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goddessofthundathighs · 13 hours ago

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The Shape of Fire

Word Count: 3.2K

“All spells begin with silence.”

The city is quiet in that soft, honeyed way it only ever was before sunrise.

New Orleans breathed in pastel—lavender skies bleeding into blush-pink clouds, the last stars flickering out like candles as the streetlamps click off one by one. The air is thick with jasmine and yesterday’s rain, a warm humidity that kisses the skin like memory.

Though St. Solenne is just fifteen minutes from my apartment, I like to take the long way. Winding through the older neighborhoods where the ironwork balconies still bore ivy, and the sweet olive trees lean close like gossiping aunties.

This part of the city smells of powdered sugar and diesel, like fried dough and something ancient beneath the bricks.

It calms me.

Every step on the cracked sidewalk feels like a meditation. My sneakers scuff against stone, my satchel bumps rhythmically against my hip, and for a moment, I can pretend I am just another doctor heading in for an early shift. Not someone carrying lifetimes in her lungs. Not someone cursed to love a man who never remembers her name.

The river isn’t far. I can hear it sometimes between buildings— the slow, muddy churn of the Mississippi, ancient and unbothered.

It reminds me that time always moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

I pass a street vendor setting up trays of fresh beignets, their golden edges peeking out from beneath a blizzard of powdered sugar. The smell is divine—deep-fried nostalgia laced with vanilla and cinnamon, a scent that wraps around me like an old lullaby. My stomach growls, loud and demanding, but I keep walking, hands stuffed into my coat pockets. I don't trust comfort this early in the day. Not when I still feel Bastet's voice echoing through my bones.

The streets begin to stir, trading their hush for the familiar thrum of New Orleans’ heartbeat. Buses hiss as they brake hard at intersections. Horns blare in chaotic harmony. A man leans out of a passing car window to shout something half-insult, half-flirt in a way only this city could make sound charming. I smile faintly, but my feet move on autopilot, carrying me past the iron gates of St. Solenne Children’s Hospital without stopping.

I should’ve turned left. Should’ve swiped my badge and walked into the waiting scent of disinfectant and bubblegum hand soap. But instead, I follow a tug in my chest. Something magnetic. Primal. Old.

I end up in the Voodoo District, where the air grows thicker and the city feels less like a place and more like a presence. A spirit. Here, the veils between worlds hang thinner than silk. Candles flicker in open windows. Dried herbs sway from door frames. There’s the sharp scent of sage and the faint copper tang of ritual in the wind. A woman hums to herself on a stoop, fingers dancing over bones laid out in a velvet-lined tray like chess pieces mid-game. Her eyes lift briefly to mine. They are the color of stormwater and secrets.

“You’re early,” she says without smiling.

I keep walking.

Shops pulse with energy I don’t remember asking for—tall, narrow doorways with symbols etched into the wood, painted windows that flash images when I’m not looking directly at them. My skin prickles. The mark on my back throbs once, sharp and sudden, like a nerve struck by lightning. I freeze.

There.

Down an alley smeared with shadows and old brick, something moves.

No—someone.

He steps from the dark like he was born from it. Cloaked in long black robes that ripple like oil, his figure is tall and unmistakably divine. There’s a pull to him, an imbalance in the air around his body—like gravity bending the wrong way. His face is obscured by a hood, but the energy is unmistakable. Wild. Crooked. Wrong in a way that makes my teeth ache.

Setekh.

God of Chaos. The Red Sand. The Forgotten Brother.

My breath catches in my throat.

He shouldn’t be here. Not this close. Not now.

His head turns slightly, as if sensing me. I take a cautious step back, my fingers brushing instinctively over the soulmark beneath my coat. It pulses again—like it recognizes him too. Like it remembers his role in the unraveling.

In the curse.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. Just watches.

And then—he vanishes.

Not in a puff of smoke or dramatic flash. Just… gone. As if he’d never been there at all.

Except he had been.

I stand frozen for a beat longer, heart hammering like a drumbeat for a war I didn’t know was starting. Something about his presence confirms what I’ve feared in quiet moments—this curse wasn't just divine punishment. It was orchestrated. Twisted into something deeper, more cruel. And Setekh… he played a part.

I swallow hard, breath unsteady. The sun creeps higher behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the Voodoo District.

And like nothing happened, I turn and walk back toward the hospital, this time fast enough to leave my doubts behind—though I know they’ll catch up again by nightfall.

Whatever this is… It’s starting.

And I need to be ready.

St. Solenne’s spire comes into view, rising like a pale tooth above the rest of the skyline. It isn’t a beautiful building— too many renovations over too many decades— but it has heart. History. The kind of place that remembers you long after you left.

I pause at the staff entrance and take a breath.

The kind I’d been trained to take in witchcraft and medicine alike.

Mahari.

Still here.

Still whole.

Still fighting.

I exhale slowly and step inside. By the time I reach the audiology wing, the hospital is already humming with life.

The building itself is a softened version of the sterile giants uptown—warm-toned walls, colorful murals of storybook characters and jungle animals, twinkling lights in the hallways left over from the last holiday celebration. Somewhere on the first floor, a bubble machine is going off, filling the air with the faint smell of artificial grapes. The elevator chimes like a lullaby.

This is the kind of place where even the walls try to soothe you.

My office is tucked behind the audiology lab on the third floor, past the vestibular testing suite and two small sound booths. The sign on the door reads Dr. M. Wright, Pediatric Audiology, but most of the kids just call me Dr. Hari or the “ear doctor with the sparkly earrings.” I earned that last one with pride.

The space is functional, but I was allowed to make it my own. Soft pink walls. A vintage chart of the inner ear framed beside a painting of a Bastet statue perched on a crescent moon. Noise-cancelling curtains in a soft gold damask. A velvet armchair in the corner for parents. A plush manatee on the exam table for nervous toddlers to cling to. The diffuser runs a constant stream of sweet orange and peppermint to keep the air from smelling of antiseptic and nerves.

I slip off my jacket, set my bag down, and scan my schedule:

Mahari’s Day – Thursday

8:00 AM – Follow-up hearing assessment for twins (age 3)Routine tympanometry + behavioral testing. One parent extremely anxious, probably has questions about speech delays.

