#at least I did over on ao3 XD

[chubsonthemoon]

It is done! This is The Death of Translation, originally written in English by @landwriter, translated into Mandarin by @thirrith. Binding is dos-à-dos, with English version on one side and Mandarin on the other. Bookcloth was handwoven by me, on my rigid heddle loom :3

More under the cut!

Typeset: Fanbinders are Liars

Full stop, this typeset would not have been possible without Eth and all their patience, enthusiasm, and willingness to do even more translating! I reached out to them *checks watch* nearly a year ago in July 2023 (lololol), asking if I could use their translation of TDOT in a surprise bind I wanted to send along with Gloam's author copy of Flower King. They were kind enough to say yes, and even kinder to answer my questions when I reached out six months later in January, when I was finally able to start work on the typeset.

We talked about the many delicious things that are bound to come up when discussing translating not just from English to Mandarin, but also from digital space to meatspace. Some topics I had anticipated, like font questions, translating the colophon, etc. But even with the topics I thought I'd prepared for, there were still things that came up that both surprised and delighted: for example, while AO3's website allows for italics in Mandarin--

--my publishing program doesn't (or at least, it doesn't without needing to manually tilt every character by about 10 degrees). So as a workaround, Eth suggested changing these cases of italics to the font ��文楷体:

Through no one's fault but my own, this ended up being only slightly less work than manually tilting every instance of italics--I wanted to be sure that I got all of them, so I ended up doing a lot of double-checking manually anyway, instead of relying solely on the Search function. There was a lot of cross-referencing with the Word document that Eth was kind enough to provide, as well as squinting and general swearing. I also did the same for the uses of Latin script, manually styling each instance as Garamond to keep it consistent with the English edition:

The only other time I've had to do font surgery this intensive is probably for my typeset for Tell Me About the Big Bang, which I had to port over from a PDF. Folks, hell on earth. Do not recommend XD I remember squinting at my monitor as I had to visually confirm every instance of italics, thinking I will never do this again. Welp, four years later, here were are: fanbinders are liars, LMAO. At the very least, using Eth's Word document at least allowed me to search by styles, so it was a little easier on my eyes. 🙏

Is there a script that I might've been able to use if I was more code-savvy? Probably. But I figured going at it sledgehammer style would be the least hair-pulling way to get the job done, weirdly enough. Still, despite my best efforts, there are a few instances of PMingLiU to Garamond and PMingLiU to 华文楷体 that I know I missed, and I know I missed them because I caught them after I'd printed/cut/folded/sewn/glued (cue more swearing), so Gloam and Eth, my apologies >.< please consider them artifacts of a uniquely handmade object ajslkdjfs

In addition to the fonts, there were also some other fun things Eth and I discussed, like how to translate the notes I usually provide on the colophons! In addition to information on fonts, I also usually include some variation of:

This private, limited edition published by chubsthehamster (Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing) in 2024. This is chubsthehamster's personal copy. Out of three existing copies, this is the first.

The thing that came up with this, which still tickles my brain to this day, was how Eth chose how to translate "Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing." To get a better sense of what word to use for "imprint," they asked what the relationship was between Moonham Press and Renegade Publishing, which got me thinking about the relationship between my lil imprint and the wonderful @renegadeguild:

What's all very funny about all of this is that we are now, in fact, going by the name "Renegade Bookbinding Guild," per our most recently updated Code of Conduct. While this renders the wording I asked for out of date (and thus, the wording that made it into the book out of date :'D), I think it's also a testament to how cool the work @renegadeguild is doing--like any artform, fanbinding is alive, with its own evolving language, communities, and ideas about the craft. And I love it, I love it so much. (Was this also a plug for our new-ish website? Perhaps).

There's more I could say here, but this post is already going to be long enough, so I'll move on for now! If you get anything from this section, it's that @thirrith is amazing and very patient and kind, and I'm so grateful that we got to talk shop together. Thank you so much for all your invaluable help with this, Eth! I hope the typeset, though undoubtedly flawed, does your hard work justice!

Binding: Or, SO Much Math. Like, So Much, Guys. (It was worth it, though!)

Whoo, boy! So math was never my strong suit in school, but when I set out to do this bind last year, that wasn't an issue. At first. The dos-à-dos binding, if anything, just requires a little bit of finagling on the usual case-bound format--a bit more math if you want to do an all-cloth cover, like I planned on doing, but nothing I couldn't work out with some trial and error. (My prototype below!)

Then came February, when I took a weaving class with my friend, and then everything kinda exploded.

My original idea was to use some green Duo bookcloth I had on hand (this color, actually)--for those of you not initiated into the Duo cult, Duo is a Rayon bookcloth with a very devoted fan following in Renegade. It's very pretty; the Rayon weave is one color, and the paper backing is usually complementary color, so it has this cool two-toned effect. Duo is in high demand in Renegade circles because sadly, the company that manufactures it went out of business last year. (Although I've heard rumors recently that there's another company making something similar, but the cloth has a really high purchase requirement and is, like, for businesses only I think).

Anyway, I also wanted to have a gold line around the whole book as a kind of bellyband/obi to further connect the two versions of the story (another reason why I chose the dos-à-dos format to begin with heh), as you can see from my scribbled notes here--

But alas! I knew going in that adhering things to Duo is often Problematic, thanks to one very painful experience trying to get some iron-on foil on another bind (the textured surface of Duo just makes it kinda hard to stick or paint stuff on it). So if I wanted a clean, continuous line, the remaining options were to either paint it on a strip of paper that I'd somehow...adhere to the cloth? Or maybe cut different slices of bookcloth and glue them on. I wasn't satisfied with either of those options, though.

Then--the weaving class. I made a scarf, and I love it and I loved making it. But the whole time, I'll not lie, my thoughts were elsewhere.

In short, my decision to weave my own bookcloth kinda came from a few different factors:

The desire to attempt to recreate Duo, that elusive beauty, the one that got away, etc. (I have several yards in my stash, but still). Others have also attempted to recreate it, and I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.

My current spiral into the deep hole that is fiber arts (it started with crochet, then knitting, then sewing, then weaving, then spinning, and now I'm eyeing quilting! Please help me).

The gold line. It kept bugging me. And when I found weaving, I just thought there was something very neat about the process of actually making the cloth for a dos-à-dos binding from scratch, and especially for this binding. I wanted to bind a story about translation (or rather, the death of it, and yet still the necessity of it--how we must try to communicate, despite of, or perhaps precisely because of, everything that gets lost in the spaces between people, and the tragedy of that loss, and the beauty of what makes it through, and the love always present in the effort regardless), and also, the translation of that story. Weaving is a very meditative process, and with every pass of the shuttle, back and forth, building slowly but surely the fabric that would hold the story that Gloam had written and that Eth had translated, I thought a lot about translation, and the gaps between people, and how we choose our words not just when translating, but when we speak at all. From a design perspective, I used the same colors I would've used had I chosen the Duo bookcloth--green and gold--so the design wasn't too altered in terms of color scheme. But I think the choice to weave the bookcloth--the thing that bound it all together--made the project take on a completely new meaning for me, both in process and in scope, one that hadn't been there when I started. I saw the warp, perhaps, as the original story, laying the groundwork for the weft, the translation; or maybe it was the other way around, with the translation providing the scaffolding for its own, new meaning, choices that Eth had to make with this word or phrase or another building something new, something translated, and the original a live, moving thing that wove over and under each word turned phrase turned story; or maybe it was both. Maybe it didn't matter which was which, in the end. And as I wove, the thing that connected them, that gold line that had started all of this, slowly formed.

All that to say: Good God, was there a lot of math. So much math. That prototype pictured above was actually made specifically so I could calculate exactly how much I needed to weave, lol, because while I certainly had enough thread, I didn't want to have to warp more than once. I'd learned the basics in my class, but the training wheels came off here. I wanted to make my own custom fabric, which meant calculating things like ends per inch, picks per inch, loom waste, shrinkage after washing, the width of that damn gold line, how much I'd need for the hinge, the turn-ins, the boards--the whole nine yards (I didn't actually weave nine yards tho heh). It was all absolutely worth it in the end--so challenging and so, so rewarding!

(And my final reason for weaving the bookcloth? Not gonna lie, It was because I just wanted to see if I could do it LOL. I love trying at least one new thing with each of my binds, and this was it for this project. While I've been bookbinding for a few years now, I'm still very much a beginner weaver, and I'm so excited to continue to learn and experiment! Also, here's a video of me unwinding the cloth from the loom, heh. I used 10/2 Perle cotton in gold and green colors :3)

Also, turns out, you can back handmade cloth the same way you can any other cloth! I backed it using my usual heat-n-bond method, and with some Unryu Tissue in the color Forest. Since the cloth itself is a bit transparent, there are a bunch of really fun fibers you can see when it's held up to the light, but which aren't visible when the cloth is glued down to the boards. Still, knowing they're there still makes me happy :D

Finally, capping all this off, is one final, small detail I really liked: ginkgo leaf endpapers :3 this one's for me and Eth and Gloam specifically <3

Aaaand that's all from me for today, folks! Thus ends (several months late XD) my last Binderary project for the year. This was probably my most ambitious bind to date, and gosh it was so, so much fun.

And, of course, thank you so much to Gloam for sharing your story, and Eth for translating it. I can't wait for y'all to receive your copies soon!

All my love! <3

[too-much-tma-stuff]

I Don’t Believe You Care

Y’all are my beta readers XD if you see any errors please let me know. I’m going to post this on AO3 later.

Part one here

------

The scolding that Bruce gave Damian was the gentlest either of them had ever received, but it did cow Damian enough that he behaved while meeting Cass and Stephanie. It helped that they were sweet, Stephanie was a bit energetic and overwhelming but Cass was quiet and seemed to understand them better. She helped reign in the over-enthusiastic family friend and Danny was glad to have her as a sister. She didn’t speak much, she communicated in signs that he didn’t understand but he thought that he could learn in time, and he wanted to. When he told her so she smiled and Steph squealed, insisting loudly and brightly that they would be happy to teach him!

He couldn’t help but feel relieved that when Alfred asked Stephanie if she would be staying for dinner she joked that she should actually spend some time at home for once. It seemed like she didn’t live here, though they knew of her identity as Spoiler and her involvement with the bats, all her noise and movement wouldn’t be a consistent presence around the house. Not that Danny didn’t like her! He just thought he’d like her best in relatively small doses before she could overwhelm him.

He would ask Cass to teach him when Steph wasn’t here, it might be just slightly trickier, but he could use the excuse of letting the two friends spend the time they had together. And maybe Tim could help him practice? He must know how to communicate with his sibling after all, and Danny could already tell he and Tim were going to get along.

He was even more glad that Steph had gone when Dick arrived because as the man came barrelling in like a hurricane Danny didn’t want to think of how much chaos and noise they would be together! For all his practice in social graces they really should have prepared him for this chaos, crowds, and friendly contact. But the compound had been short sighted and ill prepared in such regards.

Dick was the worst, Danny was almost jealous of Damian who could snarl and squirm and draw a knife on the man when Dick tried to hug him. Danny put on a smile and forced a laugh and pretended that his instinctual reaction to being held like this didn’t make him want to bite and rend. He knew that Dick meant well, or at least he thought so, the man was honestly famously good natured and cared for his family. Danny wanted to be on his good side, and couldn’t bring himself to actually say he didn’t want to be touched, or at least wasn’t used to it. The sudden, quick, and broad movements Dick favoured with his dramatics made Danny want to flinch though he had better self control then that!

He dodged hugs as gracefully as he could for the rest of the night and managed to sit him and Damian between Bruce and Tim for dinner, with Danny sitting next to Tim of course. The food was good, and everyone in the family was very welcoming, but by the end of it Danny was exhausted.

He was good at this sort of thing, trained to charm, and redirect apparently effortlessly, but the thing was it wasn’t effortless, and these sorts of situations were harder to simulate then battle. Danny had done a good job, he could tell that he had them charmed, and had them warming up to Damian too actually, but he also knew that he was drooping. He should hide his fatigue, but he was still human, he yawned.

“You’ve had a long day young masters,” Alfred said, instantly picking up on the mood, he was an impressive man and they both knew it. “Now that you’ve eaten why don’t you go settle in your rooms and get some rest? I took the liberty of going to buy you some pajamas and basics that should fit the two of you. I’m sure Master Bruce will be happy to take you both out to buy clothes more suited to your taste tomorrow,” he added.

“I think that’s a good idea, don’t you Damian,” Danny asked, glancing over at his brother.

“I’m not tired,” Damian harrumphed, of course he wouldn’t admit defeat. “But I would like to see where we will be staying,” He added. No doubt he’d thoroughly check security and for any potential surveillance before he slept. Danny wasn’t going to bother.

“Very good young Masters,” Alfred said with a nod, pausing to look back at Dick. “Will you be staying the night as well?” He asked the older man, who gave a rueful smile and shook his head.

“I’m needed in Bludhaven, I was able to come for the day on such short notice but I couldn’t get more time off. I’ll schedule a proper vacation as soon as possible so I can come back and visit!” He said giving Danyal and Damian an encouraging smile, and Danny did a good job of looking disappointed that Dick was leaving even though he was glad to have some time to get his feet under him before more of the family would be under the same roof once more. Maybe he hadn’t been as subtle as he thought about dodging Dick’s affection though, because he didn’t try to hug either of the boys goodbye.

He bid their siblings farewell and followed Alfred up to his bedroom, seeing Damian into his first and then going into his own. He was quick to brush his teeth and change into the comfortable, soft pajamas they’d been bought which did fit perfectly. Unfortunately when he flopped down into bed, regardless of how exhausted he was, he couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying the events of the day, how he did, how he could have done better, what he had learned about the family and what it meant.

After maybe an hour once things had gone quiet on the other side of the wall and he thought Damian was asleep Danny sighed and got up. He opened his window and climbed out, he braced his feet on the sill and shoved off, jumping unnaturally high for a human to grab on the edge of the roof and drag himself up onto it. He scrambled up gracefully and silently, finding a comfortable place to lay, looking up at the sky. He stayed there, zoning out for a while before he heard a soft thump on the roof near him.

“How did you get up here?” Bruce asked, dressed as Batman this time, Danny glanced over and gave him a small smile.

“You can’t really see the stars here,” he said, looking back up at the sky. “I won’t miss much about the compound, but I’ll miss the stars.”

“Not settling in particularly well?” Batman asked, sitting down on the ridge of the roof, a respectable distance between them.

“Oh I’ll be alright,” Danny said with a shrug. “They always raised me to be your heir after all, Damian will have more trouble than me. Want some advice?”

“Hm,” Batman said, an affirmative sound.

“Take him to a zoo, buy him art supplies. He’ll deny he cares about such things, but I know him better then anyone and he does. Once he realizes he really can be himself out here, that’ll help start undoing the brainwashing.”

“How are you so insightful about the situation? You can’t have avoided the brain washing.” Batman asked, and Danny shrugged. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Danny asked, glancing over just for a moment.

“How do I bond with you?” Bruce asked, and Danny laughed.

“You don’t have to. I don’t need to be won over or convinced. Our grandfather is a violent fool who only cares for himself, teaching me to recognize manipulation showed me what he really was years ago. If you turned me away entirely I still wouldn’t go back to the league.” He said with a wry smile.

“Hm,” Batman sounded unimpressed. “You’re still my son. I’d like to bond with you?”

Danny sighed, not sure why Batman was being stubborn when his energy was best spent elsewhere. He sat up and looked over at Batman, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t need you,” He said somewhat bluntly. “Damian does, give him your focus. If you truly want you can buy me an instrument, and books on astronomy.”

Batman nodded thoughtfully and Danny lay back down, there was a few moments of quiet between them before B spoke up again. “How did you get up here?” He asked again and Danny sighed.

“I guess you have to know eventually,” He murmured. “Part of the reason we’re both here is because Grandfather couldn’t decide who he wanted to be his heir, it was always supposed to be Damian but something happened and suddenly I was a much more attractive choice.”

“What happened?” B prompted after a moment.

“You know about the Pits? Most people dunked in it come back less, in the mind usually, sometimes less human, feral and monstrous. But rarely, once in the blue moon, someone comes back more.” Danny glanced over at Batman, and when he blinked he let his eyes flash green, glowing with the vile waters the kept Ra’s limping along. He could have explained more about the ways that he was different now, but he didn’t want to let on more then he had to at this point. He wasn’t naive enough to trust Bruce just because they shared blood, so he simply said; “I came back More, and I mean, I’m still a trained assassin, I probably could still have gotten up here even if I hadn’t.”

“But seemingly being chosen by Lazarus made me seem like a better option to grandfather, and your… complicated feelings towards empowered people is well known. So they didn’t know if you’d like me anymore.” His eyes faded back to blue and he looked up at the sky again, he couldn’t read Bruce’s expression under the cowl anyway. “It took a lot of subtle work to convince them to send us both so you could ‘decide which of us you wanted’.”

“Do you expect me to choose one of you?” Bruce asked, unreadable as ever.

“No, not really, you clearly like having many children. Damian still thinks now that you have a biological heir you’ll turn your adopted children away, but that’s grandfather talking and he’s a fool. If you do choose one then choose Damian, I’ll be fine on my own but he needs the help navigating this world. He’s strong, he’s clever, he’s more observant than me, he’ll make a good detective. He’ll be more loyal than me once you win him over too. He’ll be harder to break of the bad habits, I’ve never been as good at killing as him, but once he learns the way you do things I think he’ll be a good Robin.” Danny said, pulling up his knees and wrapping his arms around them, it was a bit chilly on the roof.

Batman hummed and nodded, which was good, if he had continued to push Danny would have had to bring up Jason. He knew that Jason was alive of course, but Bruce didn’t and Danyal would say he was more likely to end up like Jason if he had to but that was a last resort.

“Well I want you to know that both of you are very welcome here. And neither of you have to be Robin, or anything that you don’t want to be. I’ll support you in whatever you want to do, and you being a meta doesn’t change that at all. Both of you have a home here,” Bruce assured.

Danny nodded and gave Bruce a smile before standing up and smiling. “That’s good to hear,” He said, while not believing it at all. Bruce couldn’t and shouldn’t offer such unconditional support after just meeting them. “I should get back inside, it’s getting cold, and I am tired,” He said, wandering over the edge of the roof and stepping off, twisting around to grab the edge and swung off and back through the window before closing the window and brushing himself off so he wouldn’t get to much dirt in his sheets before crawling into bed.

He wasn’t fully asleep before the door to his room opened just enough for Damian to slip inside, he wasn’t surprised, Damian and he weren’t as independent from each other as they acted like they were. “You should have locked your door and blocked it somehow. We cannot trust the mongrels Father has taken in,” he hissed at Danny.

“Damian, shut up and get over here,” Danny mumbled sleepily, not bothering to open his eyes as he lifted the blankets on the other side of the bed. He heard a scoff and waited as Damian did whatever he needed to to feel like the room was secure and then came over to slide into bed next to Danny. Danny held out his arm, they didn’t exactly cuddle even when like this, but Damian liked to hold Danny’s wrist and feel his pulse. He had done it when they were younger but he had stopped for a while, it had only started up again after he had watched Danny die, it was understandable.

Damian wrapped one hand around Danny’s wrist, seeking out his pulse and tucked the other arm under his pillow, no doubt stashing a knife there. “None of them are going to hurt us Dami. They’re used to having multiple siblings, they probably compete, but other then one notable exception we’ve never heard of any of them trying to kill each other have we?”

“You don’t know that, Father’s has never had a biological child before, they must recognize we’re more of a threat then the others,” Damian argued in hushed tones.

“They won’t, we haven’t even proven ourselves yet. We could be incompetent.”

“We’re not!” Damian objected, his voice raising just a little and Danny hushed him softly.

“No, we’re not, but they don’t know that. I would suggest we keep out heads down for at least a month, we learned what we could about them from a distance but we should observe them. We’ve never been out of the compound except on missions, we have a lot to learn and whoever does end up his heir will have to be able to pretend to be normal. I intend to take Tim up on the lessons on popular media, perhaps it isn’t practical, but what about when we inevitably have to interact with people our own age at parties? What about interviews?

“We don’t want to reflect badly on father and if we don’t know Anything about such thing, or have any hobbies, or anything of the sort people will assume he treats us poorly.” Danny murmured and Damian harumphed, even without opening his eyes Danny could tell Damian was gritting his teeth.

“Why should we care what the uncultured masses think?” He hissed furiously and Danny cracked a small smile.

“Because father does. As the Bat his reputation is half of his weapon, and his identity as Bruce Wayne is carefully crafted to both divert suspicion from him being Batman and to make people like him. Father understands well how ones image is a tool, and being a good father is part of his image as Bruce Wayne, we will have to play into it if we want to succeed.” Danyal explained as gently as he could, he didn’t believe all of what he was saying really, or at least the way that he was framing it. He was framing it in the way he thought was best to make Damian start giving the outside world a chance, and hoping that when he did give it a chance he would find he liked it.

It was quiet for a long time which was good, it meant that Damian was properly considering what Danny had to say. He was nearly asleep before Damian spoke again, rousing Danny from his half doze. “Alright, knowing these ‘siblings’ patterns would help, and I can concede the point on the importance of reputation,” He said stiffly.

Danyal had to suppress a smile at his brother’s tone. “Good. And try to remember that unlike Mother and Grandfather batman has a rule against killing. Anything you do you must make sure it is never tracked back to us, especially because he’s not going to suddenly stop caring about them because we share his blood. If he finds out we hurt one of them it would absolutely ruin our chances, or be a huge set back at the very least,” He added, again trying to gently steer his brother in the direction he wanted. He was being manipulative, but it was the way he knew that worked.

“Father should know better then to develop such misplaced attachments,” Damian grumbled but then after a moment of silence he sighed and nodded. “All of our missions have had to be done in secret anyway, with time and planning we’ll manage.”

Well, it had bought them time and that had been Danyal’s goal so he nodded as well. “Good, now sleep Ahki, we’ve both had a long day and I’m tired.”

Damian let out a soft hum and that was all, he kept hold of Danny’s wrist even as he fell asleep, as he always did. Danny liked it too, the physical reminder that Damian was there, that they were safely together. He didn’t think that either of them would have to sneak out before dawn to make sure they weren’t caught and punished for such childish behaviour, he truly felt like they could rest.

Part three

[httpskuzuu]

Softer

hola :D fyodor is alive - fyodor esta vivo I was thinking about making a masterlist or something like that, I don't know if when I upload this I will have it published or how I will do it

anyway, I really liked this and enjoyed writing it, it's longer than I usually post but Idk, by the way, I hated translating this, it was a pain in the ass, but that's what I get for joining a mostly English community ññññññññññññ-- well, this is mostly inspired by Sinner by TheBloodySadist, you can find it in Ao3 if you want to read it, I had an obsession with it a few months xd

jaja this has gone on too long, well, adiós adiós :p

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes

sumary: You tried to escape and now you have to take the consequences, but you make something change in Fyodor... (juju, mistery >:p) Pt.2

tw: yandere behavior, kidnapping, failed escape attempt, explicit punishment, explicit violence, blood, broken bones, humiliation¿, manipulation, brainwashing, stockholm syndrome, reader needs therapy, stabbing, nudity, sedative, Fyodor is a fucking tw

You tremble under the weight of the boot on your ribs, you swear that at some point you hear them cracking along with an agonizing pain throughout your body.

The pressure on your body makes it impossible for you to breathe properly, which is a serious problem considering you are hyperventilating. Every breath burns your exhausted lungs and aggravates the pain.

You'd ask Fyodor to kill you already if it weren't for the fact that your throat is in a terrible condition from so much screaming and pleading.

"Well, I see I can't trust you, can I?" Despite the situation, Fyodor's tone provokes you inner anger, sounding so sarcastic. Something deep inside you tells you it's not sarcasm, it's concern, but you can't believe it, especially not coming from Fyodor.

You imagine that, if you had the strength at this moment, you would kill him with your own hands. You know well you wouldn't be able to, but it's pleasant to think about it.

"I do everything for you, and still you try to escape." He puts more pressure against your ribs and you've never felt as much pain as you do now. "You spoiled brat." He growls and his Russian accent becomes much thicker.

He removes his foot from your body and you can breathe. Relief courses through your veins and, out of pure instinct, you thank him for that act of kindness. He could have stretched it out longer, put more pressure on you and broken your ribs more, but he was merciful and gave you a break…. A break, you know that your punishment is not yet over.

You don't know yourself and your thoughts. One thing you have to hand it to Fyodor is that his training is really effective, but you're tougher than that, or at least you like to think so. Realistically, right now, you just want to curl up against him.

A kick in the side snaps you out of your thoughts, you moan and cry from the pain, your throat burning with fire. You never want to utter a sound again in your life after this.

"Aw, you poor thing… Does it hurt? Now you know how I feel every time you leave me." He's lying, you know that, but that doesn't take away the guilt that settles in your head free-form.

You shouldn't have run away, Fyodor isn't even that bad if you behaved: no gratuitous physical harm and he takes better care of you than you could ask of a kidnapper. You were an idiot, you deserved all this for not appreciating your life with Fyodor properly. God… Why did you try to escape in the first place? The Russian would always would catch you, you were just causing trouble.

Ignoring your destroyed throat, you decide to speak. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't try to escape again. Please give me another chance, I'll be good…"

Fyodor kneels down next to your agonized body. He puts his hand against your tear-stained cheek, at first you flinch, thinking he was going to hurt you more, but then you lean almost automatically against his cold hand.

You cry harder as you feel Fyodor's gentle touch, you don't quite understand what's wrong with you, you just know that you want to melt against his hand. You close your eyes and tremble. You want a hug from him, you know you shouldn't want that, that it's disgusting, he kidnapped you and hurt you, but at a time like this, when you've been disobedient, he's still showing you affection….

"Shh, it's okay, милый." He catches the falling tears with his thumb. "I know you're sorry, but your punishment isn't over yet." You automatically tense up and slowly open your eyes to look at the man in front of you, there is a smirk of superiority painted on his face, observing your pathetic appearance.

You don't dare open your mouth to complain because deep down you know very well that you deserve it, you deserve the pain for being so bratty and causing inconvenience to Fyodor. You accept what lies ahead of you and let Fyodor pull his hand away from you.

With his grip firmly on your hip, he guides you to turn around. You keep the cheek that was previously receiving the loving touch against the ground a thousand times colder than Fyodor.

You concentrate exclusively on the Russian's hands, it's just an idiotic attempt to ignore the pain all over your body. He pulls up your shirt, leaving your back bare against the cold, why is everything so cold all of a sudden? Fyodor is too, in a way he brings you peace of mind, it's like he's everywhere, even in the air…. What the hell are you thinking? You firmly believe you're delusional at this point, these are not your real thoughts, it's clear to you, he put all these idiotic ideas in your head and now you can't get them out. It's agonizing in a certain way.

The only thing you hear is your irregular breathing, if it wasn't for Fyodor's hand clamped on your hip, you would think you were alone right now, and you don't know if you would like that more or less.

Something sharpening presses against your upper back. Everything breaks down in a moment as Fyodor makes a straight cut across your entire back. It hurts horrendously, especially as the blood starts to spurt out. You start to feel dizzy and for a few moments you convince yourself you're going to pass out, but no, your body is still holding on, focused solely on Fyodor's hand.

"Breathe, моя любовь. It's just a cut." You repeat Fyodor's last sentence in your head like a mantra: it's just a cut, it's just a cut. He could have done it much worse to you, you were fine, just a cut.

You take comfort in closing your eyes hard and imagining that you are once again a child at the doctor's office, that you are simply having blood drawn for a blood test because you have not been feeling very well lately. You make a fist with your hand and clench it, digging your fingernails deep into your palm, it's as if you are clutching the hand of one of your parents for comfort. There is no more pain, it's okay, it's all right-

Another cut, this time horizontal, creates a cross on your back. You don't care, you're at the hospital, and you're safe, nothing will happen to you. It's just a cut.

Fyodor stabs the weapon into your side. You open your eyes wide as a torn scream comes out of your mouth.

Fuck it all, do you really deserve this? Have you been so horrible? You assume that Fyodor simply hates you, that he wants to torture you.

Fyodor pulls the weapon out of your body, you look out of the corner of your eye and the wound doesn't seem to be that bad, you thought it was deeper because of the pain, but no, it was something apparently superficial. You didn't want to know how much it would hurt if he had really stabbed you deeper.

Fyodor's voice right next to your ear startles you. "Sorry, was that too much? Did I hurt my little one too much?" That mocking tone again, but you hear a hint of love and concern, or so you assume. No, it's impossible for Fyodor to hate you, if he hated you there wasn't that hint of love, was there? If he hated you, he wouldn't say to you like that: my little one, his little one.

"I can't take it anymore! Please, Fyodor!" He leaves a chaste kiss on the back of your neck, and you cry disconsolately, you don't know why, but you do know it's not because of the pain, the pain doesn't matter anymore.

"You can." Fyodor's voice is the ultimate authority right now, and if he says you can take it, it's because you can. "You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

After those words you instantly panic, you desperately shake your head, of course you don't want to disappoint him! You have to accept your punishment, it was your fault in the first place.

"Brace yourself, dear." Fyodor leaves a trail of kisses from the nape of your neck all the way down your back, above the vertical cut. You assume he's filled his lips with blood and hate yourself at the thought of how attractive he'd look like that.

A new cut interrupts your hatred. You scream, but nothing more, you can take it, for Fyodor….

It's just one cut.

You don't know how many cuts there are next, you are not able to count them. You don't feel your throat anymore, but miraculously it still works, your screams are still coming out of it, you are relieved because you still want to keep your voice to talk to Fyodor, to ask him to hold you.

Fyodor removes your shirt completely and lays it aside on the floor. He holds you firmly and helps you sit up, any movement is hell for your ribs, but you endure it by concentrating on your kidnapper, on his loving but steadfast touch.

You look at him dizzy, teary-eyed and shattered. He is smiling, you have not disappointed him. Your head hurts as you cry disconsolately against his chest again.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying now? Your punishment is over, I won't hurt you anymore."

"You…" You're unable to speak, it's too much at once, the pain and your thoughts coming together in a ball of discomfort. You shake your head and hug him tightly.

"Are you afraid?" You weakly shake your head. It's true that Fyodor scares you, especially on these occasions when he punishes you, but you're not crying about it now.

Funny, you don't know why you're crying, but you do know what you're not crying about.

Fyodor is silent, thinking about why you're crying. "Is it about the pain?" You deny again.

Fyodor hums thoughtfully. "If you don't tell me what it is, I can't help you." You ponder on that: does he want to help you? Is he serious?

You make the feeble attempt to gather your thoughts and speak. "It's just- I don't know" Your voice comes out shakier than you wish it would. "When you touch me… It feels so good, I don't deserve it, I don't-"

"Oh, I see… Aren't you crying because of something bad? Is it because it feels good?" You nod quickly, yes, that's as close as you feel. You're happy when it touches you, when it's good to you. Were you crying out of happiness? Well, you guess so, although it feels more depressing.

"It's okay, relax." He leaves a kiss in front, and it breaks you inside. "You've taken the punishment very well, come on, you deserve to be taken care of."

The process of getting up from the floor is horrible, not only because of the pain all over your body and your numb legs, but because your mind doesn't stop spinning around Fyodor's last sentence. It feels horrible and so good at the same time that your mind is only around one specific person.

He helps you up and you let him lean your useless body against his. He guides you through the house, being patient with your slow pace. He's mostly silent, except when he tells you how well you're doing or that not long to go. Since when did Fyodor know how to talk so pleasantly?

You reach the bathroom, he sits you on the toilet and turns on the bathtub faucet. While it is filling, Fyodor takes some pills out of a drawer that you have always found locked. You don't know what the pills are or what they're for, but he hands you one and you take it without question.

You let your head fall against Fyodor's stomach, even though he is standing upright he doesn't move an inch and lets you be comfortable, he strokes your hair and you sigh lovingly. You don't deserve it, but you need more of this Fyodor, the soft Fyodor who takes care of you and makes you feel good, what did you have to do in the future to keep it in this shape? If you need to be damaged for that, well, you are willing to do it.

"The tub is full." He warns and moves a little away from you, causing you to raise your head. You miss a little that he's touching you, even though he's only been separated of you for three seconds. He holds you under your armpits and helps you up. "I need you to stand up on your own, can you, дорогой?"

You try not to focus so much on Fyodor asking you if you could do it instead of just sending you the order, and focus on standing on your own.

The Russian undresses you completely, his hands are soft, and you feel them all over your body. They are so cold, and you are so cold too now that you are naked. You are vulnerable, now more than ever, and Fyodor's fixed gaze on you disturbs you. You are simply an easy prey to hunt, his prey.

He doesn't look like a hunter now, as much as his gaze is like knives stabbing through every spot he focuses on, you think he's not doing it on purpose. Fyodor doesn't know how to be nice, he never has. He knows how to be neutral: he can keep you alive and give you necessities, but he can't kiss you and keep you warm.

But there's something wrong with all this, he's being warm because since when are his hands so soft against your battered body? You need him, you need him so much it hurts, is this his way of being nice? Okay, fine, you accept it without complaint.

When he puts you in the tub you want to die, the cuts on your back burn at the contact of the water. You don't dare say a word at that or ask Fyodor to pull you out, you're afraid you'll upset him, that he'll get tired of you being so weak and whiny and stop being gentle. Fyodor could have left you lying on the cold floor, bleeding, but he didn't. You can't be an unbearable child to him.

The Russian starts washing your body, putting special emphasis on your cuts and the wound on your side. You look at his serious face with need, why were you only now realizing how handsome he was? Mmmh, you must have been blind before. He notices obviously your shy look on his lips and he smiles, that smile indicating that he was superior to you and despite that, he was still keeping you alive and forgiving of everything you did.

