girl trying to sit through the scariest moment of her life: vaccine day at the doctors. Me sitting at the end of an uncomfortable bed just like this, gripping the edge for dear life as Dad sat across from me, a hand on my knee. Three reassuring squeezes. I love you. 

Took me far too long to realize he’d do it when the needle went in and I’d miss the scariest part of the whole event. 

Now he was trying to reassure me yet again, forcing a deep breath into his chest as he lifted his head, looking at Dr. Sims. “This didn’t start happening to Jean till that fight with Augustine,” he began. “Conducrinopathy doesn’t happen to just anyone. Something caused this.” 

Dr. Sims sighed. “Delsin, her powers just manifested. We truly don’t know if this can be an inheritable condition or not.” 

“Well,” Dr. Hutch held up a finger. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that yet, either.” 

Both Dad and Dr. Sims shot her a confused look. Dr. Hutch didn’t bother waiting for one of them to interrogate her, instead digging into the pocket of her lab coat and pulling out three blood collection tubes full of anything but blood. “I analyzed the two samples you sent, Eugene. And your friend downstairs passed a third to me earlier this morning.” 

Dad immediately bristled. “We don’t have another friend here,” he said, guarded. 

Dr. Hutch cocked her head to the side, concern on her face. “You don’t?” 

“What did they look like?” Dr. Sims interrupted. Dad’s hand tensed on my knee. 

“Short, wide set. Wore sunglasses inside for some reason which I’m…” she drew off. “Now I’m worried was to disguise himself.” 

I knew someone that matched that description exactly, but it wasn’t someone with a hidden agenda. “That’s Zeke,” I forced myself to murmur. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It didn’t even feel like I was talking. Was this what dissociation felt like? Feeling like I was witnessing the room from outside the window to the right? 

Dad scowled…but something in his expression shifted. “He brought you something to analyze?” He asked Dr. Hutch, surprised Zeke even cared. 

“He did,” she confirmed, holding up a collection vial that had black liquid in it that turned iridescent with a deep green where light hit it. I knew that liquid—that’s what Zeke took from the First Sons’ base in New Marais. “Said he hoped it would help me find answers for Jean.” 

Dr. Sims looked at Dad, who almost looked remorseful in a way before blinking a few times, inhaling. “And what did you find?” he asked. 

“Well, from what I understand, these two samples were acquired in New Marais,” Dr. Hutch said, shifting the samples in her hands so she could hold a pair up to the light. “I examined their properties and their aural signatures, and they’re certainly interesting. To save you the technical terms, these two samples almost replicate poison in a way. This one—” she pointed to the black and dark green liquid, “—the poison itself while this contained the cells it was affecting. However instead of killing the cells, they seemed to mutate them. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Dad went on to tell Dr. Hutch what we saw when underground, and how we found files that suggested the creepy crawlies in the First Sons’ basement were Conduits turned creatures. She reacted with horror in the right parts of the tale, but her eyes were alight with a curiosity that she couldn’t hide well at all. “I didn’t know that was possible,” she said. “I knew there were instances of monsters in New Marais but never really followed up on why.” 

“We were worried, with it corrupting Conduits, that it could be what happened to Jean,” Dad finished. 

Dr. Hutch shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the case. Where these two are similar, the one from Salmon Bay is completely different.” She stored away the two vials in her lab coat and held the one full of tar to Dr. Sims, who took it without hesitation. “It matches the signature of every case of conducrinopathy I’ve seen—including Jean’s. It has the same…darkness to it, but at a strength that made it nearly impossible to read without feeling ill after.” She glanced between Dad and I. “It’s like it’s emitting something far more dangerous than a regular Conduit can handle.”

Dad stood, hand leaving my knee to step forward and take the vial from Dr. Sims’ outstretched hand. “So this tar is what caused Jean’s sickness?”

“She was injected with it, correct?” Dr. Hutch asked. 

Dad motioned to my leg hanging over the edge of the bed. “Augustine’s concrete had this tar on it when she managed to pierce Jean’s leg,” he informed her.

The scarring and spider veins on my left leg hadn’t faded at all in the last week. The raised scars were still an angry red and brown, the veins alight like they were lightning with how bright the blue was against my legs. Dr. Sims took a few steps forward, motioning for me to bring my leg up and hooking his hand behind my calf so he could examine it closer. “I need to get this and the break checked on, next,” I could hear him mutter to himself like he was making a checklist. 

Dr. Hutch joined Dr. Sims, looking at my injury from over his shoulder. “It looks like it attempted healing,” she observed. 

“If you’re right, and that tar caused her sickness, could this be when the conducrinopathy started happening?” Dad asked, pointing to my scars. “They’re healed wrong because it was running out of time?” 

Dr. Sims’ brow furrowed. “The results did come back abnormal,” he muttered. He turned my shin lightly and then looked up. “Knowing the tar is practically the same as the illness, I wouldn’t be surprised if so.”

