#Sir Noon Droplet

[sir-qwillian-ferne]

random fact:

Yang does the lil hand flaps when there excited or happy

*SKIDDADLES AWAY*

HAHAHA AN EXCUSE TO DO RAMBLE THINGS?

Ones who clap when happy: Eclipse, Sun, sometimes Lune, Jingle J. Jester, Pumpkin, Strudel

Ones who get bouncy (i.e. bouncing on heels, swishing from side to side, just moving a lot): Dawn, Sun, Moon, Pumpkin, Strudel

Ones who express it vocally (making noises: giggling squeaking or what have you): Midnight, Dusk, Sun, Moon, Pumpkin, Strudel

THE LITTLE SMILE. YOU KNOW THE ONE. FROM THE CALM OR GRUMPY CHARACTER. REALLY SLIGHT: Dawn, Kuiper, Kabocha, Lune

Ones who get fidgety: Strudel, Sun, Pumpkin, Lune, Eclipse

Becomes spaghetti: Noon

[asaarii]

cheeeeeeeseeeeeeeee~~~~ talon mini series bc i love him and he doesn't get like any love... ALSO HIGH NOON BC I SAID SO and yone legendary :33 okay time to disappear again ta ta

ft: high noon!talon (league of legends)

reader: fem

wc: 2017

summary: after the fall of heaven, you're left to wander the mortal plain with nothing but a dead-end job and a mark on your hand binding you to a brother who you once thought dead. they say the west is cruel, but you weren't expecting to be reunited with the man you loathed most.

part i (here!) part ii

There’s a distinct creak that echoes through the air as the swinging doors open. The bar silences, all eyes turning to glance at the newcomer from beneath the hem of their worn leather hats before deeming him not worth their time and returning to their previous activities.

His boots click as he slowly stalks toward the front of the bar, the odd blades at the ends of his cape rattle noisily, clinking together with every step. His face remains hidden by the downward tilt of his head, obscured by the pristine hat accented by rims of gold. It isn’t long till he takes a seat at your station, waving you down with a flick of his wrist.

As you approach, your breath hitches. He’s smirking, scrutinizing your every move with an amused quirk of his brow. But what grabs your attention is his eyes, well, eye as one of them is covered by a black eyepatch with similar golden accents as the rest of his outfit. There’s something not quite human about his gaze and devilish smirk, yet you don’t allow his strange aura to deter you. You had a job to do, after all.

“Well, ain’t you a pretty sight?” The man lets out a low whistle, his smirk ever-present as his gaze lands on your gloved hand, which you quickly tuck away behind your work skirt upon feeling his gaze. He quirks a brow but doesn’t push, which you’re grateful for. Heaven knows that the folks in this town are far too nosy than they ought to be. Sweat begins to gather at the base of your neck, though whether it's from the high noon’s unforgiving heat, or from his stare, you aren’t quite sure.

You force yourself to remain calm. “What can I get you today, sir?” The buzz of the bar does little to distract you from the alluring stranger as he lets out a deep chuckle. You fiddle with your skirt when he dips his head to the side with a shrug, brushing aside the feeling in your gut telling you to run. In all honesty, you really should’ve.

“Whatever you recommend, miss.”

If he took note of your apprehension, he gave you the grace of not commenting on it, merely watching you pour a small cup of water from a lukewarm pitcher. The glass is then placed before him with a resounding thud, with a few of the droplets splashing onto his clothes and the counter.

“There you go, a mighty fine glass of water all for you, sir.” You ignore his stare in favor of wiping down the now-wet counter. He snorts, and you know he has a wide grin plastered on his face even if you can’t see it.

“Just water? And here I thought we hit it off, miss.”

Now it's your turn to snort, narrowing your eyes at the strange newcomer with a sneer. “We don’t do freeloaders ‘round here, sir. Sorry to disappoint.” You turn away from him to make your way over to a different customer when the sound of a pouch of coins hitting wood draws your attention swiftly back to the newcomer.

The whole bar seems to come to a standstill as the shimmering gold rolls across the countertop.

Tobias Felix looks up from his shuffled deck of cards, blue eyes falling to the coins with piqued interest. It’s rare to see the man away from Buzzard Gulch, and you can’t say you find yourself at ease with his presence, especially when he keeps his cards so close to his chest. 

(Never trust a man with too many secrets; a saying befitting of your current predicament.)

The famed Gunpowder Witch lets out a low whistle as she props her feet on the table despite your numerous complaints. Her left hand dutifully twirls one of her guns—Blaze, you recall her naming it—while the other tightly grips a bounty from the Mechanical Devil himself. The amount in the pouch is significantly less than the amount on the bounty, but out here in the west, all coin is good coin.

Your nostrils flare and your eyes glint with an unmatched hellfire that would send the Mechanical Devil himself running with his tail between his legs. “Fine,” you spit venomously, “what can I getcha, sir?”

“A moment of your time would suffice.” The man leans against the counter, taking the hand that lay resting on the counter before placing a chaste kiss on the silk glove.

As if burned, you quickly draw your hand back, reeling away as disgust paints your features. “A moment of my—! Do I look like a common whore?!” Had it not been for the manager coming to step in, there is no doubt in your mind that you would’ve struck the man. With a hand firmly clasped over your mouth, you’re unable to voice your complaints as your manager smiles.

A dangerous look crosses the outsider’s face, but it’s quickly replaced with a mirroring plastered smile.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you, kind sir.” Your manager tightens his grip on you, sticking his hand out for the strange man to shake.

“Much obliged.”

With the tip of a hat and the snatching of coin, you find yourself in the devil’s hold, deliberately avoiding his piercing gaze as he leads you away from the bar. Dust kicks up beneath your feet, dirtying the whiteness of your dress into the same barren shade of brown as the dirt. Once you deem yourself far away from wandering eyes, you tear yourself away from him. 

“You!” You press your gloved finger to his chest, unable to withhold your thinly veiled anger.

“Well, hello to you too, darlin’.” He peels your hand off of his chest, once more placing a kiss on the back, though this time he removes the glove, revealing the half mark of grief inked into your skin. 

(One half on you, and the other on your brother; two sides of the same coin.)

“Miss me, angelface?” His tone is light yet mocking as he peels off the eye patch. One of his arms sneaks around your waist, pulling you flush against him, much to your chagrin.

“I ain’t ever miss a devil.” You resist the urge to spit in his pretty face. His eyes, forever soulless, burn bright beneath the scorching sky of the high noon, amusement dancing in the two-toned irises as he forces you into a crude waltz. 

“Naw, can’t hide it from me, angelface. You’re still as shitty a liar as y’always been.”

Twisting and turning to an unheard rhythm, his hand entwines with your ungloved hand; calloused and rough through years of merciless killing. You try to pull away from him but his grip remains firm.

“And you’re still a connivin’ sonuva—!”

His movements are sudden and hidden, yet still as precise as they’ve always been.

You gasp as a blade pierces through your midsection, the cold steel bringing the familiar feeling of a harrowing death as it pushes deeper. 

It burns. 

The mark on your hand pulses, no doubt your brother on the other end restarting the process of grief. 

Golden blood trickles from the open wound, tainted by mortal air and a devil’s blade. You can only gape at him as he smiles down ruefully at you, bearing the same expression he bore all those years ago. You grasp weakly at his throat in an attempt to choke him, unable to voice your anger and grief with the blood rising in your throat. Your body falls as he drops you, but your soul is quick to stand again, gazing down at your corpse as it dissipates into a golden light.

The barren land cracks beneath your feet as you give up resisting, giving way to the hidden tracks beneath. The tracks of utter damnation.

A train horn sounds in the distance, followed shortly by the distinct sound of wheels on rails, chugging along the beaten tracks as the Sulfur Rail draws ever closer. You smell it before you see it; the intangible scent of burnt matches and rotting eggs pervading your senses even as you scrunch your nose at its distasteful smell.

It isn’t long until the train comes to a standstill, pausing before the two of you with the deafening screech of metal on metal. The devil—ever the utmost gentleman—steps on first, gripping onto the rusted rail as he extends his other hand to you.

His smirk widens as you take his hand, conjuring a fan to hide your expression as well as an attempt to block out the Sulfur Rail’s foul stench. Its white feathers fall with every movement, fading to black before disintegrating as they hit the ground. 

(Similar to a lot of folks you know, your brother in particular.)

You tune out his conversation with the ticket taker both out of spite and boredom, focusing your attention instead on the multitude of souls meandering about. Angels, devils, humans—all on a one-way ride to hell, paid in full by the mechanical devil-king himself. You see a few familiar faces amongst the sea of souls, though one in particular eludes you. Shrugging to yourself, you make your way down the rows of seats, both empty and occupied.

Anger still simmers beneath the surface of your skin despite your lack of outward resistance. The man takes a seat across from you, his face schooled into a more familiar look of annoyance and perpetual anger, unlike his suave facade from earlier.

You hate how he still looks attractive after all these years of nothing but silence between the two of you. You hate how he speaks so casually with you as if nothing happened after the downfall of Heaven—your home. Snapping your fan shut, you look at him, looking for any subtle shift in his features brought upon by time. His frown lines, the imminent scowl that’s taken over the plastic smile he clung to at the bar, the shaggy silver hair beneath his hat, and you could never forget the hidden blades just barely peeking from the cuffs of his shirt and knives in the holster at his hip.

Nope, he’s exactly the same. Just as you suspected.

“Why didja bring me here, Talon?”

“Lookin’ for somethin’ and you’re the only one who can help me find it, angelface.” That all-knowing look in his back on his slappable face and your jaw clenches tight beneath your teeth at the mere sight of it.

Your hand clasps over the mark visible on your ungloved hand as if protecting the bond from outside gazes—from Talon’s gaze. “Varus ain’t gonna help you. I wouldn’t help ya if it meant all the gold in the world.”

He cocks a brow, tilting his hat back slightly with his thumb as he looks at you, really looks at you, “You ain’t never cared for gold before.”

Melancholy settles over the anger, cooling its hellfire-like blaze into a manageable ember. “People change, Talon, but s’good to see you’re still as insufferable as ever.” You’re quick to recollect your fallen expression. “But that ain’t the point. Why d’you needa speak to Varus anyway? Pretty sure he’s still got that grudge of his.”

“Can’t a guy catch up with an old friend?”

You bring a hand up to quell your growing headache—can the dead get headaches? You digress. You stare hard at him, trying to piece together what in the world he was on about. “Right. The two of you were such good friends, weren’tcha?” Sarcasm drips from your tone as you roll your eyes, and he snorts in response.

“We were pretty close though, hm? All cozy n’ warm.”

“I reckon it’s high time you shut your damn mouth, demon.”

Talon hums, raising his hands in faux surrender before finally allowing you a moment of respite.

Resigning yourself to an unknown fate, you lean back into the train’s seat with a tired sigh. “I ain’t spoken to Varus in centuries, y’know?”

“Why’s that?” He’s smirking again. That damn twisted smirk that’s seared into the forefront of your mind.

You hate him.

“‘Cause you killed ‘em.”

©asarii 2024 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site

[rookie-icarus]

Whoso List to Hunt

***

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,

But as for me, hélas, I may no more.

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,

I am of them that farthest cometh behind.

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,

Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,

As well as I may spend his time in vain.

And graven with diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about:

Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

— Sir Thomas Wyatt

***

Before The Beginning, much work was put into each detail of the universe, each universe. But for now, we will focus on this one. In this quadrant. On our planet. Plans and plans and plans. (Though you know what they say about plans and God.)

Heaven is a vast, endless space of possibility and when one needs a door, it opens. Right now, an angel stands in front of a door. His door. The angel belongs to the choir of Virtues. He takes on the appearance of a pale youth with black hair like the sea at midnight, and blue eyes like the sea at noon. He is being given his first solo assignment. This will be his studio.

The Virtue is beautiful. He is as quiet as the breeze. He is as gentle as the moss.

Neither of these things exist yet, but he will invent them. Virtues have been assigned the elements. The environment of the new Earth.

Nature. Natura. Birth.

The angel steps through the door.

***

He begins. The angel sits down on the- what shall we call this? It is hard, solid, and foundational. The word feels like that. Guttural, stuck in the throat.

Grr. Grr.

Rest, the ability to let go of tension. A hum and breath.

Grr. Grou.

Ground.

The angel smiles, briefly. Ground. He is sitting on the ground.

Dirt follows. The smell is an itch. The taste is a resistance. He wants to stop the itch. He wants to feel it flow. What is the antithesis of below? 

Above.

Droplets hit his beautiful face. Cold. Invigorating. 

Rrr. Rraaa. 

Rain.

The rain and the dirt mix and make mud. He smiles and scoops up a small bit. Feet dirty, robes streaked, black soil in his hands, he rubs it on his cheek, down his neck and across his collarbone with an open palm. He is suddenly aware of his teeth, his skin, the swell of the- what is this feeling?

Wild.

***

There is now a forest. The angel has made the ground, the rain, the peat, the moss, the seedlings and the grubs. The mycelium, and the beetle, and the fern. The boulder and the stream. The great pine trees that block out the sky and sun. The rolling thunder clouds that house the rain. All fitting in and encouraging the journey of the other. The gentle rain falls and the trees grow. The sun moves and takes back the rain. The rain falls again.

Harmony.

His forest goes on for miles. Alone, unseen, he runs barefoot and naked through the trees as fast as he can. He composes the howl. He never wants to leave. He has all of eternity and he wants it to be here.

***

The Archangels applaud him. This is excellent work, this forest. He may move on to assist another team. The Virtue hesitates. Protests. He claims he is not done yet. It can be made better. Give him more time. They allow him back into his studio. His forest. His secret.

***

He looks up from his back at a sky settled with blue and gray clouds, the color borrowed from his eyes. The cool breeze sneaks through his dark hair, the wind borrowed from his breath. He wishes for a companion to bask in the green. Green. That was his too.

But not one of them, outside the door. No, he wants a companion who could understand what he has become.

The angel thinks of the softness in his chest. He thinks of the sounds of the forest. He thinks soft, soft, soft. Like him.

The brown hare bounds up next to him. It is soft, soft, soft.

He settles the hare on his chest, pets her long ears. Looks in her eyes. He loves her.

But it is not enough. He is not just soft, but now wild. He is more than he was made for. He is more than what God made him. It is a blasphemy, but also a truth. 

He stands and looks to the tree line and there, on the hill, is her.  He knows her name like he knows his own. Cervidae.

Her color is like the brown-red clay found at the shoreline he stands on now. Her hooves are made like the bark and stone. Spots down her back, white, like his wings.

She turns her head. His turns in the same direction.

They run.

***

On the moss of the forest floor they lay. 

She breathes hard, exhausted from the run. He has no need for it but he wants to know. He breathes too. In, out, stinging pain in the lungs he does not need but wants. A stitch in the side he does not need to feel but embraces. 

His left arm is curled under his head, on his side, his right reaches out to stroke her back, her shoulder. To feel each rib under skin that shapes in his hand and falls back into place when he lets go. The pelt is the softest thing he’s ever known.

Time has not been invented yet, so he stays there with her for a stretch of forever. Gazing. His Cervidae. His creation. The angel now knows what it’s like to be God. To be the creator and the creation at once.

I Am.

***

The Archangels grow impatient. They need him in another department and this is taking too long. But there is no sense in not using the brilliant ecosystem that he has prototyped. They let other Virtues go through the door. If he will not work with the team, they will bring the team to him.

***

The angel is contemplating a centipede. Watching closely as it curves and crawls up the trunk of the tree. He reaches a finger to touch. It strikes with its venomous forelegs. He draws his hand back.

Then he hears it.

Dozens of feet in pursuit. He hears his song of the howl, now a symphony placed in the throats of others.

A new feeling. A word he does not have to consider longer than a moment.

Danger.

He runs toward the howls. Time has just been invented because he must beat it to his destination. He falls, cuts his foot on a sharp stone. A river of red. A new sensation he has no name for nor wants to name. But he knows. Pain.

The red is in his vision now. It pumps through his veins. He screams and tears out the stone from the ground, clutching it he continues toward the sounds of barks, yipping, and baying. 

He arrives. The other Virtues stand in a circle around the fallen doe. Watching the wolves tear her flesh from bone without emotion. Observing as a medical student would observe a surgery in an operating theater. He sees the red.

They call it blood. They call it hunt. They call it hunger.

They look at the blood covering his foot. It is an obscene thing to take a corporeal form without need.

You have been here among the animals too long. You have done well. Come, let us bring you back.

As they lead him through the door he lets the black of his hair fade into the stone still clutched in his hand. Later, he will fashion it into a ring that he will call mourning.

***

There is a Great War.

All angels, regardless of side, have been given a body. This is to feel pain. This is to bleed. This is to give weight to the battle. It is not obscene.

His hair is silver now since the moment they took his door and rolled it up like a scroll, with everything he had created inside. It was placed on a shelf of blueprints somewhere in the infinite space of God’s kingdom. The Great Project, the Great Plan, put on hold for now.

He finds and steals it back, just for a moment. He enters his door and walks the path to find his hind. She is there. The ants have made good work of the meat left by the wolves. She is now gleaming white in the moonlight. He knows this word now, he did not invent it. Bone. 

He falls to his knees and takes the femur, the humerus, the tibia and fibula. He lays them down and begins to work at fashioning them together, sculpting a new form. He finally places them on his head.

The antlers are fierce and sharp, and violent in the next day’s battle. He is a loathsome thing to behold. He takes his rain and pelts it against the opposing regiment to blind them. He takes his breath and molds it into a gale. He takes his wild and packs the atoms together into lightning.

He calls it tempest.

***

He had forgotten his name long before the war. Now, in the pit, the demon sits and tries to name the final thing he will ever name. Tries to remember from before.

The soft.

The wild.

The spotted coat under his hand on the forest floor.

The word comes.

Fur.

Fur.

Find me on A03

—

On the origin of this idea:

I was incredibly curious about the deer detail in Furfur's costume and found while looking at demonology wiki that he takes on the form of a Peryton. Then I read "Furfur causes love between a man and a woman, creates storms, tempests, thunder, lightning, and teaches on secret and divine things."

I originally thought of a story of Furfur in the forest, but realized the Great War happened before The Begining. So I combined that with the canon that angels made the blueprints to carry out creation.

Finally, I saw this beautiful artwork from @Elizamaru and based Furfur's appearance on it.

It's a pebble to throw in the sea of Aziraphale and Crowley fics, but I am happy with the result and hope you enjoyed it too.

[therewasatale]

Deal?

On Ao3.

Summary:  ReverseAU How Vetinari decided to become a watchman, and how Vimes started to plan out to become the Patrician.

Note: @lurfck art from tumblr really inspired me, go and see their art. its pretty cool. I always wondered that when will I get back to the fandom and Here. I. Am. With an AU that noone asked for, but it keeps me up for nights and makes me write.

Commander Vetinari pulled back the hood made from dark fabric. Water droplets cascaded of the material joining into those on his cape. Reaching up, he took off his helmet and with it under his arm, walked down the corridors of the Patrician Palace. He let his footsteps echo and glanced at one of the paintings. He looked into its eyes for a few seconds, and then walked up a staircase. Arriving at the office, he waited and then knocked slowly and deliberately.

"Come in, Commander."

Inside, Lord Vimes gazed out the window looking over Ankh-Morpork. Drops of rain knocked on the glass, the commander knew it was reinforced multiple times, but their sounds still managed to be heard in the room. As the door closed, the man turned, with a small smile on his face.

"Good evening, Vetinari."

"Sir." Said Vetinari. "You have sent for me."

To Patrician's waved towards his table, upon which a kettle steamed, accompanied by two cups. They took a seat about the same time, and the Commander placed his helmet on a stack of unregarded paper nearby. Vetinari glanced at the uppermost one just under his helmet, then turned his attention towards the Patrician.

"So, are we celebrating with tea?"

"You don't drink anymore, and neither do I. And besides, Sybil always brings a box of tea as a gift when she visits."

The edge of Vetinari's mouth twitched, and turned slightly upward. A rare thing indeed. "How many boxes do you have?"