He approaches you and gives you the only thing you needed to be satisfied for today: a kiss. It reminds you of all the good things, strangely enough in those memories Fyodor also appears and disturbs you minimally.

You question yourself that, maybe, Fyodor does know how to be gentle.

This is the proof you need to know that now this was a new version, right? He kissed you. You feel a warmth spreading throughout your body, now it is warm, and his hands are warm too. There is a big change in temperature and it feels like heaven.

After that, Fyodor continued to wash you with special care, ignoring how your face might explode from how red it was.

The only thing that could crush the heat was tiredness, you almost fell asleep a couple of times, but you didn't want to fall asleep because it would be like wasting time with this soft Fyodor, what if tomorrow he returned to his serious and impassive face? You can't waste this time or you would regret it.

"Go to sleep, take it easy. I'll take you to bed when I'm finished." You looked at him as the most merciful being in the world. He cared about you…

You hold back your sobs for these acts of kindness, you don't want to cry anymore, not only to avoid possible discomfort in Fyodor, but for yourself, the headache is unbearable.

You let yourself fall asleep, with your head supported on your knees and Fyodor's soothing touch.

You had a nightmare which you don't remember, or don't want to remember. You wake up with your body held in Fyodor's arms, warm and gentle.

Since when did everything become so homey? Homey? Would that be the right word? Describing any situation involving Fyodor with that word doesn't feel natural to you.

You find it hard to feel your body, and your thoughts don't flow as quickly and aggressively as they used to. It's like being enveloped in a cloud, full of comfort and calmness.

You just feel something on your side, at the site of the shallow stab wound. You think maybe it's some bandage, but your limbs are asleep and too comfortable against Fyodor to move them to check. Otherwise, you feel nothing, only someone else's hand on your lower belly, it's extremely intimate in your perspective.

You turn your sleepy head and glance sideways at Fyodor. He seems calm, looking at you, his face is emotionless again and it scares you. You come to convince yourself that he is still the soft Fyodor, if he wasn't his hand wouldn't be on you, he still hasn't changed, you repeat that to yourself until you believe it.

"… Fyodor, do you know what?" Your voice comes out weak and hoarse, you wonder how soon your throat will heal. You're thankful you can't feel it well, so there's no pain anymore.

"Mmmh?"

"I think I love you."

"Do you?" There is a change, minuscule, but a change.

You nod and look away from his face, you can't stand it, no. There has been a change, you don't know in what. There's been a change, a change! Is it good or bad? You want to think it's a nice thing.

"You're different."

"I am? In what way?"

"You're softer, something nice."

"You're drugged, you don't talk sense."

"But you're different! Seriously, you never take care of me."

Silence rules the room and it hurts. Why did you talk? What idiocy, it's your fault everything that happens now, all your fault.

"You cried with happiness when I helped you sit up." Your gaze returns to the other.

"I know, so what? You want me to cry again?" There are no bad intentions behind your comment, there really aren't. You feel your brain empty, and you can't quite interpret the situation, what is Fyodor trying to tell you? Is he angry? Is he going to punish you again? It's exhausting to use your brain in this state, so you just give up and go with the flow.

"No, I don't want that." The silence stretches a little longer and, for just a few seconds, Fyodor looks away. He looks away. "I just… I thought maybe you'd be happier if I treated you good."

"Ah…" He wanted you to be happy? Really?

"I know I hurt you, but you know I only do it when you deserve it, don't you?" You nod and the cuts on your back burn for a few seconds. "Good. I really want you to be happy, with me."

You feel like at any moment the old Fyodor will appear through the door and say something like it was all a test, and then punish you for failing it. It's a horrible feeling, but you come to believe that it will seriously pass.

"So… Are you still going to be soft?"

"Yes, only if you are obedient in return."

Yes, yes, yes. He's going to keep being gentle. For some reason your chest hurts, and you sob, Fyodor has a few drops of surprise in his expression. You hide from his gaze and just focus on the yes, it's like releasing a horrible burden out of your body. You weren't afraid he was lying, something told you he wasn't, his expression maybe, or his voice, or….

"Are you crying with happiness now too?"

"I like the soft Fyodor…"

"Mmmh, that's good, isn't it?" He pulls you a little closer to his face and leaves a soft kiss on your forehead. You'd like to kiss him in return, but you can't move. "I'll keep being soft then."

I swear all I could think about while writing this was to to send it all to hell and make these two fuck

maybe I will make a second part

[sotwk]

The Baker from Lórien (Haldir gen ficlet)

Summary: A visitor from Lórien brings some excitement to the kitchens of the Elvenking's palace.

Word count: 1.1k

Content: Pure fluffy randomness, mother-son relationship, toddler Legolas

Rating: General (no warnings apply)

To Read on AO3: Link

A/N: I wrote this ficlet purely on a whim; I had no plans or strategy for it going in. It could be nonsense, or I could be onto something. XD It's most likely going to stay a random SotWK AU one-shot, but who knows. I pretty much just wanted to finally write any story featuring Haldir, whom I love dearly and firmly believe was one of the most desired bachelors east of the Mountains. Special thanks to my friend @creativity-of-death who inspired the concept of a Baker Haldir long ago!

Headcanons about Haldir in the SotWK AU: Any questions you might have about the background history in this fic would be answered HERE.

The Baker from Lórien

Third Age 246 Spring

Bar Lasgalen, the Palace of the Elvenking

“Down and forward, turn, and fold over. Repeat. Remember to use the heel of your hand--this part, right here.”

The lump of dough felt pleasantly squishy in Legolas’s hands, and only with great self-restraint did the four-year-old elfling manage to resist playing with it like modeling clay, instead of following his instructor’s example. With eyes narrowed in determined concentration, he watched the steadily working hands of the elf across the table from him. After just a minute or so of observation, he began to mimic the brisk kneading motion.

“Yes, good! That is very good.” The visitor from Lórien seemed pleased, albeit surprised, by how quickly the child caught on.  

Legolas beamed at the ellon’s praise, and held the smooth ball of dough up high over his head in triumph. “Is it ready for the oven now?”

“Not quite.” The silver-haired ellon took the dough from Legolas and checked it with a few expert prods of his fingers. “It needs time to rest and rise. An hour at least, although up to three is much better, and then we can reshape it into loaves. Then it must rest again, before it can be baked.” 

“Three hours?!” Legolas exclaimed, already dismissive of whatever other steps came after. “Does bread really take that long to make every time?”

“The loaves should be fresh and hot out of the oven just in time for your Highness’s breakfast.” Legolas watched as his dough ball was placed into a large pan next to five others and covered with a dish cloth.  

“And a delicious breakfast is best preceded by a sound night’s sleep, is it not?” The voice that came from the kitchen doorway made Legolas scramble off his stool. He smiled sheepishly at his nursemaid, Ninniel, as she entered with a knowing smile and firm shake of her head for him.

The older ellon spoke up. “My apologies, Emmë. I should have realized the hour was too late.”

“It’s all right. It appears some valuable learning has been accomplished here, at least.” Ninniel took in the rather comical sight of her grown son towering next to her not-at-all-grown charge, both of them dusted in flour, and felt all her exasperation melt away. She dipped a tea towel into the washing basin and set to work wiping the sticky residue off Legolas’s fingers. 

“Will you come and get me when my loaf is finished baking, Halidr?”

“Well…” Haldir of Lórien glanced hesitantly at his mother. He was still unsure what to make of Thranduil’s sons, who all behaved without any regard or perhaps even awareness of their social rank. Legolas, in particular, had been unabashed in his fascination with Haldir ever since his arrival at Bar Lasgalen. Today was merely the first day of a month-long, overdue visit to his parents, and most of it had passed with the little prince turning up wherever Haldir happened to be, armed with a constant stream of questions. “It really is not my place to--”

“When your bread comes out of the oven, I will wake you to come and have it for  breakfast, with me and Haldir,” Ninniel interjected smoothly. “But the sooner you get to bed, the sooner you can rise refreshed for a new day, yes?”

“That sounds excellent!” Legolas threw his hands up, and wriggled his hips in a little sort of dance. “I shall be back in a few hours, Haldir! Please take care of my bread!” he called out to the bemused elf before bounding out the door. 

“Are you still finding everything all right, dearest?” Ninniel swept a light hand over her son’s broad back. In one touch she could tell Haldir was fairly relaxed, as she had hoped he would gradually become. Her eldest had always been the most serious of her children, and his nature only grew graver as the ages passed and the memories of hard years weighed on him. It had been far too long since his last visit to Eryn Galen, so rarely could he be persuaded to leave his post at the March, and Ninniel hoped the brief holiday away would be restful for his spirit. 

“Yes, everyone here at the palace has been… quite attentive.” Haldir smiled and planted a swift kiss over his mother’s hair. “The prince’s arrival sent them scurrying off, I fear, but I do not think he seemed to mind or notice.”

Ninniel shook her head. “The only thing they were running from was their own embarrassment,” she said. “I will let you return to your work, my love. Legolas and I will be back soon.”

And indeed, as soon as she exited the kitchen, she encountered the gaggle of young kitchen maids waiting in the hall, preparing to re-enter now that the royal Highness had left and gone to bed. 

“Lady Ninniel,” they curtsied to her, appearing only mildly abashed by her witness to their obvious intentions. But this was a small phenomenon Ninniel had grown accustomed to over the years, for it became clear early on that her handsome son elicited rather strong reactions from elleths, often without any encouragement. 

“My lady, if we may…” one of the girls blurted out. “We were wondering… that is, we wanted to make certain… do you know whether or not Lord Haldir…”

“He is not a lord, and he would not appreciate being addressed as one,” Ninniel corrected gently. “And as far as I know, he is not engaged, involved, or taken with anyone at present.” She gazed at the line of hopeful faces and pressed her lips to smother a chuckle. “Any of you are welcome to try and draw his interest, if that is your wish.”

But best of luck, indeed. Ninniel sighed as she departed, leaving the sounds of pitchy giggling behind her as the pack descended on her oblivious son. Whether there was any chance of a maiden in all of the Woodland Realm catching Haldir of Lórien’s eye, much less his elusive heart, she did not know. That hope had certainly not borne any fruit in over a thousand years of matchmaking attempts. But any diversion, any added source of joy outside of his work, his books, or his baking, could only be a good thing. 

Anything beyond that--dare say a betrothal, a marriage, or even a new precious grandchild--was something Ninniel was prepared to be completely surprised with. But a mother will always hope.

For more SotWK Fanfiction: Fanfiction Masterlist

Elves Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @conversacomsmaug @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @fizzyxcustard @glassgulls @heilith @heranintomyknife23times @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @lemonivall @quickslvxrr @scyllas-revenge @stormchaser819 @talkdifferently6 @tamryniel @tamurilofrivendell

Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

Headcanon Masterlist

Fanfiction Request Guidelines

[icey--stars]

Hey I saw in your bio that your requests are open? Pls ignore if they aren't 🙏🏼 but I had this idea for Azris, and as the queen of Azris angst, I knew I had to at least share it with you

So I've been watching the Shadowhunters show (idk if you've seen it) but basically there's this seen where Jace gets possessed by some spirit thing and starts attacking his best friend, Alec. And they have a whole fight scene and it ends with Jace stabbing Alec with an arrow. All the while the ghost thing is talking THROUGH Jace and saying stuff like "Your boy's in there, screaming, begging me not to do this." And Alec is all like "it's ok, it's not your fault.". (I would highly recommend searching that scene up, it's the best angst inspo and I'm horrible at explaining)

Anyways imagine that buttt...AZRIS!!! What if after they are officially mated and everything, running their court, a new threat emerges that basically possess Eris who then attacks Azriel, maybe he stabs him, maybe there's a bit of burning involved (pls I'm sorry I know it sounds fucked up, but I love a good angst)

And then when Eris gets rid of whatever is controlling, how would they heal from that, like move on and stuff cuz I can imagine Eris would be feeling hella guilty and Az would want to forgive him but still be shaken up himself too...

Anyways if you do decide to write you can change it up as you like, I know whatever you come up with will be AMAZINGGG

You Would Never Hurt Me

Azriel is at a weekly family dinner when suddenly his bond with Eris alerts him to danger. What will happen when he realizes his mate is being controlled by another? What lengths will he go to? - 5.3k words of emotional pain.

Author's Note: Queen of Azris Angst? we sure? y'know what... i'll take it XD. I took a few creative liberties, but actually not too many... but I hope you enjoy :D

ouch my soul hurts. genuinely hurt me to write this but it just hurt so good. Also, I did end up changing the part about Az hesitating to forgive him because he was shaken up purely because the situation was so much more angsty with Az desperately trying to convince Eris everything is okay.

TW: Depictions of violence, mentions of blood, SEVERE burns, Azriel’s canon backstory, mind control trope, descriptions of severe injuries

also this was not edited very much. apologies for any mistakes!

{ ao3 link }

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

The newest threat to Prythian had been biding their time for a while. Azriel wasn’t going to lie that he was nervous. He and his spies in both courts he had close connections to had been unable to find anything of use. The only thing that they seemed to know was that this enemy was intelligent and not without power. They didn’t even know if it was a fae from the continent, Prythian or even Hybern. All reports had come up useless in the grander scheme of things.

“Az, if you keep that frown on your face, it might just become permanent,” Cassian teased. He’d gone to the weekly dinner at Velaris this week. This time, without Eris. Normally he’d come along, but Eris had decided he wanted to finish up some of the paperwork and work on training one of the newest ghost hound yearlings some more commands.

Azriel couldn’t help but feel tense over the matter since he knew he’d seen more signs of the enemy closer to the Autumn Court than anywhere else. It had his metaphorical hackles standing on end almost constantly.

Cassian nudged his shoulder with his knuckles. “Come on, Az,” his brother urged. “Relax a moment. I know you’d rather Eris be here, but he’s going to be just fine. He’s a damn High Lord of fire. I think he can manage a night without your shadows surrounding him.”

Azriel sighed, nodding in agreement. “Sorry, Cass,” He mused. “Something just feels off tonight.”

“How so?” Rhys questioned from across the table, still facing Nyx as he tried to bargain with the child over eating his greens.

Azriel shrugged. “The shadows are jittery. The darkness doesn’t bring comfort. Something is just off,” he replied.

Rhys hummed in acknowledgement. Feyre replied, “Is it about that threat?” She asked carefully. The bags under her eyes were evidence that the little Heir to the Night Court was still having trouble sleeping since his visit to the Illyrian camps.

“I’m not entirely sure. But I’ve seen more signs of them near the Autumn Court than anywhere else,” he admitted. “I wish we knew what they were capable of at the very least.”

“Whatever it is, Az, I’m sure we can handle it,” Rhys said, looking up toward him. “We’ve handled far worse than one crazed individual. But if you’re nervous and you’re not even going to eat what’s on your plate until you get back to your mate, none of us will fault you for leaving.”

Nesta nodded from where she sat beside Cassian, but she was also just playing with her foot with her fork. “That, or you can kidnap him and force him to attend dinner and book club,” Nesta mused, smirking as she glanced over at him.

Azriel scoffed in amusement. “I’m not so sure he’d appreciate that, Nes.”

Nesta chuckled. “No, but it’d make your sorry ass stop brooding for five minutes.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, turning away. He put his fork down. They weren’t wrong to say he couldn’t stomach food with this… itch of some sort bugging the hell out of him.

Suddenly, the bond twitched inside of him. Not a good twitch either.

Azriel sat up straight immediately, putting a hand to his chest when more emotions began flowing through. Worry. Confusion. Fear.

Azriel stood up as quickly as he could, shadows flaring out.

“Azriel,” Rhys mused from the table. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s in danger,” Azriel breathed.

Rhys immediately stood up. “In danger? Eris? The Lord of Fire?”

“Don’t make jokes, Rhys,” he begged, breathing a bit heavier. “Don’t follow me yet. The wards will stop you. Just… keep a tab on my mind. I have a feeling what this is. And it’s not a nightmare.”

Then he winnowed, feeling Rhys gently prod into his mind to stay as a presence just on the outside of his mind so he’d know what’s happening too.

Azriel followed the bond, sprinting as fast as possible through the Forest House until-

Eris was in his office.

But then something stopped. The bond stopped. Empty.

Azriel burst in, panting terribly as he spotted Eris standing at his desk.

“Eris?” He questioned hesitantly.

Eris turned around, but his eyes were distant. Azriel’s heart dropped like a stone when he heard emotionless words come out of his mate’s mouth. “Eris is not here, Illyrian mongrel.”

Azriel squared his shoulders, pressing his already glowing siphon to form his armor over his body. He crouched down imperceptibly. “Eris, this is not a funny joke.”

That was just his denial talking though. Eris had never called him an Illyrian mongrel.

“Oh, he doesn’t?” The male asked hauntingly. “Are you so sure? I know you can’t be… being a bastard and all.”

Something slammed into his mental walls and Azriel stumbled back just as Rhys seemed to reel back in his mind.

Azriel gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes open as he stared into Eris’s eyes, waiting for the familiar clarity to come back.

“You’re pathetic,” Eris snarked. “One measly hit and it almost took you down? Weak.”

Rhys seemed to be doing something akin to building a second wall from within his mind, battling off something. Azriel couldn’t spare any mental energy to figure out what it was.

“Eris… you need to come back,” He said, but it really came out more like pleading.

Flames sparked on Eris’s palms and Azriel couldn’t help his flinch. Though his mate had been helping him overcome his fear as of late, something… something felt wrong about this.

“Eris,” he warned, eyes drawn down to the fire unconsciously. “What are you doing?”

“My name is not Eris,” he hissed, stalking closer. A dagger summoned to Eris’s palm, the flame lighting up the dagger’s edges as if it was some glowing blade. If he hadn’t been so shocked over the loss of his bond and the fear for his mate, he would’ve thought it almost looked cool. But right now? It was downright terrifying.

The male leapt at him and Azriel raised up his arms in defense, dodging to the side with only a few centimeters to spare. He didn’t want to hurt Eris. That was on the forefront of his mind.

But what was he supposed to do when Eris was trying to hurt him?

“Eris,” he pleaded. “Come back to me.”

Eris chuckled, one of the ones reserved for the lords in the council when they were pissing him off. “You know, your mate is putting up quite the fight in here. He’s been trained against people like me, but clearly not like you and your little friend protecting you.”

Azriel spared the moment of suspension to ask Rhys: What’s happening? Who?

Daemati, was Rhys’s only response and it was said as if through gritted teeth.

Shit. Eris was being controlled by a daemati. And though he had faith in Rhys, he knew that the male didn’t have much practice in fighting his own kind.

Azriel’s shadows rose like asps preparing to strike above his shoulders, as if sensing that this was not their beloved mate. No. This was an enemy this time. But he couldn’t hurt what was his.

“Let him go,” Azriel snarled.

Eris put a finger to his chin, tilting his head as if considering the prospect before scoffing. “No.” Then Eris leapt at him again. Azriel hadn’t been prepared this time- too much in shock to truly focus. His shadows reached out to cover his mate’s wrists in a desperate attempt to try and return him back, but it didn’t stop the dagger from lodging itself deep in his shoulder and twisting.

Azriel couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped him. He flared his wings and pushed forward quickly, grabbing Eris’s shoulders and pushing the male back. Though they were of equal strength, Azriel was stronger physically if they really tested themselves.

But the daemati had control over Eris’s magic at that moment and Azriel couldn’t help his yelp when the flames suddenly engulfed his hands. He wanted to scream and run, to get into the sky and never return-

He couldn’t though. This was his mate.

Azriel felt tears dripping out of his eyes as he pushed Eris back against a wall. “Come back to me,” he begged brokenly while staring into Eris’s beautiful fire-colored eyes.

“Please,” he continued.

Keep him held there, Rhys demanded in his mind. And release your shields.

Azriel really didn’t have the mental capacity to question Rhys at this moment, so he simply obeyed. The other daemati swept in, but Rhys met it head-on. Another presence joined the battlefield too- a softer type of darkness. Feyre.

A headache was beginning to bloom behind his temples at all the action occurring in his mind. More than anything though, his hands burned. The daemati was more distracted so the flames were certainly not as hot as they could be, but it still hurt.

Talk to him, Feyre ordered sternly. Bring your mate out of the fire.

Azriel let out a choked sob, his wings flaring behind him as he pressed toward Eris and rested his forehead against his mate’s. “Eris,” he begged. “I know this isn’t you. Come back to me. I know you wouldn’t-”

He cut off with a groan as the flames burned hotter. His flesh might be melting off to be honest. But he couldn’t let him go. Not now. Not ever. Azriel let another sob tear out of his throat as he pressed desperately into Eris.

“Come back to me,” he pleaded brokenly. “This isn’t you, Eris. You’re my mate. You’re mine. And you would never hurt me.”

Let go now, Feyre yelled over whatever clashing was occurring on the battleground between their minds.

“I can’t,” Azriel sobbed. He couldn’t let Eris go. Not like this. Not now. He needed his mate to know he was there and he would forgive him.

Az, let him go before your hands melt off, Rhys snarled harshly.

Azriel sobbed and stumbled backward. Eris remained standing against the wall as Azriel curled his hands toward his chest, shadows curling around them quickly, providing a soothing cold touch to them.

He kept his eyes open, watching Eris and watching his eyes. There was a flicker of fire there. Just a flicker.

“Eris,” he said again. The eyes went distant again and he snarled at the daemati, hoping the bastard could hear him over all the clashing. “Let him go. Let my mate go. Let Eris go, you-”

He couldn’t come up with an insult that could encompass all the hate he felt toward the being at this moment.

The bond flickered and Azriel clutched his chest. That put an idea in his head and he immediately brought all the love he felt for the male in front of him and shoved it down the bond as forcefully as he could. As well as some determination he hoped Eris would interpret as ‘You’re better than it. Fight back. You’re mine.’

Eris suddenly collapsed against the wall, body slumping into the floor. Azriel rushed forward before his head could slam into it as well. He cradled the male in his lap, tears still pouring down his cheeks. Everything was too much and not enough. He needed Eris, and that was about the only thing he could interpret.

“Eris, Eris, Eris,” he began repeating, pushing the hair out of his mate’s face desperately even as his shadows reported the door slamming open and Rhys with Cassian came running in.

They tried to grab his arms and drag him away but he fought harshly. “No! Don’t make me leave him,” he begged them. He needed to know his mate would be alright.

“We’ll get him too, Az,” Cassian said, pulling even more. “Rhys will get him. Come on, before your hands-”

Azriel held onto Eris even more, not wanting to leave his mate alone and afraid. Even if he was unconscious now, he would wake up and feel regret over something that wasn’t even in his control. He knew he would. But Azriel needed to be there so he could comfort him.

“Azriel,” Rhysand commanded sharply. “Let him go. Go to Madja.”

He wanted to disobey the command so badly, but his strength gave out and Cassian scooped him up onto his feet. Rhys picked Eris up into his arms and then they were winnowing straight into Madja’s clinic. Someone must’ve warned her because she already had a bucket of cold water that Cassian forced his hands into.

“Stay still,” Cassian ordered when he tried to twist and see where Rhys was taking his mate. “You’ve got to cool your hands down,” He told him. “Eris is just fine. He’s going to get checked out by Madja. You are going to get healed before your hands scar even worse with more permanent damage. Do you realize your skin is melting off?”

“But Eris-” Azriel tried to protest.

“Do not make me order you again, Az!” Rhys called from the other room. He saw Feyre winnow in as well, running toward where Rhys was. And Azriel was stuck here, useless, with his hands in a goddamn bucket. He couldn’t even feel the pain in the wake of knowing his mate was hurt.

He sobbed through his teeth. This was worse than his brothers burning his hands. This was so much worse than even the worst injuries he’s sustained in war or his line of work.

Feyre suddenly came up to him and her gentle presence ghosted along the edges of his mind before soothing something he didn’t even realize was tearing him apart from the inside it seemed like. The headache eased slightly.

“Is he okay?” He asked, looking up at Feyre. She had the most caring expression on her face and he wanted it gone.

“Rhys is with him right now,” Feyre told him. “Madja is there too, but you’re the main concern right now. He’s only going to have mental wounds. But Rhys can fix it, don’t worry,” she added on quickly when his face dropped.

“How?” He asked. “That kind of-”

“We caught it early and Rhys saw what was damaged in the fight. It’s okay, Azriel. He’s going to be okay. Now we need to make sure your hands are going to be okay, alright? Breathe and keep that even head I know you have. Eris is okay.”

Azriel sighed and slumped against whatever was nearby in relief. It ended up being Cassian. He trusted Feyre. Eris was going to be okay. And that was the only thing that mattered.

“Come on, Az,” Cassian urged, holding him up gently while still keeping his hands dunked in the water. “Your panicking will not help him if he wakes up.”

Azriel breathed and his shadows came up to whisper assurances that Eris was in the other room on a bed with Rhys and Madja. Cared for. He forced his body to come back from whatever super-adrenaline state it had gotten itself into.

“That’s it,” Cassian encouraged. “That’s good, Az. Do you feel any pain yet?”

At the mention, yes. His hands burned and not in any sort of good way. He didn’t dare look into the water. He probably couldn’t anyway since it was bloody. That probably wasn’t a good sign. The stabbing in his shoulder hurt, but it was duller than his hands at the moment.

“Yes,” he gritted out, huffing out some breath to suck more in anew as the pain now took over his being.

“I’ll get Madja,” Feyre said.

“No-” He said. “Leave her with Eris. I’m okay.”

“Eris is unconscious and Rhys is fully capable of caring for him. I’ll go over there too to help. But you need healing.”

Azriel sighed, knowing this wasn’t something Feyre would allow so he gave up on the argument early. “Okay,” he breathed. “Make sure he’s alright. Please.”

Feyre left and Madja was walking in quickly. “Get your shadows to cover your own eyes,” She ordered. The shadows, not completely under his will at the moment, took initiative and covered his eyes while she pulled his hands out of the cold water. They were numb in some places and burning in others.

Madja let out a harsh breath. “Do not lift that blindfold,” she told him and then the burning returned tenfold and he knew she was pushing healing magic into his hands. Cassian kept him restrained even as he tried to keep screams from bubbling out of his throat.

Alas, he could only stop them for so long and they soon spilled out. He lost any and all breath in his lungs all too quickly. Probably a good thing. Cassian kept him in a firm hold which grounded him somewhat but it hurt.

When he was finally given a reprieve, he was halfway towards passing out. When the pain mostly receded to a harsh ache, he finally drew in breath and slumped back against Cassian with his eyes closed.

“Come on, Az,” Cassian encouraged. “Let’s get you over to Eris, alright? Madja will wrap your hands there.”

Azriel could barely spare a hum of acknowledgement before he was being manhandled to his feet and forced to walk on shaky knees with droopy eyelids. His shadows had dropped back down to his hands, covering them from sight. Maybe that was a good thing, he decided. As soon as he saw Eris, he tried reaching out for his mate, but Cassian slapped his arm down.

“You are not using your hands, Az. Sit your ass down,” Cassian ordered. His brother helped him get out of his armor and leathers so he was just in his undershirt and pants.

He was forced to sit on the stool nearby, but was allowed to scoot it as close as possible to Eris to lean down over the bed and rest his forehead against Eris’s skin, breathing his mate’s scent in. It calmed his nerves just enough for him to finally take a deep breath.

Madja came in and forced him to hold himself up for a few more minutes while she wrapped his hands in white bandages as well as his shoulder. Then he was allowed to rest. Rhys pulled away from Eris eventually and he perked up, looking at his brother.

“He’ll be alright,” Rhys assured him. “At most, he won’t remember the fight, which I’d say is a mercy.”

Azriel sighed in relief and rested his head back down into Eris’s now cold palm since he couldn’t hold it properly. There, he fell asleep.

–––––

Azriel didn’t know how much time passed when he awoke. His hands ached like none other and if he had to be honest: everything hurt. Apparently, almost having your mate be gone to mind control by a daemati gave you some really bad tension to deal with. Specifically in his shoulders which were always the hardest to get at. Impossible now because of the thick bandages on his hands. The stab felt as if it’d already healed over. Perks of Illyrian healing, he supposed.

He lifted his head from wherever he was laying and squinted when he looked to his left and saw an empty bed.

“Eris?” He said aloud, sitting up and glancing around more. Someone must’ve moved him to the bed. But where was his mate? Azriel needed to be with him.

Suddenly, a burst of calm exploded from his chest and Azriel gasped for breath, not even realizing he’d been holding it. The bond. Thank the fucking Cauldron it was back. It meant that Eris was awake and okay enough to not be… well, dying.

Azriel groaned as he stood up, flexing his wings out behind him as he stared down at his hands. For Madja to have wrapped them so much he couldn’t even move his wrists… he must’ve gotten burned quite badly, he deduced. But, priority number one was finding Eris.

He tugged on the bond once, slowly wandering out toward where Madja usually sat in her clinic.

Eris was beside her.

Azriel breathed deeply at last, relief coursing through his veins at the sight of his mate being awake and even having a conversation with Madja over something relating to some sort of bright orange plant that looked like fire. He stumbled his way over there as quickly as he could, wrapping his arms around Eris and pressing his nose into the junction of his neck and shoulder to breathe in his scent.

Eris, however, had frozen. And that sent ice barreling through Azriel. What had happened?

“Hi Az,” Eris said hesitantly.

Azriel pulled away immediately, coming around to see Eris from the front to try and discern what the problem was.

For some reason, he had a guilty look on his face. Not a joking one- no, it was similar to the one he had when he figured out he’d accidentally forgotten something in court which led to the death of some farmers. A broken sort of regret.

“Eris, what’s wrong?” Azriel asked, brows furrowed in concern. “What happened? Did someone do something before I woke up? I’ll kill them for you with or without my hands,” he said, rage already pooling in his heart at the thought of someone making his mate feel this sort of guilt.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Eris waved him off, averting his gaze to the ground. “Nobody did anything besides that damned daemati.”

“I’m already killing him,” Azriel said to try and assure his mate. “I’m going to find him, tear his head from his shoulders and put it on a pike. Give the body to the scavengers and the head can be a personal trophy until it decays.”

A small chuckle came out of his mate’s chest and Azriel warmed up considerably, glad he could at least get that out of Eris. A chuckle was a start.

“Come on, Eris,” Azriel said, bringing his bandaged hands up to cup Eris’s cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not blind.”

Eris sighed and then gently grabbed Azriel’s forearms to hold his hands up. “This is what’s wrong,” he pointed out as if it was obvious.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. Then he realized. “Eris, these are not your fault. These are that bastard’s fault.”

“It was my fire that burned you, Az,” Eris argued, releasing his hands and standing up.

Madja stood as well. “I’ll let you two talk this out. Let me know if someone starts dying,” she says as she walks out.

Azriel looked at Eris, checking him from top down for any injuries or other apparent signs of his emotions. Both males had tells even if they were masters at hiding away.

“It was your fire controlled by that bastard,” Azriel argued, pressing forward. He paused when Eris backed up, even more concerned. It’d been centuries since Eris had backed away from his comfort. 

“Eris,” he spoke softly. “I would’ve held you back even if my wings were burned off my shoulders. It is not your fault. Take away that guilt from your mind right fucking now. I could’ve let go the instant the daemati lit the flames, but guess what? I didn’t, did I?”

Eris looked sheepishly now and Azriel opened up his arms.

“It’s okay, Eris. You would never hurt me. I know that. You should already know that,” Azriel insisted. “My hands will heal in time. There’s a reason Madja is so esteemed as a healer. And I’m pretty sure she even got to the burns faster than the guards did when I was 8. The only reason I can speak about that night and not fear the flames is because of you.”

Eris now had tears running down his face and Azriel dared a step forward.

Eris didn’t move, but he didn’t come closer either. “I’m sorry,” Eris whispered, closing his eyes.

“You would never hurt me,” Azriel repeated.

“Your hands-”

“I don’t give a fucking shit about my hands,” Azriel cut him off. “I’d rather my entire arm be torn off than be in a world where you’re controlled by a daemati. Don’t you realize that? I would do anything to protect you. My hands being burned is the least of my worries.”

“Az, I still burned you. In the worst of places,” Eris argued.

“You did not burn me,” Azriel insisted. “You would never hurt me. Trust yourself on that, huh? Trust me on it at the very least.”

Eris choked on a sob and Azriel opened up his arms again. Finally, finally, his mate went stumbling into his comfort.

“I should have fought harder against his control,” Eris said, voice broken and muffled against Azriel’s shoulder. “I could have. But it was just so hard. It felt like everything in my mind had gone under ice, yet I could feel the heat escaping me. Burning you. I tried so hard and it didn’t work-“

“Shh…” Azriel hushed, holding Eris as tight as he could. “You did the best you could, Eris. The fact you even still remember the experience is a miracle in itself. Daemati can be very damaging. Can scratch memories. Rhys was able to repair them but I was so worried about you. You have no clue.”

Eris sobbed wetly into his shoulder and Azriel felt tears slipping down his own cheeks as well. He let his emotions flow freely over the bond. Eris’s were still a mix of guilt, but now it was more of a lost hopelessness than true guilt. More of a “I don’t know how to fix this” kind of look.

“There is nothing that you did wrong,” Azriel whispered. Eris hugged him tighter and he smiled, squeezing him back as well. His shadows were helping him give more force behind it since he was unable to use his hands and the damn plush of the bandages did not help.

“I don’t know what happened beyond the fact I burned you,” Eris admitted. “I was caught off guard since I was tired and waiting for you to come home. He just… snuck between my mental walls and latched on like a damn leech.”

“You need to rest more. Now that we know we’re dealing with a daemati, we need to keep mental shields sharp. But luckily we have some of the most powerful daemati on our side. It’s already two against one,” Azriel joked.

