#and yes i would be either with fig or sharp

[ask-professor-fig]

Hey, Eleazar? Can you please give this blog writer a big, nice and warm hug ? I love them and want nothing more for them tonight than warmth and comfort from a very esteemed and loved one :)

"Now how could I say no to such a kind request?"

Upon realizing I'm no longer in his office with him, he makes his way through his classroom and down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower. He crossed the Transfiguration Courtyard and through Central Hall, down towards the Potions Classroom. He knocked gently on the doorframe hesitantly, stepping inside when he initially saw no one else. As expected, the potions professor's head peeked out from around a chalkboard.

"Fig? What can I do for you at this hour?" Professor Sharp was no stranger to his colleague's interesting appearances, dusting the chalk from his hands as he walked around to meet the elder man.

"Ah, yes... see, I'm looking for my pupil. She seems to have vanished and hadn't left a note nor a trace." Fig wrung his hands in slight embarrassment. Yes, I usually told him where I was going, but at the same time it was well past curfew... there were only a few places I would be. Never in my dorm, not in his office, and if I wasn't with Sharp then...

"I'm sorry, Eleazar, I haven't seen her since class this afternoon." Sharp shook his head. Fig thanked him with a nod and continued on his journey for me, making a mental note to catch up with Sharp on a later date.

He all but sprinted down to the dungeons, hurrying past the Alchemy Classroom and to the abandoned stairwells I had shown him months ago. He didn't believe me at first, why would he? But then he saw the floor... well, the map, his feet bouncing across it as if he'd damage it.

And that's where I currently am, staring at the fourth lit spot on the floor of the Map Chamber. I've given up on pacing around, and by some miracle of Merlin himself the Keepers have all kept their irrelevant comments to themselves.

The doors to the chamber swung open, yet I did not move. There was no point in being alarmed when I knew there was only one other living being in the entire school who knew the existence of this room. He didn't say anything as he hurried down the stairs and across the floor, walking towards me with a purpose and a set expression on his face. I only looked up at him as he grew closer, my initial expression of content turning to that of concern at the look.

"Professor? Wha-" I didn't have time to finish my thoughts, as soon as he was close enough he pulled me into an incredibly tight hug, the likes of which I had not felt in a very, very long time.

"You are loved... never forget that. You are loved..." I stood there in shock for a few moments. It was the first time he had actually hugged me... Tears welled in my eyes, and although I tried my hardest to prevent their fall it was no use, several of them landing on his robes. My arms slowly reached up, shaking slightly, and wrapped around his frame

We stood there in silence for a few minutes, both of us needing this moment. When we separated, he smirked and brushed one of the tracks of tears from my cheeks. I couldn't help but blush in embarrassment.

"Come... this chamber will still be here in the morning. You need rest... 'warmth and comfort' as well." Fig smiled, conjuring a soft quilt and wrapping it around my shoulders. I simply looked at him, eyebrows furrowed in extreme confusion.

"What are you talking about, Professor?" I couldn't help but laugh, his arm still around my now wrapped shoulders as we ascended the stairs.

"Just following a request, my dear... just following a request."

[blue-razzslushie]

Hogwart Legacy AU: Prof.Sharp

Hey chat, how would you feel if I said I forgot I was doing the deep dive of characters with my MC? I was busy dragging myself out of art block but HERE WE GO!!! (I picked this one via a spin wheel, this one is longer then the others ones I've done because firstly my MC is closer with this John Wick wannabe then the others I've done so there's more to write, and secondly because I may or may not be making a fanfic for these two losers, so I have more ideas etc ^^

First Impression:

Sharp:

✭He's heard a lot about the new student even before entering his class, Survived a Dragon attack and first day of classes saving Hogsmeade from Trolls?? Impressive sure but. . . Problem child much??

✭Pretty skilled with potions for a first timer, Not to mention the fact that they managed to stay on task even after Mr.Weasleys attempt at persuasion. Yet again Impressive, and impressing this man is like taking a Dungbog.

Rory:

✭Honestly didn't understand the constant talk about the professor once actually meeting him. They've heard him get called Intimidating, which is true, then again they've faced a troll and an enchanted armor. However, he isn't purposely cruel like they've heard. . . He's just blunt. Just like them fr!

✭Almost immediately one of their favorite professors, straight to the point. That's how they liked it. They liked potions anyway, its like baking in a way. . . They like baking :]

Overall Dynamic/Relationship:

✭ah yes, the classic and never old trope of a grumpy ass man taking a traumatized child under his wing. Starts off as a Mentor and Apprentice Duo, changes into a Adoptive father child duo. [Which they both PROFUSELY DENY for as long as possible] Y'all know it, you love it, it's great. Don't lie you know it's great

✭Mfs are literally same person different font prove me wrong. Sarcastic, Grumpy asf, Straight to the point, PAINFULLY blunt. Like come on man! They give Joel and Ellie or like Batman and Nightwing istg prove me wrong it's impossible.

Over the storyline [Also Fanfic lore!!]:

I don't really mind spoiling parts of the thing I'm writing, if anything it'll help people understand the relationship more!! So here on out I'm gonna talk about my AU so there will be interactions out of game!! It isn't apart of canon!! [Theses events begin to take place after the first trial]

✭One of the most important things Sharp was well known for, his miraculous perception and observance skills. Over the first half of the semester, the Potions Professor clearly noticed things the other staff didn't

✭The new 5th year always seemed to be running in and out of school, Barely making it to classes and at times not attending them at all. Every time, Fig always somehow had a alibi or excuse for them. Not to mention they somehow always have bruises or other random marks on them.

✭Nobody was that clumsy, especially them, he's seen them before and they are in no way a clutz who rams into things as they claim to be.

✭Let me tell you, His spidey senses were TINGLING.

✭Something was going on here, something behind the lines. He was going to find out what, that's for damn sure. If a student is in danger, he'll get to the bottom of it. Damn firm sense of justice

✭First thing he tried to do was ask the Fig about it, as he seems to be knowing more then he's letting on. Especially with his odd request for the potions master to try and find out whatever he could about the Goblins for Merlin's sake

✭Professor sharp MAY have implyed either Fig is purposely putting the student in danger or he didn't care about them all too much. As you would expect, that didn't settle so well, tense conversation turned to a heated argument. Ending it with a slam of a door and getting absolutely no where in his investigation.

✭He could ask the student directly, but judging by how stubborn they are. He doubts he would get a straight answer. . . If one at all. Not like he could tell the headmaster without any proper proof then a suspicious feeling, as if the irritating man would listen.

✭He was at a standstill, deciding to take a walk to thing. . .when he paused at seeing a disillusioned student walking around the main hall. . .wait a minute is that

✭It was Rory, speak of the devil. As he would with any other student he confronted them, after all this hadn't been the first time they've been caught by staff sneaking around at the dead of night. He ultimately decided a weeks worth of detention was suitable, he was in a mood okay give him a break

✭Rory of course was NOT pleased by this news, they had things to do. Ancient magic to discover, trials to prepare for, Demiguise statues to find!! They didn't have the time to scrub cauldrons!! Nevertheless they had to go, despite Figs protests to sharp which fell on dead ears

✭The detentions were. . .not as horrible as expected to say the least. Instead of scrubbing cauldrons the entire time, it became more of a extra class. Sharp, in his downtime brewed potions for the hospital wing and. . . Another project for the headmaster. He always did it himself but since they were here, why not get the kid to help him out a bit? Get ingredients for him, mince them, juice horklumps etc,,,

✭Sharp, for some unknown reason sort of enjoyed the students presence. They were helpful, but not a pushover. Respectful, but also seemed to have a sense of humor judging by the few sarcastic back and forths. They seemed to actually like to learn, being a fast learner at that. A wonderful quality when he began to actually sort of Mentor them with things other then Potions

✭Rory sorta felt the same way, it was a simpler thing to do that week, something that while not being optional was still enjoyable. Turns out the professor has a LOT of story's about His Auror days he surprisingly seems fond of speaking of. While he does emphasize the dangers and tribulations of the job, he doesn't seem to have hated it. If anything it still seems like just as much of a passion as it was when he was an Auror. Maybe they could be an Auror someday. . .

✭After the weeks detentions were over, It was almost a silent agreement that Rory could still return to help and learn a few tips. That was until around winter [aka, after the third trial]. They seemed to act a bit different, More anxious and jumpy. Slowly beginning to not return as much to the classroom. The Professor didn't mind, Whatever, they have their own things to do. However don't think Sharp forgot about the odd behavior from earlier this year, he still knew something was going on. Still kept a good eye on them

✭Rory after the confrontation with Ranrok and the Loss of Lodgok, unfortunately ran out of wiggenwelds and was in no shape to get to the ROR. So It wasn't until they walked into the potions classroom at 3 in the morning under the impression that the Potions Professor was already gone, drenched in blood did all hell broke loose

✭WHAT. WHEN. HOW. IS THAT A ENTIRE CHUNK OUT OF THEIR ARM MISSING???? WHY ARE THEY MORE CONCERNED ABOUT HIM BEING MAD????Safe to say the Professor wasn't pleased to see the student on their deathbed. After getting a few potions in them, it was the quickest this man has moved towards the nearest floo flame to the Hospital Wing

✭Next morning Sharp DEMANDED answers. They tried to pass it off as a wrong place but come on he isn't that daft!! Same time he was trying to push answers out of them, fig came to visit! That made his mood somehow sour more. How was this man so calm? This kid almost died!?

✭The Professors got into a squabble like schoolchildren until Rory had to break it up, promising the professor answers later. Nurse Blainey shooing him out of hospital Wing for "trying to interrogate a patient at 8AM". Sharp was pissed, but decided to be patient. He swears to Merlin if he gets another blatant lie he is going to throw a FIT.

✭He got answers. . . But it wasn't anything he was expecting. Ancient magic? Goblins?? Ranrok?? He had to sit down for a moment istg. This kid was single handedly trying to save the wizarding world while SOMEHOW KEEPING IT UNDER WRAPS? If he wasn't so damn worried and downright flabbergasted he would be genuinely proud.

✭He was asked to keep it on the downlow for now, by both Fig and the student. He honestly didn't know what to do, so he just vowed to help as much as he could. Much to Figs dismay of course. . .

✭He got radio silence from both the kid and their mentor for the next day. Seemingly to vanish off the face of the bloody earth. It wasn't until Professor Weasley was pounding on his door yelling about an attack on the school did things become more tense. Of course Rory had something to do with this. . . Didn't they?

✭Rest of the battle of hogwarts goes as usual, wasn't until the goblins began to actually fall back did the professor set his mind on the kid again. Attempting to find them, and eventually he did!! Yay!! He found them in the slowly but surely collapsing cavern, more distraught and upset then he had ever seen. Oh. . . Not yay

✭Fig was dead, they were in the middle of having a blown panic attack. This wasn't what he was hoping to come back to. He tried to help as much as possible, wasn't too much help tho. He was never good with emotions

✭Rory felt dizzy, fuzzy. . .like really fuzzy. It was like they weren't in control of their own body. After a moment if struggle passing out themself. Which the potions professor. . .absolutely wigged out. Eventually the other professors showed up just in time. . . Well not really

Aftermath/Future:

✭Rory was apparently in a small coma, damage to the head, body over exhausted, not to mention a concussion and several other severe wounds. They were inthe hospital Wing for a good few days

✭To say the professor was worried was a rather huge understatement. Besides Professor Weasley he was up in the Hospital Wing the most. Killed his leg, but that wasn't on his mind. As much as he knows he liked the kid, it felt odd to feel this worried about someone. Ever since his partner died (who aka in my Au was a brother to him) , he's never really felt so concerned, He hid it under a scowl tho

✭Once Rory woke up, they got their ear chewed off for not coming to him with this sooner, not being careful, giving him a heart attack. And also they unfortunately got the harsh demand of a full explanation, nothing left out. They agreed (thank Merlin he did NOT have the patience to fight with them on it anymore)

✭The next week or two they did not leave this man's sight. It only got worse after they managed to sneak out of the castle with Mrs.Onai and defeat Harlow. He was totally correct in his first assumption they were a problem child. If they tried to get out if the castle, "And just where do you think you're running off to?".

✭After the school year ended, and the MANY meetings with the ministry were over. Sharp was officially given the role of Rory's new mentor to help catch then up over the Summer. Not that neither of them had a problem with that of course. . . He did have a few more stories to share after all

I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LONG, I HAVE BEEN HYPER FIXATING ON THEM SO BAD AND LIKE GUH. Curse my cringe ass Parental issues. But anyway, Probably going to start writing the fic I mentioned now that this is gonna be posted. I have an outline for what I'm writing so it'll be nice! Still expect a few drawings here and there dw!!

[enoughyi]

#5: Peck & Bite

Ship: Imelda Reyes x f!MC (Julia Wright), Poppy Sweeting

Summary: Imelda and her contemplative mood.

Prompt Number: 64. Being Unable To Open Their Eyes For A Few Moments Afterward. [>>>link to the list]

Word count: 681. Rating: T.

A/N: It's brainrot-powered. Characters are in their 20's.

Based on my Imelda nsfw!headcanons post and on an one where I wrote Imelda is a tad superstitious. I don't remember the number.

Why has my writing blog turned Imelda x f!MC x Poppy kissy fluff? I frankly have no coherent answer nor idea, how. And I regret not, and hope this little nearly-a-week long journey has been so far a joy! :D

This song, btw:

Tags: @thriftstorebabayaga @espressoristretto-patronum @celestial--sapphic @ladyofsappho

Imelda wondered littly about times when it was just Poppy and Julia.

Julia was a dreamy girl. Poppy was peculiar according to some, and pensive to Imelda's mind. A halcyon amidst the disarray of poaching seas; Poppy couldn't be more driven towards her. It was only natural for them to tag along on their beast rescue impetuous escapades -- and at some point, fall head over heels for one another. A Ravenclaw like Julia must've been so at Poppy's crude flirting; a brazen Hufflepuff like Poppy couldn't escape Julia's peck of curiosity.

They looked so happy.

Their funny hobbies; giggly exchanges in the corridors and classes, somehow avoidant of professors' attention or pithy comments; the life they had, against all odds, was picturesque and serene.

And did Imelda envied both of them, many years ago.

Yet did she expect an intervention of nearly divine capability; turned each of their lives to a meeting point on a joint that would lead them to a future of inseparability, reliance, in other words, love.

It was a fairly long story; when a snake falls from the sky there has to be an explanation how it has gotten up in the air, has it not. But its starting point; it has never allowed Imelda a single contemplationless moment. Whenever she would ask Julia if she regretted anything; whenever she would ask Poppy the same question; however they would answer, Imelda would always feel either they didn't know, or were as contemplative, or preferred to call it infuriatingly simple.

Magic.

Only in a fairy tale you'd have everything you could want from life, for a steep faeian price of course, and able to run with it, carelessly.

Poppy and Julia were unanimous in how to call Imelda's worry.

A mere superstition.

Because life is unpredictable; anything can happen; Julia happened, everything was and isn't just probable, it all is possible, no need to be worrisome, yes?..

Perhaps Poppy's word had some weight to it; her peculiar interest to fae creatures could lead her to this conclusion. But Julia's upbringing, inept in a magical sense, could only pack her mind with every fancy piece of literature about magical creatures of inestimable strengths and unfathomable powers. But when confronted, oh, that woman was an obduracy; her eyes almost glimmered with a familiar splinting sharpness Fig had when told his beliefs about magic were strange.

As if Julia knew something nobody else did. Acted as she pleased, -- or, no, was doing in accordance to the flow only she could sense in the air. Or was it a superstition getting a hold of Imelda, again?

So she asked her again.

"Neither of us regrets anything," Julia said. She was nearly asleep, but forced her eyes open at the sight of Imelda's distress.

It didn't feel right keeping her awake. "I know but it's all just…"

"Yes?" Tiredly, Julia added, "What is it?"

"It… It just doesn't feel real."

Julia's intent to sit up wasn't an available option, not for this late hour, not after Julia had been pleased; not after five-technically-six words, again, ruptured something in her heart, visible in a tired spark in her stubborn gaze. Was it Imelda -- or the Slytherin tendency to bite with venom instead of hitting with a peck of a snout; she hurt her, again.

Imelda's hands were on her shoulders, bony under the chemise; Julia's fingers ran up her cheek. She whispered, breathing out air strongly, "I am real very much though. You can't snap fingers and get rid of me. Consider me a pet fae; we've been through this again, and again, but we've yet to meet that bothersome thought of yours."

"Yes but are you really--"

"Really." She always pecked at the lips. "Get to sleep. It might be the Morpheus' clamant call to you. I'm limp. You're about to crash."

And she always got a bite back, always then breathed in sharply, eyelids flutter in the lingering warmth of this want-to-believe kiss. It could also help her to get to her own much warranted, wanted sleep.

Julia was a dreamy girl.

[humanoidalien27]

Chapter list: One. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Content warning: loads of exhaustion and anxiety

.....

Chapter 2

Trial

Sebastian was confused at the turn you and Ominis had, but he'd woken up late and had to rush through breakfast.

You sat between Imelda and Sebastian, being you were uncomfortable at the idea of putting your back to Ominis.

"So, we have potions after this, then herbology," Sebastian mumbled between bites, before turning to glance my way. "Are you busy today? We're going to go to Hogsmeade later."

You jerked your head. "No, I have extra lessons to do."

Ominis's expression twisted as if he knew you were lying, not that he voiced it.

And though you had fibbed about the extra assignments, you did have plans to speak with Professor Fig about the second trial.

"You're staying for classes, right?"

Like Fig would be happy about you skipping school.

"Yes, but after herbology, I'll be heading out."

"Heading out?" Ominis asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sebastian smirked, reeling at the chance to watch you two play tug-o-war over secrets.

"Yes as in out of the class."

You hadn't meant it to come off as sharp and had to stop yourself before you apologized.

You never had to step back from a friendship before and never rekindled one either, so you were unsure of how to deal with the awkwardness.

Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Ominis once again fell quiet.

"What happened between you?" Imelda asked, waving her fork at us. "Did someone confess and scare the other off?"

Noticing you tense, Sebastian spoke. "Didn't you say you were going to get some flying in? Aren't you cutting it close?"

She scoffed and started yet another rant on how disappointed she was about quidditch being cancelled.

You sent him a silent "thank you" before getting back to eating.

Classes felt like they took longer than usual as you grew antsy. The first trial wasn't easy and you knew it would only get worse with each one.

The boys noticed you shifting in your seat like you were getting ready to bolt every time the teacher would talk.

Ominis thought it was due to him being there, but you had chosen to work at the same station as they did.

It didn't help that once Professor Garlick had dismissed the class, you bolted from your chair and hastily stashed your books away.

You had already made it to the door before either could stand.

Sebastian, knowing more about your secret than anyone else, other than Natty, kept quiet.

"Something must have been important," Leander mumbled as he started towards the door.

The neutral expression broke enough for Sebastian to catch it and lightly clapped Ominis on the shoulder, offering comfort instead of sharing the secret.

"Wait a minute, they forgot their notes," Sebastian mentioned as he slipped them out from under the potted dittany you ensured to fertilize before the end of class.

Ominis heard him rush out of the room as he gathered his belongings.

He knew making things up to you wasn't going to be easy, but he hadn't counted on you avoiding him.

"They used the floo flames."

"To get to Professor Fig's classroom?" Ominis asked softly, his gut telling him something wasn't right.

"I guess," Sebastian replied, busying himself with putting up his work.

Ominis took the notes, tracing the sloppy handwriting for a second, before taking up his wand and sliding off the stool.

"I'll bring them to Fig's classroom."

He didn't wait for Sebastian to comment as he left the room.

The second trial felt similar to the first, though the keepers were pleased to see your progress, not that it felt much like a victory personally.

You still didn't know why you were the only one who could see ancient magic and you didn't get any answers from the last pensive, only more questions.

Not that the keepers themselves were willing to share as they decided to put a pause on the next trial.

Now you'd have to return to the common room and try to explain why you were nearly out past curfew.

Professor Fig noticed your frustration and wrongly thought it was from the trial, not that you were about to clarify.