"More than enough, I already had to dedicate a separate room for them." Vimes glanced at him and added. "But there are always taste testers of course."

The Commander nodded and reached for the kettle. "How many years has it been?"

"As if you don’t know exactly. " Lord Vimes snorted, but he couldn't suppress his smile. They both knew the answer very well.

"We have exciting years behind us, starting with that dragon."

"Both of us almost died."

"You had more close calls than I am, if I am not mistaken," said Vimes after thinking a bit.

"Really? I thought they tried to kill you more."

"Well, they tried, but mostly you got in the way."

"Thanks to you," smiled Vetinari into his cup. "Since, if I recall it correctly, this all was your idea to begin with."

Lord Vimes snorted, but he couldn't really argue with it. It happened years before, when both of them were just kids, and didn't know what kind of future was waiting for them.

Samuel Vimes entered his room and stopped after a few steps. Something was off, he really couldn't put a finger on it, but it made the hairs on his neck stand up. He glanced around, then blinked into the darkness. He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. Well, maybe it will make him look like a fool a bit.

"You shouldn't be here," said Vimes, and waited.

The shadows moved in one corner and a figure stepped out. He wore clothes colored in various shades of black, only broken by two ice blue eyes.

"It's nice to see you too, Vimes." Havelock Vetinari pulled the black mask and hood down from his head. "Don't light the candle."

"I can't see in the dark." Said Vimes with a small snort.

"Take four steps forward then you can sit down to your table."

"Why are you here?" Vimes walked with outstretched hands and felt the corner of his desk around the fourth step. Finding the chair, he took a seat. He could not see or hear it, but he still managed to feel the movement of his guest. When he spoke, the voice came right next to him.

"Just wanted to have a quiet night." He pulled out a small bottle from the depths of his dress, which landed on the desk with a soft clink.

"What? Are you trying to poison me?"

"If I wanted to kill you, Vimes, I could have done it the moment you stepped in."

There was a silence and then Vimes gave out a nervous sigh.

"You always knew how to put people at ease. What did you say, why are you here?"

"I'm just here to talk."

"Oh."

"Vimes."

"All right, all right. But I don't have a glass."

"It's fine." Out of the corner of his eyes Vetinari watched as the young nobleman glanced in his direction and then towards the bottle. "Wine from Überwald. I recently got it." The cork got out the bottle without a single pop.

"Oh." The silence waited patiently for him to continue. "And how are your studies in the Assassins Guild?"

There was another pause.

"It's...fine. I'm learning a lot." Vetinari sipped his wine and let the pleasant heat of the alcohol spread through him and show on his face. "My father is satisfied, too, if I am not mistaken."

"That's good."

Vimes tasted the alcohol carefully. After a few sips he could feel the slight redness spreading across his face as he shuddered pleasantly. His eyes began to get used to the darkness, and he could just make out the slightly hunched figure sitting next to him.

"When was the last time we met?"

"At your mother's funeral," said Vetinari. "The next day I was sent to the assassin's guild to start my studies."

"Hm."

There was yet another period of silence.

"And how is your dad-"

"Do you have to appear on balls yet? Considering you reached marriable-age."

"What are you talking about?!" Sam scoffed turning red and becoming even more flattered as he heard Vetinari's chuckle. "Very funny. But yes, sadly, I have to. Believe me, I don't enjoy it very much. Especially since Sybil is the only sane person there who I can talk to. The Rust family is the worst."

"How so?"

"I think they're trying to be friendly."

"Don't trust them"

Vimes snorted and rolled his eyes. "Like I would ever."

Vetinari nodded silently. He was trying to swallow his slight nervousness and suppress it just like he did with his other feelings. Ever since he started to study to be an assassin, he hadn't been able to move around in the city as much as he wanted. Without that he hasn’t been able to keep his eye on everything. This was to his father's delight no doubt, he was always focused on keeping up the legacy.

They sipped slowly from the wine, letting time wash over them. Vetinari sometimes glanced towards the window or checked the shadows for anyone hiding in them. He knew he haven't been followed, but he could never be absolutely sure.

"Things could be better."

Vetinari turned his gaze towards Vimes and waited. He knew there was more to it.

"With a different Patrician, I mean. Maybe, if someone would really care about all those crimes, and find a better way. Even this city has rules."

There was a small chuckle.

"What? It could work, I know I'm an idealist, but it could really work. With a different system."

"What I would call you indeed starts with an "id-", Vimes."

The younger man barely held back a scoff, but his face turned became slightly pinker, and not just from the wine.

"The city is changing," said Vetinari.

"But not in a good way."

There was a silence, they could hear the city's dull noises.

"Well, if Lord Winder manages to piss someone off properly, then, when the time is right I'll be able to do something. However, if you ask me, the past will just repeat itself."

His words had a kind of edge that even Vimes noticed.

"I really don't know what to say about that."

"Then don't," said Vetinari.

"But maybe it could be done differently."

"You, really are an idealistic idiot."

Vimes now actually scoffed and drank another glass of wine. Finally, he sighed, and he too stared out the window. "Do you want to be an assassin?"

He didn't get an answer.

"Sorry. I just...you don't seem too happy."

"Then how do I seem to you?"

Vimes shrugged. Again, he really didn't know what to say. He didn't see that as Vetinari looked at him, an idea began to form in the assassin's mind.

"The city could be better." Vetinari surprised even himself when he began talking. Well, no turning back from now.

"What?"

"You just said it. Maybe it needs an idealistic idiot, like you."

"You just had to call me an idiot, don't you? And what do you mean someone like me? I'm not good at with politics and aristocrats."

"But you can learn it." Vetinari's voice had a smiling tone in it. He noted to himself that he hasn’t received an immediate 'no'. The younger man, next to him, seemed to be immersed in his thoughts.

"Well," he said after a while.

"Yes?"

"It wouldn't be easy," Vimes said. "I would have to learn a lot and kiss a lot of butts." Grimacing, he emptied his glass once more. When he spoke again, his voice became more determined. "And I could only be a Patrician if I knew someone was watching my back."

"Oh, well in that case, I can assure you-"

"Within the law. Someone would watch me, within the law."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow, now he was looking straight into Vimes' eyes.

"What are you trying to say?"

"You could be a watchman."

"I beg your pardon?" Scoffed the assassin.

"With your knowledge and skills. You would be an ideal watchman." Repeated Vimes.

"Ideal for who?"

"For me, of course." He realized what he just said. "I-I mean, to be next to me. I would trust you; we grew up together. I know your father, and you knew my mum and dad. So, I could trust you. And this-" he made a vague gesture indicating the whole of the city. "It could be more...good. Better. Maybe it would work, really work. It would be fairer."

Vetinari didn't move, but the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice softened a little. "You idealistic idiot."

"So? It's a deal then? If you become a watchman, I'll be the Patrician." He added after thinking for a second. "Somehow."

They locked gazes for a minute.

"All right, it's a deal." Said Vetinari, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself truly smile.

 Vetinari refilled the cups.

"It's a shame I didn't see your face when you got my letter. And when you found out I kept myself to our agreement."

"Oh, you didn't see my face?" Said Vimes with a barely hidden smile. Despite looking into the commander's eyes, he was unable to read anything from them.

"Of course not, my lord. Since our deal was to watch over you once when you've become the Patrician."

The patrician shook his head, still amused by the memories. "Well, it was surprising. And as you see, I did keep my word." He gestured around the office. "It did take some time, but it worked. But what I'm sorry about is that I didn't see the face of guild teachers when they found out you were joining Night Watch."

"Well, I am pretty sure I almost gave them a heart attack. On the other hand, I did offer them something to keep them busy." Vetinari glanced at him one last time, before he turned his eyes towards to his cup and finished his tea.

"You mean, they immediately put big price on your head but were unable to get rid of you no matter how hard they tried?"

"They've often said I was being a rather ungrateful student." Lord Vimes allowed himself a small chuckle, and so did Vetinari a smile. They really had a history behind both of them. But even that night, he was already aware. He let his blue eyes rest on the face of the ruler, and seen him turning serious.

"I'm sorry." Said Vimes finally, pushing aside his emerging guilt so he could speak.

"Sir?"

"Your father, I didn't think he would..."

"Kick me from the family because I don't follow the tradition of becoming a professional assassin?" He waved it off. "It's not your fault, and you were right back there. I didn't want to be an assassin anyway."

Vimes' cup stopped on his way towards his lips.

"Sir?"

The lord of the city took a small sip. "Nothing. I'm glad that you chose something different. And better."

"So am I, sir." He glanced at the man. "Did I ever tell you that after my father disowned me, Sybil immediately tried to convince her dad that they should adopt me?"

Vimes had to cough when accidentally breathed in tea instead of air. "She did what?!"

 Of course while they talked, the letter was with them, hidden in one of the Patrician's desk. It was stored with outmost care, but it did develop a few creases from handling.

It had the following two words written in it:

'Your turn.

H.V. '

[moonknightly]

Mistakes and Sour Grapes : Modern!Poe Dameron x Reader (One)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Excerpt: “You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?”

Warnings: Alcohol, some cursing, future parts are gonna be slutty. 

I am extremelyyyyy unsure about this so if it’s a thing you guys are into, please, please let me know. 

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

Bars weren’t really your thing.

Especially in a city that was typically known to be overrun with tourists at any given time of year.

They were crowded and loud, and you usually weren’t the biggest fan of the style of music blaring through nearly shot speakers, and you definitely weren’t a fan of the headache you’d often suffer with afterwards from the absurd amount of bass they deemed necessary. They smelled bad, they were dark and dingy and gross, and many patrons were less than respectful and showed little regard after knocking back a few drinks.

It really wasn’t your thing.

But you had a friend who worked as a bartender at a small brewery and local restaurant, and that was definitely more your speed, and honestly the only time you did end up sitting at a bar. Most Friday and Saturday nights, you found yourself practically drooling over a plate of delicious food and, depending on your mood, either a beer or a cocktail while making smalltalk with Finn as he worked. And most of the time, you’d end up the last customer in the building, staying late to help Finn put away glasses or wipe down the counter, partially so he could get out of there faster, but mainly because you just enjoyed spending your time there.

It was one of those nights now, where you were behind the bar, a rag in your hand as you wiped water droplets from still warm tumblers while Finn worked on the wine glasses.

“I’m telling you,” Finn said from behind you. “You’d make more money bartending here.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully as you peeked over your shoulder towards him.

“I have a job,” you reminded him for the hundredth time in the last ten days. Ever since another bartender had put in their two weeks, he had been trying to convince you to put in an application.

“Yeah, a shitty one. Come on, I could move out to the beer garden, you could take over in here. It would be absolutely perfect.”

You laughed, shaking your head almost teasingly. “Perfect for your schedule maybe.”

“And for yours! Look, you hate waking up early. If you worked here, you could sleep in until noon if you wanted. And we’d be coworkers. What more could you ask for in a job?”

You rolled your eyes again, turning back to the look at the tumbler in your hand, falling back into a comfortable silence.

One that didn’t last long by any means, for Finn was apparently damned and determined.

“I mean technically, you’re already working. Might as well get paid to do it.”

“Putting away glasses is hardly working.”

“You’d get tips nightly instead of having to wait every other week for a paycheck. And did I mention you’d make more?”

“Might make more, but it’s not consistent.”

“You like the vibe up here. You like the building.”

Now there was a point that you would actually consider.

You did like the vibe.

It was laid back, relaxed while still being a more refined atmosphere. Most people who sat at the bar were corporate workers or couples, just looking to have a drink and a good meal after a long day, and the other restaurant goers were typically families.

The building itself was just a year away from turning two hundred years old, and the history behind it intrigued you to no end, including the fact that it was said to be the most haunted building in the city. That was something you were entirely into.

You hesitated, tilting your head to the side and gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

His response came in the form of a bar towel snapping through the air and hitting the back of your thigh, and you yelped before dissolving into a fit of laughter, thankfully having just set the last tumbler in its place. You were pretty sure you would have dropped it had it still been in your hands.

Finn hung the last wine glass just after — his last task for the night, and you were ready to make your escape, but before you could even push back from the counter he was reaching around you for two of the tumblers you had just put away.

“Okay, we’ve gotta take a shot to celebrate, and we’re makin’ it a double.”

You laughed again, the sound completely exasperated yet so amused at the same time. “Finn, I didn’t say yes. And even if I put in an application, I’m not guaranteed to get it.”

“Oh you’re gettin’ it alright,” he snorted, shaking his head. “I’ll beg if I have to. Now what are we having?”

“You’re still on the clock.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, whipping his head around dramatically, quite literally spinning in place, arms open wide as he gestured to the empty restaurant. “And who the hell is going to care? I’ll just put it on your tab.”

A third laugh, and a reason Finn was your best friend. He could always make you fucking laugh. You raised your hands in mock surrender.

“Now what are we having?” he repeated his prior question, quirking an eyebrow.

You thought about it for a moment, drumming your fingers along the countertop, lips pursed. “Chocolate cake shots.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“What kind of bartender are you?”

“A shitty one apparently,” he scoffed, his eyebrow raising just a fraction higher. “Now explain.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s one part vodka, one part Frangelico, and-”

“-and a sugared lemon on a sugared rim.”

You jumped, and Finn nearly dropped the glasses as a new voice echoed throughout the room, but you watched as he quickly relaxed, a look of recognition crossing over his face.

He turned slowly, the action conveying mock annoyance, and you peeked around him, glancing towards where the voice had come from.

A man with short salt and pepper curls and tanned skin was walking down the staircase, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and a smug smirk tugging at his lips. A noise caught in your throat, one you wouldn’t have even been able to begin to describe, and Finn managed to catch it, glancing back towards you for just a brief second before turning his attention back to the man approaching.

The undeniably handsome, gorgeous, breathtaking man in an olive green hoodie with the sleeves pushed up mid-forearm, a good two day’s worth of stubble covering his jaw. A small scar on his cheek. Big brown eyes.

Were you staring? Fuck, you were totally staring.

You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?

“Of course you’re still here. Do you ever leave or did you convert one of the rooms upstairs into an apartment?”

“There’s an idea,” the man chuckled, tearing his gaze away from you, and you felt a small amount of air flood back into your lungs.

You were still staring though, blatantly so, and you couldn’t even find the shame to stop yourself. You watched as his eyes fluttered back over to you, quickly, for a mere second before he eyed the tumblers in Finn’s hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“She wanted to buy me a drink and it would’ve been rude to turn a customer down,” Finn deadpanned, and you couldn’t help but snort.

The man shrugged, leaning against the counter opposite of you. “Make it three.”

“Yes sir.”

Finn grabbed a third glass after setting the first two down, not taking his eyes off of what he was doing as he nodded towards you, saying your name.

“This is Poe Dameron, the owner. Dameron, you are now in the presence of my best friend in the entire galaxy.”

He repeated your name, and Poe smiled, pushing off the counter and extending a hand out to you.

“S’nice to meet you.”

You nodded, your cheeks suddenly feeling a touch warmer than they had been before as you took his hand in yours, shaking it firmly. “You too.”

He smiled again, nodding his head, holding onto you for just a second longer than what would be considered customary before letting go. He stayed next to you though, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced towards Finn again.

“Now, why are we taking shots?”

“Because she’s,” Finn said, pointing a finger towards you, “applying for the open bartender position.”

Poe raised an eyebrow, turning his attention towards you. “Is that right?”

Your blush only intensified as you noticed those big brown eyes of his flutter quickly over your body, just once, for just a split second. You nodded.

“Have you ever bartended before?”

“Not really,” you admitted, just a hint of a nervous edge in your voice.

Poe shrugged. “Fast learner?”

You nodded again, and Finn spoke before you had a chance to.

“And she apparently already knows more than I freakin’ do. Chocolate cake shots, what the hell?”

“Trust me,” you said, a small chuckle following.

Poe smirked again. “It tastes exactly how it sounds.”

Finn shook his head, adding the sugared lemons to the finished drinks before passing them out.

“You gotta hold the lemon juice in your mouth while you take the shot though,” you added, already taking the wedge off the rim.

Poe nodded, following your actions. “If you don’t, you’ll ruin it.”

You and Poe took your shots first, Finn watching before throwing back his own, his eyes widening in surprise as the liquid ran down his throat.

“Holy shit, you weren’t lying.”

“Have I ever led you wrong?” you laughed, wiping at a stray drop of vodka and Frangelico that ran down your chin.

You could feel Poe staring at you as you did so, and you chose to ignore it, and this time, you attributed the blush on your cheeks to the alcohol slowly moving through your veins.

You reached for Poe’s glass, grabbing Finn’s as well before moving to clean them, just as an excuse to put a little distance between you and Poe. You heard the two of them quietly talking, about what, you didn’t know, couldn’t hear over the running water, and only when the glasses were clean and back in their place did you tune back in.

“Where’s Bee?”

Poe shrugged. “She’s around here somewhere.”

“Who’s Bee?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, looking between the two men in front of you.

“His lady,” Finn chuckled, his answer earning him a sharp jab to the ribs and a small snort from Poe.

Oh, so he was taken?

Figures. A man so beautiful certainly had a woman just as gorgeous on his arm.

Before you had a chance to say anything further, Poe whistled, the sound loud and echoing off the walls, and you jumped for the second time that night. Just ten seconds later, the clattering of nails across hardwood could be heard throughout the restaurant, and a big, white German Shepherd came bounding around the corner of the bar, practically jumping into her owner’s arms.

“Oh hello there sweet girl, were you taking a nap downstairs again?” Poe cooed, scratching the large dog behind her ears.

Bee whined affectionately, her tail wagging erratically. You flushed, laughing at yourself just a little bit for how your mood had taken a hit at the idea of him being taken. You had known him for less than ten minutes.

You watched the two interact for a few seconds, your arms folded loosely over your chest.

“You can pet her if you’d like.”

“Oh how could I ever turn down such an offer?”

You immediately knelt onto the ground, ready and eager to be attacked by the big floof of white fur, but Bee didn’t turn her attention away from her owner, causing you to over exaggerate a pout and Poe to laugh.

“Bee, you’re not working right now sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, tilting your head to the side just a fraction. “Working?”

“Service dog,” Poe shrugged, a mannerism you were quickly learning was signature. “Even when she’s not wearing her vest she likes to think she’s on call.”

You stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, knowing not to pry but also not knowing exactly how to respond.

“She seems to be good at her job,” you settled on finally.

Poe chuckled quietly, nodding his head, not offering up an explanation himself, but that was to be expected. You were still mere strangers.

“Go say hi.”

Bee nuzzled her nose into Poe’s chest before dropping back down onto all fours, finally turning her attention to you. She ignored your outstretched hand, immediately going for your face, licking your cheek and pawing at your thighs. You giggled, stroking the dog down her back, scratching every now and again.

“I think I might steal her,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows as you glanced up.

Poe only laughed, and you spent several minutes merely petting and playing with Bee behind the bar, giving Poe the opportunity to sneak back upstairs and grab her vest — an orange one with the words “service dog” printed onto the side.

“What’s your schedule like next week?” he asked, giving a short whistle after that immediately made Bee pull away from you, sitting patiently as she waited for her owner to slip her vest on.

You shrugged. “I work in the mornings but otherwise I’m free.”

“Ew, mornings,” Poe mumbled, scrunching up his nose before shaking his head. “Think you can come by Monday night so Finn can start training you?”

Finn let out an excited yelp, and you could only blink.

“Wait, like, train as in...I have the job? Just like that?”

“If you don’t burn the place down Monday night and you enjoy yourself, then yeah,” Poe chuckled. “It’s yours.”

You bit your lip, and you wouldn’t have been able to hide your smile regardless of how hard you tried.

“I’m down, Dameron.”

He smiled right back, holding out his hand for you to shake while also simultaneously pulling you off the floor, and you would’ve crashed into your chest had you not braced yourself against the counter with your free hand.

“Welcome aboard.”

[whumpywhumper]

Photographic Evidence

Please see the new Markus/Lucien Series: Masterpost

This follows shortly after: Here to Help there’s a little time skip with some mentions of things that haven’t been written yet, but it’s fairly obvious what’s been skipped over. 

