#and then surprised that he's not debating the human condition with them?

[homewrecking-lore]

rewatched star trek nemesis and hoo boy all i gotta say is

[tadc-harlequin-au]

New Puppet Unlocked: Caine, The Puppetmaster!

Caine's character description:

For the longest time, Caine believed that he was the only Puppet left who hasn't gone insane, and has spent living in near complete and total isolation for it (if it weren't for Bubble, his robotic Butler Blimp), drowning himself in booze. That was, until Pomni suddenly arrived at his office out of nowhere and challenged him.

Her sudden appearance, her fierceness in battle and various other reasons, Caine sought to get Pomni to see the dire situation after a stalemate in their duel; That they're the last remnants of sane minds remaining in this forsaken lands and he needs her help for what must be done next, if they are to improve the world's conditions. Thankfully, the Harlequin was not actually cold-hearted, just hot-tempered.

Reinvigorated in his self-assigned purpose, The Puppetmaster now spends his time either indoctrinating reawakened Puppets and teaching them how to become "human" once more, tinkering/inventing new machines, having friendly debates or sparring with Pomni just to satisfy her urge to battle, and various other things.

Though, he still likes to drink.

Fun facts about Caine:

He is a massive drunkard.

He passes out in the most random places if he drinks too much. One of the most outrageous locations Pomni has found him in was at the chandelier on the main lounge, which even he can't remember how he got there.

Caine still acts boisterous and speaks mostly formally; though there are ways you can break his way of speech, the easiest way to do it is to surprise him.

He avoids using swears, says it's a gentleman's code. Though, some get past his mouth on a rare occasion.

He created Bubble out of loneliness, initially just wanting someone to talk to.

In a comedic parallel, he tends to limit Pomni's cravings for battle by holding her sword hostage as much as possible, of course to the Harlequin's frustration.

His second gold tooth on his bottom jaw was a result of his and Pomni's first meeting/duel. She ended up kicking him so hard in her rage, one teeth cracked in half and flew off.

He tends to look at everyone with a positive mindset and the want to see the best in them; although Jax seems to be a rare exception. Still, he lets the automaton be.

Most of his time is spent hanging around in his office. The only time you'll see him outside is if there's a task he needs to attend to, assembling Pomni back together in the cellar, another sparring match with the Harlequin, or when he talks to Z and/or Kingr, since they are both too big for the insides of the mansion.

Like almost every ADHD-person, he is prone to getting distracted easily.

He has a strict "no fighting in the premises" rule; instead, he tells them to literally take it outside (even if it means being on the neighboring lawn), as long as it's not on the INSIDE.

He keeps his shirt opened because he feels discomfort and suffocated when he buttons it up.

He doesn't like to talk about his past.

When asked what's his classification, he'll avoid and switch topics. His rare anger (but eerily-calm way of speech) comes out when you ask about it too much.

He does admit that his entire body was self-modified.

You can hear his arrival in a scene by the sounds of ball joints slightly cracking in place.

Aside from Pomni, he likes Kingr the most, finding the chess piece's presence calming. This has lead to jokes about a bromance happening between the two.

And just like Pomni as well, Caine fixes Kingr the most because the Helpful King tends to use himself as a shield for the Harlequin.

He's rarely seen without his cane.

He HEAVILY dislikes it when Pomni dies. When he is aware that Pomni is at the brink of death, he'll start panicking and telling her to go back and abandon the mission for now, through Bubble.

Quotes:

"Greetings! I am Caine, and I am here to help you. That's all you need to know."

"I think we can arrange that."

"This is not part of the plan!"

"No fighting! Take it outside."

"Perhaps we can reach to a sort of agreement..."

"Hmm... quite intriguing."

"Why, I must say, this is quite the predicament..."

"Will you be mindful of your own sake next time, pretty please?"

"... I don't-... think that's how-... you know what, do whatever you want."

"... Okay, you don't need to go that far."

"You know what this calls for? [...] A CELEBRATION! [...] BUBBLE, TO THE LIQUOR STORAGE"

"You know, I haven't really thought this through enough--"

"BUBBLE! Did you chew through my latest project again?!"

"Oy vey..."

"I am aware of the effect that alcohol has on me. And quite frankly, I don't care."

"Strange, where am I? Who am I? What are we, but mass-produced products catered to extending one's stay on a desolate, abandoned realm? Are we even human anymore, or are we machines that think we're human in order to save ourselves from the pain of a fake existence? Hm? Oh right, I haven't eaten my dinner."

"Must we really resort to this method?"

"Oh, I just fixed that!"

"Apologies, I blanked out for a second. What were we talking about?"

"Bubble here can help you out on your dilemma. Just don't listen to him for any advices. Personally, I think sometimes he can make you jump off a cliff."

"What do you mean "I need to stop drinking"? I'm perfectly fi- *passes out*"

"Am I aware that it is an unhealthy coping mechanism? Yes. Do I plan to stop? Not exactly, there aren't a lot of options left."

"That is outrageous! Me? With her? That's... It's... *sigh* I can't. She'd never."

"May I just say, for once, what the actual fuck."

[theblueflower05]

The Sweetest Sylaung

A/N: So I def didn’t mean to write a novel long Neteyam smut story but here we are. Debating on making this a mini series. Also the anon that requested a “curvy” reader insert- here ya go!(she’s also an Augustine- buttttt you can only see that if you squint lol)

Word Count: 6k+

Warnings: This is smut. Pure smut. Please don’t read if it is not your jam. You are in charge of cultivating your own online experience, you’ve been warned!

Pairing: Aged Up! Neteyam x Human!Curvy!Reader

Summary: After an “accidental” romp in the forest, you do your best to avoid Neteyam. It’s for everyone’s good, or so you’ve convinced yourself.

“I’m begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans. That’s my man”- Willow, Taylor Swift

The kaleidoscope of colors explode under your eyes in endless patterns and shapes as you look over the sample of Pandora flora under the heavy duty microscope. This particular piece of the Moons terra had never been discovered before, only blooming at what you estimated to be every ten or so years, under the right monsoon like conditions

At least that’s what you had discovered so far.

The flower, which sprouted into a berry, and then dissipated into a moss like cluster of microorganisms all within its short life cycle had turned into your passion project. You we’re doing your thesis on it, the last step in getting your Masters.

You’d gone through schooling on a computer screen, guided by the greatest minds on Earth that had relocated to Pandora. Scientists of all fields who you’d grown up around. None of them had been surprised when you’d picked up botany. Xenobotany to be exact.

It was in your blood.

The desk your at shakes violently- disturbing your precision like focus. Breaking you straight out of your zone.

“Ugh” you groan, frustrated, raising your head, eyes narrowing at the culprits.

Spider, Lo’ak and Kiri freeze like deers in the headlights of your fury. Spiders arm raised, a wad of paper balled up in his hand, aimed to shoot. He lowers it slowly as the weight of your your heavy gaze zero’s in.

“Sorry, cu-”

“I told you guys, if you cant behave to get the fuck out” You seethe. Your nerves are paper thin anyway. Too much screen time frying your brain something fierce as you focused in on your studies. “Is that not what I said, verbatim?”

“You need to chill. You’ve been so high strung lately. Come hang out with us” Lo’ak suggests smooth and unhelpful. As usual. “When was the last time you left the lab?”

You roll your eyes and bite your tongue, trying not to say anything to scalding to the surprisingly sensitive Sully brother. “No thanks. I’ve gotta focus”

“Maybe Lo’aks right” Kiri starts, her face screwing up as she speaks “Eywa that sounds wrong. Nevermind, My brother is never right- but you should come hang out with us. Let’s go swimming- the watering hole is over flowing from the storms”

The deep sigh through your nose isn't calming, even though you pretend it is. You know they mean well, in the most annoying way. That you’d been buried in books and paperwork in the lab for the past couple months.

Hiding from the outside world within the thick walls of Hell’s Gate.

“Can’t. This is important, Kir- but why don’t you guys head down there? Its closer to Home Tree and its almost curfew anyway” two birds, one stone. Its a smart suggestion- but Kiri’s face falls, shoulders sagging and ears lowing. That look had always gotten you-

“I cant today, but maybe tomorrow? The samples are too fresh and I don't want to put them on ice…But I think Max made those Yovo cookie things” That’s only half of the truth, but luckily Kiri’s always been understanding.

She grabs your elbow in her long fingers and tugs you along.

The mess hall had seen better days, but the large open space still tends to be the meeting ground for the humans that were allowed to stay and inhabit the moon. With twelve foot tall ceilings and airtight exits and windows that lead out to the Avatar Program training yards. Its a common room of sorts, a place where everyone gathers. For meals, for mismatched Holidays. But mostly for gossip.

I mean, what else is there to do?

Like currently, you’re deeply engrossed in the story that Doctor Martinez’s, Xeno-Zoologist is recounting. All dramatics and dirty intimate details “It’s true, they’re gonna bring it before Mo’at and everything”

He’s talking about Trevino and Eital’i.

Everyone had heard the whispers, seen the not so subtle signs. The main Radio Tower operator had turned during the resistance, had fought beside Jake and had been allowed to stay on Pandora- better stuck on a foreign planet then thrown in a familiar jail cell. Trevino’s a cool guy, really.

A cool guy who had been sleeping with a Na’vi woman, apparently. The two had kept it under wraps, really private. No one could pin down how or when it happened,,,but to go to the clan’s Tsahik seeking a mating blessing? That’s major.

“You’re lying” you accuse in a gasp as the table breaks into whispers, all wide eyes and shaking heads. “They’re going to mate?...How?”

“It’s not like it hasn't happened before” Another scientist chimes in casually. Like it’s a known thing.

Which it kind of is.

Taboo, yes. But not unheard of, more like untalked about.

Humans and the Na’vi of the forest had lived in close quarters since the overthrow of the RDA. Jake, the standing Olo’eyktan, just had a little too much homosapien in him. Yeah, he’d survived the soul transfer and fully inhabited his blue body- but he never quite grew out of his human roots.

It had been hard, lots of politicking and good grace shown on both parts, but somehow, like all biomes in the vast perma green forest, all had learned to live in harmony. Most Omitikaya kept their distance. Very hesitant about the human presence. They had every right to be scared, hostile. Scarred by man and its weapons and its destruction.

Others had been raised in close proximity to Grace’s school. Had become accustomed to the nearly two decade long human presence on Pandora. Curious and accepting.

You’d heard about interspecies hookups.

Locker room talks that left your ears burning and your heart racing. It usually came from members of the Avatar Program- It tends to set a precedent, when the quote on quote “royal family” of the Omiticaya is a Jarhead and a native woman.

Na’vi are gorgeous, tall and lean but humanoid enough to be familiar…you’re not exactly sure what they see in humans but you know damn well what you guys see in them.

“How do you think that works? The…physicality of it all I mean. Trevino doesn't have an Avatar. How do they fuck-”

You’re not the only one zoning out from the conversation and it’s lewd turn.

You watch Kiri watch Spider and your heart aches for her. What they have is secret, delicate and forbidden. As a woman with high standing in the clan, you knew that her feelings for the boy wouldn't go anywhere. Couldn't.

When they we’re kids, it was cute. Now that they 're both technically adults, it was just plain stupid.

You tell her of the fact, often.

Kiri tells you to stop projecting.

———

The Sully Kid’s are always late. It’s like no matter how hard they try, they cant make curfew. You throw on an Exopack, hurrying them to the fence.

“Yeah, yeah okay mom. Take it easy” Lo’ak shrugs huffily as you yank hard on his arm. “I’m going, Y/N!”

“Not fast enough you strumbeast’s ass! You’re gonna get me into trouble, who do you think your dad’s gonna blame when you guys end up back at Home Tree super late again? Norm chewed me out for that shit last time!” You man handle the much taller than you alien.

Kiri and Spider a few leagues in front of you, already at the mouth of the giant fence. They’re awkward, not in their usual synched steps. You wonder how much of that conversation earlier had gone to their heads?

You’re bickering with Lo’ak, an extremely normal occurrence. He can be a real douche. and had been kind of insufferable lately. You think its nerves about his impending Iknamaya.

So engrossed with getting them on their way home that you don't even notice him until it’s too late.

Neteyam is a skilled hunter, through and through. The youngest in the clan to ever make a kill. Swift and quiet. Beloved.

But around you he feels out of his element. Clunky and awkward, no matter how hard he tries to play it off its like you can see right through him. Its scary and thrilling, sets his stomach alive with butterflies everytime. This is no different.

Showing up to Hell’s Gate to retrieve his siblings was something he had done since he was a child.

He’d used to bleed hours away playing with them at the scientists fortress, but as he had gotten older and his responsibilities had grown heavier- he had little time for it. Still, when ever his parents would send him out on a one man search party to bring them home, he’d jump at the chance.

At the hope of seeing you.

You’re arguing with his little brother, trying not to laugh at something he said and Neteyam knows. He knows he shouldn't feel jealous but he just cant help it. Cant help the acidic twist of his insides.

Especially when he chirps out his family's familiar call, letting his presence be known.

And watches that pretty smile fall right off of your face.

“You’re late, as usual” His voice has a stern edge. It’s annoying, the role he has to play. Kiri is a woman grown, Lo’ak just weeks away from being the same. He doesnt blame them for the way their feathers bristle, almost viscerally.

“Ah, big brother you didn't have to come all this way to get us” Kiri reassures, patting Neteyam on the chest good naturedly. “We we’re just about to be on our way”

Neteyam notices the way you try to look anywhere else but him. It stings because he cant stop looking at you, cant pry his eyes away from your form.

“You all should start heading back before dad notices” Neteyam starts. His father had been busy as of late, harvest season abundant and fruitful this year because of the heavy rain season “I’ll catch up, I need to speak with Norm”

“What? Dad cant use the coms now, he has to send his messenger” Lo’ak’s nose scrunches a little, always questioning. On a normal day it wouldn't affect Neteyam so much, just a normal jab from his snot nosed little brother.

Not today. Not when he’s stretched so thin. Not when you refuse to look at him but are staring at the side of Lo’ak fat head. It feels wrong, makes his skin heat up to the point that it feels itchy and tight.

“That's none of your concern. Head back to Home Tree. Now” He doesn't normally throw his weight around. But he feels the need to puff up big in front of you “Those are orders. Get out of here”

Lo’ak’s less offended and more surprised. One of his oh so human eyebrows cocks, a sly remark in his throat before he scoffs. “Aye, Aye Captain Kiss Ass. C’mon Kiri let's go. See you later Spider, Y/N”

He deuces up Spider, gives Y/N a pat on her small shoulder and glares harshly at his brother before he disappears into the thick brush of the jungle.

Kiri wraps her arms around you in a strong hug, muttering about ‘swimming’ and ‘promises’. The small impish smile she shoots Spider gives YOU butterflies so you don't blame the way he swoons, before she’s off behind her younger brother.

“I can go find Norm for you, bro. I think he’s still out in his Avv, but Max can radio him back in” Spider is none the wiser. Doesn't notice the heavy tension that simmers on a low bubble. Oblivious, as usual.

“Yeah, sure” Neteyam replies, barely sparing the human boy a glance. He’d feel bad for it later, when he could form coherent thought. When his brain wasn't on Y/N issued override.

Spider chatters, good natured. He never got to see the Olo’eyktan in training anymore. He missed his homie.

“Well, I should be heading back. You guys have a good rest of your night-” You’re already turning on your heels when you make the announcement, eager to get back inside. Back behind the safe walls of the lab- far away from Neteyam.

“No”

Neteyam who stares at you with all too knowing eyes. He looks straight through you like he can see through your clothes, through your thinly veiled escapism attempts. He reaches out, wraps his long fingers around the top of your arm and tugs you back to him. Gentle, but very firm.

He doesn't have to say it- it’s written all over his face. Not this time. He’s not going to let you run away from him.

“Netey-” You start in a whine, tugging on his hold. He doesnt relent, if anything his fingers tighten as his eyes narrow. Dangerous, desperate.

“Just talk to me” it’s a barely concealed plea, his tail twitches anxiously behind him “I'm just asking for five minutes. Please Y/N”

Spiders oblivious, yes. Stupid? No. He doesnt know exactly what's going on between the two of you but has clued into the fact that it’s heavy and he wants no part of it.

The excuse he makes is shit- he’ll just go find Norm. Yeah… he’s so out of there.

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss as you watch Spiders awkward, quick retreating form. Eyes flickering over the empty for now training yards “So much for keeping it lowkey, huh? Could you be anymore obvious?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Neteyam is almost shaking with disbelief “What the fuck is wrong with you? You havent talked to me in over a month. Everytime I make any kind of attempt you bolt. I dont-” He sighs, pinching the wide bridge of his nose with the hand that isnt holding onto you.

He looks tortured. Tired. Run a little ragged.

Beautiful.

“I don't know what I did? If this is about that day in the forest-”

You sigh at his words, once again pulling on his hold. Shaking your head desperately because you can't.

You can't talk about it. Fuck, you’ve been trying not to even think about it.

And failing as you replay the event over and over again the darkness of your bunk. Hyper fixating on the way that his lips had felt against yours. Oh the way that his big hands had worked your body over

“Don’t” you whisper “Please don’t”

You’d never been one to beg for pity, for mercy but that’s what you do now. Beg him to let you out of his tight clutches. Metaphorically and physically.

“You’re all I can think about” It's a gutted admittance, but Neteyam makes it all the same “That night- I can’t sleep. I can barely eat- I’m falling behind on my duties because I keep coming back here. Standing outside this fence and waiting for you. I know you could hear me over the coms, right?”

And you could, a few weeks or so ago.

When he’d begged you to come out. To come speak to him. His voice so appealing that you’d almost caved. You’d had to turn off your receiver. Had sat with your head in your hands for hours as you fought the urge to crawl to him, knees raw and your bloody heart on a platter only he could divulge in.

He shuffles closer, all lean strong muscle. Firm, unmovable. “You heard me”

“Of course I did”

“And you still left me out here” He scoffs, head shaking slightly as his adams apple bobs, his ears are pinned to the sides of his head in obvious distress “I could never do that shit to you.”

“One of us needs to be the adult in this situation” Your voice is as strong as you can make it. Trying to speak reason on to both of you “We can pretend it never happened and go back to the way that things were before. You’re my friend, Tey”

You reach up, stroking at his wrist. Trying to soften him enough for him to let this go. Let you go.

He’s trying to control his breathing, all that training for all of those years for what? One fragile human girl to make him completely unspool? To lose any and all composure he’d worked so hard to gain.

He was always the adult, in all situations. Had been born with a neck cramping crown on his head. Shrouded in pressurized glory.

“If this is me being childish, so be it. Where has pretending gotten you, huh? Look at you, yawntutsyìp. you look so tired. When was the last time you slept? Kiri says you spend days in the lab without resting”

His hands, both of them, come up to cup your face. Huge and calloused. Yet he holds you like you're something precious. A small animal, a rare gem. His whole entire world since he was just a boy.

Neteyam thumbs at the cool glass of your mask, tenderly. The bags under your eyes are sunken and bruised. “Don’t shut me out”

Your body, in its entirety, clenches at his words. Velvet and sincere. He’s a fucking dream. Your head leans into his hands, neck sagging of its own accord as any and all words of protest leave your weak mind.

He makes you so easy.

“Let me in…I dont want there to be this distance between us anymore” He hisses around the word distance. Hating even having to say it “I want to be inside of you again”

Your plump lower lip gets skewered between your teeth, eyes screwed shut as you remember the last time. Your first ever time being full…you’d dreamt of it every night since it had happened.

If it wasn't for the blasted mask and your need for Earth’s oxygen he’d kiss you. Right here right now. He didn't really give a shit who saw or what they had to say.

Instead pulls you into his chest, lets you wind your arms around his lean middle and bury your chest in his diaphragm. Its as close as he can get you, for now. Makes you cling to him the way that he’d clung to every thought of you for the last weeks.

You wish it was lungfuls of his skin that you were taking as you try to bring yourself down from this abrupt shaky high. You dont get it, how your relationship couldve flipped this hard in such a short time.

He had always just been Neteyam. A shameless flirt yes- but that’s all it was.

“Would you like that?” He questions, hands working through your hair. Fingers light and soothing on your scalp. Massaging the thoughts right out of your head.

“Hmm?”

“If I was inside you again?” He presses on. You can feel the tickle of his long, thin, tail as it wraps around the back of your calf and you groan, digging your nails into his back.

“You’re such an asshole. Stoppppp it” You’re embarrassed and turned on and already feel stupid enough, he doesn't need to rub it in. His chest shakes as he chuckles.

“I’m serious. Tell me you want it-”

“Neteyam! Hey!”

The two of you break apart in an instant. You jump away from him as though struck by lightning. Instantly putting enough distance between you and the Na’vi that maybe, just maybe an onlooker might think that the embrace was friendly.

It’s Norm, having heard that the eldest Sully was looking for him he’d come eagerly.

The smile you plaster on is forced and honestly, Neteyam doesnt fair any better. He’s obviously flustered, just glad that his erection isn't tenting his tweng.

“Spider told me you and your dad are looking for me. I’m not intruding on uh anything, am I?” Norm looks between the two of you.

Your arms are folded tightly over your chest and Neteyam is rubbing at the back of his neck, strong jaw flexing as his teeth grind.

Oh yeah, Norm had definitely interrupted something.

Knows for sure as you scurry away. As Neteyam, always so level headed, has to string together words. Stumbling a little bit as he tries to remember the message that Jake had relayed.