9:15 AM – Vestibular consult for Noah R. (age 8)Referred by neurology for dizziness. Rule out vestibular dysfunction vs. auditory processing disorder.

10:30 AM – Team meeting w/ ENT and speech pathology Discuss new cochlear implant protocols, upcoming surgeries, and progress tracking.

12:00 PM – Quick lunch in the garden courtyard (hopefully)Ten minutes of peace if no one finds me.

12:30 PM – ABR (Auditory Brainstem Response) testing for NICU referral Newborn, three weeks old, high risk. Must be sedated—handle with care.

2:00 PM – New intake: Zora S. (age 5)Referral from Baton Rouge. Sudden hearing loss post-viral infection. Flagged as high-priority. Father requests additional emotional support during intake.

3:30 PM – Chart reviews + parent callback marathon Return calls, adjust care plans, and update files. (Will not finish. Never finish.)

I exhale softly and let the stillness of the morning settle in my bones.

Some days are louder than others— filled with crying toddlers, tangled insurance calls, and anxious parents. But today, for now, there is a lull. A gentle hush between storms.

Outside my door, I hear the whirring beep of a toy truck speeding by— probably one of the oncology kids on a joyride. A nurse laughs. Someone calls out for more juice boxes.

And beneath it all, that still, steady hope that lives in the bones of this hospital.

The kind that says: We will help you hear the world again.

I glance at the schedule once more, before glancing at the chart for Zora S. Something tugs at me— familiar, electric. Like the buzz of a storm rolling in just beyond the horizon.

I don’t know it yet.

But my newest patient will change everything.

–

Erik’s POV

The soulmark never stops burning.

It isn’t constant, thank the gods, but it is frequent enough to piss me off. Like now, as I sit in the back of the pediatric clinic, pacing tight circles while my daughter’s chart sits untouched in the crook of my arm.

“You’re making sparks again,” Zora quips from the exam table, her little legs swinging back and forth.

I pause. “What?”

She points to my hands, where faint embers dance between my fingers. Nothing dangerous—yet. Just a flicker of heat. A warning.

I clench my fists and shove them into the pockets of my hoodie. “Sorry, baby girl. You know Daddy’s just… stressed.”

She tilts her head in that way she does when she doesn’t believe me. “Is it the glowing tattoo again?”

The soulmark. A jagged crescent shape under an ankh, right over my ribs. It’s been there since I was nineteen, burned into my skin like lightning had kissed me and left its mark.

“I told you, it’s not a tattoo.”

“But it glows.”

“Only sometimes.”

“And only when you’re being weird.”

I smile despite myself. “I am not being weird.”

“You are. You always get weird when the mark starts glowing. Or when you’re near that bookstore on Canal. Or when people talk about soulmates.”

I laugh under my breath and run a hand over her head. “You’re too smart.”

“Just like my daddy,” she chides proudly.

Before I can respond, the door creaks open.

And the world shifts.

Not violently, not all at once. But like the slow draw of the tide, pulling something loose inside my chest.

She walks in wearing navy scrubs, the fluffy curls from the cafe were now pulled into a tired bun. She has a tablet in hand, badge clipped to her chest, and a golden ankh necklace around her neck.

Her eyes meet mine and I feel it.

That searing pain across my ribs, the mark roaring to life like it had been doused in gasoline. My vision blurs at the edges. Not from panic, but recognition. Bone-deep and ancient.

But she doesn’t flinch.

“Nice to see you again, doc,” I say with a smile that she returns before turning her gaze to Zora.

“Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Mahari, one of the audiologists here at St. Solenne. What’s your name?”

“Zora,” she chips.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

I can’t speak. I should say something about the mark, about the weird buzzing in the air or the way the temperature in the room seems to have spiked.

But all I can do is stare.

She turns to me finally, cracking a joke I didn’t hear about white chocolate raspberry bundt cakes. Something flickers behind her eyes. Barely there. But it’s enough to tell me she felt it too.

I don’t know what it is. Just that it had been waiting.

Lurking.

Building.

“Zora’s been experiencing some issues with balance and hearing,” I say quickly, needing to ground myself in facts. “Her school noticed she’s been struggling in noisy classrooms.”

Mahari nods, tapping notes into her tablet with elegant, fluid motions. “We’ll run a few quick tests. Nothing invasive. She might be a little annoyed with the headphones, though.”

Zora groans. “Are they the clunky ones?”

Mahari winked. “Afraid so. But you get sunflower stickers afterward.”

“Deal.”

I stay quiet as they go through the exam, watching Mahari move with the ease of someone who belongs exactly where she is. She kneels to Zora’s level when speaking. She explains everything before touching a single piece of equipment. Gentle. Kind.

But there is something else under her skin.

Magic.

Not mine—hers. I don’t know how I know that, but it’s like my soulmark is reading hers, calling out in some foreign dialect of the divine.

My powers always come in anger. Fire. Fury. When things spiral beyond control. But this… this is the opposite. Mahari moves with a calmness that soothes everything inside of me. The fire stills. The mark quiets.

And I hate how much I notice.

Because I don’t believe in soulmates.

Not really.

They are myths. Fairytales. Shiny lies we tell ourselves to make suffering more poetic.

And yet…

When Mahari touches Zora’s shoulder and whispers something in a tongue I didn’t recognize—something soft and melodic—Zora smiles. The tension in her frame eases. Like magic had wrapped around her, gentle and protective.

My throat tightens.

I gotta call Mama about this one.

She finishes the exam and turns to me. “She’s got mild sensorineural hearing loss in one ear. It’s manageable, but I’d like to refer her for a follow-up with our ENT just to be safe.”

I nod, managing a hoarse “Thank you.”

Mahari hesitates.

For a breath, I think she is going to say something more. Something about the soulmark. The way we both look at each other like we are remembering a story someone else had written.

But she just smiles again. Soft. Unreadable.

“Take care of her,” she says.

Then, she is gone.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Everything is still and calm until I feel Zora tugging on my sleeve. “Told you. Weird.”

I exhale slowly.

Yeah. Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.

–

I walk into the room, navy scrubs and tired bun, the usual mask of professionalism firmly in place. But the moment my eyes lock on him, Erik, everything inside me freezes.

It shouldn’t have happened that way. I had prepared myself. I knew what to expect. But the instant our gazes met, the world shifted—time stretched in a way I couldn’t explain.