Tagging: @oceanthesarcasamfox @insanitywishes @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @imagination1reality0 @voidwhump @captivity-whump

Huge shout out to both @0idril0 and @rosesareviolentlyread: I would not keep writing without you two, and Idril puts up with way too many questions. 

Also, @walkingchemicalfire HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! Have 6k words :P 

TW: aftermath of captivity; aftermath of abuse; graphic depictions of injury and medical treatment; mentions of potential brain injury. Please, let me know if there’s something specific I’ve overlooked. 

V***V

“Look, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. I didn’t meant to—“ 

“I don’t give a fuck what you meant to do, you are endangering my patient. Get. Out.” 

Ben heard the raised voices from the other end of the bullpen, turning with the nurses and other police officers to see what the commotion was about. Not that it was the only commotion taking place, they were less than a day out from one of the biggest raids NYPD had seen in decades and there was a truck-load of uniformed officers and plain clothes detectives milling around the harried nurses, but this particular commotion sounded volatile.  

Eyeing the crowd, Ben saw that he was likely the ranking officer available to mediate the dispute and sighed. 

He was exhausted, sweaty, and still in his tactical pants from the raid. His head was killing him, and his eyes were blurring and scratching with the need to find his glasses. He had no idea where Kincaid or Holland were located, and this was the very last thing he wanted to be doing right now. He didn’t, however, hesitate to heft his stack of files and the clip board he’d been using to take notes on his interviews, and step toward the room. The room was like many of the others on this floor, glass walls with curtains that protected the patient’s privacy, and made them convenient for private interviews. That they also just so happened to be the hospital’s more intensive stay rooms was not something he was trying to think too hard about, guilt that they were interrupting the hospital’s natural rhythm settling heavy in his gut. 

At this point, there was no telling who was inside this particular room, the victims had been shuffled like a back alley shell game as they tried to make sense of who needed to go where. He was pretty sure he’d already conducted three separate interviews in the room next door, and it wasn’t even noon. 

There was a uniformed officer inside, the creases and pressed nature of his uniform screaming rookie, with his back to the door. His hands were at his hips as he tried to, quite unsuccessfully, stare down a tiny brunette nurse standing in front of a bed. There was practically a storm cloud over the woman’s head, her dark eyes flinty as she poked him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask you again,” the woman threatened, her voice soft over a rolling hispanic accent. 

Reading the tags on the door, Ben quickly grabbed a face mask and juggled his precarious paper burden to slip it on, before knocking on the door jam and sticking his head inside. “Is there a problem here?” 

The rookie turned sharply on his heel, and Ben’s eyes caught that he didn’t have a mask on, but his attention was drawn away when the nurse’s gaze snapped toward him as well. Ben winced at the vitriol in her expression, even half-covered by the mask, and prepared himself to soothe some ruffled feathers. 

“Yes, there’s a problem here. Your officer is endangering my patient, and he needs to leave. Now.” 

The rookie, Peters, from his lapel, sighed and held up the camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “Sir, Captain Holland asked me to get pictures of the victims and their injuries. I’m just trying to do that, but she’s interfering.” 

“That is not the issue and you know it.” The woman’s eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. 

The young officer turned on her with bared teeth, apparently repeating something he’s said to her before. “Captain Holland told me not to get in the way of the nurses or bother them. I’m not trying to hurt your patient.”  

Ben could feel his head throbbing as his migraine grew, and pressed his lips together, trying for a calm, measured tone as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ma’am, it really is very important that we collect the necessary evidence from the victims. I’m sure if you and Officer Peters can cooperate—” 

“Cooperate? You think this is an issue of cooperation?!” The storm fell with a fury, and Ben’s eyes widened as the nurse’s voice raised, words coming faster and faster. “If he’d asked for help then there would be no issue, but moving a critical care patient by himself and almost ripping out his chest tube is absolutely an issue.” She drew herself up to her full height, the top of her head coming up to Ben’s shoulder, the force of her spat words making him want to lean away. “I don’t care if you don’t know his name, but he’s my patient, and I won’t let you to hurt him out of ignorance.” 

Ben blinked, eyes shooting to the still form on the bed. It felt like he’d been punched in the gut when he recognized the pale skin and dark hair, and his breath left him in a sharp exhale. 

The John Doe that he and Kincaid had transported from the nest was still intubated, the tube pulling the side of his mouth painfully from where the apparatus holding it in place had been knocked askew. There was a wetness to his lashes which spoke of fake tears and absolutely no color had returned to those pale cheeks. Ben’s eyes were drawn lower, to where the blankets had been pulled away from the younger man’s torso, vicious red droplets of blood staining the white sheets where a chest tube, amongst others, was running under the mostly unconnected gown. 

Ben felt his expression harden and his shoulders straightened from their fatigued slouch. He turned from the nurse’s rage to look down on the rookie, whose eyes widened at the cold fury on Ben’s face. “You tried to turn this patient without the assistance of one of the nursing staff? What are you? Stupid?!” 

“No! Sir! I was just—“ A slashing hand motion cut Peters off, and his teeth clacked together with the speed of his jaw closing. 

“I don’t give a shit what Holland ordered. Use your goddamn brain, Officer.” Ben’s voice was seething between his teeth, and he used his free hand to grab the young man’s shoulder and swing him around so that he could face the patient in the bed. “You could have killed him, do you get that? Use your brain and ask questions next time.” 

The rookie, wisely, did not say anything other than a quiet, “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Ben took a deep, calming breath, wincing as the ache of his head turned into a knife behind his eye. “Now, give me that camera and take these to the conference room at the end of the hall. Report to Holland, and let him know that I’ve put you on filing duty. Explain to him what happened, and if what I hear from him does not match what actually happened then we are going to have words. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Peters nodded, not quite meeting his gaze as the camera and folders exchanged hands. 

The younger officer left the room quickly after that, and Ben closed his eyes as he fought to control his temper, his fingers massaging against his eyelids in an effort to push away the headache for a few more hours. Of all of the stupid, idiotic, ill-conceived. . . 

The nurse cleared her throat, and Ben jumped, shooting her an apologetic glance at her over his mask. He adjusted the angle of his shoulders, giving her a slight nod. “Ma’am, I apologize for Officer Peters behavior and thoughtless actions.” The professional apology slid out of his mouth automatically, belaying the still swirling protective drive that was making his heart pound in his chest. “It is never our intention to put victims at any more risk than they’ve already been.” 

She nodded at him, her expression easing out of its angry cast at the sincerity in his words. “Thank you, Lieutenant—?” 

“Carter,” he answered, offering her his hand to shake until he saw her gloves and retracted it. “Lieutenant Benjamin Cater, but please, I answer to Ben.” 

Ben tried to smile at her, even with the futility of the mask hiding his expression, but it felt hollow even to him. Usually, he was charming, flirtatious even, but he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in over twenty four hours, had forced himself through the adrenaline crash following the raid, and he didn’t know how long it would be before he got to sit down, let alone sleep. He was tempted to cry. 

“Now,” Ben took a deep breath and set the camera on the empty chair, “before I address that again—“ he glanced at her badge “—Ms. Dominguez, would you like some help resettling your patient?” 

She raised her eyebrow, looking him up and down shrewdly. “Call me Catrina,” she huffed and uncrossed her arms with an eye roll, “pick up the camera, and I’ll help you after I check him over.” 

He felt himself relax a little. At least he wouldn’t have to sweet talk her into helping him after all. “Thank you, it really is important that we get these photos as soon as possible.” 

“It’s always important,” Catrina muttered, turning to the John Doe. “Get some gloves and a gown before you even think about touching my patient,” she instructed him sternly. 

Ben didn’t even consider arguing, and did as he was told. After he suited up, he snagged the camera by the strap and stepped to the opposite side of the bed from Catrina, his back to the door. 

Catrina was carefully adjusting the apparatus holding the intubation tube in place, freeing the younger man from the painful pull on his mouth. “Okay, there you go, cariño,” she said softly, almost to herself. He felt his estimation of her go up another notch when she fully addressed the John Doe, her voice only a little louder. “We’re going to turn you now, Mr. Doe, so I can check your chest tube.” 

Ben watched her steady hands as she folded back the blanket and unsnapped the shoulder of Doe’s gown, uncovering the mottled purple skin of his chest. He’d seen it in the nest of course, but the light of the lantern and flashlights had done a poor job of actually showing the damage. In the full brightness of the fluorescent hospital light, the damage was stark and told a story of overlapping misery. With all of the trauma and bruising, Ben felt like it shouldn’t be possible, but he was sure that he could see the impression the heels of his hands had left on Doe’s sternum from where Ben had tried to keep the other man alive. 

He swallowed hard, shaking himself out of his self-recriminations, as Catrina folded the Doe’s arm across his torso in a way that didn’t pose a danger to the other IV lines or drains, and, at her head tilt, he helped her pull Doe on his side so that she had better access. One of his broad palms covered the swell of Doe’s shoulder, the other the jut of his hip over the gown, and Ben tried to ignore the impression of holding eggshell in his hands, conscious of the bones so close to the surface that Ben could feel them shifting. 

The new position revealed the tube Peters had apparently almost ripped out. The white gauze around the chest tube was stained red, and with Ben helping her, Catrina’s hands were free to peel back the bloody bandages to fully reveal the intrusion to Doe’s body. The thick plastic tube was as wide as one of his fingers at the fattest knuckle, protruding from between his ribs with jagged black stitches holding it in place. His stomach swooped at the dark liquid being pulled through the drain, and he shook his head, tsking between his teeth. “You had to replace the chest tube.”  

The brunette nurse looked at him askance, eye brow raised. Her eyebrows were very expressive, Ben noted.  “And how do you know that?” she asked. 

He took a deep breath, gesturing with his chin. “Fresh stitches, and it wasn’t pulling blood at the extraction site.”   

She blinked, connecting the dots, and tilted her head to look up at him through her lashes. “You’re the one who found him.” 

Ben nodded. “My partner and I were the ones who brought him in.” 

“Everyone was talking about how you rode in here on that gurney like a pro,” she acknowledged, her hands never faltering as she re-bandaged her patient and tested the patency of the drain. 

He hummed, unable to find the heart to feel anything other than sad about the circumstances of that story. He did not like having to perform CPR. He especially did not like having to perform CPR on nameless victims. 

Catrina picked up on his somber mood, and dropped the subject.  “That should do it, Mr. Doe,” she said to her patient, “We need to get a better look as some of the injuries, so we’re gonna be moving you, but it shouldn’t take long, okay?” Obviously not expecting an answer, she looked at Ben with a raised eyebrow. “How do you want to do this?”

“Help me move him, and I get photos of all of his injuries. Even the little details can help us break the case.” 

“That’s going to be really stressful on him, Ben,” Catrina said, shaking her head. “He’s got a lot of injuries.” 

They were both silent for a moment, their gloved hands keeping Doe on his side, the rasp of the ventilator filling the air. Ben could see the level of damage that they were dealing with, and it made him nauseous to think about everything else that was hidden by the gown. He knew a lot of it, but there was only so much he’d been able to see at the nest itself. 

“I hear you,” Ben acknowledged, “We’ll do what we can, and you make the call on when we need to stop, okay?” Catrina nodded her agreement. “Since he’s already on his side, let’s get his back.” 

Their hands swapped position, and Ben stepped to the other side of the bed as he fished out the forensic scale from one of the many pockets in his tactical pants. With the blankets pushed down and none of the ties done on the gown, the patient’s entire back was visible, and there was a cold sympathy circling in Ben’s gut as he took a photo of the exposed length of his back and shoulder, motioning Catrina to move her arm out of the shot. Moving closer, he placed the scale against the other man’s skin, taking photos closer and closer. There was a massive bruise across the breadth of his upper back, the green tinges at the edge putting the healing at most a few weeks old. If Ben had to guess, it was probably from being slammed into a wall. Or the floor. 

Catrina moved her hand at his gentle nudge, and Ben shifted the scale again, taking a photos of a bullet scar in the John Doe’s shoulder. “How old do you think that is?” he asked quietly. 

The nurse clicked her tongue, pondering. “There’s no telling, a couple of months at least.” 

He nodded, taking pictures of a clearly defined hand print on his bicep. Fitting his hand over the bruises, Ben stretched his fingers, noting that his hand didn’t have quite the reach as Doe’s attacker. “Definitely a male,” he noted under his breath, feeling his eyebrows draw together when he imagined how much force would be necessary to cause bruises that deep. Definitely a vamp, he thought. Tugging away the lingering edge of the gown, Ben got photos of the bruises that trawled along his ribs, placing the scale on several different boot marks. One of the blotchy marks lower on Doe’s side was the impression of the sole of a shoe, a popular brand name etched into his skin. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. 

“You’ll want to get this one,” Catrina interjected, her hand sliding to the back of Doe’s head. 

Stepping around Catrina, he examined where she was indicating, and his stomach bottomed out. The other man’s neck was a symphony of healing bruises, the equidistant fang marks littering up and down the column of his throat, but at the nape of his neck was a bruise on the latter stages of healing. Even as healed as it was, Ben could make out the bite mark. This wasn’t just the penetration of fangs, it was the clear oval of someone’s teeth, the top and bottom of the impression on either side of his neck. 

“Goddamnit,” he cursed, a steady thrum of rage kicking up in his chest. Ben closed his eyes for a moment. Trying to get a rein on his eroding temper. 

That bruise wasn’t just an injury. It was degrading and possessive. Marking. For a vamp to use all of his teeth in an attack like that, when he’d clearly had physical control of the victim. . . Ben could guess some of the reasons for the location of the injury.  He shook off the anger, taking several different photos of the teeth marks, including the ones over his jugular.  

“I think that’s all for this side, he’s got bruises on the opposite hip and leg, but you can get pictures of those when he’s laying back down.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben responded, following Catrina’s instructions as he helped her role him back to his supine position. Ben’s hands were shaking slightly as he helped Catrina unsnap the rest of the gown hiding Doe’s torso, and he consciously stilled them. It didn’t matter that peeling back that flimsy material was like peeling away the curtain on a horror show, it had to be done. With Catrina’s help, he removed the white gauze hiding the incisions that had been made, both old and new, that covered the massive trauma that was John Doe’s existence. There were more openings to his body than should have ever occurred: drains and tubes tunneling into his torso; IV’s and catheters pumping him full of fluids, medications and fresh blood; incision and stitched stab wounds that introduced staples and stitches in varying sizes. It was a travesty of cruelty and pain that stripped Ben’s heart to the marrow. 

He did what he could to preserve the John Doe’s modesty, but Ben took every photo that he could to document the injuries that littered Doe’s wrecked frame. Too many to focus on, unexplainable bruises and abrasions, the unwritten history of torment. 

Ben could tell that the younger man had taken care of himself before being taken, the lingering muscles in his chest and stomach speaking of someone who had been in shape before captivity. But what he had gone through was wasting him, making Doe appear fragile and weak with every mechanical breath as his chest rose and fell. “God bless, sweetheart,” Ben muttered, the flash blinding him again as he captured the image of the huge bruise that engulfed Doe’s hip and thigh, crawling down to his knee. The swollen tissue there was clearly painful, telling of a lot of damage. “What’s this injury?” Ben asked, looking at Catrina. 

She stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched her patient and the monitors for signs of distress. “Torn ligaments and muscle damage.” Stepping forward, she unvelcroed the compression devise from around his calf, stripping it down to his foot. “You’re going to want a picture of that too,” she said, tone dark as she revealed a black hand print on her patient’s ankle. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Ben spat. The headache he’d been ignoring flared to life with a vengeance, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, blinking forcefully to force away the pain. This guy had been through so much shit, and Ben wasn’t even done taking pictures. 

“Are you alright?” Catrina asked, grabbing him by the shoulder.  

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just been a shit 48 hours.” He shook her off, taking pictures of the dark marks around his ankle. They looked like they were the same size as the ones on his arms, but they’d have to get an accurate measurement later. 

From there, he had Catrina help him remove the bandages and splint around his wrists and hands, taking more photos of the damage there. He noted the overlapping finger marks from where he’d either been held down or held in place, and carefully, he traced the lines that wrapped around his wrists, the rough scabs and deeper abrasions from too tight cuffs. “You’re a fucking fighter, Bambi,” Ben muttered, splaying Doe’s long, nimble fingers over the blanket to get photos of his regrowing fingernails. 

Catrina scoffed under her breath, already working on recovering and rebandaging her patient, “you can say that again.” 

The last thing Ben took photos of was Doe’s face. Which was the opposite of the procedure that he normally followed, making sure the victim came before their injuries, but desperate, overworked times. 

Doe’s features were slack, the intubation tube resting on dry, cracked lips. The delicate skin of his face was peppered with bruises, the arch of one cheek bone split, a sharp angle from some kind of corner marring the otherwise unmarked expanse of his forehead in green tinged memory. His thick, dark lashes were fanned over the purple half-moons under his eyes, the color so deep Ben wasn’t sure if they were from a black eye or lack of rest.

Examining the bruises scattered across the bottom of his face, Ben squinted and found the shape of the black marks even under the apparatus holding the breathing tube in place. 

More finger marks. 

He didn’t have the energy to curse again. There weren’t words for what had been done to Doe. All Ben could do was finish taking pictures. 

When he straightened from his stoop over the bed, Ben’s vision swam, and Catrina’s firm grip on his elbow steadied him, kept him from toppling over. “Damn...” he groaned, pressing against his temple, head splitting open with the fury of its ache. 

“When was the last time you ate something, Ben?” Catrina asked, her quick, accented speech softening slightly as she pushed him toward the empty chair. 

“Um?” The noise was more than a little sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck, plopping down into the chair without resistance as his legs tried to give out under him. “Does it mean that my memory is shit if I can’t remember or just that it was that long ago?” 

She rolled her eyes, pressing him forward until his elbows rested on his knees and his head was hanging. “Stay there, don’t pass out, I’ll be right back.” In a blur of blue scrubs and yellow gown , Catrina left the room. Leaving Ben alone with her patient, the quiet beeps of monitors, and the steady pump of the ventilator. 

After a few seconds, the dark vertigo inducing throb of his head let up, and Ben lifted his face out of his hands. “Well, pumpkin,” he said, addressing the still form on the bed, “I hope you’ll forgive the lack of professionalism.” He smiled sadly, rolling closer so that he could take Doe’s hand between his own. “It’s been a hell of a long day, you know?” 

Ben studied the other man’s face, looking past the bruises and tubing to the person beneath. He was handsome, whoever he was, the dark hair and pale skin contrasting to make him stand out rather than blend in. The faint beginnings of lines around his eyes made him seem like someone who was used to smiling. Someone Ben would’ve liked to know. 

He remembered those striking green eyes and how they’d stared at he and Kincaid—the vivid emerald color enunciated by the broken capillaries, probably a result of the blow that cut his cheek bone, creating a stain of red on the background of white. The fear that had no business being in his gaze. What kind of hell have you been through, sweetheart? 

The knowledge that this John Doe was a witch just amplified the horror that Ben was feeling. The fact that, in another life, this could be Kincaid in that bed.  Used as a plaything, as a junkie’s source, until he was a shell of who he really was—with no one knowing who he was or where he came from?—it killed him. This guy was clinging to life with blood coated tenacity, and no one even knew his fucking name.

Ben had no idea how long this guy had been held, the bruises not even a clear outline of what had been done to him. Vampire venom was an anticoagulant, amongst other properties, and most every vampire victim Ben had come across was anemic. It made for interesting bruising history, the marks of captivity and abuse lasting for weeks longer than they should. 

His teeth were grinding together, and Ben loosened the clench in his jaw, letting his frustration out in a shaky exhale. Fuck, he thought, I’m tired. 

It didn’t take long for Catrina to come back, and Ben looked up in time to accept the small box of apple juice and crackers from her. “Thanks,” he said, rolling away from her patient, far enough he was comfortable moving his gloves and mask to suck on the straw under her hawk eyed gaze. 

“Don’t mention it,” she said, another expressive movement of her eyebrows indicating that it really would be better forgotten. 

Catrina busied herself with her patient while Ben made sure he didn’t pass out, moving smoothly around the room to check a beeping drip and taking a new blood sugar. Ben watched her, fatigue coming for him in heavy waves. 