Ominis was cranky at times, but you couldn't hate him enough that you'd want him to end up in Azkaban.

You knew he didn't deserve that fate. Besides, he already made his guilt his prison.

You left the Map Chamber, heading outside to clear your head enough so you could face what awaits you in the common room.

You knew Sebastian would want to ask you about your adventure or any new information.

He'd be just as disappointed as you when he learned that it didn't give any insight as to why you had this ability or how you can use it.

No one paid any attention as you began to wander the grounds.

You couldn't help but feel like this was the calm before the storm as you turned your gaze up towards the sky, seeing stars beginning to shine against the dimming light.

"You lied."

So much for that idea.

You sighed as your eyes closed, head falling away from the scenery as reality crashed down.

"You forgot your herbology notes, so I went to take them to you, but you weren't in Fig's classroom. Not even after he returned."

Given you weren't quite friendly with him, you didn't understand why he'd try returning your notes or why Sebastian hadn't intercepted.

You glanced back shocked to see he was equally hurt and angry.

"If you didn't want to go to Hogsmeade you could have just said so. You didn't need to lie-"

"I didn't lie about being busy," you corrected, turning to face him.

He scoffed, but before he could reply, a stern voice cut over him.

"Ominis darling, it's good to see you."

The air was warm, even for October, but you felt as if you'd been frozen in place.

Ominis's face darkened and before you knew it, he moved to your side, eyes hardening back into a practiced blankness.

Slowly, you turned to face the voice, seeing the very same two you had that night. Their laughter echoed in your brain, getting a trembling breath to escape before you could stop it.

"Who's your friend?"

At the attention, you took a step back while Ominis took the opportunity and inched his way between his parents and you.

"Why are you here?"

An emotionless mask fell over his tone and you knew his features mimicked even without seeing it.

"Ah, she must be that new fifth year everyone has been talking about. What excellent timing. We were just on our way to speak with Professor Black. Why don't you two join us?"

It was a request, not an option and both of you knew it.

"It's almost curfew, we should really be getting-"

"You'll be excused this once, come on."

They waved for the both of you to lead the way.

Knowing you have no choice, Ominis pushed you to walk first.

You glanced behind you every turn, making sure they weren't going to attack when you were vulnerable, not that they could with Ominis following so closely.

He hadn't spoken since entering the castle, he merely walked like he was body snatched by death and his body a puppet to whoever willed it.

You were grateful that Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt decided to lead once you made it to the trophy room.

Between the stairs, the fear and the fading adrenaline from the trial, you felt close to falling, but you didn't fight it as Ominis moved in front of you to follow his parents up the spiral staircase.

For a brief moment, you considered bolting and getting as far away from his parents as you could, but something about how Ominis acted, had you following him instead.

The group stopped long enough for Mr. Gaunt to say the password, so you snuck a glance at Ominis, but he was still unresponsive.

You waited for his parents to begin to climb the next set of stairs before you quickly pinched him.

You nearly sighed as his face screwed up in annoyance while he rubbed his arm.

"What was that for?"

"Making sure you're still in there," you admitted quietly. "You've been mindlessly following them since they arrived."

He said nothing, his jaw clenching as he started up the stairs after them.

Frustrated, you followed after him. He wasn't acting like the boy you've known since arriving at the school and you weren't about to leave him alone with his parents.

You walked through the door, trying to build false confidence that you could handle anything they threw at you. It wasn't like they could harm you on school grounds, right?

The door closed loudly behind you, drawing everyone's attention as all your bravado popped like a fragile balloon over fire.

Dread settled into your stomach as you fought back too many memories you tried to forget, all the while the Gaunts, Professor Black and your parents watched you expectantly.

.....

[caius-knight-hufflepuff]

Introducing My Hogwarts Legacy OC:

Caius Fawley Knight

House: 🦡~Hufflepuff~🦡

Age: 15

Height: 5'10

Status: Half-Blood

Zodiac Sign: ♏︎ Scorpio ♏︎

Lineage: British

Features: dark blonde hair, yellow eyes from his lycan physical trait (yes he does crave the rare meats!), sharp bone structure, light skin tone with a cute little birthmark next to his left eye (same as me!)

Background:

*WARNING*: This story is how I see my character within this world, so some facts are obviously going to be made up, but this is my fantasy and I shall write it as such! Thank you!

Caius's mother was a pure-blood from the House of Fawley. Unable to agree to be in a forced arranged marriage in order to maintain "pure of blood", she decided to elope with her secret Hogwarts school sweetheart and live a humble, yet comfortable life within the forests of England, changing her last name to that of her husband's in order to keep hidden. Not long after, Caius Knight was born. The Knight's valued family above wealth, and though they were of poor status, they were still happy. These were the memories that Caius loved the most, however, happiness could not last forever.

On a cold November's eve, when Caius had just turned eight-years-old, his family was attacked by a werewolf that later he would find had been sent by the Fawley family. Neither of his parents had survived the attack, and if it wasn't for his mother fighting back against the dreaded beast, Caius wouldn't have survived either. The sight of his parent's dead bodies had momentarily distracted him enough to where he did not see the creature swipe at him in time, and left an unforgiving scar across his forehead which he hides behind his hair till this day. Crying within his pain, Caius thought that his life would end here and now, until he saw a FLASH of green light, and the werewolf dropped dead on the floor. Caius had been rescued by none other than Miriam Fig, a long friend of his mother's.

The state of Caius, at first glance, could have had anyone thinking that he had been bitten by the werewolf with all of the blood everywhere, but after she examined the boy, she found he was only mildly injured, no bites at all. Knowing the truth of Caius's destiny, and how he will struggle should anyone find out, would have destroyed his life at such a young age. No, we can't have any of that. Without a second thought, she grabbed Caius, casted Incendio upon the house to rid of the evidence, and took him with her to her home in order to keep him safe. You could say that Caius gets his kind disposition from the Fig family, with their caring and inquisitive nature.

To both Miriam and her husband Eleazar Fig's surprise, Caius had shown that he could see ancient magic from that moment onward, after observing ancient artifacts that Miriam had found on her journeys, which only fueled her drive to discover more. As he got older, it was soon evident that his ability was the only kind of magic that he was able to do. However, this did not stop Professor Fig in teaching him the ways of magic, and once he turned eleven twelve, given a year to see if he really didn't have other sources of magic, Caius was able to join Miriam in her search for discoveries on the ancient subject, to her delight.

The day Caius and Eleazar had discovered that Miriam had died was truly a sad day within the Fig household. Luckily the two still had each other to get through such a difficult time. It wasn't long after this that Caius's magic abilities finally started to manifest, and he had received a letter from Hogwarts. It was at this time that Eleazar began to prep Caius in order to keep up with his spellwork before the new school year started, entering as a fifth year. From this moment on, Caius's Hogwarts Legacy was about to begin.

hellu! Please tell me what you guys think! This is my first ever character intro so I hope it wasn't too much!! Enjoy!

[disticfiction]

Fig forced a smile as he sat in his chair and listened to his student speak, excitedly, about their time in Bainburgh. They were safe. He didn't break, he didn't reveal their location, and they were safe. That's all that mattered. Trying to concentrate, he shifted, desperate to take the weight off of his cunt. He considered standing, but that would've been worse, his legs sore and shaky.

"Are you alright?" the student asked, suddenly. "You seem exhausted."

Fig laughed. "Yes, well ... I've been studying the book you brought me. It's proving to be a bit more challenging than I'd expected."

Luckily, they didn't see through his obvious lie. How could he tell them his hole was throbbing, still slick and stretched from the abuse? How could he tell them he'd been raped by a plant? How could he tell them it was all in the pursuit of finding them? If they found out, it would absolutely devastate them and they'd take the blame.

No, Fig wouldn't allow it.

"Professor Ronen told me to ask if you were feeling alright, too. Did something happen while I was away?"

"Oh, that?" Damn it, Abraham, Fig thought. "Yes, I developed a bit of a cold while you were gone. I borrowed his Pepperup Potion and I'm feeling much better now. Please tell him not to worry, and also not to worry others on my behalf."

"Yes, sir," the student said, naively. "Well, I think that's everything."

And not a moment too soon. Fig's hole was beginning to soak the cushion beneath him, craving what it had yet to forget. Three days had passed since his assault, but he couldn't seem to calm his body or his mind. Every step he took, every move he made rubbed his sensitive walls together, making recovery difficult. He wanted more, but he hated himself for it.

"I'm glad you're alright," he whispered, abruptly.

"Sir?" the student asked, confused. "Of course I'm alright. Should I not be?"

He tried to pacen his breathing. "It's just ... with Ranrok's Loyalists branching out, I'm worried about you. Try to stay closer to the castle from now on, for both our sakes."

The student, though lost, nodded. "I will, sir."

"Thank you. You may go now. Don't be late for your next class."

"Of course, sir." Before turning away, they gave him a look that broke his heart. "And please get some rest. You don't look very well."

As soon as they left, he sighed and spread his legs. The rumbling in his stomach drove him wild. He hadn't even touched himself, yet his clit poked through his trousers and rubbed against the material, sending jolts of unwanted pleasure up his spine. How embarrassing. A large, wet stain darkened the center of his pants, his fluids sinking into the chair. He needed to cum. After everything he'd been through, he still needed to cum.

"Ughh..."

Closing his eyes and gripping one of the armrests, he slipped a hand between his legs and teased his slit, massaging up and down with his middle and ring finger. The slightest bit of pressure nearly caused him to scream, but he pursed his lips, muffling the sounds. He could feel the material dip into his hole, just enough to stroke his swollen edges. It was such a relief. Sweat shimmered on his forehead as he moaned with his mouth closed, the build up climbing closer to his climax.

"I wouldn't do that in your office," a deep voice warned.

Fig jumped, hitting a knee into his desk. That was a shock, and he needed a moment to collect himself. When he looked up, he saw his door open and Aesop Sharp standing across from him, holding a potion. Before either of them spoke, he turned and shut the door with his wand, then cast Colloportus.

"Aesop, I'm so sorry! I--!"

"Don't worry about it, it's not your fault." He offered his hand. "Though, perhaps you should take more time off. Clearly, you're not entirely in control of your faculties yet."

"Perhaps you're right..." he huffed, accepting the hand as he stood.

Without making eye contact, Sharp helped him round his desk, then slowly removed his pants. "Let's see."

As if a habit, Fig took a seat on the surface and spread his legs, blushing and staring at the wall. Sharp's hands were cold and he flinched when they made contact, but he didn't complain. It was already humiliating enough for both of them. As those cold fingers traced his cunt, Sharp groaned.

"Still loose," he said, directly. "Still some bruising along your crease. No pain?" Fig shook his head. "Good. Good. Still red, too. Still ... pulsing."

"Forgive me."

"As I said, think nothing of it. None of this is your fault."

He wasn't used to Sharp being so kind. "Thank you for saying that."

After Ronen brought him back to the castle and he regained some semblance of self, he begged the man not to bring him to the hospital. If he did, there would be a record. The whole staff would know. The headmaster would know. He couldn't bear it. Reluctantly, Ronen obliged, but insisted they at least tell Sharp. If anyone could fix his hole, it would be him. Ultimately, Fig agreed.

"Alright, you know what to do," Sharp said, softly.

His face glowing, Fig rolled onto his front, his legs hanging over the desk with his ass in the air. The worst part. His brow curling, he bit his thumb as Sharp stepped closer, pushing into his thighs. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but again, he didn't complain. It didn't seem polite, given the circumstances. Sharp was already going above and beyond what he had to.

"I ... I'm feeling rather ... tender today," Fig chirped, his teeth grinding into his nail. "Please be gentle."

"You don't have to ask. I'm not going to hurt you."

The sound of a cork popping made the old man's head spin. That isn't what he meant. He wasn't ready, but it happened all the same. First, a cool drizzle of balm slathered around his rim and down to his clit, making him squirm. It wasn't meant to be sexual, but he couldn't deny the genuine arousal it triggered.

"Mmhm!" Fig whined, clutching the edge of his desk with his other hand.

"I know, I'm sorry. Just bear with me."

Then, two fingers slipped in. Deep. Fig cried out, his walls scrunching down immediately, all too eager to take what they'd been given. He wanted to tell Sharp to stop, not to thrust, but he couldn't get the words out. Instead, he moaned loudly, tears welling in his squinted eyes as the memories of being fucked by the Snare came flooding back. Of when he was dangling in the air, helpless, his hole molested. The way it stretched him, the way it slammed him, the way it beat him.

He came, squirting with a powerful surge that left him limp and trembling, but those fingers continued to work, plunging in and out, making sure to find every wounded patch of nerves that might have been cursed. The dedication made Fig's heart race. He always knew Sharp was a good man, but he never thought he'd tolerate this level of depravity.

"I-I'm sorry!" he sobbed, knowing he must've wet the younger man's suit.

"Just do what you have to," he said, scooping up another glob of balm and shoving back in. "If you can't help but cum, cum."

He twisted his wrist, his thrusts becoming rougher and wider. Wait, was he doing this on purpose? Fig couldn't help but wonder as his jagged thumb suddenly pushed into his nub and caressed it with delicate semicircles.

"A-Aseop?"

"You're getting too tight," he said. "That's good, it means the balm is working." He sounded strained. "But I'm not finished yet. I need to reach your cervix." For the past few days, Sharp was able to stick four fingers in his gape and reach that area, but now he couldn't, struggling just to fit two. "Damn it. Eleazar, I'm sorry about this, but it's the only way."

Fig's eyes bulged as he felt something hard and textured slide in over his friend's fingers, hitting his end. He didn't know what it was, but it felt good, banging into his cervix and coating it with the lotion. With two fingers in his hole, a thumb on his clit, and whatever that mystery object was that plowed into him, his mind went blank.

"I'm cumming! Aaugh!"

As if he'd burned him, Sharp pulled away, avoiding another blast of liquid as it burst from the old man's core. An intense orgasm, most unexpected, though Sharp was far too good with his technique.

"That's it," Sharp whispered. "Just breathe."

Fig's hole convulsed, satisfied by the explosion of ecstasy after such a long wait, then twitched in the aftermath, alone and empty. As he caught his breath, he looked back, seeing Sharp wiping his wand with a cloth. So that's what it was.

"I ... I'm so sorry," Fig whimpered, his body too heavy to move.

"Enough with the apologies. How many times do I have to tell you this isn't your fault?"

He looked away, ashamed. "Then ... thank you, Aesop."

"Don't mention it. Ever." Reaching his limit, Sharp rolled him onto his back, then wiped his mess with the same cloth he used on his wand. "A few more sessions and you should be relatively back to normal."

"And ... what about the cravings?"

Sharp paused. "I'm sorry, Eleazar, but I don't know what to do about that. The balm is only for physical damage." As Fig laid in a state of euphoria, he reefed his trousers back over his waist. "For now, I think the only solution is to either ignore it, which I don't really recommend, or give into it."

"G-give into it?"

"I realise it's not ideal, but if you have to cum, let yourself cum. Don't make it worse by tormenting yourself."

"I see..."

"I'm sorry, old friend. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's the best advice I have at the moment. After your hole is healed, we can look for other alternatives."

"...I understand. Thank you again, Aseop."

He nodded, then helped him back to his chair, his face lined with drool and tears. "Rest now. I'll be back to give you another treatment tomorrow."

[superconductivebean]

9, 12, & 16!

OMG THOSE YES YES YES YES YES YESSSSSSS game link

What's their favorite spot in or around the castle?

Central Hall! If she doesn't know where to go after Sharp dismissed everyone including himself from the class, she'd go to the Library. Or to the Greenhouse. Or, well, always busy there in the Hall, might catch up with someone for studies or flying/spell practise or just vibe. Ravenclaw Tower rooftop is a lovely place, too! Wave Professor Shah hello. Hope Sharp doesn't take his morning tea by the window. Admire the view.

What's their patronus? What memory do they call upon to cast it?

Wright has a whole story of how she learned how to cast it again after sealed the Repository with it. She distinctly remembered what Sharp once said, inquiring about supposedly ancient nature of her abilities: "There is nothing ancient about a fire; you wouldn't be calling primordial abilities a long-forgotten ones. Has to be something else rendering you omniscient about what we all had to learn and hone for years on end." Therefore, the spell she used then was a summoned charm of an unknown incantation but in the need of which she was desperate; or spells combined, like what she used to disintegrate trolls with. It all led her into the Library for an ask for a book or a scroll. That was redirected to Professor Hecat, and that request she passed down to Sharp because, as she said, "you look always joyful when around his class; a charm like such requires immense concentration".

Long story short: Sharp explained but mentioned he'd never used it thus couldn't offer a proper demonstration. Wright wasn't upset but thinking on what she could use for a happy memory… and could the Sharp's subtle ask for a demonstration if she manages to learn it somehow be that memory… She had help from Ominis of all people, Sebastian joined them, and they had a good laugh when, well. There was a running joke Wright was wrongly sorted to Ravenclaw, she'd be a perfect addition to Slytherin House (and a pride for Professor Black). Ominis casted a white raven, Sebastian shockingly looked at a jump-flying swallow under the ceiling of the Undercroft, and Wright had this:

Imelda laughed her arse off when she learned. The memory was her first weeks with Fig or rather, the sense of magic he always carried around and spoke of it as if took directly from a storybook, no doubt. Sharp's practical approach for magic never made it to Wright's head (yet), although, he is the reason her corporeal patronus is a rattlesnake. I will cite my wip here:

Мерлин, эта опасная, умная змея научила эту бестолковую, глупую птицу летать, подкидывая в небо своей головой. Merlin, that deviously clever snake taught this obtrusively witless bird to fly pouncing the air above with its head.

What would their Boggart turn into? How would they defeat it?

To collect the bloody demiguise statues and maintain a somewhat healthy sleep schedule, although eavesdropping was fun (and Wright certainly didn't expect then that Sharp will remember his particular word for ambitious rookies and start that joke about OFFICER CAPEFLAPPER IS ON THE CASE? GOOD. EXPLANATION OR DETENTION?), had Wright to ask around for help. Fig agreed with a chuckle, wondering, why would Gladwin ask a student and then remembered they had a bet. Moon had to pay him 20 galleons and it was the third month in a row the man was reluctant about the bet money. Not that Fig insisted but. EITHER WAY, Fig could cover for the Great Hall and some other areas, Hogsmeade.

Wright had even asked Peeves for a small favor after telling him pounding glass in her satchel was firewhiskey she stole from Sharp's personal chambers once. Peeves called this bubotuber sap but eventually agreed to search through the Restricted Section and blocked off sections of halls and galleries because if Wright was right, Sharp would love her expelled or lost in detentions; they had mutual disliking but shared a penchant for mischief so it was a friendly bet of sorts.

Speaking of whom, Sharp ofc. She was caught up on act by Sharp just when curfew hit and she opened the storage room but her explanation had Sharp laugh barking. He carried her the moon and told, Moon should've been busy wasting galleons away in that bottle. Turned out they, too, had a bet, which unsurprisingly jumped Wright a brow but she was like, ok; she could go to sleep instead of searching for another statue.

The fun lasted for some time but ended up with a final one statue, in the staff room. Because it was late and Fig was around, he suggested Wright to cast disillusionment to get past the gargoyle unseen and hide somewhere in the room until… Because, unfortunately, Matilda and Aesop had them cornered and would like to talk about you-know-what you-know-when, so, Julia, get sneaky aka The Usual Eleazar Shenanigans. Nobody knows why wouldn't he take the moon himself or let Sharp handle it; undoubtedly, fear for Matilda's intent!

Long story short: Sharp was a little bit too worried for Wright's rapid progress as it could get her somewhere undesirable and dangerous lest she decided her talents be rather spent on people pursuing her than her studies; he unbeknownst released Wright's deep fear for an untimely death, and the case used to hold a boggart suddenly opened with a ferociously prancing monstrous kelpie. A symbol, an embodiment of the demise came too soon and unexpected, taken the life of her father years ago.

She didn't cast it away as she ran away in panic, with the last moon, unseen. She only knew Sharp did the job and wasn't at all happy to see his partner's late aunt who always brought the smile up on his face.