Eris chuckled and finally pulled away to meet Azriel’s eyes. “I’m going to help you heal your hands,” he declared. “I’ll help you with everything. Anything. Writing? Done. Massage or oil? Done.”

“If this is you trying to make up for a fake mistake, don’t,” Azriel said seriously.

“This is me helping my mate through an injury,” Eris replied, giving a small reassuring smile despite the obvious signs he’d been crying not even a few seconds ago.

“Good,” Azriel told him. “I’ll definitely take you up on the writing part. I’ve got to write down things about what happened. See if we can piece together clues. And maybe it’ll help you piece together your memory,” he added.

Eris nodded. “Anything,” he repeated.

“But first,” Azriel said, putting one bandaged hand up, “We’re going to bathe because we both stink.”

Eris couldn’t help the laugh that exploded from his chest and it made Azriel all the merrier. He loved making him laugh like this.

“Agreed,” his mate replied. “Maybe we should talk to Madja about the wrapping of your hands first?”

Azriel nodded in agreement. “Then a warm bath,” he added. “I may take you up on the massage you mentioned,” he joked. “My shoulders ache.”

“You were sleeping on a goddamn stool when I woke up,” Eris said, scoffing in amusement. “Of course your back is hurting, bat. You should have laid in the bed not even two feet away.”

“I needed to be close to you,” Azriel admitted. “I thought I wouldn’t sleep like the dead and be awake with you but…”

Eris chuckled. “You always sleep like the dead when your face is buried in my scent. Honestly, you shouldn’t have expected any differently.”

Azriel rolled his eyes. But the little banter also assured him that Eris was truly okay. At least for now, those thoughts of guilt had been warred against and lost.

Cassian came jogging in loudly suddenly and he sighed in relief when he spotted them. “Thank the fucking Cauldron you are both awake,” he panted. “Az? How are your hands?”

“Hurt, but they’re fine,” Azriel dismissed. “How bad were they?”

“You do not want to know,” Cassian replied.

“I would,” Eris spoke up. “After all, who knows how to heal burns better than the Fire Lord who deals them out?” He said. But luckily, his tone was lighthearted. No guilt to be seen. If there was, Azriel would’ve slapped the back of his head to reprimand those feelings.

Cassian hesitated, but then sighed. “Skin was practically melted off. Some parts were down to the bone. Bloody as hell,” he briefly described.

Azriel sucked in a breath, gazing down at his own hands. How had he not felt that? Apparently, his concern over Eris had been that powerful. Eris also seemed frozen in shock.

Cassian shrugged. “They looked better after Madja used all her healing magic on them. I think the only thing she was concerned about was the potential damage to your sense of touch, Az. Like, light touches.”

Azriel hummed in response. “It certainly wouldn’t be any different than the aftermath of my old injury,” he admitted. “Just takes a few years for it to return to normal.”

Cassian hummed. “Well, anyway, I was just coming here to check up on you,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

“We’re fine,” Azriel assured his brother. After a moment of hesitation, he sighed and said, “Thank you, Cass. You kept a level head.”

Cassian scoffed. “Someone had to. You should’ve seen Rhys. He was practically catatonic with the mental battle. I’m surprised his or your head didn’t burst. Or Eris’s for that matter.”

Eris chuckled softly at that, but didn’t say anything. Azriel glanced at him before stretching his arms out best he could without the use of his hands. “Anyway, we’re off to get clean,” he declared.

“Tell Rhys the Autumn Court isn’t getting one of my brothers as ruler just yet,” Eris joked.

Cassian chuckled and nodded. “Don’t die,” he replied with a snicker before walking back where he came from. Wing beats told them that he’d actually left.

Madja was walking back in too. “While I’d rather keep your hands wrapped, Azriel, I do agree that you two need to bathe,” she explained. “I’ll unwrap them, but they’re going back on immediately after.”

The shadows floated towards her, some settling on the bandages of his hands as if in question to continue the order she gave them last time.

“I believe it will be alright if he sees his hands now, my friends,” Madja told them with a sweet smile. “Let’s get them unwrapped now.”

Barely fifteen minutes later, Azriel and Eris were sitting together in the bathtub, mostly just relaxing. Azriel pulled his hands up out of the lukewarm water (more strict instructions from Madja) to examine them. His old scars… were almost gone. As if burned or melted away. Instead, deep indents remained. His hands felt as if they had lost weight and he couldn’t move his fingers yet, but Madja had told him the muscles still needed time to realize they weren’t melted anymore.

Regardless, it looked odd. The skin was pulled tight. But something felt off about them.

Eris put a hand on his wrists to put his hands back in the water and draw his attention. “It’ll just take time,” Eris assured him.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of burns this bad,” Azriel admitted.

“I have,” Eris said. “Normally it took a few years, but they did eventually heal if they survived the initial burning.”

Azriel hummed. “Guess you’ll be doing the paperwork for a while,” he joked.

Eris scoffed, smiling. “Indeed I will,” he agreed.

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

A/N: hope you enjoyed (and cried at least once because I SOBBED while writing this)

Tagged in all ACOTAR Stories: @bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @skyesayshi, @lilah-asteria,

Tagged in all Azriel Stories: @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468,

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

04/17/24 Daily OFMD Recap

== Nathan Foad ==

More pictures of Nathan in Love's Labours Lost!

== Kay Buchanan ==

Our friendly neighborhood OFMD Master Leather Worker has more pictures for us! This time, maybe Black Pete's bag? Anyone know off hand?

SRC: Kay Buchanan's IG

== Taika ==

So these pictures are adorable, but be warned of a potential jump scare if you watch the rest of the video-- thank you @ofmd-ann for the awesome stills, I did NOT want to put the full video on here xD See her post here.

(via Ritas tiktok)

== Lesley Fucking Jones ==

== Vico Ortiz ==

Sneaky shot of Vico from behind <3 Img Src: @enbybruje's IG

== Dominic Burgess ==

Technically this would be Cats & Crew but I'll allow it because Dominic is such a friggn adorable cat dad and he deserves so much love for that.

Src: Dominic's Twitter

== Watch Parties ==

= Flight of the Conchords =

Bit of an adjustment at least on the RhysDarbyFaction discord server for FotC watch party, we'll be watching 3 episodes a piece Thursday and Friday so as not to run into the next week. Continues tomorrow with episodes 5, 6, 7, of season 2 at 4pm PT / 7 pm ET / 11pm BST

#FlagOfTheConchords

#OurFlagMeansDeath

= Palm Royal Season 1 =

A new watch party hosted by @lcwebsxoxo on twitter is up and running! Thursday Episodes 3 and 4 will be playing at 1 pm PT / 4 pm ET / 9 pm BST

#PalmRoyale

#OurFlagMeansDeath

#SaveOFMD

== Fan Spotlight ==

= Cast Cards =

Tonight's cast card features the other fisherman (Pedro Lope) that Stede robbed on his first "raid". We're gonna have a whole set of cards soon I can feel it @melvisik, thank you for these!

= TealOranges & Garlic Soup Week 2024!! =

Prompts are up for this years TealOranges & Garlic Soup Prompt Week! The week will run June 23-29, 2024 with themes and prompts for each day! This prompt week celebrates all things Jim/Oluwande and Archie/Jim/Oluwande/Zheng!

Plain Text for Prompts

Additional Information & FAQ

This Years AO3

== Love Notes ==

Hey there lovelies-- I've had 3 hrs sleep today so the words on the screen are starting to run together. I'm still getting love notes from yesterdays request, and thank you so much, I promise i'm catching up to the messages, you all are the best crew someone could ask for. Thank you for spreading some joy in this crazy ass world.

Tonight I would like to send a reminder that we have not lost OFMD, as so many of said, we still have 2 wonderful seasons, and those boyfriends are currently boinking their way into oblivion in their inn, making their poor customers insane. But beyond that... had a discussion today with multiple dear friends / crewmates that made me feel a lot better about the whole thing too. I know it's months in the gravy basket now, but this is not the end for OFMD. Chaos Dad told us it was over, but in all honesty it still doesn't feel over. WBD is driving itself into the ground, Dad's been off at the WBD lot, it feels like things are moving in a better direction again. It may not be today, or tomorrow, or even the next few months, or a year or so, but I think we still have a chance to see the ending of our story.

And we've all said it before, but it bears repeating, even if it never happens, we get to make it happen. Stede and Ed live on in all our crazy ranges of work out there, that so many of you have been just CRANKING out lately, I've been astonished at how much new work I've seen from folks in the the fandom I know, and new folks I haven't met! It's so inspiring to see OFMD affect people so much that they felt they could put little pieces of themselves out into the world through art of all mediums.

I hope I'm making sense at this point.. if not, sorry about that! But know-- there's always hope. There's always S1 and S2, and the infinite universes we get to dream up from those two.

Rest Well lovelies. Img Src: @Chucklesandbleu on IG

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Tonight's theme - Bowties!

Gifs Courtesy of @fandomsmeantheworldtome and @sam-reid!

[pixelatedraindrops]

Hello everyone!! Today I grow a year older :3 (and I hate it lmao) FEEL FREE TO REPLY BIRTHDAY WISHES IF YOU WANT :3

So, over the time I've come back here, I've become pretty confident and proud of my once hidden passion about sick characters, sickfics and sick comfort/whump... 🌡️

And you all have been so supportive and sweet despite my weirdness so I thank you for that. You helped me feel more confident in my otherwise weird fixation <3 So, for my birthday I thought I'd try and make up a little drawing challenge for anyone who wants to give it a try... There are soo many talented artists on this site (and in this fandom)

So... It's your turn to target your faves now. You will see how fun it is and hopefully understand why I love doing it so much. 😈🌡️

(plus it's my birthday and I require some sustenance LMAO JKJK)

But yeah anyone can join in. This is just for fun though! You don't have to if you don't want to! I think its okay to ask for some food on my birthday though...right?? X'D So if you wanna do sth for my birthday...then... 👉👈 💦

CHALLENGE BELOW~

DRAW YOUR FAVE ON A SICK DAY CHALLENGE🌡️😷🥵🤧

~~~~

(Mmmmkay, I am lying to myself when I say this isn't mostly aimed at the RainCode community... X'D Can't help myself. But anyone can join regardless of the fandom!!)

So here's the challenge and the rules!! (featuring my two main lil targets ofc :3)

Regardless of who it is, put your fave through some sickness hell >:3c I'd love to see it! Make em' as miserable as you want!

destroy them 😈 jkjk XD

If you're in the RainCode community you can target anyone, but as you know, my main targets are Yuma and Makoto. If they're also your faves and who you decide to use, that will make me extra happy!

Some tips for anyone new to drawing a sick day scenario art. A few things that make it look convincing are the following:

Pajamas or Loungewear

Messy Bed Hair

Fever flushed face w sweat or at least a red nose

Tired Eye bags

Shivery body

Ice Pack or a Compress on the head

Thermometer sticking from their mouth

LOTS OF BLANKETS

Tissues or medicine surrounding them

Tea or Soup (or both)

Those are just to name some from the top of my head. If you'd like some pointers on how to make a character look ill, check out my Fever Coloring Guide. This is for digital artists but traditional artists can try it too!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

The scene can be anything you want to, it can be fluffy and wholesome (with a caretaker) it can be angsty, or it can be silly. Its all up to you! Do it for the sake of fluff! Caretaking scenes are the best for any kind of relationship >w<

Either way, have fun with it!! I look forward to see what people make if they decide to give it a try! It doesn't even have to be a full on picture! Doodles and sketches are fine too! Just show me something >w<

(feel free to tag me and say happy b-day and mention my challenge, I am proud to be known for this and would love for many to participate :3) I wanna see you take a go at it :3 Show me your style! :D

~

~~~

(wow look at me misspelling the word writing on text when I did it fine with my own hands lol)

Now, I know not everyone can draw...

Well never fear! I accept writing as well! ✍️✍️✍️

(hi vivia lol sorry for giving you a cold, at least you have an excuse to read and do nothing now haha x3)

Sickfics are one of the biggest things I live for! Any little drabbles or full fics with more than one chapter are welcome! Again target who you want any fandom you want, but I'll def be super happy if you make a RainCode fic. And even happier if you target my faves as well, but again, anything will do! Just make a cute story about your fave being miserable and being tended to! Trust me, it's super fun!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

Feel free to post your writing here and tag me or mention my AO3!

If you need a start to your fic, look on my blog for illness prompts! Maybe it can help give you a good start or give some inspiration! (thats why I share 'em :3)

I look forward to anything you try to write!

~

That's about all!! I hope you decide to participate! ✨

Good luck, have fun, and godspeed you future whumpers! 😈

(nah jk XD)

AGAIN THIS IS FOR FUN! NO PRRSSURE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO!

[safarigirlsp]

Happy Fuckin’ Birthday

Happy Fuckin' Birthday

Flip Zimmerman x Lawyer Reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Angst, maybe? Comedy. Abuse of process. Hazing Flip for his birthday, as one should. Birthday pranks. Bitchy Reader. If you want a sweet, submissive, shy reader, my fics are never for you xD

AO3 Link

A little birthday celebration for Scorpio season! I had this written timely on November 19, but just forgot to post it. Whoops!

Turning forty wasn’t something Flip Zimmerman was overly excited about. It had nothing to do with the usual dramatics and neuroses that plagued most people. He didn’t have any deep regrets in life; he hadn’t taken any stupid turns or failed to seize any major opportunities; he didn’t have a ‘one that got away’ – the things in life that can add up to a mid-life crisis or make a man dread the passage of years. He had the woman he wanted, the job he wanted, and for the most part, the life he wanted. Flip didn’t give a damn about the number of candles on his cake. What annoyed the hell out of him was the production everyone else in his life had to make over it. That might rank as one of his bigger regrets in life, telling people close to him when his damn birthday was. His birthday would be a perfectly fine day, if no one else knew about it.

To Flip, his birthday was just another day on the calendar. But could everyone else in his life ever treat it that simply? Fuck no.

Flip never took the day off for his birthday. He immediately lost respect for any man who did that. Women got a pass with such frivolous and indulgent things, but men had no business pampering themselves like candy asses. This year was poised to be a little extra good for Flip since his birthday fell over a weekend. He could guiltlessly spend it exactly how he wanted, which was also how he’d spend every other day of his life if he was free from all financial, vocational, and social obligations. Flip wanted to spend his birthday weekend hidden away in his cabin, sleeping, eating, and fucking just as much as he wanted, and not doing a damned thing else or talking to a damned person other than his girl.

So far, Flip’s birthday weekend had been precisely what he wanted. Starting Friday night, he had gotten his birthday wish in quantities sufficient to appease all his ravenous hungers. Saturday had been the same, and it had been glorious. He had put on a damn fine show for his girl, if he did say so himself. He figured it was the best way to demonstrate he was a vigorous man in his prime, not a doddering old bastard. Flip had allowed his lady to finagle him into sharing a steaming hot bath with her after dinner to break up the pattern. He didn’t want to admit how good it felt on his aching muscles. Even though it was only due to all the extra use over the past two days, or rather, due to the gross lack of use during the other days of the year, Flip knew his sore muscles would be used against him on his fortieth birthday. All the running and weightlifting in the world wasn’t really the same as the workout a man gets from a marathon between the sheets. He knew he was in for a generous ration of shit for his birthday, not least of all from his girl. He’d wonder what was wrong if she wasn’t giving him hell. Still, it was best not to load the guns for her.

Flip defined ‘sleeping in’ differently than most. He had been conditioned by his days in the military to be up before sunrise and ready to meet every battle with the dawn. He felt extremely lazy and indulgent when he let the sunrise wake him as it first peaked over the mountains and into his bedroom window. This attitude was in stark contrast to his wife, who considered mornings in general to be a vile institution and often bitched about how morning people were given entirely too much power in society.

Dawn on Flip’s birthday was one of those crystalline winter mornings where the light was tinted a soft pink-blue-white and frost coated everything in sight like icing on a diamante cake. It had snowed several inches during the night and outside the window, the mountains were gleaming spires, the ground was covered with fresh powder, and the pines wore a layer of snow like fancy ladies swaddled in white mink. Snowy mornings like this were Flip’s favorite kind of morning, when everything was still pristine and sparkling with promise. Before any bullshit settled in.

Groaning contentedly, Flip stretched as the sunlight danced across his face. He was still a little sore in all the places he wanted to be, and he was rock hard and ready for a proper good morning.

So far, forty felt great.

Half asleep, he turned and nuzzled his nose into the soft warm body lying curled next to him. A soft, warm, furry body. Grumbling and pulling his face away, Flip opened his bleary eyes and glared through his disheveled hair at the fat, black cat he had inherited when he had begun living with his girl. Some men have worse step kids to deal with, he reasoned now as the adorable black asshole looked back at him through slitted green eyes, as if she was just as entitled to sleep in his bed as he was. Narrowing his own eyes back at the cat, he asked her, “Where’s your mom at?”

His question was answered by the clanging of a pot on the stove downstairs and a couple choice curses in a familiar feminine voice. Now fully awake, Flip became aware of the scent of bacon, eggs, and pancakes – his favorites – and strong black coffee just how he liked it. This was a rare treat. Flip usually assumed the duty of cooking breakfast on the days they could enjoy it together. Hearing his girl down in the kitchen, slaving away over the stove at such an unconscionable hour, as she deemed it, made him grin at the effort she put in for him.

“Your mom’s a keeper,” he confided to the cat and patted her round belly. “But you’re a sorry little porker.”

Flip stretched again and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He thought he should brush it before going downstairs, but he knew how she liked it when he looked a little wilder than usual. She liked him best when he smelled fresh from a shower but looked unbrushed, unshaven, and what he thought was mildly unkempt. Women are nonsensical creatures, he had realized early in his dating career. He damn sure needed to brush his teeth and wash his face though. He pulled on the pair of jeans he wore the day before and the flannel shirt he had thrown across the room the night before, only bothering to button two of the center buttons. The phone he’d left in his jeans pocket buzzed insistently against his ass.

Should have turned the fuckin’ thing off, he lamented as he retrieved it and saw the tirade of missed calls. He knew what all those calls meant. But as long as he ignored them, he had plausible deniability, as the bloodsucking lawyers say. As his girl would say. He lost his phone; his battery died; service is bad out at his place; his wife threw it at his head and it broke against the wall.

Against his better judgment, and because it was Stallworth calling and Flip didn’t feel right about ignoring his best friend, he answered.

“What,” Flip grunted, leaving no doubt as to his feelings over this intrusion. He thought to himself, This is the beginning of a bad fuckin’ day.

“Good morning to you too,” Ron said in his easy, affable tone. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it?”

“I have a feelin’ I’m not gonna think so after you tell me why in the hell you’re calling.” Flip walked sullenly to the bathroom while Stallworth ran through some pleasantries. Thankfully, he didn’t lead with Happy Birthday. Flip would have hung up on him. Flip lifted the toilet seat and unzipped his jeans.

“We just got a big break in that jewel heist case. Actually, I did. On a stakeout last night,” Ron said proudly, then paused. “Are you taking a piss while I’m talking to you?”

“We’d both be happier if you weren’t talkin’ to me, but you called,” Flip muttered and flushed the toilet. He held the phone toward the bowl so Stallworth could hear the rush of water, mimicking Flip’s interest in the matter.

“You’re a barbarian, you know that?” Stallworth laughed despite himself.

“Flattery don’t do it for me,” Flip said as he ran the sink, letting the water warm. He noticed four angry red scratches on the side of his neck from his girl’s fingernails and felt a rush of pride. “Go out and catch your jewel thief and take all the glory. Girls love that shit.” He splashed his face with hot water and lathered it with his soapy hands. “I’ll read all about your heroics in the paper.”

“It’s not that simple,” Ron said regretfully. “We need you on this one. You know I wouldn’t be calling if we didn’t.”

“I’m off. It’s a Sunday. And it’s,” he just stopped himself from saying my fuckin’ birthday. “Too fuckin’ early.”

“You think I like being the guy who has to roust the bear out of his cave?” Ron tried to joke to his entirely unreceptive audience. “We need you. Get dressed and get your ass out here.”

“God damnit.” Flip hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be a great day, he thought. Aloud, he grumbled to his reflection in the mirror, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, you old bastard.”

*******************************************************************************************

A scalding droplet of bacon grease jumped from the sizzling cast iron pan to land on your exposed thigh, making you cuss under your breath as you quickly wiped it away. You were always extra prickly in the morning. Flip deserves a nice birthday breakfast, you reminded yourself and inhaled deeply, deep enough to force a good mood down your throat along with the chilly morning air. Also in honor of his birthday, you opted for a casually sexy look as opposed to something more comfortable like pajama pants and a tank. You wore only one of his favorite shirts, worn until it was soft as velvet, and slippers. Early on you had realized he liked that look on you and something about seeing you in his clothes appealed to his innate possessiveness.

It was chilly inside the cabin, save for the heat from the stove. On cold winter mornings like this the little cabin furnace had to work overtime just to keep the pipes from freezing. To really get the temperature up in the cabin, a fire needed to be lit in the living room fireplace, but you were not that ambitious before sunrise and would leave it to Flip.

As you thought of him, you heard the wooden stairs creak and knew he was descending them. His footfalls were always light, he moved agility for such a large man. You pretended not to hear him and moved to the side of the stove, leaning forward in a provocative invitation under the guise of fiddling with the coffee maker. Predictably, Flip took the bait and wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his chest against your back and molding his body against yours. But his arms enfolded you chastely around your waist and his hands didn’t roam higher or lower to seek out their favorite places.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you purred, rubbing your ass back against him. You felt he was wearing jeans and turned inside his arms to face him. He was fully dressed, right down to his boots. “You’re violating your own self-imposed dress code, or rather lack thereof, for this weekend.”

“I have good news for you, sugar,” Flip told you with a grin and kissed you deeply. “You get to sleep in today after all.”

“You mean after we succumb to a food and orgasm coma in a couple hours?” You grinned back. “I’d call that a nap, but suit yourself.”

“I got a call,” Flip started.

“We agreed no phones this weekend!” you cut across him, instantly bristling. “That was your rule. I have a big trial Monday and I’ve been ignoring my phone for a day and a half already. You better be joking.”

“You of all people know rules are made to be broken,” Flip tried again, still maintaining his grin that now looked moronic to you.

“I’m sore everywhere from you wanting to act like a horny teenager all day yesterday.” You raised a dangerous eyebrow. “I got up when it was still dark to freeze in your kitchen and get burned by grease to cook for you on your birthday, and you’re taking calls?” Your voice had dropped an octave and sounded deceptively calm. Flip knew these were very bad signs.

“I didn’t even take my phone out of my pocket yesterday. Ron caught me off guard this mornin,’” Flip used a reasoning tone, like he would when talking to a jumper. It didn’t help your darkening mood. “But listen, there’s been a big break in that jewel heist Ron and I’ve been workin.’ He got a tip, a hot tip, on where we can catch the bastard. But it’s tonight.”

“And Ron needs you to hold his hand for this escapade?” you asked testily.

“Well, he’s still a little green on things like this.” Flip rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the floor. He always did that when he was in trouble, like a grounded boy trying to look contrite. “I can eat breakfast real quick with you before I go.”

“Real quick?” you laughed sarcastically. “Just what every girl wants to hear?”

“How about I eat somethin’ else before I head out.” He winked at you, trying his best to lighten your mood.

“Yes, I’ve always loved the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am approach.” You glared at him. “How long will you be gone?”

“Well, I have to go in now to go over everything and get briefed before I go out to nab the bastard.” Knowing he was digging his hole deeper, he muttered the next confession. “And it’s at some fancy party down at the Broadmoor tonight. They figure I’d be better to walk in there and get the job done. That reminds me, I’ll need you to pick out a nice suit for me.”

“Let me make sure I understand you correctly.” You stepped away from him, beyond arm’s reach. “You’re leaving me alone today – on your day off, on a weekend, on your birthday – to go out to a swanky party at the Broadmoor while I wait here until you decide to show up again?” You raised your eyebrows. “And then, let me guess – when you get home, late, I’m sure, you want me to feed you dinner and fuck you all night again. Or will you have eaten dinner at your soiree?”

“Sugar, you know I can’t control the timing of these things,” Flip said regretfully. “Breakfast looks great. You look delicious. I don’t want to leave, you know that.” He shook his head and asked exasperatedly, “What do you want me to do?”

“It’s your birthday.” You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes. “So, it’s your choice.”

Flip had been in enough life and death situations to know he was approaching one now. But he didn’t have much choice. “I have to go in. But I’ll be as quick as I can and I’ll see you tonight. I’ll make it up to you tonight, sugar.”

“This is such bullshit, Flip.” You were fully angry now. Flip knew he was going to be in trouble for a while. “I blew off my responsibilities to let you fuck me as much as you wanted this weekend, and what do I get? You blowing me off to run out and try to catch some petty thief? What happens if you don’t catch this guy today? You have no personal consequences. If I screw up at my job, I lose business and lose actual income, and still, I’ve been blowing off my duties for you this weekend. But you have to strut out to make an arrest now, just so you can dick wave.”

“C’mon, darlin,’” Flip pleaded, holding his arms out, as if you’d run into them. “It’s not like that.”

“No, it’s exactly like that.” You shook your head and shoved past him toward the stairs. “If you’re going to work today, so am I. I have a hearing to prep for, and at least I can bill three-fifty an hour. I’ll be late too.” You paused at the bottom of the stairs to twist the knife a little more. “Since you let these criminals interfere in our lives, maybe I’ll take your thief’s case pro bono after you arrest him and get him off in court instead of getting you off in bed.”

“Calm the fuck down!” Flip lost his temper and instantly regretted it. He calmed his own voice and added, “It’s not that big of a deal. Quit pullin’ your lawyer shit on me.”

“Are you having a senior moment? You must be getting old, after all,” you snapped and stormed up the stairs. “Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll celebrate your birthday next year.”

“You don’t think you’re overreacting just a little?” Flip asked foolishly.

“Not just yet, I’m not.” Halfway up the staircase you turned, pulled off a slipper, and threw it across the room at him. Flip ducked just in time to avoid a perfectly aimed headshot.

“You missed!” Flip bellowed triumphantly then added a cocky laugh.

You didn’t miss your second shot. You whipped your other slipper with more sting, sending it flying right into his chest with a satisfying whap. Then you turned on your heel and trotted up the stairs.

“Love you, sugar!” Flip shouted sarcastically after you. His face was hot and the thick vein in his neck pulsed angrily.

“Happy fucking birthday!” You slammed the bedroom door.

*******************************************************************************************

The drive into the station seemed longer than usual, possibly because Flip spent the better part of it grinding his teeth and strangling the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. He was not at all amused when Stallworth met him at the station door holding a cane.

“Take it easy, old guy,” Stallworth said, offering him the cane. “Need a hand getting to your desk?”

“You’ll need a hand pullin’ that cane out of your ass if you don’t get it out of my face.” Flip shoved past his friend and made his way to his desk, waving off several other old jokes and happy birthdays. His menacing glare would be enough to make strangers piss their pants. Sadly, his co-workers at the station knew this was mostly posturing and it did little to deter them.

Chief Bridges was waiting for Flip at his desk, leaning against it intrusively. He wore a shit-eating grin and said with every indicia of seriousness, “Forty, huh? You know what that means, Zimmerman. It’s time to re-take your firearms training. Maybe driving too. Make sure you’re not slipping as an old man. A man’s aim is the first thing to go.”

“Fuck you,” Flip growled irritably. “I’m in better shape now than I was in my twenties.”

“It’s worse than I feared.” Bridges grinned. “Sometimes, the mind goes first.”

“Forty’s not all that old,” Stallworth came to Flip’s defense. “For a tree or a tortoise.”

“Don’t let me catch you trying to get little blue pills off any trafficking suspects.” Bridges waved a finger at Flip. “I’ve had to write up more old farts for that in this department than you want to know.”

“Not one of my complaints.” Flip smirked. “You sound like you have some personal experience in that department, Chief.”

“I’m glad you’re a cocky sonofabitch, Zimmerman. And a ladies man. It makes this part of the job a helluva lot more fun for me,” Bridges said and Flip’s smirk melted away. “A ladies man is just what the doctor ordered for this sting. Turns out our jewel thief is a broad! Can you believe it? Word says she’s going to the event at the Broadmoor tonight and she’ll be wearing a black dress. All you have to do is sidle up to her, blow whatever smoke up her ass you need to, and get her to waltz right out of the party with you and up to the room we have setup. Stallworth will be there to help make the arrest in case you need backup. You think you’ll need a hand putting handcuffs on a woman once you get her into your bedroom?”

“I can’t fuckin’ do that and you know it!” Flip exclaimed angrily, on the verge of shouting. “I’m already in deep shit with the little woman over comin’ in at all today, and you think I’m gonna go out to a party and then bring some floozy back to a hotel room? I’ll do stupid things in the line of duty, but that’s a death sentence. No fuckin’ way.”

“Scared of a dame, are you, Zimmerman?” Bridges poked.

“I’m scared of the one I have at home,” Flip huffed indignantly. “I’d be a fool not to be. She’d string you up right alongside me, Chief. Find someone else. Ron’s single.”

“Our thief’s a tall gal. A woman won’t be interested in a man who’s shorter than she is, now will she? You’re the only man in the department who’ll be taller than her in heels.” Bridges looked at Stallworth and shrugged. “There’s a height requirement on this ride, and Ron’s several inches too short.”

“Just put a tail on her and grab her when she goes to the ladies room,” Flip suggested. “Easy.”

“If you haven’t noticed, the CSPD has been written up in the paper about once a month this whole year. All you overeager assholes making scenes and causing property damage during arrests,” Bridges chided both men, who had each been featured prominently in various articles. “The last thing I need is some big public scene at the Broadmoor to kick off the holiday season. Do you think this is a fucking negotiation, Zimmerman?”

“There wouldn’t be any negotiation if I told you to shove it up your ass along with my badge and gun,” Flip grunted, thinking that his job was interfering too much in his enjoyment of life.

“What else are you qualified to do? Public relations? Customer service?” Bridges laughed. “Being shacked up with a high-power lawyer the way you are, you should thank me every day for this job. You think a dame like that is gonna want some unemployed grumpy sonofabitch keeping her couch from running away. I got news for you, Zimmerman, cabana boys are about fifteen or twenty years younger than you.”

“Nope, I’ll go over to the dark side.” Flip smirked again. “The Feds have been houndin’ me pretty hard lately.”

“You’re getting to be a crotchety bastard in your old age,” Bridges said dismissively. He patted Flip on the back as he started toward his office. “Quit your bitching moaning and go get the job done. The faster you get it done, the faster you can be back home with your wife.”

“Sometimes I envy those whiny bastards who call in for their birthdays,” Flip groaned to Stallworth when they were alone.

“Too late for that now,” Stallworth said brightly. “Man up.”

“Manning up has never been a problem for me.” Flip glared at him and sat down heavily in his chair.

“What happened there?” Stallworth eyed the scratches you had left on Flip’s neck, pulling his shirt collar back to get a better look. “Are you being abused? Do you need a safe house interview? Was there some animal control problem with a bobcat I missed over the weekend?”

“I guess I’ve still got it,” Flip said proudly.

“Wow, and you left her on your birthday to come down here for me?” Stallworth batted his eyes and teased, “I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I feel like that’s a big step in our relationship.”

“She already calls you my work wife.” Flip shook his head. “Watch your ass, rookie, or there’s gonna be some domestic violence in our relationship.” Flip slumped in his chair, highly unamused and gestured for Ron to get on with it.

“Want me to talk slow when I go over this, old timer?” Stallworth teased, holding the casefile.

“Not in the fuckin’ mood.” Flip glared at his friend, not teasing at all. He snatched the file from Stallworth and slapped it down open on his desk. He was going to get this shit over with as fast as humanly possible. He retrieved a pair of glasses with large lenses and tortoise rims from his shirt pocket, a new addition to his wardrobe. He only recently capitulated to wearing them on occasion. But only for reading. He narrowed his eyes at Stallworth in anticipation. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

Before Flip could take in much on the first page, a commotion from the front of the station drew his attention. An argument and raised voices along with the shuffling of papers, all boded nothing good in a police station. Flip shoved up from his desk and hurried to see the cause of the uproar. Several officers argued with a fat little man who was so short Flip could only see the shiny top of his greasy bald scalp hovering chest level to the average sized officers around him. Dan Goldleaf was a private investigator who served papers in his spare time, one of the lowest forms of ilk to a cop, just above pedophiles and traffickers. Worst of all, the human shitstain worked for most of the defense lawyers in town.

When Flip approached the unruly spectacle, the trollish man excitedly waved the papers in his hand. He was gelatinously fat, and his whole body jiggled with the movement. He flashed a golden smile as he waddled to Flip. He pushed the papers into Flip’s chest and announced, “Here ya go, Zimmerman!” Quick as a ferret, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of Flip holding the papers in a clenched fist, a deadly glare on his face. Goldleaf straightened to his full height of around five feet and popped the lapels of his brown jacket, crackling a fresh mustard stain. The gaudy gold rings on every fat sausage finger glittered in the fluorescent lights. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Flip wanted to squish the greasy troll like a slug, but there were too many witnesses for that now. He looked at the crumpled papers he held in his fist and backed to the wall until his back was pressed against it. It kept him from pacing like a caged animal. He had been served with a formal looking document consisting of several pages. The papers had been sent by the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. It began with:

CANDICE GOODING,

                        Petitioner,

 Vs.                                                                             

PHILIP ZIMMERMAN,

                        Respondent.