“What’s his prognosis?” he asked, the question slipping free while he rubbed at his blurry eyes. He had to ask it for his report, even if he knew the likelihood that it was a good answer was a nullity. Plus, there weren’t any loved ones here to ask, to worry about him, so Ben would have to do. 

The nurse looked at him, her dark eyes holding a well of emotion at bay.  “Not good,” she answered, voice solemn. “I’m going to give my report to Anna in about fifteen minutes at shift change if you want to sit in, she hasn’t been on with him yet so she’s going to get a full run down, but in short, not good.” She sighed, adjusting the pillow behind Doe’s head, breaking her gaze with Ben. “He’s having seizures, we suspect an anoxic brain injury.” 

The words hit hard. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” he hissed, running his hands over his face and burying his fingers in his hair. Fuck. 

Anoxic brain injuries were caused by lack of oxygen. Commonly occurring during CPR. Which Ben gave Doe when he crashed in the ambulance. 

“Ben,” Catrina’s voice was adamant, she crossed to where he was sitting, her bright purple shoes invading his eye line as she put her hand on his shoulder.  “We don’t know how serious it is yet. It’s been, what? Eighteen hours since your raid? He’s been through emergency surgery and anesthesia and a whole lot of other things since he’s been here, but there’s still a lot we don’t know. You didn’t do this to him, okay?” 

He wanted to believe her. Logically, he knew that he didn’t do anything wrong. There was no way for him to do CPR better, no way for him to have gotten them to the hospital faster. The witch was so heavily injured at the nest that moving him was a risk, but it was a risk that they had to take. They couldn’t have left him there any longer, and he was going to crash whether they were there or not. It just so happened that Ben and Kincaid were able to get him help when it happened. There was no other option. 

So, logically, he knew he did everything he could. But. . . what could he have done better? 

Ben nodded, taking a shaky breath. It took a minute for his next words to come, but when they did, they evaporated from his tongue with a whisper. “He was conscious at the extraction,” his shoulders curled in, “he could answer questions. . . he was awake.” Her shoes blurred into a smear of purple, and he sniffed, swallowing hard against the tears. He was so fucking tired. 

Catrina’s inhale was soft, surprised, and her hand tightening  on his shoulder. 

“You know what that raid was for?” he asked, tipping his head up to look at her face. Even if it wasn’t openly stated in the reports, a lot of people would put two and two together. It just took a person who actually believed that there was the supernatural out there. 

At Catrina’s nod, he lowered his gaze again, feeling a tear slip down to dampen his mask. He closed his eyes, the scene playing out behind his eyelids. “Raids are these brief, staccato clips. They move so fucking fast, and you have to piece everything together afterward.” He shook his head, sighing heavily. “I haven’t. . . haven’t gotten the chance to do that yet.” 

Catrina didn’t press him, didn’t stop him either. She settled on her knee. Patient. Expectant. 

Ben swallowed, chest heavy. “When we first breached the building. . . “ he stared, words wet and slow, “there was this barrage of humans and vamps trying to get out. Until, just, one second to the next—“ he made a poof motion with his hand, “—they were just gone. I don’t know what happened, how they got out.” His eyes were wide, unseeing, and he didn’t feel his body shaking. “There were a few stragglers, but otherwise it was this dark silence that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

“After every corner, we expected there to be a hoard of them ready to pounce on us. Every sense was on high alert for any noise, some small—“ his face screwed up in search of the right word, “—animal corner of your mind trying to feel where the predator was going to come from. Our teams cleared most of the compound by the time we made it up to the clinic, but so much was still unknown.” His breath hitched, and he let go of his hair, his hands falling between his knees. Shaking. “We didn’t have any idea what we were walking into, really. There wasn’t much to it, just some curtains and medical supplies. It was innocuous.” 

He paused again, licking his lips behind the mask. Nose not quite stuffed enough to miss the medicinal smell of the disposable shield. “The other rooms on the floor were all empty, everywhere you expected someone to be was empty. So when we heard the machines, it was just background noise. Enough to know we needed to be on guard, but we were on guard anyway.

“We have these flashlights on the ends of our guns,” he said, waving a hand in vague explanation,” and the lights jump around, create these jerky splashes of light and shadow on the walls. They’re useful, but it also makes you jumpy as hell.” Another tear slipped free, dripping down to plop quietly onto the sleeve of his crinkly, yellow gown. “When we pulled back that curtain. . . I think the only thing that saved him was the fact that he couldn’t move.” Shame flushed through him, and his bit his lip, throat closing up over his words as he fought to explain himself. “None of us expected to see someone in that clinic. In the cells below? Sure. In the quarters with the vamps? Yeah. But for some reason, we all expected that clinic to be empty once we got up there.”

Ben blew out a choked breath, almost a sob, tucking his chin against his chest before he continued.

“The sinking feeling that went through my gut when I saw that figure on the bed. Fuck. For a second, everybody just froze.” Logically, Ben knew that he should be filtering his words. That he should stop. That Catrina didn’t need to hear about how scared her patient was when he was found, or what it did to Ben to see him like that, but the words wouldn't stop. “He was so scared. Hands flat—“ Ben flattened his own for a second in demonstration, “—on the bed like he could be any threat to anyone in the condition that he was in, like he wasn’t already strapped down and helpless” 

Catrina’s breath caught, and he saw her gloved hand go shakily to her mouth. 

“I’ve got a lot of training,” he wiped at his eyes, looking into Catrina’s dark eyes, unsurprised to find tears there too, “enough to know that how they were treating him. . . “ He shook his head, unable to put it into words. She would know better than he would anyway.  “He was too weak to talk, but the way he looked at us. . . “ Tears were choking him, and he couldn’t get a full breath. “And now. . . now. . .” 

He wasn’t expecting the arms pulling him in, the warmth of Catrina’s embrace, but he gave in to it all the same. His head rested heavily on her shoulder, her gloved hand on the back of his hair, the latex pulling slightly at the short strands there. Her breaths weren’t steady either, and he heard her cursing quietly under her breath, her voice shaking. 

When they pulled apart, Catrina looked him dead in the eye, her hand tight on his bicep. “It wasn’t your fault, okay?  What he needs, now, is for us to take care of him and for you to find out who did this, and who he is. Find where he belongs, right?” Another tear escaped, her mascara smudged underneath her eyelashes. 

Ben nodded, sniffling quietly before he rubbed his tears away with the back of hand. “Yeah. . .” he cleared his throat, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, “yeah, we’re gonna find who did this.” 

They both looked over to the John Doe, his unconscious figure unchanged from where Catrina had left him. 

Ben was going to find who did this if it was the last thing he ever did. 

[magicalsalamander]

Sangre Solium

            Sequel to Sangria Wine

Pairing: BTS Yoongi ⇆ Reader 

Genre: Vampire | CEO | Medical | Fluff| Angst | Slight Horror | [Eventual] Smut

Summary: When rent is cutting short and you’re at your last resort. Your job has been cutting your hours slowly, and bills were stacking up. You walk into a donation center, blood donating center for the undead to earn some quick cash, but…the thing is…you’re afraid of needles.

Word: 6.3K

Rating: Mature; mentions of blood and phobia of needles/blood, fainting, vampiric activity, and mentions of mating.

A/N:  Sangria Wine was posted on 20 Oct 2018 and it received so much love. Originally I didn’t want to continue the story. It was supposed to be a oneshot and done. However, after deliberating with myself, I took the time to think of how I want to continue the story. Now, here we are, chapter 2. Thank you for reading

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Blue fluorescent light passing under the copy machine’s lid wasn’t enough to wake you from your stupor. After it had printed out your college-textbook-thick worth of copies you stared at the white top aimlessly.

God, you messed up, you messed up big time.

The clinic had you marked, banned from returning to the clinic. A literal red strike was crossed over your chart. Your file probably was thrown into the shredder just for emphasis. How could you pass out when your donor was taking from you? He wasn’t even there when you woke up. However, the prick marks from his fangs were like a tattoo on your neck. They were faint, but you could see the marks distinctly.  God, you were so stupid. Despite your embarrassing episode, you were still paid though. You would’ve normally refused, but you took the envelope with your head hanging down. You were able to make rent, yet here you were, a week later, panged with more questions, the most blaring question was of the next month’s bills.

Rolling your shoulders your bone cracked and popped as you dispelled tension. There was a constant knot in your shoulders and a small throbbing pang in your head. The pain would intensify at work and your temples become sensitive like a sunburn. Maybe—you were pretty sure—it was the endless stacks of paperwork piling at your desk thanks to your boss. The other day it was nearing the tip of the wall of your cubicle. There was one thing you could hold onto though. It was Friday.

You picked up the papers with a grunt. The weight dug into your forearm which was leaving a dent in your skin. You struggled back to your desk passing rows of filled cubicles. As you reached your desk you dropped the stack with a tremor. The minor earthquake sent your precious coffee splashing over the edge of the cup nearing towards your fresh textbook. With a hushed curse under your breath as you reached for your cup, you wiped up the lost paradise with a tissue before it caused another disaster. You stood there for a moment as you let out another sigh. You rolled your shoulder once more. The morning was as old as the paradise lost un-sipped coffee. As soon as your heel touched the lobby floor you hit the ground running this morning. Your coffee was past lukewarm and brimming on disgustingly bitter from the air conditioner. You grumbled under your breath, great, just great.

Swiveling the chair around, then adjusting your chair cushion, you sunk in like a ragdoll. Everything has been off since your trip to the clinic. You couldn’t shake the feeling, the odd tingling in your joints that vibrated your skin with unease. What were you going to do? How were you going to make this month’s bills? You couldn’t ask anyone to help owing something to anyone was just a bigger headache.  Especially your parents, you couldn’t ask them, they hound for the money back immediately. Living in the city away from your family was something you prided yourself on. You were independent, that’s the promise you made to yourself and them.

Your manager, an old, portly man with a poorly glued toupee, walked down your isle greeting your other coworkers. He slowed down when he passed other female employees, purposefully giving them the extra attention; and they always played into it, knowing he’d suck up all the attention. A promotion was a promotion. That was where you “messed up”, you never buttered him up or took the compliments without turning it back to business. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him picking up pace as he speeds past your desk. He dropped folders on top of the stack you just printed out. With more authority than he could ever muster with an overtly fake commanding voice, “On my desk by noon Y/L/N.”

Numbly you gazed over to the tower still being worked on against the cubicle as you slowly observed the stack of manila folders just added. You tried turning to catch him before he rounded the corner, standing up haphazardly, jerking to a halt your skirt caught on the ajar top drawer. “Sir, wai—ouch!” You didn’t get to finish your sentence as you heard your skirt rip. You slumped back down, holding your tongue as your manager rounded and disappeared around the corner. With gentle fingers you held the three-inch tear together, your cold hand soothing the scrapped tender skin under. You didn’t break skin, but it still stung. Sighing in defeat, your eyes slowly moved over observing the ever-growing tower on your desk. You pulled the scrapper open and fished around through your junk bin. When you found a safety pin, you held it in your hand and closed the drawer. You bit on the bars releasing the pointer then held the pin between your teeth. You scooched back and with two hands you pleated the tear tightly then pinched it tightly with one hand.  

Why was he piling it all on your desk? Did he hate you? You’ve never done anything to him. You were the newest, but the distribution of work was still unfair.

Skillfully with your other hand, you weaved the pin through the frayed fabric. You pulled the fabric through the pin and with only a bit of pin left your thumb nicked the tip. Hissing through your teeth you retracted your thumb with lightning reflexes and automatically bringing it to your lips. Inspecting your thumb you sighed in relief you didn’t break skin, but the prick mark was there. That’s when it hit you. You didn’t pass out.

Just-just maybe…just maybe…

You unweave the pin and closed it shut as you fisted it tightly in your hand. You put your computer to sleep and grabbed your coffee cup. You left your towering papers and walked towards the breakroom focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The handle of your cup became slippery as your grip grew sweaty. You checked the breakroom for anyone inside, but at this odd hour, everyone had already grabbed their morning cup of coffee or snack. The plastic table and chairs were thankfully abandoned.

You slipped inside, closing the glass door behind you and walked over to the sink. You poured your old coffee out and rinsed it out, the pin too, then set your cup down and pin next to it. You took the coffee pot and filled it with fresh water. You poured it into the container and started it up again. The crackling noises filled the empty room and the pot began to fill with coffee. You stared at the black droplets as it dripped and rippled. For a short second, you smiled at the small paradise before it disappeared. You knew what you were doing here. You were prolonging it; you could pick it up and get the prick over with. You were stalling. Your hands were trembling as you clutched onto the countertop. Your hands were soaking wet with sweat. You paced over and ripped a paper towel dabbing your trembling hands as you whispered to yourself. “It’s just a prick, it’s just a prick, it’s just a prick.”

Why couldn’t you handle a single prick? You weren’t going to die, but why did your body react so dramatically. If you could do this then you could go to another clinic and all your problems would be solved. You could do this.

With sudden confidence, you crumpled and tossed the paper towel away. Picking up the cold pin that instantly heated up in your hand, you pushed in the pin and hooked it around the clasp. You stared at the needle and the sudden confidence vanished. All the reasons why you shouldn’t do this come flooding over your system. Your fingers locked up the knot in your shoulders intensified. Saliva pooled on your tongue and gulping was hard as it hurt your throat. Subconsciously your shaking, tight fingers managed to move as you forced the motion of wiping the pin and your sweaty hand on your skirt.

You just need to prick your finger, just prick your finger and not pass out.

You stabilized your hand as you brought the pin up and near your thumb.

Just prick it. It’s only a second. That’s it.

You just need to press it lightly and that’s it.

There’s no big deal.

It’s-just-a-prick.

Your breathing shortened as you lower the pin closer to the pad of your thumb. Your hearing began ringing in your ears, knees losing tension, but you stood still. You inhaled deeply and held it for a few seconds hearing your heartbeat in your ear. You pulled your hand back like pulling the string of a bow, reading your arrow, and—release.

It was faint, but it was there. It was always there, correction, you were always there.

The pulled curtains over the ceiling to floor windows only let in a sliver of light. His nearly bare grey walls absorbed any of the strayed light. There was a screen protector over his desktop computer, alongside an open notebook and a stack of papers, clipped, ready for dispersal.

Throb, throb, throb.

Both eyes closed, an eyebrow perked, as his open palm supported his thrumming temple and his other was busy. His fingers from his pinky to his index in a flowing rhythm was countering the ticking of his desktop clock.

He was fine Monday. He’s a patient man after all.

Tuesday was okay.

Wednesday wasn’t bad, but Thursday felt nearly intolerable. Yet, he held it together.

Today—oh, today. He could feel you frantically in his veins. Your heartbeat was pulsing in his head like a migraine. He was fine with light, the stereotype was false, but today, the small light leaking in was intensifying the pain. He was so in tune with you. It irked him because the pain was pointless. He’s always been one to understand, ahead of the game, planning the game, but he wasn’t sure why he was in pain. With his middle knuckle raised in the air, he stopped tapping abruptly. He pressed all his fingers flat against the desk to center himself. The table felt warm compared to his temperature. That was another thing that had been happening to him lately, he had been feeling warmth randomly in bursts.

His world has been off kilter…and it all started with you.

False breathing for a moment, he let himself feel the pain. The beating in his head grew louder and louder. He dug into his inner blazer pocket and pulled out a small, tin mint box. Inside, instead of mints, were synthetic blood pills. He swallowed three raw, feeling them travel down his throat. He breathed in heavily waiting for the soothing effect to come over, the clock on his desk counting down in the background. Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three…the throbbing pain was still there.

With a rumbling growl that vibrated his chest, he stood from his chair like a feral beast trying to escape. He chucked the pillbox into the trash. He couldn't stand it anymore. He adjusted his grey suit and tightening his black tie as he walked towards the doors. He pushed through without pause, stuffing his fidgety hands into the pockets of his pants.

His secretary, Hoseok, the only man—a vampire—on this planet who could put with him, abruptly stood from his desk nearly toppling over. Papers he had been working on spilled over as he attempted to pick them up and pay attention at the same time. Forgetting his formalities for a second, “Yoongi, what—?” He swallowed his question as Yoongi’s gazed flicked over to him for a split second. They were fiery red, a raging fire that could turn anything into ash. Regaining professionalism, he attempted to put together why his boss was out of his office. “Sir,” checking his watch twice, ”it’s not time for the meeting yet.”

Hoseok was completely in shock. He swore he’s never seen his boss look this automaton and hagride. The creases on Yoongi’s suit weren’t fully pressed. Yet, Hoseok was still slightly timid in Yoongi’s presence, despite being best friends for centuries. His status didn't change the fact that the look in Yoongi's eyes was near lethal. There was a physical air around him that if it could only be described as a black cloud.

Yoongi’s voice was low and tense as it rolled out, “I’m doing random floor assessments.” Yoongi walked past Hoseok and into his private lobby, pressing the elevator’s down button.

Hoseok gathered what he could, dress shoes loudly clicking on the marble tile as he jogged to catch up. He barely swept passed the closing doors and into the elevator. Adjusting his suit and demeanor as the CEO’s secretary, best friend aside, “What-what department would you like to see first Sir?” Yoongi pushed the button for a floor without telling his secretary. Hoseok cast a slight glance at him only to look back quickly unnerved by his utter nonchalance. Clearing his throat he dared not to ask.

Yoongi rolled his neck slowly before the ding of the elevator signaled their arrival. As he stepped out Hoseok was hot on his trail matching Yoongi’s air of confidence as soon as the door opened. Yoongi rounded the corner and out to the large, open floor plan office floor. It was in a state of half-organized half-cluttered with light pouring in from the floor to ceiling windows that traveled all along the wall. The light intensified the pain, but he kept on. People lingering in the aisles lost in their smile and faux chuckles. A man cleared his throat and adjusted his tie suddenly cutting his conversation off as he stared in awe. A woman sipping from her mug suddenly choked spilling her drink on her shirt a bit. Yoongi made his way dead center through the major divide between the left and right desk. The noise in the room overall died down in a cascading wave to a hushed murmur. Yoongi kept his chin high and eyes straight as he walked, not bothering to meet the gaze of anyone who dared stare at him. Yet it was a given that people avoided his gaze. Yoongi drowned out the babbling, yet he heard the whispers, “It’s the red shadow.”

A tall, gangly man cleared his throat, along with a few others, cutting through stunned individuals and the aisles and came to meet Yoongi as he crossed their path. The man ushered a few others with him like stooges. With a trembling hand and voice, he attempted to approach Yoongi, following behind when they passed them without a word. The posse dumbly followed. The floor manager attempted again, “Mr. Min, Good morning. What…,” the manager exchanged glances with the other lingering employees, “ to what do we owe a visit from you today?”

Yoongi raised a brow, but without a true response, he continued to walk around in a short tour. The manager’s murmured among themselves, however, Yoongi could hear their whispered panics clearly. Yoongi never visited any of the departments, he always resided at the top of his tower. He had others to do that, come to him at the top, and report back. He had no interest in what they were doing, but he wanted to stall. He wasn’t sure his body couldn’t handle the intense wave. He wasn’t even on the right floor yet, seven floors above the intended. This was a practice round for himself. He could feel it, you, your heartbeat was raising and raising.

With a group of people behind him now, he prowled through the department. He could feel the individuals in their cubicle's heart rates skip as he walked past. It was so loud with all the noise. This was one of the main reasons why he never came down to the departments. After making around he returned to stand in front of the elevators. Hands locked behind his back he nodded and his secretary pushed the button for him. He stepped inside the elevator first then Hoseok followed to stand behind him. He stared directly ahead unblinking at the managers who stood their dumbfounded, silent, yet he could see their pupils trembling.

The doors closed.

Hoseok cleared his throat, “What floor next, Sir?”

Without glancing sideways, passing his tongue over his fangs, “Marketing.” His secretary nodded and pressed the button.

It felt slow like the mechanism was moving through molasses as he observed the digital numbers count down. He’s never felt the need to tuck his hands into his pants pocket enough, for the first time he's never known what to do with his restless hands.