Later Wright's boggart will become Victor Rookwood and she'll make him rant about herbology coursework kicking his old arse every single time. WRIGHT WISHED IT WOULD BE AS FUNNY IN A REAL COMBAT SCENARIO.

[shinra-makonoid]

May I ask your opinion on that mentioned study?

https://www.tumblr.com/d3nt4l-d4m4g3/715586088677343232/gyns-its-christmas-this-survey-has-data-from?source=share

So I'm too lazy to rewrite everything that I wrote, tumblr fucked me three fucking times because it doesn't like ctrl+Z after I post a picture. So, no picture, and I’m trying to be compact because I’m so done with it. This is the study.

I’ll make a separate answer to Dental-Damage because a few things really irks me from the post they made. Dental-Damage, as always, comes with a super biased way of looking at the study, implying that it's T causing those pelvic floor pains, that the study kinda does too, despite the fact that it never proves it through its number at all. There are a couple of things irritating in their post but I'll answer to them eventually for it later.

So let’s focus on that specific bit, because that’s what is driving Dental-Damage’s point:

“Characteristics of pain in people experiencing pain after commencing testosterone therapy

A total of 351 (72.2%) of the study sample experienced pelvic pain after starting testosterone therapy. Of those 351 respondents, 316 (90%) reported pelvic pain “sometimes” and 35 (10%) reported pelvic pain “always or almost always.” Of the 20 respondents older than 50 years and presumed postmenopausal, 9 (45%) reported pelvic pain “sometimes” and 2 (10%) reported pelvic pain “always or almost always.” A majority of the 351 participants (N = 345, 98.3%) reported some form of pelvic pain before starting testosterone therapy. This included 190 (65.5%) who “always or almost always” and 89 (30.7%) who “sometimes” experienced pain around menstruation, 48 (14.3%) who “always or almost always” and 102 (30.5%) who “sometimes” experienced assumed ovulation pain, and 31 (9.3%) who “always or almost always” and 140 (41.9%) who “sometimes” experienced pain between menstrual periods.

The most common description of pain was cramping (described by 72.6%), followed by aching (58.1%), stabbing (39.9%), and sharp (33.9%). The pain was most commonly located in the hypogastric region (described by 87.2% of respondents) (Fig. 1). The median score for pain severity after commencement of testosterone GAHT on a scale from 0 to 10 (most severe pain) was 6.2 (4.0–7.7). This was similar to the median score of 6.7 (5.5–7.8) reported for pain severity around menstruation before commencement of testosterone GAHT. Consistent with this, the median score in response to the question “How does the pelvic pain you experience using testosterone compare to the pelvic pain you experienced before starting testosterone?” (0 = much less severe, 5 = about the same to 10 = much more severe), was 4.3 (2.2–6.8).”

A few things to consider that are very important (specifically on this paragraph, because there's a lot of things that are ugh in this study):

Reports based on memory suck.

The way the study is made, makes it very difficult to have any kind of data out of it to answer that question (and was not made for it).

There is no way to make a difference between “ovulation pains” and “pain between menstrual periods”. Like… You could claim either, you have no idea, it’s not possible. Menstrual cycles come with blood, so it’s an indication, but you can’t really know when you’re ovulating, you can imagine you do, that’s it (no, 12 days before your first day cycle is not enough to me, especially if you recall it based on memories). 

The question asked in the survey for ex: “If yes or sometimes to periods, did you experience pelvic pain between bleeding/periods?” is unclear whether it’s about the number of times it happens in one cycle, or if it happens in general in cycles (I would say the latter, but it’s not clear, and so it wouldn't be clear for the person responding, most likely).

Let me detail: for example, it states 351 out of 486 people experienced pelvic pain after T. So we know it’s 72.2%. However, when they were looking at people experiencing pelvic pain before T, the study only focused on the 351 participants. We do not know how many people who, before T, suffered from pelvic pain out of the 486 people. 

What does it mean? It means that, for example, me, I suffered from pelvic pain before T (always during menstrual cycles, sometimes the other times), but I do not anymore. I wouldn’t be in any of the numbers displayed there, because I’m not in the “experience pelvic pain after starting T” group. That sounds like a huge issue to me? Like how are you supposed to compare before and after taking T if you don’t have the total numbers for all participants in the study for the "before T" group? 

So it’s highly probable that the number of people suffering from pain before T compared to the number suffering from pain after T is very different from that. The study is skewed because it focuses only on the people currently suffering from pain after T.

You could compare the 351 (100% suffering from pelvic pain after T) to the same group that, from memory, recalled they were "only" 98.3% to suffer from pelvic pain before T, sure. That's 6 people out of 351. I'm gonna call it: maybe those people misremembered, misunderstood the question or have a specific issue that may or may not be related to the use of testosterone. That's all you can say. Correlation isn't causation, and 6 people is certainly not enough to draw a wide conclusion of "T causes pelvic pain" especially when you removed 27% of your study population out of that second category.

Anyway the only bit we can compare is that the amount of pain DECREASED after T, but then again, we do not know how much people were counted in that? So it’s just… very vague and bad. We could assume it’s only the 351 people, in that case there’s a decrease of pain self reported after T (which bruh it is very wacky altogether again I would not use that as any kind of proof at all).

Now, if you check out the 10% of the 351 people suffering from pelvic pain “always or almost always”, you could probably compare it to the 9.3% of the 351 people suffering from pelvic pain “always or almost always” between menstrual periods. That’s very similar, and again you can’t distinguish between the ones thinking it was ovulation and the ones thinking it was random pain.

So at best, to me, you could claim that - if you exclude 27% of the trans men studied - T has no effect on the recurrence of pelvic pain, but may decrease its intensity. My idea tbh, if you included those 27% (based on my experience), is that T probably decrease the amount of pelvic pain and its recurrence.

Now what we could do is to compare the number of trans men who suffer from chronic pelvic pains, to cisgender women suffering from chronic pelvic pains. 

We have 10% (trans people who suffered "always or almost always" from pelvic pain after T) of 351 (trans people in the study who suffered from pelvic pain after T), which is therefore actually more like 35/486 people, which means 7.2%, because we’re counting total number of trans men in the study, and not just the ones that suffer from pelvic pains.

Based on this link https://www.nichd.nih.gov/health/topics/pelvicpain/conditioninfo/howmany I’m quoting:

“How many women have pelvic pain?

Researchers are not sure exactly how many women in the United States have chronic pelvic pain.

Because it is often linked to other disorders, such as endometriosis or vulvodynia, chronic pelvic pain may be misdiagnosed as another condition, making it difficult to estimate reliable prevalence rates for pelvic pain.1 According to one study, about 15% of women of childbearing age in the United States reported having pelvic pain that lasted at least 6 months.2 Worldwide, the rates of chronic pelvic pain for women of childbearing age range from 14% to 32%.2 Between 13% and 32% of these women have pain that is severe enough to cause them to miss work.3”

So worldwide we have at least 13% of women suffering from chronic debilitating pelvic pain compared to 7.2% of trans men from the study who are “always or almost always” in pain (which in itself is fucking vague again, studies quoted in the link were actually putting on “6 months at least” of pain, which is the definition of chronic pain usually).

The study itself talks about 1 in 7 female suffering from chronic pain of pelvic floor muscles. That's higher then our sample (1/7 is about about 14%).

And the main factor leading to pelvic pain in trans men was menstruation.... It just sounds like testosterone alone is not enough to prevent pelvic pain and/or menstruations in trans men. That's all you can say, you can't really put any number up either because of the data presented.

None of the current elements in the study and outside of the study allows anyone to make any kind of conclusion of the effect of T on pelvic pain, and certainly not that it causes or increases pelvic pains.

The study makes an effort to put up “reasons” as to “why” T would “cause pain” but it doesn’t actually prove any of that during the study at all.

I rest my fucking case.

Tl;Dr: this is a bad study, and it presents its numbers and info very badly, and I criticized only the relevant part, because there's a lot to criticize there.

Edit: Forgot to add but chronic pain is not normal and please consult for chronic pain and don't listen to people shaming you on using opioids or any kind of medication. If you got delivered that, and if it helps you, and if it's the right dosage, then you should use it. You can reevaluate with your doctor your dosage if you think it's not enough or too high, you should do that. Chronic pain causes depression, anxiety, and modifies the brain for the worse. You do not want that. You want a life in which you're not in pain, which you deserve.

[ask-professor-fig]

Revery of a tired author...

It was a particularly harrowing day. Several of my classes had led to minor disasters. Whether it be of the physical or social nature did not matter, they were still disasters. After shooting some basic casts at a practice dummy in the Clock Tower, it felt as if people were staring. I continued out through the Courtyard and still the feeling of eyes lingered. 

Soon enough I was on the dirt road headed South past the Groundskeepers Cottage… hopefully Mister Moon wasn’t there to question why I was off school grounds. I had no destination in mind, my feet continued to carry me. They led me straight to the stone wall surrounding Lower Hogsfield. 

After purchasing some mallowsweet leaves and wiggenweld from my old friend Arn, I sat by the pond’s edge. There had been a small stack of stones piled up, as if someone else had needed a distraction and left them behind in a hurry. Crossing my legs, I picked up the top stone and felt its smooth surface in my palm. Holding the stone in my right hand, I pulled it across the left side of my chest and flung it as swiftly as I could. It splashed a few feet away, never bouncing once. 

“Figures.” I huffed, grabbing another stone. This time I was more patient, releasing it while it was not yet in front of me. Two skips this time. I smirked at my mediocre accomplishment. 

I had picked up the next stone in a bit of a rush, admittedly, and had not realized it had a significantly more jagged edge than the previous two. As I turned my arm across my chest, the pressure of my thumb forced the honed edge to cut across the inside of my index and ring fingers. I sat there for a moment, holding the stone in my open palm as I stared at the two small red lines along my fingers. 

Sighing, I dropped the stone and pulled a piece of gauze from my bag. I began carrying some for small things like this, where it would be a waste to use wiggenweld. After wrapping the appendages I continued to sit, staring out across the water… back up at the castle. 

I didn’t bother to turn around when I heard the crack of an apparition behind me. It was either one of three… maybe four people. Sure, two of them were wanted criminals who would love to see me come to harm but, hey… you can’t deny that view.

“Lucan Brattleby turned white as a sheet when I questioned him… it’s as if he was tasked with hiding you.” Fig sounded tired… shit, I hated when he sounded tired. 

“I just asked him to keep quiet, that’s all.” I still chose to not look back as my mentor sat beside me, eyeing first the pile of stones and then my hand. 

“Oh for the love of… here, let me see.” He fussed, as he loved to, and took my hand. Absent-mindedly, he tossed the same stone that had cut me and, to my frustration, caused six skips before it came to a halt by the opposite side of the pond. I let my head roll backwards as I began to chuckle. Fig looked at me, puzzled, placing my hand in my lap after assuring himself I had already taken care of my minor injury. 

“I can’t seem to do anything right today… anything. Whether it be brewing a edurus potion, saying the right thing to a friend, or skipping a blasted stone.” To prove my point, I picked up another stone, attempted, and failed to get more than one skip. 

“My dear girl…” Fig couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. I turned to him, confused at his tone. “We’re not all masters at everything, please remember that. It takes time and effort to get any good at the things we do… and that includes social skills.” I looked up at him with wide eyes. “Yes, Professor Sharp did mention a bit of a… tense situation between you and Miss Reyes this afternoon.” 

“I made myself out to be a fool… again. I’m so tired of feeling like an outcast around them all.” I had hardly finished my sentence before Fig wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his side. It was hard not to chuckle at the action, my arms instinctively wrapping around his middle. 

“You are not an outcast… do you hear me?” Fig spoke into the top of my head. I nodded briefly in response. “Good… You will never be an outcast again, not while I’m around.”

We sat there as the sun began to set, leaving the day’s events behind us.

[dmsden]

Silence, Internet Radius - Playing a VTT voicelessly

Hullo, Gentle Readers. Today’s Question from a Denizen comes to us from an Anonymous source who asks, “Playing on a VTT such as Foundry or Roll20, if you, as a DM, were unable to use voice chat and had to type everything, how would you keep players engaged?” Before I begin, a shoutout to my players. I couldn’t resist sharing this screen from a virtual session that we played not very long back. Poor Ignatius was having a bad time of his Concentration checks, I fear. Sorry, Iggy! (And yes, our Yuan-ti Pureblood Druid is very fond of snakes. Go fig!)

So, Anonymous, I haven’t had this particular issue in my gaming. But I do have some thoughts on how you could combat it.

First, I would frontload a lot of text into whatever document I was using to prep my game. Room descriptions, results of anticipated skill checks, descriptions of monster attacks, dialogue possibilities, and so on. That way, I could try and minimize time players would spend waiting for me. For example, if I knew they were going to be fighting kobolds, I might look at the kobolds’ stat block and write some preparatory lines like:

“You feel a sharp pain in your side. You look down and realize a kobold slipped up and jabbed a dagger there. Although your armor held off much of it, there’s a slow ooze of blood between the scales. (5 piercing damage)”

“As the kobold in front of you dances back and forth, dagger waving menacingly, you hear a whirring noise and look up just in time to see a stone whistle your way from another kobold’s sling. Your arm goes briefly numb as pain shoots through it. (4 bludgeoning damage)”

“You take the brunt of the blow against your shield, and you push the little reptilian back, readying for a counterattack.”

Those are just a dagger attack, a sling attack aided by pack tactics, and a miss, but it’s certainly more descriptive, no? I try to do a lot of that in my home game to make combat more narrative and interesting, and it would certainly make a game of all text more fun, I think.

Another thing I would do is to have plentiful maps and handouts. Since everything has to be done visually, you can use a map to enhance the players’ experiences of moving around the dungeon. If you scan in the actual map you’re using, you could let one player be the “Caller” in the style of the old way of running the game. That player could then move a token for the party around the dungeon, and you could stop them when they encounter something of interest. When they do encounter something of interest, you can either switch maps to a zoomed in battlemap, drop a handout to the players, or both. Combined with the front-loaded text, these should help keep things moving for your players.

Right now, you might be thinking, “I’m not a writer; this will be impossible for me.” But anyone can write. Think of what you want your players to know; make sure you convey that information first and foremost. When you’re being descriptive, think of all five senses. What can the players see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. You can give subtle clues through their other senses. If there’s a behir nearby, maybe the air tastes subtly of ozone, and they feel the hair on their arms standing up from static electricity. If there’s a mind flayer, there can be a briny smell and a feeling of oppressive wrongness...of alien menace. Be sure to talk about colors, and don’t worry about being a little over the top with textures. “The nothic stares at you with a single, vermillion eye. It cackles softly, murmuring under its breath to itself almost inaudibly. Its body is naked, and you see folds of rubbery flab all over its body...like someone fat had lost a lot of weight very quickly. Incongruously, there’s a smell in the air of roasted nuts and tar. It creeps sideways, spidery limbs moving like it has too many joints. Its manic grin spreads, and it speaks in a voice like nails on a chalkboard. ‘Click, clack, cluck, cold, someone wants a secret I hold.’“

I hope this helps, Anonymous. This is what I’d try if I were in such a position. Let us know what you find works for you! Until next time, if a dragon invites you to dinner, be sure you’re not the main course!

[dear-mrs-otome]

Gute Besserung - IkeVamp (Faust)

'Tis a silly ficlet that's being rattling around in my head ever since that PV came out...and I'm a sucker for 'taking care of the sick'. 1500 words of Faust self-indulgence. Thank you to @mikotomizuki and @ambrosiallkiss for letting me scream about this!

She woke slowly. Swimming up through thick sleep that clung to her limbs and consciousness enviously, as if loathe to surrender her. Eyes too heavy to open still as she took stock - of the odd weight of her body, of what she could only imagine was the warmth of sunlight basking one half of her face, of the dry rhythmic scratch of nib on paper somewhere nearby.

Faust.

She knew without even needing to see for herself, recognized that omnipresent sound. Only he ever wrote thus, in a frantic scathing scribble, as if his thoughts were always tumbling faster than his hand. As if he were always racing time, trying to outpace something.

Ironic, given how much of it he had, she supposed.

Her own thoughts were sluggish, too-warm and chasing themselves in nonsensical circles, like withered leaves in the last heated gasps of an autumn wind. Her mouth dry with that patina so particular to a long convalescence.

She managed to crack her eyes open just as the writing stopped. Greeted by arched ceilings, stonework and heavy wooden paneling, walls lined with shelves that groaned beneath the weight of countless books. The faint astringent waft of chemicals framing a sharp counterpoint to the softness of the featherbed she reclined on. She needed no more than a passing glance to realize she was in Faust’s room...but why?

The ensuing silence was only broken by the slight tick of Faust’s glasses on the desk as she watched him set them aside, one hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose and over his eyes before raking through his hair, mussing the midnight strands with a sigh. His usual jacket had been cast off somewhere, leaving him in naught but rolled up shirtsleeves, looking altogether far more rumpled than she had ever seen. His broad shoulders bent as if beneath some burden, and in her daze she wondered what sort of weight could ever possibly bow his Atlas frame.

Her lips were parched as she sought her voice, finding only the barest ghost of it. “Faust?”

He jerked, snapping to attention, blinking owlishly in her direction for a moment before snatching up his glasses. They settled back on his face at the same moment his customary smile settled on his lips. Sardonically charming, effortlessly wicked.

She’d often thought the Serpent must have smiled at Eve much like that, from amongst the verdant fig leaves. More the fool she was then she knew, for recognizing it as such and still letting herself be seduced.

"Still among the living, then?" It was delivered in his usual droll style, the hint of a laugh always threatening to break through it seemed, as if ever ready to have a joke at her expense...but there was something taut about the inscrutable gaze he leveled at her. A wariness, almost. That of a breath long held, not yet released.

She sighed her indignance as best she could, offering him a kitten-weak glare even as an answering smile tried to tug at her lips. "Feel too terrible to be dead."

He hummed his assent, the sound rippling into a chuckle as he scooted his chair closer beside the bed, reaching for a pitcher and glass upon the nearby table and pouring a small measure out. Swift deft movements helped her to sit up against the pile of pillows and held the cup to her lips, letting her have her fill of water.

“What happened?” she managed, when her tongue no longer felt bone-dry and cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

“You fainted dead away in the midst of the soup course, four days ago. I was unaware that you found broccoli so repugnant.”

“Hah,” she huffed, and he seemed to relent.

“It would appear you came down with an illness of some sort. You’ve had a fever, some delirium, these past three nights. Influenza, or scarlet fever perhaps, though I see no sign of you presenting with a rash…” He trailed off, speculation creasing his brows as he lay a hand on her forehead, gauging her temperature. "The fever only broke this morning."

She sifted through the shards of memories his words unearthed, trying to puzzle them back into something whole. Snatches of long hot spells, of strange dreams and visions and feeling utterly wrung-out. A voice speaking often, low and sonorous, syllables broad with the brunt of German. And amidst all that, blissfully cool touches much like the fingers still settled on her brow.

She didn’t even realize she had been nuzzling into the reprieve of them until she felt them lingering on her cheek, their slight chill a welcome comfort - pausing just a heartbeat past propriety before withdrawing, pulled back so that his fingers could twitch into a tight knot on his lap.

“You've been here the entire time?” She framed it as a question, but they both knew it wasn't.

It was an attempt to avoid, perhaps, that had him turn towards the notes on his desk and shuffle them. “Was I to pass up an opportunity to observe the course of an illness up close? To see how a modern constitution fares against diseases of the past? A vampire’s physiology requires little in the way of rest.”

A wry smile did manage to find its way onto her lips them. “You could have just said yes.”

Faust sniffed. “It was either that or leave you to that jackleg Charles, and that was not going to happen. You needed proper medicating. I administered antipyretics first, though they seem only to have taken the edge off your fever. Phenazone, then phenacetin -"

He had taken on an all too-familiar tone, and she attempted to head him off before he got lost in his suppositions. "Faust."

"Although again with little effect. I thought perhaps simply an analgesic would at least allow you rest but opioids are for hacks. Not to mention that a soporific was the last thing you needed, given our attempts at getting you to -"

"Faust."