VERIFIED PETITION TO ESTABLISH PATERNITY

            COMES NOW the Petitioner, Candice Gooding, by and through undersigned counsel, Rob Cheatum, and in support of her Verified Petition STATES THE FOLLOWING:

“Christ, it’s a fuckin’ paternity suit from some bitch named Candice Gooding. Says she has a five-year-old kid and it’s mine! She’s comin’ after me for goddamn child support,” Flip gritted through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body contracted and he shook with rage. He wanted to break something, or at least punch through a wall. He managed to grate out, “I don’t even know this bitch!”

“Candice Gooding,” Stallworth said slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if speaking to an idiot. “That doesn’t ring any bells?”

“It sure as hell doesn’t!” Flip was fuming, his chest flushed hot.

“What else could she call herself?” Stallworth mused, pretending to consider the issue. “Candy maybe?” Slowly, the red flush drained from Flip’s face until he was unusually pale. “Candy Goodie, maybe? Ring any bells now? Wasn’t she an ex-girlfriend some five, six years ago?”

“Motherfucker,” Flip groaned. He suddenly felt very old, as if he had aged a decade on his birthday. He leaned against the wall and knocked his head back against it roughly, as if he could bang some sense into his younger self. “She wasn’t my goddamn girlfriend, and you know it. She was just a slutty little cocktail waitress whose big dream in life was to be a stripper in Vegas where she could make the ‘big bucks.’ She was hot and easy and I fucked her a few times when I was hard up. Big deal. Any port in a storm, you know? Every girl I banged when I was footloose and fancy free wasn’t a girlfriend.”

“Guess you should have used some rubber to weather that particular storm,” Stallworth quipped, studying the papers more closely. “That candy must have been good if you went back for seconds.”

“Fuck you, buddy,” Flip said, really and truly wanting to punch something now.

“Better call your wife,” Stallworth suggested.

A look of pure terror flashed across Flip’s face for an instant before he could mask it. “Don’t you dare call her. Or tell her anything about this at all! Christ, you want to get me killed?”

“She’s a lawyer. Who do you think will be handling this for you?” Stallworth tried unsuccessfully to be helpful.

“Just haul me out back and shoot me now. Get it over with quick.” Flip dropped his head into his hands, shaking his head. “She can’t know a thing about this until I figure it out.”

*******************************************************************************************

“Hey, Sugar,” Flip crooned into the phone when you answered. “I was thinkin’ that since I have to get dressed up and put on the ritz tonight that you could get all dolled up too like you like and meet me after. I’ll take you out on the town and show you a real nice time.”

“I’m not in the mood,” you said, your tone told him you were far from appeased. “I thought you decided we were working today. And tonight.”

Flip had called while he was changing into his suit, a black one with a button up shirt in a dark shade of charcoal. He realized you had picked out one of your favorites for him that morning and it made him feel even guiltier. A nice suit usually had the effect of making him feel dashing, now it felt like he was dressing for his own funeral. Maybe I am, he thought to himself with a rueful smirk. Aloud, he said, “I know you’re mad as hell, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I love you, sugar.”

“I’m on the clock, Flip,” you said sternly. “Something you know a lot about, right? We’ll catch up later. Whenever that might be.”

*******************************************************************************************

On the drive to the Broadmoor Stallworth informed Flip, “I called a clerk I know at the court who can verify the paternity suit on a Sunday. It’s real.”

“It’s like all my birthday wishes are comin’ true.” Flip glared out of the window, particularly eyeing the couples walking down the street, having a much better evening than he was.

Stallworth had informed Flip of all the details of their sting, how the event was in a private room of the Broadmoor, how they had booked a suite under the name of Frank Zeiss, a cover name Flip often used. All Flip had to do was find the mark, lure her up to the suite, and help Ron make the arrest. Flip didn’t even want credit. He wanted to forget everything about this day and pretend his fortieth birthday was limited to the nearly perfect Friday and Saturday he spent with his girl. Before he had to leave on call. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his damned phone this morning?

Flip stopped in at the hotel bar before seeking out the private event room. He needed a drink for this shit. He ordered an Old Fashioned and swirled the tawny liquid around in his glass. He thought of the way you always laughed at him like he was an idiot instead of suave when he tied the cherry stem in a knot with his tongue for your amusement.

As he thought of you, to his horror, you walked into the bar and aimed right for him. Wearing a sultry blue dress that hugged your curves in all the best places, he thought his girl had never looked like more of a knockout. But…

“What the hell are you doin’ here?!” Flip grabbed your arm when you got close to the bar and yanked you to him.

“It’s nice to see you too,” you said with only a hint of warning in your tone.

“I’m glad you’ve retracted your claws a bit from earlier,” Flip said in a quick, agitated voice. “But it’s not nice to see you. Not now, not here.”

“If you’re here looking for someone, shouldn’t you have your glasses on, old man?” you teased.

“Watch it, sugar.” Flip stepped closer to you until your bodies were nearly touching. “This old man was still goin’ strong when you threw in the towel last night.”

“Nice suit.” You ignored him and ran your eyes over his body. “You clean up alright.”

“This isn’t a game.” Flip fought to keep his voice low. “You could get us both hurt.”

“So serious,” you chided dismissively and placed a hand on his chest. It was endearing how nervous he was at the concern for your safety. A bead of sweat ran down from his temple. “Relax, handsome. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty, right?”

“Funny,” Flip said edgily. “Now get the hell outta here and I’ll call you when I’m done. I don’t want to be distracted by you and I don’t want you mixed up in all this.”

“Actually, I wanted to find you sooner rather than later because I got a call from a colleague. It made me think you might be in some kind of trouble.” You watched him closely as you spoke. “Or should I say, opposing counsel. A lawyer named Rob Cheatum.”

Oh, fuck. Flip’s mouth went dry and he fought to keep his expression stern and to give nothing away. “Must be important for him to call you on a Sunday.”

“Actually, he called me Friday after work. But unlike you, I followed the rules you wanted for your birthday and didn’t look at my phone until I was driving in today. That’s when I saw it. He said he’s representing some woman in a case against you.” You looked straight into his eyes. “What the fuck is he talking about, Flip?”

“Sounds like some bloodsucker out to sue the department again,” he deflected unpersuasively. “Isn’t that how you people get in the holiday spirit, by drumming up business?”

“Oh my god, don’t tell me you lost your temper and punched a suspect again,” you sighed exasperatedly. “It gets old seeing your name in the paper.”

“We all know the only animals worse than lawyers are reporters.” Flip looked around, scanning for his suspect. “All the more reason for you to get outta here until I get this thing wrapped up. You don’t want to be included in a cover story with me when I cause a scene at this party, do you?”

“I can see it now.” You spread your hands like a banner. “Grouchy old man snaps at the younger crowd out having fun.”

“I sure don’t love you for your mouth, sugar.” Flip shook his head. He saw a tall woman in a black dress walking purposefully and fixed his eyes on her like a hunting dog. But there were several women in view wearing black dresses. And what was tall, anyway? The woman was probably five-eight, although heels always threw him off. Was that tall enough to be described as very tall? Probably not. Flip had been staring at her while running these mental calculations.

“Like what you see?” you asked, more to poke him than anything. You knew he was here under the guise of working.

“Not particularly. I’d give her a seven at best,” Flip gritted out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a helluva lot better at home.”

“Speaking of, how long until the woman you’ve got at home is going to get some time with you?” you asked.

“Not long.” He shrugged.

“Not an answer, Detective,” you quipped.

Flip knew you only called him Detective when you were feeling flirty or feeling as mad as a wet cat. He knew which this was. Best to remain silent, he concluded.

“You’re here to grab some suspect, a woman, I gather from your roaming eyes,” you accused and Flip’s eyes darted immediately back to you, a little wider than usual. “You’re getting served papers from strange women, too. Is this some half-assed midlife crisis? Is it time for you to embarrass yourself trying to pick up eighteen-year-olds in a new convertible?”

“Whoa, pump the brakes on the crazy train.” Flip held up his hands in surrender. “I’m innocent until proven guilty.”

“Oh, you think this is a democracy?” you scoffed. “I don’t think so. This is a monarchy, and all ways here are the Queen’s ways.”

“I’ll tell you all about it later. I promise.” Flip tried a calming tone that had zero effect. “Just let me find this woman and then we can get outta here.”

“Fine.” You put your hands on your hips.

“Don’t fine me, darlin.’” Flip mocked your posture, also putting his hands on his hips. “I know what fine means.”

“This is ridiculous. I’ll find this damn woman in black myself.” You turned on your heel and walked away.

Flip took a bounding step after you and grabbed your arm roughly, stopping you. “You’re making a fuckin’ scene.”

“Is this guy bothering you, miss?” The bartender asked, a clear warning in his voice.

You looked at Flip’s hand where he gripped your arm and cocked an eyebrow. Flip slackened his grip and you yanked your arm free. You strode purposely through the bar and toward the series of the Broadmoor event rooms. You looked over your shoulder once just to make sure Flip was following you. He was, of course, walking stiffly a few paces behind with his shoulders set and eyes narrowed, looking ready and eager to bust some heads. The hotel was crowded with holiday traffic and you both knew he couldn’t grab you again without making an even bigger scene.

At the door to the private room, Flip caught you again, grabbing the door handle in front of you and pinning you close with his body from behind. To an observer, it might look affectionate but his body was rigid against you and his tone angry, “This isn’t the time or place for you to act like a goddamn prima donna. Knock it off.”

“Just think, all this because you had to answer Ron’s call this morning.” You grinned and before he had time to process the implications of your words, you pushed his hand down on the door handle and leaned into it.

Flip stumbled into the event room right at your back, a little off balance and fuming.

“Surprise!” A chorus of voices shouted inside the room.

Flip was nearly stunned by the cacophony of light and movement and shouting assholes inside the room. He stood, still gawkily positioned mid-stumble, blinking like a deer in the headlights. There were sparkly lights and girly decorations done in black and gold, and a table set with a giant cake and a few buckets of champagne. Music blared noisily from somewhere. All his traitorous friends smiled at him, Stallworth leading the charge of ingrates. Festive lights even shimmered on the greasy dome of Goldleaf’s head. The group of traitors yelled “Surprise!” again and then broke into a terrible round of Happy Birthday. Flip straightened and smoothed a hand over his suit, trying to look dignified while feeling like an absolute jackass for falling for this shit.

There was little Flip hated more in life than surprise parties. He forced a smile and thought that maybe it wasn’t as bad as those times he’d been shot. But no. The first time, he’d gotten some really good drugs. The second time, he got six weeks off and left the hell alone. The third time had given him one of your favorite scars that made him feel even tougher than he was. No, a surprise party was far worse than getting shot.

Flip squared his shoulders and put on his game face, steeling himself to endure a long night of socializing. He pulled you to his side just a little roughly and joined his own birthday party.

*******************************************************************************************

“That party must have cost a fortune,” Flip bemoaned. “I hope you didn’t foot the bill just to torture me.”

“Not a dime, actually. The owner of the Broadmoor is a client. Or rather, his son on his eighth DWI is,” you said nonchalantly. “He’s innocent, of course. Or rather, he will be once I’m done with him.”

Flip made a noncommittal grunt, still in the throes of post-party-trauma.

“He also threw in a free suite.” You looped your arm through Flip’s and steered him toward the elevators. “I’m sure you’ll like it more.”

The suite was equipped with a private balcony and hottub for guests who liked to enjoy the snowy alpine winters along with a steaming soak and a glass of wine. Flip held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman before slamming it closed behind him after following you inside. He held you at arm’s length when you tried to close the distance between you.

“I need a shower. I’ve been sweatin’ bullets all day thanks to you.” His lips were poutier than usual as he unbuttoned his shirt. Shrugging roughly out of it, he balled it up in his hands and threw it into the furthest corner of the room. Flip paused to glare at the shirt where it landed on the floor and huff a few breaths before storming into the bathroom as he unbuckled his belt. The slam of the bathroom door reverberated through the room when he kicked it closed. He continued to grumble and cuss under his breath inside the bathroom. The few words you could make out seemed to be in vehement criticism of birthdays and surprise parties and pondering the eternal question of just how much bullshit one man can take.

Smiling to yourself at his grouchiness, you decided to wait for him in the hottub on the balcony. Steaming jets and your warm touch would be just the ticket to turn his anger into something a lot more enjoyable for you both. 

As you peeled your own clothes away, you could still hear him bitching from inside the bathroom and it made you grin. The icy air hit you when you stepped naked out onto the balcony. Goosebumps rose across your skin, breath fogged from your lips, and your nipples peaked instantly at the chill as you quickly covered the few steps to the hottub. The crisp winter air made the hot water even more welcoming, and a cloud of steam surrounded you when you lowered yourself into the bubbling water. Leaning your head back against the edge of the hottub, you felt all the tension leaving your body as you waited for Flip. 

“I’m out here,” you called when you heard him emerge. “Come keep me company.”

Flip’s face and chest were still flushed from the heat of his shower when he walked onto the balcony, scowling. Pausing to linger in the doorway, towel slung around his hips, he leaned against the doorframe. He had to fight to keep his face stern as he looked down at your bare curves sitting tantalizingly amid the steam. 

“You’re not bad lookin’ for a double agent,” he told you, sucking at his teeth.

“Evil machinations are much easier when you’re pretty,” you teased and beckoned him to join you with a curled finger. “Don’t just stand there gawking about it, handsome.”

His scowl turned into something far more devilish as he tossed his towel back into the room and lowered himself into the hottub beside you. Slinging one arm behind you along the rim of the hottub, Flip wasted no time in pulling you close. Beside you, he turned to kiss your cheek, to nuzzle his nose softly against your skin along your jaw before he moved his lips to the place below your ear. Inhaling your scent, he began to lose himself in you. His kisses drifted to your neck and turned more biting and heated when you raised your hand to stroke his cheek. 

“I’m sure sorry for takin’ that call,” he mumbled against your skin. 

“Are you?” you asked with a laugh. “We’ll see if you learn anything from it.”

“I’m a quick learner.” Flip couldn’t help but laugh as his hand trailed up your thigh. 

Turning into him, you met his lips while he teased you with his fingers. Flip kissed you hungrily, his lingering anger coming out in his eager tongue licking into your mouth, his teeth clicking against yours, and his thick fingers pushing into you. 

“We’re not done celebrating yet,” you whispered into his kiss. “Your real birthday present is that I took next week off and arranged with the chief to note you as staking out a cabin for the week.”

He laughed when you told him the location, “That’s our address.”

“Is it really?” you feigned ignorance. “I’d call it a paid vacation on the taxpayers. As someone who gets shafted by Uncle Sam almost as often as I get it from you, I see no problem at all.”

“I thought you had work tomorrow?” Flip asked, looking at you with deep lusting respect.

“You thought so, yes,” you teased. “I’m off too.”

“So, you have to put me through the ringer first to earn it, huh?” He nipped your neck.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a grouchy bastard, you wouldn’t invite being screwed with, hmmm?” You twisted your fingers into his hair. “But we’ll never know.”

“A surprise party is playin’ dirty,” he said against your neck. “That’s hittin’ below the belt.”

“Funny thing is that I agree with you.” You tugged his hair sharply enough for it to be a reprimand. “Ron badly wanted to throw you a surprise party for your fortieth. I told him that I was giving you what you really wanted for the weekend, and that you would absolutely hate a surprise party. After a debate, Ron and I agreed that if he could entice you away from me today, he could inflict his surprise party upon you and I’d help lure you into it. It was insultingly easy for him, I might add. I really thought he’d have a harder time. So, I think it’s only fair to make you suffer a little on top of it. Serves you right for leaving me for your work wife.”

“So, you all gang up on me, huh? Wonderful.” He grinned. “You almost gave me a heart attack with that fuckin’ paternity horseshit. You arranged that awfully fast.”

“I thought it was nice icing on the cake,” you grinned back. “How long do you think it takes me to type a paternity petition? Fifteen minutes tops. Goldleaf is always happy to screw with you and so is Cheatum. A good time had by all. And just think, you chose all this.” You gestured grandly to encompass the enormity of the shitshow Flip had gotten himself into, “instead of staying shut in in bed with me all day.”

“I’ll never answer my phone again unless it’s you,” Flip huffed a laugh.

Deciding he had suffered enough for now, you slung your leg over his lap to straddle him. His cock was already deliciously hard and ready for you when you sank down onto him. No matter how many times he fucked you, it was always wonderfully intense before you adjusted to accommodate him. Flip’s hands smoothed down your sides, caressing you gently now before his fingers would grip bruises into you as you rode him. He kissed your neck and rolled his hips beneath you, groaning in that heady way of his when he was losing himself in the pleasure of your body.

The water sloshed in the hottub and steam whirled around you both as he fucked an orgasm out of you and followed you down into a warm, blissful afterglow. After several moments, cock still buried inside of you, he kissed your neck a few final times and raised his head to look at you with a satisfied grin.

“I hope this birthday was one to remember, old timer,” you teased as you moved your hands to rub the knots in his broad shoulders. “Forty’s a big one.”

“I really hate birthdays,” was his only grumbled response. 

“Spoken just like a grumpy old man,” you said amid a fresh stream of soft laughter. 

“Real funny, sugar.” Flip nipped at your skin before pulling you close again for round two. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”

*******************************************************************************************

© safarigirlsp 2023

Tagging some buddies! 

@babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @reveluving @vedavan @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @srorgana1 @kyloremus @looking4mymagicshop @lumberjack00fantasies

[topazshadowwolf]

Hello there, you! I have not failed to notice you going through my fics. And apparently, you didn't just stick to my Dadmare stuff, either, @chiyannad XD The Great and Wonderful Doctor W.D. Gaster and The Door?! I haven't updated it in aaaaages. Still, happy to see you enjoying my new and old works, so thanks for that.

Now, about Lyra. I am hesitant to say "OC" as an original character to me is a wholly original and not tied to a fandom. Lyra is a fan character designed to be part of the UTMV of at least HNBD. Though anyone is welcome to use her for their own creations.

Those stories you see her in are set in the future. Balance, or Lyra, will appear in HNBD, but she will be more of a side character who will play a big role... I needed someone to be a Balance/Order keeper. And I wanted someone who wasn't a Sans. So, I picked a Toriel and decided to repurpose a Toriel from an abandoned AU idea that came up years ago in Soriel Discord for her origins. In time, I will tell her story, but fewer readers are interested in her than in Dadmare, thus focusing on Dadmare.

After years of writing Soriel, I should have known that my brain would insist she should kiss a Sans. Over time, I accepted that I would be shipping her with someone. Past me thought if she were to fall for a Sans, it would be Dream. My brain did not get that memo, as she somehow fell for Nightmare. And... yeah... it will make sense when she finally starts playing her role in HNBD. That said, I still hold to no ships being in that fic. The most you will see is a budding friendship.

Anyway, her history will be part of a FuzzyNight fic, as she would only reveal it to anyone if she were in a close enough relationship. So, you gotta wait. I did write a start to that fic and referenced her home life..., but I will eventually put all my little FuzzyNight fics on AO3 so they are better organized.

As for a reference:

That first one is by me. The next two were commissioned from @tamagoneko and the last one was commissioned from @skeleplatypus

[cheshiresense]

Anon:

Fandom: Harry Potter (CLV kinda?)

Character or Ship: Hadrian from CLV, I love Hadrian/Orion but that might not work here so it's totally up to you!

AU/Trope: I'd love to see an AU where instead of the CLV dimension, Hadrian is sent to a universe still with BWL!Neville but more similar to canon. Maybe with Slytherin!Hadrian and Hadrian taking some of the other Slytherins under his wing? I just really like the idea of a world where the "good guys" win and instead of (or in addition to) Orion it's the Slytherins who need Hadrian in their corner. Doesn't have to be all of them, whoever you prefer writing is fine. I am also down for bashing if you need to work that in. Thank you!

Tags: CLV AU, Slytherin!Hadrian, Canonical Prejudices, Draco Malfoy Bashing, kind of?, tbh this is more or less how I see him in canon lol but I know he's a fan favourite so fair warning, he's not the CLV version here, at least not yet.

-0-

Author's Notes: Hello, it's been a while since I've worked on these. I think I mentioned before that my tumblr inbox got glitchy so I actually couldn't find the other 6 requests from the last batch of 10 you guys sent in for 5+ Headcanons. So I set up an airtable form instead and got someone to test it, and this was the one they sent. It works, so in the future, I'll toss out a new post with the form link for more requests, and maybe I'll get through them in a timely manner lol.

If you're not in the UraIchi server, then you might've noticed that I've sort of been MIA on the writing front for a while now, the last time I wrote and posted something was like back in May last year, and honestly I've been kind of tired and burnt out ever since, and real life is kicking my ass a bit, so when I do have spare time, all I feel like doing is reading fics or webnovels and sleeping. But the winter hols were a nice break for me, and I've started on a couple new fic ideas and added to some wips on and off over the past few months, so I'm slowly getting back into it, and this 5+ Headcanons prompt was one of the things I've been working on. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into posting fics soon.

ANYWAY, on to the stuff you actually care about: Slytherin!Hadrian, so basically amp up the hardened war vet and dial down the friendship magic XD Way back when I first started CLV, I did consider Slytherin for his House but it felt like everybody did that, plus the politics I would have to get into gave me a headache and I felt like I couldn't do it justice anyway, so I went with Hufflepuff. Slytherin does give me more options to play with a powerful Hadrian who has less morals about flinging that around to get what he wants though since he would be viewed as a halfblood at best and he'd need that currency to make sure nobody messes with him, especially if this universe is more canon than CLV (lbr, almost everybody is at least 50% nicer in CLV lol). So okay, let's give this a spin.

(AO3 Link Here -- I’ll add this to the collection fic on my AO3 to make it a round 15 but this one will be the last for that. If I do more, I’ll start a new fic.)

-0-0-0-

1.

Hadrian ends up being a Hatstall. He sits on the stool for a full seven minutes as the Sorting Hat sifts through his bloodstained memories with a silence so grim Hadrian is tempted to comfort it. Then it proceeds to send back memories of its own, the major points of recent Hogwarts history that would best help Hadrian fit in - Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived; an image of Hadrian's counterpart and an entire family still alive; Quirrell vanquished in first year, a basilisk slain and a diary that bled itself to death in the second, Remus teaching in the third but no Pettigrew in sight; Neville at odds with Potter, Gryffindors at odds with Slytherins, and Death Eater children who hadn't managed to come out of the last war as financially and politically secure as families like the Malfoys, subtly shunned for their parents' sins, while children from the Light side, the winning side, with parents who'd openly defied Voldemort, can do almost no wrong. On the surface, everything looks bright and happy. Beneath it, malcontent and despair bubbles and brews with hardly anyone the wiser, and those who are, are glad to look away.

The Sorting Hat offers no opinions of its own after it is done, only continuing on to extol the virtues of all four Houses while making an argument for why Hadrian would be perfectly suited for each of them in equal measure, before finally leaving the decision in Hadrian's hands.

"Even I cannot be certain where you would do the most good," the Sorting Hat tells him. "Nor do I know which House would do you the most good. There are many children in this school who could use a helping hand such as yours, and likewise, you too would benefit from the same. Who am I to decide which is more important? Perhaps it is most accurate to say that no matter where you end up, who you will help, and who you will allow to help you, a new future will unfold, one made possible only by your existence. Yours is a fate that demands change, Mr. Evans, for better or for worse. But when peril looms on the distant horizon, when our society insists on blind stagnancy, and its people have long stood divided, change is exactly what this world needs. Thus, I leave the choice to you. Where do you wish to go?"

Hadrian says nothing - thinks nothing - for a long deafening minute. The mounting whispers in the Great Hall are easy enough to tune out, and within the confines of his mind, the Hat too remains patiently silent.

The truth of it is - Hadrian is tired. Even now, in this moment, in this place, one year and an entire dimension and seven years away, he still feels like he does on most days— as if he's just walked off a battlefield at the end of one of those kinds of days that can break a man even when you think there's nothing left to break, yet still hyper-alert for the next enemy, the next fight, the next death, because he doesn't know how to do anything else, how to be anything else. On all the rest, of course, it feels as if he never left the battlefield at all.

He is tired, and he honestly doesn't feel like he's capable of helping anyone, not children, not the reflections of his loved ones, and certainly not an entire world that's rapidly revealing itself to be as stuck on a one-way train to hell as his original world had been.

He doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't know how to be one even after all these years, even when other people had always so desperately wanted him to be. A hero, until he'd proven unable to meet their expectations, and then he'd been their villain, right up until they'd needed a hero to stand in front of them again, and round and round and round they'd gone.

The only thing he could never be was just Harry, just himself, and now even Harry Potter is no longer his to claim.

But maybe that's not so bad, not when Harry Potter has always been more story than reality, a patchwork fairytale portrait of a boy, a man, a weapon, a sacrifice, stitched together by every hand except his own.

Maybe Hadrian Evans could be something different.

Gryffindor feels too much like repeating history, and Hadrian would rather not be forced to stare at the majority of those long dead to him day in and day out. Hufflepuff is too prone to crowding together for his liking, persistently eager to be friends with their own members even if they're quick to turn on those who aren't, and Hadrian doesn't think he can bear the overenthusiastic socializing that would require.

 Ravenclaw might be best, a House where even the most introverted can find a home if they have a thirst for knowledge, but at the same time, for a lot of them, once they latch on to a question unanswered or an opinion that doesn't fit their worldview, they won't let go until the question is exhausted or the opinion has conformed to what they consider acceptable, and Hadrian has too many secrets and no more patience to be what others what him to be to fit in with those sorts of people anymore. Besides, he's never quite forgiven that House as a whole. Marietta Edgecombe had been Ravenclaw. Quirrell and Lockhart and Trelawney had been Ravenclaws. Every single one of Luna's bullies had been Ravenclaws. He'd worked with members of that House over the years, taught them back when the DA had been up and running, and even been friendly with some of them beyond just Luna, but generally speaking, he has no positive emotions regarding Ravenclaw. He knows that he isn't being entirely fair, because Voldemort had been from Slytherin, and Pettigrew had been from Gryffindor, and the worst of the lot who'd spearheaded the damaging gossip and baseless accusations incriminating him - first for the Heir of Slytherin debacle in second year, and then the Cup nonsense in fourth year - had all been from Hufflepuff, but still, Ravenclaw simply stands out as that one House that holds no appeal for him.

That really only leaves one place he can go though, and Hadrian finds that he minds that a lot less than he once would've. Slytherin will have its own problems, him being a halfblood at best with a very obvious muggle surname, but Slytherins also respect power, and most of them have the sense to back off if they realize they're picking a fight with an opponent they can't beat. And once that's dealt with, Hadrian will most likely be avoided and left to his own devices, with only the occasional curse to his back to worry about. From a bunch of schoolchildren, that's a negligible issue.

In his head, the Sorting Hat chuckles. "Very well then. If you're sure, better be-"

"SLYTHERIN!"

But Mr. Evans," the Sorting Hat says in the seconds before it's removed from Hadrian's head. It sounds thoroughly amused. "Do not be so quick to underestimate your own heart."

And with that last ominous statement imparted to haunt him, Hadrian stands to lacklustre applause and makes his way to his new House as his tie settles into green and silver stripes.

The briefest of glances over the stretch of the Slytherin table tells him that none of the students seated where most of the fourth-years are gathered have moved to make room for him. That's fine. Hadrian would rather not be boxed in anyway. He takes a seat at the end of the table, smiles at the suspicious first-years around him, and then waits for Dumbledore's opening speech to finish so they can start the feast.

Fifteen minutes later, one treacle tart and a glass of pumpkin juice is all he can manage. He sips at some water for the rest of dinner even as he wishes it was something a lot more alcoholic. He speaks to no one, and no one tries to speak to him, although plenty of prying eyes and sneers of disdain find their way to him throughout the meal.

It makes him feel, Hadrian thinks with some humour, almost nostalgic.

Near the end of the evening, he thinks about going over to the Gryffindor table to find Neville, Ron, and Hermione. But he's in Slytherin now, so he doesn't know how they'll react, and after another moment of contemplation, he decides against it. Not much can embarrass him anymore, but he'd still rather not be put on the spot if the Golden Trio rejects his overture of friendship. It won't help his reputation in Slytherin either if he ends up making a spectacle of himself like that. There's plenty of time tomorrow to see how they'll feel about maintaining ties with a Slytherin without too big of an audience watching, and if they're against it, then, well, it's not as if Hadrian hasn't been living as a recluse over the better part of the past year anyway. He sees no problem carrying on exactly as he has.

Fate sent him here against his explicit permission but she sure as shit can't make him dance.

-0-0-0-

2.

Hadrian ends up shuffled into a dorm room with five very familiar Slytherins - Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. He gets the remaining bed that's presumably been empty since the others' first year, and a very pointed silence coalesces at his back as he starts unpacking his clothes into his wardrobe.

He ignores it. Instead, he absently begins a count of how long it will take for someone - he's betting Draco - to put their foot in their mouth first. He casts a glance at the floor-to-ceiling window next to his nightstand; like the Gryffindor dorms, the room is circular so everyone has a view to the outside, but here, instead of winds and open skies, it's lake water that shimmers against the glass, with the shadows of passing aquatic life flickering by. It's not bad, just different; the ambience of it is almost soothing.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Hadrian hangs up his winter cloak before moving on to his books. They each get a desk too, complete with a mini bookcase, which the Gryffindor dorms don't have. They have to do their homework on their beds or in the common room. How unfair. But at least Hadrian gets to benefit from it now.

Someone clears their throat again, louder this time. Hadrian smothers a twist of a smirk and bends over his trunk again to fish out his towels and toiletries. His more personal belongings can remain inside, although he'll have to ward everything to the nines anyway.

A displeased noise that comes out gilded with that distinctly familiar Dudley-esque whine of a child who's been spoiled since birth and has never known hardship reaches his ears, and then finally-

"Are you deaf, Evans?!" Draco demands, and oh, look at that, Hadrian wins the bet.

He straightens and turns, idly fiddling with a packet of quills as his gaze falls on the blond standing puffed up and bristling by the bed opposite Hadrian's on the other side of the dorm. He looks him over, looks at Crabbe and Goyle bracketing him with twin expressions of oafish scorn, looks at Zabini standing a ways away, watching the whole room with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, looks at Nott who doesn't look at anyone at all.

His attention returns to Draco, considering him for a moment longer before asking mildly, "Did you say something?"

Draco's cheeks flush pink even as he draws himself up and snaps, "You should at least have enough manners to introduce yourself!" His face narrows into a sneer, and Hadrian can almost predict his next words. "But I suppose even that might be too difficult for a mudblood to learn."

For a second, Hadrian wonders if he should tell him he's a halfblood. Then again, it doesn't really matter, and also some people consider halfbloods to be mudbloods too. And now that he thinks about it, the person he is in this world might actually be a muggleborn. But he was homeschooled so at least one of his fictional parents had to have known magic, right? Then again, they could've just been related to a witch or wizard but were muggles themselves. Who knows. Certainly not him since Fate couldn't be bothered to inform him.

"Evans, are you listening to me?!"

Hadrian blinks out of his thoughts. "Yes, I'm listening, what is it?"

Draco glares. His features are so… pointy at this age that the expression doesn't really carry the impact he's probably going for, but Hadrian figures it would be unnecessarily mean to mention it, so he doesn't. Instead, he quickly reviews everything Draco has said, and there wasn't actually a question anywhere in there, as far as Hadrian can tell, but maybe Draco really does want an introduction. Seems like a waste of breath though.

"Is there a point to introducing myself?" He asks. "Everybody heard my name at the Sorting. You even just used it so it's not like you don't know."

Draco splutters as if that wasn't what he expected Hadrian to say. He recovers after a moment and opts to glower harder instead, as if that would hide the way the pink in his cheeks is slowly turning red. Poor bastard. That's what you get when you have a pale complexion and fluster easily.

"Are you actually a mudblood then?" He demands contemptuously.

Hadrian honestly doesn't know, but he can't say that, so he volleys back, "Does Slytherin accept muggleborns?"

He knows they take halfbloods, but he can't remember any muggleborns in Slytherin, although if there are any, he doubts they would be willing to broadcast it, even if it means inventing a magical parent in their family tree.

"Of course not!" Draco refutes, sounding scandalized.

Hadrian can't tell if that's actually true, or if that's just Draco's own belief, but it does make things easier. "Then…" He shrugs. "If you already know, why are you asking?"

A beat of silence passes, then two. The red deepens in Draco's face as he hisses dramatically, "Are you mocking me?"

Hadrian suppresses a sigh. He probably is being too flippant for someone as high-strung as Draco, but it's still a far sight from mockery. He can definitely do better if he wants to taunt someone. Had his world's Draco been this easily riled up? They hadn't even really gotten into any exchange of insults yet. "I wouldn't say I'm-"

He stops.

Across the room, Draco has pulled out his wand, and when he realizes that Hadrian's broken off mid-sentence, the flush recedes from his face, and a triumphant smirk instantly takes its place instead.

"Since you've been sorted into Slytherin," Draco announces, raising his wand with a ridiculously showy flourish that makes Hadrian twitch with the desire to correct his posture. "You should know your place. Mouthing off to your betters is a good way to get cursed around here, especially when you're in the presence of someone like me." He sneers down his nose even as his chin tips up, all peacock proud. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Even the likes of your kind should've heard of my family." He looks smug, as if a mere surname can protect him from anything when it comes down to it. "You'll be staying here for the next four years, Evans, and I guarantee you'll have a miserable time of it if you get on my bad side. But today's your first day at Hogwarts, so I can be generous. If you apologize, I'll let you go just this once."

An expectant hush falls as Draco finishes his little speech. Hadrian doesn't say anything right away, still turning over the packet of quills in his hands, still waiting. When nothing happens after a good five seconds tick by, and the silence gradually becomes strained, Hadrian finally nods at Draco's wand, "So are you going to use that or not?"