Throb, throb, throb.

He patted his blazer in habit, searching for his pillbox, only to remember he threw it away. Rolling his shoulders needlessly then closing his eyes, he counted to ten resting his expression. As he opened his eyes slowly, narrowed and forward, they were glowing red despite his attempt. He stared at his own wicked look in the chrome reflection of the metal doors.

Hoseok with a soft gaze stared at him through the reflection, “Yoongi, are you alright?”

With no other choice, Yoongi tucked his hands in his pockets and grunted. The elevator dinged in arrival. He could feel it deep in his chest, that pull. He grunted ticking his head to the side disheveling his neatly done hair.

He lunged forth on instinct as a light sample of your scent filled his senses. Rounding out into the bright light that filled this floor as well, but like the pain, it became background noise as he focused on your scent. In practice, he followed the same routine walking down the middle part. Your scent grew stronger and stronger as he passed aisles until he came to a stop. He looked left and right up and down the aisle and followed instincts to the right. He paced as he passed cubicles. He paused in front of a cubicle that was empty. It was your desk, he could recognize your scent, even though he had only met you once, he knew it was yours.

A small shadow cast over him as the portly man greets him, “Good morning, Mr. Min may I-I-I help you?” The manager's eyes follow where he had been staring, especially licking his lips at the tower of papers. He clears his throat and copies Yoongi’s pose by putting his hands in his slacks, attempting to appear taller. “Ah, Mr. Min, I’m sorry for the mess. Ms. Y/N she’s quiet the slacker, she never gets her work done on time. She's new so maybe the company motto hasn't seeped in yet. But don't worry Sir, I promise you I will keep her in line though.”

Yoongi broke gaze for the first time, sparing his narrowing glance at the man. Although his face was neutral it spoke a thousand words.  

"Where is she?" You hadn't been gone long your scent still lingered, and warmth still coated the air.

When the manager was left stunned quiet and stuttering, a chilling sensation seeped through Yoongi’s body. He shuttered out an unstable breath, closing his eyes for a moment. The manger mistook it as anger and began apologizing immediately drowning out his sound until he heard it. He heard it loud and clear echoing in his ears a sound of a sharp cry…that came from you.

Having not realized another small group had formed around him. He plowed through the group and began rushing towards the sound. The sound of panting filled his ears as he allowed the sound to act as a radar. At the door of the break room, he looks through the glass door. Your standing at the counter your hand comes out to clutch at the counter, but your feet staggered. Your knees begin to buckle and his eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen. He could hear it. Your breathing paused as you began collapsing. Nearly ripping the door open fear fills him as on your downfall he catches you pulling you into his chest.

You didn’t look up to him, your face was hidden as it hung low and your hand trembled as they latched onto his blazer. The glimmer of the pointy end of the safety pin dripped a single drop off blood onto the floor. His pupils dilated, engulfing the red into pure darkness. A feral awakening within happened as he watched your eyes roll into the back of your head and your knees unlock, you begin falling like silk. He bolted forward and caught you in his embrace. He slumped to the floor with you embraced in his arms he held your head in one hand to get a better look at your face. It was almost unreal, he knew you were here, imagined it for days even, but here you were. Your face was relaxed as your unfocused eyes fluttered and his in panic.

The scent then hit him. He smelled it intensely in the air filling up the small space form such a small concentration. He brought up your hand and a small drip had made its way down your fingers. He grunted holding himself, everything he had in him back. On instinct he brought his finger to his lips and licked, his saliva sealing the small wound instantly. He resisted feeding, resisted biting, the need to protect you overrides baser instincts. He whispered your name, but you already passed out. Pulling your face to his chest, he felt the need to protect you. Your hand slumped from his grip and the safety pin slipped from your hand. Hearing a small clink he followed to the sound and noticed the open safety pin with a bit of your blood at the end. His heart squeezed. Cupping your cheek gently he pushes your hair out of your face. His eyebrows creased as he looked between the pin and you. He whispered, “Why?”

 Soon enough in the doorway of the breakroom, it had filled with his entourage. Your manager and a few others stood wide-eyed at the door. The assistant manager nudged your manager, "Go, don’t let the CEO take care of your employee.”

Choking on his saliva he pushed through and into the breakroom. “I’m so sorry Sir, please, let me take her." In a panic, the manager reached for you trying to take you away from Yoongi.

His back was towards the manager, a growl sounds, “No.” The manager panicked, trying to save face still by inching forward still. He had intended to do this earlier, but now seemed timely, “You’re fired.”

The manager sputtered, “I’m sorry, Sir, I’ll have a replacement for her soon. I will hire a better employee. This is my mistake.” He again tried pushing through to grab you from his embrace.

This time Yoongi growled out in a near roar, “You idiot, you’re fired! GET OUT!”

The manager stuttered as Hoseok pushed through the small crowd as he easily pushed away the manager. The manager stumbled back, face aghast and white as he was treated no better than a fly.

Hoseok questioned, “Sir?” 

Gently he gathered you in his arms and held you under your knees. Yoongi turned head gazed over his neck with a hard stare, eyes deep red, unspoken words between them. He stood up with you in his arms bridal style, your head tucked in his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine. Your soft breathing tickled his neck and again the hair on his body raised. His secretary and other managers were equally as shocked, shaking in their shoes, afraid for you and themselves. Hoseok had never seen Yoongi act like this, he was wondering what was going on with his best friend, especially a random girl from marketing.

Yoongi didn’t spare a glance his way, but he spoke directly to the manager, “I’ll make sure to it personally no one hires you again.”

The smell of urea tainted everyone’s nose.

Naturally, everyone parted as he walked through the crowd with you tucked close. Everyone in the cubicles had their eyes on him, but he could care less. He gallantly walked through the office. He entered the elevator and looked down at you as the doors closed.  

Your eyes lazily blink open as you blearily stare at the tall, grey ceiling. It’s so dark. Your eyes are open but you can’t comprehend why. A chill washed over you and settled over you like a wet blanket. Your teeth chattered as you internally groan, it's freezing. With a deep inhale, your heavy arms struggle to raise and wrap around yourself. You slowly sit up but as you move in slow motion you feel your skin pull away from the leather couch you’re resting on. You felt sticky, like semi-dry glue, gunky and dirty. You blink trying to take in where you are, where were you? Slowly you swung your legs around and down onto the ground. You need to feel it. It’s eerily quiet. Trying to focus on anything in the darkness none of the silhouettes seemed familiar. Just exactly, where were you? Weren’t you in the breakroom a moment ago?

Slumping forward and running your hands through your hair you held your head for a moment. Hunched over as you tried finding common ground for all your senses. Your manager was going to be so upset. Were you going to get fired? Your head raised on that though. You couldn’t afford getting fired. You couldn’t get fired! At the sudden movement, a wave of dizziness flooded you. Focusing on what was before you, your mind froze. You blinked a few times before the shadowed image defined itself. A silhouette of a man was sitting on the coffee table with his hands clasped on his knees hunched forward. Raising his head he met yours, his narrowed red eyes were beaming at you with intensity.

A choked cry for help forced itself up to your throat as you jolted away. You raised your feet off the ground and tuck them close to yourself. This must be some twisted nightmare, but it felt so real, your pounding heart and head felt all too real. He sat up straight, his eyes rounding out a bit. He tried leaning forward to you but caught himself. It took a second for your eyes to adjust to take in the disheveled dark hair of a fair-skinned man. If this was a nightmare why were they still there? This means—he was real. The longer you stared you realized his features looked tired, red eyes still narrow but softer around the edges as they held your curious gaze. Oddly, the shock washed away immediately and a weird sense of familiarity filled you. Those eyes, you knew those eyes. you realize, “You?”

He cocked a brow, repeating after you teasingly, “You?”

You racked your brain, trying to remember his name in the endless bank, but it was just on the tip of your tongue. His face was so familiar. You blinked away the haziness as his face began connecting the dots before you had a constellation. Stars lit up in your eyes, then you cleared your throat, “Yoo-Yoongi?”

Of course, you remember him. The man who you had embarrassed yourself in front of, not only once but now twice. You felt your cheeks heat up.

You lowered your feet back down.

A small smirked perked upon his lips exposing the tips of his fangs.

You squinted, “Wait, why…how did I get here?”

His smile softened up his glaring features. He stood up and rounded about as he poured a glass of water. You carefully watched his back, the suit he wore looked expensive. You gazed around the room for a second noting all the equally expensive-looking décor. This office looked straight out of a magazine with minimal but luxurious details. This lounge was a part of his office, his presidential desk faced towards the lounge.  

“Here, drink this.” He handed you a glass of water that you gladly expected with a hushed thanks. “You were in the breakroom when I found you, so I brought you to rest for a while on my couch.”

You sipped on the water, nodding in understanding. Everything he was saying made sense so far. And with the glass raised to your lips, you realized—you realized why you had passed out. You cringed internally as you tucked your thumb into your fist. You felt mortified, frozen in place. Yoongi had seen you again in such a pathetic position. You wished the world would open up and swallow you whole. Wait, his couch? This was his couch?  Wait...Yoongi…the receiver you were supposed to donate— wait, the one you had passed out on. You passed out in front of Yoongi. You were at work, and Yoongi found you in the breakroom? Gazing around once more you looked at the desk and read off the plaque on his desk. Min Yoongi CEO. Nausea filled you as your jaw unhinged. Yoongi—CEO Min Yoongi of MYG Technological Corps. You passed out in front of the CEO! The CEO! You began breathing in deeply as a slight panic set in. Oh god, you couldn't be here. You have never felt so utterly humiliated.

You got up and stumbled as you held onto the edge of the couch. You smoothed down your clothing and rapidly conveyed your emotions. “Thank you, Yoongi-I mean Mr. Min, uhm, thank you for…goodbye.”

His voice broke through, feeling the sudden rise in your heart rate. Your sudden behavior change surprised him. “Hey, what’s going on?”

When he realized you weren’t stopping. It was like a force unbeknownst existed physically pulled him up as he raced to the door. A throb began pulsing as you speed away from him. He wasn’t going to let you out of his sight, not again. He gently pushed the door closed as you tried opening it to leave.  “Wait, don’t go.”

You turned around and came face to face with Yoongi. Nose inches apart for a second before he backs away politely clearing his throat. He wasn’t weak to his instincts, he wasn’t. He asked, “Please, stay.”  

You avoid eye contact, hand still on the door handle. On a single exhale, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Sir. Again! Oh my god, I’m so sorry I’m in your—your office! This is your office.” Taking your hand off the door handle for emphasis, you then point to his whole visage, ”You’re the CEO. I’m so, so, so, so sorry.” After your monologue, your out of breath and flushed.

The ticking of his clock is the only sound that accompanies your harsh breathing. He chuckles, which turns into a laugh. You curl in on yourself. He immediately corrects himself. “Excuse me, I’m not laughing at you. Your…your just too,” he pauses, wanting to use another word but settled for, “honest.”

It really would be great if the world would open up now. You could hear your heart in your ear. It took a second to remember he probably could too. He was a vampire; he could probably hear everything.  

It was odd, you had this power over him, the glow immediately diminishing and his eyes returned to brown. He realized how strong he must’ve been coming off. In a husky low voice, his eyes glowing again, “Stay Y/n. Stay and let me explain.”

Something was rooting you to the floor, you couldn’t explain it, but you wanted to listen. Your chest was rising and falling. “Okay.”

You followed him back to the couch as he sat across from you on the opposing couch. You couldn't believe it still, your receiver was your CEO. How had you not seen this earlier? Well, Yoon—Mr. Min never has shown himself publicly. He is anonymous to the public. Anonymous to the office—well you have only been working for a few months.  

Silence built between you both, you weren’t sure what he needed to explain. To him though, a full orchestra was playing, to his ears through your heartbeat was drumming. He was feeling overwhelmed with your sweet scent as it filled his office. The need to be near you was like an itch, but he purposefully sat across from you. The small taste of your blood, a droplet of a sample, had him fishing his pills out of the trash as soon as he laid you down on the couch. You, you made him weak.

You needed to know, “Why?”

He arched a brow, “Why what?”

You twiddled your thumbs, “Tell me you were the CEO. When I was donating you let me speak so openly to you. I'm sorry for speaking so out of term. I'll leave my resignation letter on my manager's desk by the end of the day."

He smiled. "Y/n." You wouldn't have to worry about your manager anymore anyways.

You looked at him finally. His eyes had returned to normalcy. The same pull you had felt the day you had met him pulled underneath your skin. Although, maybe you were mistaking it for nausea.

Sternly, "I'm sorry for not telling you earlier. I don't let anyone know who I am beside the people closest to me. But I don't want you to resign. Stop apologizing."

You felt a blush creep up on your cheeks. “Thank you Mr.Min.”

He chuckled, “Please, call me Yoongi.”

You nodded, although, it felt too informal now that you know who he truly is.

You swallowed hard, suddenly whispering, “Why’d you leave?”

His eyes widened, “You were being taken care of, there was no need for me to stay.”

In truth, he felt overwhelmed. For the first time in centuries since his turning, he felt overwhelmed. He didn’t know what to do, besides run. Run from the fact that you were his mate and he didn’t know how to handle that. He couldn’t articulate it fully, he felt it would be too much to drop on you that you were his mate. A human, you couldn’t understand. Yet, his body surely hasn’t forgotten, his senses surely haven’t that you’re his mate. The throbbing in his head was a constant reminder. Finally, it stopped with you, here in his office. You’re none the wiser about this, you don’t know anything about his kind. He can’t spring that onto you, you don’t know what it means.

“Oh.”

“Why’d you prick yourself?”

Your headshot up, a flush of heat traveling up your neck and steaming your brain. “I-I-,” you’ve never felt more embarrassed in your life. In a near mumble, “Iwantedtoprovetomyselfitisn’tabitdeal.”

He had exceptional hearing, but he couldn’t make anything you said out. You heavily sighed, taking a deep breath, “I,” licking your lips, “needed the extra money.” He couldn’t help following the motion. “I wanted to go to another clinic to donate.”

His eyes snap narrow in anger, no one, no other of his kind or human could touch you. No one should ever get to taste you besides him. Genuinely mad he commanded, “No.” You shrunk back into the chair, trembling a bit. He realized his mistake in predation taking a deep breath in. His limbs were vibrating as he stands up and paces for a bit. You rub your forearms unsure of what to do in this situation. He took a seat next to you. Feeling your warmth radiate from you just by sitting next to you calmed him a bit. “Do you realize what you’re going to do Y/n?”

You nodded not looking at him. You were unsure, but not uncomfortable. “Yes, I know, but what other choice do I have.”

He rubbed his palm together. “Let me make a deal with you Y/n.”

“A deal?”

“How about I help you overcome your fear?”

You quirked a brow then squinted at him. “What’s in it for you?”

"I don't want to see my employees seek work elsewhere."

Your face relayed you were unconvinced.

“If I help you overcome your fear, and if it’s successful, will you let me feed from you? If you are that adamant about donating again, then let me be your receiver.”

There it was, the catch.

You edged yourself to the corner of the couch, fully turning your body towards Yoongi. “That’s illegal! I can’t be your personal donor Yoongi.”

He smiled, “This isn’t a donor situation, simply I’m helping you overcome your fear of needles…just with my fangs. As a vicarious, non-intentional consequence, you may bleed and I will clean it, essentially feed, but that will be voluntary not by obligation.”

He could see your brain working a million miles per hour.

He tossed in, “I’ll consider this as a personal assistant job, the other portion of overcoming just subsidiary as it may possibly be beneficial on my end. So I’ll pay you well for the time you spend with me. You won’t ever have to go to a clinic again.”

You pondered for a moment; the deal seemed great. This was partially why you had started in the beginning, to challenge yourself. Well, bills were also great motivation. This was an answer to your problems. You oddly felt you could trust him. He had been nothing but assuring. Thinking it over, you were sure you had gone silent for at least five minutes.

“If you don’t want it, I understand." Although it ripped him to think about it, he didn't want you to feel trapped. He never wanted to push you. Even though he knew you were his mate, he wasn’t going to ever push you, but being close to you often would ease the headache and thirst. “We’ll figure something else out.”

You looked up, decidedly, “Okay. Teach me.”

Copyright 2020 © by magicalsalamander. All rights reserved. 6.3

[estherwritess]

congrats on 1k! can i request a coffee shop au with tsukki?

yesyesyes!! this is such a cute request, I wrote it as a kind of meet-cute I guess? 

With a satisfied look you go over the way the shop looks, having recently revamped it to be some sort of mix between a book shop and a coffee shop; the smell of fresh pastries mixing in with the smell of books was something you could never get enough of. The café was dimly lit, natural light peeking in here and there through the accumulation of rain clouds, these days were perfect to you. The clientele the shop attracted was mostly college students, here and there the occasional businessman who needed a quick cup of coffee.

Your coworker turns to you, “all ready for the day?” you nod lifting the broom up and moving it to the janitors closet.

“Yeah, today’s just one of those days that feel good, you know?” you tie your apron around your waist, giving him a thumbs up. He gives you a hearty chuckle in response, “if you say so Y/N”, your coworker was one of the best latte artists you’d ever met and you were lucky to have snatched him up to help you run the little shop alongside you.

There were more people on the team, but usually the shop was run by two people, you who took the orders, and someone else who made the drinks. Your fingers drum on the counter, eyes trained on the glass front of the shop, looking at the people passing by in a hurry, umbrellas in hand. The monotone hum of the music is interrupted as a group of college girls enter, huddled around each other they stare at the menu hung above the counter. And like that the morning passes by relatively fast, people are in and out of the shop, some stay to read a book in peace, some pick up their coffee and are gone in a flash.

Right before your midday break, the door opens bringing a gust of cold air inside of the shop, with the breeze comes a young looking man. His hair is ruffled from the wind gusts outside, one hand stuffed into the pockets of his gingham plaid coat, with the hem of his dress shirt peeking out above the cotton sweater, he seemed pretty prepared for this kind of fall weather. He shakes the umbrella out towards the street side of the door, letting it fold up and putting it in the designated umbrella basket near the door. His glasses are covered in droplets, obstructing your view of his eyes.

You give your warmest smile as you open your mouth, “hello sir, what can I get for you today?” your fingers rest atop of the register, waiting for his response. His voice is smooth like velvet as he puts in his order, your eyes glaze over the tag pinned onto his sweatshirt;

Tsukishima Kei; Sendai City Museum

He couldn’t be just the guard right? You bite your lip as you think, but before you can find out the answer yourself your colleague slides the drink over on the counter.

“Tsukishima Kei right?” Kane leans against the counter, “you work with my sister.”

Tsukishima’s hands reach around the cup, his glasses now wiped free from droplets, you can’t help but stare at him for a short while. You’d never really believed it when your mother would tell you how from the moment she saw your father, she was smitten, but you were beginning to doubt the whole “love-at-first-sight-isn’t-real statement”. You were pretty much instantly drawn to him, reserved, well-spoken and smart. Kane continues the conversation, Tsukishima has taken a seat near the counter as he’s nodding intently at Kane who was complaining about his sisters antics. After some back-and-forth banter he announces that he’s got a shift to go back to, bidding the two of you goodbye with a thank you.

You see him pop in more frequently, he’s decently polite to the staff; he’ll occasionally talk to you, not a lot, but his glances get more frequent with every other visit. You’ve learnt his order by now, having his order ready every noon. This time he’s rushing in, looking slightly worried, he shots you a quick thank you, placing the money on the counter accompanied by a napkin. You barely have time to greet him, a small smile coming to your lips as he’s rushing out the door again.

Curiously you lift up the napkin, in barely decipherable lettering, there’s a series of numbers on it.

67x-xxx-xxx

- 

@hihiq @hqgrandescape @mitzwinchester @izzyphantomgamer @clauclaustar @idiot-juice-enthousiast @kara-grayson04 @yams046  (ask to be added!) 

[kpopchangedme]

Nocturna: Part I

The fragile peace between undead and lycanth is imperilled your arrival to the Inferorum Castrum. Between the changing power dynamics of the wolf pack and the insatiable urges of the vampire king, you aren’t exactly sure where your loyalty lies.