He rolled on over the top of her interruptions, almost rambling...but this was no mere animated lecture. It was the first time she'd ever seen him anything other than poised, and her attention came to rest once more on the dark circles carved beneath his eyes, those self-imposed bruises poorly masked by the disheveled tangle of his hair. "-regain sense enough to drink. Dehydration was certainly a concern, and your -"

She reached a hand out from beneath the covers and set it carefully on his knee. "Johann."

The muscles of his leg beneath her fingertips flinched, then seized, his words dying in a slight intake of breath. She saw him swallow thickly before he continued.

“You called for your mother. Crying like a lost child.”

His abrupt bald statement startled her, both the unexpectedness of it and the morose implication. Wondering just how closely she had flirted with death after all.

“You called out for me as well. In the throes of your fever.” He spoke to the grip she still had on his knee at first, before his stare shifted to pin her. A hoarseness running through his words, faint but unmistakable. One lone snagged thread in the dark-silk weft of his voice. “And there was nothing I -”

His jaw clenched down on the rest of that sentence and the silence drew taut, like a bowstring poised to devastate.

She didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know what to do with the green gaze that searched hers, questions sparking through it like sunlight off jade. And so she sidestepped it, let the elephant in the room settle into safe, uneasy repose.

“Thank you,” she told him at last, earnest in her gratitude. “I know I couldn’t have been in better hands.”

The ghost of his usual confidence haunted the lopsided smile he offered her. “You’re welcome.” He adjusted the blankets around her once more, hesitating the barest of moments before taking her hand in his and cradling it in his lap, fingertips pressed to her wrist. “Your pulse seems to be stable.”

But he didn’t relinquish it, long after she knew he must have counted out the heartbeats necessary...and she let the languid sweep of his thumb along her skin lull her back towards the exhaustion that welcomed her with open arms. “You’ll put me to sleep doing that,” she mumbled on a smile, eyes already closed.

“Rest then. You need it still.” His own words were no more than a low murmur now, almost more felt than heard. A soothing rumble that traipsed up her arm and seemed to make itself at home inside her chest. “Schlaf gut.”

And she wondered if she was asleep already, perhaps dreaming, when she felt the careful press of lips against the fingers curled around his - as if to seal that sentiment in place.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Cries

CW: Dehumanization, nonhuman whumpee, blood, restraints, captivity, muzzling

Introduction | Siren Song              

---

Transcribed October 4th, 20XX by Bahram Anvari, R.A. to Dr. Rachel Lachlan

First Draft – NOTE TO SELF – REMOVE ITALICS BEFORE FILING

Recording Transcription: Day 1 of Mer Residence

1.34.52 AM

October 3, 20XX

The first sound on the recording is a terrified keening. 

It’s inhumanly high-pitched, closer to whistle than wail, but still unmistakably, desperately frightened.

The camera jostles, unfocused, as whatever hands hold it fumble to bring the creature into view. There’s a blurred thrashing of pale and dark, little more than shadow and light, smears of charcoal gray from the individuals dragging the thing along the floor as it fights them.

Their swearing is muffled, hissed whispers of frustration and irritation. The words aren’t easy to understand, although the tone of those speaking easily gives away the anger behind them. There’s a thunk as the blurry thing drops, half-wriggling and half-sliding across the damp floor. The camera picks up a scrambled mad movement to regain control, forward motion closer to the camera and then off to the side.

Over the whistling, keening crying, a deep male voice, edged with effort and strain, yells, “Is Miah-... shit, you little fucking rabid dolphin-... is Miah recording?”

“Yeah, camera’s on!” Another, much younger male voice yells back. “She’s having some trouble with focus, looks like, but it’s getting the sound at least. Do you need help, Mr. Kirsse?”

“Just get-... shit, shit shit he’s slick-... get the lift ready to put him in the tank!”

“Yes, sir.” There’s a pause. “Are you good, Doctor?”

A woman’s voice answers now. Strong and confident, only a little strained with effort. “I’m fine, thanks, Bahram. I think Anders is having the worst time of the two of us. Thanks to the muzzle this creature is harmless to me. Have the-... the lift ready, please.”

“Will do, Dr. Lachlan.” 

A man moves past the camera, a hint of waterproof canvas overalls thrown over a sweater in the chilly room, brown skin and black hair. The camera follows and lingers on him briefly before returning to the entryway.

When the recording finally comes into focus, a muzzled male mer restrained with thick, abrasive sisal rope is suddenly visible, carried by Dr. Rachel Lachlan holding him under the armpits and Anders Kirsse trying and largely failing to keep a tight hold on his tail.

Muzzle is of Dr. Lachlan’s own design and while it protects humans from a mer’s sharp teeth, it will not prevent him from vocalizing.

NOTE: Include Dr. Lachlan’s design in filing, Fig. 1. Photograph living mer in muzzle to file as Fig. 2. Check before official filing to see if Dr. Lachlan’s patent application is pending approval by then.

Dr. Lachlan will want higher-quality vocalizations while wearing the muzzle recorded.

The rope that ties the mer’s hands behind his back is the cheap type often bought at home improvement stores and never intended for any kind of skin, deep red blood that is just shy of violet dripping to the floor beneath him along with remaining saltwater, a perfect trail that echoes the party’s slow, halting progress across the floor.

“This’d be easier if we-... had staff for this.” Anders Kirsse, an older man whose voice still has traces of a northern accent. “Or put it in a fucking wheelbarrow.”

“What we’re doing is highly illegal and more than a little outside the bounds of my profession’s insistence on humane capture procedures,” Dr. Lachlan replies. She is a tall woman with brown hair in a long ponytail, still wearing the hip-waders and boots she had on the boat (note to self- ship or boat? Miah will be pissed if I don’t get that right) and a heavy wool sweater currently damp from the mer’s struggles and spotted with its blood.

“Humane, huh?”

“Indeed. Generally speaking, due to their complex matrilineal social structures – a bit like orca, if you will-“

“Sure. Fuck, this thing is slippery!”

“-they don’t do well when separated in youth from the pod.”

Mer blood appears thicker than human, and Mr. Kirsse and Dr. Lachlan struggle not to slip in the trail of droplets whenever they have to stop and readjust their grips. When the creature falls briefly to the floor, thrashing like any fish desperate for the water, the floor is momentarily smeared with the deep burgundy beneath him. The two look down at him while he stares upward at them, panicked high whistles only a little muffled by the straps of the muzzle.

Anders Kirsse kicks the mer at what would be knee-height on a man, and it shrieks, trying to roll away from him. “I mean, is that going to mess with your work?”

“No. I do not require it for longer than six months.” Dr. Lachlan breathes hard. Her hands have the mer’s blood staining her palms. “Adolescent specimens will likely last at least a year.”

“Plenty of time for us both, then.”

“Precisely.”

The room comes into view as Miah Kirsse briefly stops focusing on the mer’s continued struggles and changes the angle. The walls are beige and taupe except for a vast circular tank with a small platform built high above it and some desks, couches, and a mini-fridge shoved out along the walls. Inside the tank there is a large manmade rock with a small cave inside that climbs just up above the water to give the mer a place to sit underneath sun lamps to warm itself, although not high enough to enable it to climb out of the tank. Various ferns and other plant life are dotted along the tank’s floor along with false coral in a wide variety of colors, giving it the appearance of ocean bottom for the purposes of giving the mer a comfortably familiar new home.

The camera lingers on briefly on the tank, but then quickly returns to Dr. Lachlan and Anders Kirsse. The creature’s vibrancy and life, not to mention his saturated blood, seem to take the full focus of the individual holding the camera.  

(Note to self - him or it? I’ve gone back and forth a little. Continue transcription after speaking to Dr. L)

Answer: Mer is male, but Dr. L would prefer to utilize ‘it’ to ensure we are not anthropomorphizing the animal.

The mer is attempting to free its arms, lying on its stomach on the floor. Its white hair, stiff with dried salt from the sea, shakes from side to side with the motions of his its body. Some of the hair is slightly brownish-red stained with its own blood.

It  tries frantically to hit out with its tail, scales shimmering under a flat fluorescent light that shines from overhead. This mer comes from a northern band and its tail is utilitarian for that purpose and contains only a small flutter at the end. Coloration is pale, the same near-white as its hair, fading into a deep black shimmer of scales that pales again when scale shifts to rubbery thick skin just at its navel.

 At first, it finds no surface but the floor.

Then it succeeds and smacks heavily into Anders Kirsse, a broad-shouldered man in his forties. The tail hits Anders across the face, sending him stumbling to hands and knees and knocking his glasses to the ground where they skim along the cool concrete floor. Dr. Lachlan’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

A soft half-whispered rhythmic sound begins, clearly coming from the person holding the camera.

The man knocked to the floor stands back up, eyes narrowed either in an attempt to see or simply in fury, and snaps, “Stop laughing, Miah,” his hands moving quickly to echo his spoken words in American Sign Language, hereafter referred to as ASL in all future transcriptions.

Miah Kirsse, who is holding the camera, does not stop laughing. 

Mr. Kirsse tells Miah, “I saw that sign, young lady,” and gets back to his feet, taking the mer’s tail in hand again, leaving his glasses on the floor with a visible crack across the lens. The mer seems startled that it made contact with Anders and has gone still, looking in what seems to be Kirsse’s direction. There is a sound like a series of small clicks before its gaze seems to shift over to Miah and therefore directly into the camera.

Miah quickly zooms, and the focus blurs before sharpening again to show the mer’s wide eyes, a deep green very much similar to the color of a species of seaweed that grows in the mer mating territories near the Nalowale Islands. (Note to self - what is the name of that seaweed?) Mer eyes have no visible sclera or pupil. Due to the black muzzle covering up the bottom half of its face, its expression is not wholly visible, but eyebrows the same near-white as its hair are furrowed in confusion or upset. Hair falls over its face.

It looks very human like this.

It clicks again. This transcriber believes the clicking may be a way to ask a question.

Bahram Anvari, Dr. Lachlan’s research assistant, is seen walking across through the video to a large sling held by thick ropes to a kind of forklift, also something Dr. Lachlan has personally engineered for use with the mer. It has been retrofitted from a similar type of machinery utilized for much larger cetaceans at Dr Lachlan’s prior place of employment, which closed down after a series of incidents that ended with widespread public disapproval.

After knocking Mr. Kirsse’s glasses off, the mer seems more subdued, and ceases fighting as it is moved across the room, but it does continue to click. Between the placement of its brow and the sounds, this transcriber believes it is trying to ask what happened to the glasses that it perhaps believes were simply part of Kirsse’s eyes.

The mer is placed into the canvas sling and Mr. Anvari steps over to the control panel, moving a lever. The lift kicks into gear with a low mechanical whirr, and the mer lets out a new kind of sound, a startled chirp and click combination, as it jerks into motion and is lifted up into the air above the height of the tank. Chirps quickly ramp up into fearful cries as Mr. Anvari moves the sling to swing out over the water in the tank.

The camera is set down on a nearby desk and Miah Kirsse moves onscreen. She is nineteen years old and bears a strong resemblance to her father. She signs, “Is the water right for him? What about his face and arms?”

“The animal will be fine,” Dr. Lachlan speaks out loud. Miah frowns until her father repeats Dr. Lachlan in ASL. She continues to frown, but more in annoyance now.

Miah replies, “I could tell what she said. Are you going to untie him first?”

“That would pose too great a risk.” Dr. Lachlan watches the mer renew its struggles, but the sides of the sling go up too high for it to do anything more than wear itself out even further. “When the animal is ready to eat, it will allow us to free its arms and remove the muzzle. Bahram, lower the mer into the tank.”

As Dr. Lachlan is not looking in Miah’s direction and does not use ASL, Anders Kirsse translates the answer into ASL for her and her words back to Dr. Lachlan. Her expression darkens further.

Anvari nods and presses a small button on the control panel. The lift reverses its earlier rise and the mer shrieks in fear as it perceives a sudden drop down towards the water. There is a small splash as it submerges, thrashes more, and finally frees itself from the sling. Bahram raises the sling back out of the water and back to the floor by the tank.

The assembled party is silent as they witness the mer’s first experience with its new home.

Nasal slits designed to breathe air close – the muzzle is placed just under them, leaving them visible – this is a personal decision on Dr. Lachlan’s part for ease of research. With the nasal slits closed, there is only the vaguest suggestion of their existence. Gills in the neck open to take oxygen in from the water around it.

There is a small pump system that will ensure new oxygenated saltwater is constantly cycled through the tank, and the mer’s ear fins which echo the colors of its tail, twitch as it searches for the source of the sound. 

Its tail undulates in a consistent, slow motion to keep itself placed where it is in the water.

It pulls at the bindings holding its arms and turns back to the four humans who watch it. Green eyes appear to look over each person in turn. Then it calls, an undulating sound under the water, similar to whalesong but softer and higher-pitched, turning to show them its restrained arms, burgundy weeping into the water around them. Its fingers end in claws and are heavily webbed for ease of motion in water. There is some scaling around elbows and shoulders present in male mer that is not present in female mer.

The mer clicks, looks at them over its shoulder, clicks again.

Miah Kirsse: “He wants us to untie him.” She points at the mer. It appears to brighten a little at the sign that she has noticed it and uses its tailfin to move slowly back until its arms are close to the side of the tank.

Dr. Lachlan doesn’t respond at first, approaching the tank and looking at the mer. “I don’t think it can tell where the water ends and the walls begin. Interesting.”

“Don’t those things use echolocation or something?” Mr. Kirsse asks.

“They can, but I don’t think it’s tried yet. We know that adult animals utilize it more heavily than young. Fascinating.” Dr. Lachlan is quiet, for a moment. “I’ve never seen one so young introduced into human habitats before.”

“You mean captivity,” Miah signs, hands moving in harsh motions to lay plain her mood. Dr. Lachlan looks at Anders, who translates. “You mean cages.”

“Yes,” Dr. Lachlan replies. “I do. Let’s track how long it takes for the animal to cooperate in order to eat,” She says, brusquely. “Right now removing anything at all would lead to it clawing or biting us.”

Miah snorts. “He just wants to be untied-”

Dr. Lachlan holds up her hand and Miah’s fall still. “I understand that, Miah. I want it to be very well aware that its best interests lie in giving us total cooperation. Especially as we will be doing daily blood draws and it will no doubt be as reticent about needles at every other mer that we’ve tested. Now I need to make sure no one noticed us while we were on the water. Bahram, you’re on mer duty until I come back. Do not approach the platform, do not attempt to unbind it. Absolutely do not remove that muzzle. If you do any of those things – or allow anyone else to - before I give express approval, you will be dismissed from the project.”

Bahram nods. “No problem, Doctor. I understand.”

“I want to help,” Miah signs quickly. “I want to help B watch him.”

“Later,” Mr. Kirsse replies, both vocally and in ASL. Anvari is watching the mer, and as transcriber I should note that it is at this time that Anvari believes the mer watches the exchange between Miah and Anders Kirsse and appears to be focusing on their hands. It clicks, softly, barely audible. “You have to help me with the website first.”

Miah looks briefly into the camera. “I regret learning coding now.”

“This is not a TV show, don’t talk to the camera!”

“Try and stop me.”

“Miah, for the love of-”

“Let’s take this outside,” Dr. Lachlan says, and everyone but Anvari exits the facility holding room. 

The mer spins back around and tilts its head. Pale white hair floats around it as it cries to get their attention, then looks at Anvari, who meets its gaze briefly before he appears to realize the camera is still recording. 

Anvari moves to the camera to turn it off, but the mer seems to think he is also leaving and grows visibly agitated in the recording, throwing itself against the side of the tank. It thumps into the thick walls and makes a sound of confusion and hurt. 

“I’m not gonna get any sleep tonight, am I?” Anvari says, carrying the camera over to a set of switches along one wall. He turns the lights off and ends the recording. There are cameras in the tank, which has low lights set at regular intervals along the bottom to ensure the mer is still visible at all times. There seconds between the overhead lights turning off and the tank lights turning on is just long enough to show that mer eyes glow faintly in the dark.

The last moment is very much the same as the first.

It is the sound of a frightened mer crying.

End transcription.

---

Bahram, you have a gift for storytelling, but that isn’t what we’re looking for here. I still have to figure out how to gain industry acknowledgement of this project and your constant humanizing of the mer is not helping. Being startled by a change in environment is not mortal terror. Redo this and remove all these plays on emotion. Also, remove the exchanges with Miah, she is not officially part of this project.  - Dr. L

B, you forgot to add what I said to Dad when he told me to stop laughing. Make sure you put that part in the transcription next time. If this gets published I want the whole peer review whatever to know I called him a dick. Also that poor thing is totally frightened and also also Dr. Lachlan is a dick too. Leave my stuff in or I’ll never talk to you again. - Miah

Note to self - Stop leaving transcription drafts where Miah can find them.

Maybe I can get Miah to watch it for a few hours if I buy her coffee or something. I can't keep listening to it. Sometimes I swear it sounds like a kid. At least if Miah was here, she wouldn’t actually have to hear it. It’s hiding in the cave thing now, which I guess is good. Familiarizing itself with shelter.

I hate that he’s scared of us already

I just wish it would stop making that sound.

----

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @slaintetowhump @moose-teeth @misspelledwitch @whumpfigure @whumptywhumpdump

[aphrodites-law]

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (12/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11]

A few minutes before closing time the next day, Clarke was waiting at the end of the counter for surprise customers. Gaia was already wrapping her scarf around her neck and Wells was pulling out ingredients for the next day. He had stayed much later today, going over resumes for their interviews tomorrow, but also reorganizing the kitchen.

After giving Gustus a call to offer him the job, Wells had realized that things would get crowded quite quickly. Gustus was a big man and the kitchen was on the smaller side, but it was workable with a different layout. Clarke thanked her lucky stars for her best friend's ability to adapt to situations, as she herself disliked big changes. Regardless of the possible growing pains ahead, it was an exciting time for the café.

Right after Gaia left with a tired wave, Wells found Clarke absentmindedly drawing the branches of the weeping fig. The last customers had left as well and the sun had already set. The mugs were clean, the plates drying, and the day's crumbs swept from the floor. It hadn't rained at all today; a small mercy given that Clarke couldn't stop thinking about her date with Lexa. She wasn't sure where they were headed, but heavy rain might've halted Lexa's plans and she didn't have the patience to wait another day.

Wells peeked at her drawing pad and sighed. "God, she's a beauty," he said dreamily.

Clarke snorted. His fondness for their Ficus was a running joke between them. "Weirdo."

Wells gave her a tired grin as he buttoned up his wool peacoat. He always looked so sharp in winter wear, whereas Clarke always felt like a bulky bear. She'd dressed up a little today - fitted dark pants and a knitted sweater with a nice scoop neck. Her boots were clean and if her hair's curls had loosened over the day, she had still clearly made an effort to look presentable.

“So, you had your vision," said Wells.

Clarke dropped her pencil. "Wh- I- what?"

"It was a few weeks ago, wasn't it? When you came in looking like you hadn’t slept a wink."

Shame gripped her. "Wells, I-"

“You’re looking more crimson than cranberry juice,” he pointed out with a laugh.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to bring it up," she said. She'd always felt guilty for keeping it from him, but it wasn't the easiest topic either. "Did Raven tell you?"

"Nah, she even deflected when I wondered aloud. You just started acting weird whenever someone mentioned visions. You hate lying, so I figured you didn't want to be asked if you'd had one."

Clarke closed her notepad. She should have known he'd catch on. "I didn't mean to be secretive. You know I would've told you the minute it happened, it just wasn't… family friendly."

"Yeah, I figured. It's good though? I mean, you're happy, right?"

It was a surprising question, though it shouldn't have been. Clarke hadn't really thought about it. It wasn't something she asked herself or even expected. For so long happiness had just revolved around the café. Finding the right name; the right building; the right theme. She'd judged her days based on their achieved goals and for a while it had been a thrill. And it still was - her work made her proud and it made her happy too - but it wasn't everything. She'd come to face that recently, and though the wake up call had been… unconventional, certainly, she was grateful for it.