It’s not any of his business, he thinks at the time. He sure didnt want to be the one to shine the light on whatever the hell was going on here. Turning a blind eye to the mysteries of Pandora is the only way to survive the harshest terrain known to man.

———

You dont know that though-

No, you’re spiraling more a little bit as you prepare yourself for bed. Brushing through your thick hair and staring out into space as your mind assaults you with all of the gnarly ‘What If’s’

Norm had seen and he had to know right? Oh god, what if he told Jake?

You balk. Lowering the brush as your eyes bulge out of your head.

What if he told Neytiri?

That's actually a super horrific thought. Like nightmarish. You have a lot of respect for the future Tsahik...

…And a very healthy does of fear. She didnt like humans and made it known. She tolerated them only for her husband's benefit. What if she found out that her eldest son, her golden boy, had fucked one?

You’re freak out is interrupted by static, by the beeping of your com receiver on your night stand.

“Y/N?” its Neteyams muffled voice through the device. You’d ignored it once. You should ignore it again…

“Yeah?” you wonder if he picks up on how shaky you sound through the receiver.

“Tomorrow night meet me at the East Gate. Like when we we’re kids” he’s not really asking. Not demanding either. You could ignore him again, but he has to try.

The line goes silent, quiet for minutes on end.

“Y/N?”

You’re so stupid. “What time?”

You can hear the grin he’s sporting as he replies “0100”

“Got it, over. Good night, Neteyam. Go to sleep”

———

The East Bay is on the other side of the large fortress-like building. It's not that it's forbidden, or anything. but it is deserted. It’s where the military personnel had inhabited, and since most if not all of them had gotten the hard boot off Pandora it was empty as a ghost town in these maze like halls.

When you we’re younger; you’d caught Spider sneaking Kiri and Lo’ak in through the rarely used entrance. You’d demanded the know how, if he didnt want you to rat on him for it. It was a rare occurrence, but the Sully children had all been snuck into Hell’s Gate this way over the years.

You type in the codes, disabling the alarm system in order to usher Neteyam into the pressurized, air lock. You’d toted one of the Avatar Exopacks along for him, they’re heavier then hell but he’d need it.

“Hi” you smile, suddenly shy as the tall Na’vi man stands before you.

That's what he was now. A man, not only in the eyes of his people but as a whole. Broad and muscular, strong. Verile. The next leader of his people. You know that he’s highly desired in his clan. Women fawn over him. Vie for his attention.

It doesnt feel real that he wants to give it to you.

You’re nothing special. Not tall and stunning like the Omaticaya women. Even by Earth’s standards you're short, curvy. Not particularly pretty. Insecurity gnaws at you, as it so often does.

“C’mere” Neteyam urges, boldly yanking you by your waist. Pulling you flush against his body. Grabby and insistent, he wants to feel your bare skin. All plush and soft, hes been dying to taste it since the last time.

Kicking himself over and over for not savoring every bit of your body that you gave to him. He won't make the same mistake again.

He’s not gonna lie, the concrete and metal of the walls inside of Hell’s Gate have always made him a little claustrophobic. But he can't do this outside-

His lips capture yours, demanding and needy from the jump. Big, over powering, he swallows your little chirp of surprise. Devours any and all breath from your lungs. Its messy and so good. You hadn't gotten to kiss him last time.

His mouth tastes amazing, his tongue rough in texture just like you remembered. It grates your lips as you suck on it-

“Hey, slow down a little bit” You giggle as Neteyam paws at your ass, lifting you off the ground until you squirm hard, making him release you “Not here, we can't do this here there’s cameras everywhere”

“I don't care” Neteyam pecks all over your face, trying to recapture your mouth as you avoid him “Let them watch, most of those pervs would like it”

And they would know that you’re his. The thought is beyond heady.

You gasp as his sharp canines ghost over the delicate skin of your neck, nibbling on your pulse point “Please- Neteyam”

You firmly push him away, hand on his chest and maybe if you hadn't cut him off cold turkey he would've given you space. Could've pulled away for a moment to let you say your piece. Instead the idea of letting you pull away even an inch is unbearable to him.

No. instead he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He hauls loads heavier then you every day, your protests mean little to him. With his free hand he scoops up the Avv Exo Tank,

“Where to, yawntutsyìp?”

Where too is an old conference room. Its as good as any, and Neteyam yanks a couple cushions off the old couch to act as a brace for your head as he lowers you to the floor, flat on your back.

You’re so pretty like this, he tells you of the fact.

With your hair a mess behind you, your face free of that damned mask. Grinning up at him as you rub your thighs together. He wishes he had that camera that his dad liked to take pictures on. He wants this moment of you framed, immortalized.

“I hate sky people clothes” He mutters as he tugs on the hem of your t-shirt. It hides you, hides all that skin he craves.

“You want me to take it off?” You offer eagerly, raising up enough to start peeling the piece of clothing off. You’re bare underneath, completely. Your breasts jiggle as they’re freed, nipples peaked in the cool air-conditioned air.

“Don’t ever put it on again” He demands, taking it from your hands and tossing it across the room. He’s dead serious, but by the way you're giggling you obviously think its a joke.

He can’t help it, he dives in face first. Rubbing against your soft breasts, obsessed with the way they feel. Heavy, pillowy. He drags his tongue across all of your bare skin. From your clavicle to your nipple. You always smell so pretty, but its got nothing on the way you taste. It explodes bright and savory on his tastebuds.

You let him explore, until your spit soaked and shaking. Your panties sticky as your hips search for any kind of friction. “I need you”

“You have me, my love. All of me” your eyes water at his words. At the sincerity. At how much you want them to be true.

You grab one of his hands and drag it down your chest. Past your soft, rounded belly and into your shorts. He grunts as you guide him to where you’re wet and pulsing. Rythmetically clenching around nothing.

He circles your clit, feather light. More of a tease then anything and you want to sob. You’d thought of nothing but this, touched yourself imagining him. “Tey-”

He smiles around a mouthful of nipple,tugging on with his teeth. “I missed you so much”

“Then be nice to me” you plead, trying to shove yourself down on his fingers.

“We’re being nice now? Were you nice to me when you ignored me?” he can't help it, hurt bleeds into his voice. It had been so fucking painful, knowing that you hadnt wanted to see him. To be with him.

“I’m sorry” you whine, grabbing his face, pulling it from your bosom. “I’m so sorry. I was so scared- I’m still scared but I need you”

He lets you cup his cheeks, lets you plant kisses all over him. The bridge of his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones. You dote on him, gentle and caring and he gorges himself on your love.

“You cant ever do that again, okay?” He shivers as you kiss his ear, running your tongue along the hyper sensitive flesh “If you’re scared you come to me, not run from me. Do you understand?”

You nod, eager. “I promise, Neteyam”

It’s all he needs to hear, that you’re his. That you won't deprive him of your presence ever again. He doesn't know what he’ll do. He’s a little scared of the man he becomes when it comes to you, you’re not the only one frightened by the gravity of your feelings.

“You asked if I wanted you inside me again? Yes. So much. I never knew I could be that full” it’s like you know just what to say. You light him up from the inside. His fingers begin circling your sopping clit again, this time with intent.

It’s blurry, the fact that your lightheaded making it hard to think. To track what he’s doing to you because somehow Neteyam seems to be everywhere at once. His big body all encompassing as he takes you.

“No-no marks, baby” You try to remind him and his blazing eyes zero in on you in a glare “you know we cant…not where they can see”

You’re right, and he hates it. He’ll just have to mark you where only you can see. Where you can look at your self and be reminded that you belong to someone. That you belong to him.

He doesn't have the patience, cant stop his hands from shaking- the tear of your shorts and panties echos around the room as he removes any barriers between him and the heat at the apex of your thighs.

You cant help the thrill it sends down your spine. He’d…ripped your panties off. You thought shit like this only existed in bad Earth made Porn that you’d found on one of the labs computers.

“Sorry, sorry” his apology is far from sincere though and you can't help but giggle, patting his braids fondly.

The fingerfucking is rough, your wines and moans spilling from you as he hits spots inside of you that make you want to curl up. It’s too good. Too much-

You screech, back bowing as he bends to kiss you, loud and sloppy, right on your wet clit. His big head burrows between your thigs as he delves on your cunt, his long rough textured tongue lapping at the fat puffy lips. The texture difference has both of you groaning.

It’s heartbreakingly good, the kind of good that you’ll never be able to forget. That you’ll crave and need for the rest of your life. Addictive, as he dedicates himself to making you feel pleasure.

Neteyam eats pussy the same way he does everything else in his life, exceeding any expectations. His instincts sharp as he hones in on how to make you lose your mind.

He keeps telling you how good you taste, breaking away for heaving breaths before he reburries himself. The only sounds in the room are the beyond wet sloshing of his tongue lashing and the pathetic noises your making.

He’s eating you alive, you don’t know how you’re supposed to survive this.

His fingers, two and then three fuck in and out of you. Corkscrewing as he loosens your tightness up for him.

“O-ooh” you whine high and reedy as you feel your tummy tightening, the pressure building in a way that makes you feel like you cant breathe. You cant your hips, shoving them down at that perfect angle “Oh, sh-shhhhit. I’m gonna, I’m-”

He doubles down and you’re a goner.

The orgasm is devastating. Sofuckinggood you think you might see stars for a minute there. You can't even scream, you keep letting out these little cries that are more like wheezes. A desprate attempt to get some kind of air back in your lungs-

Which reminds you.

Even though you’re in a daze you wiggle away from him, he hisses at you about it but you swat the top of his head as you reach for the Exo Pack.

You shove the mask in his face, between your legs.

”Breathe, Neteyam” you demand him to gulp down the Pandoran air. Yeah, he could go longer in your environment than you in his but still. Death by giving head isn’t the way you’d like him to go out.

He takes long breaths and you try not to be embarrassed by how soaked his chin is.

When he pulls away his eyes are a little more focused “Thank you, sweet girl. Always thinking about me, huh?”

You nod, dropping the mask. Closer this time for easier access. His eyes quickly zero back in on your swollen pussy, on how wet he got you. On how pretty it looks. His mouth is watering all over again-

When you try to close your thighs, the burning of your cheeks getting to be too much he hisses again. It’s not a sound he often makes and it’s a revelation, he’s so sexy. Almost feral.

“Who said I’m done?”

You’re never going to be able to get over this man “I already came?...”

“Yes? So?” he rolls his eyes, lowering his head, nuzzling at the damp juncture of your inner thigh “You’re still so tight, here feel”

His fingers slip back in you and you mewl, baring down as he scissors the long digits.

“We have to get you loose enough to take me, I don’t want to hurt you” He explains it like you need convincing. Like he has to convince you to let him eat you out. You just re-spread your thighs, relaxing back onto the cool floor as you let him do as he pleases.

It takes two more orgasms that you scream and shake through until he deems that you’re ready. By the time that he begins to slide his cock into you you’re a blubbering, oversensitive mess. You’re crying rivers of tears as you cling to him.

“Hold my hand? Please ” You request and he smiles, kissing your tear streaked cheek as he interlaces his longer fingers with yours.

Humans and Na’vi can fuck, but we’rnt designed to. His dick is overwhelimgly big and will really injure you if the two of you aren't careful about this.

You both gasp sharply as his tip breaches you.

It hurts, it’s agonizing. It’s the kind of pleasure pain that you didnt even know could exist. Everytime you think you can adjust, he pushes in another inch. But oh, how you missed it. Being so full it feels like you’re going to burst. You’re pussy flutters as it fights to take him and you focus in on his face.

It’s all scrunched up in heavy concentration. His lips speared between his sharp teeth in a way that has them almost bleeding.

You can't have that. You tug him into a kiss, soothing the abused flesh with your tongue.

“I-I dont want to hurt you” He whimpers as his forehead rests against yours.

“It’s okay, you’re okay” You hum to him, grasping at his hand even tighter “I love what you do to me. I love how you feel”

When he bottoms out you think he must be in your ribs. Hes still, letting your body get used to him. Trying to be kind. You want to tell him that there’s no getting used to his size. That he could fuck you every day for the rest of your lives and he would still feel just as massive.

“Please” you wail instead “please”

The first gentle snap of his pelvis has you both reeling. Your thighs lock around his thin hips, urging him. You can take it. It only takes a little urging for him to lose himself. The harsh stretch of it has you shaking as your over sensitive pussy tightens. You’re coming again, less intense the the previous orgasms, thankfully.

Neteyam had been so focused on making you feel good that he’d neglected his hard, weeping cock. His balls are so full that he knows he’s not going to be able to draw this out.

You know you have to look stupid, mouth hanging open as you raggedly gasp for breath, letting out punched out sounds as Neteyam pounds into you. You cant look away from his face though.

It’s mesmerizing, all of it. The sounds he lets out. The way that his braids sway with the rhythm of his pleasure seeking body. His broad shoulders, bulging biceps and forearms- you are so fucked.

You’re so in love.

“Please Y/N” He wheezes as you squeeze around him, letting go of your hand so he can wrap both of his arms around your lower back “I can’t hold it. W-where should I?”

Oh. Oh, he’s the sweetest man. He always has been.

You peck his lips, not minding that he’s too lost in his own pleasure to really kiss you back

“Come inside me. Come inside me. Come inside me” it’s a heated chant, broken and breathy by the erratic rhythm of his hips and he buries his head in your neck, wailing in the skin there.

Just for a moment, lost in the haze of sex, you can tell he forgets his own strength. Thrusts into you so hard that you scream out in pain, the mushroom tip of his long cock batters your cervix relentlessly. Its a sharp, startling sensation that you’ve never known but you ride it out for him. Desperately trying to keep your whimpers of discomfort at bay.

When he comes, his whole body goes still and ram rod straight. He hugs you tightly to him. You wish you could see his face. Next time, hopefully.

He’s Neteyam, the mighty warrior. The dutiful son. The next clan leader but as he shakes and twitches and basks in the afterglow you can't help but want to baby him. But stroke his back softly, rubbing the residual tension out of his tired muscles.

He’s your big ol’ pussy cat, you’d always teased. He purrs like one every time you’re affectionate with him.

You can’t help but run your hands along his sensitive spine. Let the length of his tail run through the loop of your fingers. He grins and flicks it from side to side. He’d always thought your fascination with it was amusing.

“Are you okay?” he mutters, still hidden in your hair as he starts to come back to himself and you hum, moving up to pat his braids.

“Mmhmm” you’re maybe not as capable of making words as you though you were. He chuckles and hugs you. Holds you in his big arms in a way that makes you feel untouchable.

The two of you lie in that room for as long as you can, until he has to start heading back to Home Tree, it’s almost morning and his parents are early risers. They’ll look for him if hes not in his tent…

It's hard. Letting him go. Even though you know he’ll be back. You keep pulling him back in for kisses, holding onto his muscular arms until he laughs and peels you off of him.

“I’ll be back my love. I’ll always return for you”

You frown but agree, pushing him away to get re-dressed- “How am I supposed to go back like this! Neteyam I don't have any pants!”

He’d shredded your shorts and panties. Literal tatters of cloth are all that’s left.

Neteyam cracks up, almost keeling over. Thinking he’s oh so funny. It lightens the situation and makes letting him go- watching him disappear back in the forest a little easier.

You end up having to pull your fortunately oversized t-shirt down as far as it can go as you make a mad dash across the facility, back to your dorm. You fall asleep grinning, thinking about how the panties had been a necessary sacrifice.

———

Norms on late night watch, keeping a bored, admittedly not sharp enough eye on the security camera’s feeds. With the rainy season, came an influx of Slinths’. It made sense to have a lookout, and somehow he’d gotten saddled with an overnight shift.

He’d definitely fallen asleep for a few hours. Not that he’d tell anyone of that fact.

There is nothing that could prepare him for what he see’s on the screen, over in the desolate East Bay. First, he thinks that he’s hallucinating, his sleep bogged eyes playing tricks on him.

He rubs them hard with his knuckles, not believing the image that is large and clear on the security footage.

It’s Neteyam. Inside the facility which almost never happened. And he’s bending down, his lips locked with Y/N’s . Kissing her hard and long before she punch’s in the code, and opens the air locked door to let him back out into the shadowy eclipse.

Norm’s learned a lot living on this strange moon- Pandora was mysterious. Full of things his brilliant mind would never understand. So he does what he does’ most of the time.

Minds his own business.

So I’ve had this idea cooking for months, but didn’t have the bandwidth to get it written down. The ideas wouldn’t translate to page and I still kind of feel like they didn’t butttttt whatever. This is pure self indulgence. I am so much more in love with Neteyam now. He is SUCH a good guy. Ugh.

Also, please remember that my requests are OPEN! Send in all that good shit. Come blue alien brain rot with me!

[walli3darl1ng]

I’m currently obsessed and thought of this :3 enjoy! Should I make a part 2?

You are a well-known, local doll maker and oftentimes you get calls from toy companies to make prototypes of the most popular character kids were obsessed about. That’s just how unique and comforting your talent is. You also get calls from previous clients for repairs on your dolls.

So it wasn’t a surprise that you got a call for a repair. What was surprising is getting a call from a kid’s show director asking you to come fix one of the puppets they have.

You never worked on puppets, but it’s an opportunity to get out of your artistic comfort zone so why not?

The building was intimidating. How many floors do you need to film a kid’s show? But then again, you’re not really sure how much effort it takes.

Inside is just as cruel. So many hallways and doors! But after admitting to a passing worker, who saw you wandering around frantically that you were indeed lost, they were happy to show you to the main studio set for Welcome Home.

it’s an amazing set! Everything that looks big is small. Grass so green it looks fake—cause it is. Colors of any bright hue were present and shine almost dangerously bright for any human capacity.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the director?” You ask softly, afraid to interrupt whatever they were doing. It did seem like they were in the middle of something, they had other puppets with them.

After meeting the director, who knew really well of your work. You don’t let the fact that a multi-billion dollar company has requested your assistance. You do this for the kids not for fame or money, but let’s be realistic, you need money to start any business, big or small.

Now in a meeting room—more like a regular storage room. The director was informing you of the show as well as the puppets they used to make it.

“The main one is what we want you to fix, just clean it up and make it look presentable again.” The director orders without looking at you then leaves. How rude.

‘It’. You know objects can’t feel but this is a puppet that kids believe they have. So why not just address them as living? They are created with a name, personality, likes, dislikes. You can have debates over this for ages but it’ll never go anywhere.

Are you supposed to just sit here? It felt like forever when the director walked back in with someone else carrying a wooden box. The box is old, small and looks like it could fall apart.

“Sorry, I had to get it packed and ready.” Again with the ‘it’. How hard is it to call them by their name?

You look at the box suspiciously then raise an eyebrow. “They’re in the box?”

The director miserly shrugs and takes the box from the other worker before sliding it over to you, dismissing the worker. “The only box we could find to fit it.”

You hum with curiosity, thinking it was a small puppet you had high hopes this repair would be simple and easy. How wrong you were.

Upon opening the box, keeping clear of the splitters and chipping wood you gasp softly under your breath at the sight.

There was the puppet, dark yellow and blue, crammed into the box, tangled in string? You carefully jammed them out and looked in horror at their condition. Their clothes unravel and tear, shoes more worn down than an energetic toddler and the string is from their dirty cardigan basically coming apart. It saddens you to the core. How can people be so neglectful?

“We have a special next week so you have until then to fix this. Good luck!”

“Wait, hold on—and he left. Unbelievable.” You scoff. Turning back to the poor puppet you look inside the wooden box to see a name faintly on the top. “Wally?”

You gently sit Wally up and hold his felt hand in yours. “Well, nice to meet you, Wally. I hope we can be friends in this journey of making you look like how you deserve.”

You get no response back but you didn’t expect one. Giving Wally a smile you take his arms and wrap them around your neck as you pull him closer to you body and hold him up. You take the wooden box and throw it in the trash. You’ll make a new one.

You felt the loose grip of Wally’s arms tighten.

But that could be your imagination,

Right?

[broodwolf221]

thinking abt. things.

things like solas not joining the inky for a given mission and discovering smth in his books that might help track the red templars so he brings the info to cullen only to find him shaky and sweaty and obv cullen tries to brush it off but look me in the eye and tell me solas wouldn't recognize withdrawal for what it is

mini fic bc I can:

He hasn't actually been to the Commander's room before, but he found something useful. He would normally bring it to the Inquisitor's attention, but they were out on the field and it seemed redundant to hand it off to someone else, especially since there were few he trusted to properly convey the intricacies of the information. Besides, there was no reason for him to fear Cullen. There had been countless opportunities for him to push back against Solas or the other mages, but he seemed truly dedicated to setting aside his past as a Templar. The role, if not the abilities.

Because of this, Solas entered the office lightly. What he found was... surprising.

Cullen looked haggard, worn, with deep circles under his eyes. He also looked absolutely shocked by Solas' presence, straightening up and trying to compose himself. Trying... and failing. A better posture couldn't hide the sweat shining on his face - inappropriate, considering they were high in the mountains, surrounded by snow and ice - nor the trembling of his hands, even though he tried to still then by laying them flat on his desk. "Solas," came his delayed, stiff greeting. He inclined his head slightly to the Commander in response, then moved nearer and set the book down on the desk. Cullen looked at it with obvious curiosity, but Solas no longer intended to discuss it. Not at the moment, anyway.

"Look at me," he said instead, voice far firmer than he ever would have thought to use with Cullen. The human seemed quite as surprised, gaze snapping up. "Focus on me. Breathe."

"What are you-"

"I said breathe," he insisted. Cullen continued to stare for a moment before doing as he said, although it was more a huff or sigh than a true breath. Solas arched a brow. "Breathe deeply."