Protagonists: Im Jaebeom | You | Bang Chan

Word Count: 2.3k

Genre: NSFW | Supernatural!au | Vampires | Werewolves | Angst | Romance | Love Triangle  [Drabble 2k]

Prompt: “I thought you were dead” requested by Anon

Nocturna Masterlist | HALLOWEEN

The beast is nearing, you can hear its growls over your frenetic pants. You accelerate, not noticing the low branches scratching your face as you run deeper than ever into the ancient forest. Climbing a tree could be a great escape plan if the monster wasn’t already so close. Your lungs are afire, threatening to give in any moment. Your heartbeat is deafening, the sound resonating within you as if to scream you’re still alive. It’s the only thing pushing you to keep running, survive.

You don’t want to die. You want to live, reach your village. You promised your grandmother you would be back safe and sound. Behind you, there’s an animalistic low howl. The others were right, you should never have set foot in the Forbidden Forest. Now you are doomed. “HELP,” you scream, not slowing your erratic race down, “SOMEONE HELP ME!” 

But there is no one to hear, no other human soul within these woods, you’re all alone. The beast has gained ground again. Its large paws quicker than your feet on the dead leaves, and between the tree roots. You look over your shoulder, meeting its glowy eyes. It’s a question of mere seconds before it jumps on you. Understanding this, you blindly fork to the left, unable to see in the thick darkness. It is the middle of the day, but the sun rays don’t shine through the high branches of the old trees. The forest is black and foreign, no wonder villagers never walk through these woods, or rather... Never come out again. It wasn’t a problem for you before today, but you had never wandered this deep, never would’ve hunted this far from the outskirts. It’s all because of that monster...

You don’t see it coming when the wolf snaps your shoulder and you fall to the ground screaming went it releases you. The momentum of your race causes you to tumble and roll on yourself for a few meters in a small glade. You hit roots and rocks as you go before you’re finally immobilized. The beast has stopped too. It now stands many steps back, observing as you desperately attempt to crawl away. The wolf’ canines are exposed, glimmering and its muzzle trembles on a silent ferocious growl.

The scariest smile. 

Its hind is raised, legs bent and ready to jump to end you. That is no normal wolf. Its silvery coat of fur and bear size are anything but that of those you’ve faced through your years of hunting. Aching all over, you stop trying to crawl. You can’t escape. Instead, you muster your courage and reach for the bow to your side. You aren’t going to be eaten alive, not without a fight. As you load a wood arrow from your broken quiver, the demon wolf snaps its jaw on thin air, challenging. There’s a strange intelligent spark in its eyes. Your vision is blurry, tinted by the blood running down your face. As if the attack wasn’t enough, the fall severely injured you. Even if you miraculously manage to kill the beast, you’re going to bleed out here.

“Well,” a male voice suddenly rises from the surrounding blackness, startling you, “this is just rude.”

The wolf diverts his yellow glare to your right at the interruption. You are not relieved at all though, all hair rises on your body. There’s nobody to be found where the voice came from, no one visible to the naked eye. That is bad. The Forbidden Forest is infamous for sheltering the worst creatures known to humankind. Your screams must have attracted one. The silver beast prances in hesitation, searching for the newcomer too. Using the diversion, you aim your arrow at its neck, holding your breath for a clear shot.

“Is it silver?” The strange voice echoes again, this time closer to your left. You turn, alarmed, sending droplets of blood flying. Again, there’s nothing there. Whatever this supernatural being is; it’s agile, maybe the wolf is the least of your worries now. There’s a chuckle, “Go for the head.” Your grip tightens on your hunting bow. You pull at the bowstring, trying to ignore the ache in your wounded shoulder. The silver wolf growls, louder this time, before barking madly. “Shoot.” The voice presses you once more from somewhere above, and the wolf’s jaw snaps on nothing like a protest. “The head!” Finally, you see him: the strange man that voice belongs to. He’s lazily leaning against a tree nearby, laughing. He’s built but lean, and as pale as death. Not a man, you realize; a bloodsucker. 

You don’t even have to ponder a second more to take your shot.

You let go of the string and the arrow whistles, cutting through the air in direction of its target. Unfortunately, it is stopped by a steel grip, millimetres away from marble skin. You have never missed a single shot, but there is a first for everything.

“I meant for the dog’s.” The alabaster man speaks airily, the remnant of his amusement completely gone.

You’ve heard of creatures of the night, through legends told by your people to keep children away from the forest. Bloodsucking eternal undead that masquerade as humans to lure their prey. Pale as parchment, beautiful as gods and strong as a hundred men. Your instinct is to flee when the vampire's eyes narrow dangerously into two sanguine slits, but your injuries prevent you from standing at all. You fall back to your knees in pain, broken. Your whole back and face are ablaze, cut open by the beast and the fall.

“That wasn’t very nice...” The undead breaks your arrow in his hand with no apparent effort, and your eyes widen. “Help me,” he mimics with a higher pitch, pushing himself off the tree, “someone help me!” He walks to the middle of the trees, and the giant wolf steps back in the forest, barking madly. You sure are going to miss that beast if it flees so easily in front of this new one.

“You aren’t supposed to be out,” you hush, clutching to your bow for reassurance, “the sun is still high!”

“Exactly.” With feline grace, the vampire crouches in front of you. He’s even more stunning from up close, eyes stretching in straight lines with a pointy chin. “Some of us are trying to rest, tidbit.” The creature is only this pretty because he’s an amazing predator, a trap perfected to distract and fascinate humans, like a colourful poisonous frog. At the comparison, your stomach turns. “You got a lot of nerves, I like that.” He admits, so close, that when you raise your head, the only thing you see is his crimson irides. “Head kills the wolf. For me… Straight at the heart. It always amazes me, how forgetful and feeble mortals are.”

“I a-apologise,” your voice falters, “I was just trying to escape, s-sir!” There’s something about the creature that inspires reverence, perhaps it’s his obvious power. He seemed angry, but at your fearful respect, he softens. 

“Hear that, tail-wagger? You are the reason I was disturbed... And now grumpy!” The vampire glares somewhere above your head, sounding far away. “Couldn’t you have finished this, clean and quiet? Do you have any idea what time it is!” 

“Noon,” you turn your head at the new voice, mouth falling open as another man emerges from the deep woods. He’s stark naked, tanned skin and sculpted muscles exposed in all their glory. Although, that’s not why you are staring. You know him very well, would recognize that silvery mass of messy curls anywhere.

Chan. 

He is your closest friend. You met at the market, both trying to sell game when you were about fifteen. Chan isn’t from your village but he is a nomad hunter and visits often. He even knows your grandma. You went on a few trips together throughout the years. He’s a skilled hunter, second best to you in the area. He must have been in the forest and heard your screams.  He came to your rescue. 

"R-Run..." You want to yell at him to run away, insists he leaves you behind and saves himself, but you only manage to whisper. "Go..." He doesn't seem to hear.��

“The sun is up. Which means I am well within my rights, Jeonha...” Chan spits the last word whilst baring his teeth in a feral threat. You have never seen him like that.

This can’t be. 

Does he know the vampire, isn’t he here to save you? As though sensing your confusion, the young hunter turns to assess you. Except there’s something else instead of his familiar brown irides. A terrifying yellow glow, one that you’ve seen before. Impossible.

“You…” In shock, you try to wrap your head around what he is, terrified.

“Go away,” the wolf says to the vampire, tone cavernous, “she’s mine.” You notice Chan’s mouth is soaked with blood, your blood, you blanch even more.

“The human seems to disagree,” the undead reaches for your face, and you recoil by reflex but he follows, “and I hate being disturbed in the middle of the day. I deserve a treat.” His icy fingers brush some blood on your battered cheek, and he takes them to his mouth. Instantly, his almond eyes roll back. “Oh,” he mutters in awe. It takes him seconds to speak again, but it feels like an eternity. “Sweet...” Without warning, his hand wraps around your arm to yank you upwards, making you yelp in pain. Your entire body is cut and bleeding, you really are going to die. 

The dark animal in Chan's body appears in front of you two before you can fight back, “She's mine! ” He points out angrily like you’re some sort of toy he’s being denied. “You can’t just take her! He won’t stand for it, I wo-” 

“Too bad! I haven’t fed in a while...” You tug at your arm in despair, but the vampire doesn’t budge. “And aren’t you forgetting something, mutt?”

“Jeonha...” He grunts, mouth closed, looking like he’s about to rip the other’s throat open.

The vampire simply waves his hand in the air. “Shoo puppy, shoo!”

Chan narrows his eyes meanly but remains unimpressed. His lips curl, uncovering menacing canines as sound birth at the bottom of his gut. They are going to fight.

“Help...” You try to scream but only manage to whimper, last strength abandoning you. The two supernatural creatures turn to you like one. “Save me... Please, save me...” There’s no one else to hear, but you still have to try one last time. You’re about to pass out from your injuries. Your vision is blurring.

With amazing timing, a long powerful howl echoes from somewhere deep inside the forest. Instantly, Chan steps back as if summoned. His eyes go from the woods to you in haste. “I’ll get you back soon.” He promises with a nod as though you aren’t dying on the ground. You want to believe he isn't the one who bit off your shoulder. That this thing wasn't him. You want to belive he cares for you.

The pale vampire chuckles, finding this entertaining. “I won’t let that happen, dog. And if you ever dare disturb me again... I won’t be as forgiving.” 

“C-Ch…” You attempt, hoping to appeal to the man-wolf’s humanity. He seems like a far better end than the cold-one.

It almost works. “Sorry,” Chan whispers with fatality. With that, the beast in a human body growls one last time, turning to walk back into the forest. He doesn't even look back. When the vampire’s attention fully returns, he pulls you closer, making your stomach sink to your feet. The only thing holding you upwards now is his arm wrapped around your waist.

“What are we gonna do, dear? I thought you were dead meat...” You wiggle with desperation in his grip, like a worm fighting the hook. He sighs, “How unappetizing...” That alone succeeds in making you freeze. His lips stretch into a devilish smile. “Don’t worry, I like my humans way warmer.”

You are not stupid, you know what he is and what he sustains from, but vampires never killed people from your village. You’ve been the guardians of their sanctuary woods for centuries. 

“I am from Ianua,” you mutter weakly, eyes fluttering shut. His impossibly large grin widens, uncovering his fangs. “You can’t k-kill me...”

“I could but I didn’t tidbit.” His scarlet irides are now half-moon shapes. “You went ahead and picked a fight with a mad dog.” You try to free yourself from his grip once more, but you’re too weak by now. Your knees give up. The vampire catches you easily, holding you up in an embrace. “I don’t think you have much time left… So weak...” He whispers, pressing his face into your hair. “Do you really want me to save you?”

“P-Please…” You breathe out, “Please, save me...” 

“As you wish, tidbit.” His fingers delicately brush hair away from your face. “But only because you begged. Sleep.”

Everything goes black.

Nocturna Masterlist | HALLOWEEN

[cherrycocoacola]

Professor! Dean x Student! Sam

Dean Winchester, an American History professor at Stanford, was a southern boy with enough charm to knock you on your feet.

That's what happened with Sam Singer, a student at Stanford. He sat working on his research paper, day dreaming of his teacher pounding into him on the big oak desk.

He snapped out of it when Dean called on him.

"Mr. Singer? Can you answer what party Benito Mussolini was?"

"Oh... Uh... The Republican Fascist Party. "

Dean looked at the small boy. Smart kid even though he swore Sam wasn't paying any attention.

"See me after class." Dean told him

Sam nodded, swallowing hard.

After class, Sam remained in his seat, packing away his things. He stood up and walked over to big oak desk.

"Were you paying attention to my lecture, Mr. Singer?"

"N-... No, sir.. " Sam answered honestly. "I did the paperwork though. "

"Interesting."

Dean stood in a pinstripe button down with dress pants and nice dress shoes. He knew how to dress.

"Just turn the paper in when the rest of the class does. I think I'm going to have to punish you for not paying attention though. "

Sam swallowed hard again. Now he was nervous. Would this go against him in a chance to go to Harvard? This was only a minor class... Can he do this..?

"What punishment, sir.? "

Before he could give any other thought, his professor had lifted him up and sat him on the oak desk. His face grew a heavy red.

"M-... Mr. Winchester... This... This is wrong.." He knows it was wrong, yet somehow he daydreamed this too often..

"I know, but... I can't stop looking at you, listening to your voice... I want you.. I need you."

Sam's face couldn't get any redder. He did relax in the older man's arms.

"You can have me...But please... Be gen-.. " Sam was cut off.

"You've never had your cherry popped, Sammy?" Dean asks.

"N-.. No.. " Sam shook his head.

"I want you to have a good, comfortable first time. Not this."

He thought Dean was sweet, hearing him say he should be have a comfortable first time.

"Would you like to come home with me?"

"I don't want you to get into trouble with your wife, sir.." Sam laughed sheepishly.

"I'm not married." Dean lifted his large hands to cup Sam's gentle face in his hands.

"Oh.. I'm sorry I didn't mean to assume.... I'll come home with you.. My roommate is home anyways.. "

With that, Sam went home with his professor.

*Le time skip*

Dean had just prepared Sam's virgin hole then pushed into him slowly.

Sam's moans were whines at first. It took time to get used to a cock as big as Dean's.

Two hours worth of skin hitting skin, choked moans, pants, and gasps as well as masculine groans pass by.

Sam lay under the covers of the bed and in the large muscled arms of his professor.

"This isn't right.. " Sam was hit by a huge ping of guilt

"It's okay, babyboy. It's gonna be okay."

"You're my professor... You could lose your job or worse... Go to jail... I'd get kicked out.. "

"Then I'll quit. I don't want to lose you."

Tears filled Sam's hazel eyes, shoulders shaking, lip quivering.

"Hey, baby what's the matter...?" Dean asked soothingly and sat up lifting the boy into his arms.

"I-I-I... I don't deserve this... " Sam sobbed.

"Shhh.. You deserve the world, Sammy."

Dean pet Sam's long, brown locks. He cradled him til he couldn't cry any longer.

"You deserve all the stars in the sky.. Whoever hurt you before... If they come across me... My fists are meeting their faces.. "

Sam laughed softly.

Dean did later quit the job and joined the police force. He wasn't loosing someone who's been hurt so many times. He wanted to care for Sam.

He supported Sam in the fact Sam loved skirts and dresses, makeup, and doing his hair. Dean always thought it was cute how good Sam was at makeup.

"My face is a canvas and I like to paint it with makeup. " Is Sam's signature catchphrase.

When he thought it was the right time, Officer Dean Winchester proposed to Samuel Singer.

Sam was extremely happy especially when they finally married a few months later.

Dean came home from a night of road violation tickets and checking card, when Sam walked.

Dean couldn't believe what he saw on the little stick you used to see if you were pregnant.

Fin.

Edit:

Parts two

Much time passed and Sam had had to twins. Two boys. Harper Leigh and Jeremiah Michael Winchester.

Sam was the most proud momma and wife to Dean Winchester.

One morning, Bobby Singer, Sam's father and the boys' grandpa, had arrived to their home in Kansas from South Carolina.

The boys ran over and hugged the trucker styled man. "Hey boys. Been good for your momma?"

They nod. "Yep!" Jeremiah smiled.

The boys weren't identical twins. Jeremiah looked so much like Sam and Harper looked so much like Dean. Though Harper was the shy one and Jeremiah was the eccentric one.

Bobby played with the boys and their blocks and action figures til they went for their naps. Sam talked with his dad up until his husband started a conversation on cars and Bobby talked as well. He let then have fun, glad they could get along.

Sam made both men coffee though it was noon. The conversation then went to Dean being an officer. "Does Sam stay home? "

"Yeah. I work customer service from home so I can stay with the boys."

Sam set up a room for his dad that night.

Dean and Sam fooled around, managing to stay quiet.

San rode Dean cock. With much experience, he stayed quiet, but Sam moaned.

Skin hit skin and he could feel droplets of sweat drip from his forehead and eyebrows.

"I've needed this, Dee.. " He panted.

"Fuck... Me too, Sammy. God, princess."

After hours more of intense teasing and Sam theoretically riding Dean, Sam came and felt Dean shoot into him.

Sam collapsed next to his husband and passed out from exertion.

It was amazing.

Many weeks later, Sam and Dean knew their routine. Sam loved taking care of his family.

It was one amazing family.

@say-yes-to-hole @libraryofdimpledbottoms

[loustellaperry]

Draco finds a three-headed dog

     I scribbled up a Harry Potter edition MASH game, and used my answers as the prompt for this post. My answers were Draco, Mansion, Fluffy, and shop owner. This is what my imagination did with this information... 

It was a particularly dark day, but that was to be expected when it’s the middle of April in England. I couldn’t help but race the raindrops on the window, as they fell. My back had gone numb, as I’d been sitting in the same spot, by the same window, since I got home at noon.

…

I had woke up straight from a PTSD nightmare, of a scene I was involved in when I was around fourteen. It was the day, my mom slapped me in the face, right before I got on the train for school. In which case, I wouldn’t see her again until Christmas.

I sat up straight out of bed, with the same nerves I had the second her hand hit my cheek. Shaking fingers, a racing heart, and sweat droplets lining my forehead, I pulled myself from my not-so-dreamy state. The rain hadn’t begun yet, but the sky already seemed rather dreary.

The clock read 9:13 am, and as usual I headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I became a coffee drinker at the mere age of 16. It was my go-to, to keep me going through the toughest part of my life. I carried it with me to adulthood.

Four of my five fingers took turns tapping my finger prints against the table top. In order, from my pinky to my index finger, while my thumb sat there stabilizing them. I sipped my coffee through dry lips. My face still felt swollen, as though I hadn’t seen sleep for four months. I mean, this wasn’t entirely wrong. I lifted my eyes from my coffee mug to the phone, in the hallway. I have never heard it ring… ever. I can’t believe I’ve been living here for four months, and no one’s called me. Not even Crabbe or Goyle. To be fair, I haven’t really reached out to any one since moving in.

I inherited one of the Malfoy manors when my uncle passed, in December. It’s still filled with all his things. He lived alone, and sold bewitched muggle artefacts straight out of the foyer, much like the rest of my family. I’ve distanced myself from most of them, in honor of my mental state. After the battle of Hogwarts, I went straight to therapy and have been there ever since.

It took me three years to realize my situation wasn’t the greatest. I guess I was brought up to believe if you could pay your bills, and have extra left over, then you needn’t complain. I was never taught to take care of my mind. After about a year and a half passed, my relationship with EVERYONE slowly but surely deteriorated. I’ve only talked lightly to my parents, as I transitioned from their roof to this one.

A lot’s happened inside my brain since then. I’ve began using poetry and famous literature to subside the pain. This was my Slytherin shining through. My uncle had quite the collection going, in his book room. It reminded me of a smaller version of the Hogwarts library. Loads of history on famous wizards, spells, potions, poetry, and even muggle fiction. I’ve also took over his garden. He had quite the abundance of herbs, as well. I’m thinking about buying a place in Diagon Alley, and selling them. You see, cutting ties with my family the way that I’ve been, is sure to decrease my income. And I’m just slightly over sneaking around, and selling illegal objects from my home. There’s a peacefulness that comes with the idea that you have nothing to hide.

…

               I took a cabbie to London, to meet my therapist at 10:30. Recently, I’ve been overly disconnected. I find myself lost in a daze, replaying events from my childhood. She said it’s normal for complex cases of PTSD. Talking about it helps, or at least it’s supposed to. My therapist has this way of swimming straight to the darkest depths of my brain, and showing me memories I buried there, LONG ago. Although, each weekly session knocks me down for the remainder of the six days left in the week, I do feel my head becoming easier to carry.

I guess I just miss my friends, and kind of my parents. I’m supposed to forgive them for their ways even though, they never apologized. I just feel shameful, because I, too, feel like I have things to apologize for. I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s also hard, when I feel like they are still living in their old ways, and just because I’ve found a path out of illegal activity, doesn’t mean they want to.