It felt like déjà vu wrapped in thunder. And it was familiar. So achingly familiar.

I know who he is. Just like I do in every lifetime. I know that I had loved him before. I know that my soulmark had recognized him the moment he stepped into my orbit, and I know that this was no coincidence.

Erik Stevens. The man who has been my soul's counterpart through lifetimes. But now... now he is just a single father, sitting next to his daughter, eyes focused on her with such tenderness that it made my heart ache. He has no idea.

Not yet.

But I know. And that is the problem. I know exactly what this connection is, what it means, and I have no idea how to deal with it.

I turn to Zora, forcing myself to take control. “Hey there, pretty girl. I’m Mahari, one of the audiologists here at St. Solenne. What’s your name?”

Zora chirps her name with the kind of joy that only children possess. “Zora.”

I can’t help but smile at her. “Beautiful name.”

But then my gaze drifts back to Erik.

The mark on my back burns to life. A searing, soul-deep pain that roars through me like fire. I don’t flinch. I can’t. But inside, every part of me screams. My vision blurs, and I have to steady myself, my breath coming in uneven gasps as if I were drowning in recognition.

The temperature in the room seems to spike, a strange energy thickening the air between us. The magic that I can never fully suppress claws at the edges of my control. And Erik… Erik isn’t helping. He isn’t aware of the bond between us—not yet—but I can see the way his eyes track me, studying me as if he could sense something too. Something I’m not ready to face.

I swallow hard and force myself to speak, to focus on Zora again. I kneel down to her level, doing everything I can to stay grounded in the moment. “We’ll run a few quick tests, Zora. Nothing invasive, I promise. But you might not love the headphones.”

Her eyes widen. “Are they the clunky ones?”

I manage to smile. “Afraid so. But you get sunflower stickers afterward.”

She smiles back, and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, if only slightly. I put the headphones over her ears, working through the exam with practiced efficiency. But even as I move, my mind keeps drifting back to Erik. The pull between us is undeniable, and it is becoming harder and harder to focus.

Bastet’s voice comes again, more insistent now.

"It is fate, Mahari. You cannot escape it."

I grit my teeth. I don’t want to believe it. Soulmates. Fated partners. It all sounds like fantasy, like something out of a fairytale. And yet, here I am, standing in front of the man who was supposed to be everything to me. The man whom I had already shared so many lives.

It’s too much.

But I can’t let it show. Not now. Not here.

I look at Zora as I complete the exam. I can feel Erik’s gaze on me, even though I don’t dare look at him. Not directly. It’s too dangerous. I’m losing my grip on everything already.

When I finish, I turn to him with as much professionalism as I can muster. “Zora’s got mild sensorineural hearing loss in one ear. It’s manageable, but I’d like to refer her to our ENT for a follow-up. Just to be safe.”

Erik’s expression softens, and for a second, I see something in his eyes that makes my heart flutter. Something tender, something distant. But then he nods, his voice low and hoarse. “Thank you.”

I stand there for a moment longer than I should have, as if I was waiting for something to happen, for him to say something—anything—that would shatter the fragile barrier between us. But he doesn’t.

I can feel it. The tension, thick and unspoken, crackling between us.

I should say something. Anything. About the soulmark. About the magic. About the strange, impossible connection I feel pulsing through every fiber of my being.

But instead, I just smile—soft, neutral. Unreadable. “Take care of her.”

I turne to leave, every step heavier than the last. But just before I reach the door, I feel his gaze on my back, and I feel that burning weight. And, for just a moment, I let myself believe that maybe he could feel it too.

Maybe he isn’t as unaware as I thought.

The door clicks shut behind me.

And as I walk away, the weight of the world seems to press down on me.

Bastet’s voice follows.

"This is your last chance."

I don’t know what is coming, but I can feel it. The storm is building, and it isn’t going to be easy to weather. Especially if Setekh is involved.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Tags: @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @thehomierobbstark @hearteyes-for-killmonger @iamrheaspeaks @mareethequeen @blktinkerbell @madamslayyy @thadelightfulone @dameshaemonique @soufcakmistress @uzumaki-rebellion @ghostfacekill-monger @youreadthatright @dashhoney25 @chaneajoyyy @blowmymbackout @whatmoredoyouwantamericaa @heyauntieeee @thickemadame @theegoldenchild @nickidub718 @muse-of-mbaku @blackpinup22

#my shit #vanity writes #erik stevens #killmonger fic #erik killmonger x black oc #soulmate au #killmonger au #cursed to love you

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fanficflaneuse · 5 years ago

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Princess Charming And The Gentleman in Distress

Index

A/N: I wrote this for my beautiful friend @the-hufflefluffwriter who loves Lucissa and helped me explore this ship. I loved writing this and I hope you like it as well <3

Lucius x Narcissa

Word count: 1530

Summary: Narcissa asks Lucius on a date.

Ever since he had gotten to Hogwarts, Lucius Malfoy walked about the school grounds like a dandy. He was handsome and intelligent, qualities he knew he possessed and was not afraid to flaunt them in and out of class. He kept mostly to himself and talked to a very selected few. This rubbed most students the wrong way, as they assumed the was just another stuck up, entitled pureblood.

Which he was, to an extent.

Lucius was raised to be the perfect heir of a long line of (mostly) pure blooded wizards and witches, after all. He behaved with the propriety and decorum he was expected to, but that was not the reason why he wouldn’t engage with most people.

In reality, he knew he wasn’t half as charming as he imagined himself to be. He could get really dorky about things he was passionate about, like potion making or reading. He was an expert in lots of random things. He knew the events of the XVI century’s witch hunts and Anne Boleyn’s biography by heart. He loved animals, especially peacocks and learned every fact about them. He was kind-hearted, sensitive and open to new ideas, characteristics his father scorned.

Through the years, Lucius had curated an image of perfection he wasn’t willing to lose. And he wasn’t going to let anyone use his true colours against him like his father did.

So, as he walked to the prefects’ carriage, his shiny new badge pinned to his robes, he procured to maintain his composure. Nobody could’ve guessed how proud and excited he was about his new position. His mask of poise fell for a minute when he saw who the other Slytherin prefect was.