Cullen frowned but obeyed, taking a deep, genuine breath and exhaling slowly. "Good," Solas said gently. "Feel the desk under your hands. The air against your skin." He watched a furrow grow between Cullen's brows. "Do not concern yourself with these things, just feel them." The Commander let his eyes slip shut as he focused, face relaxing slightly. "Keep breathing. Do you feel the cold air? Concentrate on how it feels in your nose, your throat, your lungs."

Slowly his trembling eased, although Solas knew it wouldn't disappear. He'd seen people go through this: in the flesh and in the Fade both. He knew deep breathing wouldn't counteract the physical effects of withdrawal - he had to assume from lyrium, distantly impressed by Cullen's willingness to undergo such a risk, to break the chains the Chantry and the Templar Order bound him in - but it would help with the feelings of panic. With the sense of being unable to possibly withstand such horrible feelings and urges.

"Good," he said again. Cullen had continued taking deep breaths, eyes still closed as he concentrated on his immediate surroundings instead of his panic. "This is normal. It hurts, I know, and your body is fighting you. But you still have control. You are stronger than this."

"Am I?" Cullen's eyes opened at last, meeting his with a strange desperation. Solas nodded.

"You are. To have gotten this far is evidence enough." Cullen snorted, then shook his head.

"So, who told you?" Cullen asked, Solas arching a brow.

"No one." Now the human frowned again.

"Then how..."

"I recognized your condition." Cullen stared for a time, searching Solas' face before eventually shaking his head and standing upright.

"You are... thoroughly unexpected, Solas." A pause, as if he was debating whether to say more. "Thank you." He inclined his head slightly.

"My pleasure, Commander."

[candy-blue429]

skk’s relationship is so much more complicated than ‘they hate each other they want each other DEAD they’re TOXIC’

Like while this is more obvious in the novels and other media like Dead Apple, you can see this just from the anime. Like ik the anime doesn’t provide as much context as the manga+other content but you can still tell they’re relationship isn’t that simple.

To start off with, skk first met as some REALLY emotionally/mentally fucked up 15 year olds.

Dazai, though we know nothing about his life pre-15, is as fucked up as they can be. He is extremely suicidal and sees no point in living at all. For Christ sake, he’s in the goddamn mafia. His only influence is Mori, who is a pedophile bastard who only sees Dazai for his intelligence & ability and neglects the fact that he is a 15 year old who clearly needs help.

Chuya is literally a fucking vessel of god. He doesn’t have any memories prior to the Arahabaki incident. He is the head of the Sheep, which just means he is in charge of protecting a bunch of powerless orphans who also have a lot of issues. He’s also a very trusting and loyal person - he values friends. When the Sheep stabbed him he looks genuinely surprised and despite them literally trying to kill him, isn’t mad at them and takes Dazai’s deal so they aren’t killed. He blames himself & Dazai for the incident, but not the sheep. Then he proceeds to join the mafia & swear loyalty to Mori, and no matter how much I love the members of the mafia it’s not what you would consider a healthy environment.

You really expect Dazai and Chuya who met under these absurd conditions to develop a normal, healthy relationship? Like

And as for wanting each other dead, they do say that but it’s not actually… genuine? Again more examples in novels etc but even in the anime during their fight against Lovecraft, you can visibly see that Chuya is extremely concerned when Dazai pretends he’s dying. And when Corruption doesn’t seem to be affecting Lovecraft, Dazai voices his concern of Chuya not making it much longer. Yes, this is more likely an ‘Dazai has low physical fighting stats and can’t defeat Lovecraft on his own’ concern but still. They both can’t really afford the other one dying even if it is for their own benefit and not concern for the other. (I would personally argue that they have concern for each other but that’s a debate for another day)

The rest is kind of my own interpretations but I feel like the reason skk fight all the time and are like ‘god I wish you would die already’ because they are polar opposites.

Even visually they’re opposites. Dazai with the dark hair and eyes and the slim, tall figure. Chuya with light hair light eyes and short, muscular figure.

Personality even more so. Dazai is often not very emotional, distant - even though he is physically human, emotionally, he is very much so ‘No Longer Human’, especially during the Dark Era. Chuya on the other hand is very much so human despite being the vessel of god. Like I said he is fiercely loyal. He’s compassionate. He likes people in general and is depicted to have a pretty large social network. In Stormbringer, Dazai even refers to Chuya as ‘disgustingly human’ (sorry if it’s worded differently in the translated version I’ve only read it in Japanese)

That’s the whole point of their dynamic - they’re opposites. They’re partners. They’re supposed to complement and complete each other. Dazai the brains, Chuya the humanity, and when Chuya uses Corruption and becomes god, Dazai’s No Longer Human returns Chuyas humanity. Idk if I’m making any sense but like to me, that’s such a poetic and cool dynamic.

Like yeah, skk isn’t some average normal healthy relationship that you want to mold your own social life after, but there’s so much more context and nuance to their relationship I just…… idk. I probably didn’t make sense in all my rambling but I’m also not normal about these two in any sense so I guess it’s fitting

[proper-goodnight]

Into The Gray (Chpt. 7)

Secrets (Into The Gray Chpt. 7)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie

Everything that you’d learned about human behavior and habit had been through careful instruction, nothing ever given to you without intention. There were things that you’d picked up through basic experience and casual observation–people had a habit of writing their name when given a new pen for example, and if you have a plan B, then plan A is less likely to succeed. 

Sierra Six had uprooted the CIA’s plan A and B, and so far, he was already eliminating all expectations for plans C, D and E. Just like with you, interrogations only left the interrogator more exhausted than when they started, and although you found the entire thing entertaining, you reveled in Carmichael’s frustration with coercing any kind of confession and the realization that he didn’t have Claire to use as leverage this time around. He told Six otherwise, but out of many things that The Gray Man was, ignorant wasn’t one of them. 

For once, you could say that you weren’t the only cause of Carmichael’s misery as much as you wished you were. 

Undoubtedly, getting Six’s compliance was going to take more than pulling a few teeth.

You traversed down sterile white hallways in search of his room–the holding cells had been searched already, and he hadn’t been there–so you strongly entertained that he was put in the same room that you had been during your induction. Carmichael had never said exactly, and although he had suspicions about your whereabouts when apprehending Six, he didn’t have the time to properly look into it, and you’d already been covering your tracks just in case he did.

Your list of things that Carmichael didn’t need to know was growing exponentially longer you realized, but you were too far in to consider confessing them all now. 

Watching him spin in circles had also proved to be vastly too entertaining. 

A few winding hallways and empty rooms eventually led you to find him. Sitting in a stationary chair in the middle of the room with his elbows propped on top of his knees, he looked as though he were debating the world. His expression was fixed into something akin to contemplation, tunnel vision on the tile, but you suspected that he was aware of you outside the room. You weren’t trying to be subtle, anyway. 

“You’re here,” he said once you stepped in, looking up. 

“You should go into espionage with those observational skills.” 

You thought that he bit back a smile, but you couldn’t really tell. There were things that he was good at hiding, such as your involvement at his house at all, you’d learned. He hadn’t told Carmichael; he’d acted dumb when Carmichael had asked. Six had knowingly or unknowingly backed your lie, but you didn’t thank him for that. 

It was the reason behind it that most perplexed you, and you couldn’t help but be a little curious. It was only another thing that you’d find out eventually on your own, so you didn’t ask. He did ask the most obvious question however, still traversing on that very fragile line, and risking the plummet. He’d gone outside of his conditioning and learned to care , and a killer with morals was still a humorous concept to you.

You’d noticed that you had a habit of looking at him, a little too much and a little too long. You had never been a creature of habit, but there was something about looking at a book and suddenly not knowing how to read. Your eyes flickered, traveled , over his form in the chair; no particular direction, and no particular reason. 

“I’m surprised they didn’t cuff you to the chair too.” You mused aloud, recalling the number of irritated negotiators that had left the room with you, then with him –they’d never been brave enough to negotiate without restraints, but they had been more afraid of Sierra Six than you. You’d been frustrating, but him ? “They’re scared of you.”

He scoffed. “I don’t think I’m anything to be scared of.”

“I believe you.” You hummed. “But people like you tend to say that.”

“People like me?”

“A total contradiction that somehow balances out.” You said, but didn’t clarify. Even when he looked at you, eyes probing, you didn’t offer an answer. His brows furrowed, first in confusion, but eventually they settled into the neutrality that you were so familiar with. He recognized very quickly that there was no point, that he may as well have backed down instead of pushed forward. You considered that he didn’t care about that much, and he shouldn’t have. Your opinion hardly mattered as much as anyone else’s. 

You were nothing and no one special, not where he was concerned. 

“Do you know where Claire is?” He finally asked the most obvious question.

“Not here,” you answered immediately, walking further into the room, your arms crossed. There was still a reasonable distance between the two of you, several feet that demanded conversation higher than a whisper. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if you were passing secrets. He knew that Claire wasn’t here. 

He sounded tired. “Do you know where ?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

Lips pressed together, he waved vaguely, as though it were really a question worth asking. Unlike you, his eyes never lingered on any certain part of you for too long. “I couldn’t really tell where she went because of your friends from the CIA pummeling me, but I’m pretty sure that you were the last person to have been with her.”

“I know. I watched you get pummeled,” you corrected him.

Then he really did look at you, and quirked a brow. 

“Long enough to watch you get a cheap shot on Agent Morrison.”

His brow quirked further.

“I never liked him that much.” You clarified with a shrug, eyes darting elsewhere. “He has an extensive record, but he had enough connections to wipe his slate clean.” A pause. “He’s also a prick.” 

He looked down. “Sounds familiar.”

“Depending who you asked.” You confessed. “If you’re going to be a prick to anyone, I think you’d at least be honest about it.” 

Then, you thought Six really did smile, even if at the floor; an approximation of one, as close to one as someone like him could get. A scoff of a laugh escaped him, and when he looked up again, his gaze was darting, never staying. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in with the popular crowd.”

“You’re not missing much.”

Your eyes followed his to the same familiar sterile white walls, the minimal amount of furniture, parts of the tile and the baseboards still protruding from where you’d tried to pry it apart so many months ago now; not so much a cell as an actual room . 

You wondered what had changed to get you promoted to being on their payroll, earning an inch of freedom at a time, but you’d always been good at pretending. As far as they knew, you’d only wiped out one of Carmichael’s key obstacles, and you contemplated that he kept you close by for the same reason that they kept Sierra Six alive. Blame. Carmichael hadn’t found your record, nor any hint of your past. 

Yet. 

“I’m assuming that Claire went to a safehouse that you showed her,” you went on. “I didn’t follow her, so I can’t say for sure where she went. If I don’t know, then it’s safe to say that Carmichael doesn’t know, either.”

Something akin to relief flashed behind his eyes—he knew the location, but you didn’t. You didn’t ask; you’d said that you’d find her when you needed her, and that was true with or without his help. 

“You said you weren’t with the CIA. Who are you with?”

A smile crept onto your lips, lingering close to the surface. You could have scoffed, could have laughed, but you didn’t. Your head tilted, your expression flat despite your amusement. “You ask a lot of personal questions for someone who doesn’t go by their actual name.” 

“You don’t ask enough.” He retorted.

Then you really did smile, a slow upturn on both corners of your mouth. “I told you the answer already.”

“The truth.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

His brows furrowed, clearly skeptical. “So you’re parading around with the CIA for… what, fun ?”

“The same reason you’re sitting here when you can leave at any time, I guess.” You said. “You want something.” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do you ?” The two of you stared at each other, level but with one more perplexed than the other. It wasn’t you. When he didn’t answer, you shrugged, incapable of supplying the answer yourself. Instead, you asked: “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘supply and demand’?”

He nodded slowly, still with that perplexed expression that you somehow found endearing. 

“You’re demanding, but you’re not supplying.” You explained. “I’ll give you,” you paused, but it wasn’t a critical decision on your part; the choice wasn’t hard. “Six questions.” You caught him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your choice of amount and smirked. “Whatever you want to know. But only six.” 

Six looked to think for a moment, picking his words carefully. His eyes had a way of darting you noticed, observing nothing and everything all at once. He was acutely aware of everything in the room, from the protruding tile to the resewed lining in the mattress, to you . From an outside perspective, he may have looked like nothing special, but he definitely was as smart as you gave him credit for. The depth of his mind was far from anyone’s reach. “Why did you let Claire escape?”

“First question. She wasn’t my target.”

“Who was?”

“Do you want to use one of your questions for that, or can you work it out on your own?”

His brows pinched. “... Why me?”

“Second question. I needed to see if you had information on Donald Fitzroy. I was going to search his house—“ well, it’d been closed off as a crime scene until the FBI could tear it apart at its foundation, and that was before Six had gotten ahold of it. You shrugged. “There’s not much of it left.” 

“What kind of information?”

“Third question: A program. Not Sierra.”

“Are you going to count every question?”

“Does that count as four?”

Six shook his head. “Fitzroy didn’t have any program besides Sierra.”

You shrugged. 

“He did ?”

You raised your eyebrows, a silent question. Question four? 

He’d deduced it on his own. You could see his mind working, but in a much more delicate process than your mindless interrogators. He sighed. “Fitzroy’s dead.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything.” To anyone else, it would have. The main target had died, and that usually meant the case was closed. Anyone else would have moved on, but you weren’t just anyone and there were still things that you had to do, and still things that you had to find. 

You were stubborn, but that was what had led you to Sierra Six in the first place. 

“Fitzroy had a lot of secrets,” Six said, still sitting in that same position as though he were debating the world. At least, you knew that he was debating his circumstances inside the room. His fists were curled on top of his knees, sitting straight in a demeanor that suggested he could pounce at any moment. There was a relaxed tension in his muscles that you hadn’t noticed before, but that could change in a second. “The Sierra Program hardly had any records.”

“There are always two people to every secret. If not you, then someone else.” 

Six’s eyes searched your face for the first time since you’d arrived, lingering longer than what was normal for him. You held gazes, but then he was standing, suddenly towering over you despite being several feet apart. His build didn’t strike you as intimidating–if he’d meant it to, it would’ve been. He shuffled closer. The two of you could have whispered if you’d wanted to. 

“What about you? Who do you share your secrets with?” 

You looked up, your voice nearly a whisper now as well. “Question four. You , apparently.”  

“I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“You still owe me three.”

“ Actually , I owe you two, and I’m done answering them for now.” You were leaning up, leaning toward him, bare inches of space that had become familiar for you to invade. He didn’t lean away, even if the coil of his muscles suggested the urge. You’d turned to walk away, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You half-turned; waited.

Your arms were still crossed, but his were at his sides, two completely different barriers shoving against the same wall. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re looking for; uh, be careful.”

“We share secrets, remember?” You laughed at what was probably the most genuine one in a long time. “I can’t let you out of my sight just yet. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.”

[cyborg00-why]

If you had an original villain for Cyborg 009 what would they be like and what would their backstory be?

Oh my goodness, this is a flood gate opening sort of question! To be honest I have a few OC villains I've made fan art of but they are... maybe too long winded to get into. If I ever get around to doing like mini character sheets I will share them though.

Though I do have an idea for a villain that is a character we see very briefly. It's a bit long so I'll spare folks and have it under the cut.

Somewhere in my fic burn pile is a concept for Hilda later returning as a villain, she would have also been taken after the accident with Albert as well as the lion. Due to the severity of her injuries she would be spliced together with the lion, and have an altered form for battle in the same vein as Mary (Merry?). She would have been a final "mock up" before Black Ghost moved on to the "prototype" cyborgs. Something looking more like the prototype series but being maybe more comparable in quality to the cyborg men. Like a proof of concept for cyborg without need for life support tubes.

There would have been some melodramatic elements like a memory loss subplot later revealed to be feature of her cybernetics, not a bug. Because she was made to be a proof of concept she wouldn't have been made durably or for practical application. Instead once the prototypes were approved she was going to be a final "field test" to impress investors to garner funding to continue making cyborgs 005+. Because of this, and Black Ghosts assumptions of an intimate relationship between her and 004 one of them had to have their memories erased so they would fight without reservation. This would also tie in to the internal lab debate of cyborgs being better or worse with their humanity removed, so she would have also be a test for that.

However, because of cybernetic difficulties with 002, 003, and 004 they would never have the chance to meet. Instead being shelved in cryogenics until science and funding caught up and filled the gap between man and machine. Once it had though, Black Ghost already received funding and resources to continue on the series without their little rigged demonstration. So once again Hilda would be kept in cryogenic storage, likely having been forgotten over the decades.

The catalyst to her being rediscovered would have been the prototype cyborgs initial escape off the island lab, as Black Ghost was trying to evacuate goods and machinery. As the series progressed and the other newer models of cyborgs were sent after 009 and friends, we would have eventual been introduced to Hilda.

I would have introduced her in place of Joe's old friends. Albert would have had a moment of rare domesticity and would have spotted a woman in town who looked "identical" to his wife. He would have been shocked and gone somewhere else to collect himself, only to have her "organically" run into him and make small talk. A morbid, if not traumatic curiosity would come over him and he would leave awkwardly. She would tail him thanks to stereotypical catlike sense of smell (corny ik). And it would escalate from there in a similar way to Joe with his old friends. Though the melodrama of Albert having long since come to terms with her loss, only to realize she was in fact alive, to then be confused and upset with survivors guilt (if he would consider his condition as that idk) while having to fight her, and ALSO the sheer rage I think he would have for what Black Ghost had done to her... it started to feel maybe a bit too much lmao.

The biggest issues for never going through with this beyond a long set of bullet plot points were:

We already have Lion Man in the pantheon of Mythos Cyborgs, previously mentioned Mary (though while feline never defined as a lioness I think), and in the 1968 series we also deal with that weird gold lion. It would not surprise me if there were other lions I was forgetting in the series. Lots of lions, perhaps even too many lions. Kimba's influence was great it would seem.

Remember how I said it was a bit too much? When I really sat and thought about an outcome that matched the flow of the plot it felt very depressing. The timing of this in the CS continuity would be the Yomi arc, so what was going to happen there? End game would have been one of Helena's sisters? Would I have to write her out? Or redirect the romance subplot? Would it be a melodramatic venture into a shitty mid 30's love triangle? Would Albert even believably be involved in a love triangle? It felt cheap at best, but overall unfair to everyone.

When I did have a solution to the depressing ending, it wasn't a happy ending either. That felt very forced, at least with what flowed well with the themes the story was going to focus on. It would have been open ended with there being enough room for healthy speculation for the reader to decide on their own how things went. However, that also came at the cost of writing a very long fic and I don't think I am capable of that for at least the foreseeable future... so it was scrapped! Though like my OCs I have doodles of her design concepts somewhere

Thank you for asking! This was a very fun question to answer. In turn I would love to hear about other folks Cyborg Villain ideas if they would like to share!

[love-and-monsters]

The Warlord and his Lady pt. 7

M dragonkin X F human, 16,180 words

I’m making up for the last chapter being slightly shorter by making this chapter almost DOUBLE THE LENGTH. This wasn’t really intentional, but I couldn’t find a good stopping place so it kind of just kept going... Hope it’s not too long for you all! Also, we’re approaching the endgame now... only a few chapters to go...

Content warning: Discussions and use of poison, character injury

(Ch. 1) (Ch. 2) (Ch. 3) (Ch. 4) (Ch. 5) (Ch. 6)

The ballroom is strikingly pretty, with domed gold ceilings and elaborate enameled patterns on the walls, but all I can think about is how much I don’t want to be here.

I’m not supposed to be here. Well, I am, but not really. It’s an open ball, meaning there’s no need for a formal invitation to attend. Everyone from the surrounding area is free to attend. But the fact is that I am not the sort of person who typically attends balls, nor am I the sort of person who generally likes balls. Attending a formal event where the main activities are standing around and dancing isn’t the most fun for someone whose body is actively giving all the time.

Attending is something I’ve been more or less press-ganged into doing. I can understand why- the ball is being held to celebrate the new warlord, and it’s sort of an insult to avoid attendance. But just because I understand it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I watch the rest of the people in the ballroom idly dance and chat. People will occasionally strike up conversations with me, but they never last long. There are even people who ask me to dance, though I always turn them down. I don’t want to risk collapsing on the dance floor.

After some time of idly watching other people dance, talk, and generally have a better time than me, I slip out of the ballroom. My back and legs are starting to throb and I want to take another look at the medicine I’m carrying with me. I’ve been experimenting with mixing a few different painkillers together, which has been working better than expected, but it also makes me more tired. I’m debating whether or not to take an awakening mixture along with it when my legs start trembling.

It’s not something I’m unused to- sudden bouts of muscle weakness are common with my condition, and I haven’t come up with anything to fix that yet. Unfortunately, I’m too far from the ballroom to hurry back to the seats in there. Ah well. There’s no one out here, so no one is going to see me awkwardly sink to the floor and dirty my nicest dress.

I press my back against the wall and pluck at my bag with trembling fingers. The weakness will pass- I might as well take the time to take my medicine. I swallow the bitter medicine and pop a piece of sugar in my mouth to take the edge off. As the candy melts on my tongue, I tilt my head back to rest against the wall and close my eyes.

There’s silence for a few moments, a silence that is abruptly broken by someone clearing their throat. My eyes snap back open. “Excuse me,” the throat-clearer continues. “Is everything all right?”

I don’t recognize the face of the man in front of me, but I certainly recognize his tail. He’s the only draconid I’ve ever met in my entire life, possibly the only one that’s ever even been in the town. Our new warlord, Rastek.