"I am. I'm seeing her, actually. The woman from my vision. You'd recognize her - she's a regular."

Wells nodded as if he'd already put two and two together. “At Octavia and Lincoln's party I saw you talking to her. Then it clicked she wrote that article on Finn - I remembered checking her profile on the Gazette when it dropped."

"Yeah, she works there. She's writing a piece on the visions actually."

"So it's getting serious?" He asked hesitantly.

And really, Clarke couldn't fault his curiosity. She'd been so wrapped up in Lexa that she'd neglected their relationship and now he was unsure if he should gently prod or wait.

“It’s new and we’re taking things slow, but yeah, I'm hoping it'll work out. I really like her."

Wells looked over her shoulder toward the entrance and smiled. "Seems like she really likes you too."

Clarke turned around and saw that Lexa had parked her car and was just crossing the street toward the café.

"Are you coming in tomorrow?" He asked her.

Clarke whipped around, her cheeks flushed. "What? Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

"Dunno, you tell me." He laughed as he checked for his keys in his pocket. "Gaia and Harper have the early shift, in case you forgot. We just have those three interviews in the afternoon, but you already know that."

"I do know," she replied with a frown. "There's no reason I wouldn't be here earlier. I'm always here. What are you saying?"

He shrugged, entirely too proud of himself, and walked toward the back exit. "No one will fault you if you take a break. Enjoy your date!"

"I will! And I'll see you in the morning!" Clarke replied stubbornly.

"I'm sure you will!" he retorted, still snickering, before closing the door behind him.

A hand touched Clarke's shoulder and she startled.

"Sorry," Lexa said with a gentle smile. She'd put on her black coat today, the top buttons undone to reveal her sweater - a reddish brown this time, perfect for the fall. Her hair was down and her eyeliner perhaps more pronounced than usual. Clarke wondered if she'd applied it in her car. She looked beautiful.

"Hi, baby," she softened, forgetting all about Well's teasing. He didn't know what he was talking about. Tonight was just going to be a nice date. Some food, wine - whatever Lexa had planned. They were still going slow. Clarke didn't have any expectations other than enjoying their time together. She liked their pace. It was… frustrating at times, sure, but it was working. They had both opened up to each other.

"Hi," Lexa whispered before she inched forward so that she could kiss her over the counter. Clarke sighed into it, having imagined such sweetness all day long.

"Am I too early?" Lexa asked. "Do you need help cleaning up?"

Clarke brushed her thumb over Lexa's jaw. "No, I'm done. I just need to grab my coat and close up."

"Was that Wells who went out back?"

"Yes, he was being ridiculous."

"I thought he usually left earlier?"

"He does, but he's been rearranging the kitchen. I think he's worried Gustus will find it too small."

"Gus has an entire farm and acres of land at his disposal, but he sleeps in his shed because it's warm," Lexa said. "He won't mind."

Clarke beamed, delighted to hear it. "I'm going to give you Wells' number and you're going to text him just that. "

While Clarke left to grab her coat, Lexa worried her lip. "Oh but he doesn't really know me…"

"He will."

Clarke came out from the back with her coat and scarf on. She pulled out her set of keys. "He's my best friend and you're my-" she stopped herself. "I think you'd get along great. He loves theater, devours literature, and he already thinks you're amazing for taking Finn down. So don't worry about it."

"Well, that reminds me: Collins went ahead with suing the Gazette."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

They made their way to the front, where Lexa opened the door for Clarke. "No. It'll never stand, but he aims to waste our time and money."

"Waste of time and money - that's been his motto since birth."

Lexa wrinkled her nose. "Let's talk about something else."

"Please. So where's my carriage?"

Lexa laughed.

* * *

Lexa may not have found a pumpkin to turn into a carriage after all, but her car smelled like apples and she drove so smoothly Clarke could've closed her eyes and imagined they weren't moving at all. She had never thought 'great driver' would do it for her, but here she was eyeing Lexa's hands on the steering wheel and feeling hot.

"How's the writing going?" Clarke asked, clearing her throat when her voice started off slightly rough.

Lexa took a left, which would've surprised Clarke if she'd paid any attention to the road. But all she could think about was Lexa's razor-sharp focus and how she yearned to be the reason for it.

"Good, I finished a first draft. My writing partner is looking at it for now. I need it out of my sight for a few days."

"Partner, huh?"

Lexa smiled as she kept her eyes on the road. "Echo. She wrote most of the FC&B article."

"Did you write for other newspapers before?"

Lexa nodded. "Two. I've been lucky, professionally. Smaller papers have always been more interesting to me, so I stayed away from national ones. I was able to climb the ladder a lot faster than some of my old classmates."

"The Gazette must've been a change of pace. New city, new job - I don't think I could handle it."

"When they hired me I was so happy to be working I just threw myself into it," Lexa admitted. "I got the idea on the Mountain Men soon after, just from reading old archives about them. That kept me busy, so I didn't have time to worry about fitting in. It was nice. Exciting. It felt like falling in love with my job again. Then one day Echo invited me to grab drinks with other colleagues and… I realized things had fallen into place already."

"Costial is pretty magical like that," Clarke said with a smile. She loved it when Lexa talked about her time here. Sometimes it was easy to forget she hadn't even been here a year yet. Clarke remembered her first year in the city - how she'd felt like she'd always belonged here. How she couldn't wait to build her life here. And college had been fun, and sometimes she walked by the campus just for the nostalgia of it, but it was the years after that had really shaped her life into what it was today. There had been many tears and failures before the café, but she'd never once thought of leaving. She hoped Lexa felt the same.

One glance outside the window and Clarke finally had an idea where they were headed. They were quite far from the center of the city now, just a few miles away from Busy Moose Park and its lake on the outskirts. Lexa took the road that led to the park, but she didn't make the turn Clarke had expected and instead continued straight.

"Are we going to the factory?" Clarke asked.

The chocolate factory and its surroundings were certainly a sight to behold, and popular with teens because of its smells and aesthetic quality, but there wasn't much to do unless you brought a picnic. Which was unlikely to be comfortable anyway in this cold.

"Not quite," Lexa answered with a secretive smile.

A few minutes later she finally pulled over into a small parking lot, checking for Clarke's reaction as soon as they got out of the car.

“I know I said I’d take you somewhere more upscale, but I thought you might really like this place."

Because the factory was just a ways down the road and it was windy tonight, the bold smell of chocolate permeated the air. They had stopped in front of a rustic restaurant surrounded by a garden. Small lights glowed softly against the brick walls, complimented by the dancing shadows from a few lanterns. There was a patio with beams covered in twining vines, the plants and wisteria also covering the top like a ceiling. Powerful heaters kept the biting cold at bay, no doubt, making the entire place look like a winter fairytale.

It was the kind of romantic setting Clarke would have made fun of in front of friends while secretly hoping to experience it one day.

“How the hell have I never been here before?” She asked in astonishment.

With a hand on her back, Lexa led her toward the entrance.

“Did you know Icicle? Italian restaurant?”

“Yeah, that rings a bell.”

“This is it. The owner retired and her son took over - revamped the whole place from top to bottom and gave it a mountain lodge theme. He figured they should capitalize on the location more, especially the constant sweetness in the air. It just reopened a few weeks ago. Featured in the Gazette and everything.”

“Oh, that might’ve been when I was a bit angry at you," Clarke remembered and gave Lexa a teasing grin. "Deleted the app like it was some kind of statement."

Lexa scrunched up her nose, not too eager to remember that time. The hostess seated them inside at a secluded table for two. The light was dimmed and there was a candle between them; and even two squares of chocolate wrapped in gold foil.

After they took off their coats and sat, Lexa bit her lip. “It's not too much, is it?"

"Are you kidding? It's gorgeous." Clarke reached for her hand. "You're always surprising me."

A waiter gave them a menu and a basket of bread. They looked like mini baguettes and Clarke was temped to steal one for Wells.

“God, I almost forgot about this smell," she said, taking a deep breath. The chocolate from the factory still wafted faintly in the air, and mixed with the smell of food it had Clarke already salivating for dinner. "In college we used to hang out by the lake a lot. If the wind was on our side we’d always get a whiff from the factory. Not even edibles could beat that.”

Lexa arched a brow. “Edibles, huh?”

“Please, I know you’ve dabbled," Clarke scoffed.

“What makes you think that?”

“You have the vibe.”

“The pothead vibe? I thought I was unreadable.”

“Oh you have that vibe too," Clarke laughed. "But then there’s the tattoos, the plants, the way you write about nature. You’re curious, open minded, andyou went to a liberal arts college. You must’ve tried it at least once. I think that’s how you approach most things: don’t knock ‘till you try it. Am I close?”

Lexa looked away, slightly flummoxed. “It sounds like I’m more of an open book then.”

"Maybe that's a good thing…" Clarke offered with a hopeful smile, thumb caressing the back of her hand.

"Maybe it is," Lexa agreed.

They both picked the apricot glazed chicken with roasted potatoes, pairing it with a white wine. Throughout dinner Clarke felt such pleasant warmth, both because of the wine and Lexa's steady gaze on her. She was relaxed and unfairly charming; a great listener by all accounts, but also coming out of her shell when it came to her own past. Clarke knew it wasn't easy for her, which made it all the more special.

"In retrospect I should've figured politics weren’t for me when I started screaming at my television every time the news came on."

Clarke grinned, knowing the sentiment all too well. "Good thing you don't work for a newspaper or anything…"

Swallowing the last of her wine, Lexa gave her a playful smirk. "Local news. I can take the city hall drama. I actually enjoy it with my morning pastry."

"That I can believe. You always look so deep in thought when you read. Harper dropped a cup once and you didn't even flinch."

"Really?" Lexa asked. "Is there anything else I do that I should know about?"

The waiter stopped by with their desserts: molten chocolate cake for Lexa and a slice of pear tart for Clarke.

"It's not like I stare or anything," Clarke clarified as she grabbed her spoon. "Your seat just happens to be in my vicinity."

"Mm." Lexa smirked. "I guess I just pop up sometimes…" she trailed off, her tone heavy with implication.

She did this occasionally, but more boldly recently. Alluding to Clarke's vision seemed to greatly entertain Lexa.

"Ha, you're funny," Clarke deadpanned.

"Did I also crack jokes while I was kissing you - and I quote - everywhere?" Lexa goaded.

Clarke shrugged as she chewed on her tart. "Actually you were a lot more suave than you are now. Pity."

Lexa laughed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Please, you're very proud of yourself. And it's not fair all I have to go on is your distaste for coffee." Clarke remembered how frantic she had been after her vision, her mind firing questions every second. “Did you know I went to a vision reader right after?”

It had been an impulse and she'd regretted it, but she figured Lexa was familiar with them.

"Really?" Lexa asked, surprised.

“Yeah, the one by the market. Becca’s Reading or something. I bailed at the last minute.”

“I actually haven’t spoken to one. I was toying with the idea, but it might be an entirely different article.”

Clarke grimaced. “They’re just opportunistic money grabbers.”

Lexa offered a spoonful of her cake, which Clarke took before plopping a bit of pear on top of it. The warm chocolate melted the pear in her mouth and she sighed at the taste. Lexa smiled.

“It’s a different point of view. Besides, listening to so many stories might’ve given them some valuable insight even if they opened a shop for the wrong reasons. If my job’s taught me anything it’s to not judge a book by its cover.”

"Hmm you're good at it - your job. And I'm not just saying that because you're wining and dining me."

Lexa looked bashful. "You know, I remember when you yelled at me to get over myself."

"Not our finest moment…"

"No," Lexa agreed. "But it was needed. Before that there was so much I wanted to tell you, but… couldn't."

"I know." Clarke remembered that feeling as well. After the vision she'd look at Lexa and be so certain there was so much left unsaid between them, yet neither of them knew where to start, or if it was reciprocated. "I should've let you interview me - just ripped off the Band-Aid. It would've explained a lot."

"I would've never made it past the first question," Lexa said. "Can you share what you saw, Clarke?"

Clarke smiled cheekily around a mouthful of her tart. "Well, I would hope that kind of confession would score me a date at least."

"Oh I would have asked you out on the spot," Lexa replied with a smirk.

Clarke gasped. "How very unprofessional of you."

"If you hadn't noticed, my professionalism hangs by a thread whenever I'm near you."

Clarke let out a small laugh. "Well, that's one thing I'm glad for."

* * *

After their dinner, Lexa suggested they walk in the park before it closed. It was cold but their coats were thick and the wind was minimal. Clarke had no desire to part just yet, and so took Lexa's hand in hers as soon as they left the car by the park's entrance.

They had a little less than thirty minutes before it closed, but enjoyed every second as they strolled by the lake. The half-moon was reflected on the quiet surface, and though there were a few other people, Clarke felt like they had just stepped into a world of their own.

Clarke nudged Lexa toward one of the Beech trees, its autumn leaves still clinging bravely to its thick branches. They settled beneath it, lying down on the soft ground where leaves piled atop the grass. Between the branches they could see some stars, and Clarke wondered if maybe the park could close and leave them be. There was nowhere else she wanted to be.

She heard some rustling and then saw Lexa look down at her, her face framed by her wavy hair and the stars above. She took Clarke's breath away.

"You're so beautiful," Lexa murmured, struck by a similar thought it seemed. "You have the kindest eyes and the warmest smile. It's the first thing I ever noticed about you."

Clarke reached up to kiss her, parting only when she felt Lexa's hand on her stomach. Even atop her coat and thick clothing, she could feel its warmth.

"I think you're drunk on wine and chocolate."

"Then you'll be relived to hear I'm a very sincere drunk."

Clarke giggled, which made Lexa's smile stretch in such a fond way. She pressed closer to her, the tip of her nose brushing against her neck. She kissed the small spot, as if to apologize for her cold nose.

"I wonder so much about you, Clarke."

Clarke hummed. "What do you wonder about?"

“I’ve spoken with a lot of people. Heard the visions about reuniting with loved ones, getting over addictions, graduating. There’s been some romance of course,” Lexa said. “Aden’s first kiss, though he couldn’t see his boyfriend’s face. Echo celebrating a wedding anniversary with her husband. But so few - even online in anonymous circles - so few like yours.”

Now Clarke felt warm again, mostly from the blush on her cheeks. “I don’t believe that.”

Lexa lifted her head from her shoulder. “Have you personally heard of any?”

“Raven saw Wells naked.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Okay, so I'm a pervert, what can I say?”

“No,” Lexa replied, tickled by Clarke's little huff. “You’re a mystery. You intrigue me.”

Clarke cleared her throat. “Well I’ve had a bit of a dry spell. I had flings, but… I didn't allow myself anything more. The café was taking up all my thoughts and for a while it worked for me. Then the days got long again, and lonelier… Raven said it was probably just my body wanting me to snap out of it.”

“And what do you think?”

Clarke did wonder about it then, or at least differently than she had in the past. It wasn't so long ago she'd asked these questions herself. She'd been so frustrated she couldn't discuss them with the person she'd shared it with, and here she was, lying right next to her in a bed of leaves.

She touched Lexa's hand on her stomach, lacing and unlacing their fingers, gently playing with them as she tried to make sense of everything.

“Have you never fantasized about a stranger?" She asked quietly, catching Lexa's eyes. "Someone who knows nothing about you and yet knows exactly how to make your body soar?"

“That’s not what you saw though, is it?” Lexa murmured. “I wasn’t a stranger in your bed. I knew you and you knew me."

Clarke felt her heart beat faster. She wanted so badly to kiss Lexa again; to feel her body against hers like the night on her couch.

"Lex…"

Their lips were just a hair's breadth apart now. To anyone else, they would've looked like they were kissing.

"How was it different, Clarke?"

Clarke swallowed, trying to find the words. “How? The way you handled me - needy and possessive, but tender and attentive too. Like you were in charge of my pleasure and you had to remind me."

She saw Lexa swallow and so continued, eager to share everything this time: "You said my name and it almost sounded like a prayer - like you couldn’t believe we were together. I never heard my name like that before. I never thought I could make someone feel lucky."

"God, Clarke, you have no idea." Lexa exhaled before closing the gap and kissing her. It wasn't like any other kiss they'd shared tonight. It felt like a promise, almost. Lexa tasted so sweet on her tongue and Clarke could only wonder if all of her was just as heavenly.

She cupped the back of her neck and felt herself throb with desire, her mind filled with both the reality of Lexa and the last of her vision.

"I can even remember the smell of us," Clarke sighed between kisses. "How sticky my skin felt, like we'd been in bed for hours."

"Clarke - fuck."

Clarke pushed Lexa on her back and cupped her cheeks, claiming her lips quite quickly again. She licked into her mouth and moaned at the silky feel of Lexa's tongue.

"Sometimes I'd try to picture us again but you'd disappear," Clarke continued, eyes closing when Lexa started kissing down her neck. "I wasn't sure if it was you anymore. But then you'd come back. I'd feel your hands, your mouth on me… lower, and lower…"

Lexa let out a groan and pinched the bridge of her nose before falling back on the ground, the leaves rustling beneath her. Something in the way she set her jaw made Clarke frown.

"Baby…" she said, tracing a finger over her cheekbone.

"Did you call her that?" Lexa asked without thinking.

Clarke retracted her hand and paused. A grin spread on her face. “What? Are you jealous… of yourself?”

Lexa glared petulantly. “No.”

“You are."

Lexa remained quiet, so after a moment Clarke poked her arm. “Well what about yours?”

"Mine?"

"I wasn't even in it - how do you think that makes me feel?"

Lexa shook her head. "You were in it."

"You said you were just standing in a random kitchen making coffee."

"Yes."

"So?"

They heard the echo of a bicycle's bell on the pathway and turned to the sound, but the couple soon rode away. Clarke looked at Lexa again, finding her staring at the sky.

“What are you keeping from me?”

A small smile grew on Lexa's face - but she remained tightlipped.

"How was I there?" Clarke asked again, deeply curious.

"The doodles," Lexa simply replied.

Clarke remembered that she'd found that to be a strange detail before. She didn't put up her doodles on walls and she didn't frame them. These had to be important. Something that made her identity unmistakable in Lexa's eyes. Sure it could be that her style was recognizable, but Lexa made it sound as if it was something else.

“Lex…"

She lifted Lexa's chin to catch her gaze.

“If I tell you, I worry it might not happen," Lexa admitted.

Clarke bit her lip, finally understanding. It was almost like saying a wish out loud - fearing it might not come true if you broke that single rule.

“You want it to happen?” She asked instead.

A breeze passed as Lexa looked at her intently, leaving no room for doubt. “Yes.”

There was no waver in her voice. Not even an ounce of hesitation. The sheer confidence set Clarke alight. She’d forgotten how it felt to feel so wanted. Whatever it was in that frame… Lexa clearly hoped for it in their future. The fact that she wanted it with her, and no one else, made her desire swell.

She leaned down and kissed her right against the grass and by the slumbering tree, forgetting all about the doodles. Lexa believed it was her - that was all that mattered. After weeks of being unsure of where they stood, if her feelings were even shared, she didn't need anything more.

Lexa wound her arm around her waist, her mouth still as hungry against Clarke's. When they pulled away, she pressed their foreheads together.

“I wish I could see us like you did," she murmured wistfully.

"What would it change?"

“Maybe… maybe if I knew I was good enough for you… If I was sure that I wouldn’t- that I wouldn’t hurt you-"

Clarke shook her head. "Don’t fill your head with thoughts like that. Let's just be here, together, and worry about the rest when it comes. I know it's hard for you, but this - us - right now… it's good, isn't it?"

Lexa nodded. "It's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."

Relieved, Clarke tucked her head beneath Lexa's chin. "Then just be with me. You can be happy, baby. You have a right to it. Don't let anyone or anything tell you otherwise."

Eventually they made their way back to Lexa's car, neither of them interested in picking up their leisurely pace.

"I'm sorry we ended up walking so much," Lexa said.

"You fed me beforehand, so it's forgiven."

Lexa smiled. "Good to know."