Narcissa Black was probably the most popular girl in their year. She was beautiful and dignified, with the aristocratic flair that accompanied her last name. She was also brilliant and had a way with people that made her the centre of attention wherever she went. She was a beater and the star of the Slytherin quidditch team. Narcissa laughed and the world stopped to listen. She was everything Lucius tried to convey and wasn’t.

They had never talked to each other. Narcissa had a lot of suitors, but the only two boys she really talked to apart from her teammates were Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, who dated her older sisters.

As he sat next to her, one single thought crossed his mind: Salazar, this is going to be very, very awkward.

…

“So, are you really thinking about filling your manor with albino peacocks?” she asked, laughter in her voice.

“Of course! They are beautiful, noble creatures. Once I’m the owner, I’ll have them everywhere,” he answered humorously and yet dead serious.

“What a joy to whoever marries you, Malfoy.”

As the months went by, Narcissa and Lucius struck up a very particular friendship. Little by little, he opened up to her. She was endeared by every arbitrary piece of knowledge he had to share with her. She loved how he listened intently to whatever she had to say and he’d ask real questions without ever being nosy. Narcissa found someone who understood her insecurities, someone who not only valued her wittiness but always had a perfect comeback for her. They were overly dramatic together, balancing the etiquette demanded by their families with playfulness.

Their nightly rounds suddenly became the highlight of their weeks. Every day, Lucius would try to find more creative ways to flirt. As the friendship grew, so did his attraction for Narcissa and he was dying to ask her out.

“That could be you, you know?” he said smugly.

Narcissa looked at him, an eyebrow raised. She knew Lucius liked her; he wasn’t subtle at all. And she liked him back, but she knew better than to show him that. Her sisters had taught her well.

“Oh, I know that approach too well, Malfoy. My mother warned me about guys like you.” She crossed her arms playfully.

“Oh, really? So, she warned you about handsome, intelligent and absolutely talented guys like me?” he shot back.

Narcissa laughed, a full-blown laugh that left her breathless. Lucius felt satisfied.

��No, you fool. She told me about those men, too eager to get a proper lady for a wife and a line of mistresses and bastards on the side,” she said dramatically.

It was Lucius’ turn to look at her as though she had gone mad. “And I am one of those?”

“Definitely.”

“Cissa, I can count with one hand the amount of people I talk to. If anything, you are the one who might be searching for a proper gentleman for a husband and a line of lovers on the side,” he countered.

“Not going to lie, I definitely like that idea. The swap of gender roles sounds refreshing,” she beamed back.

He shook his head as a smile played on his lips. “You’re going to be the death of me, Narcissa Black.”

Narcissa smiled. They were already walking back to the Slytherin common room. She knew everything her sisters had told her about not showing too much interest. Andromeda was particularly adamant about this; she had shown the slightest bit of interest for Rabastan and he acted smug for months before asking her out. But she wondered how long she’d have to wait before Lucius made a move. Narcissa didn’t know many more nights of playful banter she could take. Patience wasn’t her forte, as much as her father told her it was the most important quality to cultivate.

Her heart was beating fast on her chest when they arrived to their common room. She decided to get over with it already.

“Cissa.”

“Take me to Hogsmeade next weekend,” she blurted out. Her tone was demanding, not allowing the least beat of doubt to show on her features.

Lucius nodded slowly, not able to disguise his surprise at her bravery.

…

Lucius offered his arm to Narcissa, who linked it with hers. They were very close to each other, enough for her to notice how her date was shivering. It was snowing as they walk to Hogsmeade. Narcissa took the necessary precautions when she chose her garments for the day. She looked beautiful, as always, but she was also properly dressed for the weather. Lucius, on the other hand, had sacrificed comfort for style and now he was freezing to the bone and pretending like everything was fine.

Narcissa could tell he couldn’t wait to arrive at Madam Puddifoot’s and get his hands on steaming cup of tea. She decided it was her moment to act gallantly; she had asked him out, after all. She took off her green scarf and put it around his neck. Once again, Lucius was taken aback by her attitude, but he couldn’t deny the scarf made a big difference.

They smiled at each other sweetly, but she knew she couldn’t let this opportunity pass. She was loving the whole “princess charming and gentleman in distress” situation.

“You know, Malfoy? I love seeing you in my clothes.”

Lucius’ face was already too red from the cold for Narcissa to notice the blush, so he decided to play along with her. “You’ve seen nothing, Black. I’d look fabulous in one of your skirts.”

She giggled. “That confidence makes me think it wouldn’t be the first time you wear someone’s skirt.”

“It would be,” he said, “I’m just so handsome I can pull anything off.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes playfully.

“Your confidence, on the other hand, makes me think it isn’t the first time a guy uses your clothes,” he retaliated.

“Oh, it’s definitely not the first time,” she said offhandedly, noticing how Lucius’ confident smile vanished from his beautiful face. “My cousin Sirius looks so pretty in my dresses. You have no idea!”

Lucius snorted. He pushed the door to Madam Puddifoot’s. A tinkle announced their arrival. The place was tacky and over the top, with ribbons and frills in every possible pastel colour. It was, anyhow, classier than the Three Broomsticks and Lucius had wanted to take her on the very best date possible.

As they sat down, Lucius inched forward and whispered something that could’ve probably scandalized any other proper lady he knew: “You’d look great in my clothes, Black.”

“Oh, Malfoy,” she retorted, her smile hinting an incredibly witty response, “you’ll have to go to hell and back before I wear your clothes.”

…

Lucius woke up to an empty bed. He sat up, scanning the room in search of his wife. He noticed sounds coming from the bathroom and laid back, waiting for Mrs. Malfoy to emerge. Narcissa came back to their bed wearing Lucius’ robe. He smiled at the sight and open his arms for her. She gladly complied and snuggled to her husband.

“You know, Cissa?” whispered Lucius, never missing the chance to mess with his wife.

“Yes?”

“Going to hell and back wasn’t half as bad as I thought it would be,” he teased.

Narcissa filled the room with the wholehearted chortles only reserved for her husband and Lucius couldn’t feel any happier.