Dad stared at my scarring for a long time, long enough for Dr. Hutch to clear her throat awkwardly and say, “I’m sorry for bringing bad news. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Dr. Sims sighed. “We’ll be visiting palliative care later today for the patient, if you’d be willing to meet us there.”

“Of course.” 

Dr. Hutch gave me a nod before turning on her heels and leaving the room, the sound of the door as it latched shut behind her feeling like a gavel strike of a death sentence. Dad, still staring at my leg, shook his head and brought a hand up to rub against his face. “Someone did this.” He said. 

“Del—”

“If that tar matches what’s wrong with Jean, then Augustine caused this. I don’t know if it’s because she got a new power, or somehow fucked with her old one—”

“Delsin—”

“But her power caused organ failure.” Dad finished with a stressed voice, and I wasn’t sure if it was to talk over Dr. Sims or simply because he was stressed. “We need to find out how she got the ability.” 

Dr. Sims shifted on his feet, thinking. “We can’t be sure that it’s not something that Augustine simply developed,” he warned. 

Dad shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Archangel helped Augustine. They tried finishing what she couldn’t do! She had to have gotten this power from somewhere.”

“I understand that, but you have to realize—this is the first time we’ve seen a situation like this with its cause. The forced Conduits develop conducrinopathy naturally, and we don’t know how the other two instances of this happened in primes—“ 

“But we know it’s not normal.” Dad retorted. “What happened to Abbs? What’s happening to Jean? Shouldn’t be a thing.” 

There were three sharp raps on the door and Aunt Sia returned, looking between Dad and Dr. Sims as the latter refused to let his gaze wander. “Archangel did something to make this happen, it was probably the plan the entire time—just for me. But this is some sort of power, right?”

“I’m not sure—“ Dr. Sims tried saying as Dad rambled on.

“—so we just need the power to fix it. Only way it’s coming out is the same way it went in.” 

“Delsin, this isn’t like then. We don’t know where the power came from or if it’s something new at all.” Dr. Sims finally put enough power into his voice to interrupt. “This is the only time it’s happened like this. For all we know, with the old DUP soldiers? It could simply be because Augustine was involved.” 

Dad opened his mouth to say something else when Aunt Sia cleared her throat loudly and pointedly, looking at Dad. “Delsin, I think you should go talk to Brent.” 

Dad blinked. “But—“ 

“Just a small talk, then we’ll finish what we came here for.” Aunt Sia turned to Dr. Sims. “Is there anything else we need to do for Jean? She still has some stitches, do they need to be removed?”

Dr. Sims looked confused and yet thankful for the topic change. “Yeah I-I want to get a general check up on her, but we’d need a more qualified doctor.” 

“Alright, then why don’t you go see who you can find while Delsin talks to Brent?” Aunt Sia asked the men, looking at them expectantly. 

They muttered some sort of agreement as Aunt Sia herded around their attention, the two eventually leaving me alone in the room with her. She stepped up to the edge of the exam table I was sitting on, right between my legs, and moved to cup my face, her expression solemn. “Oh Jean,” she murmured, “I’m sorry.” 

She pulled me into a hug and it was like everything snapped back to my center like a rubber band ball; I was no longer witnessing this from the outside, but fully trapped within the body betraying me, the ache in my back reminding me of the diagnosis. “I’m scared,” I admitted to her, voice cracking. 

“I know,” she replied almost immediately. “This has to be so scary for you. But you heard how quick your father was to begin trying to think of solutions,” she pulled away to look at me. She was right: Dad was always the problem solver. I wasn’t sure if this was something he could fix, though. “We’ll take this a day at a time, but you won’t be alone.”

Want more of Dr. Hutch? Check out Feth’s inFAMOUS: Sparks!

Set 7 years after the good karma ending of inFAMOUS: Second Son, join friends new and old as they navigate what it really means to be a part of the Second Age.

A perfect blend of OC and OG, Feth knows all things inFAMOUS like the back of her hand—for good reason ;). I’m a sucker for a good after story, for the butterfly effect of every choice made in canon to change something in their future, and Feth captures that perfect (and realistic) after. Rosa is one of many amazing new friends the original trio make as they take on foes old and new.

[squidsinatrentchcoat443]

If you want you can draw god GingerBrave (ignore the first picture)

Based on the last image :3

Also angel Strawberry Cookie

My camera is terrible X3

[monkshoods]

brigitte fitzgerald & transness 𓃡 𓃦

the werewolf pride movement: a step back from queer medieval tradition, caitlin b. giacopasi | ginger snaps 2: unleashed, dir. brett sullivan | emily perkins on playing brigitte | ginger snaps, dir. john fawcett | i / me / myself by will wood | a grimace of sharp teeth: exploring the trans werewolf, wrym

[sockeyesidequest]

Looking for motivation to draw, what better prompt than what I’m feeling at the moment? Shark week am I right? 🙃😞