The stunned look of outrage on Draco's face is gold.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Evans!" Draco snarls, jabbing out with his wand. "Oscausi!"

Hadrian has time to arch an eyebrow at the choice of a pseudo-silencing charm before he's flipping a quill into the fingers of his left hand. A swipe of his thumb leaves a chain of runes glittering along its shaft, and then he brings it up, catches the oncoming spell with the tip, and swats it aside with a flick of his wrist, all in one fluid motion. His right hand doesn't stay still either as his wand slides neatly into his palm, and a single wordless modified Expelliarmus darts out and attaches itself to Draco's wand.

The white light of the Mouth-Sealing Charm is sent soaring across the room, shattering against the door in a shower of harmless sparks, and in the heavy silence that follows, Hadrian smiles.

He thinks it's a very bland smile, if he does say so himself. At the very least, he's careful to not look too intimidating or too unhinged, the way he can sometimes get, if some of his dead friends were to be believed, back during the war. Nevertheless, it still makes Draco blanch white, makes Crabbe and Goyle shrink back, makes Zabini lean further back into a convenient shadow and Nott go utterly still from where he's sitting on his bed.

Hadrian glances down at the remains of his writing utensil, most of the barbs now burnt black. It was a regular quill after all, not exactly made to withstand so much magic. He looks back up, at Draco who has a white-knuckled grip on his wand, and with his own wand, he gives the other's a tug, just enough to make Draco's eyes go wide with something like panic, but not enough to actually disarm him and - considering the sheer amount of honed intent in the charm that even Draco can undoubtedly sense - most likely bend the wand's allegiance.

Hadrian holds it for a moment longer, and then lets go. Draco staggers back a step, jerking his wand down and reflexively pressing it into his chest as if he's trying to protect it, or maybe assure himself that it still belongs to him.

Hadrian tucks his wand back up his sleeve before stooping down to pick up the rest of the quills he'd dropped. The burnt one goes in the bin by his desk.

Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves. So Hadrian does.

"That took you almost five seconds," He begins almost conversationally as he opens a drawer to stash his remaining quills away. "From when you decided to fire that spell to actually firing it. And that's not even counting all the time you wasted saying the stuff before that, after you already took out your wand. It's stupid. When you draw with the intent to harm, you shouldn't give any warning at all. And the spell itself was slow. You should work on that."

He pauses, and there's still no response, which he supposes makes sense. He doubts anybody here wants to listen to him preach. He should just wrap things up since the plan is moving along so neatly.

"Anyway, this is pretty unfortunate," He switches gears and smiles again, as fit-for-public-polite as he knows how to be. It doesn't seem to make anyone feel better, but he also doesn't feel like he was that heavy-handed earlier, was he? Ah well, can't change anything now, and it's still in line with what he wants so it doesn't matter.

"I wasn't really expecting to make any friends since I know the average Slytherin's views on blood isn't exactly in my favour," He continues in light tones. "But I was hoping that we could at least remain on civil terms and get along as schoolmates, if only because we'll be living together for the rest of our time at Hogwarts. Since that doesn't seem to be possible anymore though, how about we just go with the simplest solution?"

Hadrian surveys the room and smiles some more. "You ignore me and I’ll ignore you. You attack me and I'll retaliate. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Everybody just needs to mind their own business, and there won't be any problems. That's fair enough, don't you think?"

His gaze settles once more on Draco. "Since you're the only one who's said anything so far, I'll assume you speak for everyone in this dorm. Draco Malfoy, right? So then, do we understand each other now?"

Across from him, Draco shivers imperceptibly like a rabbit caught at the wrong end of a predator's line of sight, but he also swallows and nods and gingerly puts his wand away. It looks like it costs him, but - at least for now - he seems both too shocked and too afraid to try anything else.

"Great!" Hadrian says cheerfully before cocking his head as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, right, one more thing."

He lets his smile fall away. Lets his expression smooth over into marble. And then he lets his magic flare, lets the pressure of it roll across the room like the black merciless depths of a storm-tossed ocean, lets it eclipse them all like death come to call, and then he brings it crashing down, not most of it, not even half, because he hasn't forgotten that these are children, that they're still young, and they can learn, they can be better, and Hadrian doesn't actually want to traumatize them permanently.

But he also remembers Draco - his world's Draco - telling him once, in a fit of aggravated exasperation during one of those times when they'd devolved into insulting each other's House traits yet again because they still hadn't understood what made the other tick, but they had also reached a point in their friendship where they'd started trying to, and kept trying.

"Slytherins respect power," Draco had said, not for the first time, but then he'd also added, for the first time, and haltingly as if he hadn't known why he'd had to explain it at all, "How else are you going to know they're worth your time? Or I guess worth befriending, in your Gryffindor terms."

"You don't decide whether or not to make friends based on how powerful someone is."

"Slytherins don't have friends. I only said friend because you're a Gryffindor and you don't understand anything else."

"Fine, you don't decide whether or not to associate with every single person you come across in your life based on how powerful they are either."

"Why not?"

"Why would you??"

"How else would you know they're strong enough to stand with you? Or competent enough to protect themselves? Power is a good starting line. If they're powerful enough, then they won't be afraid to face your enemies with you, and you can trust them to be capable of keeping themselves safe without having to keep an eye on them every minute of the day. Only brainless Gryffindors prefer doing things like throwing themselves in the line of fire and dying dramatically for each other and calling that a win. Let me tell you something, Potter - it's not a victory when you're forced to suffer a loss. You haven't won anything if you're not around to enjoy the aftermath. So the best allies must be ones who are powerful enough to not only achieve their goals but also survive them."

"…"

"Well, I will grudgingly admit that I didn't put quite that much thought into it when I was younger, but who did? …It's what I believe now though. Did I finally get it through your thick skull this time, Potter?"

After that particular conversation, Hadrian had understood a little better, even if he hadn't entirely agreed with it all. But he hadn't forgotten a single word, and Draco was right— as they are, these kids definitely aren't thinking that deeply, but Hadrian thinks that the core of it at least is the same. Slytherins respect power. And he has power in spades, so at the very least, he can make them respect him.

Of course, if that also happens to make them afraid of him, then, well, he was never aiming to be their friend or even ally anyway. So long as they leave him alone, it's fine.

He brings his magic to bear, allows the weight of it to fall and fall and fall, and he watches dispassionately as Draco goes grey, as Crabbe and Goyle's knees buckle, as Zabini flinches back like he wants to melt into the walls, as Nott curls into himself and may or may not have stopped breathing.

Hadrian catches Draco's eye, and doesn't let him look away. "I have no betters. Do I make myself clear?"

He'd spent half his life being beaten down by the Dursleys, told over and over that he was worth nothing, that he didn’t deserve food or clothes or kindness, that he was a waste of space and better off dead. He'd spent a good chunk of his Hogwarts career obliviously dancing to Dumbledore's tune, and then some more of it knowingly dancing to it because what else could he do with a target on his back. He'd spent over twenty years shackled to Voldemort, to his parents' legacy, to a war that had loved him a whole lot more than he'd ever loved it. And he'd been Fate's everything since before he'd ever even been born.

Some days, he wonders if he even knows what freedom is anymore. Or if he's ever known at all.

But one thing he is sure of is that he will never passively tolerate anyone controlling what he can or cannot do ever again.

Draco whimpers something like agreement, like deference, like surrender, and- that's enough. Hadrian reels it all back, all his magic hidden away again, and in the dizzying wake of its abrupt disappearance, Draco collapses, barely catching himself and his dignity with the edge of his bed. Crabbe and Goyle do crash to the ground, while Zabini has to steady himself against his nightstand, and Nott sways like he might faint.

Too much, Hadrian thinks distantly, and tries to feel bad about it because he really hadn't meant to go that far, but his lines in the sand have also long since blurred away beneath a tide of blood and corpses.

Mostly, he just feels tired, and it has nothing to do with his displays of magic tonight.

He breathes. Turns. Grabs a towel and his underwear and pyjamas and pretends everything's fine. It is fine, now. He's gotten what he wanted. "It's getting late. I'll shower first. Won't be long."

And then he's exiting stage right, straight into the bathroom, and it's a relief to close the door behind him.

Of course, that sentiment is one that's shared by probably every single person in the room.

-0-0-0-

3.

Theo is awake before anyone else the next morning. Or at least he thinks he is because he usually is. But everybody's curtains are drawn, and after last night, he doubts anyone was able to sleep right away, if at all, with the exception of their new roommate.

Hadrian Evans. Great Merlin, where had this person even come from? Even just the memory of his magic - vast and endless and utterly uncompromising - pressing down on them like the sky had fallen on their heads, makes his hands want to shake all over again. For a long, suspended, suffocating moment that could've lasted an eternity, Theo could've sworn he was going to die last night. And the most terrifying thing is that he is absolutely certain that Evans hadn't even been trying that hard.

Evans had radiated enough raw power to force all of them to their knees if he'd really wanted to. But he'd held back. He'd only given them a glimpse, just enough to warn them off. The rest of his magic had been out of reach, but present. It was there, reined in and waiting, but the shape of it and the depth of it had felt… unfathomable, as if it had no limits.

And that doesn't even account for the spellwork he had done. Theo had recognized the Disarming Charm, but last he checked, the average Expelliarmus only deprived a wizard of their wand. A more powerful one might send the target flying and even knock them out, but he's never heard of one that can… threaten to disarm your opponent at your leisure and - if Theo wasn't mistaken - force the wand to forsake its owner. Everybody knows that that's always a possibility in a real duel; if you win and take your opponent's wand, then that wand might not work for its owner anymore. But most of the time, you have to mean it, you have to set out with the intent to do it, the buildup of magic in the duel itself gives that intent a foundation, and there has to be an actual possibly life-threatening conflict of interest between the parties too, a real enmity that even last night - however excessive the exchange - shouldn't have qualified. Squabbles between students just don't count. If it did, with the Disarming Charm being taught in school, there would be a lot more students in need of new wands. The only way Theo can rationalize it happening anyway is that Evans must've been strong enough to compel the wand itself to leave its owner.

Pity he hadn't gone through with it in the end. Evans is powerful, but he's also… Theo is hesitant to call him soft, but if it had been Malfoy, if it had been Blaise or even himself or pretty much any other Slytherin, they would've done it. He's unsure of why Evans hadn't.

And then there had been the thing with the quill. Theo can't even explain that, and he'd mulled it over for half the night. He has the… incidental fortune of occupying the bed closest to Evans', so as soon as Evans had ducked into the bathroom last night, and the others had been distracted with pulling themselves together and possibly trying not to wet themselves, Theo had chanced a swift peek into Evans' wastebasket.

It really had looked just like any other regular quill, one that'd been burnt completely black and missing most of its barbs, but it had been a quill. He'd been tempted to open Evans' desk drawer to check the other quills, but - with Evans' ultimatum still ringing in his ears - he hadn't been that suicidal, so he'd refrained. But from what he could recall, the pack it had come from had looked just like the mass-produced writing utensils one could find in any stationery shop in Diagon Alley.

Whatever he'd done though, he had made it look like child's play. A quill and a Disarming Charm, so fast that Theo could've blinked and missed it. Could someone like that really have remained in obscurity all this time? Evans had apparently been homeschooled up until now, and they haven't even attended their first class yet, but by anyone's definition, after last night, he can't claim to be anything less than a prodigy.

It's… unbelievable. And not even because of any of the blood purity ideals that Malfoy likes to preach about. Theo doesn't think much of muggleborns or halfbloods, but he also doesn't think much of most purebloods, so he's fairly certain it's not high society prejudices that's driving his disbelief. It's just… He's never met anyone - not even his father, and Merlin knows Theo's been afraid of him for as long as he can remember - as effortlessly powerful as Evans had shown himself to be, and he doesn't understand how nobody has heard even a whisper of a rumour of this boy before he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

Someone like him shouldn't exist. Or perhaps there has been one, and that had been how the Dark Lord had made so many people bow at his feet or cower in their homes, but Theo had never met him in person, and so all he has is Evans' example to draw from. And not a single witch or wizard whom Theo's ever met could compare.

Has Evans just been hiding himself? Maybe his family hid him before they deemed him ready to face the rest of the world, and he's certainly proven that he can hide it when he wants to. But what kind of family can bring up this kind of wizard? Evans is only fourteen. None of them had thought him anything special before he'd revealed exactly how wrong they were. And he probably wouldn't have done even that much if Malfoy hadn't immediately taken a go at him, always so obsessed with making sure everyone knows he sits at the top of the food chain.

Well, he certainly doesn't anymore, and if Theo hadn't been caught up in the confrontation last night just like everyone else, he would've been tempted to applaud the spectacle of Malfoy being taken down a peg or ten. Before Evans' arrival, Theo was the one Malfoy liked to take jabs at every few days, and it was only partly because he'd had a halfblood mother. The Notts could've been said to be respectably rich once upon a time, but after the war had ended, with his father's political clout being almost nonexistent and most of their extended relatives either dead or in Azkaban, they'd been easy pickings for the Aurors. His father had escaped prison time with the Imperius excuse and some bribes, but that hadn't prevented multiple raids on their home and a hefty list of fines that had left their vaults near-depleted. And what little fortune they have left is reserved almost entirely for Theo's father's alchemy obsession that's more often focused on illegal research topics than not, as well as his black market dealings, although neither of those at least is widely known, or who knows if they would even have their ancestral manor left after the Aurors were done with them?

Malfoy loved reminding him of almost every one of those things as often as he could, and the most absurd thing is that - more than being born from a halfblood mother or poverty or loss of prestige - Theo's pretty sure Malfoy's biggest reason for disliking Theo is because Theo had refused to follow him around like Crabbe and Goyle back in first year.

So here they are now, and after three years, Theo had more or less become inured, not to mention it wasn't as if Malfoy only bullied him, or even bullied him the most - nobody could top that list while Potter and Weasley were around to fight for first place on it - but it had still been annoying and stressful because Theo was the only one who had to share a dorm with him. Considering the Malfoys' standing in society however, all he could ever do was stay silent and bear with it.

Admittedly, he'd been a little happy when Evans had been sorted into Slytherin, because between Theo and an unknown halfblood-at-best with no allies and no significant family background to speak of, the perfect prey in every way, Malfoy would definitely enjoy targeting the latter more, and even if the blond ponce still came after Theo, it would at least take some of the pressure off of him.

Now… well. That will still probably pick back up sooner or later, but Theo resents it less when he thinks about how it will take at least a few weeks before Malfoy will be able to strut around again after last night's humiliation. And also…

He thinks again of last night, of how Evans had basically smacked Malfoy down like he was nothing more than an unruly upstart getting above himself, and of that quiet oath too - I have no betters - and it hadn't even been pride or arrogance or superiority, only stone-cold certain fact.

He thinks of the fear he'd felt, but behind that, beneath that, more than that, there had also been nothing less than a breathless, heady, wondrous sense of reverence that had settled itself behind his ribcage, in his lungs, in the sudden hungry swell of curiosity that he'd just barely managed to lock behind his teeth, and it had only grown stronger after a night of fitful sleep.

He wants to see that magic again. He wants to know what else Evans can do.

And most importantly, he wants to know if he can do it too.

-0-

Ten minutes later, Theo hears Evans pull his bed curtains back. Very cautiously, he twitches his own curtains open half an inch to watch Evans get up, stretching languidly and scrubbing a hand through his messy black hair before gathering up his toiletries and a change of clothes. Like this, he looks completely normal, nothing at all like someone who could flatten all five of his roommates with a thoughtless flex of his magic. Even his eyes are just green now, no longer glowing like the light of a Killing Curse.

Of course, then Evans waves a hand at his window curtains, which obediently sweep open in response, and… yes, why not? Wandless magic seems par for the course for Evans, even if Theo has only ever heard of a handful of seventh-years capable of some very basic wandless spells if they concentrate hard enough.

Evans leaves for the bathroom as if casual uses of wandless magic is an everyday occurrence for him, and only after the door has closed does Theo let himself relax.

Evans had never even glanced over, but somehow, Theo thinks the other boy had known he was being watched anyway. But he'd said nothing, hadn't even given any indication that he'd noticed, let alone minded. Theo still isn't sure why he'd let Malfoy off so easily yesterday - because on hindsight, when it came down to it, all Evans had really done was scare them and scare Malfoy most of all; despite the verbal abuse and even the Dark charm Malfoy had shot at him, Evans hadn't actually hurt any of them in return - and Theo doesn't get it but maybe part of it is just because Evans doesn't take offence easily.

It seems unwise to Theo to not at least dole out some injuries as a reminder when that offence had been as insolent as Malfoy's, but perhaps Evans has his own measure of such things. Besides, Malfoy's known to say worse. Theo's looking forward to what happens if Malfoy forgets himself and says something even more loathsome. It's not impossible. Malfoy has been unchallenged since he came to Hogwarts. He's used to saying and doing whatever he wants, even to the upper years and those outside his own House. Most people ignore him when they can and indulge him when they can't, or otherwise manage or placate him with their own methods, but the one thing no one has ever done is tell him no, tell him to stop and make it stick. Potter and Weasley tend to give as good as they get, what with how short their tempers are, but they're louder and more obvious about it, so they get caught more often, which just makes them even angrier, so it never actually feels like they win, even when Malfoy doesn't either. Certainly, no amount of lectures or point loss has managed to deflate his ego.

But now there's Hadrian Evans. Theo doesn't need a second demonstration to know that Malfoy is outclassed in every way, but funnily enough, Malfoy himself might need it.

Theo eyes the bathroom door for a moment longer before finally getting up himself. He's barely set his feet on the rug before Blaise - in the bed on Theo's other side - also whips open his curtains, looking far more alert than he ever has this early in the morning.

For several seconds, they stare at each other in silence. And then - because he isn't sure if the other three boys in the room are awake yet - Theo pitches his voice even lower than usual and says, "He said Malfoy spoke for us."

Blaise blinks twice, and then something like distaste curves up at one corner of his mouth. "I heard."

Theo nods. They're on the same page then. Neither of them is particularly keen on this opinion that Evans has regrettably formed, Theo because of obvious reasons, and Blaise because he's Blaise.

Blaise has always been strange. He's the type who gets along with everyone and gets along with no one. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone - biased Gryffindors aside - who would say a bad word about him, but they'd probably have to think a while if you asked them to describe something of personal significance about him too. It's not that he's average - he's never failed a class, and he's especially good at Potions - but for all that he can carry a conversation in a way that makes everyone feel comfortable and included, and he could probably talk rings around a politician without making them feel stupid, he also never lets anyone close enough to actually get to know him. He's approachable, but only when he wants you to approach him. He's generous with his smiles, but sometimes, it feels a little like he's laughing at you. He might say something condescending or spiteful to you one day, but he has the kind of charisma that makes you forget that the very next. People might call him friend and invite him over for a chat or a game of chess, but most don't make any attempts to go beyond that. And if you know what to look for, as Theo has learned to do, you would realize - Blaise views the world like it's one big boring joke, and his estimation of most of the people in it is probably somewhere around the level of dancing clowns.

Theo doesn't mind. The two of them aren't friends either. They're also not enemies though, and occasionally, they can be allies, but only when Blaise feels like it. Sometimes, the other boy will distract Malfoy from messing up Theo's potion in class or launching yet another diatribe on all of Theo's deficiencies, but Theo will never ask him to because he has nothing to repay Blaise with.

It works for them. Blaise does what Blaise wants, and even Malfoy can't control him. Theo is secretly envious of that— with the Zabinis' seat of power in Italy, it means they don't have that much clout in Britain, and yet nobody messes with Blaise, not even the few who don't buy into Blaise's charm or simply hate him because he's a Slytherin. Not even Malfoy messes with him, and even Theo can't tell if it's Malfoy's self-preservation instincts kicking in to ensure that he isn't about to go insulting someone with a black widow mother like Blaise's, or if Malfoy genuinely hasn't noticed that Blaise doesn't respect him at all no matter how pleasant his words can be. Honestly, when it comes to Malfoy, there's a decent chance of either option being true.

With all that in mind though, it's not a surprise that Blaise isn't pleased with being slotted in as one of Malfoy's lackeys, especially by someone as impressive - or, as Blaise might put it, entertaining - as Hadrian Evans has swiftly proved himself to be.

"It's fine," Blaise says next, rolling out of bed to get ready for the day. He's already regained his typical lazy slouch, as if he hadn't been just as terrified as the rest of them last night. His eyes slide to the bathroom, then away, unreadable but more focused than Theo's ever seen them. "We live in the same dorm, and we'll attend at least most of the same classes. He'll see soon enough that we don't share the same opinions as Malfoy."

Theo watches him dig into his wardrobe. "And then?"

"Then?" Blaise tips a more familiar look of knowing amusement at him. "Then you do what you want, and I'll do what I want, and at the very least, we'll have the good sense to not throw ourselves straight onto a hippogriff's talons like dear Draco."

Theo smothers a snort and rises to his feet. Neither he nor Blaise take Care of Magical Creatures, but everybody had heard of Malfoy's idiocy last year. The phrase "my father will hear about this!" had reached a record high by winter's end. Not much had come of it, not when Hagrid had had the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore championing him. Even Lucius Malfoy would - and had, more than once over the years - find it difficult to contend with the British wizarding world's vaunted war heroes when they join forces. In the end, Hagrid could continue teaching so long as he did it alongside a second professor hired by the school, and even the hippogriff got to live. Malfoy had not been happy, and he'd made sure everybody knew it too, but at least he'd also whined less about it once Slytherin House had learned to snigger about it where he wouldn't hear.

But 'throwing oneself onto a hippogriff's talons' had become rather popular vernacular ever since, subtle enough that even Malfoy couldn't call anyone out on using it without embarrassing himself, but funny to everyone who understood, and nobody could even say who'd started the phrase. Theo's money would be on Blaise though.

The bathroom is spelled so that nobody outside can hear anything when the door is shut, but they can hear the lock click open just fine, and almost in tandem, he and Blaise both immerse themselves in picking out their outfits for the day as if it's a task that requires every last bit of their attention.

Evans walks out. True to his word, he ignores them completely, neither greeting them nor sparing them a glance as he moves back to his section of the dorm. Theo watches him out of the corner of his eye as the boy folds his pyjamas away before proceeding to pack his bag. He catches a glimpse of an Ancient Runes textbook, and his mind abruptly flashes back to the quill. But… that can't be right.

Evans shuts his bag, pulls on his robes, and toes on his shoes. Like this, there's something vaguely familiar about him that Theo can't place right away, and the thought is gone again as Evans slings his bag over his shoulder and strides for the door.

He still doesn't look at any of them, and he's gone from the room a moment later. They might as well have been empty air.

Theo's fingers tighten around the shirt he's holding. Somehow, he-

-doesn't like it.

-0-

Malfoy gets up two minutes after Evans is gone, moving around with an exaggeratedly unaffected sort of poise that makes Theo want to roll his eyes. At least the blond doesn't try to make conversation until Crabbe and Goyle wake up as well.

Evans aside, Theo is the first out of the room, as per usual, although this time, Blaise accompanies him up to the common room and out of the Dungeon. It takes no time at all to arrive at the Great Hall, and this early, most of the four House tables are still empty of students, although more and more are gradually drifting in in groups of threes and fours.

Unlike the other Houses who like cramming into whatever space they see, Slytherins are more political about it. The end seats are left to the outcasts or first-years who don't know better yet, while the midway point of the table is typically reserved for the most influential students, such as those with the best grades or the largest range of social connections or the strongest family background, or some combination of the three. And everybody else arranges themselves between the two extremes accordingly. The only time that changes - from what Theo has heard - is when someone is so magically powerful that they can overwhelm everyone else. Then it doesn't matter what grades or connections or background they have because magic is respected most of all, although they would usually have some qualifications in those other areas. But either way, they would be given reigning place of pride in the middle with their chosen followers around them, and everybody else would sit where they're told to sit, regardless of their accomplishments.

Someone like that hasn't come along in fifty years though, not since the Dark Lord was still at Hogwarts.

So it's jarring to see Evans seated at the very end, furthest away from the High Table, with a book open in front of him and a steaming mug in one hand, but Theo supposes it shouldn't be. He's newly transferred in, and a halfblood besides, so he probably doesn't know about the traditional seating arrangement, and since it's still just the second day of school, it's not as if anybody else outside their dorm knows that Evans is anything but the unfortunate fourth-year with a muggle surname sorted into Slytherin, so he really can be considered an outcast.

Theo exchanges a look with Blaise before tentatively taking a seat at their usual spot a few feet away from the halfway point of the table. It doesn't feel right to… go over Evans' head like this, but it's not like they can really do anything about it at the moment. Theo in particular is technically sitting above his station, but his family is still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, no matter how far it's fallen, and he gets decent grades in almost every class. He's also on friendly terms with Blaise, and the fact that he shares a dorm with Malfoy is a double-edged sword. Malfoy has the status to sit near the middle ever since he was a first-year, and it wouldn't look very good for him if he's seen completely spurning a Nott in his generation. So Theo is largely left alone so long as he looks like he's nominally part of Malfoy's group during mealtimes.

Theo spends the next five minutes sneaking sidelong glances down the table. Blaise does the same, and neither of them is obvious about it so nobody comes up to ask them any questions. Other Slytherins begin filing in, and more than one wrinkles their nose or sneers when they pass Evans, as if they've smelled something repulsive.

Theo has to make an effort not to wince every time it happens. Blaise watches with a shallow smirk hitched across his face and something cold and callous and thoroughly amused in his eyes.

By the time Malfoy - with Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him - sits down across from them, about half the table is full, plates of breakfast have started appearing, and Evans still hasn't looked up from his reading.

Malfoy - much less subtle - shoots something sulky and resentful with just a dash of fear down the table and mutters, "Doesn't even know how to sit properly."

Theo really does roll his eyes this time, although he makes sure to do it down at his scone. Before anyone can say anything else though, Evans unexpectedly straightens, his attention finally lifting from his book. Malfoy immediately stiffens as well like he thinks Evans had heard him from all the way down the table, which Theo wouldn't put past Evans's ability but also doesn't think that Evans thinks that Malfoy is worth that effort to eavesdrop on.

Evans looks around, but not at any of the Slytherins. He cranes his head over one shoulder, seems to catch sight of whatever he's looking for, and gets up, shutting his book and tossing it back in his bag. Then he's making his way across the Hall, past the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, straight over to the Gryffindor table that's only partially filled at the moment but is also hosting the Golden Trio, who had just come down for breakfast.

 Evans stops a few feet away, and Longbottom, Weasley, and Granger turn to face him. What Theo can see of their expressions indicate that they're surprised and a little wary, but they also seem like they know each other. They converse about something, Weasley makes some exaggerated hand gestures, Granger smacks him, and then Evans says something else that makes the Gryffindors burst into laughter, startled but bright.

And then Evans moves forward and-

-sits down.

At the Gryffindor table.

Longbottom and Granger are smiling, and even Weasley - with his hatred for everything Slytherin - seems fine with it, going back to plating more food for himself while passing some sausages over to Evans.

In Theo's peripheral, Malfoy's face has lost so much colour that he could pass for a ghost. Theo can't tell if he's just that offended or if he's actually managed to comprehend the fact that he's already alienated possibly the most magically powerful student at Hogwarts from Slytherin House, to the point where that student doesn't even want to eat at the same table as them, and classes haven't even started yet.

Theo can't tell, nor does he care, but if he'd ever needed any more reasons to despise Draco Malfoy, this would be it.

He averts his gaze from Evans, even if the mere thought of him preferring a bunch of Gryffindors - and those Gryffindors at that; the only ones worse would be Potter's lot - over his own House is… grating. But staring isn't going to win Theo any favours and might just tick Evans off. Besides, there are plenty of others who have noticed a Slytherin sitting with Gryffindors, and they're staring enough for ten of him.

He starts on his breakfast. School has just begun. There's plenty more time in the future to observe Hadrian Evans.

-0-0-0-

4.

Within the space of a week, Theo is cautiously pleased to find that he shares all nine classes with Evans. The core subjects are mandatory of course, but in addition to Ancient Runes, Evans also takes Arithmancy, both of which Theo is also studying, and after three weeks, he gets a slightly more detailed picture of what Evans is capable of.

In class, Evans doesn't stand out, or at least not in a way most people would notice. He doesn't take the initiative to answer questions posed by the teachers, and his spells and potions aren't particularly dazzling when they're assigned practical classwork.

But every time a professor calls on him, Evans always answers correctly. Every time they have to practice a new spell, Evans doesn't clamour to be the first to show off, and he isn't the one who produces it with the most eye-catching burst of magic, but when he's asked to show his progress, he always does it exactly the way the teacher demonstrated it at the beginning of class. Even in Potions, all he does is work discreetly in the back corner on the Slytherin side of the room. He never finishes early, but he also never finishes late, never failing to turn in a textbook-perfect potion ten minutes before class ends, and a couple times, Theo catches Snape watching Evans with an inscrutable expression after the boy quietly hands in yet another flawless potion.

After three weeks, Theo can conclude that while Evans doesn't deliberately dumb himself down, and in fact is performing spectacularly across the board, he does it in such a reserved, inconspicuous manner that even most of the professors probably aren't going to notice until they've graded a good few months' worth of homework and tests.

He does it for every subject. Every single one, except Ancient Runes, and Theo is convinced that that's less because Evans didn't try, and more that… well, some brilliance just can't be hidden.

In the third week, when Babbling hands back their first assignment - Acceptables and Poors all around of course; some days, Theo isn't sure if he wants to strangle Babbling or himself, just to put himself out of the misery that is attempting to understand anything their Runes professor says - she holds Evans back at the end of class, and half the students snicker like they think he's in trouble or did so badly that even Babbling can't stand it, and it's the best joke they've ever seen. But two days later, some papers that Evans has left out on his desk while he's off doing something else, probably with his Gryffindor buddies, catch Theo's eye while he's on his way to his own desk. More specifically, the symbol of the Department of Magical Education stamped on them catches Theo's eye, and after some very hasty and very undignified neck-straining and squinting from a prudent five feet away, he more or less understands.

Babbling hadn't held Evans back because he was doing badly. Babbling had held him back because he was doing so good he would be sitting his Ancient Runes O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams on the twenty-third of October.

Three minutes after that revelation, Theo's still sitting somewhat dazed in his chair when Malfoy returns, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. The blond also spots the papers on Evans' desk and - after suffering day after day of, in Malfoy's increasingly belligerent opinion, being disgraced by Evans due to all the time he was spending with Gryffindors, and even three of the ones Malfoy hates most - practically lights up with a malicious sort of glee at the opportunity to get a little revenge.

He seems to have already forgotten that first night's lesson, and it hasn't even been a month yet. Sometimes, Theo is honestly baffled by Malfoy's Sorting into Slytherin. What ambition is there in a boy whose solution to everything in life is to fall back on his father and surname and family money? What cunning is there to speak of when he so often acts without even considering the option of leaving himself a way out, just in case his taunts and schemes backfire on him one day?

Or perhaps the real mystery is how he's managed to go this long without anyone telling him that the world won't always bend to his demands.

"O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams?" Malfoy says loudly as he wanders over to read the papers. He scoffs. "No matter how much magic he has, there's no way that's possible. He's just a fourth-year. And a halfblood! I bet he paid Babbling to sign him up for them. Everybody knows she's not all there so Evans wouldn't even have to pay her a lot to persuade her."

Theo flicks a glance at Blaise, who'd brought up the rear, a few seconds behind Malfoy, and had entered on near-inaudible footsteps in time to witness this latest snowballing disaster. The taller boy's lip curls, and his next words come out in such a nonchalant drawl that it takes a moment for Malfoy to register the bite of them, "Why would he do that though? He's not you."

Malfoy flushes an unflattering shade of red. "Zabini! That's not funny!"

Blaise's insults are always taken as jokes. Theo thinks that's the only way Malfoy can weather them, because he doesn't truly dare to cross Blaise, so even if he does know better, he still has to feign ignorance.

"It can't be possible," Malfoy repeats, turning back to the papers. "Otherwise, why hasn't he said anything about it? If it were me, I'd let everyone know! Obviously, he knows he'll fail, so he doesn't dare to spread it around."

Theo tries to wrap his mind around that logic, fails, and gives it up as a bad job.

"Then, why is he taking them?" Crabbe suddenly pipes up, blinking with a befuddled air in Malfoy's direction.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Obviously, Crabbe, it's to impress the Boy Who Lived. You've seen how Evans is constantly fawning over Longbottom." And there's the jealousy leaking into his voice even as it strengthens as if he's gaining confidence in his conjecture the longer he speaks. "He's still just a vulgar halfblood with subpar upbringing after all. He needs political connections if he wants to make anything of himself in our world. And Longbottom's a soft touch, and an idiot besides at everything that isn't digging in the dirt. Just trying to take the exams is probably enough to make him think Evans is a genius."

He takes another step forward, almost hovering over the desk now, childish spite tarnishing his features. "Let's see what the rest of Slytherin thinks of this. We are in the same House so Evans should look for support from real purebloods. I'll help him out."

Malfoy reaches out, and Theo goes still, staring, avid and unblinking.

(Greedy.)

Hadrian Evans does not disappoint him.

Malfoy's hand lands on the papers, and it's as if a miniature explosion takes place. There's no warning as the desk ignites with enough interlocked, interwoven, bloody intricate runes to send anyone reeling. It blankets the entire desk in layers of circles and lines and eye-watering spirals, before even those disappear in a blaze of brilliant silver light that pulses once before bursting outward and knocking Malfoy clean off his feet.