He’s wearing formal wear, a red and gold vest over a white shirt, his hair done in a fancy braid that curls up at the back of his head. His eyes are a striking shade of gold in the warm half-light trickling in from the ballroom.

“Yes. I just needed to sit for a bit. I’ll be all right.” To prove my words, I shove myself to my feet. My knees tremble, but you can’t see it under my dress.

“There are plenty of places to sit in the ballroom,” Rastek says.

“I needed a break,” I say. “I’ve never been to one of these before. It can be a little overwhelming.”

To my surprise, his face breaks into a smile. “Ah. I’ve been to several and I’m afraid I don’t see much of the point to it. There’s only so long I can dance and talk politics before it becomes tiresome.” He gives me a sly look. “I’m afraid that’s why I’m out here. After seven or eight balls, you start looking for excuses to avoid them.”

“I suppose I figured you were holding them because you enjoyed them,” I say. It hadn’t really occurred to me that he wouldn’t like them either.

“They’re politically beneficial, and there’s nothing to endear you to your people like holding a fancy party with a bunch of free food. But they’re not quite my idea of a good time.”

One of my legs picks that moment to give out. I stumble, but catch myself on the wall before I can really fall. I’ve had a lot of practice catching myself. Rastek looks alarmed, though, his hands half extending as if to catch me.

“Are you all right? I’m certain there are some quieter rooms nearby if you need to lie down.”

“I promise, it’s nothing. I just need…” I rummage through my bag and pull out a vial of strengthening solution. I’ll feel it in the morning, but it’s better than collapsing in front of our new warlord. The concoction tastes foul going down. The energy seeps from my stomach into my limbs within a few moments.

Rastek watches me take it and a flicker of realization crosses his face. “I know you,” he says.

I pause. “You do?”

“Yes, a couple of people mentioned you. You’re this town’s herbalist, yes? They said you nearly always had a bag with all kinds of concoctions in it on your person.”

I give a barely humorous laugh. “It’s not just because of my trade. I’ve got a medical condition. That’s what got me into herbalism in the first place- it was far cheaper and easier to create the medicines I need myself than to seek out other sources.”

Rastek’s expression falls a little. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a concern of yours,” I say as gently as I can manage. “Just the way things are.”

Rastek nods. “I also heard that you have particular skill with… concoctions other than medicine.”

I hesitate. Warlords usually don’t bother to involve themselves in local crimes- they station guards at the towns for the worst of crimes and mostly allow for the people to take care of things otherwise. But it’s still not the greatest idea to go telling people willy nilly. “Is that what you’ve heard?” I say in the most neutral tone possible.

He smiles faintly. “From a few different people. They seemed quite pleased by your skills.” When I don’t respond, he laughs gently. “I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Forgive my suspicion, but you saying that you’re not going to arrest me doesn’t mean that you’re not actually going to arrest me,” I say. Rastek lowers his head in a slight nod.

“I understand. Let me explain myself, first.” He leans in a little, turning so his back is to the doorway. He’s large enough that the motion completely obscures me from the view of the ballroom. “You’re aware of my position as a warlord.”

“Of course.”

“I control sections of the eastern border. A border that has recently been threatened. My soldiers are skilled, but… well, skill can only do so much to hold back overwhelming force. I’ve petitioned others for aid, but there’s been some hesitancy in providing it- I’m new, after all, and my failure might mean more prestige for others. I’m looking for something that might ensure my victory.”

“That’s why you’re coming to me,” I say. Rastek nods. He could still be looking to arrest me, but it seems unlikely he’d be making up a story and attending to it personally just to get me.

“You seem to have some skills. I thought we could have a partnership,” he says.

I hesitate. This is a big opportunity. Working for a warlord means pay, good pay. Better than I can make as an herbalist. It means access to people of a higher educational background. Maybe people who can understand my condition. Maybe people who can help me. But if I go into this and screw up, or don’t get him the results he wants… well, he seems like a nice guy, but getting on the wrong side of a warlord is generally not considered a great strategy for a long and healthy life.

“Can I ask why you picked me in particular?” I ask, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. “I’m sure there are people more skilled than I am, and there are certainly people more educated.”

Rastek looked amused. “I don’t know if pointing out that you’re underqualified is the best move when someone offers you a job.”

“I want to make sure that we’re on the same page with this,” I say. “And if there’s a specific reason you’re wanting me, then I’d like to know it.”

He looks pleased, so I feel I’ve done something right. “There is a reason. The talk around here is that you’re quite creative with your methods. Better at creating more effective solutions. Stronger ones. Most poisoners focus on single targets- useful for assassinations, but less useful for an army. I’m hoping that your creativity will help us come up with a solution that makes it highly effective in large doses. And perhaps make something that’s more useful for combat- quicker acting, more disorienting, all of that.”

He’s not wrong. I experiment constantly, changing the herbs and ratios that I use. I’m mostly experimenting for medicinal reasons- I want to make something that’s more effective in treating my condition. But medicine isn’t so far from poison, and I can use the results of even unsuccessful experiments to create new and interesting poisons.

“I could do that,” I say slowly. My mind’s already reaching for possible combinations, ways to increase potency over smaller batch sizes. “I mean, I think. I can at least try.”

Rastek smiles. “Thank you.” His smile fades a little. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes,” I say, although I’m starting to think I should sit back down, no matter how disrespectful that might be to a warlord. One of my legs has started to shake, even with the effects of the strengthening solution. I reach back to steady myself against the wall.

“You’re looking unsteady,” Rastek says. He stretches out an arm, not quite touching me, but offering the support. “Is it your condition?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing serious. I just need to sit for a few minutes. I’ll be fine.” I rarely get embarrassed about my condition, but looking like this in front of Rastek is bothering me. I don’t want him to think of me as weak.

Rastek glances down the hall. “Can you walk for a little ways? Just down the hall. I can give you support if you need it.”

“Yes, I can walk.” Rastek offers his arm and I cling to it with both hands, leaning my weight against him. Despite that, he’s steady as a rock. Being this close to him means I can feel the way his muscles shift under my grip and the warmth of his body. It’s surprisingly soothing.

Rastek guides me down the hall and past several doors before abruptly stopping. “I think this is it…” He retrieves a key from his pocket and unlocks the door with the hand not supporting me.

The room beyond the door is dim. Rastek illuminates it with a wave of his hand and a spark of magic. It looks like a small sitting room, with a few plush seats and a small tea table in the center of them.

He guides me into the room and I settle in the nearest seat. It’s almost ridiculously comfortable. “There we are,” he says. “You can rest in here.”

I glance at him. “Why do you have a key?”

He pauses and his cheeks go very slightly pink. “It was suggested to me that I might want a private place to retire to that is not my room. Lest there be rumors.” His gaze roves the room before falling on a particularly shadowed corner. “The idea seems to be that I would be able to claim this room is for political discussions instead of…” He waves his hand vaguely in the corner of the room. I have to squint to make it out, but then it strikes me. There’s a bed nestled into a nook, barely visible from the door. Certainly more discreet than the lavish bedchamber they presumably gave him as an honored politician.

“Oh,” I say, letting my tone show that I’m understanding his implication. The flush of color spreads, though, creeping toward his forehead and ears.

“That isn’t what this is, of course,” he adds hastily. “I just thought you would like a private place to recover. I wasn’t intending to proposition you.”

If I was I more sensitive person, I might be offended, seeing how quickly he backpedaled. But I’m just pleased he’s not intending to try anything with me. “It’s fine. I’m grateful for your generosity.”

He nods his head, settling in a chair across from mine. “No trouble at all. I was glad to be of some assistance to you.” He glances toward the now-closed door of the room and adds, in more of an undertone, “I was rather getting tired of the ball, anyway.”

“It’s definitely quieter in here,” I agree. There is only the very faint sounds of music and people’s voices through the door. Silence falls over the room and I take the opportunity to glance at Rastek. He sits slightly forward in his chair to avoid squishing the base of his tail, the majority of which is curled across his lap.

We sit together in silence for some time. My body starts to grow stiff and sore as the aftereffects of the weakness set in- one of my legs is throbbing in a way that lets me know it will be a pain to walk on it the next day. Rastek glances at a watch tucked in his uniform. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” I say. “You don’t have to sit with me. I don’t want to keep you if there are important things to handle at the ball.”

Rastek’s nose wrinkled just the tiniest amount. “No. Nothing terribly important. I did my requisite few dances and spoke to those I needed to.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “You said this was your first one, didn’t you? A shame that you’re not feeling well.”

“I was struggling to enjoy myself anyway. It’s hard for me to dance.”

“You’re not missing all that much,” Rastek says.

“I don’t know. A lot of people tell me it’s quite nice.”

Rastek turns his gaze so he’s looking directly at me. His gold eyes glimmer, reflecting the dim lights of the room. “Perhaps. I’ll admit, it might be nicer when you have someone worth dancing with.” He tilts his head to one side, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “But I’m afraid I haven’t met anyone like that yet.”

The world dissolves into swirls, like a paintbrush dipped in water. I try to blink, but my eyes won’t open- or maybe they won’t close. It’s hard to tell. I focus all my attention on them, forcing them as closed as possible, then flinging them open as hard as I can.

My eyes fly open with a surprising amount of force. My entire body jerks with it, and I realize that I’m panting. My heart’s thundering in my chest.

The thaumatist, who has been leaning over me with his hands hovering over my chest, sits back. “There she is,” he says calmly.

Rastek makes a soft, wounded noise. I turn my head to see where he is. He’s slumped over, less than an inch from resting his weight on the flimsy fabric of the tent. One of his hands is partially covering his face, but I can see some of his expression. He looks exhausted and sad.

The thaumatist settles his hands on his knees. “It wasn’t all that bad this time. Though I am glad you got me. Emotional distress makes these things more likely to happen.”

“What happened?” I ask. I try to push myself upright, but my arms don’t want to cooperate. “Did I slip again?”

The thaumatist looks at Rastek like he’s waiting for Rastek to speak, but when he says nothing, the thaumatist begins. “Yes. Your slipping was relatively minor this time.” The thaumatist hesitates for a moment before he speaks again. “There seemed to be conflicting magical forces at play.”

“Which means what?” I ask. I half expect Rastek to demand answers, but he doesn’t say anything. He barely looks at me.

“It could mean your soul is tethering itself more firmly to your body,” the thaumatist says. Rastek actually looks up at that. “Or it could mean magical interference from somewhere that your soul was attempting to resist.”

Rastek actually speaks. “Which is more likely?” His voice sounds a little rusty. I wonder if he was crying.

The thaumatist shakes his head. “Difficult to say. The magical conflict itself makes it hard to discern anything clearly.”

Rastek nodded once. “Hm.”

His silence was unsettling, but moreso was his expression. He looked blank, almost dazed.

The thaumatist cleared his throat. “I can stay nearby, if that would be beneficial- if it happens again and I am able to sense the magic at work from the beginning, that might help me distinguish exactly what is happening.”

Rastek doesn’t say anything. The thaumatist looks at me in askance, but I don’t know what to say to him. “I- I-” I look back at Rastek, silently pleading for him to respond. He barely glances at me, then focuses his eyes on the thaumatist.

“Stay nearby. Just outside, if you will.” Rastek’s voice sounds steadier now, though there’s still that rusty edge to his voice. The thaumatist nods, stands, dusts himself off, and heads out of the tent. Rastek slumps back down, supporting himself with one arm. He looked moments from falling against the tent wall and bringing the whole thing down on top of us.

We sit in silence for a while. Rastek doesn’t look like he wants to talk. He just gazes emptily into space. I can’t read his expression at all. It looks completely blank.

In lieu of speaking, I run the dream over in my mind. It feels like a memory- it’s not as faded and distant as most dreams are after I wake up. If it was a memory, then it must have been the day Rastek and I met. I certainly felt more comfortable in my own skin there. It makes me realize how constant the sense of alienation has been since I woke up here. I never feel like I know what I’m doing.

I’d agreed to work with him in the dream. And, apparently, I’d been poisoning people before that, if what memory Rastek said was true. Was I just an indiscriminate poisoner? What does that say about the person I was? The person that I am now? What does that say about Rastek, if he fell in love with a person like that? He seemed to be kind before- now I feel like I’m looking at everything he’s done or said in a different light.

A part of me wants to ask Rastek about this. I want to have some explanation, something to reassure me that I’m not as bad of a person as I think I am. But I don’t know if I can trust him. I’m worried he’ll lie to me.

More than that, I’m worried that he won’t. That it will be worse than what I’m thinking.

Rastek shifts suddenly, knocking against the tent wall and causing the whole thing to wobble. I look over at him. He’s moving his hand to cover his face again, but he’s not fast enough. I see the wet tear tracks running along his cheeks.

I speak before I can stop myself. “Rastek?”

He shuffles, turning partially away from me so he can cover his face more easily. He takes in a breath, but it catches and comes out sort of wet.

I’m not sure what to say. Rastek makes another soft noise, like he’s barely resisting sobbing, and my chest squeezes. “I, um,” I try again. “Are you… um.” I don’t want to ask if he’s okay, because that seems like a stupid question. But I can’t think of anything else to say. Eventually, I give up on words and just lean over to hold him.

Rastek doesn’t move to hold me back, but he also doesn’t try to move away, which I take as a good sign. He makes another quiet, wet-sounding sob. I pat his back. It’s a little awkward. But I don’t feel like I should let go.

It takes some time, but eventually, Rastek sniffs and moves away from me. He’s not covering his face anymore, so when he leans back, I can see that his eyes are red and puffy. “Was it, um. Bad, this time?” I say in reference to the slipping.

He looks confused for a moment before processing it. “It was not as bad as it could have been.” His voice scrapes his throat, raw and rough. It wavers, right on the edge of cracking. “You’re all right now, which is what matters.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Rastek.”

“It’s growing quite tiring, watching you nearly die over and over,” he says, his voice soft and tremulous.

“I’m sorry,” I say, since I can’t think of anything else. Rastek doesn’t say anything. He stares absently toward the wall of the tent. A part of me wants to comfort him. He looks so miserable, so pained. But another part wants him to comfort me. I want to be angry at him, that he kept things from me, but I can’t bear to yell at him when he’s in this state. I want him to tell me everything he knows, get all the information I can, and I also want to forget all of this every happened so we can go back to the way things were before.

My chest heaves with a soft sob. A couple of tears dribble pathetically down my cheeks. There’s a moment of silence, where I half-hope that Rastek didn’t hear me. Then he digs a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to me. I blot awkwardly at my face.

“If,” Rastek begins quietly, “you do not want me to be here with you, I do understand. I can arrange for someone else to-”

“That’s not going to make things better,” I say. Rastek falls silent. I take another moment to clean my face and collect my thoughts. “It’s not like anyone else understands the situation anyway. Even if I wanted to leave, I’m kind of stuck with you.”

Rastek stays silent. Maybe it’s a testament to how well I’m getting to know him, or maybe it’s just a sign that my memories are returning, but I can tell that it’s a wounded silence. “I don’t want to be mad at you,” I say. “You’ve been good to me, and I know it’s not your fault that things are like this. I just… I want to know why you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“When could I have told you?” Rastek asks. His voice is soft, surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t want to risk upsetting you and making you sicker. I planned to discuss it with you eventually. It wasn’t something I was deliberately trying to keep from you. There was just never a time that felt right.”

The worst part is, what he’s saying makes sense. I understand why he didn’t want to tell me. If I was in his place, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it either. And yet, I can’t help feeling hurt and angry that something so big was kept from me. It doesn’t make sense to be angry with him, but I want to be angry anyway. I want to do something that gets the emotions churning in my chest out so that someone else has to deal with them.

“We met because I was a poisoner,” I say. My voice sounds steady, if a little disconnected. Rastek stares at me in naked surprise.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. “We did.”

I take a moment to force the words out of my mouth. “I’ve killed people, then. Or at least, sold stuff that people used to kill other people.”

Rastek opens his mouth, jaw shifting as he scrambles for something to say. “You haven’t killed anyone. You’re not responsible for what people used your poisons for. It’s like what I said yesterday, about the weaponry. A weaponsmith who makes a sword is not responsible for the people the weapon kills-”

“It’s not the same,” I say. “Swords are practical tools- you can use them as a guard or to hunt animals. Poisons are just for killing.”

“People used your wares for hunting,” Rastek said. “For protection from wild animals. And yes, some of them were used to kill, but you were careful. Always to people who needed that.”

“Who would need that?” I mumble.

“You gave an undetectable poison to a young woman to poison her parents. It saved her younger sibling from being abused and sold to a man as his wife. Another man, you sold him a poison to kill his abusive wife and allowed him to gain her money along with his freedom. And you created a rather clever poison solution to protect a family from magic-empowered creatures that stalked their small farm.” Rastek affectionately cups his hand along my face, fingertips tickling my skin. “You were not evil or indiscriminate. You were clever and skilled and you used both medicine and poison as tools. Yes, you are formidable, and I’m certain that your poisons have been used to kill people. But you are not a killer.” He shifts his hand so he’s stroking it through my hair. “Sometimes, the best way to protect people is to stop the things that are hurting them. It can be painful to take on that kind of power. We both need to hurt and kill to protect things we care about. But it does not make us evil. It’s just the way of the world. There’s no shame in doing what you need to in order to survive.”

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “I- I just don’t want to hurt people.”

“I know. I don’t want to hurt people either.” Rastek took a deep breath of his own. “But I would. To protect you or any of the people under my command. That’s why we’re not evil. We don’t hurt to hurt. We only do it to protect.”

My jaw trembles as I open my mouth. “I don’t want to hurt people.” It takes considerable effort to get the next words out. “I don’t even know if I could do it to protect someone. Not even…” I can’t manage to get the words to rise to my throat. I hope he understands what I mean, though. Not even you.

Rastek is silent for a moment. His hand falls away from my face to rest on my upper arm, where he delivers a gentle squeeze.

“That’s all right. I’m not going to ask you to.” His hand moves away completely. Without that little touch, I feel a little disconnected. Like the few inches of air between us have suddenly become solid steel. “If you no longer want to make poisons, that’s fine. I won’t put pressure on you to do so. We may have met due to your skills with poisons, but it is not the reason I love you.”

He says those words, that I love you so easily. Like it’s something he never doubted. Like it could never be in doubt, no matter how much I feel like a different person who replaced his wife. It’s a weighty feeling, but also startlingly pleasant. Reassuring.

Perhaps it’s cruel of me, but despite knowing both his and my past, I can’t think of him as a monster. Not someone who promised to care for me, to even love me, despite my memory loss. Even if he’d shown no remorse, I don’t know if I would have been able to hate him for it. The love he offers me is too overwhelming not to accept.

“We, ah. We met at that ball in my town,” I say hesitantly. Rastek stares at me, his expression one of barely-constrained hope. Like he’s trying not to get himself too excited for something that might not be real. “I was sick, so I went outside the actual ballroom and that’s where we met. You took me to a private room to rest and we talked… We never danced, though, even if we were at a ball.” The memory gets distinctly fuzzy after that. I have to focus to even grasp any of it. “We stayed there half the night. Even though you were supposed to go conclude the ball.”

The guardedness of Rastek’s expression has melted away, leaving nothing but naked delight and disbelief behind. “You- you remember.”

“It just came back to me when I was sleeping. It’s jus that snippet, nothing else, though.”

Rastek lunges forward and I’m pressed into the expanse of his chest. His breathing shudders with emotion. The hug is about as tight as he can manage while still being mindful of my physical health. “You remember,” he murmurs. His arms shift and he pulls away to stare intently at me while he clutches my hands. “Tell me what you remember.”

I fumble for a moment, stumbling to pull up details I can give to him. “It was at a ball, one for your… inauguration, or something? You were introducing yourself as the warlord and I had to come, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I stepped outside because I was sick and then you came up to me and we talked. You recognized me and then… you took me to a room to sit down for a bit.” I grin at the memory. “It was a room they’d given you in case you found someone you liked, I think.”

“Well,” Rastek says, his smile never wavering on his face, “I did find someone, didn’t I?”

“You seemed very eager to convince me it wasn’t like that when we were in the room together,” I tease. Rastek chuckles, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“It wasn’t like that, at the time! I was trying to make sure you were comfortable.”

“My memory gets kind of fuzzy after we go into the private room,” I say. “Did we talk for a while?”

“Most of the night, if I remember correctly,” Rastek says. He grins in a way I can only describe as sheepish. “I believe I had to be fetched to preside over the closing ceremonies.”

“Seriously?” I ask, genuinely surprised. Rastek laughs.

“What can I say? You were quite fascinating. Though I suppose I should have been more careful about us being spotted when we went in there. I think not being in my bedroom helped prevent the rumors from spreading, but a couple politicians did make some comments the next day about warlords having impressive, ah. Stamina.”

I burst out laughing, even snorting a little. Rastek grins back. “No- no way! Oh my god, they actually said that?”

Something tells me Rastek was expecting this reaction, because he looks pleased with himself. “In so many words, yes. It was mortifying at the time, but you’re right- it is very funny now.” His expression shifts then, getting even more smug. “And, well, they weren’t exactly wrong…”

I practically double over, wheezing. One of Rastek’s hands hovers next to me, ready to support me if I need anything, but otherwise not impeding me. When I slow my laughter enough to straighten back up, I see nothing but fondness in his eyes. “One good thing about losing your memories- I can tell you my old jokes and you still think they’re hilarious.”

“You’ve told me that one before?”