#lucissa #lucius malfoy #lucius malfoy x narcissa malfoy #narcissa malfoy #narcissa black #narcissa #lucius #lucius malfoy x narcissa black #lucius x narcissa #lucissa fic #lucissa fanfiction #lucissa fanfic #narcissa malfoy fluff #harry potter fluff #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfics

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when-he-writes-stuff · 5 years ago

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Can you pretty please write a #14 sterek Or maybe a #24 for Lydia or Allison

14. I'm gonna end up breaking your little heart in two.

- -

It was another usual stakeout.

‘Usual’ meaning Stiles had gone through his snacks two hours ago and his stomach was starting to growl again. Derek hadn’t touched his protein bars and when Stiles’s stomach made a particularly loud noise, he sighed and pushed one over. Stiles crowed in triumph and took it, peeling off the wrapper.

“You know, Sourwolf,” he said, taking a large bite. “These aren’t terrible, but you should let me pick out your snacks next time.”

“You went through a bag of skittles, hot cheetoes, and a packet of Reeses in twenty minutes. I don’t want to corrupt my arteries, so no thanks.”

“But dude! The corruption is the best part!”

Derek gave him an unimpressed sideways glance. Stiles sighed and slumped deeper into his chair, peering out against the night. They were alone on the street. Nothing else moved.

“Tell me again, what are we here for? You know, other than stuffing our faces and getting bored out of our minds.”

“Jackson thinks his new neighbor is a supernatural of some kind. It’d best to check and make sure.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, scratching at his nose. “Why are we listening to Jackson again? The douchebag probably just thinks his neighbor isn’t good enough to live on his block, so he’s setting the pack on the poor guy.”

Derek grunted noncommittally. Stiles sighed.

“Can we play music?”

“No.”

“Not even some of that eighties that you like so much? I’m drowning in my own thoughts, Sourwolf, this is serious. Do you know what it’s like to be stuck in my brain?”

“I’d imagine it’s a lot of bagpipe noises,” Derek said drily. “Playing all the time as loud as possible.”

Stiles glared at him. “For your information, it’s much more festive than that. Imagine dance music and flashing neon lights.”

“That sounds even worse.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and slouched down deeper into his seat. He moved to prop his feet up on the dashboard, but froze when Derek shot him a murderous look. Lowering his feet back to the ground, Stiles sighed again. Loudly. Derek’s face tightened a fraction and Stiles found that hilarious, sighing one more time.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his jaw ticking. “I’m going to gut you.”

“That’s rude.”

“I can literally hear you thinking of ways to annoy me right now. You’re not smooth.”

“Excuse me, Sourwolf, but I am thinking nothing of the sort.”

“Why did I bring you with me again?”

“Because of my charming personality and witty banter. You know the rest of the pack would let you down on both ends.”

Derek grunted. But it wasn’t a sound of denial and Stiles thought that was saying something. He grinned and tossed an arm behind his head, cracking his neck from side to side. Derek winced at that.

The werewolf was a total baby when it came to popping bones. During the time they’d spent together, Stiles had started to realize that. And he exploited every part of it.

Suddenly, the man sat up. Stiles flailed around until he was straightened too.

Coming down the driveway of the house was a shadowed figure holding a couple of large trash bags. Stiles leaned forward, but couldn’t get a good look at him. The guy looked up and down the road before dumping them into his trashcan, and then hurried out of sight. Stiles blinked a few times.

“Okay, that seemed a little suspicious.”

“He was throwing away trash.”

“He looked like he was getting rid of a dead body. Oh! Derek! What if he was getting rid of a dead body?”

Derek just rolled his eyes and turned the keys in the ignition. He kept the headlights off and drove slowly past the house; Stiles jumped out when they got close enough and flipped the trash can lid opened. Except, instead of a dead body, he was looking at… what seemed like animal entrails. A couple candles burned all the way down. And something that smelled suspiciously like wolfsbane.

Stiles gagged and stumbled back into the Camaro. Waving for Derek to start the car, Stiles breathed in and out of his mouth for a few seconds. He felt nauseous for a little longer.

“What was it?”

“Animal guts, candles, and wolfsbane. Nothing good,” Stiles said. Derek’s face tightened and he cursed.

“Warlock.”

“Dude, seriously? That’s what we’re dealing with?”

“Those things must’ve been from some sort of ritual. Nothing good comes out of warlocks and their spells.”

Nothing good came out of them for the poor animals Stiles had seen, that was for sure. He tried to shake those images from his mind, resisting the urge to gag again. Derek cast a concerned look over.

“You alright?”

“You know, it warms my heart when you care, Sourwolf.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do and I adore it,” Stiles said. Derek’s face tightened and Stiles snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m fine. Tired and a little nauseous, but fine.”

“I’ll take you home,” Derek said. Stiles waved a hand through the air.

“Dad’s working a nightshift. Lemme crash at the loft.”

Derek gave him a dubious look. Stiles only rolled his eyes and shifted into a better sitting position. The wrappers of his snacks crinkled underneath his feet.

He crashed at the loft more than he did at home lately, with his dad being loaded with longer and longer shifts. Stiles knew he was proving his worth for his badge, but he still hated coming home to an empty house. It was just too quiet.

Derek didn’t say anything, shifting lanes and heading in the other direction. Stiles grinned to himself.

He was half asleep by the time the Camaro rolled to a stop. Stiles blinked blearily against the darkness and before he knew what was happening, Derek had moved around the side of the car and opened up his door. Stiles huffed as Derek helped him out, leaning up against the man’s side.

“You’re such a softie, Sourwolf.”

“Shut up.”

“You are,” Stiles said. “The softest Sourwolf in all of Beacon Hills. No one could ever rival your gooeyness.”

Derek grunted and Stiles could practically hear him rolling his eyes, but the man didn’t say anything else. He just wrapped an arm around Stiles’s shoulder and guided him toward the loft. It was so dark out, Stiles could barely see two feet in front of him. But Derek didn’t let him trip over any of the stairs.

“Are the rest of the betas here?”

Derek tilted his head and listened for a second, then slid the loft door open. “Asleep.”

“Next time, make Isaac and Erica do the nightshift.”

“They’ll tear each other apart.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be so hilarious. I swear, they bicker like literal kids. Literal kids with claws. That’s an accident waiting to happen.”

Derek chuckled, leading him around the couch and down the hall. Stiles could hear faint snores coming from behind closed doors and for some reason, that made him smile. He nearly stumbled over his own feet, cursing loudly, and the snores paused for a second.