Malfoy screams as he's sent flying across the room in a tangle of flailing limbs and flapping robes. Coincidentally - or not? - he lands on his bed in a graceless upside-down heap, the bag he's still wearing smacks him in the face, and the momentum tumbles him straight over the far side of his bed and onto the floor with a final muffled thump that cuts Malfoy's shriek to a yelp.

The light disappears, along with the runes. The room goes eerily quiet, and for a long moment, nobody moves.

It's Blaise who reacts first.

He laughs.

It's enough to snap Malfoy out of his stupor. The blond scrambles to right himself, pushing to his feet, fury and humiliation writ large across his face as he opens his mouth to shout, "Shut up, Zabini! Wait until my father hears about this! Evans will regret-"

There's a clatter. The door opens.

Malfoy shuts up so fast Theo wouldn't be surprised if he bit his tongue.

Evans steps inside, and then stops. He looks around, looks at his desk, looks at a still dishevelled and increasingly pallid Malfoy, and then he shuts the door behind him and heaves a very deep sigh.

"Seriously?" He asks in rhetorical tones. "I just went to borrow a library book. I couldn't have been gone for more than thirty minutes."

Nobody says anything. Evans sighs again before striding over to his desk. He raises a hand and combs his fingers through the air— or perhaps something only he could see, and that's proven correct as a runic array shimmers into existence, swirling together before reshaping itself into-

-a memory.

Specifically, it's a replay of everything Malfoy had said and done as soon as he'd gotten within three feet of Evans' belongings, complete with sound and colour. It's basically a pensieve without the pensieve or the removal of memories to supply it.

Theo wants so badly that his teeth ache with the leashed desire to ask a million questions immediately.

Patience, he reminds himself.

"Hm," Evans says once the memory's run its course, and the runes wisp away once more. Theo is both surprised and not when the other boy proceeds to pull out his chair, sit down, and dig out his library book, clearly intent to continue his work.

Behind him, Malfoy seethes, and before he can think better of it, or he simply doesn't think, he barks out, "Do you think you can treat me this way, Evans? Do you know who my father is? When I tell him about this-"

"Tell him then," Evans interjects, leaning back to slant a cool look at Malfoy. "Tell him you tried to steal my things, and my wards tossed you onto your bed, and the only thing it really bruised was your ego. Or you can lie and make up something that would make you more of a victim, and big bad mudblood Hadrian Evans bullied you terribly. What's the worst that could happen? Expulsion?" He huffs a laugh, and as far as Theo can tell, the thread of mirth that laces the sound is astonishingly sincere. "Malfoy, I don't actually care. I don't need Hogwarts."

He really doesn't. Worse comes to worst, which other school would be daft enough to not scoop him up if they see what he can do with runes? And that's not even getting into everything else he can do. Any school would accept him in a heartbeat and then laugh themselves to tears if Lucius Malfoy actually managed to get him ejected from Britain's sphere of influence on some trumped up charges just because his son went crying to him. Besides, since Evans had been previously homeschooled, he could always just return to that as well.

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does that a couple times, eyes wide in his face like he's never met anyone who has stonewalled him this way, who has challenged his authority so directly, more than once, and yet remains utterly unintimidated and untouchable.

Evidently, he never has.

Evans regards him for a few seconds more before sighing once more. "I thought I was clear enough that first night, but apparently not. When I say 'attack', I don't just mean with a wand. All my things are off-limits unless I say otherwise, so if I were you, I would keep my hands to myself. You don't want to know what my wards will do to you if they sense intentions worse than just petty theft. I hope you won't forget again."

He holds Malfoy's faltering gaze for a moment longer before turning back to his books and papers. Malfoy stumbles back a step as if he's been physically released, and he looks like he wants to pitch a temper tantrum but also doesn't dare. In the end, he storms out of the room without even straightening his robes or smoothing back his hair, and nobody tries to stop him or go after him, not even Crabbe or Goyle, who've both retreated to their beds, shoulders hunched, almost bowed, angled almost in Evans' direction.

Evans is already poring over his library book though, quill in one hand, inkwell set out, fresh parchment beside it. It's clear he's done interacting with the lot of them.

Theo almost lets it go, as he has every other time he wants to speak to Evans, to ask him questions, to know. He's already biting his tongue and swallowing down the words and opening his bag to fish out his homework.

Except-

It's been three weeks. Theo can be patient when he has to be, but more and more, it's… starting to feel like he doesn't have to be. He's had an entire childhood's worth of practice at dissecting emotions, at looking at a person's face and words and actions and taking all of them into account to figure out how they really feel, if they're angry at him or upset with him, if they're about to lash out even when they're smiling, or if there's still time to appease them even if they look like they're about to go for their wand.

Evans is harder to read than most, but at the very least, Theo can tell that he doesn't get angry often. In fact, there's only ever been that one time, that first night, and even for most of that incident, Evans had only acted to secure his own safety in their dorm once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to leave him alone otherwise. None of it had been driven by rage, not even when he'd nearly drowned them in the undertow of his magic over that particular handful of words Malfoy had jeered at him. And ever since then, Evans hasn't done anything except go about his business while ignoring theirs. That went for the rest of Slytherin too, and even some students in other Houses who don't like the fact that he's a Slytherin. Sometimes, they make snide remarks, usually behind his back, sometimes within his hearing range, and to a man, every student in their House has openly shunned him since he went to sit with the Golden Trio that first breakfast, but Evans has never given them a second glance, or really even a first glance, not out of anger or embarrassment or distress, and certainly not out of any desire for them to accept him, which just seems to offend them even more. But Evans is simply… indifferent to it all.

 Most importantly, as much as Theo has been able to conclude, Evans isn't prone to violence. He always seems calm and easygoing when he's with the Golden Trio, and quiet the rest of the time. And from the very beginning, he's never done anything to harm any fellow Slytherins, not even Malfoy. Even his wards seem to have some kind of function worked into them that would rate the level of threat first and only respond with the same degree of damage.

Actually, not the same— if Malfoy had been caught taking another Slytherin's documents without permission, important or not, it wouldn't be too much even if they cursed his hands in return. They probably wouldn't, because it's Malfoy, and people are used to being more lenient with him, but normally, even Malfoy wouldn't do something that gauche anyway. No matter how much they've spoiled him, his parents have at least taught him pureblood etiquette. He's never even tried to rifle through Theo's belongings.

 Admittedly, Theo had committed a slight faux pas as well when his curiosity had prompted him to read those Ministry forms, even if they were laid out on Evans' desk - unintentionally seeing them in passing was fine but the polite thing to do would've been to keep walking - but at least he hadn't been stupid enough to get too close, let alone put a single finger on them. Malfoy really only has his own poor impulse control to blame for going too far yet again, and Theo has every right to judge him for it.

 Although since it was Evans, Malfoy had probably categorized him as someone who doesn't deserve a pureblood's courtesy.

Even then though, Evans hadn't retaliated with anything more than the ward equivalent of a watered down Knockback Jinx, which is basically a common prank amongst rowdier students. Malfoy's pride had - once again - been hurt, but nothing else, even when it would've been Evans' right. And he hadn't gotten angry this time either.

Of course, Theo isn't foolish enough to think Evans isn't capable of violence when he wants to be. If he's pushed far enough, Theo is certain that the other boy could and would inflict some significant damage that would at least end with a visit to the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it was his magic, the relentless weight of it that said it wouldn't hesitate to crush them if they proved themselves a real threat. Or perhaps it was Evans himself, who looks at Malfoy after each stunt like he's putting up with a recalcitrant child that he has to go easy on because said child is too young to know better, except the detachment in his gaze also says that he's weighing Malfoy's age on a scale and waiting for the day his youth will no longer be able to compensate for his actions.

Frankly, Theo hopes that day will come soon. But that's his pettiness talking, and Malfoy in general is none of his concern. What Theo really wants is to learn all those things for himself. Well, not all, he's more than self-aware enough to know he's nowhere near as powerful as Evans, but some of those things - the spellwork, the runes - surely those things can be taught to others even if they don't have incredible amounts of magic? Even if it's slow-going and difficult, Theo isn't afraid to work for it.

So long as he learns even just a little of what Evans knows - and he clearly knows so much, knows the things that can actually be useful in real life - then perhaps, one day, maybe even before he graduates Hogwarts… escaping his father won't be a fool's hope anymore. And if there's a chance that he can do that, then no matter how exorbitant the price Evans names, Theo would be willing to pay it, even if it takes him the rest of his life to honour the debt.

But nothing's going to happen if they're not even on speaking terms. It's been three weeks. Already three weeks. Only three weeks. Maybe it really is still too soon, but at the very least, Theo doesn't think Evans will do anything worse than say no.

 At his back, he can feel Blaise's eyes on him, but he doesn't turn around.

 "Is that-" His voice doesn't crack, thankfully, but it comes out croakier than normal, giving away his nervousness. He bites back the urge to hex himself and tries again. "Is that taught by the time we graduate?"

 Evans… doesn't react, doesn't even look up. For several tense and increasingly awkward seconds, Theo thinks maybe the other boy will just continue ignoring him, or maybe he even thinks Theo is speaking to one of the others, not him.

 But then he writes something down and flips a page of his book, and then he raises his head and shifts away from his desk to face Theo.

 It's a little daunting, to suddenly have that piercing bright green regard aimed straight at him, but there's also no hostility that Theo can see, and that settles some of his nerves.

 Evans looks at him, then frowns, then asks in return, blunt, but amazingly, willingly enough, "You mean the wards?"

 Theo nods carefully, making sure he doesn't look too eager or too demanding. Masters of their trades are always rightfully reticent about their knowledge and skills to anyone who isn't their own mentor or apprentice, unless they're a teacher. Evans may not be a master signed and sealed and authorized to practice, but nobody who can write the exams at fourteen can be considered an amateur.

 Evans shrugs. "I haven't exactly flipped through the Ancient Runes syllabus of every year so I can't really say. If it continues at the same pace as third-year and fourth-year though, then probably not. You'd maybe get to the point of basic wards, but not much more than that. Compound wards like these-" He raps his knuckles against his own desk. "-put crudely, requires the use of runic coils to weave together multiple basic arrays, on multiple levels, in varying sequential order depending on how multifaceted you want the wards to be. It's not that difficult once you start getting some practice in, but from what I hear, you guys don't even begin practical work until after your O.W.L., which… I don't really get, but maybe Hogwarts is big on theoretical learning. But yeah, at that rate, I don't see how you could be constructing something like this by graduation."

 Theo's head is spinning. He didn't understand… anything in that summary except perhaps a general idea of "basic arrays". It's rare for him to feel so stupid.

 Evans is still watching him, and he doesn't seem impatient for their exchange to be over, or irritated that it's taking place at all. He looks like he's waiting for Theo to reply, so Theo hurries on to keep the conversation afloat.

 "So you didn't learn Runes following the Hogwarts curriculum when you were homeschooled," He surmises. "Does that mean the standards here fall short of the international schools?"

 It wouldn't be the first time. Britain's educational requirements have been growing more and more lenient for years. Correspondingly, their elective options have also been reduced to four due to budget cuts and lack of interest in anything harder than petting animals and making up death predictions. Every year, more second-years choose to sign up for Care and Divination than they do Arithmancy or Runes. It's one reason why the number of incoming students has been gradually declining and consists of more muggleborns than purebloods. Foreign schools are strict about accepting any children outside of their designated countries, but those in Great Britain and Ireland who want better for their kids and can afford the higher prices tend to prefer sending them to one international school or another instead of Hogwarts.

 But Evans shakes his head. "I wouldn't know that either. I didn't really follow any official curriculum when I was learning." He pauses a beat, like he's thinking about how much to reveal, or even why he's revealing anything, but then he seems to decide it doesn't much matter. "The person who taught me was a bit… unconventional about it. He was a very good teacher, but he wasn't actually a teacher with the degree and whatever else you need to be a Ministry-approved professor, so he didn't really care about following some checklist of what a student attending a magical school was supposed to learn. Plus he was kind of a genius at runes. Ward-cracking and disassembly in particular since that's what he majored in - he was a Curse-Breaker - but he was pretty good at almost everything else too, which meant he found the basic stuff pretty boring. So when he taught me, and he realized I didn't have any trouble getting the foundations down, and I could mostly keep up even when he skipped ahead to more advanced stuff, he basically ended up just jumping between the subjects he liked most, filled in any gaps along the way, and gave me free rein to research whatever I found interesting. And whatever topic I picked was the one he lectured on, or helped me look up if it was one of the few areas he didn't know much about."

 His expression turns wry, if only for a moment. "Apparently though, according to Babbling, that means there's nothing left for Hogwarts to teach me. But I don't know how I would compare to students in other schools."

 He finishes and falls silent. It's the most he's said since that first night, and it's clear as day that whoever this Curse-Breaker tutor was, Evans respects him a great deal, great enough to ramble on about him to a roomful of near-strangers, and considering what he'd had a hand in molding Evans into, he deserves every bit of that respect too.

 Theo envies it. He is oft a creature of envy, and it hollows him out a little more every time it rears its head, but he's resigned to it. He wonders why Hogwarts can't have a teacher like Evans' instead of the whimsical mess that is Babbling, who can never get through a single class without her train of thought wandering away like an untrained dog off its leash.

 "Then," Theo continues, carefully neutral, carefully watching for any signs of displeasure on Evans' face. "Once you pass your exams, will you simply have an extra study period slot? Or will you be required to attend another elective?"

 Evans blinks at him. "The first, I think. I might see if it's possible to take an owl-distance university course or something, but spare time in my day isn't bad either."

 "Then," Theo forges on, watching as Evans's mouth twists a little, like he knows that this is what Theo has been aiming for from the beginning. Theo can't tell if he disapproves though - he doesn't think so - and it's too late to divert his course anyway. "What do you think about tutoring?"

 Evans cocks an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything for several anxiety-inducing seconds, just scrutinizing Theo with a face blank enough to rival Snape's when he bothers to stop sneering. The quill in Evans' hand taps-taps-taps against his desk before the boy swings around in his chair completely to face Theo.

 "Tutoring," He repeats. "You want me to tutor you in Ancient Runes?"

 And at least he doesn't sound derisive, nor does he put any particular emphasis on any part of that question. It does make it harder for Theo to gauge how he should respond though.

 "Yes," He confirms, because straightforward seems to be what Evans prefers. He thinks, briefly, of including Blaise, but he doesn't actually know if Blaise would like tutoring as well, and even if he does, Blaise can ask for himself. Theo isn't that charitable, and Blaise might even take offense if he tries to be.

 "I can compensate you for your time," He adds, because he's poor by pureblood standards, but not so poor that he can't afford decent education, especially with the nest egg he's been secretly building on the side since he turned eight and realized his inheritance was only going to get smaller at the rate his father was drawing from it for his… extracurriculars. His seven years at Hogwarts at least have already been paid for, robes and supplies and even some pocket money included, because even Silas Nott isn't going to let his son go into public at even more of a disadvantage than he already is. So as long as Evans doesn't ask for a huge sum of money, or even if he does, and he's willing to take part of that payment in favours, then Theo should have enough from his own funds to cover the cost.

 Evans leans back in his seat and doesn't say anything about payment. Instead, he looks almost puzzled as he asks, "Why do you need tutoring though? Even if you want to learn stuff like this," He motions at his desk. "I wouldn't be able to even start teaching you how until you got at least the basics down, and that's what Hogwarts teaches, so is there any point in getting more of the same lessons from me?"

 For a moment, even Theo can't come up with a way to say 'yes, because Babbling can't teach worth a damn, and I don't actually know how I passed last year but I definitely won't this year with the way her lectures keep getting lost somewhere between class and Atlantis every bloody week' but in more polite terms, if only because Evans might not appreciate anyone badmouthing her since she's obviously the one vouching for Evans' qualifications in order to let him take his exams so early.

 Fortunately, Blaise has no such compunctions.

 "Have you seen the way Babbling teaches?" The other boy enquires in his usual lackadaisical tone, just aggrieved enough to sound invested, but mild enough to leech the provocation out of it. It also gives Blaise a foot in through the door, drawing Evans' attention to him without making it seem as if he's interrupting.

 Theo glances behind him at where Blaise is now lounging in his own desk chair, emptying his bag of textbooks and papers even as he glances over to meet Evans' gaze, and his expression has eased into an invitation to commiserate over Babbling's questionable teaching methods. All of it is designed to look casual and cordial, to keep this fragile first exchange lighthearted, if also full of a resigned sort of exasperation, funnelled together in order to lower Evans' guard.

 And it seems to work too, like it does with everyone Blaise turns his charms on. At the very least, the way Evans' mouth quirks in response looks reflexive enough to be genuine.

 "That's fair," Evans concedes, a wry sort of humour suffusing his voice. "She's not the best at… staying on topic."

 Theo has to suppress a snort, but something of it must show on his face anyway because Evans' eyes snap back to him, and a moment later, a quicksilver grin flits across the other's face, bright in a way that lights up his whole face, and perhaps Blaise will have to try harder after all because Theo realizes that this is what genuine looks like on Evans.

 "Okay, I get why you might want a tutor," Evans acknowledges. "But isn't there anyone better for that?"

 Theo blinks at him. "Better than someone who's ready to take his exams in a month?"

 Evans' eyebrows go up briefly, and something in his eyes sharpens. "No. Better than someone who's a halfblood orphan in Slytherin, stuck in a one-sided grudge-match with a pureblood brat who has all the maturity of a toddler and isn't going to be very happy if his friend starts hanging around the guy he wants to curse into the Hospital Wing."

 Orphan? is Theo's first thought, followed by, I wish Malfoy was around to hear that. But all of it is superseded by a defiance that bursts out of him before he can curb it, "We're not friends."

 Evans waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Slytherins don't have friends. What I mean is-"

 "No," Theo says, wincing internally at how he'd cut Evans off mid-sentence. "I mean, we aren't friends. Normally, we aren't even civil acquaintances most days."

 Evans eyes him for a long moment like he can hear all the things Theo isn't saying. Theo's pretty sure Evans doesn't know about his family's circumstances - How would he? Why would he even care to look it up? - but he seems to be able to glean at least the gist of it in a single glance because he seems to accept it easily enough, and the next thing he says is, "Alright, but that doesn't change the fact that he's still not going to be happy about it."

 "Good," Theo says, once again before he can stop himself, and with more relish than he should convey. Even if he's often thought that anything that made Malfoy unhappy was a good thing, he's certainly never expressed it out loud. He doesn't know what's come over him, only that there's something about the way Evans is watching him, patient and without judgement, that makes him… bolder than he normally would be.

 And since he's already opened his mouth, he might as well keep going.

 "So long as you're willing, I don't mind what other people might say," Theo says as firmly as he knows how to be. "I need to raise my grades for Ancient Runes before I take my OWLs next year or I'm never going to pass. I would appreciate any tutoring you can spare the time for." He hesitates, but only for a beat. "If you want, in addition to monetary compensation, I can also snub Malfoy at dinner somehow. And you would know it wouldn't just be some show we put on either. Malfoy doesn't have it in him to be humiliated in public, even as a stunt."

 It's far more outspoken and far more audacious than Theo is accustomed to being, and he can feel Blaise's eyes on him again. But he gets the impression that if he doesn't put his cards on the table - that he really does want to learn from Evans, that it's his main motivation, even if it isn't the only one - then Evans might think Theo is playing some kind of trick on him, possibly on Malfoy's orders, and that's the last thing Theo wants him to believe.

 Besides, this is also an opportunity. Theo had been resigned to living under Malfoy's temperamental rule for the duration of his Hogwarts career. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be doing more of the same as an adult, after all. Considering the difference in their social status, Theo would still have to bow his head, and jump when told to jump, and remain courteously - or at least forbearingly - deferential in front of Malfoy whenever they see each other. At least this more childish version at school is giving him plenty of practice for the future.

 But now, there is Hadrian Evans, whose existence no one had expected and no one thus far can control, who isn't afraid of Malfoy, whom Malfoy is afraid of instead, and Theo honestly can't see that changing. Of course, the real world is very different from some squabbles between teenagers, and Theo has only known Evans for less than a month. But… call it instinct. Even if one day the Malfoy family can really make it so that Evans can no longer live well in Britain, Theo gets the sense that the other boy would rather up and move to a different country than ever submit to anyone.

 People with inborn power like Evans won't bow. They don't know how to.

 And if Theo can get even a fraction of that protection that openly siding with Evans might earn him, then the choice is obvious. He's long known that he isn't powerful enough or ambitious enough or even brave enough to stand on his own. That in order to thrive, or even to simply live a satisfactory life, it would be best to choose someone's shadow to settle in. Preferably, that someone would be willing enough to leave Theo alone most of the time and wouldn't ask too much of him, but he already knows he wouldn't be able to get that from his father or Malfoy.

 Then, there's no point clinging to either of them. Before, there had been no other choices, and between his father and Malfoy, Malfoy was the better bet, though it wasn't as if the blond ponce could've gotten him out from under Silas Nott's thumb either. But at least being - loosely - affiliated with Malfoy would, in the future, offer Theo some protection from his father's obsessive tendencies. It wouldn't do for one of Malfoy's circle of acquaintances to disappear under mysterious circumstances after all.

 Now there's a new player on the field. Of course, Evans probably doesn't see himself as one, and wouldn't care even if he knew. But that doesn't change the fact that his shadow casts a long and looming line, and somehow, it feels more like a refuge than anyone else's Theo has ever come across. Evans might not be willing to protect him, if only because he would have to make himself known to do so, and if there's one thing Evans has shown over the past few weeks, it's that he much prefers staying in the background. But even if he isn't willing to protect Theo, at the very least, he can teach Theo how to protect himself. So, Theo might as well take his chances with Evans, and the first step in doing that is to make it very clear to all and sundry that he's throwing his lot in with the halfblood Slytherin transfer.

 He hadn't quite been prepared to go this far when he'd first decided to speak to Evans today, but doing things by half measures doesn't bode well for him either. Prevaricating or at least being vaguer about his intentions might leave him an extra hand to play, a way to retreat in case associating with Evans becomes too dangerous one day, but no one likes a fence-sitter.

 In Slytherin, every decision is a power play, whether it seems like it or not. An insignificant word or action might result in large consequences that aren't always obvious until the waves and ripples have settled. And Theo's never been much of a gambler, preferring safety over potential riches. But the things he can learn from Evans are too tempting to pass over. Put in plain terms, he's technically using Evans as a means to an end, which no one in Slytherin wouldn't approve of, but for a good chunk of this House, Evans' blood would definitely outweigh any usefulness he might have, especially since he hasn't publicly proven himself in any way at all. And the way he spends all his free time with Gryffindors hardly helps.

 Still, it's a risk Theo's willing to take. And now the Quaffle is in Evans' hands, and all that's left is to wait for his answer.

 Of course, if Evans says no, then Theo can only hope Blaise is feeling magnanimous today and won't go spreading this little story around. Then again, there's Crabbe and Goyle too, and they'll definitely tell Malfoy, so it will get out either way.

 Such is Slytherin, where the only shared secret you can trust to remain a secret is when all other parties are dead.

 In front of him, Evans only raises his eyebrows for a moment before amusement quirks one corner of his mouth. "Well you don't have to go that far."

 Theo can't tell if the other boy understands the implications of publicly cutting ties with Malfoy, but he's relieved to hear it anyway. He'd do it if it's a condition Evans sets, if only to alleviate any concerns Evans might have of being played, but it's not as if he wants to do it. He would happily see Malfoy humiliated any day of the week, but Theo is at heart an introverted person. Open confrontation of any kind will always make him uncomfortable.

 Evans studies him for a while longer as if weighing his sincerity. Eventually, he says, "I'm not opposed to tutoring. Actually, I'm already doing that for Hermione every Wednesday and Saturday. Adding one more doesn't make much of a difference. It's just that I don't love tutoring so much that I want to do it more than twice a week. So," He smiles, and this time, his expression is one of a sharp sort of curiosity. "If you want me to tutor you, then you'll have to be okay with Hermione. And I don't just mean tolerating her presence enough to sit at the same table as her. I mean if you say one bad word about her blood, I'll take that as an attack on me and react accordingly. Understand?"

 Theo blinks once, twice, digesting that ultimatum with something like disbelief because- "Is that all?" And then, because it couldn't possibly be that easy, he hastily tacks on, "How much would you like to be paid?"

 Evans blinks back at him, looking like he's re-evaluating Theo on the spot. Then he makes a dismissive gesture and says, "I'm not short on money. Also I don't make Hermione pay so it wouldn't be fair if I made you pay." He sits back with a finality that starts bringing an end to their conversation. "Wednesdays and Saturdays, 4-6pm in the library. I know we share all the same classes so that shouldn't be a problem for you. Showing up isn't mandatory, you can just come whenever you want, and I'll tutor you in whatever you need help with. My only condition is that you treat Hermione with basic respect. Of course," His mouth twists into a strange smile. "That goes for her too. And her friends if they happen to stop by."

 Theo has to suppress a grimace at that, but it's mostly out of reflexive distaste. Even if Weasley starts flinging insults, he's sure he's heard worse than anything a Gryffindor could come up with, and his tolerance is high, so it doesn't much matter whether Evans can prevent it or not. Actually, it's already pretty novel that he would try at all. This is by far the easiest and weirdest deal Theo has ever been offered, which only makes him that much more suspicious, but Evans also adds no other terms, so Theo is forced to conclude that this really is all Evans wants from him.

 The sheer unfairness of what each party is bringing to the table is jarring. Does Evans not understand what's happening here or is he seriously willing to offer up his time and knowledge on a silver platter at basically no cost?

 Part of Theo wants to ask again, to make sure Evans really doesn't want anything else, but since they've come to this point, even if Evans were to ask for something in the future, Theo would have no obligation to give it. It's admittedly somewhat uncomfortable, to receive so much in exchange for giving back so little when he wasn't even the one manipulating Evans towards this outcome, but at the same time, wouldn't he just be stupid if he keeps pushing the issue? Complaining about not having to spend any money or owe any favours seems rather counterproductive, and even though Theo is willing to pay for a chance like this, that doesn't mean he wants to if he doesn't have to. Of course, he supposes it isn't very honourable of him to not at least insist on some form of compensation, but that's why Theo isn't a Gryffindor.

 So then.

 "Very well, I agree to your terms," Theo says, letting himself relax a bit more when Evans' expression doesn't change. And because even a Slytherin should acknowledge genuine goodwill, he shoves past his own discomfort and manages, if a bit stiffly, "Thank you, Evans."

 Evans makes a face that's something left of embarrassed. "It's just tutoring, you don't have to be so formal. Besides, you're still the one who's going to have to put up with Malfoy pitching a fit once he finds out."

 Theo almost shrugs. That's not anything new. He might have to field some curses hurled his way once other Slytherins realize he's no longer under Malfoy's "protection" and is seen spending time with a halfblood, but it's not as if he has no way of protecting himself from most spells that a student can get away with using in public at Hogwarts. He already has a few family wards set up around his bed too, so Malfoy can't get to him while he's asleep, and the only time he spends in the Common Room is when he's crossing it to leave the Dungeon or return to his dorm, so his Housemates aren't likely to be able to corner him there either. So long as he's careful, he'll be fine.

 Blaise's voice cuts into his thoughts, speaking this time with the lightest touch of concern seeping out from behind a thin veil of indifference that would've fooled even Theo if Theo didn't know the way Blaise can change his approach like he's changing clothes depending on his assessment of the person he's talking to. "You sure you don't need to ask Granger first before letting a Slytherin join your tutoring sessions? She might not be too happy to have Theo there. And her friends definitely won't."

 Evans' attention shifts again, and as with Theo, his gaze is neither friendly nor hostile, but it's different all the same in a way Theo can't quite name. "Is that my problem?"

 The room is quiet for a beat.

 Evans smiles, careless, casual. "I'm the one doing the teaching. Who I teach should be up to me, shouldn't it?"

 Blaise stares, unblinking, hands finally gone still. "Aren't those Gryffindors your friends though?"

 "Sure," Evans agrees. "Still doesn't mean they get to tell me what to do just because they're biased against Slytherins." He shakes his head. "I doubt it'll be much of a problem though. Like you said, they're my friends, and aren't I a Slytherin too?"

 Nobody says what Theo is certain they're all thinking— that in many ways, Evans isn't anything like your average Slytherin.

 (And in others, Evans is the very epitome of one, but the Golden Trio probably doesn't know that, do they?)

 "Are you saying other Slytherins are welcome in your tutoring sessions then?" Blaise says next, and it's the most straightforward Theo has ever seen him, skipping at least three prevarications and five backhanded compliments that Theo could've sworn Blaise would normally include just because he doesn't know any other way to speak. Apparently not.

 Except Evans' response is to huff a breath that sounds like laughter, except not in any way they've heard before, not as amicable, and Theo sees Blaise's smile grow a little fixed.

 If they were in the business of distributing vices, then excessive hubris would undoubtedly go to Malfoy, but only because Blaise doesn't have the same reckless self-defeating habit of flaunting what he has everywhere and retaliating like a rabid lapdog the moment he feels slighted, the latter of which is helped along by the fact that he doesn't hold many people in high enough esteem for them to offend him. After all, you wouldn't get mad if a ghost or a goblin or even a house-elf - as unlikely as that is - is rude to you, would you? At most, you'd punish the latter and move along with your day. And for those who do register enough as people in Blaise's eyes, well, Blaise far prefers retaliating when the other party least expects it.

 It's the same now, in the way Blaise blinks twice rapidly but doesn't otherwise react. Of course, since this is Evans, he won't be able to retaliate later either, not with any kind of success, so it's doubly impressive that the other boy manages to keep his pride nailed down and tucked away.

 "You know," Evans says lazily, mirth or perhaps mockery gleaming in his eyes. "You could just ask. Take a leaf out of Theo's book; it wastes less time."

 Because even Blaise's straightforwardness needs to take a stroll or two around the block first, and apparently, Evans had caught onto that possibly since the first time Blaise had opened his mouth since this conversation began.

 Blaise's lips thin, but after a moment of no doubt weighing the pros and cons, he shrugs gracefully like it doesn't sting and asks, "Then, may I join your tutoring sessions, Evans? I would also appreciate some assistance with my Ancient Runes studies. Of course, I will abide by the terms you've set as well."

 Theo listens and wonders just how much self-control those three sentences took. Before today, he hadn't even known Blaise was capable of it, and the fact that he is, for this, actually says a lot more about his regard for Evans than Theo had realized even just a minute ago.

 At least Evans doesn't make it harder for Blaise than that.

 "Sure," The other boy acquiesces with the air of a predator sitting back on its haunches. "On your own head though."

 At this, a trace of a smirk - his real one, beatific in its cruelty, instead of his regular fit-for-public one - cuts across Blaise's face for the span of a heartbeat. "No problem."

 Evans levels another long look at him before shaking his head with another twist of a smile. "Okay then. We're all good now?" He looks from Blaise to Theo and even spares half a glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before nodding, satisfied. "Fantastic. Back to work for me."

 He spins back around to face his desk, reaching for his quill, and the rest of the day passes as usual, without another word traded between them, even when they all get up for dinner. Malfoy comes back shortly before that, stalking over to his section of the dorm with the mulish single-minded intensity of someone unwilling to even acknowledge Evans' existence, although that probably won't last once he finds out what Theo and Blaise have agreed to.

 Later, in private, Theo remarks to Blaise, "I didn't expect you to care so much about your Ancient Runes grades."

 Blaise slants an indecipherable look at him even as a shallow smile stretches the width of his mouth. "Who wouldn't care about their grades when someone's offering to help raise them for free?"

 It's a rhetorical question and answers approximately nothing, but Theo wasn't expecting anything of substance anyway.

 Besides, when it comes down to it, he supposes it's not so surprising that Blaise can also see which way the wind is blowing, hard enough to tell anyone with decent enough instincts that a major shift in power is imminent.

 And no one likes a fence-sitter.

 -0-0-0-

 5.

 Hadrian would like it to be known that he isn't quite sure how he's gotten to this point in his life.

 Well, that's a lie, he sort of knows, or at least he can pinpoint all the decisions that got him from Point A to Point B, but he supposes he just wasn't expecting a couple Slytherins whom he'd always assumed - even back in his original world - were just Malfoy's lackeys in school, to commit, and commit hard. They hadn't even participated in the war on either side, as far as he was aware— Nott had died relatively early on under mysterious circumstances, and Zabini had by all accounts returned to his home country. To Hadrian, they'd been little more than faces in the background that he'd never even exchanged five words with in total before coming to this world.

 But within the first week after they've asked to join his tutoring sessions, Nott and Zabini - Slytherin/Pureblood Rule Number Who-Knows-What: you can't use someone else's first name until you're invited to - make it really fucking obvious who they're… supporting? Have sided with? Because Slytherin is a nest of brewing factions and shifting alliances and political doublespeak and even a couple blood feuds, and this is precisely why Hadrian doesn't want anything to do with this House.

 Except apparently, agreeing to tutor Nott and Zabini means he's… joined the power struggle? Formed his own faction? Decided to vie for in-House supremacy and possible world domination? Who knows because Hadrian sure doesn't, and he's determined not to know, because surely if he just continues doing his own thing, it'll become clear sooner or later to all and sundry that he has no interest in fighting a bunch of schoolchildren over whatever they think he wants to fight for.

 It's just that he can't quite do that either, because not even three weeks after Nott and Zabini start joining him in the library every Wednesday and Saturday with a wary but accepting Hermione, something that translates to them moving their seats to sit with him in class and - when they can make it look natural, if still deliberate - walking with him in the hallways, the displeasure and animosity in Slytherin House reaches breaking point.