“To the extent that you’ve asked me to stop bringing it up, yes,” Rastek says. “I suppose losing your memories gets my counter rest to zero, though. I could see how quickly I can get you to ban me from telling it again, though.”

“No,” I chuckle. “We will not be doing that.” Rastek grins back at me, eyes gleaming, and my heart flutters.

“As much as I would love to stay here with you,” Rastek says, glancing toward the tent flap to assess the sun’s progress in the sky, “I do have some work to attend to.”

I can feel my face fall, but I do my best not to show my disappointment too much. “Right. I get it.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can be,” Rastek says. He takes one of my hands in his and rests his other hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you something to eat, first, so you can take your medicine.”

Despite not having eaten a lot over the past day, my appetite is still pretty small. But I don’t think Rastek will let me squirm out of it, so I nod and brace my weight against him to stand. “Yes, I’ll- Oof.” My vision swims for a moment and Rastek’s touch vanishes as surely as if he’s pulled his hands away. I wobble, suddenly untethered, and reach out for him. Unfortunately, my vision is swirling into just an array of colors and I can’t find him. Distantly, as if through a thick sheet of plexiglass, I can hear Rastek calling for the thaumatist.

My vision gradually returns to clarity, like slowly adjusting the focus on a camera. I’m still standing, though I’m also leaning my weight pretty heavily against Rastek. One of my hands is fisted around the fabric of his shirt so hard that my knuckles have gone pale.

“Hm,” the thaumatist says. He looks almost fascinated, which is more disturbing than him being completely emotionless. He’s definitely leaning closer to me than I’d like. “Well. That is interesting.”

Rastek huffs impatiently. “Please. If you’re ever going to use the phrase ‘that’s interesting’ again, then at least do the courtesy of also explaining what you find so interesting without me having to ask.”

The thaumatist looks unperturbed, despite Rastek’s tone. “Your wife is being assaulted through magic.”

There’s a moment of silence. Rastek takes a deep breath in and lets it back out. The next word that comes out of his mouth is said in the most chilling tone I’ve heard from him. “How?”

The thaumatist continues to look mildly interested, at best. “Whoever is doing it seems to be trying to throw her soul out of her body once more. However, the protective spells on her are dampening its influence. It actually seems to be having the opposite effect- her soul, in response, is tethering itself tighter to her body.”

“That’s why I remembered something,” I say. The thaumatist doesn’t look surprised by this announcement.

“Yes, returning memories would be a likely side effect. However. I would not suggest allowing this to continue. The magic is not hurting her right now, but allowing the attacks to continue increases the chances that something will go wrong.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that we allow the attacks to continue. Even if they do seem to be helping with her memory,” Rastek says. “Can you trace the magic?”

“Perhaps, if it’s not otherwise designed to block me.” The thaumatist lifts his hands away from me, moving them through the air like he was tracing lines I couldn’t see. “Ah. They’ve got a bit of a sensor on this spell. The instant they sense me trying to trace it, they’ll-”

Something happens. It’s like my vision gets sharper or a weight eases off of my chest. I release tension I wasn’t even aware I was holding along with a big sigh.

“Yes. They ceased the magic to avoid me tracing it.” The thaumatist drops his hands.

Rastek purses his lips. “Did you get anything from it at all?”

The thaumatist tilts his head to one side, eyes distant. “Yes. The signature was stronger than I was expecting.”

Again, Rastek has to prod him to get him to say anything else. “Which means?”

“The magic user must be closer by than I thought,” the thaumatist says. “I was rather working under the assumption they were casting from a safe base some distance away from us. It makes the most sense, since that would make it harder to trace the magic. But this signature would seem to indicate that they are significantly closer.”

“How close?” Rastek asks. His shoulders are set, tense, and his teeth are gritted. He leans forward to the thaumatist. “As close as the enemy camp?”

“Possibly,” the thaumatist said, seeming completely unintimidated by a warlord leaning into his personal space. “I would certainly say it’s fairly likely- tracing the distance through magic signature is hardly an exact science, especially considering how fast it was dropped, but I would say it had a much stronger signature than I would assume it would have even coming from the nearest town. And given that our encampment and the enemy’s encampment are the only two settlements of people out here…”

“It is possible it could be a rogue agent who’s stalking nearby as well,” Rastek says. “I’ll send some soldiers to do a sweep nearby. At the very least, even if we don’t find them, it should send them packing, at least temporarily. If we don’t see any signs of anyone, then perhaps it’s time to show our enemies a little more aggression.”

He bares his teeth as he talks, a strange, strained smile pulling at his face. A worm of worry crawls its way into my stomach. “Rastek, don’t be too hasty. We need to be at least a little cautious.”

“I’m being as cautious as I can be, considering the person who nearly killed you might be right under our noses.” He looks at the thaumatist. “Do you think you could sense them? Track them using magic, somehow, if you know their magical signature?”

The thaumatist looks unimpressed. “I’m hardly a bloodhound.”

“But can you?” Rastek presses.

“Possibly. I offer no guarantees.”

Rastek nods. “Come with me, then. We’ll gather some soldiers and head out.” He turns toward the entrance of the tent.

“Rastek!” The cry bursts out of me, without even thinking about it. He stops, looking back at me. “Let me come with you.”

His expression drops into a solid mask of disapproval. “No.”

“I’m not staying here by myself. And do you really want me hanging out here at camp when the thaumatist is off with you? What if something happens again?”

Alarm darts across Rastek’s face before he shuts it down again. “That’s a fair point,” he says after a moment. “You’ll ride with me, then.” He turns his gaze to the thaumatist. “Stay here with her while I gather some people to come with us. If anything happens, you know how to alert me.”

“Of course,” the thaumatist says, though he doesn’t seem particularly concerned. Rastek steps toward the doorway, then pauses and hurries back over to me.

“Take your medicine and rest while I’m out. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” One of his hands cups the back of my head and he leans in for a quick kiss on my forehead. My skin tingles pleasantly under the tickle of his warm breath against my skin. Rastek straightens up and hurries out of the tent.

The thaumatist almost instantly closes his eyes and sits in the sort of cross-legged position that I associate with meditating. The air around him seems to be faintly charged with a feeling similar to, though not the same as, static electricity. It makes my brain go slightly fuzzy.

The tent flap shifts and a familiar face pokes through. I stare, surprised. “Ethan?”

It’s the servant boy from the kitchen, the one I’d spoken to a couple of times. He flushes furiously, pink spreading up to the tips of his ears. “My lady, you, uh. Remember my name?”

“Of course,” I say, before realizing that it might be strange for me to do so. “I thought you would have stayed back. I didn’t realize you were coming with us.”

Ethan’s face goes even redder, and he ducks his head so I can’t quite see his expression. I assume it’s rather bashful. “Y-yes, well. They indicated they could use another cook at the encampment and I thought it might be some more experience and anyway, I was the only cook who could really go, so I thought- yeah.” He drops the tray of food he’s carrying in front of me. The thaumatist shifts in his meditation, opening his eyes slightly. A strange expression flickers over his face- like he’s trying to get his eyes to focus on something right in front of his face. Ethan ducks in a quick bow and scrambles out the tent flap.

“Everything all right?” I ask the thaumatist. I can’t even tell if he can hear me. After a moment, his eyes close again. A moment later, he takes a piece of toast from the tray and starts chewing on it without opening his eyes.

That seems to be all the answer I’m going to get. I content myself with thinking that, if there really was something wrong, he would not be casually munching on toast. I take my own breakfast, then my meds. Rastek’s still not back. I occupy myself by flipping through a few of the books. The idea of handling poisons still unsettles me, but it’s also interesting to see how thorough my notes are. At least I seemed to put a lot of time and effort into the whole making poisons thing.

The tent flap rustles and I look up in time to see Rastek stepping through. The thaumatist opens his eyes and rises to his feet. “We’re almost ready to go. Your horse is already prepared,” Rastek tells him. The thaumatist nods once, then heads out, leaving me and Rastek alone together.

His expression softens when he turns to me. “How are you doing?”

Admittedly, the medicine I just took is making me both sleepy and nauseated, but I don’t want to say that in case he decides not to let me come. “I’m all right. Is everything ready?”

“Nearly. You’ll need to get on your riding gear.” Rastek pulls some sturdy-looking clothes out of a bag and helps me put them on. “You’ll be riding behind me the whole time. It might take a while to round the whole of camp, but we’re not going to be able to take any breaks.”

Hm. I hadn’t considered the no-breaks idea. I’m not entirely sure I can manage riding for an extended period of time without one. My legs hurt just thinking of it. But I have a weird, bad feeling, and that’s more pressing than the concern about an aching back and rear. “Sure. That’s fine.”

Rastek seems mildly surprised by my acquiescence, but he just nods. “Good. Then we’ll be off.”

We exit the tent together, with Rastek slightly in front of me. He leads me toward the edge of camp, where there’s a semicircle of soldiers waiting for us. A couple of them are dressed in armor that covers all of their bodies, and I do mean all of it. They remind me of knights, though the face shielding seems to be flatter than I remember knight helmets being. The others are wearing less armor, but their faces are still at least partially concealed by masks.

It’s a weird choice, considering that, at least from what I saw, none of the soldiers riding out into battle were wearing any sort of masks. Doesn’t that make it harder to ride? Or at least to see where you’re going? I consider the idea that they’re used to prevent inhaling the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves, but then, no one else on horseback has been wearing them.

Rastek must sense my confusion, or at least see it on my face, because he takes a moment to pretend to adjust his horse’s tack in order to speak to me. “We’re tracking magic users. Standard practice is to hide your face.”

“But not us,” I say, not questioning, just a little uncertain.

“We’re working under the assumption that they already know us,” Rastek says. “Anyone around here likely knows of me already- and if they’re the people who attacked you, they must know your face because they’ve already used magic on you.”

I grimace. “You’d think people would be more cautious about showing their faces at all, if a magic user could kill or hurt you based on knowing that alone.”

Rastek shrugs. “Maybe. But magic users that powerful are quite uncommon. Magic attacks are rare, at least distanced ones that require the knowledge of what someone looks like.”

“So I’m just massively unlucky,” I grouse.

“Something like that,” Rastek says. “I could get you a mask, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“If they already know me, I’m not going to bother,” I say. “Does this mean that the person is someone we know? Or could they just have seen a portrait of us and gone off that?”

“Portraits don’t work super well- they’re not always completely accurate, and that can interfere with the spell. Don’t ask me how exactly that works, but it always works best if the caster has seen what the person actually looks like, not the way another artist saw them.”

“Then that means the person knows us? Or at least me?”

“It could mean that,” Rastek says. “But more likely they saw us in passing, at a ball or something.” The horse shifts impatiently and Rastek straightens. “I would suggest asking the thaumatist about this if you want to know more. I was never all that good at the specific mechanics of magic.”

We settle in on the horse together. Rastek makes a signal with his hand and we start off at a steady, quick pace. The thaumatist rides next to us, looking incongruous between all the soldiers. Even his horse doesn’t seem to suit him- I keep feeling like he should be riding a ghostly pale horse instead of a sturdy brown thoroughbred. The horse we’re riding suits Rastek, though- steady, reliable, and strong. I can feel its muscles shifting as it runs.

The riding isn’t that different from any other time before- interesting to start with, then boring, then gradually painful. The saddle we’re in at least seems to be designed differently than the other ones I’ve ridden in. I’m no horse tack expert, but even I can tell it’s slightly wider and more padded than the other soldier’s saddles. That helps, if only a little bit.

We move through forests for a little while, then the trees thin and we hit fields. Every now and then, we’ll have a momentary stop while the thaumatist guides his horse in circles, looking at something the rest of us can’t see. But by midday, we haven’t found whatever it is we’re looking for, and I can’t tell if we’re actually any closer to doing so.

By afternoon, I’m starting to become genuinely concerned that I’m going to fall off the horse. My legs have crept past the ‘sore’ part of muscle tiredness and moved into the ‘generally kind of numb’ part. On one hand. Less painful. On the other. More difficult to ride a horse when everything from the waist down feels tinglingly dead. Rastek helps by keeping one of his hands on the reins and the other on my waist, gripping at my clothes. Whenever I slip sideways, he straightens me back out. I’m certain he can tell that I’m losing my balance more often now than when we started out, but he hasn’t made any comment on it. I don’t complain either- I asked to come on this trip and I knew it would be difficult, so I’m not going to whine about it.

The thaumatist abruptly pulls to a stop, tugging on his horse’s reins. His gaze snaps toward the west, perpendicular to the direction we’re riding. He’s still for so long that I start to wonder if there’s something wrong with him. The soldiers we’re riding with close ranks, drawing in a tighter circle around us.

“What is it?” Rastek calls out. His voice seems uncomfortably loud now that the clatter of horse hooves is mostly silent.

The thaumatist speaks, his voice barely carrying. “Something… is impinging on my senses.”

A couple of the soldiers shift nervously. Rastek ignores it. “Is it what we’re looking for?”

“Maybe. It’s communication magic. Which could be what we’re looking for. It could also be completely benign.” The thaumatist looks at Rastek, completely unconcerned and neutral. “Do you advise us to follow?”

Rastek hesitates for a couple of moments. The hand at my waist tightens. “We may as well check it out,” he says. “If it’s something innocuous, then we’ll just continue on our way.”

The thaumatist nods and spurs his horse in the direction he was looking in. We set off at a quicker pace, almost a canter (at least, I think that’s what it is- I’m not practiced with horse terms.)

When it happens, it happens so quickly, I almost miss it. One second, we’re loping across the plains, the tall grass waving around us. And then there was someone abruptly bolting away in front of us. The thaumatist’s horse rears with a shrill whinny. It takes me a moment to realize the fleeing person must have been lying down in the grass, trying to go unnoticed, before they realized we were going to trample them if they didn’t move. Their sudden appearance works to their advantage- the horses spooked and, while we were trying to get them back under control, the person was making headway through the grass.

Rastek yanks on his horse’s reins, forcing it into submission. With a single kick, he spurs it forward, charging after the person’s rapidly-retreating back. I hunker down in the saddle and cling on with all my might.

The person ahead of us must be using magic to run faster, because they’re almost managing to outpace us, even though we’re on a horse. They’re bent forward, almost parallel to the ground, trampling the tall grass in their way so thoroughly that it leaves a trail for us to follow. I

I can’t tell what they’re trying to do- even with their magical might, they’re not going to be able to outrun over us forever. We’re gaining on them steadily. It would make sense of they were trying to get back between the trees, since the terrain would slow the horses down enough that they could get solidly ahead and hide somewhere. But they’re instead moving deeper into the grasslands, heading away from the trees. Maybe they’re just trying to get further away from the encampment. Or maybe they’re looking for-

“Cut them off before they get to the Ley line!” Rastek bellows over his shoulder. A couple of the riders behind us break away, apparently trying to get around our target, but they’re going barely faster than us- I can’t tell if they can go fast enough to make it. Rastek’s not sure either, because he directs his next order to the thaumatist. “Choke the Ley line off!”

“Impossible, from this distance.” The thaumatist’s voice still sounds relaxed, despite him yelling from the back of a horse. “Physical restraint would be the most reliable course of action.”

Rastek growls. I can feel it rumble through his chest. “Hold on,” he tosses over his shoulder at me. He kicks his heels and the horse jolts forward, sprinting at full tilt. I cling to Rastek and grit my teeth so the wild bouncing doesn’t make me bite my tongue off.

We gain more on the running figure. The horse’s hooves are nearly touching the trail of the cloak that blocks their face from view. Rastek wraps the reins around one of his fists and draws his sword. The blade glints in the sunlight as he draws it down toward the figure, just within swinging distance.

It happens within a second. The figure, without braking stride, twists and something catches the sunlight for just a second. Rastek jerks and slumps sideways in the saddle with a loud cry. The horse whinnies, almost a scream, and veers away from the figure. I sway, clinging to Rastek- it’s fortunate that he’s strapped into the saddle, because I wouldn’t have been able to hold him up all by myself. There are shouts of confusion from behind me and the glimpse I catch of the other soldiers shows that some of them are breaking off, heading our way. The confusion is all the figure needs. They sprint several more yards away and there’s a pop of displaced air as they vanish.

“No,” Rastek groans, fumbling to straighten himself up. A wave of relief washes over me- he’s not dead, not even unconscious. He’s at least somewhat okay. “Fuck… dammit.”

“Hold on, hold on,” I say, making eye contact with the closest soldier. “Someone’s here to help.”

The soldier takes the reins and places a steadying hand on Rastek’s shoulder. “Sir, status report. Where were you hurt?”

“Ugh,” Rastek groans. His teeth are clenched, his breath coming in shallow little pants. I can feel the rigid tension through every line in his body. “They hit me with a throwing knife, I think.” He straightens up a little more and curls his hand away from where it’s cradling his side.

There’s immediately red. Streaming red, soaking through his clothes. It looks like the knife just barely missed his armor, burying into the lower left part of his abdomen. “It hurts, but I believe it’s just a flesh wound.”

“Can you make it back to camp?” the soldier asks. The other soldiers and the thaumatist stand in a loose circle around us. The thaumatist urges his horse closer.

“I’ve no great skill in healing,” he says, whispery and unconcerned. “But I could stem the blood for long enough that you could make it back to the camp where you can have proper medical care.”

“Yes,” Rastek says. I can hear that he’s gritting his teeth. “Do that.”

The thaumatist pulls his horse even with us, the soldier on Rastek’s other side breaking away to join the others. There’s a faint electric feeling in the air and the thaumatist’s had shoots out. He touches Rastek’s side for just a second, then pulls back, easing his horse away. Rastek huffs out a long breath, almost a wheeze.

“We should return to camp quickly,” the thaumatist says. “It won’t hold for more than a couple of hours,” Without waiting for a response, he turns his horse back toward the camp and kicks it into a quick trot.

Rastek doesn’t immediately follow. He shifts a little in his saddle, letting out a couple harsh breaths. I reach up to tentatively place a hand on his back. “Are you sure you’re okay to be riding back now? The thaumatist could maybe send a message or something instead, to get a healer out here.”

“No,” Rastek grunts. “It’ll take too long. And it’s not a bad wound.”

“You got stabbed,” I point out.

“I’ve had worse,” Rastek says. That does not make me feel any better. “It hardly hit anything important,” he continues, like there are any parts of him that are unimportant. But he’s already kicking his horse into higher gear, despite the short, tight breaths he’s taking every time his wound is jostled. I just settle into the motion of riding, trying to at least keep an eye on Rastek.

We do make it a solid amount of the way back to camp. In fact, we get close enough to be able to see the shapes of tents and people on the horizon. But the horse suddenly shifts beneath us, gait faltering in uncertainty. I struggle to grab onto something, but before I can even steady myself, I feel Rastek slip sideways in the saddle. The horse gives a shrill, frightened whinny, and my attention is abruptly split between trying to drag it to a stop and trying to stop Rastek from falling. I don’t manage either- Rastek falls sideways, still strapped into the saddle so he’s literally dangling from the horse, his head brushing the ground while the horse whinnies and starts picking up like it’s going to run. I put all my attention toward the reins, tugging on them as hard as I can.

The horse pulls to a stop just as the other soldiers fall in next to me. One of them grabs the reins while another hops off their horse to unstrap Rastek. A third tries to pull me off the horse to lead me away, but I shoo them away and scramble back to Rastek’s side.

Rastek groans and struggles to sit up as soon as he’s unbuckled from the saddle. One of the soldiers pushes him back so he’s lying on the ground. “Get a healer,” they snap and I hear the sound of hoofbeats headed away at top speed. I don’t turn to see who’s going. I just struggle closer to Rastek, forcing my way through the throng of concerned soldiers. They part pretty easily for me.

“Rastek!” I say. He blinks, focusing on me. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead, his hair slicking down to his skin. A flush sits high on his cheekbones, at contrast to the pallor of the rest of his face. His eyes focus on me, but their usual golden sharpness is lost- he looks a little foggy. A quick glance at the wound shows me that whatever the thaumatist did to stop it from bleeding has failed or worn off or something- there’s a fresh, steady trickle of blood staining his clothes once more.

“’M all right,” he murmurs. His voice sounds lost, like he’s out of it. “Just- just fell.”

I tap his face gently, but firmly, trying to draw his attention. He focuses on me after a couple of tries. “Talk to me. Stay awake, okay?” He did it for me. I have to do it for him now. And no one seems keen on taking me away, so perhaps this is a regular occurrence.

           “Hmm,” he grunts. His eyes close, then flutter open again. There’s definitely a concerted effort on his part to look at me. I’ll take it, rewarding him by brushing some of the hair out of his face and clearing some of the sweat away.

“What are you feeling?” I ask. His wound is still bleeding, but his reaction seems incongruent with dying from blood loss. People who have blood loss are often cold and very pale- he’s warm and sweaty, more like he has a fever. The knife did hit his guts. If it nicked something important and there’s bile or waste pouring into his bloodstream- I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know if that can be fixed.

No. There’s magic here. There’s medicine of some sort. There must be a way to fix him. I can’t think like he’s already gone.

Rastek takes in a breath. It rattles a little in a terrifying way. “F-fuck it hurts.”

“I know, I know,” I say, smoothing his hair back again. His eyes drifted mostly shut before he forced them open again. “Keep talking to me. What does it feel like exactly?”

“Burning,” he says. His breath comes in another trembling rasp. “Like something’s burning under my skin.”

It’s not the most helpful description. I don’t know what that means for him- it could mean something important got perforated, or it could mean some kind of infection setting in and I don’t know how to fix it.