Then they started again.

“You know,” Stiles said as Derek led him into the last bedroom. “If you’re not careful, I’m gonna start thinking you care about me.”

“Of course I don’t care about you. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Cause that’d be bad for your reputation, wouldn’t it?”

“Fatal.”

“You’re a real catch when you sarcastic, Sourwolf,” Stiles said sleepily. “You should be sarcastic more often.”

“But then it’d lose its charm.”

Stiles laughed quietly to himself. He’d never admit it out loud, but he treasured nights like this. The nights when they’d done too much research, stayed awake for too many hours, or chased after a monster for too many days. The nights when Stiles nudged at Derek’s walls and Derek let them down.

When Derek tucked him into bed and said soft things that he never seemed to realize Stiles listened to.

“Guess the warlock’s a tomorrow problem,” Stiles said, dropping onto the bed and burrowing into the mound of blankets and pillows. Derek climbed into bed on the other side.

“Guess so.”

“You know,” Stiles said, eyes already half-closed. “One of these days, we’re going to get out of here. A nice break from everything, when there’s no monsters or witches or warlocks to go after.”

Derek didn’t say anything. Stiles sighed into his pillow.

“Like a road trip or something.”

“A road trip.”

“Or something.”

Derek chuckled and Stiles felt gentle fingers stretch out and touch his own. He sighed in contentment and didn’t pull away; he never did. He never did and never would, and Derek knew that.

The silence passed for a long moment. Stiles steadied out his breaths and heard Derek shift around. He could feel the man’s eyes on him for a second. Lingering, quiet. He could almost taste the sadness of the man on nights like this. When sometimes he would just watch until dawn came.

“I'm gonna end up breaking your little heart in two,” Derek whispered into the darkness. Stiles’s heart twisted and after a moment, Derek settled down again.

One day, Stiles was going to prove him wrong. He’d promised himself that before and he’d keep promising until it came true. Because his heartbeat hadn’t skipped earlier; one day, they were going to leave this place. Him and Derek. Derek and him.

A road trip. Or something.

- -

I started this unsure where to go with it, but ohhhh, the soft feels hit unexpectedly. Thank you so much for the prompt, my friend, I totally loved writing the end of this one!

(Support your overcaffinated (so much so) student writer? Seriously, I’d adore you guys so much). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

#sterek #prompts #catch me writing soft feels at 2 am #no biggie #foreverthemomfriend #send me prompts!

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moonysfrexckles · 6 years ago

Text

All The Gold In Between (OR The Marauders: Fifth Year)

July 1976

The roar of euphoria was deafening, spilling from grinning lips and erupting from horns and clappers that crackled every time someone ragged them above their heads. Students decked out in red and gold made their way up the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, feeling the familiar buzz of triumph settle in their veins and thanking their lucky stars that, whilst Slytherin might have caught the snitch, James Potter existed to grasp victory in the firm hold of his Chaser's gloves, reigniting their reign every time he potted the Quaffle through the hoops.

"Potter! We're going to crack open McKinnon's Firewhisky stash- you coming?" Davey Gudgeon yelled, hanging back and beaming like a lunatic.

James ran a hand through his hair. It was windswept, made cold from the rush of air that had breathed life into it just moments before. The grin sparking at his lips was legendary.

"No, I'm not drinking tonight," he said, adjusting his grip on his broom and jogging backwards to the changing rooms. He twirled around, cape kissing his ankles, and called, as an afterthought, "But save me some! I might change my mind."

He couldn't hear the reply over the din of his House, still cheering and chanting and singing songs about lions and snakes. His heart was thudding dangerously quick in his chest, beating so hard against his ribcage he was half-scared it would squeeze through the bone and pop out of his body completely. It would be easy enough to find it, James thought. If it wasn’t lounging in his Common Room with his brothers, it would be underneath the stars, spread out on the pitch he was leaving now. Or sidling up to a certain redhead, with absolutely no qualms about being rejected for the third time this year.

He winced at that, unstrapping the dragon hide gloves from his hands once he shouldered open the door into the changing room. It was empty. Sirius must’ve already buggered off to meet the others. James huffed an affronted laugh at the thought.

His ears were still ringing, and he shook his head to try and regain some sense of reality. Life always seemed to stop when he was flying; the wind would continue, patting his back as it raced on by, cheering his name and planting cold, sobering kisses on his skin. The ground would shrink below him, and the sky would beckon invitingly, stretched out like a wide, blue promise. He never knew what exactly it was promising, but he vowed to find out. One day, James would take to the skies and he’d never return.

“Honestly, Prongs, you’d think you were moisturising with how long it takes you to get fucking dressed!” exclaimed Sirius Black from the doorway.

James whirled round to grin at him.

Sirius had already shrugged out of his Quidditch robes, though he remained in the cream leggings and Gryffindor striped jumper; his boots were laced up to his knee, hair still somehow impeccably in place (a feat James never seemed to manage, even when he tried) and arms folded across his broad chest.

“Perhaps if some bloody prat hadn’t left me, I’d be ready sooner,” James replied indignantly.

Sirius pushed himself off the doorframe. “We both know that’s a lie,” he said. “You’d purposely take longer to punish me for not redirecting the Bludger Pucey aimed at you.”

James scowled at that, reaching up absently to stroke the whisper of a bruise left on his arm. “That fucking hurt,” he murmured.

“I don’t doubt it,” responded Sirius, eyes glinting with amusement as they surveyed his friend. “That’s kind of the point of them, is it not?”

“Then what’s your job?” James inquired. “To fly there and look pretty?”

Sirius brushed his hair from his eyes, lavishly extending his arms. “Well, if you must know-”

“Shut up, Black.”

The two boys shared a secret grin, eyes meeting in an incendiary collision of euphoric momentum. They were both burning.

"A certain redhead looked awfully pleased when you winked at her today," commented Sirius, idly picking at something under his fingernail.

James tried to keep his voice neutral, though his ears perked up regardless. "Oh?"

"Yes. And a certain greasy haired bat couldn't look more disdainful if he tried. He set Peter's robes on fire again you know. Just before the match started."

"Oh."

James felt a frown pull at his face.