Before they reached the parking lot, Clarke decided to ask what had been on her mind: "I know you said Costial feels like home to you; that you found your place here, but… do you see your future here? Because this is it for me. And I'm… I like you, Lex. I like you a lot. I don't want to be an interlude. I don't think I could take it."

"Clarke," Lexa stepped closer to her. "You're not an interlude, you're - God, you've been in every act of my life here. I don't want to go anywhere. I- I want to be with you. That's what I know for certain. Is that alright for now?"

"It is."

Lexa kissed her softly and then smirked. "I may not have had erotic visions of myself entwined with a hot local, but I still want to stay here."

Clarke shoved her playfully. "I don't even like you anymore."

They laughed the whole way to the car.

* * *

It seemed like a tradition already; Lexa walking her to her door while Clarke racked her mind for a way to linger. When they finally arrived she leaned against her door and sighed.

"Tonight was amazing."

Lexa hummed. "I'm glad."

"I'm definitely taking you out this weekend," Clarke said.

"You are?" Lexa asked, tilting her head to kiss her again.

Clarke closed the gap as she wrapped her arms around her neck. The kiss was slow; amatory, but as always it could not go on for too long before hands wandered.

"I hope you have sweet dreams," Lexa said, her eyes hooded and her lips slightly redder.

"Oh I will."

Lexa glanced at her mouth. "If I pay you a visit again maybe you could keep a journal close by. I'd love some notes on my performance."

Clarke rolled her eyes. "Remind me why I ever told you?"

"What? That we lasted hours?" Lexa husked.

Right. Clarke narrowed her eyes and let her hands slowly drag down Lexa's arms. Now, Clarke wasn't innocent. She knew fully what made her look good, even when her coat was buttoned up. She had let Lexa tease her and goad her about the vision all night, and she had kept her retort to herself. But no more.

She pressed her body closer to Lexa's, unmistakably provocative with the way their breasts touched.

“Make fun all you want, Lexa, but remember this: I’ve seen all of you while you haven’t seen an inch of me.” She felt Lexa’s hand tighten on her waist. “I’ve felt your body against mine. Your mouth on my thighs. I’ve felt your tongue inside me.” She glanced down at Lexa's lips and then back up, proud of the gobsmacked look on her face. “So you can tease me. You can push my buttons. I can take it. But you? You only have your imagination." She stepped back and gave her sultriest smile, "And trust me, it’s got nothing on reality.”

She turned around and quickly unlocked her door, then looked over her shoulder. "Thanks for the date, baby."

As soon as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, Clarke knew she'd just played a dirty hand. But Lexa had teased her at all night and all was fair in lust.

With a wicked grin, too pleased by the night's events, Clarke took off her coat and slipped out of her shoes and socks. And because she just couldn't resist one last look, she walked to her window and waited. Finally she saw Lexa walk out of the building. She seemed unfocused, going right and then left, forgetting where she'd parked.

But then she stopped and turned around.

Clarke's smile fell. Just watching Lexa like this, seeing the effect she had on her… it changed something. She had closed the door in the spur of the moment - because they were good at testing each other. Because she had thought tonight should end there, on another game of theirs.

But she didn’t want to play anymore.

And maybe Lexa realized it too. She looked up and found her apartment's window.

Their eyes met.

Clarke reached out for the curtain, gripping it so tight her knuckles went white. She couldn't look away from those eyes in the moonlight if she tried. Even if the ground started shaking beneath their feet.

"Lexa-" she started before stopping herself. It had to be Lexa's decision. Clarke had already made hers. She couldn't call out to her. Not for this. Lexa had to choose.

Clarke held her breath, unsure she'd even be able to leave this spot if Lexa did walk away after all. Until-

Lexa bolted back toward the building.

Clarke watched her disappear from view and then heard her intercom. She rushed toward it and pressed the buzzer, her heart in her throat. Still barefoot, she pulled the door open and waited. Footsteps thundered up the flights of stairs, closer and closer.

Tonight had not ended. Not yet.

[strangerobin]

Rue: Chapter 6 (Jasper Hale x OC)

Just know that, in another life where I was free of lies and deceit, I would move heaven and earth just to stay alongside you. To spend a lifetime with you. Body and soul.

Or

Stolen away just nights before their wedding, Jasper had mourned the loss of his lover, Adeline, for centuries. Until a similar face showed up one day out of the blue, just as beautiful and just as youthful.

Part 6

A plan of sorts that leaves neither parties thrilled.

She was still waiting for a sign.

On occasions, Adeline felt watched and the unease in her heart refused to subside. Something was about to happen to break this faux peace, she was sure; but just what it was she had no clue. And the more time had passed, the more on edge and paranoid she got, going so far as to snapping at poor Loreen for the smallest of things. She hated herself more than ever.

In the end, the sign she had been waiting for came in the form of flowers.

Cornflowers to be exact.

A bouquet was left in the early morning on the doorsteps of their little shared house. No one had heard the deliverer. Anakin and Teddy were away, engaging in their own businesses. Loreen was still tucked safely in her little fort of plushies and rag dolls. Adeline had merely opened the door to enjoy some fresh air and was instead met with a bouquet of cornflowers arranged with utmost care.

Your eyes are the colour of cornflowers.

A man she loved once told her. So she was reminded of.

Holding the bouquet as far away from herself as possible, she chucked the bouquet straight into the trash and went about her day as if nothing happened. As if she wasn’t bouncing her leg non-stop while watching reruns on TV, or how distracted she was, or how Loreen kept shooting worried glances at her. As if she wasn’t practically vibrating anxiety off her being.

The flowers never stopped. Every morning a fresh batch was laid on the doorsteps, Loreen even managed to steal some and displayed them in a pretty little vase in her room. Out of spite, Adeline thought. She tried to stay vigilant and stand guard at the door, but then they would only appear elsewhere around the house. She knew then that there was no running from this.

Adeline would bet good money on who her secret admirer (stalker) was. She did not remember him as a stubborn man; but from the persistence of his action she had gathered what game he was playing at. This was an open challenge issued to her, a taunt, he wouldn’t confront her upfront. No, he was patient with his schemes and would strike only when the hour was ripe; he was the predator and her the prey now. And she was so so tempted to rise to the bait. But she must keep her cool, and not loose her mind. He might loose his interest in her yet.

In a century or two. Her treacherous mind taunted mercilessly.

Oh but how wrong was she.

The next taunt came the next day in the form of a book, Frankenstein.

Specifically, the exact copy of the cheap paperback edition she had left behind in Whitehorse months ago.

In a fit of hysterics, she threw open the front door and went all the way up to the front yard and bellowed into the empty countryside. “Leave me the fuck alone you sick bastard!”

Only later did she start to question.

How did he find her? How did he manage to track her down from Whitehorse to Minnesota and now Colorado? She was confident of her concealment ability.

So then, how?

*

From a distance, Jasper watched the girl sitting at the front porch, lacing up her roller skates. The child turned her heard, seemingly to answer someone inside the house before finishing up the rest of her laces. Then in trepidation she tested water with the first few step, before gaining confidence and propelling herself forward into the open road.

In her flowy sundress and a light cardigan, seemingly not minding the alpine chill, the child spread out her arms and laughed with her head thrown back, as if she were soaring amongst the wind instead. She seemed like any other child, if it weren’t for her scent, and that luminous skin in the morning light.

Jasper casually got out of his car and leaned against it, unsubtly observing the girl. That seemed to catch the child’s attention as she eyed him suspiciously while zipping past the first time; before turning round at the end of the drive and passing by again. If she was scared then she hardly showed it. After a few back and forth, she finally slowed a few meters from Jasper and regarded him cooly.

“Who are you?” Her asked in a sing-song voice. “If you’re here to sell cable or insurance or fire resistant something, we’re not interested.”

“Ah I see so you are the Madame of the house then, little lady.” Jasper chuckled and watched as the child pouted and crossed her arms, petulant at the name. Yes, she was like one of those children too smart for their own good, sharp witted but quick to anger. And much too trusting. “Fear not, I am only a friend. Tell me, do you live here with family?”

“Half siblings.” The child corrected.

“And is not your half-sister called Adeline?”

“And you are?”

“A long time... friend.” He hesitated after a second.

“Oh?” Now her voice was laced with suspicion.

Jasper smiled charismatically and exerted an air of reassurance over the child. “Do you think you can send a message from me to her?”

The child frowned, clearly reluctant. “Couldn’t you do it yourself? If you really are her friend. She’s in a mood these days and I don't want to cross anymore than I need to.”

“I don’t think she’d like to see me for now.” Jasper shrugged nonchalantly, as if he was not in fact stalking the said person, but simply had a disagreement with her over a conversation during bar night.

She narrowed her eyes at him again.

“What’s in this for me?”

Jasper bowed his head respectfully. “Of course there will be payment on my part. I shall be forever in your debt.”

She pursed her lips and pondered on the request thoughtfully. “If I am to be messenger,” She began slowly. “I’d like a year’s worth of Ben and Jerry’s. And a year’s subscription of Netflix!” She looked so haughty then, so proud of herself for striking a deal that he had to chuckle.

“Oh little lady.” He said in between laughs, somehow adoring the sweet innocence of the child. “You drive a hard bargain don’t you? Yes of course I promise.” He put a hand over his heart and bowed. “Cross may heart and hope to die.”

That seemed to satisfy the child and she grinned cheekily at him, no doubt pleased with her little bargain of free ice cream and Netflix films.

“Here.” He produced from his pocket a single map. And handed it to the girl. She eyed it suspiciously before taking in gingerly, their hands briefly touching. If she noticed his ice cold skin then she did not make a remark.

Instead her eyes flickered back to him and she chewed on her lips thoughtfully before finally opening her mouth. “I hope... I hope whatever it is between the two of you, all will be well soon.”

Momentarily caught surprised, Jasper straightened his stance and looked to the house in the distance with longing and tenderness.

“Yes I hope so too.”

*

“Oh Lorie you’re finally back. Fun time roller skating?”

Adeline was sitting on the sofa, in a bathrobe with blankets wrapped all around herself up to her head flipping through the channels at top speed.

“I met a friend of yours down the street.” Loreen announced.

“Friend? What friend-”

“Jasper.”

She froze at the name.

“Come again?”

“Jasper was here and he wanted me to pass on a message to you.” Loreen stated as-a-matter-of-factly and handed over the old map. She scrutinised her sister; watched as her face blanched before being replaced by red hot fury.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Adeline bellowed, crumpling the map into a tight little wall. “Where is he? Is he still out there now?!”

Loreen shrugged, trying to convey the message that she was just as clueless as the other was. “I’m sure he’s only just left.”

Adeline bolted out of the doors at once.

“Jasper!” She yelled like a lunatic, and searched frantically, not giving a fig what the neighbours would think. She had other pressing matters to be concerned of.

How dare he! How dare he approached her family, especially her innocent sister! He had already shattered her little peaceful life! That she could tolerate, and she supposed to some extent, she was reaping what she had sowed years ago. But preying on her young sister like that! He had no right! Absolutely no right! How dare he!

Hidden under the shades of the woods she took off in a blur, trying to locate the man. But the faint smell she caught whiff of indicated that he had long since been gone.

Still livid, she stomped her way back to the house.

First the flowers, then the book and now this map. Jasper; yes she was finally going to acknowledge this, that he was the same man she had met all those years ago, and that yes he was a fucking vampire now! And one with no fucking sense of boundaries! His message was clear and simple.

Don’t think that you’ve been forgotten. I know where you are and I will find you, whatever it takes. Or you can come to me, on your terms. You know where to find me.

She spread the crumpled map out.

Washington.

It was a state map of fucking Washington!

Like a flame being doused with ice cold water, she finally realised her mistake all those months ago. The hybrid child she had met in the clearing… That was how he had come to know of her. There was no doubt of it now. The child must have told her coven of their meeting, and either he was part of the coven, or he was on intimate terms with them. Either way, she had damned herself that day when she had decided not to trust her instincts to stay inland. And like dominoes, a little push had unknowingly caused the whole system to collapse on its own, the shockwaves continuing to reverberate in the aftermath of the disastrous meeting.

Adeline cursed and screamed in frustration.

Stupid! Stupid! She was so stupid! What was she to do now?! Engage? And she would be falling right into his laps without a fight. Run? But for how long? He had proven himself more than capable of tracking her somehow, it would be all for naught. He had a coven; and she had only her siblings. Siblings whom never got involved with her affairs, nor did she wish to involve into the mess. And especially not her youngest.

Frustrated, she flipped the map to find an actual written message penned in impeccable cursive handwriting. Which got her blood boiling immediately.

Do you have what it takes?

Self-righteous bastard! Well she’ll show him!

Adeline was in and out of the house in a flash, clothes changed. “Addie where are you going?” Loreen was by the door, obviously concerned.

“I’m going.” Her reply was short, clipped.

“At least wait for Anakin or Teddy.”

“No Loreen. I have to go. You’ll be fine on your own right?” Adeline tried to smile to relieve the tension, but evidently the tight-lipped smile only succeeded in agitating her sister more.

“I suppose yes. But-"

“Stay safe dear. I’ll see you in a bit.”

And she was out.

She refused to address her other concerns; like what did he want by actively seeking her out, or how did he even find her when she had made sure all her tracks were concealed? What did it mean for the two of them now that the other was all along alive and well? What would it entail for either parties from here on? What would father even do should he learn of this?

All of the what ifs and hows and whys were all overshadowed by her high-strung emotions. Her action was spurred into motion and further fulled by her fury at her former lover. Really, she lacked even a concrete plan of engagement which she seemed to be forgetting repeatedly in favour of the raging anger within her.

One she had not felt in years now.

*

“Are you sure she’ll come?” Edward asked.

“I’m sure.” Was Jasper’s curt reply, even if the doubt was weighing heavily down on his heart. He was back in Forks, back with his family where there was still some semblance of safety and control.

For nights, he had sat outside of Adeline’s little house in his car, just thinking and formulating, the best ways to engage her. He could knock on her door right then and there, and no doubt she would lose her shit, and everything would be fucked. Or he could catch her attention and lure her out back to where he felt safest, and should she decide to come along with then he would engage accordingly. At that time it felt like a decent plan, but now that he was home, the plan seemed stupid. Either way seemed like it would end pretty badly. In the end, he had made his escape early, had not stayed to see Adeline’s reaction at his subtle message. For fear of rejection, for fear of being unable to bear the disappointment.

He was such a coward.

And now he watched as his brother grimaced and frowned, clearly hesitating whether to speak his mind out or not, before finally making his mind up. “It’s just… are you sure about this?”

“About what?” Jasper said feigning ignorance.

“You’re taunting her.” Edward stared him straight in the eye, somewhat sternly. “Is this any way to court the girl you like?”

“Well, says the man who stalked his then classmate in her bedroom every night.” He shot back with barb, clearly annoyed.

Edward’s face soured and immediately stalked off the other way.

Offended.

Jasper sighed and ran a hand absentmindedly through his tangled hair, emotions all over the place. He knew he was an unwelcome presence in the house lately, practically vibrating off anxiety within a mile radius and affecting anyone within. It made the others nervous, stressed even. And everyone avoided him like the plague.

Bella and Edward had taken Renesmee to their little cottage so that the little one would not be affected. Carlisle had taken to working long hour shifts at the hospital and God knows where Rose and Emmett were.

And Alice... Alice was distancing herself from him.

She had taken to avoiding him, bluntly. She was never in the same room as he was. Had stopped being affectionate like she used to. Their interactions were reduced to light pats on his shoulder, fleeting hand touches, tight-lipped smiles that never quite reached her eyes. She was clearly hurting regardless of what she proclaimed. And to make matters worse, it was fracturing the family.

Emmett’s the-devil-may-care attitude can be reassuring, but Rosalie’s disdain at him was dully noted. Bella was torn and Edward was still suspicious of Adeline but somewhat more understanding of his predicament, although apparently he had just pissed off his last comrade. Carlisle and Esme were only concerned for the two of them, no doubt wanting the best for the pair of them.

And there was nothing he could do.

Alice had made the decision for the two of them.

But it tortured him as much as it killed her. She was the light in his pitiful life for years, his beacon in the dark night. She would never forgive him for all his betrayals just as he could never forgive himself for being the one to hurt her,

And now it pained him just as much to think of Adeline, of his plan to lure her out. He had known her like the back of his own hand then. Though what an irony that felt now. The one he had meant to share his life with, ended up being the one he had known the least.

While she can be sweet and lively, her temper seemed to have a mind of its own. And her heart always dominated in any decisions she made. She was open to persuasion, but would never bend to anyone’s will by force. Would react badly and lash out if forced.

And he had forced her hand.

Adeline would come, she must. Because if she did not, what then? He could go back to Alice and begged for her to take him back or he could continue hunting Adeline down, but then what? He could not force her into anything against her will, he would not. While he was no saint, he certainly was no monster to force himself onto her. She had only need to say the words, with steel in her resolve and he would begone as she requested, forever.

And should she have changed?

It had been more one and a half century since their parting, he had changed much. How did he expect her to remain the same? How did he expect her to remain steadfast in their love? Or its lack thereof?

He was torn between being content with simple ordinariness, or pursuing something more, something all encompassing and consuming, but also elusive which might end up being a gamble for nothing.

Either required him to make a blind leap of faith, though one was certainly more perilous than the other.

"I don't... I don't know what to do." He finally admitted aloud to Edward's retreating form, watched as the man turned to look back at him with narrowed eyes. "I have the choice... I have the choice to move on like she did, or I can continue to pursue her to the ends of the world, like some psychopathic stalker vampire..."

"But you don't want to be neither." Edward sighed sympathetically.

"No."

"And yet you don't want to let her go either."

"No, I don't either."

Jasper shot his brother a bittersweet smile before lapsing into silence. It felt embarrassing to tell Edward of his inner most thoughts, but at the same time there was something cathartic in finally sharing with someone what he thought.

"If there's anything I learnt from being with Bella," Edward said after a moment of thought. "It's that every relationship requires the investment of both parties. It's useless if she doesn't reciprocate your feeling."

Jasper quirked his lips ruefully. "Alice seems to think otherwise."

"Alice can't see the hybrid's future."

"No but I told her we might be soulmates."

"Well are you?"

"I don't know... I think so."

Jasper looked up to see Edward with a smug smirk aimed at him. "Well what do we have here? The cold and calculating Major Whitlock stumped for once because he's confused what to do with his lover-"

"Edward!" He protested loudly.

Ed laughed with mirth before holding up his hands in surrender. "I digress." Then his demeanor turned serious again. "Like I said, it requires two people to be in love. A soulmate bond doesn't automatically make her fall in love with you and vice versa. At the end of the day, it's just a bond. It ties the two of you together in this life, you can feel her, might even need her. But at the end of the day, it's for the both of you to decide if the both of you want to purse a more serious relationship, no?"

Jasper looked away, not wanting to meet his brother's intense gaze.

Had he considered what she wanted?

He loved her, still. But did she want him in the same way?

"I... tell me what I should do then?"

The proposition pained him physically and mentally and Jasper closed his eyes and swallowed harshly.

But Edward only looked at him with a tenderness and pity in his eyes.

"Do what's right, brother. Don't make it a regret of yours for eternity."

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Time - Good Omens Fic

Goal was to write three fics for this weeks @bingokisses prompts. Well, I got two! The first is “Time” a Night At Crowley’s Flat/Pre-Body-Swap/Wing Grooming fic. It’s for the prompt “Wrist kisses” which I had twice on my card, the first paired with “Wing Grooming.” I’m going to do edits before I move this to AO3, so let me know if anything sounds off!

“So that’s it.” Crowley lounged against the wall, arms crossed. Not looking at Aziraphale. Not looking at anything.

“Yes. I pretend to be you, you pretend to be me. Hellfire. Holy water. We survive.”

It wasn’t easy, keeping his voice steady. Aziraphale mostly managed it by not looking at Crowley, not thinking to hard about it, acting as though the entire problem were simply some clever logic problem. Most certainly by not imagining what would happen if they failed.

“Don’t like it.”

“Come now,” he tried to smile. “Let’s not start over again. We’ve considered every angle. The plan works, and it’s our – our best chance.”