 It's not as if Hadrian hasn't already been the target of multiple hexes and curses from his own Housemates. He's a halfblood who hangs out with Gryffindors— it's to be expected. But so far, the spells have always been in the realm of reasonable, ones that might make him trip down the stairs or rip his bag or screw up his potion, and he's been able to block or avoid them all, so he'd figured it wasn't that big a deal. He'd put the fear of a Horntail in Malfoy early on because he has to live with the berk, and he doesn't much feel like returning after a long day of classes just to have to butt heads with him every single time. But he basically has no intersections with the rest of the House, so he just hasn't bothered paying attention to any of them.

 Then, perhaps rather suddenly, Nott and Zabini are there, not so much orbiting him as they do hover from afar. But they join his tutoring sessions, and they're serious about learning from him, listening earnestly and asking questions and even checking out the books he recommends they read if they have time. There are holes in even the most simple of their fundamental knowledge of Runes - Babbling, read a how-to book on teaching for Merlin's sake - so Hadrian has to more or less start from the ground up, as he had with Hermione, but both of them quickly prove themselves more than intelligent enough to keep up, and they're startling enthusiastic - by Slytherin standards - about everything he teaches them. Nott is more obvious - more ravenous - about it, but even Zabini - who likes to pretend he's only there for the novelty of it or something and therefore tends to play up a laidback sort of indifference - never fails to complete the optional exercises Hadrian writes up for them once a week.

 And outside of the tutoring sessions, it's like they've decided that being tutored by him means that he's now their new Malfoy or something. Not that Malfoy was their Malfoy before, if Hadrian had understood Nott correctly, but they'd at least acted like they were part of Malfoy's groupies. Now they've done a one-eighty, and it's not as if they follow him around all the time the way Crabbe and Goyle do with Malfoy, honestly if you don't count classroom and dorm room, they're not even around him half the time, especially Zabini, but when they are around, when they move their cauldrons next to his in Potions class despite working separately, when they go down to breakfast with him despite splitting off at the entrance, when they trail behind him back to the Slytherin Dungeon after a tutoring session, they're so damn conspicuous about it that they might as well be waving neon-bright signs above their heads.

 In contrast, they don't even sit next Malfoy during mealtimes anymore, much to the blond's increasing red-faced ire that vaguely resembles a Silenced teakettle on the brink of boiling over. But now they sit at the end of the Slytherin table, which Hadrian has gradually gathered that that's not a good thing, but he doesn't know how to fix it either, and neither Nott nor Zabini seems to mind.

 They also talk to him now, not often, not just in private, and not just about Runes, although that does still take up the majority of their conversation topics, if only because they don't know each other that well yet. But in their dorm or in class or in the library or in the halls, sometimes, Nott would say something completely normal, like whether or not he owns an owl or if he's noticed Snape's increasingly intent attention on him or if he's found the secret passageway connecting the Dungeons to the sixth floor yet because climbing six flights of moving stairs isn't what anyone would call a good time. Zabini on the other hand prefers sharing obscure gossip that even most of Slytherin isn't aware of, sordid little secrets like whose parent has a mistress (or three) on the side that will very likely cause an inheritance problem down the road, who killed a cousin over the summer due to jealousy but has done a decent enough job of covering it up as an accident because said cousin had been the heir apparent, and even who had to go to Pomfrey for an Abortion Charm just last week but will likely have to break her betrothal contract - and consequently have her magic bound, as per the terms of said contract - in the future anyway because there's no hiding the loss of her virginity from the olde family magicks no matter how frantically she searches for a way.

 To the former, Hadrian responds the way he would if Neville or Ron or Hermione were to ask him similar questions. To the latter, he says, "You have serious issues, Zabini."

 Nott never smiles, but his body language is a little less closed off and his eyes look a little less hunted with every random conversation they have. Zabini is almost always smiling, and in response to Hadrian's incredulity, he only laughs like it's the grandest joke he's ever heard.

 They grow on him, is the thing. One's probably abused at home, and the other is honestly half a psychopath already, and Hadrian shouldn't care but he's always had a bit of a soft spot for broken people, people who don't quite fit in no matter how well they fake it, people who remind him of himself. And the war he'd survived had only served to destroy what little compunctions he'd ever had about getting too close to dangerous things.

 So they grow on him, day by day, and half a month in, the other Slytherins apparently can't handle it anymore.

 Hadrian's just coming back from dinner. Nott and Zabini are with him, having joined him once he'd bid Neville, Ron, and Hermione goodnight. They're halfway across the common room when Hadrian catches movement in his peripheral, and he has half a second to decide what to do, to abort the reflex to go for his wand, to cancel the shield ward sparking at his fingertips, to pivot around on the spot and abruptly swing himself right into Nott's personal space, which means Nott immediately puts on the brakes, and - behind him - Zabini has to do the same.

 Hadrian senses more than feels the curse that grazes the back of his robes and splashes against the far wall between a pair of suspiciously empty armchairs in an area that's normally a popular hangout spot. There's no sound, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way it oozes a sickly viscous purple that puddles to the ground and eats straight through the carpet before finally evaporating into nothing.

 He doesn't turn his head, doesn't challenge anyone into a duel the way his hands are itching to do. Instead, even before the spell disappears, he's already asking, "Did you copy down the Potions assignment from today? I just remembered I forgot."

 In front of him, Nott's turned three shades whiter, and he's already pale-skinned to begin with, so he obviously recognizes the spell. Zabini clearly does as well if the way he's gone gargoyle-still is anything to go by.

 If they'd continued walking, that curse would've hit Nott right in the ribcage. His left ribcage.

 A beat of silence passes. Then Nott takes a breath and answers in a voice that doesn't waver but is even more inflectionless than usual. "Yes, I wrote it down. I can show you."

 "Cool, thanks, let's go."

 Nobody else speaks, nobody even moves, as Hadrian leads the way back to their dorm.

 Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle aren't back yet so they have the room to themselves. As soon as the door is shut, Nott almost slumps onto his bed, hands shaking. Zabini pulls out his chair to sit, a smile hooked at one corner of his mouth, but absolutely nothing about the rest of him says amusement.

 (Slytherins don't have friends, and Zabini doesn't seem to know how to have friends, but Nott's probably the closest to one that his disposition will ever allow.)

 Hadrian looks from Nott to Zabini and back, and then he asks, "Who was that boy? The one surrounded by that group by the fireplace."

 The one who'd fired the spell. Don't think just because a bunch of students were arranged in front of him that Hadrian had missed the way his arm had moved, the jab of a wand, the blossom of light at its tip before the curse had flown across the room. Did they think he was blind?

 Nott blinks up at him, features still pinched. It's Zabini who answers, soft as silk, "Malcolm Avery, seventh-year."

 Hadrian takes a moment to digest that, to press that face into his memory before filing it away for later. He focuses on his roommates again instead and presses on, "Has this sort of thing happened before?"

 Because even if they're spending time with him, Nott's an old pureblood name, isn't it? And Zabini is Zabini, and everybody's heard of his mother. Even if they're shunned a bit, jeered at a bit, even hexed a bit, any serious assaults should only be aimed at Hadrian, right?

 Well, apparently not. That curse earlier had been a much Darker cousin of the Bone-Vanishing Spell, a variation on the more public-friendly Bone-Breaking Curse. If Hadrian hadn't seen it coming, if he hadn't stopped Nott in time, that thing would've not only shattered the left half of Nott's ribcage but also stabbed the resulting fragments directly into the nearest organs before dissolving into the bloodstream as a lethal poison— in this case, it would've been the heart and a lung. Nott would've been dead in under a minute, drowning in his own blood in extreme pain, and it's a tossup if even Hadrian would've been able to save him.

 Zabini - unsurprisingly - shakes his head. For all that he doesn't have an old bloodline to rooted in Britain, he still has enough family clout to grant him a strong backing. And that's not counting his own means of protecting himself. Hadrian had actually gotten the feeling very early on, from the moment they'd had their first conversation, and he'd only been proven right as they'd gotten to know each other a little better— Zabini has all the best traits of a quintessential Slytherin. And thereby also all of the worst. Magic-wise, Hadrian can overpower him in a second, but that's why Zabini knows not to make an enemy of him, knows how to bend and stretch and profit while he's at it. He doesn't need anyone to protect him.

 Nott on the other hand doesn't reply right away, and when he does, it's an evasive, "Spells like that would be an instant expulsion from Hogwarts, especially coming from a Slytherin, and from a seventh-year, they'd go straight to Azkaban. There are portraits all over the school. I'm not stupid enough to wander into places where there aren't any."

 Hadrian aims a flat look at him. "That's not what I asked."

 Nott purses his lips and stares at his lap. Hadrian waits him out.

 "…They've tried cornering me," Nott finally admits, grudgingly, almost resentfully. "There's no avoiding a couple areas with no portraits. But they never used a curse this Dark before, and I've always been able to slip away."

 Hadrian swallows the first three things he wants to say, to shout, because at his core, he likes to think he has a long fuse, but when someone crosses his line in the sand, his temper has always been explosive and violent, which won't help here.

 Besides, hadn't he more or less told these two to handle the consequences of letting him tutor them on their own? Even if they weren't Slytherins and actually had the mind to reach out for help, they probably wouldn't have come to him after what he'd said, so he has no one to blame but himself and the fact that he'd underestimated just how deep some Slytherins' senseless hatred runs.

 So he breathes through his first instinct, his second, his third, and then he pushes off the desk he'd been leaning on in favour of pulling out parchment and ink and the appropriate books.

 "Alright, come here," He beckons, spreading everything out on his desk. "I'm gonna teach you a Fourfold Rebounder Ward so you can wear it on you from now on. The variation I'm thinking of has a chameleon element, so it'll be both strong enough to deflect a curse on the level of the one from earlier and also camouflage it when it's bounced back at whoever attacked you. It's based off of intent too, so it won't act up in a scuffle or a practice duel or something, the other person has to really want to harm you with deadly intent, so keep your guard up for other stuff, and honestly, this should just be for emergencies, you should still try to dodge it because it's not good to grow overly dependent on stuff like this. I'm confident the runes won't fail when I'm the one making it but your reflexes will get rusty if you get lazy. It's a bit- okay, a lot more difficult than anything you're learning right now, but I'll do most of the work, you just watch and provide the magic at the end, and once your foundation is a bit more stable and we can move ahead to more interesting things, I'll come back to this first so you'll be able to learn how to do this yourselves one day."

 A long silence follows. Hadrian looks up. Neither of his roommates has moved. "What's wrong?"

 Another few seconds tick by. It's Zabini who gets up first, an odd smile on his face, one that Hadrian's never seen before. But all he says is, "Nothing's wrong. I was just hoping if we waited a bit, Malfoy will get back in time to see what we're doing and finally keel over from high blood pressure."

 Hadrian snorts with laughter. "Get over here. If that really happened, we'd be the ones who'd have to waste time carrying him up to the Hospital Wing."

 Zabini's expression says that that wouldn't be his problem but he only smirks and saunters over to Hadrian's desk with his chair. When they both turn to look, Nott is already on his feet as well. He doesn't say anything, but he looks steadier, and he's watching Hadrian with a strange gleam in his eyes that makes them look almost feverish.

 They settle down around him, eager - by Slytherin standards - to learn in a way that reminds Hadrian exactly why he likes to teach.

 He gets to work, explaining each step even though he knows most of it is going over their heads. That's fine though; for now, these wards just need to protect them properly, and in the future, he'll teach them how to protect themselves.

 -0-

 Of course, things aren't over just like that, because Hadrian's temper is an explosive and violent beast, and the only things that's changed from when he was still a teenager is the fact that he's gotten a lot sneakier about it as an adult.

 They aren't friends. But Nott and Zabini are his roommates and his students and kids that he's starting to genuinely care about, and nobody gets to walk away scot-free after fucking with the people under Hadrian's care so long as he's still alive to do something about it.

 Malcolm Avery is seventeen anyway. That's an adult by any magical community's measure, which means Hadrian doesn't have to hold back.

 It takes a week. A week of slipping out after curfew and eavesdropping on conversations, of finding out what the seventh-year's next practical Potions class will be working on and scanning all of Avery's belongings to see what Dark spells he's been mucking about with, and finally of filching Avery's cauldron for an afternoon while he's in class and replacing it before he returns to his dorm.

 When it happens, Hadrian isn't even in school. Even if he were, it wouldn't matter because he'd made sure to time everything just right, and all the fourth-years - and most of the rest of the student body too - are already in the Great Hall waiting for lunch to be served. Seventh-year Potions is in the morning block, and Avery always goes overtime when there's a practical.

 Hadrian isn't even in school, sitting his Ancient Runes exams at the Ministry all day instead, but he certainly hears all about it when he gets back that evening.

 A few minutes before noon, a silver doe Patronus comes bounding up from the dungeons with an urgent summons for Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Nobody hears what is said, but the three staff members rush off even as the food begins to appear, and nobody hears from them again until half an hour later when whispers start going around about Healers from St. Mungo's being called and one Malcolm Avery being carried out the front doors on a stretcher because his condition is too unstable to be transported through the Floo. The professors don't really tell them anything except that there was a Potions accident, but - as these things do because the rumour mill at Hogwarts is healthier than ever, and there'd still been a few other seventh-years in class with Avery at the time - everyone more or less knows what happened anyway by the time afternoon classes start. Potions is cancelled for the rest of the day, because no one else was injured but Snape was too busy furiously documenting what had happened after running multiple diagnostic spells over the remains of Avery's cauldron to teach. Also, he has to submit said documentation and a Pensieve memory to the Aurors investigating the accident, which doesn't exactly say great things about his mood, so nobody's unhappy about being able to give Potions a miss.

 Apparently, Avery had been using his cauldron to make other potions - banned potions - in his dorm room. His roommates had been willing enough to keep mum and even give him a hand, and the book he'd been learning from had been found in his trunk. Thankfully, he hadn't managed to make anything too terrible yet, and his failed attempts hadn't managed to kill anyone, but he also hadn't cleaned his cauldron properly, and so there'd been a mess of residue potion and Dark magic clinging to the metal. Coincidentally, it had ended up reacting quite badly to the potion that the seventh-years were to work on that day, and the end result was a magnificent explosion that Snape had barely managed to protect himself and the other students from in the nick of time. There'd been no helping Avery who'd been standing right next to the unholy concoction.

 In the aftermath, the explosion had caused bad enough burns to disfigure Avery, but time and Healers would fix most if not all of that. Far more serious had been the potion damage to his body— the liquid had seeped right through his skin and disintegrated the majority of his left ribcage, and then it had gone on to chew even further, straight into his heart and left lung, an insidious venom that had dissolved into his bloodstream and sent him into convulsions that had wrung scream after agonized scream out of him until Pomfrey had deemed it safe enough to knock him out, although even then, his body wouldn't stop seizing from the pain.

 He'd still been alive when he'd been rushed out of the castle. Word has it that he's still alive now in St. Mungo's, except the Healers have no idea how to even begin treating him. Mixing multiple failed attempts at Dark potions, most of which even Avery's own roommates couldn't list all the names of or in which order he'd made them, together with one N.E.W.T.-level potion but in an explosion that had caused the maximum amount of entropy in the magic imbued into it— Merlin himself wouldn't be able to fix it with just a wave of his wand.

 By dinnertime, everybody is talking about it, and the professors have given up trying to stop them.

 (In truth, the outcome probably wouldn't have been quite so serious if Hadrian hadn't added a spell to amplify the toxicity and volatility of the residue in the cauldron, as well as several looping single-use runes to hide the volcanic buildup and also bind the whole thing to Avery alone so that it wouldn't have hurt anyone else even if Snape hadn't reacted in time. Without Hadrian's interference, it would've still exploded sooner or later, but Snape might've seen the danger signs in time to evacuate everyone from the classroom, and even if he didn't, the effects of the potion on Avery probably wouldn't have been so terrible.

 But then, that wouldn't have been enough. After all, lessons like these should stick.

 Avery will live, but he sure won't enjoy it.)

 It's almost ten by the time Hadrian gets back to the Slytherin Dungeon. Snape drops him off at the entrance before sweeping off to his own office in a dramatic billow of irritably flapping robes. He'd been at the Ministry for half the day just to piece together what had happened for them, but as Hadrian had ensured, the Potions master had been cleared of any negligence in the matter. The potion had very obviously shown no signs of exploding - three other experts had verified - and students are expected to take care of their own cauldrons from third-year onwards without the professor having to do weekly checks. Snape had been released by dinnertime, but he'd apparently decided to simply eat in the Ministry cafeteria and return with his student and Babbling, so here they are.

 Except-

 Just before Snape makes to leave, he turns and pins Hadrian with a long appraising look, clinical and penetrating. Hadrian stares back serenely, and maybe the fact that his mind is a steel trap wrapped around a battlefield would be highly suspect to anyone looking in, but he also doesn't feel so much as a brush of Legilimency from Snape whatsoever. The professor really is just looking at him.

 It's a strange new world.

 In the end, Snape doesn't say anything before walking off, and Hadrian is left to blink after him before letting himself into the common room.

 Everything goes eerily silent the moment everyone realizes he's back. Even if he hadn't said anything, someone - let's be real, it's Malfoy - had spread the news of Hadrian taking his Ancient Runes exams early, so pretty much everyone had known where he'd gone today. It was never a secret though so Hadrian hadn't cared, except when he steps into the room, it's very obvious that everybody is focused on him, and just as obvious that nobody is willing to make eye-contact with him.

 The younger students should've already retired for the night. At least everybody still in the common room, studying or playing chess or chatting with each other like any standard evening, are fifth-years and up, so most of these students had probably known - or had been told after the fact - exactly what that curse would've done to Theo Nott that day, and exactly who had been the one to attack him.

 And everybody knows what had happened to Avery today. More specifically, they know that what had happened to him today had been an almost perfect mirror of what he'd wanted to do to Nott one week ago. Nobody here believes in coincidences, and there's only so many people who would've had the motivation to orchestrate the entire accident down to the smallest detail.

 Most of them have known Nott and Zabini for at least a few years. Perhaps they're not on speaking terms, but they'd still been Housemates for a while. Something like this isn't really Nott's style, and while it is Zabini's, neither of them has the ability.

 The only real unknown is Hadrian Evans, and if they still can't put the pieces together at this point, they might as well sell their brains.

 The area by the fireplace, normally always occupied by Avery's group at this time, is empty today. Avery's at St. Mungo's, his roommates are in overnight lockup at the Ministry, and any who aren't but were part of Avery's faction are probably hiding up in their rooms. Nobody else has taken their seats, not even the students who usually do when Avery hasn't claimed it for the day.

 Hadrian walks towards the doorway leading to the boys' dormitory, and no one stops him. It feels like the entire room is holding their breaths. Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves until Hadrian is out of earshot.

 The dorm is likewise very quiet when Hadrian enters. Malfoy's bed curtains are already drawn, as are Crabbe's and Goyle's, but Zabini's are open, and he's lazing against the headboard with a book in his hands while Nott is still at his desk doing homework.

 They both look up as soon as the door swings open. Zabini stays on his bed but Nott even stands up as Hadrian shuts the door behind him. His whole frame is tense with a restless sort of energy, and he's staring at Hadrian with shining eyes. They both are, although in different ways. Zabini looks equal parts ecstatic and hungry, while Nott just looks the kind of deeply confused and deeply grateful that makes Hadrian want to set fire to someone, preferably whoever stitched this very expression into Nott's range of emotions out of the pieces they'd torn from him.

 Nobody says anything right away. Hadrian squints at them as he makes his way to his own bed, feeling vaguely perturbed, because he hadn't truly expected them to not connect what happened to Avery back to him, but he hadn't thought they would be so fixated on it either. Maybe a roundabout tactful thank-you from Nott, an offer of a favour at most. But not… this, whatever this is.

 He laments the fact that these two aren't more stupid when it comes to this sort of thing. Ron would be oblivious. Hermione would be determinedly oblivious. Neville… would actually react a bit like Nott, Ginny would react a lot like Zabini, Luna wouldn't react at all but she'd be extra cuddly for a few days, and gods, Hadrian needs saner friends.

 Not that these two are friends of course.

 He manages to get through a shower, brush his teeth, and climb into a bed before Nott is suddenly at his side, eyes still shining with something Hadrian really doesn't want to put a name to. Thankfully, he doesn't burst into any heartfelt speeches that would probably embarrass everyone within hearing range. Not so thankfully, he honest-to-fucking-Merlin bows, all archaic and meaningful in every way Hadrian has never learned and so doesn't understand, but even he can sense the weight and deference behind every word as Nott murmurs, "All of mine is yours, until the end of days. I would be honoured if you would call me Theo."

 "Jesus fucking Christ," Hadrian mutters, because sometimes wizarding swears just don't have enough oomph to encompass the never-ending circus trainwreck that is his life. He scrubs a hand over his face, peeks at Nott - at Theo - who's still halfway bent over, and of course, it's just his luck that he has no idea how to respond in the proper pureblood way.

 He would've preferred the heartfelt speech.

 "I'm a halfblood, I don't know how to respond appropriately," He says bluntly because he doesn't know what else to do. But he also flicks a Silencing Ward at Malfoy's bed, then at Crabbe's and Goyle's as well because you can never be too careful, and then he leans over and hauls Theo upright and catches his gaze and holds it, "I'll call you Theo if you call me Hadrian. One day, you'll be strong enough to take care of your enemies on your own, and you won't need anyone else to do it for you if you don't want them to, but until then, if all of you is mine, then your enemies are too, so I'll deal with them if it turns out that they still haven't learned after today. That makes us allies from now on though, which means we're equals, and that means you never, ever bow to anyone again. Not me, and not anybody else either. Understand?"

 Theo stares again, wide-eyed and lost and so terribly young, and sometimes, Hadrian wonders what it says about just how messed up the world is when broken kids can be bought so easily.

 Finally, almost dazedly, Theo gives some semblance of a nod.

 "Hadrian," He says, and something about him straightens, grows steel, settles.

 "Hadrian," He repeats and dips his head, not a bow, but respectful all the same, and his eyes are still bright with that unnamed creature, but at least he looks at Hadrian head-on. "Thank you. Goodnight."

 Hadrian sighs and figures that this is about the best he's going to get tonight. Maybe it'll dial back to normal in a few days. "Goodnight, Theo."

 Theo smiles, tiny, crooked, a little awkward. It's the first one Hadrian has ever seen from him, and that at least he can't be upset about.

 They can finally go to sleep though. Theo returns to his own bed, Zabini is still watching them both from his bed like they're his new favourite show, and Hadrian resolutely pretends he doesn't see anything else as he takes down the Silencing Wards before drawing his curtains, rolling over, and promptly making a sincere attempt at smothering himself with a pillow.

 His life.

-0-0-0-

End Notes: Ok wow so this got hella long and I didn't really get to all the stuff anon wanted whoops. Theo just… wouldn't stop thinking lmao, and also this AU has the potential to get so big so I ended up cramming in worldbuilding wherever I could. So unfortunately all you get is sort of a starting snapshot of where this is going and how Hadrian is going to turn out and a shitload of Theo's character. I kind of wanted to do him and Blaise's POV but I could only fit Theo, and I feel like getting Blaise through Theo's POV actually added to his character just as much as a personal POV would've. Anyway, those two are basically blank slates in canon so ofc I would pick them to write lolol.

[true-blue-sonic]

If memory serves you had written before about Espio and Silver driving together in the TSR plot, but I also quite like imagining them having Extreme Gear races

Yes, that's true! The idea was that Silver had to learn to drive a car, based on my own godawful experiences with getting a license. But he at least had a much nicer and more patient teacher! <3

I might have written a story about them having Extreme Gear races as well, actually? Lemme check rq

one return from the depths of my Ao3 profile later Okay, this is interesting: I did, specifically for Flufftober 2022, and I never uploaded it XD Now that I'm rereading it, I don't like it much anymore, though. It's got Silver not knowing how the board works, and right now I figure that he would be able to figure it out much more quickly than what I'm writing there🤔 As for your idea, I guess Espio "borrows" Vector's stuff since I figure that is the only board they have laying around, and Silver brings the Psychic Wave over from the future, and that's what they race with together <3 Haha, in an actual competition I can imagine they team up to try and screw over the other racers as a duo, though! They can be seen at the back of the line whispering to each other, with Silver more than willing to help out because the Chaotix really need that cash price for Vector's fifty three-course meals or whatever it is that he wants. That's how the other racers know they might be in danger! XD

[snips2112]

20 Fic Writer Questions

Thank you for tagging me @ladylucksrogue and @aknightreaderr! Excited to do this question game!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

26

2. What's your A03 word count?

162, 887

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I write for the Star Wars fandom! A long long time ago, before I was confident enough to post my fics, I wrote some Lord of the Rings fan fics that will never see the light of day XD But now my main fandoms are The Clone Wars and The Bad Batch.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

That Familiar, Yet Unfamiliar Feeling - 205 (Rexsoka)

Tihaar? More Like Truth Serum - 118 (Rexsoka)

Hold On to Me - 111 (Rexsoka)

Not Strong Enough - 86 (Gen, Tech centric)

Please Don't Make it Real - 84 (Gen, Crosshair centric)

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm I have a few, but I think Lost Without You is pretty darn angsty. The general premise is that it is a Rexsoka fic I wrote where Ahsoka is in mourning after Rex passes away :(

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I would say Tihaar? More Like Truth Serum has the fluffiest, happiest ending! What can be better than an adorable, drunken Rex admitting his feelings to Ahsoka :)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I haven't yet (and hopefully never will), everyone has been very kind in the fandom, which I appreciate!

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I don't! I'll write a little bit of spice into my fics but I always tend to keep it pretty mild, and rely on fade to black when anything further is going to happen.

10. Do you write cross overs? What's the craziest one you've written?

I haven't written any cross overs but I am working on an AU of the Bad Batch as Formula 1 drivers, which is probably the closest I'll ever get to a cross over.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet, but I have some tentative plans with one of my lovely fellow fic writers to collaborate on a fic for her fanfic universe! Not sure how much I should say about this so I'm gonna leave it at that :)

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

I think its a tie between Crosslo (Crosshair and my OC, Arlo) or Rexsoka! I love both of these ships to death (as you can probably tell from my writing). 

15. What's a WIP you'd like to finish but doubt you ever wilI?

Ahhhh this would be my Kix the burnt out medic fic (that is literally the placeholder title in the word doc)! I really want to finish this but it is pretty heavy on the angst so we will see if I can make it through the long dark that is this fic! I would love to share it, but it's just a very heavy one to write.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Hmm I would say I think I do a good job of characterization and getting into my character's mind sets and pulling out emotion in my writing.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I would like to improve my ability to set the scene in my fics. Sometimes I see the scene very well in my head but forget to write it into my fic XD

I would say I also admire some of my fellow writers ability to write off the charts chemistry and sexual/romantic tension between their characters. Although I think I have some ability in this, I would absolutely love to improve it more as I think I have room to grow!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I'll throw the occasional Mando'a word in if I'm writing a clone centric fic, and I usually use Star Wars specific swear words but I would never write full passages of dialogue in another language, at least not at this point.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Technically Lord of the Rings, if you count my never to be posted fanfics from a long time ago XD But the first fandom I ever posted fanfic for was Star Wars!

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

Oooo I am particularly proud of Disobedient Hands, which is the first fic in my Crosslo series for Crosshair and my OC, Arlo. I felt like I really did a good job of getting into Crosshair's mind in this one, as well as creating the beginnings of what has come to be my most favorite OC of mine, Arlo (not that I have many, but of the few I do, she is my fav). I truly love all the fics in this series though, and it's been fun exploring the relationship between Crosshair and Arlo, and watching them grow through my writing. The series is ongoing and can be found here on AO3 if anyone is interested <3

Tagging: @tealmisthams, @acatinwinterfell, @queen-of-mandalore, @melting-houses-of-gold and anyone else who wants to participate!

[beeeinyourbonnet]

Unbowed | Chapter 1

Rating: E

Pairing: Develle (Danny Devine x Belle) and some Ivelle for fun (Colonel Ives x Belle)

Summary: Belle works nights at the Parrot Club to pay off her estranged husband’s debts to Danny Devine, and days at a bookstore where she has struck up a friendship with a gentleman named Ives. Belle is just supposed to do Danny's books and keep the office organized, but when Something Happens, the she gets drawn into a world she never expected.

Some notes: 1. Pls remember Ravenous is about cannibalism and Ives is a cannibal x] So I'm squeamish, there won't be any gross descriptions here, but like. You know. Sometimes shit has to happen xD 2. Develle is endgame here! 3. You should watch Ravenous if you haven't. It's so good. If you haven't seen Dead Fish...maybe just watch the Danny scenes xD But I try to make it so you don't HAVE to have seen either to read this. 4. If there's anything else you're worried about re: triggers, pls message me and I will gladly tell you! I don't want to give spoilers too broadly but I am happy to give them. 5. I know that the queerness of Ravenous is one of its big themes and draws, and I am taking that into account. But if you got here from the Ravenous tag and are looking for m/m, that won't be here. Just a heads up!

ANYWAY HERE'S THE FIC

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

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

-William Ernest Henley

Belle hated the Parrot Club. It wasn’t the club’s fault—actually, Belle liked the theatrical, glittering floor shows and psychedelic decor and talented dancers—it was that she was trapped here five nights a week, stuck in the well-decorated but windowless office of her employer, Danny Devine.

She hated it in particular tonight, because it was her twenty-ninth birthday, and even if she hadn’t been in the club pretending to sort through receipts, she wouldn’t have had anyone to spend it with. She might as well spend it alone in their office while Danny drove all over trying to collect payments. At least it wasn’t with Gaston.

“Oi.” Danny burst in from the club side, and Belle’s spirits perked up for a second or so at his presence before plummeting back down. “Did anyone come in here? Mr. fucking Beatty said he fucking dropped off a hundred quid and I told him he was a fucking liar.”

“He was a fucking liar,” Belle agreed. “No one dropped anything off.”

Danny muttered to himself as he stomped to his desk, a little tempest in a teacup. His ostentatiously tight suits had irked Belle when she’d first met him six months ago, but now they were as familiar as Danny himself. 

“Some good news, though.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Your fucking good-for-fucking-nothing husband paid me for the first time since fucking July.” 

Read on ao3

[theredcapeofk]

💙 for supercorp in the ask game! (This could pair very well with ❤️ ngl)

Thank you for this combo. It was a lot of fun to write.