"Don't worry, Remus managed to put him out before the fire could spread," assured Sirius. "But still... it's more the fact this is the eighth time he's gotten in our way just this month. Really, Snivellus needs to be put down."

"He gets as good as he gives," James reminded him softly.

Sirius spluttered in outrage. "We retaliate. It's called defending your honour, James. Something that the Snake clearly doesn't have-!"

"Still," James sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. Sirius' eyes followed the action. He often pondered on whether his friend's hair was just naturally as stubborn and stuck up as it was, or whether years of worrying it like that had caused it to remain fixed in position from pure habit.

"Don't tell me you're starting to feel sorry for Snape," he said finally, tearing his eyes away.

James shot him a look that obviously implied he was barmy. "Of course not." He started pulling off his helmet and chest gear. "He chose his path. We chose ours. I don't want to be affiliated any more than I have to with someone who dabbles in the Dark Arts for fun."

Sirius was quiet for a moment, and all that could be heard was James' occasional scuffle and huffed swearing as he struggled to disrobe.

"Leaves no question about whether he's going to join that Anti-Muggle group on the rise, does it?" Sirius asked finally. His tone was flat and it seemed he wasn't really asking at all, more stating it as fact.

James paused. "I just don't get what Lily sees in him," was all he said, before dropping the subject entirely.

It didn’t take him long to shove his broom and gear into a locker, planning to return for them later, and he and Sirius left the changing room, hearts still fluttering with the excitement of flying and the thrill of victory. James slung an arm around his friend, dragging him close. Though Sirius was tall, he could still fit snugly under James’ chin and the latter seemed to enjoy hauling him into his side and laying his cheek against the top of Sirius’ head. Sirius would allow himself to melt for just a second, eyes closing in the embrace, before he would wrench away, indignantly spluttering that he was a man! Goddamnit! A tall, six foot man who would not be namby-pambied! But- no, James don’t leave-

They made their way across the grounds, separating from the few stragglers still meandering up to the castle from the pitch, and bee-lined to their tree by the Black Lake. It was tucked away, not necessarily secret as the tree was visible from almost any window you bothered to look out of. Even so, the Marauders had claimed it as their own, occupying the small grassy mound, where the lake lapped the flowers and the sun soaked into the naked branches of the spindle tree. It seemed to have been charmed, for it was the only tree, in the whole of Hogwarts, that shivered in summer and bloomed bright, beautiful flowers in winter.

Sure enough, they could see the other two of their group lounging in the shade of it, and sped up their pace to meet them.

“Did you get waylaid in the changing room or were you just that drunk on victory that you lost your senses?” questioned Remus Lupin, not even bothering to open his eyes when their shadows blocked out the sun. He was laying on his back, hands cushioning the crown of his head.

Peter offered them a wave from where he was stood at the water’s edge, skimming stones across the shimmering black surface of the lake, trousers rolled up to his knees.

“Both, since you asked,” replied Sirius. “James attacked me as soon as I walked through the door. It was passionate and steamy. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Lovely,” Remus cracked an eye open at that, regarding him distastefully. “That was just the image I needed to pervade my mind on this fine day.”

Sirius grinned at him. “What can I say? It’s a service.”

James shook his head, throwing himself down beside Remus. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a rather rumpled looking Snitch. It fluttered its crushed wings, stretching them languidly, and he let it go, watching with keen eyes as it sped around his head, before his hand shot out and he caught it again. Remus’ eyes followed the action, before he turned his head away and scoffed.

“School property, James,” he reminded. “I could report you for this.”

He tapped the glowing Prefect badge pinned to his robes.

“But you won’t. I’m making the most of my resources. As a Prefect, would you dare get in the way of education?”

"I'm not sure how that works."

James merely sent him a dazzling grin, before making a grand show of releasing the snitch again. Remus rolled his eyes.

Sirius sat down beside the pair of them, stretching his legs out and tipping his head back. The sun beamed down on him, warming his face with ephemeral bliss. He felt his joints ache and clench from the match, and his heart beat steadily against his chest. He could hear a bird singing nearby and the gentle skip of the stones Pete sent flying across the lake, tripping over the dark water. Sirius could feel all of life's intricacies as though they were a part of him; the water trickled through his veins, the sun blushed his cheeks, each of Peter's stones dropping down his gullet and thudding against his ribcage, in tune to the beating of his heart.

He opened his eyes, and looked around. James was leaning against the tree, head back as his eyes followed the little snitch as it buzzed around him. Occasionally, his hand would dart out to catch it, but he mainly sat still and watched it fly, a pensive expression softening his angular face.

Sirius' eyes fell on Remus then. His friend was looking worse for wear, more tired than usual, with purple crescents weighing down his eyes and white skin. Something snagged in Sirius' throat and he swallowed thickly to clear it.

He knew what night it was. They all knew. Though the topic barely left their lips, it haunted each of them and had done since third year. Sirius didn't know his class timetable, but he knew every moon cycle.

"You're staring at me," Remus murmured suddenly.

Sirius jumped and looked jerkily away. Remus' eyes peeked open. His lips quirked upward, but there was a minuscule strain that made his smirk resemble more of a grimace.

“I don’t mind,” he added and in a dry voice said, “I have been told I am a wonder to look upon.”

Sirius snorted. "You sound like me," he noted in amusement.

Remus only looked mildly offended before his face split into a grin. There was no hint of pain this time. "You've rubbed off on me."

"Please, you rubbed off on me more like!" Sirius exclaimed. "I thought for sure your angelic, innocent act was legitimate. And then not two days later, you'd blown up Nott's cauldron for calling Evans a Mudblood!"

"Don't mistake angelic for just, Padfoot. The two are very different."

They stared at one another for a moment, a slight crease between Sirius' eyebrows as he regarded his friend.

"Hey, Prongs!" yelled Peter abruptly, and Remus tore his eyes away.

James caught the snitch easily and looked at their fourth friend. "Yeah, Pete?"

Peter grinned. His bulbous cheeks, red from the heat of summer, lit up in pride and he waved the stone in his hand up in the air and said, "Watch this."

Screwing his face up in concentration, he flicked his wrists a few times before stopping and shifting his grip on the slim stone in his hand. Then, he swung his arm back and it went flying across the water.

One.

Two.

Three.

James sat up straighter.

Four.