They also kind of make me feel dumb for living the way that I am. My dad even said I’ve brought shame to the family name, as they’ve given me everything, and the way that I repay them is “seeking help, like some sort of peasant”. If asking for help, makes me a peasant than so be it. I couldn’t open my mouth before, without exploding on someone, about something that was never ignited. Although, I lead a quieter life now, my chest doesn’t hurt as much.

…

Therapy sped by, and was mostly silent on my part, as I said earlier, I’m pretty disconnected right now. Not much to say, when my mind isn’t all there to begin with.

As I opened the heavy door, I was greeted by immediate brightness and thick rain. If the breeze hadn’t been so pleasantly cool, I would have pretended I was dying. I find myself thinking about death a lot. But it’s apparently “normal”, when you’ve encountered the things that I have. According to the plan my therapist has made, those dark thoughts will decrease as I talk through them. It just feels like to me, that they’ve increased… a lot.

I opened my dark green umbrella, and ventured down the sidewalk. Old thoughts from school flooded my brain. Almost all of my peers were already married and having children. Here I am almost 21, and just living off the same wealth, I’ve had since I was young. I’m constantly reminded by my therapist that I’m still pretty young, and have lots of love to give. But honestly, FUCK LOVE…

 and then I caught a glimpse of him. It was a fat, grey dog, with three heads. As soon as my eyes landed on it, it had taken a sharp turn down an alley. I followed closely behind, almost catching up to it, but then it hopped through the brick wall. I ran over to the area, that it disappeared in. I drew my wand and tapped on the bricks. Nothing. I crouched down and examined my surroundings. I didn’t know there was a wizard portal here. Then I noticed the transparent air shaking, as though there was something under it. It can’t be…

I lowered myself to it’s level, and reached into the air, hoping to pull off whatever invisibility device this pup was using. To my expectations and slight surprise, I could feel the creature underneath my hand, it was just… invisible. A few seconds later, it’s transparency faded and against the wall, was a shaking very small but plump three headed dog. The school’s old gamekeeper owned one. Her name was Fluffy and she guarded some of Hogwarts most valuable secrets. Only, that one was the size of a small building. This one was the size of a baby bear.

“Are you alright?” I made my voice small enough to fit the tiny creature.. All three of it’s heads, flinched as if I was going to hit it… them. “I’m not going to hurt you”, I meant, I’ve not been around a dog since at least five years ago, but I definitely won’t kick you.

All six eyes lifted to meet my gaze, with a glossiness of tears. All ears were held down, and it’s entire coat was trembling before me. This was probably the cutest and purest thing I’ve seen all year. I reached out and let it sniff me, and softly touched the middle head. It seemed to not mind.

“Now, do you have a home? This is a strange place for a creature like you to be wondering around”

“Excuse me, sir, are you alright?” A man peered around the edge of a building. “Oh, yeah… I just found…” and when I looked down, the dog had went invisible again, also it had three heads. “I mean, I had dropped something. But I found it, thank you”.

The man shook his head slightly, tilted his hat, and kept walking. Filthy muggles, treating me like I’m crazy!- I mean, he was just an interested man, not filthy, he never said I was crazy… his facial expression did… I don’t know, it just seems like muggles are extremely nosey and annoying. I mean, I’ve met pure blood wizards that were the same. I just hate people, to be fair.

Glancing down, the dog was now in full sight and wagging it’s tail. “How about you come home with me?”

As I picked up the creature, I realized how heavy it actually was, and how hard it was going to be to get into the cab without looking suspicious. “The only thing, I need you to do is stay invisible”.

…

It snores. Also, it’s a boy. I named him Snake, because why would you not name an animal after a different animal? Snake fell asleep shortly after we got home, and I’ve kind of just been sitting by this window, ever since. We’re probably ordering out for dinner.

I thoroughly enjoyed writing this, and using a MASH game as a prompt. Also, I’ve always wanted to write harry potter fan fiction.

Message me, and lemme know what you think of this version of Draco.. 

[sir-qwillian-ferne]

5 for Noon

#5: My favourite headcanon

He taught Smallsun to knit in one universe and honestly I love that.

[npauj--ntxhee]

The Man at the Well

The sun shone high in the sky as its rays warmed the earth to an almost unbearable temperature. It was noon, about the time for her to gather her bucket and head to the well to draw water. Everyone in the town thought it odd for her to draw water at the well at such a time. The midday heat made the chore much harder so the women would go in the early hours of the day. But not her. She gathered herself and started the long trek to the well.

As she walked, she allowed her mind to wander. Perhaps that would distract her from the permeating heat. She wasn’t very well liked in this town. She could hear the whispers when she walked by, and she felt the stares that followed her everywhere she went. It used to bother her but now, she’d grown immune to the treatment she received from the people of the town. She chose to simply ignore them and avoided being with the towns people as much as possible. It’s not like she was welcomed anyway. But sometimes, when she just couldn’t block out the whispers, she’d hear phrases like, “What a shameful wrench,” “Does she have no honor or dignity,” or “She’s good for nothing.” And when those words reached her ears, she felt a sting of hurt pierce her heart. No matter how hard she tried to not let the words affect her, she still fell prey to the town’s degrading comments.

Was it so wrong for her to want to be happy? To yearn for a fulfilling love? That’s all she wanted, and if one man couldn’t give it to her, then she would move on to the next. It made sense in her mind. She knew there was an emptiness in her heart—her soul—that someone had to be able to fill. That’s why the hole was there in the first place, right?

She trudged on down the road, droplets of sweat forming above her brow and lining the back of her neck. Of course, she despised the heat. But this was the only time of the day she would be alone at the well, away from the scrutiny of others. So she bore with the heat, valuing the solitude more than the beaming rays of sun on her back.

But today was different. As she neared the well, she saw a man seated by it looking exhausted as he held his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. She didn’t recognize him as a man from the town and figured he must have been a traveler. As she took more steps toward him, he shifted his gaze and his eyes met her curious ones. She held her breath for a second—those deep brown eyes were so warm and welcoming. She quickly averted her eyes to the ground, not wanting to come off as rude.

“Hot day out, isn’t it?”

He had to be speaking to her. There was no one else around but the two of them. She took a quick glance up at him, making absolutely sure that he was speaking to her. She nodded, gaze to the ground once again.

“Indeed, it is.” She answered politely.

“It’s an odd hour for someone to be drawing water from the well. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to draw water during the cool of the day?” The man said.

“I prefer to draw water at this time.” She answered plainly, hoping he wouldn’t pry for details. He was obviously a foreigner; she could tell from his accent. And she didn’t feel the need to share her life story with a stranger. She placed her bucket down by the side of the well, preparing to draw water. Since the man had already started a cordial conversation, she decided to carry it on.

“Where are you traveling from, sir? I know you’re not from here.”

“I have come from Judea. My companions and I are on our way to Galilee. They’ve gone into town to find food and drink.” The man answered.

She stopped her work to look at him now, one eyebrow slightly raised. Her suspicions were right. This man was a Jew. She focused her attention back to the well, lowering her bucket to draw water.

“They have been gone for quite some time now. Would you be so kind as to give me a drink of water?” The man asked. She pulled her full bucket up from the well, resting it on the well’s walls.

“How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” she asked. She knew the social laws between Jews and Samaritans—she grew up learning that they were forbidden to speak or interact with one another. In the eyes of a Jew, Samaritans were dirty and not worth the time or energy.

To her surprise, the man smiled. He stared at her with an intensity she had never felt before.

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

It’s been a while since I’ve done some creative writing. The story isn’t complete, of course. If you didn’t know, it’s in the point of view of the Samaritan woman from John 4.

I currently have more time on my hands so maybe you’ll see more pieces. I’m definitely rusty though. Need more practice. Haha.

npaujntxhee.

[hypocratichipnomatic-blog]

The ticking of hot coals in the stove was incessant as tiny sprinklings of red flame rushed to surface; water droplets splattered over the counter as the handle of the tea kettle squeaked in protest. The brown and black rings around the bottom attested to the years of this antiquated thing, all the dents proof of carelessness in earlier years of training. A flame exploded from the stove just as the clock in the drawing room spoke of noon; tea would be late if I did not hurry. I pleaded for the clear water to come to a boil, for it would be my head if the Lord's afternoon beverage were late, so is the curse of being a lower class.

The grandfather clock screeched with the remaining seconds I had left before the cold, detached face of Lord Rowan grew an angry brow and rose-tinged cheeks. His cane would suddenly become a sword, as He grew ten feet taller than I, on my knees, trying to appease him with the sorrows of my mistakes. The high-pitched scream that came from the spout of the kettle was a godsend, the only thing separating my life from the mud of the Thames. A luminescent silver tray lay on the perfectly set trolley, covered in doilies made from the finest cotton and silk, holding tea cups hand-painted by artisans, costing a small fortune to anyone on the destitute streets of London. If I could hurry to the Master's whereabouts before the tea grew cold, maybe He would ignore the fact that it was currently five minutes past noon, a pity for the head butler of any estate, never mind the Rowans. The tiny black wheels of the trolley squealed in delight in being able to bring the ever-so desired tea to the Lord.

With every step I took, the loose tea leaves bounced in their place in a small bowl beside the fine bone China. Next to that, a small metallic strainer rolled from side to side, dancing along with the tea leaves scented as Earl Grey. I raised a white-gloved hand to the dark oak door, alerting Lord Rowan of my presence; only after hearing a throaty "Come in" was I permitted to enter the room. His face looked timid,and  His eyes squinted in the light reflecting from the trolley as I passed the glaring sunlight threading through the window to the edge of His large working desk. There, placed at the front were three quills used for signatures and contracts between business partners. Directly beside the quills sat the stamp He used to seal the envelopes. It was placed in its holder, still dripping red wax.

"You're late, Arthur. Perhaps you are getting too ancient for your position, do you not think?" The light chuckle He uttered was indication he was jesting; perhaps I was safe from being battered with the gold head of His walking stick. The curved gold of His cane struck the sides of my flesh, surely to leave deep coloured bruises for days to come. Only away from His presence could I feel free to heal myself in the tight room reserved for the help, far beneath the estate in the servant’s quarters.

Far below the Master’s bedroom were rattier, smaller bedrooms filled only to the minimum with a small bedside drawer, a dresser for clothes, and a single-sized bed, hard and uncomfortable. The room was dark and cold, being without windows or a fire; most days it feels like an entrapment — a prison — for I am forced into this role by the demanding caste system infiltrating all of England.  

I didn't speak, I simply treaded the intricate carpet laid under my feet, trying my best not to indicate my weariness around His indignant countenance. It is true: my body had slowed, compared to other staff, but I'm still fully capable of looking after my Lord, and He knows this, as well. I've been with the family since He was a boy, raising him when His father was out of town on business and His mother was in France for festivals involving clothes, or whatnot. Back then His hair was a darker brown, falling in his big eyes with every step He took. He would wear shorts down to His knees and crisp, white shirts, intertwined with a small dark green ribbon in His collar that would flutter in the wind when He ran past the maid and butlers preparing for galas, balls and the like. Now, though, He sits in his desk chair, as His father before Him had, coerced into doing paperwork for his thriving business, always signing names and numbers until His hand cramps and I call him to dinner.

I carefully lifted the small metal strainer and held it up to the bowl filled with the sweet aroma of Earl Grey, scooping tea leaves into it gracefully and with practiced care. As to not make a sound, I slowly placed the strainer on the rim of my Master's favourite tea cups, detailed with Japanese koi fish in a lovely shade of blue, then grasped the handle of the kettle,and poured the steaming water into the small, delicate cups, the water threatened to spill over the edges. As my eyes slid over to Lord Rowan, He seemed pleased, unsuspecting that I would have known His favourite tea and set, even with all the years I had serviced Him. The steam from the water billowed into my face, tiny ghosts danced an intricate number along one another.

“Something seems to be busying your mind, dear Arthur,” Lord Rowan’s strong voice shattered through the steam clouds that fogged my mind. He sounded genuinely curious as to what plagued my mind, so I conceded defeat.

“It is just as you said, Sir. I’m getting older. It had taken me five extra minutes to make a measly afternoon tea for you.” The life drained from me as I spilled my thoughts. Perhaps with telling Him this, He would be more kind while he advised me to take my leave. Instead of dwelling on the matter, I tried to busy myself with the small, twig-like leaves that steeped while I feared for my life, perfumed with the very best Earl Grey in England, in my Master’s tea cup.

As the twigs swam and changed the clear water a light shade of brown, I glanced up at my Lord, His eyes held mine. The guilt was clearly written on my face; I had followed my Lord’s schedule for years, I had memorized it clearly. I could reiterate it perfectly, though knowing it wasn’t the problem -- it was following through with the simple orders that tripped me endlessly in my old age. With my whitened hair and my wrinkled skin, how could I be of any use to the Rowans compared to a younger, more dependable individual? My knees hurt after long days at my Master’s side, and my hands shook more than they had twenty so years ago whilst I poured his morning and afternoon teas. Surely with this immense delay in orders, I would be cast away from the estate. Lord Rowan’s cheeks had stretched with an ecstatic smile.

“Oh, Arthur! How silly of you! Why in the world would I let you leave me? You had been with me since I was a young boy. I’ve grown very fond of you and your teas. Mind you, your baking is to die for. Oh, Heavens!” He continued to laugh with mirth and even then I could feel a smile grasp my cheeks as well. I took out the small metal strainer from His drinking cup and gently planted it on the oak desk, I served it diligently to my Lord. Being praised like this was uncommon, and perhaps all worth the dank little room I slept in, or the meaningless tasks I was sent to do day in and day out without any word.

Now that the Master had had his tea, I ever so slightly placed the kettle, strainer, and tea cup back on the intricate trolley. The screeching of the wheels seemed not so bothersome anymore, even pleasant. I now knew my Master had enjoyed my work, and thought it meaningful - my chest swelled. It drew me back to Him as a young lad, and I several years younger, as I bounced around the sitting room going about with chores, the young Lord followed me around, and mimicked every move I had made with my feather duster. Yes, perhaps my old age was not an issue.

[punk-in-docs]

Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth, Chapter 11

TITLE: Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth.      

CHAPTER NO: Chapter Eleven

SYNOPSIS: Tom Hiddleston AU Love story - Set in the Victorian Era… Circa 1858 to be precise…                                                                                  

AUTHOR: @punk-in-docs   

AO3 LINK: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4108306?view_full_work=true

“Elizabeth, Mrs Sharpe will throw a cantankerous paroxysm of the most gargantuan proportions if she knew where we are. She said you were to given strict instructions as to remain indoors all day…” Felicity pointed out.

Elizabeth huffed, head held high as she walked ahead of her sister down the tarmac path. She had elected to get herself out of doors to get some fresh air in Hyde Park, bringing her Sister along as society dictated she must, and because Felicity was too argumentative to be refused on such an outing to the park. Unfortunately. And even more annoyingly her sister’s words were of some irritating truth. Mrs Sharpe was inisted last night, as to her fainting episode into Mr Carlton’s arms, and her stepmother had declared – with ultimate authority and final conviction on the matter - that she was to remain in the front parlour all day. Close to her bed or a sofa for if she felt faintness overwhelm her again. Elizabeth felt she could not point out that fresh air would do her bored ‘injured’ state wonders.

“Have you been exploring the thesaurus in Father’s study again?”

Elizabeth asked her sister curiously as she skipped to catch up to her behind her striding gait. What such words as ‘cantankerous’ and ‘paroxysm’ were words that deserved to come out of the mouth of a most silly and unstudious sixteen year old? Anyway, never the matter…

She leant her head down to sniff at the intoxicatingly sweet roses she had procured from a street vender on their way here. She remembers blushing as he let her have them for ten shillings rather than the half crown they were usually priced at. ‘beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady’ he had remarked. She had smiled sweetly, and insisted on pressing an extra shilling into his beefy hand for his troubles, to which he awarded her a wide grin, with one tooth missing from his upper jaw. He took his flat cap off to her, declaring she was as kind as she was pretty, too.

She had then paid no heed to how after they walked away, Libby cradling the paper wrapped crimson roses to her chest, and that Felicity had scoffed. “uhh, I declare there is not one man in London who does not fancy you, Elizabeth..” with a cheeky smile that she was famous for.

Because Elizabeth had then rolled her eyes and given her one of her finest looks of discernable irascability…

She daren’t exclaim that she agreed with her sister. Of course, she was dressed in one of her less finer gowns, she’d admit. Her rose pink coloured silk, with a dark blue decorated bowler hat on her head, and a long Navy velvet jacket over such, she had also put in the pearl droplet earrings that Mrs Sharpe had given her as a present for her 18th birthday. Her hair loosely coiffed up, as she had decided to do it herself this morning, not bothering to fetch Nessie. Already as she was walking along, she felt some curls come free from the hold in the pins. She didn’t look overly striking today, she had only swept on a light layer of cold cream, not having bothered with rouge on her cheeks. She didn’t mind her pale ness sometimes. She was still a little shaken from last night, she could tell, every now and then her hands would tremble. And it wouldn’t do to also exclaim that she had knotted a light silk blue scarf about her neck to cover it, so as Mrs Sharpe would not see her bruises caused by Mr Burkes rough assualting hands.

What was worse though, was that Sir Thomas had seen them. And would doubtless ask her questions as to how she got them. And she’d have to give him the awful truth…

He had declared he would call upon her at noon tomorrow, and it was twenty too twelve, now. She was walking fast as she was able, there was a hideous looking black sky towering over London in foggy grey clouds, threatening to unleash a storm of bitterly cold rain upon the city.

She and Felicity were cutting through a heavily wooded part of the park to get home faster. Her reveries inside her own fanciful head were cut short when she heard a low rumble of thunder roll across the sky like a deep clashing distraction pulling her from her own thoughts with the deepest sense of dread.

“I think we’d better be hasty Felicity, If we want to outrun the storm…”

Elizabeth said, her eyes to the sky. She turned about to her side as she spoke, where her sister had been walking alongside her a mere moment’s previously. But Elizabeth’s stomach dropped to her feet like a penny sinking into a fountain. She wasn’t there. She’d gone.

“Felicity?”

She cried louder in horror and shock, spinning wildy around. There was no one else within distance whom she could see. No one else had been near them. They had passed some ladies and one gentleman earlier. But there had been no one since. They were sensible enough to ensure they didn’t have to risk getting caught in the storm… she thought to herself.

 She had been foolish enough to have the forethought to think she could avoid it also… Perhaps she should have listened to Mrs Sharpes wise advice and stayed indoors..

“Don’t get your bloomers in a twist Elizabeth. I’m up here..”

Came Felicity’s disjointed voice from somewhere above her sister’s head, among the tall trees.

Libby craned her head upwards, to find that, of course, she could see a flash of her sister’s powder pink gown up high in a farwaway tree, Felicity had decided to climb a tree, among all things. Sometimes it didn’t leave her wondering if her kid sister wasn’t half parented by a gang of apes.

“Get down, this instance, you idiot.”

Elizabeth called up to her, walking over to the tree that was perched precariously on part of the woods that carved away into a steep bank. Felicity ought have care how she came down, one step too far and she’d topple down the long steeped bank below them. And it didn’t look pleasant at the bottom, Elizabeth fancied as she peered down. Full of muck, sharp rocks and leaves to cushion ones fall. She didn’t wish for her sister to tumble down there for everything in the world…

The tree she had elected to climb up was wide and had enough of a branch to ensure that her sister had a good foothold. But it was a horse chestnut tree, if Libby wasn’t mistaken. The dark beige bark was slimy with moss and various green fungi. It made Elizabeth’s stomach lurch nervously to think what would happen if Felicity’s foothold slipped. Heavens, it made her quite sick thinking about it.

“I hope you and the Duke don’t sire children. If that’s how you choose to talk to your own baby sister, I shudder to think how you’ll address your own little ones.…”

Felicity mocked, stepping across from one branch to another, holding ones located higher up in the tree with her hands.

Elizabeth’s head twisted back around to glance at the sky, the black clouds seemed angrier now, more full of stormy rain to unleash down on them with vicious fury. And they were gliding closer in their direction too. But what made her look was that another loud clash of thunder shook the sky, a flash of terrible lightning striking Elizabeth’s blood to run cold beforehand. And indeed, her worst fears were confirmed.