Sorry it took me a while but my brain wasn't in a creative mood lately, and then I couldn't stop writing xD. I hope you like this ;)

Ask Game

Read also on Ao3

~~~~

Nuit d'Ivresse

There was an undeniable fact that night at AL’s bar.

Kara Danvers was drunk. 

It was a rare occurrence, so rare in fact that if told, most regulars wouldn’t believe this story. But there was no way around it.

Sweet, quiet, and shy Kara Danvers was hammered as evidenced by her goofy dance in the middle of the room. She wasn’t the only one dancing of course, but she was most definitely standing out from anyone else with her broad movements, shameless hip shaking, and general extra attitude.

To all those who’d seen her drink, her advanced state of intoxication was all the more surprising that she’d only drank one single glass. No one but the barmaid and Lena knew that glass contained Aldebaran Rhum, which explained Kara’s extravagant dancing.

Lena for her part, had had quite a few glasses of scotch that made her feel tipsy and was currently giggling happily as she watched Kara get crazy on the improvised dance floor. Lena was smiling so hard that her cheeks were hurting, her heart having grown twice its size from the sheer happiness of spending her evening out with Kara. They spent a lot of evenings in each other’s apartments these days and they loved this, but spending the evening at the bar just the two of them was something special. 

They weren’t celebrating anything, but for once not having the supergroup around felt nice. And if Lena was completely honest with herself, which she rarely was about this subject and she certainly wasn’t very honest now, this felt like a date. Lena had absolutely not chosen her outfit to look nice, it just so happened that Kara had once complimented her when she was wearing this emerald sleeveless blouse and black jeans so Lena thought it would be a good occasion to wear this combination again. 

Lena didn’t expect anything tonight. At least nothing different than any night with Kara would bring. Kara was her straight best friend that she was secretly in love with, and she was fine with that. She had made her peace long ago with the fact that Kara would never love her like this. But having Kara all for herself still felt special. And made Lena feel special as well. She knew for a fact that Kara reserved certain things for just her, one of which was that smile she currently had on her lips. Granted this smile was a bit more groggy than usual due to the alcohol but there was no mistaking it for the smile that only stretched Kara’s lips when she was looking at Lena. This alone made Lena’s heart beat that much faster.

When the music ended, Kara returned to the bar where Lena was sitting.

“Did you like my dance?” Kara asked happily, slurring her words

“Yes.” Lena simply answered, still smiling brightly.

“You have to join me for the next dance.”

“Darling, you know I don’t dance.”

“Not even with me?” Kara asked and pouted dramatically.

Lena tried to resist, she really did. She even closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to face these beautiful blue eyes but Kara took her in her arms and begged

“Lena please, please, pretty please dance with me!!!”

And well…Lena was only human after all. 

“Alright, I’ll dance with you. But only if it’s a good song” Lena said

Kara let out a triumphant “Yay” and squeezed Lena harder before she suddenly kissed her on the cheek. The spot Kara’s lips had touched felt hot all of a sudden and soon, Lena felt hot all over. She drank the rest of her drink in one gulp to justify the pink creeping on her cheeks. Kara pushed herself from the bar saying she was going to the bathroom. Lena offered to help her walk there but Kara assured her she was capable of going by herself. She was indeed capable and surprisingly didn’t break anything on her way there. 

Lena was still looking fondly at the bathroom door when a new song started. A second passed and suddenly her hair was swept by a gust of wind. Kara was back and asked the barmaid to turn on the volume because she loved this song. Lena hadn’t heard much of the song yet but she was sure this wasn’t NSYNC. What song could make Kara so excited?

The barmaid turned on the volume and Kara cheered. Other people joined her as they recognized the song. Lena wasn’t one of them, she had no idea what the song was. She asked Kara who laconically like it meant something to Lena, answered that it was the song from Coyote Ugly. She started comically shaking her shoulders and hips to the music while singing. Lena smiled at the show until her eyes widened in shock when Kara climbed onto the bar and started dancing from up there.

“Kara come back down.” Lena called

“No, I wanna do the dance like in the movie.” Kara answered before she sang at the top of her lungs “You’re unbelievable!”

The crowd cheered as Kara started swaying her hips to the music, a hand in her hair, the other looped in the belt of her jeans. Lena’s eyes widened again, but not from shock. Kara was no longer being goofy; she was aiming for sexy now and scoring high on the billboard. Lena’s mouth went dry when Kara kneeled and threw her body backward over the bar. The position was suggestive in itself but her t-shirt was strained over her stomach, giving a glimpse of her sculpted abs. 

Lena’s mind wandered where she didn’t let it wander when she was sober and she imagined her hand mapping those abs of steel before traveling South to a more sensitive region of Kara’s anatomy. She was still lost in thoughts when Kara sat up and extended a hand towards her. Lena didn’t think and grabbed it. She only realized what was happening when she felt herself being pulled forward and gently lifted on top of the bar and the crowd cheered once more.

“Kara, what are you doing?”

“You said you’d dance with me.”

“I don’t even know the song.” 

“Who cares? Come on Lena, it’ll be fun!” Kara said. She started swaying her hips and shoulders as if to inspire Lena to do the same.

“I’m not drunk enough for this.” Lena thought.

She asked for a vodka and downed the glass in one swing. Kara chose that moment to grab her hips with her strong hands. Lena dropped the glass, not caring if it broke on someone’s head or if someone caught it. She was mesmerized by Kara’s gaze, which right now seemed a tiny bit lidded and she didn’t think the Aldebaran rhum was the cause. Not really knowing what she was doing, Lena let Kara guide her hips with her hands as she put her own hands around Kara’s neck. Right when a new chorus started, Kara let go of Lena’s hips long enough to stand behind her and sway her hips against Lena’s ass.

Lena felt all the air leave her lungs. What was happening? Was this dance, this…grinding happening at all? Was Lena dreaming all of it? If it was an alcohol-induced dream it sure was vivid. From their hips swaying together, to Kara’s hand around her middle, to Lena’s hand gripping Kara’s hair, to Kara’s hot breath in her ear, everything was driving Lena insane as it felt a little too much like foreplay. 

The crowd cheered again, whistled even, and it brought Lena back to reality. Whatever this thing Kara and her were doing was, they were doing it in front of a very attentive and enthusiastic audience. Before she could find the strength to end whatever this was, Kara moved back a few inches. She kept guiding Lena’s hips with her hands but their bodies weren’t flush against one another. It gave Lena some respite to try and gather her thoughts. That was wishful thinking of course. Between the memory of Kara grinding against her, Kara’s strong hands still on her hips, and the alcohol increasing all her sensations there was no thinking straight…or well…thinking in general.

Lena had never been able to think straight in her life…Especially since she’d met Kara.

The song was ending and Kara’s body came flush against Lena’s for the finale. Lena felt weak in the knees and moaned. No one heard her over the music, but Kara probably did. She was singing when the moan had escaped Lena’s lips, and her singing stopped. The song ended and it took them a few seconds too long to come down from their high, at least enough to face each other. The crowd erupted in cheers as Lena discovered Kara’s very blue but very lidded eyes. Someone in the bar screamed, “kiss!” Then someone else approved with an enthusiastic “yeah!” and then the rest of the crowd started chanting  “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Lena would have laughed it off if Kara's eyes weren’t darting to her lips then back to her eyes then back to her lips again. When their eyes met Kara seemed to be asking a question. Lena stepped forward and her lips parted. They were breathing the same air now. Kara cupped her cheeks and closed the distance between their lips.

Fireworks were nothing compared to what was happening in Lena’s chest right now. Her heart was doing somersaults in her ribcage. It was as though her heart was trying to break free and physically join Kara’s which was beating just as fast. The crowd was cheering approvingly and despite her clouded mind, it made Lena happy. She had been waiting for this for so long, and it seemed like she would never get this at all…they deserved the cheers, the applause, and probably even a marching band to be honest.

Their lips parted for air and Kara gave her an esquimo kiss. The crowd went “awww” before they applauded some more when Kara and Lena’s lips met again. Someone in the crowd yelled “Get a room” and the two women cracked up. Their eyes met, sparkly gazes full of love. Kara wrapped Lena’s waist with her hands and gently hovered back down without breaking eye contact. Any alien power display that happened at AL’s stayed at AL’s so Kara didn’t have to fear for her secret. Kara managed to look away from Lena long enough to turn toward the barmaid and tell her to add their drinks to her tab. 

“Let’s get outta here.” Kara said in Lena’s ear and Lena nodded. 

They each grabbed their stuff, laced their fingers together and went out of the bar. The night was warm despite the late hour. The only real contrast with the bar was the silence. They’d only taken a few steps when their eyes met. The next second their arms were intertwined around each other, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. With no one to interrupt them, their kiss lasted until they actually had no oxygen left. This time though they didn’t let go of each other, they simply took time to catch their breath.

“Should I call a Lyft?” Lena asked.

“The effects of the rhum are dissipating, I can fly us back safely. At least I know I can fly to my apartment.”

“Let’s go then.”

They untangled and Kara lifted Lena into a bridal carry. A smile was tugging at Lena’s lips when their eyes met. What they’d just done was starting to sink in and it made her giddy. The bridal carry wasn’t helping the euphoria spreading inside her.

Kara always took off gently when Lena was in her arms. But this time she was extra soft at take-off and during their short flight to the loft. She put Lena down and Lena kept her arms around Kara’s neck. Kara put her hands around Lena’s hips again and captured her lips.

Once more they only parted for air. They were both panting when Kara whispered against Lena’s lips

“I don’t wanna hide anymore. I’m in love with you! I want you!”

“I don’t wanna hide anymore either. I’m in love with you too! Take me! Now!”

Sometimes Kara took things literally. This time was no exception. Kara took Lena right where they stood. Lena didn’t complain obviously. She had been waiting for this for so long, it was exactly what she wanted. Needless to say, they had a busy night in many places in the apartment including the bedroom at some point. To Lena’s delight, she got to make her thoughts a reality by mapping Kara’s abs before letting her hand go lower. Kara had enjoyed that very much and Lena would remember Kara’s reaction forever.

Lena woke up between the sheets and looked at the morning light on the ceiling for a few minutes. Memories of the night before started popping up in her mind. This better not have been a dream. She wouldn’t survive it. She looked around and noticed she was alone in the bedroom. Her eyes landed on the nightstand where there was a paper folded in half with her name on it. It was a note from Kara 

“Went out to buy breakfast. As usual, make yourself at home. Love you!”

Lena reread the last two words a dozen times. Her lips stretched into a wide smile. She hadn’t dreamed it, she and Kara had…

Her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Lena looked down in panic. She was still very naked under the sheets. She hoped Alex hadn’t decided to pay an impromptu visit.

“Kara?” She called

“Yes. I’ll be right there, sweety.”

Sweety. 

Lena felt like she’d been promoted somehow. She grinned, very pleased with her new title. There was a muffled sound coming from the kitchen and Lena thought she recognized the sound of Kara’s superspeeding. About a minute later, Kara walked in with a tray. Lena could see two bowls, two mugs, and a small vase with a rose in it. Endeared, she smiled and sat up, making sure to cover herself with the sheets. Kara sat down next to her and put the tray over Lena’s lap.

“Healthy breakfast for my favorite person with a bowl of yogurt, fruits, oatmeal flakes and honey, and a scalding black coffee on the side,” Kara explained proudly as she pointed at every single thing. “This is my breakfast.” Kara said, pointing at her bowl of cereal and her coffee mug.

“What about the rose?” Lena asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

“For you. Because my favorite person deserves a decoration for the breakfast tray.”

“Thank you, this is lovely. There’s one thing missing though. A good morning kiss.”

Kara smiled at her, put the tray on the other side of the bed then sat at her original place and leaned in carefully to kiss Lena on the lips.

“So, this is happening?” Lena whispered. “Tell me I’m not dreaming all of this.”

“If you’re dreaming, then so am I.” Kara whispered against her lips. 

They both smiled against each other's lips

“Did you mean it last night when you said you love me?” Lena asked. She cupped Kara’s cheeks and looked intensely into Kara’s eyes.

“Of course I did! I’ve been afraid to say it for two years, I wasn’t going to lie when I finally said it.”

“Two years?” Lena asked, intrigued.

“I didn’t know what that feeling was then. I always knew I loved you but I realized it was romantic love right after I came clean about my secret. I never thought you could feel the same. I recently suspected you shared my feelings but I was afraid of being wrong.”

“For what it’s worth I thought you were straight until last night.”

“Probably my biggest pretense. Even to myself.” Kara said looking down.

“If I’d known all you needed to be fully aware of my feelings and give you the confidence boost to act on yours was Aldebaran Rhum and a song I would have provided a lot sooner.” Lena joked. 

Kara looked up with a smile. They chuckled and Kara leaned in to kiss Lena once more.

“How long has it been for you?” Kara asked.

“Longer than two years. But this is a story for later. Now, breakfast is calling me!”

Kara chuckled. “Of course. It won’t be said that I let my girlfriend starve.”

Lena’s eyes lit up and a grin spread on her lips. She even scrunched her nose in the cutest way.

“What?” Kara asked with a grin of her own.

“I’m your girlfriend.” Lena replied giddily.

“Yes, yes you are.” Kara said right before her lips met Lena’s.

[wishitweresummer]

Alnair

Somewhere Only We Know

( Hey guys! So, putting all this pressure on my series’ to come out on specific days and follow specific formats is just slowing me down. I’ll just release stuff when I can! This is one of my new series called Somewhere Only We Know!!! On this page you can find the SFW chapters, and anyone 18+ and interested can find the NSFW chapters on my ao3 or @darknightsofsummer !! You will be able to follow the plot even if you miss the NSFW chapters, so don’t stress about that. )

Basic plot- Dream is in prison and George turns to DreamXD for the things in his life he finds he’s suddenly missing. Their relationship turns complicated quickly. This is my fluffy and angsty love story for George and XD. 💜

Word count: 2182

Warning: Kissing and mature themes. A small bit of feet tickles.

Alnair

Meaning: The bright one.

The thing about XD was that he didn’t feel things the same way humans did. He also knew humans to lie for all sorts of silly reasons. The one thing XD knew he could rely on was the unconscious desires and wants that he could read off of any human’s skin.

Of course George knew what that meant for the…more mature parts of their relationship. But, he had yet to see any negatives come from XD’s strange vision. Until one night. One very flustering night. The night where XD pulled George’s bare foot into his lap to show it a little gentle affection, but George reacted like he was being electrocuted.

“You’re ticklish.”, he accused. But, George denied it. The silliest human; XD’s George.

An unmovable hand held George’s ankle tight while he begged like his life was in danger.

“You can’t do this to me!”, he cried. XD’s mask flashed an icy green with excitement.

“Why are you trying to get away? George, you know I’m stronger than you.”. XD delighted in the bright blush he earned. “I wish you could see just how your foot is lighting up with exactly how it wants to be tickled.”. George let out a horrified shriek at that.

“What are you talking about!”.

“George, you’re being silly. You know how I can see what you want lined across your skin.”.

“But, I don’t want to be tickled!!!”, he screamed, flustered beyond belief. George thought his heart would beat out of his chest. He knew there was no way to stop the god from doing whatever he wanted, and he knew there was no arguing with the god’s strange way he viewed the world.

George screeched as he was suddenly yanked down the couch by his ankle so he was laying on his back. XD crawled over him and scooped up his hands.

“You are as gorgeous as the night sky.”. XD’s mask flashed with dangerous colors that told George he was in trouble. The alternating mix of green and white gave George’s face a beautiful glow.

He always thought it was amazing how the lights and colors were never painful on his eyes. Learning how XD’s intentions were reflected in each flash had been easy. But now, George knew all too well exactly what he was in for.

“Thanks!”, he peeped, desperately hoping his quick response would shut down the god’s plan.

“You actually kind of look like the night sky at times like this. To me, at least. A very pale one. With pretty bright stars that are just begging to be connected.”. XD tugged once at George’s shirt and it was teleported away. The human could only whimper. “A ticklish constellation for me to admire. To make complete.”.

George’s hands were pinned above his head. He watched as XD’s hand trailed down his arm and slowly around his chest. He thought back to all the times that XD’s touch was just absolute perfection. The god saw and sensed things humans couldn’t, and the results from that were always mind blowing. The absolute horror of that fact made George’s blood run cold. How would that translate to tickling?

A sharp shriek flew from George’s lips as XD’s expert fingers suddenly focused in on one specific rib. He threw his head back and sucked in a shuddering breath before screaming with laughter. His ability to beg for mercy was lost instantly. The devious fingers found the perfect pressure to work the rib and he was completely helpless to the feeling.

“Wow I’ve never heard you laugh like that…ready?”. He wasn’t. XD spidered his hand down and pressed it into George’s stomach like a claw.

“Please!”, he gasped out. His damn hand was too big. George bucked up into the weight, but sudden and desperate laughter barreled through him. He was squirming back down into the couch in one second flat. XD’s mask glowed with teal-ish pride as he shook his clawed hand with terrifying accuracy into the ticklish muscles of George’s tummy. George convulsed at the feeling. It was like every one of the god’s fingertips were pressed perfectly in every spot to drive him crazy. He kicked the couch and screamed with laughter. Here, he was helpless.

XD loved his laugh. His favorite thing in the world was to make George happy. He was so screwed.

“Stop!! Please!!”, he cried.

“Alright I can go somewhere else. My constellation isn’t done yet.”.

“XD!!”, George screeched in terror.

Those fingers went crawling back up his side and danced dangerously near his open armpit, making George cackle loudly.

“You want me here really badly, huh?.”.

“No!! No no!!! XD!!!”, he squirmed and bucked wildly, but XD was not one to be shaken. “I’m serious!!”, his voice pitched up in his panic.

XD dipped his fingers into the soft delicate skin in the center of George’s underarm. George let out a little squeak before his screeching laughter took over again.

There were a million different little ways that George had known he was made for Dream. But, one of the strangest of them was that George found himself more sensitive and helpless under him than anyone else. The same spot Sapnap or Karl tickled him was three times more ticklish when Dream found it. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but when Dream had fallen into the mood to tickle George to pieces, he was always completely muffined. George would always be screaming in seconds. Much like now. Another bittersweet reminder. So many bittersweet reminders. Maybe one day he would get to ask Dream if his skin lit up with a weird little map of exactly how to tickle him like XD said…

“Not there!!”, he managed to shriek out between his endless peaks of laughter. He squirmed wildly, but there was absolutely no way to get out of the god’s grip. “It’s so bad!!”, he wailed. XD only giggled in amusement.

The tickly fingers relented in his armpit, but started to crawl back down his body again. Already fired up, George couldn’t stop giggling.

“There’s more places you want to be tickled.”, XD explained.

“Shut up!!”, George cried through his high pitched giggles. Every single little touch had him gasping and squirming. His cheeks burned at how giddy he sounded. Though, the cute little squeaks turned much louder when XD’s hand finally reached it’s destination.

XD grinned excitedly at the hilarious screeching George was making, but let up quickly.

“I didn’t even know I was ticklish there…”, George gasped out the words painfully, voice strained a little from the scream that had torn through him.

“Oh yeah? It’s pretty bright here.”, XD said and felt around George’s hipbone, making him squeal and buck. The god coo’ed. “It’s showing me exactly how to play with it to make you scream.”. George whined through his giggles, shaking his head desperately.

“Please don’t—!!“, he tried to speak but a scream interrupted his words as XD fiddled with his hipbone. He kicked helplessly as he cackled. “Please!!”.

“You love it.”.

“No I don’t!!!”, George yelled, embarrassed further. When would this torture end?

“George. C’mon, baby.”.

“You’re an idiot!!”, he barely got the words out before squealing and throwing his head back into the couch. “XD, please!”.

“I’m just playing with it!”.

“It tickles!”, George gasped through his laughter.

XD let up and shrouded George in a light pink light. It was filled with amusement and love. Under it, George burned. He fought his giggles as hard as he could, but they kept slipping out all breathless and cutesy.

“Why are you pretending you don’t like this?”.

“I don’t.”, he whined. XD shook his head.

“Your nerves are telling a different story, Georgie. It’s just like your lips that want me to kiss them. They are bright. Begging me to interact.”.

“That’s different.”, George huffed and blushed harder. He didn’t see himself surviving this.

XD leaned down fast, making George let out a startled giggle.

“You want a kiss?”.

“Yes.”.

“You want to be tickled?”.

“No!”, George whined, but relaxed when warm lips enveloped his own.

“Liar.”, XD whispered into the kiss, then pulled away to grin down at the huffy human. “George, you lie all the time.”.

“No I don’t!”.

“Remember when you told me that a traditional engagement gift is to present the giftees with a Potion of Regeneration for their—“.

“Stop!”, George interrupted, giggling. Sapnap’s face had been priceless when XD had presented it to him with a speech about how he hoped his wedding night would be long and fruitful or something. “That’s different.”.

“Okay. Then, what about you telling me Quackity could fly. Or telling me that Skeppy and BadBoyHalo were dating. Or the time you-“.

“Okay!”, George whined. “Those were like, jokes! But, this isn’t funny!”.

“Hm…you’re laughing though.”, XD replied smoothly as he wiggled his fingers above one of his armpits.

“Don’t!”, the human burst into panicked giggles.

“Why is it your armpits are summoning me here, huh?”.

“It’s just a bad spot!”, George hiccuped through his giggles and curled to the side a little. It was almost like he could feel it already. “Please, I’ll die!”.

“I would never let you die.”, XD said quietly. It was a little promise that George knew he could believe. He hadn’t been in danger once since him and the god had started flirting with this little…relationship? Well, he had. But, XD would just blink him out of trouble.

“But, you’re tickling me to death!”.

“I am the god of tickling.”.

“You’re the god of being an idiot!!!”.

XD tsked at the insult, then dropped his hand down to tickle into the waiting armpit. George twisted and shrieked, laughter quick to pour out of him in loud peals. In an area so intense, he lost his ability to beg.

It was awful. George had been tickled there a million times before, but this was so much worse. It was like XD knew exactly the perfect amount of pressure to use on exactly what spot to drive him completely crazy. How would he survive this? Tears streamed down his face as he laughed. His laughter was wild and hysterical. Screams of ticklish anguish pressed out of him as the tickling continued, relentless on such a sensitive spot.

“Please!”, he peeped out.

“I love your laugh.”, XD murmured happily. Oh, he was so fucked. Everything in him was screaming for mercy. His body was convulsing against his will and his lungs were burning from the laughter he couldn’t stop.

George was sure no one had ever targeted his worst spot for so long. He shrieked out a long string of unintelligible protests. He wanted to think of things to say or do to make the torture stop, but his mind was blank.

A squeak flew from his lips as the ticklish hand suddenly pulled away and a kiss was pressed into his armpit.

“Freak!”, he shrieked, full to the brim with hysterical giggles. XD laughed, beaming with nothing but happiness.

“You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen George.”, XD said fondly. “I love to see you squirm and freak out. I can’t get enough. I’m so happy you’re ticklish.”.

“I’m going to get you back!”, he gasped out. He was desperately trying to catch his breath before the next attack.

“Oh, I’m not ticklish.”.

“What! That’s not fair!”.

“Only silly little humans would burst into chaos from something as simple as a touch.”, XD said and trailed his fingertips down George’s chest to make him squirm.

“It’s more than a touch! It’s literally torture!!”.

“Mmhm…”, XD trailed his hand down. He suddenly drew his nails softly in a strange curve that crossed his stomach and sides. George couldn’t help but buck and squeal, falling into giggles.

“How are you doing that!”, he whined.

“I told you. Your skin is telling me exactly where to touch, baby. You’re all lit up. Here…here…here…”.

“Stop!!”, George cried through his laughter as he squirmed under XD’s terrifyingly accurate touch as it danced across his torso.

“It changes. But, it’s a lot baby. You don’t want me to stop.”.

“It’s just showing you where I’m ticklish!! Stop saying I want it!!”, George screeched the last part, embarrassed. XD laughed.

George was…everything. The light. The sun and moon. XD thought he had known and experienced everything. But, love. He knew he could face anything now that love had changed him. Even the tragic future he knew he had in store. Everyday he bathed in the love he felt for George and everyday he cherished it. Cherished him. He would do anything to make George happy. With his laughter washing over him in waves, he felt warm.

“I love you.”, he said softly as he stopped. George flopped back against the couch when XD released him. His giggles were light and pretty. “Forever.”.

“I know.”, George smiled and then tried to hide his face before XD could pry his hands away. “Stop!”.

XD dropped down and nuzzled into George’s neck, soaking in the happiness that they shared for the night.

[celestiarambles]

You'll be Safe Here

trigger warning: suicide, overdose, hospitalization, psychiatric hospitals, mental disorders

hi so i know y'all are tired of me trying to defend angela... but here's another fic defending her once again xD

this is kind of like a part 2 of you can't catch me now in lars' pov and this was kind of requested by @dinamo123xpq, i had planned to write this a long time ago but i got busy and now here it is!

also whenever i listen to the filipino song you'll be safe here (the lyrics are in english) it also kind of reminds me of lars and angela (i'll reblog it with the spotify link later haha)

so yeah i hope you'll endure my yapping about this for at least a little longer HAHA

Summary: Lars wasn’t supposed to care about Angela anymore. Once the Bureau was over, his plan was to settle their divorce papers and stay in Australia with his daughters for good…

Until he gets an important call.

Also cross-posted on Ao3: You'll be Safe Here - celestiamirasol - Criminal Case (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]

It has been a week ever since the Bureau had officially dismantled SOMBRA for good. They only had to process paperworks and forensic evidence for every law enforcement agency in the world, and everything would be over. 

Their purpose would be over.

”What are you planning to do after this, bro?” Jack asked his best friend. “I honestly don’t know, the Bureau’s been my whole life…”

Lars knew exactly what he was going to do. Local forensic laboratories in Australia were offering positions to him after they had heard of his work in the Bureau, but he wasn’t interested. Once he settled his divorce papers, he was going to find a simpler job, start anew with his daughters.

His daughters deserved a peaceful life, one without chaos or violence. One without betrayal. He wanted to close this chapter of his life so bad.

”Daddy, you’re still not coming back to Australia with us?” April innocently asked as he brought the triplets to the airport. Their nanny followed suit.

”I’m really sorry girls, but I’ll just settle something in the Bureau, and then I’ll stay with you for good.”

“Can we see mommy?” June shyly asked.

”June, mommy had already left us!” May’s response had broken Lars’ heart. He didn’t want to hear his kids ever say that, but it was for the best. So that they could all move on.

”Girls, I know this is hard for all of us…” Lars knelt down to meet their gaze, trying to hold back tears. “…but you might never see your mom again. It’s for your own safety. I’m sorry.”

”But daddy, Elsa also hurt Anna and almost froze the entire kingdom, and yet they forgive each other because they love each other!” June pleaded, referencing Frozen. “Do you… do you not love mommy anymore?”

“Our flight number is being called, girls.” The nanny took them. “We should go.”

Lars stood up, processing June’s question. “Take care, girls.”

Did he not love Angela anymore? Maybe. He had already accepted that she would never be the woman she once was. Thinking about her hurt him too much. He almost committed suicide because of her betrayal one time. He didn’t want to even make their marriage work for the girls, for it’ll just hurt them in the long run.

Love wasn’t supposed to hurt, it was supposed to be steady. Safe.

However when he returned back to the Bureau’s New York headquarters, why did his heart beat fast when a random number called him?

”Hello, are you Lars Douglas?”

“Yes, who’s speaking?”

“Hi this is from the NYC Health and Hospitals, you are listed as the emergency contact of Angela Douglas. We are calling to inform you that she has suffered from an overdose on benzodiazepine…”

He wasn’t supposed to care about her anymore. They were over. SOMBRA was over.

But why did he immediately run to the hospital so fast once he got the call?

He wished that this was some kind of sick joke, that it was all some kind of nightmare, but it was not. The broken pieces that he had struggled to fix for the past few months had crumbled all over again once the doctors told him that Angela had fallen into a coma due to her attempt, and they didn’t know if she would ever wake up.

Oh god, the girls. How can he explain this to his daughters? He last told them that they might never see her again… 

A sob bubbled up his throat as he entered the hospital room and found Angela unconscious and hooked to various monitors. He hated how he still held her hand, crying, mourning for her and the woman she once was. He wanted to be mad, yell at her for trying to leave him, to leave them like this…

But he looked around the dreary place. He was all alone. He was the one listed as her emergency contact. Minutes turned into hours, hours turned into the morning… nobody else came for her. Her parents were dead. Her SOMBRA comrades either were in jail, in therapy, or dead. The Bureau hates her for trying to kill them and for denouncing Dupont. He was the only one that came for her, and even he had plans to leave her too.

She had no one left. 

Thinking about it, it would be a truly somber end to one’s existence. What she did was wrong and he hated her for it. But once upon a time, he believed that she had a good heart, and it was one of the reasons why he fell in love with her. However, fate had been cruel to her and took away her parents from her at such a young age, causing her to fall into SOMBRA’s clutches.

If Lars had to choose, he would rather have her live a life with her parents instead of her meeting him.  Maybe then the world wouldn’t have tainted her perspective so bitterly. 

Once he got back to the Bureau, he immediately threw away the divorce papers and canceled the meeting with his lawyer. The more he thought about it, the more that he felt his every step to Marina’s office become heavier.

He recalled the time she first got arrested and when he confronted her for answers. She told him her parents died when she was eight. Even if she had told him that she had chosen this, that she chose to be loyal to SOMBRA… He wanted to be naive. Deep inside, he felt that she secretly didn’t want this. She was a recruit, just like the other kids that suffered at the hands of SOMBRA. She was also a victim of the harsh cycle of violence they perpetuated.

He hated how this had to happen in order for him to realize all of this.

“You want me to petition the court to release all the SOMBRA recruits and instead subject them to a stay at a psychiatric hospital, including Angela?” Marina clarified to the scientist, baffled. “I can probably understand the others, but she almost killed Jonah, she almost killed us, Lars… do you really want that?”

“I don’t believe she wanted to do that either…” Lars sighed.

”Maybe you’re just feeling this way because she had attempted. It’s valid to feel this way, but it’s not your fault. That was her choice to make -“

“I know it’s not my fault! It’s SOMBRA’s fault!” He didn’t mean to snap at Marina. He didn’t know why he was still defending her, but she deserved to have someone in her corner for once. Like how she did for him all this time. “She told me SOMBRA took her in when she was eight… Did you know that?! We’ve seen how it affected children like Sanjay and Mei many times! Why would she be any different?!”

”But -“ Marina looked at Lars like he was crazy. “I-I’ll… think about it, okay?”

He left Marina’s office, dejected. He knew her betrayal was hard on everyone, but sometimes it felt like he was the only one that cared. It was like everyone accepted that Angela was a horrible person and they couldn’t change that. 

Soon, weeks turned into a month, and finally they had finished all of the documents and forensic evidence to take down SOMBRA. The Bureau was over. However the more that time passed by, the less likely was the chance for Angela to wake up again.

All of them were celebrating, but Lars wasn’t in the mood to. While a part of him held onto the hope that maybe she was still alive, he couldn’t stop thinking about their last exchange. The harsh words he had last imparted to her, how he had told her that he never wanted to see her ever again…

They had a vow. ‘Til death do us part. But why did their parting words to each other stung more than death itself?

”Hey.” Carmen approached him along with Marina, holding a champagne glass. “I heard about what happened to Angela… I’m sorry.”

“Carmen and I were just talking about it, and… you’re right.” Marina met his gaze. “All of the recruits deserve a second shot at life. Including Angela.”

That night, he and the two women visited her once again. Even if forgiveness was still hard, they all vowed to give her a second chance at life. She deserved to live again.

Maybe he was just holding on to the idea of her. But deep down, he wanted to try to make that idea possible, even for a little.

Even though he promised to the triplets that he was going to go back home, he had to stay in New York for a little while longer, helping Marina with the petition. He didn’t want to leave Angela alone. He stayed with Jack for a while, even though the latter was opposed to his decision, thinking that she got what she deserved. But to him, it was not what she deserved. 

He visited her everyday, constantly leaving white, yellow, and blue tulips in her hospital room. He knew how much she loved tulips. It represented hope, rebirth, and life. He wanted to give life to her dreary hospital room. He wanted to wish all the best for her.

Jack tried to get him to move on. He tried convincing Lars to try dating apps, that there was more to life outside Angela. There was a point where he almost gave in, that maybe after all this time there was a chance that she didn’t love him anymore. But Lars didn’t feel like falling in love again if it wasn’t with her. 

However, he couldn’t stay forever. He had a promise to the triplets. But before he went back to Australia, he had to do something. 

Ever since her attempt, Lars had hired a private investigator to investigate her life in SOMBRA. He wanted to do everything he could to make sure Angela could go back to her normal life eventually. But according to the investigator, nothing in her life was ever normal.

Being more used to hot climates, he wasn’t used to the chilly breeze that greeted him in South Korea. He held a piece of paper in his hand, traipsing along the steps of Busan Correctional Facility.’

After some time, he sat inside a booth. In front of him was a woman, who was supposedly his in-law. Angela’s ‘mother’ who was part of SOMBRA. He knew he had to confront them at some point in his life.

”Oh, so you’re that guy that Angela decided to marry…”. Her lips pursed into an annoyed frown. “See, I knew that she made the wrong choice. At least with us, her future was secure. She was supposed to join a multi-million pharmaceutical company under us once she graduated, but no, she chose you. Ever since you came into her life, she has become a failure.”

“But you’re also forgetting that while we were married, she had become a renowned scientist with a Nobel Prize. And she did it all with her own talent and effort. Without you.” He didn’t like how her own supposed ‘mother’ put her down like that.

”Oh, but she lost it anyway because she became sloppy with the Bureau, no? I’ve been telling her father that he should’ve just killed her the moment she said she was going to marry you. She was never going to survive.”

”No, fuck you!” Lars wasn’t one to curse, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “It was because of you she became like this! If you didn’t force her to do things she didn’t want to do, then maybe she wouldn’t be in a coma right now! You didn’t care about her, you just wanted her for your own selfish gain!”

He spat out a bunch of other expletives at the woman. The guards had to pull him out because of his outburst. He sat outside the steps and cried.

 She told him that she disobeyed SOMBRA one time, and that one time was to marry him.

She fought for him. She fought to keep their family safe, away from the clutches of SOMBRA. From getting him out of that chimney when they first met, to saving him from his near death experience by finding the cure to the plague… All this time, she was fighting for him.

This time, he wanted to be the one to fight for her. 

While he had to go back to Australia for the triplets, he was overcome with joy when Marina called to tell him that the petition had passed. Angela could finally heal.

Eventually, he told the triplets the whole story about their mother’s situation. He had only explained bits of it to them during video calls. Now that he was finally with them, he was able to sit them down and tell them everything. 

“Is mommy going to die?” April asked, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

”I don’t know, girls… it’s been a year, and I’ll be honest….”  He didn’t want to say it, but a part of him had to accept it so it won’t hurt much once it happened. “…her chances of waking up are slim.”

“I want to see her, daddy!” June cried. “I want to see mommy!”

“She already left us, June!” May was angry, but a part of her was hurt as well. “It’s… it’s been a long time…”

”Hey, girls, it’s alright to feel what you’re feeling right now. But no matter what happens to your mother, just know that she’s there, watching over all of us every step of the way, like a guardian angel.”

 He hugged his daughters as they all cried together. They had various shades of anger, hurt, and confusion written on their faces, but they still mourned.

Thankfully, things got better.

3 years later, Lars had gotten the news that Angela had finally woke up. He immediately requested for her transfer to a psychiatric hospital nearby in Australia so that he could visit her.

He also sought help, both for him and the triplets. The past few years had all taken a heavy toll on their mental health, and he wanted to make sure that they were all going to be okay. 

Once he had heard that Angela had finally been transferred, he wanted to see her, but the hospital didn’t allow him to. So as a coping mechanism, his therapist suggested for him to send letters for her to read. And so he did, even writing her various prose and random lyrics whenever he thought about her. He even put in random drawings and letters that the triplets made. Some were corny, some were profound, but he wanted to show her that she was loved.

A year later, he was finally allowed to visit her. Her therapist thought that this would be best for her healing. Their reunion was filled with a lot of tears, but deep in his heart he had forgiven her for everything. He accepted her for all that she was, the good and the bad.

“Hey.” He greeted her with a smile as she got discharged from the psychiatric hospital after 7 years, holding a bouquet of yellow tulips. “This is for you.”

“Y-you didn’t have to…” Angela blushed as she accepted the bouquet.

“No, I wanted to.” He pulled her closer as they walked over to their car. This time, he wasn’t going to let her go.

The first few minutes of the ride back home were silent, not until Angela spoke up. “Lars…”

”Hmm?”

”I truly am sorry for everything… and thank you for staying with me.” She looked away as she felt her eyes sting with tears.

Lars didn’t say anything until they had encountered a stoplight. His eyes may still be on the road, but his free hand crept to hers as he held it. “You don’t have to say sorry or thank you anymore. Just know that I’ll be here for you no matter what.”

Because as people change, love grows into a steady space, ready to withstand whatever the world throws at it. 

No matter what happens, love will always be steady. It will always be safe.