Racing footsteps behind me alert me to the approach of a couple of soldiers and a healer. The healer drops to her knees as soon as she’s within reach of Rastek. She pushes me out of the way, not cruelly, but with blunt efficiency. Rastek makes a pained noise, but I’m not sure if he’s reacting to me being shoved or the healer pressing her hands against his side.

“What happened?” she asks, all business. One of the other soldiers fills her in. I change positions so I’m next to Rastek’s head, busying myself by stroking his hair and murmuring soothingly to him.

The healer pokes at him for a few moments, probing. Rastek twitches and grunts when she touches the wound, but I can see his gaze getting less focused. He’s fading, clearly exhausted. The healer binds his wound and directs the other soldiers to pick Rastek up on a makeshift stretcher. I rise to go with them and my legs buckle.

One of the soldiers grabs me before I hit the ground. “My lady?” she says. “Perhaps you should lie down-”

“No,” I snarl. I’m tired, so it’s not the most vicious sound I’ve ever made, but it does give the soldier pause. “I’m going with him.”

She hesitates, exchanging glances with the other soldiers. I can see their respect for my position warring with their obvious fear of what Rastek will do if anything happens to his wife. “Allow me to escort you, then,” she says after a few moments. I nod. I’m not sure I could make it wherever they’re taking Rastek without help.

As it turns out, they’re taking him to a large tent in the middle of the camp. I can hear whispers and gasps from soldiers as they see us walking through. I ignore them, keeping my eyes fixed on Rastek. His tail dangles off the stretcher and I can see it flex ever now and then. It’s reassuring. It means he’s not dead.

Once we’re in the tent, the healer sets up a section blocked off from the rest of the tent by curtains. I’m forced off to one side, almost pressed up against the curtain barrier as a few other healers come in and start fussing around him. I’m in the way- I know I am. But I can’t bring myself to leave. If something happens to him- if something happens-

No one tries to get me to leave, but no one speaks to me either. They’re all focused on Rastek. I wait, twisting my hands together, my heart in my throat. It’s the only thing I can do.

I don’t know how long it takes exactly, but after a while, the bustling of healers slows. A few of them clean up their tools and hurry off to work on other soldiers. I get a good look at Rastek for the first time since they’ve started working on him.

They’ve stripped off his armor and shirt, leaving his chest completely bare. It would probably be hot, but his sickly paleness and labored breathing really take way from that. His side has been thoroughly bandaged, but I can see lines of red tracing up his side, moving out in a starburst pattern from the wound. It reminds me of an infection.

“We examined the wound,” one of the healers says, turning to me. I startle a little- they’ve been ignoring me for so long I started to forget they could even see me. “The wound is not deep, and it managed to avoid his organs. It required stitches, but the cut itself is not dangerous. On its own, it would take a while to heal, but it would certainly be survivable.”

I can sense the weight of something unsaid behind her words. “There’s something else wrong.”

The healer looks a little uncomfortable. “We were hoping for your assistance with this, my lady.”

I’m really hoping my face doesn’t show how worried that request makes me. “I’m not a healer. What would you need my assistance with?”

She seems a little confused, but she explains regardless. “The knife he was stabbed with was poisoned. It’s the only explanation for why he’s gotten so sick so quickly. We were hoping for your assistance in determining what the poison is and what antidotes might be effective.”

It feels like the world drops out from under my feet. I can hear my breath whistling in my chest, coming too fast and too shallow. “I- I can craft poisons, but curing them is not really my area of expertise…” My voice sounds weak, even to my ears.

“Your husband said you had some training in medicine,” the healer says. She’s looking a little suspicious, but I don’t care. “Even if you cannot craft the antidote yourself, just being able to narrow the list of possible poisons would be a great help.”

Rastek stirs a little, head turning toward me. I can see his eyes focusing on me. His gaze is a little bleary, but I can read his expression. “I would like to speak to my husband for a moment,” I say, putting my focus into sounding like I know what I’m doing. “Alone.”

The healer hesitates, then dips her head and leaves, swishing the curtains closed behind her. I turn to Rastek.

He looks worn. Tired. There are shadows under his eyes and his breathing is heavy. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. If he wasn’t already lying down, he would look like he was about to collapse.

The urge to bust into tears hits me, strong and sudden. I fight it back. Rastek needs me. I can’t break down now.

“They said you’ve been poisoned,” I say. My voice is remarkably steady. Rastek dips his head. Even the effort of nodding seems to exhaust him.

“I would assume,” he says. “I had hoped it wasn’t the case, but…” His lips curl. “It’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” The word bursts out of me louder and harsher than I expect. The thing I said about my voice being steady? Gone. The word quivers like a leaf in a storm. Rastek looks almost frightened for a moment, and I clamp down on my emotions as hard as I can before speaking again. “We might be a little beyond unfortunate. Rastek, I don’t know what to do.”

He grimaces, licking his lips. Despite the fine sheen over the rest of his face, his lips are rather dry and cracked looking. “You don’t do anything. Go back to the tent. I’ll tell them you’re too close to work on this or something. It’ll emotionally effect you badly enough to make you sick.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Rastek. You’re dying.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “There are good healers here, and draconids are resilient. If they can keep me alive until the poisons works out of my system, then-”

“And if they can’t? You look awful already. You don’t even know what kind of poison it is. What if it’s always fatal?”

“Then I suppose I die,” Rastek says. There’s barely any emotion in his voice. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely unbothered or if he’s just too tired to emote. “I told you already, I won’t let anything happen to you, even if I-”

“I don’t care what happens to me! What about what happens to you?” I whisper-yell. Rastek sighs and gives me a mournful look.

“The healers will do their best to help, and I will do my best to stay alive. But right now, there’s nothing you can do.” He reaches out and I step forward to let his fingers interlace with mine. His hands are clammy and his fingers actually feel weak against mine. It’s so strange and scary to feel just how exhausted he is. I can’t help him the way he helped me. Again, that feeling of incredible uselessness washes over me. I can’t do anything. I can’t help him. I’m going to sit here and watch the person who cares most about me in this world die. Because I can’t do jack shit to stop it, even though I should be able to. Even though people expect me to.

Unless… I can help. I have to be able to help. I can’t leave Rastek here to die. I have to help. No matter what.

I turn, sliding my hand from Rastek’s, and whisk open the curtains around his bed. One of the nearby healers looks up at me as I step out. I swallow the anxiety swelling in my throat. “I can help,” I say. “But I’ll need time to research. Let me stop by my tent first to gather some of my belongings and then I can begin.”

“Wait,” Rastek says from behind me, his voice pitching with alarm. “You don’t have to-”

I look over my shoulder at him, mustering the most reassuring smile I can. “Please. Let me help you.” His brows draw together, but before he can say anything, he sags back and lets out a few wheezing coughs. He shivers, despite the warmth in the tent. I turn back to the healer. “It might take some time. But I will manage it.”

“Of course, my lady. I’ll have someone accompany you to the tent,” she says. A guard materializes at my side. I give them a nod of acknowledgement and cast one more look over my shoulder at Rastek. He’s gazing after me, brows furrowed.

“It’s okay,” I mouth back at him. “I will make sure you’re all right.”

As soon as we step outside the tent, the thaumatist appears out of nowhere. He doesn’t say anything, but he does fall into step beside me as I walk. After a few moments of silence, where he doesn’t seem to be preparing to say anything, I speak. “Rastek was poisoned.”

The thaumatist nods. “Yes. I overheard.” He turns his gaze to me, thoughtful and assessing. “I also overheard that you were planning on helping.”

I glance at the guard. They don’t look like they’re paying attention, but I still don’t want to be too open about my memory loss. “Yes. He’s my husband. Of course I’m going to help.”            The thaumatist nods and falls into silence. I can still feel his assessing eyes on me, even when I’m not looking. It unnerves me.

When we arrive at the tent, the guard stops to wait outside for me. The thaumatist does not. Instead, he ducks into the tent right on my heels without waiting to be invited.

“I assume you want to talk about something,” I say as he glances around.

“I am here if you wish to talk about something,” he says. “I thought you might. Given that you’re volunteering to help unpoison your husband. With precious little knowledge about how poisons work.”

“I have some memories back,” I mutter, retrieving a few books from my stash. “And I’ve got all of my old notes. I have to be able to figure something out.”

“There is no guarantee you will be able to do that,” the thaumatist says. “And working off of incorrect or incomplete memories may not allow you to create the antidote. It may only poison him worse.”

I stack my books and turn to glare at him. “Are you here to stop me, then? Because I’m not just going to sit here. I can’t.”

The thaumatist shrugged. “In truth, I don’t really care if you save him or not. He’s a good employer. But someone of my skill could find employment anywhere I desire.” His voice is perfectly flat, like he’s saying something everyone already knows instead of bragging. “But you are, strictly speaking, my client currently. I am supposed to be ensuring your health. Which is why I would like you to exhibit caution.”

I narrow my eyes at him. If he doesn’t care about Rastek, why the hell would he care about me? Then again, he’s definitely proven himself to be strange. “You can’t possibly be interested in my just because I’m your client.”

The thaumatist shrugs, making his robe shift on his shoulders. “You are an interesting case. I’d like further opportunity to study the spell on you and its general effects. Which I cannot do if you are dead. Or comatose.”            That gives me pause. “And are either of those things likely to happen?”

“It is a possibility, depending on how strong the spell is and how determined you are to retrieve your old memories. If it has some form of failsafe, trying to regain your memories all at once could become quite damaging to your mental state.”

My eyes narrow further. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“No,” the thaumatist says. “Because you were recovering them slowly enough that it wasn’t a concern. But now you are going to deliberately attempt to recover at least some of your memories, which is much more dangerous. Especially considering your fragile physical condition.”

“Then you are going to stop me,” I say. The thaumatist shakes his head.

“I have no real intention of stopping you. Only of warning you of what might happen. Attempting to recover your memories may damage you. Possibly severely enough that you will not survive.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “And I don’t particularly appreciate you only warning me because I’d make a really neat subject for you.”

“That is not the only reason,” the thaumatist says with the barest hint of irritation in his voice. “If you die and Rastek survives, I would not put it past him to throw me in prison for failing to save you. If he does not kill me.”

“You couldn’t magic your way out of that situation?”

“Possibly. But draconids are known for their perseverance and I would prefer not to be hunted for the rest of my life.” The thaumatist crosses his arms over his chest. “Concern for me or yourself does not seem to be changing your opinion.”

I shift the stack of books in my arms, grimacing at their weight. “I don’t care about me if it means I can save Rastek. And, sorry to be rude, but I don’t really care about you, either. He’s been caring for me all this time. I need to do something to try and save him.”

“He’s been caring for you because he wants to,” the thaumatist says. “You’re not obligated to repay him.”

“No,” I agree. “But I want to.”

“You’re an idiot,” the thaumatist observes with the same casual air of someone commenting on a particularly brightly colored shirt.

“Whatever. You’re free to stop me,” I say, only because I’m fairly confident he won’t. sure enough, he sighs, but makes no moves to stop me as I head back toward the tent entrance.

He doesn’t try to stop me, but he does trail after me like a shadow as we head toward my work area. I don’t try to shoo him off. The more the merrier, right? Anyway, at least if I do manage to kill myself, there will be someone in the tent with me to drag my corpse back to Rastek. Or, at the risk of being too optimistic, maybe he’ll even save my life.

Once I’ve tucked myself away in my little work-tent, the first order of business is to find out exactly what Rastek’s been poisoned with. Unfortunately, diagnosing a poison is more difficult than I initially assumed. Several of them list symptoms that I’m not sure how to test, like determining if there’s ‘degradation to the stomach lining’ or ‘mild damage to the kidneys.’ A lot of different poisons also have similar symptoms, so differentiating them isn’t easy. And finally, several poisons are touted for only really being identifiable postmortem. I don’t have the luxury of waiting for that point. I need to identify the poison before it kills him.

The only bright spot is that, when I look through the book I wrote, there’s a section categorizing poisons based on their delivery methods. I can eliminate a decent swathe of poisons that need to be ingested to take effect, as well as several others that have weirdly specific ways of being administered (the weirdest being ‘direct spinal injection’). Several others I can eliminate based on their kill window. A lot of the more potent ones are powerful enough that we would have been dragging his corpse back to camp if he’d been hit with them. There are also several that don’t show symptoms until hours to days after the injection, which also eliminates them.

Even after taking down several swathes of possible poisons from the list, there are still over a hundred that it could possibly be. I comb through the list, going over each one in as fine detail as I can manage. Sometimes, there’s a major symptom missing that lets me strike it, like a certain poison always causing a severe rash all over the body within an hour of its introduction. But more often than not, the poison ends up getting shuffled over to my ‘possibility’ list, which gets more depressing to look at the longer it grows.

Even after looking into the details of each poison, the list of possibilities is still over fifty different poisons long. And my head is killing me. It pounds like someone is striking my temple with a hammer in rhythm, my eyes watering. My stomach turns and I drop my head into my hands, blocking out the flickering light of the room. It helps a little.

“You’re pushing the barriers of the magic,” the thaumatist says. His voice is a little distant, like I’m hearing it from the other end of a tunnel. “I would recommend taking a rest.”

I growl from beneath my hands. “I can’t take a break. Rastek is dying. I just need a few seconds.” My head throbs harder and I feel the blood drain from my face as my mouth goes dry. My stomach clenches and I manage to get my mouth over a cup before I spit up a mouthful of bile.

“I did warn that pushing the magic would have some physical effects,” the thuamatist says. I don’t notice him getting closer, but there’s suddenly a hand on my back. My headache recedes and my vision focuses. “I would advise taking a break. I can stabilize you, but the magic is not going to hold forever.”

“It doesn’t need to hold forever,” I say. “It just needs to hold until I figure this out.” The overall pain of my head has gone down, but every now and then, there will be a massive spike of pain that makes my vision go gray and fuzzy. I want to lie down. I want to bury myself in my pillows and hide until this pain goes away. But I can’t. Rastek is suffering so much worse than I am right now, and he’ll die if I don’t do anything.

Despite the throbbing in my head and my dizziness, I fumble for my book and force it open. It takes a few moments for my eyes to properly focus, and even longer for my brain to make the letters on the page into words. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. If I stop, he dies.

If I can’t figure out what kind of poison it is specifically, maybe I can combine some antidotes to cover my bases. I flip through the books, trying to locate some sort of comprehensive list of antidotes. There’s nothing comprehensive, and the list of poisons with the bright red marker of ‘no antidote known’ makes my stomach twist even worse. My vision blurs as I flip through the pages until the swirling words all blend together. I blink hurriedly, but my vision refuses to clear.

“You’ve been in here for a long time.” That’s Rastek’s voice. My head snaps up, surprise and relief burning in my chest. His name tries to rise to my lips, but it sputters before it gets there. Instead, a smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, like my body is moving on its own.

I speak then, my mouth moving on its own accord. “It’s only been a few hours.” As I speak, I register the room and feel rather surprised. I’m not in my tent anymore. I’m in a small stone room.

Even the surprise I feel is weird- there’s no physical reaction from my body. I can feel my heart thumping steady as ever in my chest and there’s no startled swoop of my stomach. My body moves on its own, like I’m locked into a full-body mechanical suit that’s being remotely controlled.

Oh, of course I can’t control anything. I’m not actually here. This is a memory.

“I’ve been trying to concoct a proper antidote to this poison. The issue is that when the body tries to purge it, it causes massive damage to the liver and kidneys, so trying to speed up how quickly the body gets rid of it is actually more dangerous. If I can find out some way to protect the liver as the poison is expelled- or maybe some way to neutralize it altogether-”

“Darling,” Rastek says. His voice is honeyed with affection as he steps closer. “You’ve been in here all day.”

“I haven’t figured anything out yet,” I admit. “There are some medicines that might be able to help the liver and kidneys, but nothing that’s strong enough to protect it entirely.”

“Speaking of medicine,” Rastek says in a prodding tone, “you need to take yours.”

“I took it,” I say. “It’s fine.” I step back from the book and stretch. My legs throb and both my knees and my spine crack. Rastek winces at the sound. “I’m not hurt, my joints are just a little stiff,” I mollify him.

“It’s not good for you to stand here all day,” he says. He steps closer and presses a kiss to my head. He smells like armor polish. “And perhaps I’m rather missing my wife.”

I massage my head. There’s a tension gathering around the base of my neck and back of my head that’s prepared to graduate into full-blown pain. “This is important.”

I’m not saying it’s not,” Rastek says. His voice is almost pouty, a tone I’ve never heard from him before. It’s adorable. “What I am saying is that, when I asked you to take this job, I didn’t expect you to commit every waking moment to it. You are allowed to have a life outside of it.”

“I do,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

“Nor did I expect you to sacrifice your health for it,” Rastek continues, his voice growing more pointedly concerned. “When was the last time you ate? Or rested?”

“This morning,” I say. “I’m hardly starving. And this antidote could save lives. I think it’s worth a little bit of discomfort.”

“You’re not obligated to cure every poison in the world,” Rastek says. “That’s not even what I hired you to do.” One of his hands rests on my back, running up and down along my spine. “What’s bothering you? You’re not this driven unless something’s eating at your mind.”

“Mrgh,” I mumble and don’t elaborate. Rastek gives me a few more moments, waiting patiently. Then he grasps my waist and hefts my up, prompting me to give an undignified squawk. “Rastek!”

“You were ignoring me,” Rastek says. “I was out of alternate options.” He shifts me like he’s preparing to throw me over his shoulder. “Now, I suggest you tell me what’s bothering you before I decide that you’re too tired to keep working and haul you upstairs-”

“Put me down! I’m fine! You can’t just drag me around whenever you want!”

Rastek’s voice is deeply amused as he answers. “As a matter of fact, I can. You’re quite light.” He sways me lightly, like I’m a particularly grouchy little cat that he’s captured. “Darling. Tell me what’s bothering you. Or I am going to bring you upstairs and sit in our room with you until you fall asleep. Which, given your state, shouldn’t be more than a few minutes, really.”

“Put me down first,” I say. Rastek considers the proposal, then lowers me to the ground. I groan. “I’ve been trying to cure this poison. I want to have antidotes on hand for a lot of the poisons I use. But this one’s proving tricky to figure out.”

“Hm,” Rastek says. He leans over to look at my notes. “No success so far, though?”

“Not that I can tell. I’ve gone over a few results, but it’s hard to make the antidote less dangerous than the poison. If I can find a way to make the liver more efficient while also stopping the damage it accumulates, I can do it, but I’ve gone over like five different ways of doing it and none of them seem to be right. This one is the closest,” I continue, stabbing a finger at the third example, “but that one causes a buildup of a different waste product that can cause death anyway, so I don’t think it’s working.”

“Darling,” Rastek says gently. “Perhaps it can’t be cured and you’re stressing yourself out over nothing.”

“All poisons can be cured.” I massage a hand over my head. “It’s just a matter of finding out what’s going to do it.” I squint at the page. My vision is blurring a little. “Maybe… Maybe if I find out a way to block the poison from receptors entirely? That might work? Unless that starts blocking too much and then the receptors can’t get what they need, which means-”

“You’re exhausted,” Rastek says, gently cutting me off. “Don’t try to hide it. I can see it. You’ve been at this for hours and you need to rest. Not curing this specific poison is not going to be the end of the world.”

I grimace, but flip the book closed. “Yes, I know. Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good,” Rastek says. “Come on. There are some flowers blooming in the garden that I think you would love.”

My vision blurs over and doesn’t clear. It takes me a few moments to realize that the memory has faded, and even longer to realize that my vision is still blurred because tears have flooded my eyes.

It takes me even longer to realize that there’s a hand on my back. Someone is speaking quietly, their voice gentle but insistent. “If you can hear me, please attempt to put your hand in mine.” There’s a hand in front of me, hovering steadily. It takes me two shots, but I manage to get my hand in there.

“Good.” There’s a feeling like static electricity. My eyes water even more, forcing a few tears out. “Talk to me, when you’re able.”

“Uh.” My mouth feels weirdly numb, but the more I move it, the more I’m able to form words. “I think I just had another memory.”

“Indeed.” It finally registers in my mind that I’m talking to the thaumatist. He gives my hand a slight squeeze before dropping it. “The magic is getting weaker, I believe. Your soul is starting to settle more firmly in your body.” The thaumatist gives me a look I can’t quite read. “Tell me. Your other life. You mentioned having a sister at one point, yes? Rastek mentioned it to me.”

“Yes,” I say, not sure where he’s going with this.

“What is her name?” The thaumatist’s voice is light, but something about both the tone and the question makes my stomach do an unsettled flip.

“It’s-” I stop. My sister’s name. I should know this, obviously. It’s my sister. I’ve known her since she was born. So why can’t I remember it at all?

My mind scrambles, clawing through names, but the uncertainty only makes it worse. My heart pounds in my chest. “It’s… it’s…” A couple of names float to me, but I can’t tell if they’re right or not. My stomach rolls. “I think it’s… Eryn?”

“It may be,” the thaumatist says. “But as far as I can recall, that is the name of your sister here.”

My mouth feels dry. I lick my lips and try again. “It’s… Corrinne.”

“Again. The name of one of your sisters here.” The thaumatist’s voice shifts ever so slightly, taking on just a bit of pity. “As you recall more of your time here, your other memories are fading. And the more you take on this task of trying to heal Rastek, the more likely it is that you will regain memories.”

“So I’m going to forget everything in my old life?” I ask.

“Not everything. There will probably still be little bits and pieces that you can put together. But a large amount of it will fade. Names of people, places, details.” The thaumatist gives me an assessing look. “The two sets of memories can’t exist at the same time. One will always overwrite the other.”