A single big fat, ice cold raindrop landed on her cheek. Bursting across her skin and rolling away down her cheek. And many more thudded down heavily to the ground surrounding her after it. It appears they did not have such good fortune as to avoid the storm after all.

“Felicity. Come down, it’s started raining, you’ll get drenched…”

Elizabeth called up, it had only been raining for a few seconds, and already the heavy drops that had battered down on her had trickled down the back of her coat and her silken pink collar, making her dreadfully cold, her back felt half soaked through already.

A shaky worried gasp escaped from Elizabeth’s lips as another strong fleet of wind and rain washed over her, accompanied by a rather severe lash of bright white lightning, and a deep boom of thunder. What made her so uneasy, was that it sounded right above them, in the very park they were walking through.

“Felicity, come down, NOW!..”

Elizabeth called, urgently. Her tone was one of worry and not-to-be-trifled-with command.

Felicity said naught but moved to adhere to her sister’s request. Holding onto one branch as she moved her feet onto a sturdier looking one. She had only been up the tree for no longer than a couple of moment’s, yet she was already soaked through. Her brown curls plastered to her neck, skin dripping wet and her gown felt sodden and heavy. Clinging to her legs. She didn’t like to do as she was told, especially not by her bossy and always right elder sister, but right then, she really did want to come down. Whether as instructed, or by her own will. She didn’t care. She wanted to go home now.

Little did she know, that the branch she was stepping down onto, however, was not as sturdy as it looked.

Felicity felt a sickening lurch of terror grip her innards, as her strong foothold suddenly felt like it would send her tumbling from the tree. The branch was starting to break away from the tree under her slight weight.

 “Elizabeth!”

Felicity cried in terror. Her back thudding against the tree as she wrapped her arms back about it for dear life. Coppery eyes wide with terror as another flash of lightning lit up the sky, and angry thunder proceeded it.

Elizabeth felt sick, but she knew she had to try and help her sister.

The flowers she cradled closer to her shoulder, leaning up to the tree as she reached on tiptoes and held out one gloved hand, stretching her body up to try and reach Felicity.

“Slide down and give me your hand…”

Elizabeth urged slowly, Felicity would never forget the look that was on her sister’s face right then. Most people when in a similar state of panic would look wild, and frenzied. Aside from the slight wideness of her big baby doll blue eyes, she looked composed and serene as she looked up to help. Her red curls had dropped down with the weight of the rain, as it trickled off the brim of her hat, sticking tendrils of her red hair to the side of her neck and her face.

That was before she had an idea, in order to stop Felicity’s shoes slipping on the tree, she shucked off her coat and laid it at her sister’s feet. Meaning that now, she had virtually no defence against the unrelentless heavy spattering rain. As she slid her coat off, she had to try and dissaude her teeth from clacking together, her silk gown now sodden, sticking to her skin, making her icily cold.

“Lay that across the branch, you won’t slip that way..”

She insisted, calling loudly over the wind and thunder.

Felicity nodded. Eyes wide, and trembling with cold and terror. Shuffling the coat about under her feet. But it appears, not fannning it wide enough. Her flimsy slippers still managed to catch a small patch of slippy green moss that her sister’s coat didn’t cloak.

Felicity screamed as her foot was plunged down into thin air as she slipped, her leg kicking out to steady herself, but this was not wise, as the thing she caught her foot on, was, in fact the loose branch which now swung away from the tree.

Felicty couldn’t even spare the precious second to scream in warning to her sister.

Where Elizabeth had turned to look at a thrash of thunder and lightning that shook the ground, her head was turned away, so she didn’t see the cumbersome branch swing her way until it was far too late…

Felicity would also never forget the sickening thud as the heavy trees branch met with the front of Elizabeth’s forehead.

Felicity could only scream in helplessness as Libby was thrown clean off her feet, her lithe body hurtled far down the steep bank, away from Felicity’s sight. All she could now see was the scattered burst of rosepetals strewn across the leafy floor, leading like a hideous trail to where her sister had fallen. The branch had also swept her hat clean from her head. That too now lay forgotten on the woods floor.

 “LIBBY!”

Felicity yelled.

She couldn’t tell whether tears or rain were cascading down her face now, but all she knows is, that she had to try and help her sister. She slid the rest of the way out of the tree, tugging the coat with her, placing it over herself to try and keep herself as dry as she could. The coat was sodden too. She landed with a thud onto the ground, not caring that her dress was now streaked with mud and bits of undergrowth as she landed by falling onto her front.

When she scrambled up, she could see that her hem was six inches deep in muck, and her ankle throbbed so painfully that she almost couldn’t walk on it. But nonetheless, she staggered down over the lip of the pit Libby had gone down, nearly tumbling head over heels, it was so steep, as she ran through the pelting rain down to Elizabeth. Trying not to tread on the huge navy swathes of her sister’s soggy coat that was much too big for her.

She was able to see her sister’s form lay several metres below her, rested at the bottom of the steep banked pit. Her body looked broken and fragmented, she lay on her side, facing away from Felicity, her red hair tangled and most of it thrown free from her pins, the red curls now matted with dirt and stray leaves. Her clothes too, were mussed and covered in dirt and wet mud, her gown looked sodden to the touch. Felicity let out a sob as she got to her sister, placing her hands to her sisters back, shaking her to try and wake her up.

“Elizabeth, please, wake up…”

She sobbed, stroking red hairs away that had been thrown into her pale face, stuck there by the rain. Felicity’s small muddy hands, from where she landed flat to the ground out of the tree, left a smudge of dirt across Libby’s pale cheek.

 “Elizabeth please..”

Felicity shook harder. Nudging her shoulder now with both hands, shaking her more furiously in attempts to wake her. But it was no use. Every new shake just confirmed her fears, that her sister was just limp under her attentions. Head rolling about unresponsive on her neck. Looking like she was deep and sound asleep.

Felicity wiped a hand down her face. She had to leave her to go and get help. It was dangerous, but otherwise, if she just left her here, she could die. How had such a simple walk in the park turned to this horrific catastrophe?

She tried to move her sister, seeing if she could maybe carry her. But it was no use, her sister wasn’t heavy at all. But the fact that she was dressed in a now soaked through gown of silk, and all the heavy underskirts would mean she was of no weight that a slight sixteen year old could manage on their own.

“Elizabeth, I’ll go home, I’ll go and get help!”

She spoke to her sister speaking loudly through the rain and thunder, she didn’t care if she could hear her or not. She sobbed through her words, taking one last tearful glance at her big sister, as if she never would again, before tearing herself away and running in the quickest direction that would lead her right home as fast as she was able.

She tore through the woods as fast as her spindly legs would carry her. Not stopping even when she tripped and stumbled, falling over to land with her lungs winded, she just scrambled up, sobbing and carried on running. She didn’t even flinch as she ran full pelt through the trees, and one spindly branch carved a deep searing scratch across her cheek. She wiped away the tear of blood and continued to run, hair sailing out behind her, lungs pounding as much as her slippered feet were. But she didn’t care. She had to get help.

Elizabeth’s life depended on it.

Little did the youngest Farrow Miss know, but there was a spectator to the little heartrending happenstance during the rain and thunder. He sat far away, watching from horseback as the whole thing unfolded, the tree branch hitting Elizabeth, Felicity stumbling from the tree, landing awkwardy, no doubt injuring her leg as she now limped to attend her sister, before running away, presumably to fetch help, he had seen it all. He was cutting through the park to avoid the storm when he saw them both, there was no mistaking that Eldest Miss Farrow’s red hair from even a mile off. He had watched over her with those dark brown eyes, rimmed with a slight tinge of green, looking over it all from under the brim of his hat. Face stony and unresponsive. And then, Marcus Burke turned his horse about, and galloped away in the opposite direction as quickly as he had come.

  It wasn’t up to him to care…

@echantedbytwh @wolfsmom1 @damageditem let me know if anyone wants untagging, etc,… :) x

[the-fae-icarus]

@mr-henry-lascelles Saturday sees three riders plod through the sloshy streets of London from Bruton-street, not towards Hyde Park, but the relative wilderness of Hampstead Heath. Mr Lascelles, who owns the beasts, is huddled in a great coat (a recent acquisition) with a hat pulled low over his forehead, though he cannot disguise his profile or his tall narrow frame. There are, in any case, not a lot of people about for a London noon. The weather is enough to keep all but the most desperate indoors. The wind beats wet snow into their faces until they reach the heath and Lascelles makes it stop - now there really is no-one around to see, to comment.

He turns to Dr Macneice, wiping the freezing water from his face. "Where to now? What instructions has your friend given you?"

@the-fae-icarus Alair shakes themself vigorously, sending water droplets everywhere, much like a bird with damp feathers would. "Just beyond the trees," they say, pointing to a cluster of oaks up ahead. "Elin wanted some protection from the wind."

They dig their heels into their horse's side, edging it slightly ahead of the other two to lead. They glance back every so often, to see how far back the other men are, and to check on Felix.  It is another fifteen, freezing cold minutes before they reach the Ivensen campsite. There is a roaring fire built up, that had somehow been unseen from the heath; a wagon with a faded blue covering and peeling gold letters spelling "Ivensen: Repairs, Inventions, and Potions;" and a dun colored work horse tethered to a tree, chomping at the bits of grass peeking up through the snow. Alair climbs down from the saddle and ties their horse's bridle to the same tree, greeting the Ivensens' horse with no small amount of affection. "Hello, boy," they coo, stroking his head. "Did you miss me? Is Maria or Elin here?" 

@captain-f-merivel That Alair should be speaking to the horse as if expecting an answer probably shouldn't be that surprising. Merivel has seen them do the same with Table and the salamanders. For all he knew, the animal was answering.

The Captain dismounts, glad to have solid ground under his feet again. He greatly admires the horse as a beast, but he is a rather an indifferent rider, and it has been some time. He's been striving to keep his posture and to feel the animal's rhythm (out of desire not to torment his steed, but also not wishing to make a fool of himself in front of his friends), and his back is beginning to ache.

He looks at the wagon with undisguised curiosity, Another in his place might have been suspicious - it brings to mind the picture of Gypsies, thieves and charlatans, but Felix feels a natural sympathy for people, who carry their homes with them wherever they go. It is a sort of a... land-ship. And they are Alair's friends.

@mr-henry-lascelles Henry takes the reins of Merivel's horse a well as his own and ties them to the branches of a second tree. No reason to crowd Ivensen's horse. Besides, Alistair is a skittish. It would be a poor introduction if one of his horses bit Ivensen's on the day of their first meeting.

His opinion of this Ivensen is plummeting. Naturally any magician left in England would have to keep a low profile, or Norrell would have suppressed her by now, but he really was not in the habit of associating with ragged vagabonds. He is happy for the weight of the pistol in his inner coat pocket, even if that is unlikely to be much use against magic. He reminds himself he is here on a friendly mission, and for Felix, and suppresses the thump of excited aggression in his chest.

@the-fae-icarus It is another few moments before anyone comes out of the wagon, but soon enough a young woman in her thirties, red-haired and visibly pregnant, climbs out. She is carrying what looks to be an entire basket full of herbs, which she promptly sets down by the fire when she spots the three men. "Alair!"she says, rushing over and wrapping them up in a hug. "We weren't expecting you for another hour, with the weather; Elin's out getting firewood. How've you been? Have you been eating well?"

Alair rubs the back of their neck, sheepish.  "Well..."

She sighs and puts her hands on her hips. "You're staying for dinner. No ifs or buts about it."

They laugh, posture finally relaxing for the first time that day. "As you wish. Now I believe I have some people to introduce you to? Maria, meet Mr Lascelles---he's the ice magician I was telling Elin about; and Captain Merivel, who is why we've come down here. Mr Lascelles, Felix---meet Maria Ivensen, brilliant alchemist, former resident of Dublin, and my good friend." 

@captain-f-merivel "Miss...is Ivensen." The Captain nods to her, as politely as he can, but keeps his distance. He watches her with suspicion and curiosity, unsure what to do next. Should he compliment her? Congratulate her? How much small talk would be necessary, until they get to the point?

@mr-henry-lascelles "Good afternoon, madam." Henry touches his hat. Ignoring a lady's delicate condition and her simple gown is no hardship when there is good cause, but he is puzzled by the warmth of her greeting to Dr MacNeice. Perhaps it is not so remarkable among the working classes. She is not, in any case, the ice magician. The Christian name of the woman they are looking for is Elin, he is sure of it. A sister, then? "Alchemy is a complex branch of magic, and something of a natural science as well, I understand; I commend you. A most admirable pursuit."

@the-fae-icarus "I'm glad you think so, sir." Maria gathers up the basket again and tosses handfuls of the herbs into a pot over the fire. "I'm sorry, but these need to get into the pot soon or they'll be useless. I'm sure you all want to get out of the cold; would you like to wait in the wagon? I'll be in in a moment."

Alair nods at the others---it's fine, it's  not an imposition, come along---and leads the way into the Ivensens' wagon. It...is much larger than it appears on the outside. Larger than the last time they were here, but that was to be expected with a child on the way. And cleaner, except for the mounds of gears and bits of wire and scattered tools that usually cluttered Elin's workbench. They shake their head a little and set about finding chairs for everyone.

@captain-f-merivel More magic. Merivel fights the urge to run outside and survey the dimensions of the wagon - the fear of presenting himself as an ignorant fellow prevails and stops him from commenting on the matter. He scrutinizes the various parts, tools, and half-finished devices on Invensen's desk with suspicion and clings close to Alair's side, so much so that he puts himself on their way.

"Let me take it," he says, embarrassed, after Alair's third attempt to get past the man while holding a chair by the backrest. 

@mr-henry-lascelles Were there a tenant nearby, Henry would very much like to address one upon the subject of the wagon's dimensions. He assesses widths and lengths and draws a floorplan in his head; if it weren't so impolite, and their need for these people's help so great, he would take out his notebook and scribble one on paper. He racks his brain for similar magic in his books. Is it in Sutton-Grove? He has no idea. The only person ever to memorize that dreck was Norrell. And so he does not notice Merivel's distress.

@the-fae-icarus "No, no, I can handle it. Thank you, though. " Alair smiles softly at Felix, setting the chair down momentarily and wrapping an arm about him in a hug. They seem to pause a few seconds, searching Merivel's face. "You're nervous," they say---more of a statement than a question.  "Are you alright?"

@captain-f-merivel "Oh, yes, perfectly..." the Captain laughs awkwardly, but he is grateful for the embrace. "I am only to be prodded and picked at."

@mr-henry-lascelles Henry gives the captain a calculating look. Of course he is nervous... It is only natural. Henry is nervous himself. He is out of his element and about to be evaluated. These are more Merivel's people than his, but they are women, so it is entirely possible Merivel has it worse than him. Then again the captain is terrible at hiding his emotions, so he is unlikely to be more distressed than he appears. Henry judges he will survive, and goes back to inspecting their surroundings.

@the-fae-icarus "You won't be. Not if I have anything to say about it." Alair brushes their hand against Felix's cheek. "An hour and a half, two hours at most. Do you think you can get through that?" Lowering their voice so that Lascelles can't hear, they continue: "I believe you said you know a women with a parrot? If you're feeling up to it after this, we could pay her a visit."

There is a creak from the direction of the entrance, and Maria comes slowly up the steps, empty basket in hand. She is speaking to someone behind her, too muffled to make out what the words are. Alair draws away to a polite distance just as she sweeps into the room, Elin trailing after her. "Right then," Maria says cheerfully. "Mr. Lascelles, Captain Merivel---my wife, Elin Ivensen. Elin---Mr. Lascelles, Captain Merivel. Now, I have a dinner to be making, I'm afraid, so I'll have to leave you to it." And with that she steps into what presumably is the wagon  kitchen.

Elin  is tall---a bit above six feet, if Alair recalls correctly---and somewhat stocky, somewhere in her forties, with loose dark blond hair and eyes the same washed out grey of her gown. She regards the three men in her home calmly, even  kindly. "Hello," she says in a brittle-sounding baritone. "Hope I didn't keep you all waiting too long."

@captain-f-merivel Merivel had began to ask who would be that woman Alair is speaking of, but is interrupted by the Ivensens. He tries, he really really tries not to stare.

"N-not at all," he stammers. "We only just arrived..."

@mr-henry-lascelles Henry does not do much better. He turns to the couple with a pleasant social smile, which freezes into place. He stares, quite openly, for approximately 40 seconds. It is that long that it takes him to process the words 'my wife' coming from a woman, and the sight of the person she so referred to. This is no bearded lady or rough-hewn washer-woman. Then all the clashing reference points click into position, he blinks, relaxes, and bows slightly. "How do you do, madam."

@the-fae-icarus Elin nods a polite acknowledgement to Lascelles, then turns to Alair and says something quick and quiet to them under her breath. Whatever she was saying,  she says it with a slight frown on her face, and Alair grows increasingly sheepish as she goes on. They offer what sounds like an apology, and Elin is instantly mollified.

"Again, my apologies," she says at a normal volume. "May I ask which one of you is Captain Merivel?"

@captain-f-merivel "That would be me, madam. How do you do," Felix adds the last part somewhat hastily, remembering he hadn't greeted Elin properly. He stands at attention stiffly, like a midshipman about to be scolded and seeks Alair's eyes for approval. Or for any reaction at all. The last thing he had wanted was to embarrass them in front of their friends, but it seems he had managed to do just that. 

@mr-henry-lascelles Henry feels somewhat superfluous to the scene, almost invisible. He stands with his hands behind his back and his head inclined downwards and remains silent, like a schoolboy waiting to be called up. 

@the-fae-icarus Alair smiles encouragingly over their friend's shoulder. It's fine, go on. You're doing well.

Elin, meanwhile, holds out her hand for Merivel to shake. "I am well, thank you," she says. "I've heard some good things about you, Captain." There is an undercurrent in her words, something that seems to say: I hope everything I heard is true. "Well, no use beating around the bush anymore. My workshop is this way; you can bring someone with you if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

@captain-f-merivel "I believe I can manage on my own, thank you." Felix follows without looking back. Being seen is what he fears more - not by Alair, with them he is feeling quite comfortable, but Henry... Henry is another matter.

@mr-henry-lascelles Henry watches him go, hoping until the last minute that Felix might look back. He had looked at MacNeice for encouragement... He feels an ugly twist of jealousy in his chest, but quickly steers his thoughts away from the line of thought--from the worry, as well. This is no time for displays of emotion, as tense as the situation may be. They are guests.

He looks around to Maria Ivensen. His hands are behind his back, careful not to touch anything. What compliments can one give to a home that is a wagon? "What a picturesque spot you have chosen to stop in, madam."

@the-fae-icarus Ivensen leads Merivel a little further down the hall and pulls aside the curtain to their workshop. It is not a very large room, but nor is it cramped. Blueprints in various stages of drafting are tacked up on the walls, and there is a desk covered in clock gears, tools, and random bits of metal, tucked into a corner. The rest of the floor is taken up by a sea of boxes ad the paths between them.

"You can take the desk chair, if you like," Elin says. "I am going to get the apparatus out, and then we'll see how it fits and what adjustments I need to make." *** Maria smiles, gentle and more than a little amused. "Thank you, sir. I take it you're not used to caravans?"

@captain-f-merivel "Thank you, I, um, I'd rather stand for now, if it's all the same to you." Felix joins his hands behind his back and straightens his posture, trying to assume an indifferent air. He has the suspicion that his attempt would not fool anyone and it's just as well that Ivensen is not looking in his direction.

"I was wondering," he inquires in a louder voice than it is strictly necessary, "if the maintenance would be too much of a hassle? Would I be able to do it myself?"

@mr-henry-lascelles "Indeed, no, madam. I do not believe I have ever been in one befroe. I could not help but notice that yours has an interesting spatial quality. Your wife's work, I assume?"

He stands at the doorway to a fully functioning kitchen, inside a caravan that from the outside looked hard-pressed to accommodate so much as a four poster bed. It discomfits him less than the entirely uncommon act of speaking politely to a strange traveller woman in her workspace.

He feels a pang of longing for his Miss Volkova. She would laugh heartily at his discomfort, he is sure.