Crowley grunted as if regretting his promise already. “Not going to argue. Just. Don’t like it.” He’d been belligerent since the moment Aziraphale had suggested the swap, inspired by his own recent experience with discorporation. He’d expected Crowley to dislike the idea, but the demon had fought against it, tooth and nail, every step of the planning process.

Not that Aziraphale didn’t have his own doubts. He’d struggled to keep them at bay since stepping off the bus. Now he pressed his hands together, ordering them not to tremble, as the fear started to grow in his gut, building, pushing out into his limbs and his heart.

Choose your faces wisely – that was clear enough. But playing with Fyre could mean many things, only one of which Crowley was immune to. What if he’d missed something? What if there was more to it?

What if the prophecy wasn’t intended to save both of them?

He imagined Michael’s sword, blade aflame, swinging towards Crowley while he was bound to a chair—

It wasn’t a noise, just a sharp intake of breath as he pulled himself back to reality, but it was as loud as a scream in the silent room. Crowley’s head snapped around, eyes pinning the angel through his dark glasses. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Oh, his voice didn’t sound certain at all, his eyes still burned in the imagined light of Heavenly swords. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried again, but no words at all came out this time, just a strained squeak.

Heaven would see this coming, surely. They would suspect as soon as Crowley stepped into the flames. He needed to outsmart them, needed to think of the next step, and the next, a hundred moves ahead, but he didn’t have time…

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was sharp, a whip crack cutting through the silent room, and Aziraphale cringed, huddling into himself instinctively. “Bless it, Aziraphale, if you’re having doubts too, we need to rethink this. There’s still time, we can – can take off, be out past the Oort Cloud before either side notices. I know plenty of stars they’d never think to look.”

“Crowley, no. We’ve been over this already.” His voice didn’t sound calm but at least it wasn’t breaking anymore. “We can’t hide forever, they’ll – they’ll find us eventually.”

“I’d rather they chase us across the galaxy than – than stand around waiting for them to grab us. At least we’d have a chance. At least we’d have time.”

Aziraphale wanted that. Time. More than anything, he wanted time to think, to plan, to prepare. To stand beside Crowley and not be afraid.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? There was no future if they ran, no earth, no them, just this one terrifying moment, stretched on and on for eternity, poised forever at the last moment before the attack. Always waiting. Always afraid. He couldn’t take a life of this, he couldn’t even take one night of this.

He was so lost in his own thoughts – torn between wanting time and wanting it to be over – that he didn’t even notice Crowley’s approach until the hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t rough – it was the gentlest touch, barely felt through his jacket – but the suddenness of it startled Aziraphale, making him stumble away.

“Crowley! There’s no need – I’m – please—”

“You aren’t fine, don’t try to tell me you’re fine,” he spat. Then, in a lower voice, “Talk to me.”

It was too much. Already he’d nearly given in to the fear, but this – this moment of concern – it tugged at him, threatening to break his last thread of dignity, of control, and that was the only thing keeping him going right now.

“There’s nothing more to discuss.” He tugged at his waistcoat, trying to school his expression. “And if – if you’re just going to argue, I’d rather you left me in peace.”

“Aziraphale…” A warning.

“I mean it, Crowley.” He interrupted, fighting to keep his mind from shattering. “That’s enough. Go!”

Crowley spun away, with a noise halfway between a snort and a snarl, and stalked through the enormous revolving door, disappearing into the next room.

Leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts.

--

Crowley glared at his trembling plants, burying his fingers in leaves, tugging at them for any sign of weakness, of spots or yellowing, any imperfections. But he didn’t really see them.

His mind kept shifting, jumping between a bookshop in flames, a voice in a bar, and the sudden appearance of Aziraphale at the airbase. A hurricane of worry and relief and fear and longing with nothing remotely like calm at its center.

He wanted to run to Aziraphale. Override all his objections, drag him away. Haul him off this world, to the stars, to Andromeda, to the farthest corner of the universe, far from the beings that wanted to hurt them, had hurt them again and again for thousands of years.

It wasn’t the first time. He’d wanted to at the airbase, run up, grab Aziraphale by the lapels. Make sure he was unharmed, shout at him to stop taking foolish risks. The same at the church in 1941, the Bastille in 1793, again and again, across centuries of companionship –

Wanted to reach out, pull him close, promise that everything would work out.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Never could. Maybe never would.

He’d always blamed it on their sides, needing to stay apart to stay safe. But he didn’t have that excuse anymore, did he? And that’s all it was. An excuse.

It was Crowley’s nature to be cold and distant. Aloof. Project coolness and confidence so that no one could see what lay underneath, the shattered worthless wreck of demon. Keep them all at arm’s length, even the being he least wanted to push away, and where did that leave him?

Alone in his solarium, shredding the weakest leaves off a fig tree, on what could be the last night of his personal eternity.

Had he always been this way?

Crowley didn’t think so. There had been a time when he’d been open, inquisitive, carefree. Long ago, before the Fall, before six thousand years in Hell and on Earth, before he learned…everything.

He could never go back to that. You couldn’t unlearn the truth of the world, once you’d learned it.

One glance over his shoulder, back at the door. He could go back. Apologize. Open himself up to the one being he knew would never hurt him. Say the words that had sat on his tongue for countless centuries.

He could, but he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He needed time. Time to get his head on straight, to learn to be honest with himself, to know what it was he even wanted.

And time was the one thing he didn’t have.

--

Aziraphale rested his hand on the door frame, wishing he had the courage to step through.

It was his own fault, of course. He’d pushed Crowley away. As he always did. It was easier.

He didn’t belong here, among humans, beside a demon. Simple fact: he was an angel, and he belonged in Heaven. There was no place else an angel could exist and feel whole and happy.

That, he’d always told himself, was why he had this aching emptiness inside – because he was far from his home, corrupted by earthly influences. A degraded angel.

Heaven talked a great deal about love. Angels love Creation, they love the humans, they love God most of all; they love each other, and they love him. In spite of all his flaws, he was constantly reminded, they loved him.

And he believed it. For a long time, he believed, because not believing was dangerous, and painful, and terrifyingly. And because, well…because that’s what he believed love was. How was he supposed to think otherwise? It was the only thing he ever knew.

But six thousand years on Earth slowly eroded his ignorance. He saw humans develop friendships, saw them fall in love, saw them care for their children, their parents. Saw some become cruel, or manipulative, or negligent; saw others be loyal, and warm, and welcoming even to strangers.

He learned all the ways that love could be expressed. All the things that masqueraded as it. What it could look like. What it should look like.

And even then, he could keep pretending that he found that in the cold, distant praise of Heaven, but only so long as he could pretend he didn’t find it anywhere else. That he didn’t have a being in his life who always supported him, always stood by him, never made him feel flawed or broken, never abandoned him.

Even now, when it might mean destruction for both of them, still at his side.

In the face of that, how could he ever believe that Heaven loved him?

He pushed the thought away, back into the dark recesses of his mind, where he’d carefully hidden it from himself for longer than the lifetime of civilizations. It was still a dangerous thought, a dangerous word. A distraction.

It wasn’t the time for such things.

He had to put their survival before everything else. It meant staying here and facing their former sides head-on, not running away and waiting to be caught. It meant deceiving Heaven and Hell, not angering them from some foolish desire to fight or take revenge. And it meant facing the challenge with cool logical minds not clouded by any newly acknowledged emotions. It made sense.

The best thing he could do for himself, for Crowley, was to keep his distance tonight.

--

I need a new plant mister.

For ten minutes, Crowley had managed to keep himself focused on pruning the trees, silently clearing out some leaves or stems to make room for new growth. The emotions raged somewhere deep inside, but the surface was as calm as ever. But then he noticed the echeveria was a little dry, went to give it a bit of water, and realized the bottle was gone.

Hastur had destroyed his plant mister, and he needed a new one.

He could simply manifest one, he supposed, as easily as he’d created the pruning shears. But the ones at the corner shop were so cheap, it was easier to just grab one on the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and take a few moments to see what new sprouts had arrived, then stop over at the bakery for some coffee and one of those crispy pastries.

Except.

Except there wasn’t a bookshop anymore, was there?

Which meant he wouldn’t be heading over tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.

No more surprise breakfasts before the first customers of the day. No more late nights sharing a dozen bottles of wine and arguing about philosophy. No more perusing the poetry section when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, or thumbing through the latest illustrated guides to botany or astronomy that always found their way onto the shelf beside his sofa.

No more secretive walks in the park to share secrets and feed ducks. No more shoddy pretenses for a weekend drive. No more weaving the Bentley through four lanes of traffic.

The world had ended, but only for him and Aziraphale.

It wasn’t fair.

After everything they’d done, everything they’d suffered to save the world, they still lost everything and it wasn’t fair!

The knot of emotions he’d been holding back broke free in a flash, flooding him faster than he could control it. With a shout he hurled the little plant at the wall, cracking the pot, spilling soil everywhere. Then he grabbed the aloe vera, the orchids, the antherium. One after the other, thrown against the wall, the floor, the window.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He screamed, pulling over the umbrella tree, shredding all its leaves. “All of you! You worthless pieces of shit!” He kicked over a dragon tree. “You had your fucking chance! No more excuses, no more second chances.” A glass bowl full of air plants; he snatched it up and smashed it hard against the table, shards spinning off in every direction. “Make your fucking peace with the soil, because every one of you is—”

“Crowley!”

He spun around to find Aziraphale watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway.

Fuck.

Well. That’s the end of that, he supposed. After that sort of display, Aziraphale wouldn’t want anything to do with him ever again.

He clenched his fist, turning away, but that sent a sharp pain through his hand. Hissing, Crowley looked down to find a shard of glass, stuck in the side of his hand. Of course. Exactly what this day needed.

“Are you hurt?”

He shot a glare at the angel, suddenly beside him.

“Just a scratch. Leave me alone.”

Aziraphale’s hand landed lightly on his wrist, pulling the hand over for closer inspection. “You need to be more careful, Crowley.” He ran his thumb lightly up the side of Crowley’s palm and the little triangle of glass fell free.

“I’m not going to – to die from a little cut, Aziraphale.”

He’d meant it as a joke, of a sort, but Aziraphale’s hand tightened around his. “Don’t.” The angel’s thumb brushed across the cut, making it disappear in a small burst of healing. “You need to be more careful.”

“It’s a bit late for careful.”  He tried to pull his hand away, but Aziraphale ignored it, bending over as if to inspect his palm for damage. “Look, Angel…”

“What a mess!” Aziraphale tutted. “An absolute disgrace.” But he hadn’t so much as glanced at the graveyard of ruined plants all over the floor. Instead, he was inspecting Crowley’s nails. “And you expect me to go out wearing these tomorrow?”

“You’re one to talk. I saw the state of your wings earlier. Have you groomed them this millennium?”

“Even if I hadn’t, it still wouldn’t compare to this – this—” He held up Crowley’s hand, nails caked with dirt, cracked, uneven. “I thought you took pride in your appearance.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.” Crowley snatched his hand back and tried to walk away.

“I don’t want an argument tonight.”

“Then stop trying to start one!” He took a deep breath. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll go take a shower. You wait in the kitchen, or wherever you want.” He glanced around at the mess he’d made. “Don’t bother cleaning. No point, is there?”

“Crowley, stop!”

“It was ‘go’ before, now you want me to stop? Make up your blasted mind.” But Crowley stood still, glaring at him. “What is it? What do you want?”

“I want to take care of those nails.”

“You what?” But Aziraphale’s face was dead serious, set in his most stubborn frown. “Look, you fussy bastard, this isn’t – we don’t have time for this!”

“You have somewhere else to be tonight?” But when his hands reached for Aziraphale’s again, the touch was strangely gentle. “Let me take care of these. Please.”

The demon groaned, but what was he supposed to do? Not say yes? “Fine. If you insist.”

--

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, sitting cross-legged on his bed. Between them was a bowl of warm water, an array of tiny torture implements, and a towel, which Aziraphalehad used to briskly brush the dirt from Crowley’s fingers. Now he held the demon’s right hand, turning it this way and that to inspect each nail in the light of his halo.

“That’s a little better,” Aziraphale murmured, picking up the clippers and starting to trim.

“You know, I can do this myself.”

“Can you? Really?” It was strange, having his hand held this way. Entirely in Aziraphale’s power, unable to move, yet it was only the lightest pressure, really. Firm, but gentle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you chewed them.”

“Only when they break.”

“That isn’t funny. Look at this.” He lowered Crowley’s right hand and picked up the left, pinching the thumb between his fingers. “Just look!”

“Looks like a thumb.”

Another tsk, and Aziraphale set to clipping again, not trimming each nail as low as he could (as Crowley usually did), but instead quickly removing the sharp edges or cracked portions, leaving a few millimeters on each. When he was satisfied, he picked up an emery board. Crowley expected him to start scrubbing roughly, sandpapering his nails smooth. Instead, with a few quick delicate motions, he reshaped each nail into a perfect oval. Now and then, he paused to scrape underneath with the point of a nail file.

“What is this, anyway?” He held up the tip of the file, covered in hard flakes of black residue. “I thought it was soil, but it isn’t the right consistency.”

Crowley gulped. He remembered charging into a burning shop. Driving for almost an hour in a flaming car. Falling to the ground at the airbase more than once—

“Dunno,” he said weakly. “Could be – lots of things…”

Aziraphale’s hands hesitated over Crowley’s smallest finger, and he could see how the emery board trembled. Yeah, you’re cleaning the last of your bookshop out of my nails. How does that feel? Crowley wished he had something comforting to say, but he just felt hollow. The day had left him without anything to offer.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale steadied his grip and got back to work.

“Why?” Cowley found himself saying, as the angel moved back to his right hand. “Why are you wasting your time on this?” On me?

“Don’t be foolish. Time spent with you is never wasted.” Blue eyes flickered up again to catch his gaze before focusing on the nails once more. “Although I do wish you’d put a little effort into basic maintenance without my needing to nag you.”

“But—” He bit his words off, not knowing what to say. “Why?”

“Why? Why? You spend an hour every day on that ridiculous hair, not to mention weeks spent putting together your – your ‘new look’ every few years. I would think you’d agree that personal grooming is its own reward.”

“No, I…” He watched the long, thin board move back and forth. His fingers were curved slightly in Aziraphale’s grip, pinned in place by his thumb. “I just thought you’d want to be alone.”

Silence for the length of two fingers. “Why on Earth would you think that?”

His stomach was hard as a rock, twisting with emotions he couldn’t name. “I…I’ve been awful,” Crowley confessed. “All night long, since we got back, I argued, I snapped at you. Threw a tantrum. The other day, I shoved you against a wall. And…and this morning I called you stupid…I’d think you’d want to be as far from me as possible.”

“As I recall, you were the one who wanted to abandon me for the stars.”

“No…” But he had said that, hadn’t he? “I didn’t…I wouldn’t really…”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale frowned and moved to the last nail. “I’ve known you for six thousand years, Crowley, I’m well aware you have a temper. I have never held against you the things you said, or did, when you were angry.”

I have plenty of other people to ‘fraternize’ with. I don’t need you.

“Never?”

“Never.” Aziraphale put down the file and pressed Crowley’s hands between both of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear.”

He lowered Crowley’s hands into the bowl of warm water. Aziraphale had added some sort of soap, and it clung thickly to his fingers in a pleasant way.

“Still…I don’t like you to…to see me like that…”

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Do you think less of me?”

His worst? Crowley couldn’t even imagine what that would mean. The embarrassing smile as he showed off his latest magic act or shouted encouragement at the actors in a play? The possessive gleam when he saw a priceless first edition, whether one of his own or one he was about to acquire? His incorruptible desire to see the good in absolutely everyone, even Gabriel, even Crowley?

“No,” he whispered as his heart surged anew. “No, I never have.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching Crowley’s hands as they soaked in the water. “It’s good, you know, to-to have a simple ritual in a time of stress. Something you can walk through, step by step. Unhindered by, ah, by emotions. Very calming.”

“I do feel a little better,” Crowley admitted.

“I expect you do. But…I meant for myself.” He lifted Crowley’s hands free of the water and gently patted them with the towel. “I’m…I’m…well, I’m rather convinced I’m going to let you down tomorrow. Not play my part well, or…or lose my nerve…or overlook some vital clue…”

Crowley felt the tremors in Aziraphale’s hands before he suddenly pulled away, fingers twisting in the towel, pressing it against his mouth. But he couldn’t hide the wave of emotion that overtook him before Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel!” Crowley grabbed his shoulders, newly manicured fingers feeling more sensitive against the fabric of his shirt. “Aziraphale look at me.” Slowly, the blue eyes came back into focus. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We do. Crowley, it’s the only way.” The towel crumpled further as he crushed it in his grip. “I – I – I won’t – I’ll find a way, I just need to – to buck up…”

“Are you scared?”

“What? No, I – I—”

“Because I am.” Crowley let go with one hand to pull his glasses free, toss them aside, then reached up to brush the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Have been for…longer than I can remember, but then I lost you. Last night, and this morning, and then…the fire…” He swallowed. “And you know what? Each time it felt more real and more painful than before, and I don’t…I can’t…”

His gut heaved. The hollowness he’d felt after the fire opened again, threatening to devour him, permanently this time. “Aziraphale. I am more terrified right now than I’ve ever been in my life, and I don’t know how to stop it. So. If you’re scared…that’s fine.”

The towel fell, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in both of his again, but this time clinging to it, clutching it, pressing Crowley’s fingers against his lips where the towel had been a moment before. Crowley reached with his free hand and…what? Touch his face? His hair? What was he supposed to do?

Before he could decide, Aziraphale seemed to blink his eyes clear and look again at Crowley’s nails. “Just a few hangnails to trim, and then we’re done.”

“Nh. Yeah.” He settled more comfortably. “Whatever you want.”

--

Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand, carefully massaging moisturizer across his palm, between his fingers, and into his nail beds. Memorizing the shape of them, the knobby knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands.

He’d wanted to do this once before, when the thoughts that needed to be hidden, even from himself, had threatened to overwhelm him. 1941. He’d longed to sit Crowley down and wash his feet, check them for burns and injury after his walk across hallowed ground. Let the activity distract his mind from the thoughts and emotions he couldn’t afford to acknowledge, and just be there, in the moment, caring for Crowley. Appreciating him. Holding him.

It was just as well he hadn’t attempted it back then; evidence tonight suggested it didn’t work.

He ran his thumbs across Crowley’s palm one last time, smoothing in the moisturizer, feeling the skin plump up, taking note of the calluses here and there just below the fingers. He didn’t want to let go.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, when his fingers had lingered perhaps a bit too long. He looked up to meet the demon’s golden eyes. They were soft tonight, and vulnerable, and filled with pain that tugged at his heart. But that pain seemed to be fading, replaced by…by one of the things Aziraphale was not supposed to be naming. What with the thunderous pounding of his heart in his chest and the blood in his ears, Aziraphale almost missed Crowley’s next words: “Thank you.”

Very suddenly, his heart went absolutely still.

“You…you’ve never…said thank you.”

“Grave oversight.” Crowley turned his hands over, running his thumb across his newly manicured nails. “This is…yeah, this is nice.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale waved a hand, neatly teleporting his supplies into a different room. It was his usual method of cleaning up – eventually, things would wind up where they were supposed to be – but he realized alarmingly late that this now meant he and Crowley were simply sitting on a bed together. “I…I suppose I should thank you. For, ah, for indulging me—”

“Should I…return the favor?”

“Ah!” He snatched his hands against his chest, as if afraid Crowley would steal them entirely. Well. That wasn’t quite what he was afraid of. “Return? How – how would you – Crowley, my nails are – are already in tip-top shape, and you wouldn’t—”

“Your wings. Like I said,” Crowley went on, familiar sharp edge slipping into his tone, “absolute mess. You’re one to talk about grooming, carrying around two disasters like that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was about to snap something else, but his eyes accidentally met the demon’s, and there was nothing mocking about them at all. Anxious, shy, almost waiting to be hurt. Did he always hide that expression behind his glasses?

“I, ah…I’ve never…how do we do this?”