“The more I try to save Rastek, the more I’ll forget about my old life,” I say. “My choices are either forget everything in my old life or let Rastek die.”

“That assumes your old memories are going to be enough to formulate a cure. They may not be,” the thaumatist says.

I grit my teeth. He’s right. Even sifting through my memories, there’s nothing that conclusively points to an antidote. There might not be anything at all.

But if I give up, what am I giving up for? Some hazy memories of a life that I don’t even have anymore? I need to try. I need to do whatever I can to save him. No matter how slim the possibility is. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

“In the memory, I was trying to find an antidote,” I say, “but I wasn’t finding anything.” I close my eyes, scrunching my face up with the effort to remember. “We were talking about trying to keep a patient alive even though their liver was failing, because the poison would make their liver worse the more they tried to clear it from the body.” My head throbs. I ignore it. “I think… that’s kind of like what Rastek has now. Maybe that’s where the memory came from.”

“What antidote did you find?” the thaumatist asks.

“That’s the issue. I didn’t find anything,” I say. “No matter what I tried, the poison was still killing the patient. If you let it stay in the body, then it gradually damages everything until the patient gets so sick they die. If you try to get it to filter out faster, it damages the liver and kidneys until the patient gets so sick they die anyway.”

“I’m afraid all this stuff is a bit over my head,” the thaumatist says.

“You don’t need to say anything, I’m just talking out loud to try and figure this out,” I say. “There’s got to be a way we can balance this. There’s always a solution. There has to be.” My head throbs even worse and my vision starts to blur.

“The magic is surging again,” the thaumatist warns. “Your soul is-”

“Fuck that.” I grit my teeth. My vision blurs alarmingly, but it doesn’t fade away. “Not right now. I have other shit to do.”

Slowly, my vision slides back into focus. My head throbs, but I squint through it. The thaumatist stares at me. I can’t read his expression, but I think he’s surprised. Or maybe a little horrified. “That… was not something I was aware could happen. Fascinating.”

“You can study it later! We just need to make sure they his liver and kidneys don’t give up while we’re getting rid of the poison. If only we had dialysis, that would make this all so much easier!”

“I am afraid I’m failing to understand what you’re talking about,” the thaumatist says.

“That’s fine, just let me think. I don’t think we can do a dialysis equivalent, so we’ll have to do something that prevents the poison from hurting his body. Or at least something that stops his liver and kidneys from collapsing completely. Gotta help them limp to the finish line and fix them later.” My head’s still pounding, though it feels strange now. More like I can feel my blood pulsing through my temples than any pain. There’s a tingling behind my eyes and in my fingers. Something is prodding at the edge of my memory, not concrete, but almost there. It gives me a rush of confidence. I know how to do this.

“The medicine that I use is designed to strengthen my muscles to make them stand up against the degradation that’s constantly wearing them down. If I can remake another medicine that does something similar for his liver and kidneys, maybe that can work…” My voice trails off into mumbles. The thaumatist watches me, but thankfully doesn’t say anything else. Every now and then, when my vision starts top blur severely and my head swims, he lifts his hand and there’s a tingle of magic in the air. Whatever he’s doing seems to be keeping the worst of the magic at bay- every time he waves his hand, my vision refocuses and I get a little rush of energy.

I move through my supplies with a practiced ease. It’s weird- the less I think about it, the easier it is to do. My body moves almost without conscious input from my mind. I pull herbs off the shelves, letting instinct guide my actions. My brain buzzes with energy. I’m going to save him. I can do it.

The entire process takes hours. My legs ache and tremble, my head pounds with a continuous pain, and my brain feels like someone’s run it through a wringer. I feel awful. But I have something that I think will work.

There’s a pretty big part of me that realizes this isn’t a good idea- I’m testing this on my husband, who’s injured and weak, and it’s an antidote I’ve made mostly on instinct. But I don’t have much other choice. And, despite the anxiety of my head, my gut is calm. There’s some innate part of me, deeper than any other part, that knows I’m right. This will work. I would bet my life on it.

I would bet Rastek’s life on it. That’s more important.

“We need to take this to him,” I say.

“I can take it,” the guard, who’s been half asleep the entire time, says. “My lady, you should get some rest.” He honestly looks pleased just to be of some use, but I shake my head.

“I have to give it to him.” I have to be with him when he takes it. I have to see if it works. And, really, I have to be there if it fails. I can’t just give it to him and hide away if he dies. “You can come with me. But I need to be there.”

The guard looks unsettled, but he nods. The thaumatist gives a slight bow to me. “Go to your husband. I will join you later, to ensure the magic in you is still stable. But you will be all right for now.” He waves a hand at me. “Go.”

I gather my antidote and run.

The running doesn’t last very long. I end up walking back to the medical tent, and not very quickly at that. The guard follows my footsteps silently, eyes glued to me.

The tent is quieter when we arrive. Rastek has been moved, shuffled to a more secluded area and surrounded by a curtain. One of the doctors looks over at me when I enter.

“He’s resting. One of the servants stopped by to bring him some dinner,” she says. “They’re trying to get him to eat, though I’m uncertain how receptive he is.”

I lift the bottle in my hand. “I’ll dismiss them. He needs to drink this and rest. I’ll keep an eye on him.” The doctor nods and turns back to another patient on a bed. The guard following me stops at a gesture from me, allowing me to step behind the curtain without him following me.

Rastek’s area is bigger than before, allowing space for a bed and a few other people to stand around him. He’s breathing, though shallowly. Bending over him is another person, their back to me. My brain stutters for a moment before I realize that the person is familiar to me.

“Ethan?” He snaps his head up toward me, eyes wide. And that’s when I see that he’s holding a flask of something dark and viscous.

Ch. 8 here

[satancopilotsmytardis]

*breathes deeply

Oof. This was a lot. Dabi knowing he should leave but he can't because he has to know just what this guy is to Shig. It doesn't really seem that Dabi knows a whole lot about the kink scene, just by the way he described everything happening.

Dabi shifting back because he gets horny and gets off to them. 🫣 I don't know how to feel. Although knowing Dabi, he's also getting off on the shame of it too. (You know the author's good when you also feel like an uncomfortable voyeur.)

Dabi realizing that he could never have Tomura that way, because he's just a cat to him. Even if he was to reveal himself, there's the chance that Tomura would hate him for lying. That and the fear of rejection that comes with the fact that he'd been lying for months. Pretty much spying on him and using him. My heart can't take this.

Oh everyone knows, whoops.

Dabi moping after the incident, debating whether to leave or not is heartbreaking. He tries to punish himself, but that makes Shig worry so he can't do that. He can't leave either because that'd hurt him too. He's stuck because it's either him or Shigaraki suffering, and he really doesn't want Shig to suffer more because of him. 😢

No! That does not mean stop being human.

Oh, we get to see how a meeting with the less favorable League members go. Exciting!

...

...

...

TANCO WHAT THE FUCK?!?!!

So AFO bribed Moonfish with flesh to kill the 'distraction' Tomura is having. And Dabi nearly died. (How the fuck could you do this to Tomura on his birthday? He did not wish for his cat to almost die.)

The only thing Dabi thinks about while dying is Tomura hurting again. His job was to make Tomura happy and he failed at that. Agajfkrbee Dabi not expecting to be sad when he dies again fucking hurts. (He knows the League will take care of Tomura, that's sweet)

"Being Onigiri was worth every pain of being Toya and Dabi because they brought him to Tomura." 😭😭😭😭😭😭 He was happy, that's why it was worth it. He didn't think he deserved happiness, and he got it anyway and didn't want to let it go. He agrees to stay alive because he's not gonna let down Tomura. Because Tomura cares and he can't do that again. 😭😭😭😭

I can now see how you made yourself cry. You made me fuckin cry too.

Recovery is a bitch. Dabi promising to do better for the League, because there's no way he'd be doing it for himself.

Dabi hating the cone like a true cat.

Toga trying to make Shig and Keiro happen because she wants the drama and she's a romantic at heart. And her getting the pet stairs. Toga is such a sweetheart. I love her so much. Dabi trying to condition Shig to hate Endeavor.

Tomura standing up to AFO. I'm so cheering for him. Especially because he tried to fucking kill Onigiri. You don't go after a man's cat.

Stain's back! Watching Spinner and Toga lose it over their idol. And Stain just not caring lol. He just shuts them both down. It's interesting to see your take on Stain, since he's never been a major part of your writing before. I adore how you write characters and Stain is no different.

Taking buttons? Oh however can Dabi abuse them? Immediately demanding treats. Not surprising. Aww a pet button, how cute.

...I'm crying again damnit. Dabi just can't. Tomura doesn't understand because he's just a cat, and Dabi wants him to know. He wants Tomura to know so bad he wants to cry only to find out he can't. My heart can't take this anymore.

Tomura admitting to bring Stain back as a bodyguard for Onigiri. Because he couldn't handle that loss again. He's nearly lost Oni twice and he's so determined to keep him around.

It's cute that Stain tells Onigiri he did a good job helping Shig. Because it really was the cat.

First babysitting job for the cat. Tomura learned his lesson with Toga and now has instructions for the treat jar. Dabi being smug that he has more hidden. His favorite button. 🥺

WHAT?! Stain knows?! You broke my brain. Officially gone. Does that mean Stain's a shifter too? Is that how he got around unnoticed for so long? I have so many questions now.

Dabi has two choices, be a dumb cat, or tell the truth. And we know Dabi isn't gonna tell the truth.

God this chapter was such an emotional rollercoaster. I ate it up though and I can't wait for more. May the Muse be with you my friend.

YES, YESS, YEEEESSSSSS!!!

Dabi was such a mess this chapter from the voyeurism, to nearly dying, to confessing his feelings, to getting found out! He was going through it!!!

Stain is so immediately done with his fan club, Onigiri is the only one who gets a pass!

Dabi does have to immediately abuse the buttons, you can bet that Shigaraki had to hide the "treat" button as soon as they brought it upstairs

I'm so excited for the next chapter and I'm so glad you enjoyed this one! Thank you so much for commenting!

[joonkorre]

fill a form, wait in line

@drarrymicrofic prompt: different

Can the same route lead to a different destination? Certainly. All he has to do is get off at another stop.

But the train keeps on going, the doors are locked, and Harry is glued to his seat. AO3

Harry wakes up, mist and absolute silence surrounding him. His feet lead the way.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry marries the love of his life.

The wedding takes place on the Northumberland coastline, a compromise they reached after debating whether to conduct the ceremony on a Quidditch pitch halfway across the continent or the Hogwarts courtyard. It’s overall a grand affair, with long wooden tables and burgundy centrepieces and flora emerging after every step down the aisle. Ginny has splurged on a chiffon dress that she’d never wear normally but is perfect for the theme. Harry’s allowed paparazzi for once. A wedding like this belongs nowhere except on the front page.

The kids come soon after. Ginny leaves the naming to him, and naturally, he names all three of his angels after the people they should look up to. There’s never a peaceful day with them running around, especially not when the Granger-Weasley siblings come over. Even then, Harry has to duck his tear-stained face into his wife’s neck as their youngest, Lily, boards the Hogwarts Express for her First year. Like everyone else, they adjust to the too-empty house and fill their calendar.

The young grow taller and the old crouch lower. Charlie flies over to attend Harry’s retirement party, and they laugh about the kind of back pain that magic can’t cure. By that point, James has already found himself a fiance, Ginny has been years into her full-time gardening hobby, and they’ve moved places four times. Albus comes home for weekly dinners and Lily visits once in a while, bearing souvenirs and a grin. 

Life goes on just like that for a few decades. When people ask, Harry always replies that as expected, he’s perfectly content.

At 125 years old, Harry passes away with his loved ones all around him.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

Harry nods, sure as can be. Sure as death and taxes, as the white of King’s Cross.

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Do I?”

“Is there free will in this?” There are tickets in the train driver’s hand, all punched in the same incomprehensible shape.

The question is easy and Harry has an answer to it, but somehow it feels odd to say. His seat jolts a bit. Looking around, his eyes widened. He doesn’t remember getting on the train.

“Where’s your next stop?”

The train driver is gone, and Harry doesn’t need to leave his compartment to know that every other one is empty.

“Wherever I arrive,” he says to the white ceiling. That, too, is routine.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry celebrates his and the love of his life’s anniversary.

Ginny doesn’t mind him being distracted throughout their date as she already talks enough for the both of them. Such a great girlfriend she is. Thus, it feels logical for him to ask for her hand in marriage by the end of the night. He never checked her ring size to buy a ring, and Ginny doesn’t mind either.

Their wedding is elegant. Held in the Italian restaurant they regularly dine in, they have just over 100 guests present. No paparazzi. When Harry reads his vows, he can’t help thinking about how quickly he finished drafting them the night before. Words flowed like the lines he wrote in detention. Some guests cry when he’s done, which isn’t all that surprising. If anything, the food is decent. 

Harry and Ginny make the perfect couple. They don’t fight, they share responsibilities equally, and they respect each other’s personal space. Even then, Ginny gets her knickers in a twist on occasion about how easy-going Harry is, how he doesn’t have his own opinion on important life decisions and just agrees with her. His usual reply would be “Shouldn’t that make me the ideal husband?” It doesn’t improve the situation, but it does get Ginny to not talk to him for a day.

He’s promoted to Head Auror in due time. He gets to King’s Cross every September for his three children despite his busy career, even if watching the train disappear into the distance feels wrong somehow. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Ginny comments that it’s the only time he displays real emotion anymore. He’s uncertain about that as well.

Life goes on, as it does. There’s a throwaway fiasco with a Time-Turner, but it resolves itself out. Ginny switches from her Quidditch career to being a sports editor due to her injured legs. The children get over their teenage rebellion phases and grow to become capable adults. Both he and Ginny retire at some point. Hermione and Ron visit once in a while.

If anyone asks, Harry’d say he doesn’t remember much of the past few decades. He’s not sure if this is resignation or acceptance.

At 125 years old, Harry passes away in his sleep.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Do I?”

The train driver closes the cabin door, and Harry’s reaction to suddenly being on the train is more instinctual than real.

“Where’s your next stop?”

Harry answers without thinking, staring at the lack of scenery outside. Suddenly, so powerfully it punches the breath from his lungs: dread.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry asks the love of his life if they can get a divorce.

“No, we’ve only been married for two years,” Ginny argues, her eyes red. “Whatever’s wrong, let’s work this out together, okay?”

Harry genuinely has no idea why he was in such a hurry to propose years ago, as if he felt the edges were fraying and had to be fixed. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her. So he agrees. They work it out together. Neither of them mentions it to anyone else.

They have kids. Three, all named after proper role models. The children turn out okay, more or less, as they ought to. Since he’s a parent, Harry finds himself standing at King’s Cross every year, his wife quiet behind him, both waving at lingering black puffs of smoke as the Hogwarts Express gets farther and farther. Then they head home and clean and go to work. They fight a normal amount.

At some point, Hermione and Ron have gotten tired of him. It’s not an unexpected development, but it’d be a lie if he says it doesn’t sting. On Ginny’s part, he knows she works overtime most nights at the publication because Lavender fulfils her emotional needs. Harry cycles through being a Ministry worker, a floo technician, and a businessman, trying to find something new that he can feel accomplished about. None meets the criteria, and he’s toeing that line between frustration and apathy.

The kids pay their visit sometimes, during which he finally musters enough energy to face their resentment. He’d yell things just to yell and feel his breathing pick up and yank gravelly coughs out his sandpaper throat, and it’s then that he remembers he’s human again. In nanoseconds, he wants to ask himself why he “worked things out,” why Ginny hasn’t filed for a divorce, why everything is the same in only different packaging, why he even has these questions.

If anyone asks, Harry’d say he needs to go. Go where, he doesn’t know either.

At 125 years old, Harry dies alone in a motel room.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Surely not,” Harry replies, and it feels like he’s wading in the deep end. “There must’ve been times when I say something else. Do something else.”

The train driver is silent.

“Right?”

Harry blinks, opening his eyes in time to spot the moment he steps over the threshold, one foot still on the station platform. The world tilts just a few degrees, and he turns his head right.

Whistling so high it’s comparable to a screech, the train barrels straight toward him.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry responds to a joke from the love of his life.

“What, are you getting cold feet?” Ginny smirks, a slice of pizza halfway into her mouth.

Harry stares at her. “Yeah.”

She meets his gaze without anger and only sets her food down. When the first tears drip from their faces and splatter on the table, it’s deliverance. 

“I guess you do seem different lately,” Ginny says hours later, curled up against him with her ankles brushing his. The world is dark outside their window and their canceled wedding is a week away. “After your birthday, you look agitated all the time and… I don’t know, but a part of me was preparing for it. My reaction earlier was way milder than it would’ve been otherwise.”

Harry combs his fingers through her silky hair, quiet.

“Do you regret your time with me?” He eventually asks. “I know what I did was unfair, being the one to ask for your hand in marriage just to…”

“Come on, sound it out,” Ginny pats his cheek. “I actually don’t regret it. Live and learn, y’know? And I’m glad to know that you’re a good boyfriend but a shite husband. Better now than years later, by which point I’d probably kill you for wasting years of my life. Or maybe not. That’s worse, probably.”

She shifts and yawns a bit. “How about you? Do you regret our relationship?”

His heart breaks. Harry’s never been honest with her about how he thinks he’s been playing out a script all this time, how he’s less the captain and more the ship, unable to do anything but let ocean waves steer him about. He doesn’t plan to tell her that tonight feels like a breakthrough for him either.

“Not at all,” he says. This, he can be honest about.

People don’t take the news lightly, least of all the Weasleys. Ron socks him in the jaw, hard, since he was the one helping Harry surprise Ginny with the proposal. Harry’s still seeing stars when Molly finishes digesting the news, her face turning to the shade of Weasley red and her wand clenched to the point of shaking. Amidst it all, Harry laughs. An exhilarated, visceral laugh that makes his entire body lock up, the kind he doesn’t even think he's capable of. Ginny stops her frantic explanation to gawk at him, then she laughs as well. Harry is only banned from the Burrow for two weeks.

Harry pivots from Auroring to entering college. Being a Ministry worker straight out of Eighth Year, Hermione admits to feeling shocked that he’d be the one to choose that route. But she helps him relearn how to study, cries at his graduation ceremony, and lets him borrow her owl to send his teaching certificate to McGonagall. It’s with a raised brow, but the Hogwarts headmaster shakes Harry’s hand with barely concealed pride after their interview.

The entire time spent in the Auror Department is insignificant compared to the joy he feels when a Sixth year finally smiles, watching her first Patronus bounce across the room.

September comes. Returning students greet him as they walk past on platform nine and three-quarters. Flipping through a muggle magazine, Harry looks up and scans the crowd periodically. His brows furrow. He checks the suitcase guarded between his calves to ensure that no student-led prank got through. Spotting none, he goes back to his magazine, forgetting about the passing thought that someone is absent. Shortly after, the train arrives.

A new school year starts, and starts and starts and starts, until fifty-something years have passed and he’s taught DADA in every way thought possible. He’s participated in a few studies for novel Dark spells, refined the construction for certain defense procedures, dealt with Howlers from parents, so on and so forth. He’s also dated throughout the years, but no one sticks by him for quite as long as the towering stacks of paperwork in his office. Even then, working with cranky, hormone-filled students has divorced him from the notion of having a family of his own and bringing that issue under his roof.

But he likes his career. He likes his career, and when he announces his retirement, students hug him with red, teary eyes. Shy First years come up to him and confess that they were going to pick his class as their siblings did. Current professors who used to sleep during his lectures now shake his hand and bow.

If it hasn’t been abundantly clear to him over the past decades, it's clear now: Harry Potter is more than a child soldier. He is a beloved teacher.

Retirement is spent around the Weasleys and other retired colleagues who have little left to do but cackle obnoxiously in a pub. That goes on until he’s had enough of charming his own joints to keep working each day, so he hires a private caregiver. Janet is Ginny and that Belgian fellow’s grandchild. She’s snide enough to make him feel less like a burden; she has this uncanny ability to procure any tome or scroll he wants, no matter how esoteric; and she makes excellent sandwiches.

One day, he wakes up with the distinct knowledge that time will stop for him soon. He says—or mutters—something of the kind to Janet, and she sits down with him.

“Didn’t eat much these days,” Harry sniffs. Janet fixes his blanket and doesn’t look surprised when he continues. “Been seeing these. These little children.”

“Do you now?”

“They’re good kids,” Harry pats her hand. Smacks his dry lips and coughs a bit. “Say, why don’t I...”

It’s how he starts every book request. Janet hums patiently.

“Why don’t I have one of those yearbooks? In ‘98.”

“1999, old man.”

Harry grunts in annoyance, but she’s right. When she returns an hour later, poking out of her bag is a purple-bound book with silver embossments.

“You sure there’s nothing else you want to get?” Janet questions as she prepares afternoon tea. The other Weasley kids will visit soon along with Hermione, now wheelchair-bound and prone to napping. He ought to show them the yearbook.

“Eh,” Harry croaks, and Janet nods.

His knobbly hand slowly flips through the pages, feeling the slightest texture of yellowed years beneath his fingertips. Faces that might as well be anonymous as they are familiar, names that are no more than black-inked words, events and titles that are now footnotes in time. He sees himself and his friends repeatedly throughout the yearbook, mouthing the same words every ten seconds or walking across the frame in a loop. How these pictures were taken without him noticing, he has no idea. Or perhaps he’s forgotten. Anywho.

He skips to the index at the end, where everyone in his year (all forty of them, if one can believe it) is crowded into four pages, each dedicated to a House. The students who were absent in Eighth Year were included using their photos from years prior, lest the four pages reduce to two. Such youthful faces. If it’s not for the statues and books about him littering wizarding Britain, Harry would be more surprised at his appearance at eighteen. Sullen, angry, wounds all licked up but far from healed. He shakes his head. That boy would rather use that copper badge to hex anyone he thought was a criminal than meet a shrink.

Everyone else seemed just about what he expected. It does feel nice to put a face to hazy memories though, so he flips to the Slytherins. In front of the camera, they shed their signature smirks, and what remains is a veneer of bored arrogance he reckons only old money can don. His eyes shift to the centre of the page. They stay.

How curious.

“Jan.”

“Hm?”

“Y’know a… a Draco Malfoy?”

What makes Janet Gillard one of Hermione’s favorites is that she co-edited every new Hogwarts: A History edition until about thirty years ago. To this day, she can recite the names of every student and staff present at Hogwarts during the Final Battle.

“A who?” She speaks over the boiling kettle. “Malfoy? That line died out in the 1980s, why?”

He closes the yearbook. The doorbell rings and Janet strolls over to open the front door. When his guests come in, they bring gifts and stories to entertain him with, brightening instantly when they spot the yearbook on his lap.

He doesn’t say much as he watches them read through it, showing him and a smiling Hermione whatever they find interesting. Eventually, they reach the index, saying something about whether the Longbottom child was anything like her great-grandfather, or if the Patils have all moved to the States. When they get to the Slytherins, the chatter lessens, albeit out of respect for their elders who have dealt with these students in the past. Their gaze doesn’t gravitate to that one specific spot, their breath doesn’t stutter. Like nothing is amiss.

If anyone asks, he'd say, "That's not right." But no one does. His eyes slip to the ceiling, throat dried. He gasps.

At 125 years old, Harry dies along with the white, fleshy void of Draco Malfoy's face behind his lids.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

Harry opens his eyes to an empty corridor, the train floor rumbling beneath his feet.

“Don’t I?” He asks himself, curious.

A rattle nearly sends him bumping into a compartment, and his limbs finally move, carrying him forward. His footsteps echo in waves. Dust motes float about, the ancient air too stark a contrast to the white, almost sterilized environment of the Hogwarts Express. 

The train car is too long, and Harry doesn’t know how long he’s been running. There’s no sweat on his body despite the strenuous activity, his heart rate remains nonexistent, and once he realizes this, he forces his breath to quicken. Green eyes strain, flicking every which way. This is how it’s supposed to be, but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Far ahead, the minuscule vanishing point that the train corridor converges to eventually widens. His chest heaves in relief. Ever closer, the door has a window big enough for him to see into the cab beyond—and the driver. Harry pushes his legs to go faster. Something flares in his chest, stabbing and red-hot, sounding like fabric shifting and air whipping when he wrenches the driver around by his blue-clad shoulder, makes him look Harry in the face. But he's still running, and his hand grabs air.

Sensing something, the driver’s head turns to the side. Then he stands, leaving his seat and striding toward the door. Harry is two, three paces away. The driver’s gloved hand lifts to hook a finger on the blinds, on the verge of pulling it. One more step. Harry’s hands slam against the metal—body shuddering through the shock—and his eyes lift to stare through the window.

The pulled-low cap shifts a fraction of an inch, but Harry sees it. Wrinkled brows, a panicked glance. The rest of his face is covered behind the uniform’s overly high collar. Snap, and the blinds are down.

“Stop derailing it,” the train driver’s voice surrounds Harry.

His body sags against the door, eyes shutting no matter how much he tries to do otherwise. But he sees it anyway.

Pure silver.

****

One month into his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry stares down at the contract on his lap.

“Thursday next week, we’ll—Harry?” Robards snaps his fingers. Harry doesn’t jolt, and his head lifts to face the frowning Head Auror. “Training hasn’t even started and we’re getting distracted already? Focus.”

“I,” Harry starts. He says nothing more, just now registering the quill against his palm, smooth and waiting. Beneath it is the empty space where his signature goes.

At Harry’s silence, Robards shoots him a warning glance before continuing the speech. Something about schedules, benefits, duties, important missions that need someone full of potential like Harry to come and solve. Didn’t know why Harry was dithering about instead of joining the Aurors immediately after Eighth Year, seeing as the department offers mind counselling as well, but one can’t fault a young man for enjoying his prime while it lasts. Harry will get back on track soon enough.

The floor rumbles below Harry’s soles. He looks up from the contract, but Robards is still leaning against his cherry wood desk, unaffected, and nothing trembles. Shifting his gaze to the large artificial window behind that desk, Harry scans the manufactured blue sky and the looping white clouds. Realistic they may be, but he can never forget that he’s underground.

The white of those clouds feels too much. Almost clinical. Harry blinks at the thought, eyes aching, and it turns out he hasn’t blinked in a while. Robards has moved on to anecdotes, Harry can vaguely tell. Staring at the clouds for this long does something odd to his sight. A sheen of static-like specks fills his vision like every other time Harry stares at something until it becomes incomprehensible. But it’s different now. Why, he doesn’t know, but something changes.

Harry inhales. Stale air that didn’t exist before in this office fills his lungs, and a section of his brain sparks. He exhales. Metal heaves in his ears, ageless machines pumping a way through the fog. Always one designated way.

The air is back to its scentless quality. Harry tries to remember how it was earlier when something else floated through his nose and into his system, but memories slip past him. Maybe it’s not even a memory. Brows knitting together, Harry clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to read through the contract once more.

Words stop making sense. As his eyes flit across the parchment, Harry thinks of death, of lingering, of a tattered veil swaying in windless space, of whispers from the depth. The contract feels heavy in his hand, the quill too rough. Cold sweat dripping down the back of his nape, Harry’s head whips up so fast Robards stops talking. He doesn’t look at the Head Auror but at the clouds.

Pure silver is all he can see.

“Harry, what’s going on with you—”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” he starts. This time, he keeps going. “But I don’t think the Auror Department is right for me.”

Meeting Robards’s eyes, Harry smiles.

“Before I stop wasting your time, do you know the process of applying for the Department of Mysteries? Particularly the Death Chamber?”

[apenitentialprayer]

Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, by Felix Parra, 1875.

The saints are the true interpreters of Holy Scripture. The meaning of a given passage of the Bible becomes most intelligible in those human beings who have been totally transfixed by it and have lived it out. Interpretation of Scripture can never be a purely academic affair, and it cannot be relegated to the purely historical. Scripture is full of potential for the future, a potential that can only be opened up when someone "lives through" and "suffers through" the sacred text.

Pope Benedict XVI (Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration, page 78). Bolded emphases added.

Bartolomé de las Casas was born in Seville, Spain, in 1484. At age eighteen, he came to the newly "discovered" lands, and five years later he was ordained as a priest in Rome. As an encomendero, he owned indigenous people who worked for him in the gold mines. Although he claims he treated them kindly and fed them, he acknowledged that he neglected teaching them the Christian faith. He was also a horrified eyewitness to a massacre of Cuban natives by invading Spaniards. [… But t]he text that was at the center of Bartolomé de las Casas' "conversion" is Sirach 34. In April 1514 he read this text in preparation to preach to the Spaniards who came to the new world to establish new villages. The passage immediately challenged his current privileges as an encomendero. By his own admission, he read these verses in light of the situation of the indigenous people working for him in the Indies and realized that he was living in darkness; he was blind to the fact that he had become a tyrant who treated people unfairly. Thus, Bartolomé de las Casas embraced the mission of "preaching against injustice in order to bring light to those dominated by the darkness of ignorance" [History of the Indies]. His audience comprised people unable to realize the injustice behind their actions against the indigenous people, "such was and still is their blindness." He then proceeded to preach sermons against the oppression of indigenous people and to highlight their deplorable condition. His words were later followed by his decision to give up his "right" to possess slaves. His fellow Spaniards were in shock: "Everyone was surprised, even astonished, to hear this, and some walked away remorseful while others thought they had been dreaming — the idea of sinning because one used Indians was as incredible as saying man could not use domestic animals." [… In 1543] he was named bishop of Chiapas. The authority attached to this position allowed him to engage in official debates with those defending the use of violence in the evangelization of indigenous people, such as Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda (1551). After a fruitful life defending indigenous people in Spain and in the new world with his pen and his preaching, de las Casas died in Madrid at age eighty-two.

Carlos Raúl Sosa Siliezar ("Scripture's Impact on Bartolomé de las Casas' Theology: Lessons for the Interpretation of Key Johannine Themes"). Bolded emphases added.

Ill-gotten goods offered in sacrifice are tainted. Presents from the lawless do not win God's favor. The Most High is not pleased with the gifts of the godless, nor for their many sacrifices does He forgive their sins. [As] One who slays a son in his father's presence — [so is] whoever offers sacrifice from the holdings of the poor. The bread of charity is life itself to the needy; whoever withholds it is a murderer. To take away a neighbor's living is to commit murder; to deny a laborer wages is to shed blood.

the Book of Sirach (34:21-27)

[cozyunoist]

what do you think of william clare roberts saying that communism can have markets in his debate with martin hagglund?

'can x have y'/'does x abolish y' is always such a funny form of debate to me; at the end of the day it always hinges on conceptual redescription of these hotly contested terms, right? we can set up either a thin concept of x where it refers to a single condition, or we can take x in with all its contradictory historical valences; and we can set up a concept of y which makes it impossible to abolish, or collapse the concept of y into a sort of heavily-asterisked bad-y which can be abolished simply by making the things about y we consider bad no longer the case.

maybe this is surprising considering how much time i spend on something that looks suspiciously close to cookshop-receipt-writing,

sidenote 1, pt 1: i would argue that the only concern that motivates me to do a little cooking in my work is the understandable fear (i think implicitly shared by wcr) that this (already impossibly broad) set of possibilities is one that we can't even show exists.

but i tend to think the concept of communism has precious little determinate content. because the historical movement is both more or less dead & composed of people of people with wildly different programmatisms, in this sort of programmatic content i tend to use 'communism' very loosely, to include anything in 'the purposive replacement of generalised commodity production with... something else...'.

sidenote 1, pt 2: to recapitulate something that happens in the middle third of my book, we want to avoid the sort of useless conceptual redescription that happens when i swap out my market for a computer or set of social arrangements that do what markets do and converge on doing them how markets do them, because this would invite the question 'why bother?'. so, to get down to brass tacks we replace the concept of generalised commodity production in this thin conception of communism for a concept of what commodity production, per marx's whole thing in capital, necessarily does wrong apropos of social valuation. but then the sort of wall we run into is that people fail to meet the criterion we got out of marx everywhere we apply it: in c&c, in an ideal-type description of soviet FtAL planning, even in cogp!

i realise i've walked myself into a trap here, though, because i've done just the things i warned u about: i attempted to walk out of the terms of the question by setting up a very thin conception of communism, and then pretended that the concept of generalised commodity production was unproblematic.

sidenote 2: it's not; not because marx does a particularly poor job setting up commodity production conceptually, but because a description of an ideal average (the only level at which you can make the deductions he does) is necessarily unhelpful for the task of figuring out the fit between the stylised model and the world, even if you're able to prove, as he does, that it has a sort of shaping dynamic, wherein a social process itself described in the model forces us to behave more & more according to the entities of the model. this shaping dynamic is powerful, but definitely not sufficient for any commodity production to become totally generalised: see, for instance, the very slow entry of the sort of human activities which fall under the bracket of 'social reproduction' into the sphere of commodity exchange. it's unclear what the theoretical maximum even is--can we conceive of every interaction being commodity exchange--or why we ought to understand it to be reachable. and where this commodity exchange is only partially realised, the strong conclusions you reach in capital don't quite hold; every good is knocked off its true gcp value by the existence of a non-commodified basic good; the pseudo-natural laws needed to make these categories coherent don't quite obtain.

we're not going to make all parties happy, but what matters to me here when it comes to defining communism such that it has these boundary conditions, is something like the pragmatic rationale we give in conceptual engineering. as i say above, the minimum thing i consider to be specific about communism in the book is the resolution of the problem we attribute to commodity production, something akin to what wcr sets up as domination, although i do not find domination theory persuasive for the same reason i do not ultimately find theories of freedom broadly construed persuasive. communism is defined this way because it makes the rationale for its coming into existence readily apparent, and in the same stroke excludes all the other things we've tried.

exhausting preliminary stuff aside, let me get to the meat of your question. as for wcr: i would actually argue, as odd as it sounds, that he doesn't say communism can have markets--even though he says we likely will have markets in some places. he makes a subtler point, one whose intellectual honesty inspires in me genuine admiration, although i could not disagree more: that there is a tension between actually realising this freedom from market domination (allowing the concept for a second), and radical democratic theory, particularly one that necessitates a great deal of devolution, rousseauian plebiscites, & all. he says, in other words, that we are lying to ourselves in believing that the general will would coalesce in the way marx has it without a type of authority that marx doesn't argue for, a type of sociation we might find abhorrent, a vision of reconciliation we might find silly... furthermore, the mechanism of a wholesale replacement for market valuation ('planning' is a very poor descriptor) is necessarily one that is incompatible with the fact democratic polities may choose indifference to one another; it requires the production of a kind of information there is no reason to assume every polity may have, and the valuation decisions it makes are almost certain to cut against majoritarian wish-lists.

this all is to say, wcr reads social republicanism as radical democracy against communism, and in so doing argues that we ought to choose the former, biting the bullet on the difficulty of showing it necessarily entails the latter. i would make a similar argument, actually, just in favour of communism over republicanism-slash-democracy: democratic theory has near-zero appeal to me, because i believe a properly elaborated means of social valuation, the sort we need to replace the multitool of the market, is itself as normatively forceful, as good a grounds for practical reason at the level of the community, as anything possibly could be, and in its wake arguments about freedom (as wcr himself notes!) strike me as little more than residual liberalism.

[kingofthenorth]

HI!! oc questions: do u have more that are based in an existing universe or ones whose universe u made up? if u made up a universe(or multiple) what are some of ur favorite worldbuilding details? what are some of ur oldest ocs and when was the last time u changed something about them? do u have any that are direct self inserts?

Ooh, these are some good ones!

Overall, I have way more that come from my own little universes. So much so, in fact, that I couldn't tell you how many worlds I've created, let alone how many characters are in them. I spend entirely too much time thinking about this stuff.

One world in particular has the most extensive worldbuilding. I'd wanted to make it feel as real as possible, so as a teen and young adult, I spent countless hours coming up with history, fashion, religion, maps, and languages to flesh it out. Here are some of my favorite details:

In the Gomnivev language, any noun can be treated as a name so long as the final consonant (provided it ends in one) is doubled. This comes in handy given that Gomnivev first names are almost always a detail about the day the baby was born. You get lots of people named after birds that were singing, fruits/vegetables that were in season, or weather conditions from the day they were born. For example, "aean" is a crocus, but Aeann is a proper name for someone born when aean flowers are blooming. Because there are no capital letters in the written language, this is the easiest way to distinguish between the nouns and their Human Name counterpart.

Banazar, Rezeki god of the dead, is the god subject to most debate among scholars due to ambiguity surrounding his gender and origins. Names that end in -sar (common) or -zar (less common) are explicitly male, but some of the very earliest texts describe him as "mother to the dead," in his role caring for departed souls. Instead of just running with it, religious scholars fight bitterly about what this means. As for his origins, he's the only god that didn't exist in the beginning, when the Original Gods created all there is now, but also isn't a child of the Original Gods or their two daughters, like the rest of the gods are. No one knows where he came from.

Many Rezeki garments sport wild patterns, but the exception to this is their most popular formal wear, the mema. Mema, which are not unlike a toga, are almost always solid color so that one can pin decorations onto them and make them look different each time they're worn. Brooches and baubles meant to be worn on mema are a common gift, and can be anything from crudely hand-fashioned by one's kids to crafted by artisans. What matters is that it's fun and unique!

My very oldest OCs are from a story I came up with at 8, hoping to one day turn into a tv show. The original story was about a high school club for kids with superpowers, and the protagonist, Jairo, had none, but joined anyway to help out. In high school, I was reminded of the story and revisited it, deciding that it made very little sense that he'd be allowed to join, and changed it so that he had powers too, but they weren't as useful overall, else it wouldn't be a viable story. Imagine my fucking surprise when, years later, the BNHA anime came out and I saw the similarities. I am, perhaps, a bit of a fool. lol. lmao, even.

Finally, I did once make a couple self inserts, but I ironically never connected well to them. One I forgot about entirely until just now, and the other I changed so much, I often forget she was based off me in any way. It turns out, I much prefer exploring characters that aren't all that much like me. If anything, I think there's more "me" in the worlds I create than the characters in them. I'm in the politics, the public consciousness, and the messages, but not so much the characters.

[lowkeyclueless5137]

You know how in that one Overblot AU you have where the Overblot boys transform into their Overblot form when tired and stuff. Consider that Idia and Ortho technically both have Overblot forms, and thus cue the First Years having a heart attack when they see Ortho in his Overblot form for the first time since Idia and Ortho overblotted at STYX, away from everyone else. And all the while Yuu is like 'Yeah, that's Ortho'.

That's inky Aftermath, I believe, anon :3

Anyhow, you brought up a very good idea of this Au, mainly how the Shroud bros work, bc, out of all, their overBlot conditions were different by all means.

When I was a wee wee dumb child... Surprisingly, I had a lot of toy cars and trucks. Some of them, I fucking dismembered to see what's inside and then reassemble them. What was interesting out of this was that I tended to put random shit inside if they had space, then close them back together.

I brought that up, for the sole motive that it's similarly to how Ortho works in this Au.

Imagine that for him, his whole Phanthom/overBlot being shoved all in the memory card. Taking that as the safe and sturdy material source from whom Ortho could take a more human-looking form.

But it was different.

You see, as I debated in my various double Isekai aus, the og Ortho was a completely separated entity from robot Ortho. So in the Isekai series, them meeting is 2 people interacting and becoming friends, showing how many differences they have in between them.(the best examples I could give were the magical girl Isekai and jjk Isekai, where there is literally a whole mountain of differences)

In here's not the same. The og Ortho and the robo Ortho have way too many similarities, to the point where, when they merge together, they become 1 entity that is a total mix of both. Kind and efficient like robo Ortho, but also outspoken and a bit more rash like og Ortho. Thus, he would experience moodswings sometimes or very visible changes in behavior.

How Ortho would be post book 6 is a whole other can of worms.

Like at first, when he presents back, everyone has a surprise when they see a fully human Ortho. He was moving and looking like a completely normal human, down to everything.

Then he goes back to a robot look the very next day. Sometimes he's half and half, but most times is either fully hooman or fully robot. No one really was trying to question it, or more like, they were afraid to question it, in case Ortho would show heavens know what.

The answer was painfully simple: it's his overBlot form, all toned down. When he gets extremely tired, his overBlot form constricts down into the robot body, thus relying more on the mechanical aspect of himself. When he's in high energy, he's looking fully human.

The only instance when you see his full overBlot form is when he gets mad or very scared. It's the fight or flight reflex when he's scared, hence if he's not running away, expect a bigass punch.

It's also a bit terrifying to see him changing forms if you don't know what really went down with him. Mostly because blot literally pours over from his robot body or gets sucked in. Pretty scary if you think about. :D

I guess Idia is also a bit guilty of the, sometimes, bratty attitude, bc he keeps spoiling him. :'3

[redrage71890]

I've spent the last few weeks creating a Twisted Wonderland OC and here is the random process I went through because I'm a former design kid and am kind of conditioned to go through some kind of process.

To sum it down I scavenged for a Disney villain and rested on The Headless Horseman since he's technically a Disney villain in The Legend of Sleepy Hollows and The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr Toad.

(Sorry if its hard to read my handwriting)

I didn't write down my brainstorm and kept all of that internally, but I was debating whether I should make my guy a fae or human. Along with hairstyle ideas and in different angles.

(I like to sketch in different colours for different parts of the body)

Three outfits away and there colour palettes were pretty hard to come up with and I ended up searching gothic and hunter esc palettes for ideas. I decided with the first outfit.

This is what the text says for the expressions notes since I honestly can't read it even zoomed in:

Smiling Always a mischievous/evil smile. Has trouble smiling truthfully.

Board Common expression. Hard to distinguish whether he’s being genuine or not.

Annoyed Has a hard time repressing his ticked emotions. Rather strange sharp teeth on his right side and regular teeth the next.

Sad Tear ducks are probably dry from years of tears he's shed. Crying hurts his face because of his scars.

Surprised Surprised Rarely surprised. More shocked than surprised.

Unfazed Often seen when the Mayor tries to act' hip' with the younger kids. Mostly seen when accompanying the Mayor.

"Astaroth is a relatively quiet and responsible figure in the town, he relies great advice for kids because of his experience. Though he has a strong hatred towards humans from years of abuse and discrimination from his magic and being a fae. For his crimes in Briar Valley, he was cursed with permanent scars and injuries that can never heal with burning pain."

Unique Magic: "Phantom Wonderer" - Able to turn his body invisible and phasing through physical objects. Additionally can give others that same ability by keeping a hold of them, whether they be living or inanimate.

Curse: "Burned Remains" - Cursed by Malleficia, he's forced to keep his scars and injuries with a burning sensation. Scars that can't heal and or kill him, burning pain for all the injuries he's accumulated.

(P.s: Astaroth lives in a town I made named 'Backwoods Valley' in Shaftlands)