Crowley’s eyes went wide. “Ngk. Unh. I mean. Sit there or…or maybe…lay down? On your stomach?”

“Ah, yes, I wouldn’t want to – to get tired, holding them up.” Aziraphale stretched out across the top of the duvet, resting his cheek on one of the pitch-black pillows, and extended his wings.

He could have sworn he heard a heavy breath – maybe a gasp, maybe a sigh. “Just as I thought. Look at this utter disgrace. When was the last time you preened?”

“Well, as I never walk around with them out—” Aziraphale was cut off by an impossibly gentle touch, two fingers brushing lightly across the leading edge of his wing. It felt…good, an electric shiver that ran down his wing and up his spine.

“Oh! S-sorry.” Crowley sounded embarrassed, which was something Aziraphale had never heard before. “I shouldn’t have…is this alright?”

“Yes. It’s…it’s very much alright.” He wrapped his arms around the pillow, feeling the need to brace himself, and stretched his left wing slightly. “Please, continue.”

The touch of Crowley’s palms against his wings was electrifying, yes, but also gentle, soothing. He carefully explored down the length of them, not stirring any feathers yet, just learning the ways they lay against each other, where they grew thick, where the flight feathers emerged. Aziraphale could feel the feathers that were out of place now – they snagged and tugged against Crowley’s hands, bunching in the wrong spots. Uncomfortable, the way sitting in a chair too long could be uncomfortable without even noticing.

“You’re lucky you didn’t need to fly,” Crowley remarked, scolding, as if it was an everyday risk, instead of something that hadn’t come up in five thousand years. His fingers now flicked around the shortest patch of Aziraphale’s coverts, just shy of the leading edge, finding one of the culprits. Manicured fingertips burrowed deep into white feathers, hot against the skin and muscle beneath, and with a few quick but gentle scratches twitched it back into position. “Does this hurt?”

“No…That feels…” Crowley traced the feather from base to tip, pushing the barbs back into the correct alignment. A few more strokes ensured it lay, flat and neat, alongside the rest.

“One down, dozens more to go. And that’s just this side. Hope you’re comfortable.”

He was, though. Aziraphale closed his eyes, sinking into the gentle rhythm as Crowley moved – feather by feather – across his wing, setting each to rights. He felt as though a burden were being lifted, the worry in his stomach slowly unknotting, bit by imperceptible bit, as if the world were fading away, leaving nothing but that touch.

By the time Crowley reached Aziraphale’s alula feathers, the pain in his gut was gone. As he worked his way back across the primary coverts towards the scapulars, Aziraphale began to forget what he’d been worried about. Then the warm fingers ran down the first of his flight feathers, and time stopped entirely.

--

Crowley had never imagined Aziraphale’s feathers could feel so different from his own, but they did, so soft and delicate he would have believed they were pieces of clouds if not for the warmth that emanated through them.

Was it because angel feathers were somehow more pure? Or was it simply a matter of familiarity – that his fingers had stopped even noticing the texture of his own wings?

He was nearly finished. Really, he was done already, but his hands still glided across coverts and primaries, feeling for anything out of place, any excuse to delay longer.

“Right there, please.” Aziraphale suddenly interrupted. “Just…just a little itch. Could you…?”

“Got it.” Crowley let his fingers sink in again, scratching gently at the base of a feather. “Here?”

Aziraphale just murmured in relief, a little sigh. Crowley had knelt beside him to better reach the wing, but now Aziraphale shifted, pressing their hips together. “This feels simply marvelous.”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “S’why you’re supposed to do it regularly.”

“I should have asked you to, years ago.”

Crowley smoothed the feathers back into place. He was finished. It was time. Time to switch and part ways, possibly forever.

He didn’t lift his fingers from the edge of Aziraphale’s wing.

“Would you have?” Crowley wondered, surprising himself to hear the words out loud. “Would you have let me, if I’d asked?”

Stirring, Aziraphale tucked his wings away, all that glorious heat vanishing to another plane. He rolled over and considered Crowley, but didn’t sit up yet. “I’m not sure. I…I would have wanted to. But…well…”

“And if I’d – I’d asked for other things?”

“I don’t know. Would you have asked? If I’d indicated my interest?”

Somewhere, the sun was rising. Somewhere, the day was starting. Time, never any time.

“I don’t know,” Crowley confessed, the words ripped from his soul. And then, not letting himself think, he fell forward, onto the pillows.

Aziraphale caught him, pulled him into an embrace. “I want to find out, Crowley. What we are. What we can be. I wish…I wish…”

Long fingers reached up to cradle Aziraphale’s cheek. “I know, Angel. I know. We’ll get our chance.”

Aziraphale nodded, though the tears in his eyes said he didn’t believe it. A brush of fingers on the back of Crowley’s hand, and Aziraphale turned to kiss his palm, his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I wasted our time. And now…”

“No, you didn’t waste anything.” He pulled Aziraphale roughly against his chest. “You hear me? Nothing. I’m…I’m glad for every moment we had.”

The angel didn’t respond, just sobbed, once, face pressed into Crowley’s shirt.

“Shhh. We’ll survive this. I swear it. And then we’ll have eternity to figure this out. Alright? You and me. And…and things will be different this time. I’ll be different.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale said, his arms locking behind Crowley, strong enough to break his spine. “Don’t you change a thing, Crowley. I don’t want anything to be different.”

“Really? You’re happy with how things were?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale pushed back, just enough to meet Crowley’s gaze, eyes wide and wet and earnest. “So…so very happy, when we were together.”

“Well, then.” Crowley bent forward, resting his lips on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “That’s what we’ll do, yeah? Be together. Forever.”

[mxndoscyarika]

Honeydew (Marcus Pike/Moreno x OC) | Chapter 4

Summary: Erin He moves to DC after working for the FBI in Texas and runs into a hero in disguise; Marcus Moreno. Something about him is familiar, too familiar, yet different in a way that she can’t quite place. Although confused, she can’t deny her feelings for him; perhaps, after years of regret, she finally found the one.

Warnings: snow/icy roads, food/drink, smut/masturbation (after last line break), two (2) swear words

Ao3

Honeydew masterlist

Like my writing? Here’s my masterlist.

Author’s Note: I did it! I managed to write while also getting flooded with homework! I’m not completely sure when I’ll be able to get the next chapter out, but I’m super excited for you all to see what happens this chapter. Enjoy!

The lights flickered in the office, making Erin pause her work. Looking out the window, she was met with snow falling from the sky, flakes small enough that even the building next door wasn’t much more than a faint silhouette. It wasn’t anything atypical for that time of year, but she was not looking forward to driving through the snow. There was always someone who started sliding or ended up blocking a road.

She picked up her phone tiredly when it started ringing, not even looking at the contact. “This is Agent He.”

A warm voice came through the speaker. “Hi, honey.”

Hearing Marcus’s voice, even through a phone, was enough to get her to sit a little taller. “Hi, Marcus. What do you need?”

He let out a soft sigh. “Sorry, I know you’re probably busy, but Missy gets out of school soon and I was wondering if you could give her a drive home?” There was the sound of a crash nearby, followed by the scuffing of shoes against pavement. “I’m a bit busy right now and the school just called to say they’re closing early.”

Erin glanced through her schedule for the rest of the day. No meetings, just paperwork and some emails. Closing it with a click, she answered, “Yeah. Yeah, I can go pick her up. I’m just about done for the day and was thinking of heading out anyways.”

Marcus let out a sigh of relief. “You’re the best, Erin. I’ll text you the address and let Missy know you’re coming.”

“No problem,” she replied, tucking her phone between her shoulder and ear so she could pack up. “Stay safe out there, Marcus.”

He chuckled softly. “Of course, honeydew. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

The call ended before she could respond. Shrugging to herself, she tucked her phone away and kept packing.

Due to the slower workday, people had time to kill. Erin tried to ignore the stares of her coworkers as she strode out of the office with her bag and a stack of folders. Some stopped her along the way to ask questions, and she sighed as their single question turned into what constituted a half-hour meeting that they could have scheduled. As much as she hated to seem dismissive, she had to cut them off and ask them to send an email with their concerns.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Glancing back over her shoulder, she answered, “Had something important come up, I’m heading out for the day.”

---

“Are you my dad’s special friend?”

Erin’s eyes widened. Words were lost on her as she tried to formulate an answer. They were certainly friends, and more than friends, but how far beyond that? “W-what do you mean by ‘special’, Missy?”

The young girl shrugged, playing with the zipper of her jacket. “Dad talks about you a lot. Well, he talks to you a lot. He told me that you’re the one he calls at night.”

She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned pale. He talked about her with Missy? “Oh. Yeah, that’s me, then.” Turning on the blinker to make a left, she said, “Your dad told me he’ll finish work as soon as he can, so we’ll head to my place, ok?”

In just a few minutes, she pulled into the garage of her apartment, trailing in slush and clumps of snow. Her tires had left compacted snow on the driveway, which meant the snow was planning to stick around for a while. Hopefully someone would add salt by the morning. Having a four-wheel-drive was great, but she couldn’t alter physics.

“Get warmed up by the fireplace and I’ll text your dad, ok?” She said, unlocking the apartment door and holding it open for Missy to enter. The little girl bounded in, taking off her shoes by the door so she wouldn’t leave tracks on the floor. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have hot cocoa?” Missy asked, setting down her backpack by the dining table. She looked up at Erin curiously, her brown eyes sparkling.

Erin placed her folders on the table and nodded. “Yes I do, sweetie. Do you want to help? I have marshmallows somewhere….”

“Yes!!!” Missy cheered. She followed Erin to the spacious kitchen, her eyes growing wide when she saw the array of pots by the sink. “Are these all real plants?”

The greenery was one of Erin’s favorite parts about the apartment; a higher position at the FBI meant a bigger paycheck, and a bigger paycheck and relocation meant a bigger apartment. It still wasn’t large enough for a party of more than two or three people, but it did have more counter space and windows. Adorned with plants ranging from orchids to airplants to fiddle-leaf fig bushes, her living space was slowly turning into a nursery. Some would’ve said she had too many plants, but she wanted her home to be just a little more than plain walls and pretty lights.

“They are,” she answered, smiling. “I need to water them today, so I left them out on the counter this morning. Do you and your dad have plants at home?” Missy shook her head, marveling at the circular leaves of the pilea plant. Touching a leaf gently, she answered, “Dad always forgets to water them, so we only have fake ones.”

A chuckle left Erin’s lips as she placed the mug of milk into the microwave. “Remind me to never buy him plants as a present, then.”

When the milk was steaming, she took the mug out of the microwave and added a large scoop of powdery mixture. The liquid quickly turned to a silky dark brown, which was quickly topped off with a handful of marshmallows per Missy’s request.

While Missy started on her homework–who gave out homework on a snow day?–Erin took out a few ingredients to make cookies. Thankfully, she still had some flour and dark chocolate in the cabinet. If there was anything that could’ve warmed up the chilly apartment, it was the heat of the oven and the scent of freshly baked cookies.

Surprisingly, Missy was pretty well-behaved. In her experience, children around Missy’s age tended to be riddled with questions, almost overly excited. But Missy, on the other hand, seemed to fare well on her own. Perhaps it was a testament to her upbringing, or maybe she was just independent like her father. Either way, Erin appreciated the politeness and relaxation.

Once the cookies were baked, Erin took a seat across from  Missy and started sorting through the reports. Some had urgent deadlines, but others could wait. And then there was the rat’s nest that was her inbox.

It was at that point when Missy finished her homework and started growing bored. She couldn’t blame her; her apartment could be cozy, but it definitely wasn’t arranged for a child.

“Do you want to do something together?” Erin asked, smiling a little. Setting down the file she was reading she mused, “If you want, we could find a movie. Or not, whatever you want. Just tell me.”

Missy’s request wasn’t surprising–she wanted to watch TV. So that’s what they did. They snuggled up on the sofa with a blanket tossed over their legs. Erin handed her the remote so she could pick a show or movie.

Before long, the warmth of the fireplace along with the soft haze of noise from the TV had lulled Missy to sleep, the head of brown waves resting against her arm. At first, Erin tensed. But once she realized it was just Missy, she forced herself to relax.

Smiling softly, she turned down the volume of the TV and slid her arm out from underneath her, catching Missy when she started falling over. She wondered if that was what parenting was; if it was just a series of questions and answers until the little one fell asleep.

But as she tried to get up, she found Missy’s hands scrunched in her shirt, keeping her in place. Not even a tug on her shirt could detach her.

Sighing, she sat back down and looked down at the little girl. The half-sitting position couldn’t be good for her back, and so far she hadn’t had any success in getting free. So, she did what anyone would do. Well, what she thought Marcus would do.

She leaned over and lifted Missy with ease, holding her close so they could both lie down.

Missy quickly settled herself into a more comfortable position, her cheek resting against Erin’s shoulder. The hands that once clung to her shirt came up to wrap around her neck, keeping her secured to Erin.

The FBI agent tried to ignore the warmth in her chest as Missy’s fingers wrapped around the collar of her shirt. Until then, she hadn’t realized how...small she was. How precious and warm and completely adorable. Sure, there was the cuteness that came with youth, but for a moment she let herself bask in the embrace of Missy Moreno.

As her eyelids grew heavy, Erin pulled the blanket up and let herself drift off.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Marcus knocked on her door. The sharp rapping on wood brought her out of her slumber. When she glanced at her watch, it was late into the evening.

Rather than making him wait an extra minute so she could wake Missy up, Erin stood from the couch and answered the door with the little girl on her hip.

Marcus looked tired, his beard a bit longer than usual and his hair mussed. But nevertheless, those beautiful brown eyes of his lit up at the sight of Erin and his daughter. Speaking softly, he said, “It looks like you two got along, huh?”

“I guess we did,” she replied, smiling. She stepped aside. “Why don’t you come in? Stay for dinner, Marcus.”

“I really shouldn’t,” he said bashfully, laughing softly. Seeing her with his kid all cuddled up sparked something in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. And it terrified him.

He always wanted kids; it was no secret. And along with kids, he dreamt of getting married, and coming home to a family. The world let him have that for fewer than five years. It had been a long time since he’d come home to see Missy so content and at peace with life.

“You had a long day, sweetie,” she insisted, reaching for his wrist and pulling him in. “Just let me set her down and I can get started.”

Before he could offer to take Missy, she was already laying the girl back onto the couch. As he watched her, he remembered the way his wife used to cradle their baby, tucking her into blankets and placing little kisses on her forehead.

His heartstrings tugged painfully as Erin covered Missy with the blanket and smoothed down the hairs on the crown of her head fondly. Although he didn’t regret a moment of his previous marriage, part of him still wished he’d taken the plunge instead of redirecting his feelings towards Lisbon. Maybe if he did, they’d be in a completely different place in life.

Erin came up to him, tying back her hair. “I can make us some fried rice, how does that sound?”

“Perfect,” he replied, smiling. “Can I help you prep anything, honey?” There it was again. Fighting the rush of heat at the nickname, she walked with him to the kitchen and said, “Yes, I’d love some help.”

She and Marcus fell into a rhythm, music playing softly from the bluetooth speaker on her counter. While the rice cooker was puffing out steam (she didn’t have enough leftover rice), they both worked on preparing the other ingredients: spam, onions, egg, and garlic. Some things never changed.

“You’re very lucky,” she commented, leaning forward on the counter to watch him dice the onion. His movements were smooth and confident, fingers curled just slightly. “Missy’s a great kid.”

“She didn’t give you any trouble?” he asked, brows shooting up. When she shook her head, he chuckled softly. “You must have magic powers, then. She can be a little shit if she wants to be.”

Erin scoffed. “She’s the most well-behaved child I’ve ever met. You did a good job with her, Marcus.”

“I did my best,” he responded, cheeks warm. “I don’t think I could’ve survived without my mom helping out, though.” She smirked. “Well isn’t that what grandparents are for? Babysitting so that the parents can have some fun?”

The corner of his lip curved up. He finished cutting the onions and washed his hands. Stepping closer, he asked lowly, “What kind of fun do you think they have?”

Chills ran down her spine as he touched her arm, his hands large and warm. Her eyes flickered down to his lips. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

“Do you want me to show you, honey?”

Mere centimeters separated them when a high pitched voice exclaimed from the sofa, “Daddy!”

Erin pulled away quickly, her cheeks turning pink as Missy ran over to give Marcus a hug. They were almost caught. She was almost caught kissing Missy’s dad. That would’ve been an interesting situation to explain.

But if the nerves were real, why was her heart beating with excitement? Not to mention, why did she feel so warm when he touched her? They weren’t together. No, they were friends. More than friends, but friends.

Dinner was cooked and demolished in no time, the Morenos praising her for something as simple as rice with canned meat.

“This is really good, honey,” he moaned, spooning more into his bowl. Licking his lips, he asked, “Could you teach me how to make this sometime?”

She tried not to focus on the way his lips shined from the oil and his tongue. “I could, but why do that when you and Missy could come visit more often?”

“I can’t ask that of you, honey-” “You’re not asking, I’m offering,” Erin interrupted, smiling triumphantly at Missy’s agreement. “Besides, Missy likes the plants. She says they’re nice.” “Like abuelita’s house!” Marcus chuckled. “Like abuelita’s house.” Meeting Erin’s eyes, he said, “I’d like that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

---

“Dad, Erin’s really cool.”

He smiled fondly, pulling out of the visitor’s parking spot. “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?”

A pause. Then, “Are you going to ask her out?”

Normally, he would be more caught off guard. But after a long day of work and an amazing dinner with his girls, he couldn’t have been happier. “I already did, kiddo.”

Another pause. He knew Missy was going to grow up to be a smart girl; he just knew it. And with Erin in the picture, he had even less reason to doubt it. “Do you like-like her? My friends say that their parents go on dates sometimes.”

Marcus smiled to himself. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

Being in the kitchen with her again felt like coming home. To her, it might’ve felt like a stranger seeing her for the first time, but everything fell together perfectly.

“Well, I think she like-likes you, too.”

---

Erin sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a fluffy towel after her shower. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Marcus’s voice had dropped when he asked her that question, and the way his touch felt electric against her even through the clothes.

The heat in her belly grew more unbearable the more she thought of him. Seeing him in the kitchen, waltzing around her as if it was second nature, only made her want him more. His fingers were beautiful and thick, gentle yet confident. His smile was sweet yet knowing. He was everything she ever wanted, but different from what she used to dream about.

She lifted her gaze to the full mirror leaning against the wall.

The towel dropped to the carpet once she stood in front of it, leaving her bare to the warm air of her apartment. She bit her lip as her fingers rubbed along the silver shaft of the toy in her hand. It was a new one that came in the mail just a couple weeks ago.

Clicking the button at the base of the vibrator made it come to life, buzzing in her hand.

The first touch against her swollen clit made her gasp and retract her hand. It was stronger than the others she used, more pulsing than constant.

Her fingertips slid between her legs easily as she prepared herself for the toy, her arousal shining on her skin. She closed her eyes and imagined they were Marcus’s fingers, but let out a frustrated sigh. Her fingers were too small, to fill her in the way that she knew Marcus could.

Sitting down on the floor, she rubbed the toy along her folds, whimpering as she clenched around nothing.

A moan escaped her lips as she pushed the vibrator into herself, letting it fill her as much as possible. She immediately clamped down on it, sucking it deeper in until it sat snugly against her walls.

Leaning back on an arm, she used her free hand to tug at a hardened nipple, sending electricity down to her glistening pearl. When she let go, the soft flesh bounced, skin still glowing from her shower. If only it were Marcus’s hands touching her, caressing her skin.

Her orgasm struck her faster than expected, making her arch her back and let out a faint cry. As ecstasy coursed through her veins, her legs started shaking and her cunt began dripping around the toy, as if it were folding back a flood.

Each clench of her walls only brought her more pleasure, the vibrations becoming too much for her to take.

She reached down and pulled out the toy, gasping as a stream of liquid squirted onto the mirror. Her chest heaved as she watched her pussy gape and clench through droplets of her release.

“Fuck,” she whispered to herself, lying back on the floor. The taste of her cum coated her tongue as she licked the toy clean. “Fuck.”

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