Five.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

Six.

Seven.

Sirius' mouth dropped open.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten and the stone sunk.

Peter spun around, eyes alight with obvious glee. He held his short arms out and said, "What was that? ‘Oh, Peter, you’re so talented and exceptional at throwing stones. I’m so lucky to be your friend!’?”

Remus let out a small laugh and commented, “Because throwing stones really wins you the ladies, Peter. You should show your impressive skills off to Mary someday.”

“You mean, when he finally manages to speak to her,” said James, raising his eyebrows. Peter blushed, arms dropping back to his side.

"What about you and Evans?" he demanded, but there was no real heat to it, more of a stammer.

James frowned, and he released the snitch, lulling it into a false sense of security; four eyes tracked it then-

His hand closed around it tightly, and the feathers shivered from between his fingers.

There was a moment of silence and then James held it up cockily for them all to see, and said, "She's warming to me. You just wait. I'm going to marry Evans if it's the last thing I do."

"Judging by her contempt for you, marrying her would be the last thing you'd ever do," rationed Remus, pushing himself up. He winced, and Sirius fought the urge to reach out and stabilise him.

"Yeah, she'd murder you on your honeymoon," added Peter, once he stepped out of the water and started making his way towards them. Sirius slid his wand from his pocket and cast a drying charm on his legs, earning a grateful grin from him as he tumbled to the floor with them and began rolling his trousers back up.

The four boys sat there, basking in the summer sun, wishing this was a carelessness they could afford to drown themselves in. Alas, it was not.

“Are you ready for tonight?” asked James delicately. His eyes remained adamant on the snitch, but the worry creasing them was obvious.

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to stare up at the branch-fractured sky, face blank as a slate, before he said, “I don’t think I will ever be ready for it.”

And the conversation was left at that.

It was only hours later, when the sky began getting streaked with oranges and pinks that they clambered to their feet and trudged their way up to the castle; James made a quick detour to drop the snitch off and collect his Quidditch gear. Dinner was well underway, and they heard the din of chatter through the slit in the heavy oak doors but passed straight by and headed instead to the kitchens. So caught up in their newfound determination for the oncoming night, and the anxious coil of their stomachs, they did not see the black eyes that followed them, nor catch the malicious sneer tainting his face.

They didn’t waste much time in the kitchens, only ate what the House Elves had saved them, before they were hurrying back through the castle to the Common Room. They only reached the Entrance Hall when they were stopped.

“Sneaking off again, are you Lupin?” a voice drawled from the shadows.

Remus’ body seized up. James slipped his wand into his hand, twirling it through his fingers as Severus Snape stepped into the light.

“Oh, Snivellus,” delighted Sirius, though the snarl was biting and sharp. “Shouldn’t you be playing with your chemistry set?”

Snape’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “Shouldn’t you be running off to get ready for whatever you wander off for once a month?”

Remus swallowed thickly, eyeing the Slytherin. His face was waxy and pallid. “What do you want, Snape?” he asked tiredly.

“Nothing you, nor your equally dim-witted lackeys, could give me, I assure you, Lupin.”

“Then, please, have some courtesy. You go back to your dormitory. We’ll go back to ours.”

It seemed this had gotten through to him, for he didn’t reply and the Marauders turned on their heel to leave, just as Snape called out, “It’s a full moon tonight. Are you aware, Lupin?”

Sirius whirled on his heel and he was upon Snape in an instant, shoving him roughly into the brick wall. He relished in the way the other boy winced, no doubt as the stone dug into his back, and a trickle of fear lighted his dark eyes when Sirius’ wand pressed into the hollow of his throat.

Then, Snape began to smirk.

Sirius ragged him forwards by the scruff of his shirt and rammed him into the wall again.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing at, Snivellus,” he spat, bringing his face close to Snape’s and speaking in a deadly, low voice so that no one else could hear, “but you need to learn when to keep that abnormally, large nose of yours out of other people’s business.”

“What happens in the Whomping Willow, Black?” Snape asked silkily.

Sirius smiled at him, and it was twisted and ugly. His murmur was barely distinguishable but Snape heard it nonetheless. “Poke the knot at the bottom and find out.”

“Sirius,” James warned, for what seemed like the seventh time. As he was about to drag his friend off the other boy, Sirius stepped backward, dropping Snape and he tumbled against the wall roughly. “That’s enough.”

Sirius’ eyes didn’t waver from Snape’s until James hauled him around, and the Slytherin watched darkly as the Marauders continued down the corridor, before disappearing around the corner. Snape reached up and touched the delicate spot at his neck. He was burning.

He climbed to his feet, ignoring the stinging of his skin, and set off in the opposite direction, cloak swishing behind him.

oOo

The grounds were silent, tucked up in a blanket of obdurate darkness, where nothing stirred nor dared to whisper in the moonlight. There was something tempting about the night, however, as though it were simply holding its breath with anticipation. Trepidation lay heavy and thick on the air.

And then, movement. The door to the castle breaking open- there was a pool of light that flooded onto the grass, before it was swallowed once more in shadow. A figure, swathed in black, made its way across the pathway, descending the small hill, before stopping just out of range of the dozing tree.

The tree did not seem sinister. It shook off dead leaves, every now and then, but other than that, remained peaceful. The figure cast an immobilising spell on its branches just in case.

When he was sure it was frozen, he edged closer to its trunk, kneeling down and fumbling for the knot in the roots. His hand found it and he pressed down, silently cursing when nothing happened. But surely enough, the tree’s branches seized up and a small opening presented itself at the very base of the trunk. Though he knew he didn’t have much time, his fingers grazed the scratch marks engrained deep in the wood, and a nasty sneer twisted his lips.

He crawled inside.

The tunnel was so obviously fashioned by magic, for the walls were smooth and held up by no visible force. His knees tripped over protruding rocks, and he could feel the dirt stick to his hands, but he made himself continue on, only stopping when the hole he had climbed in through was a mere pinprick of satin midnight, and he reached a trapdoor above his head. He pushed it open and pulled himself up.

This was not what he had expected.

He was somehow sitting in a house, of some sort, however dilapidated it might be. The floor was filthy and scuffed, the walls were wooden panels that were falling apart and every window had been barred, once or twice over. There were no lights, and Snape cast a quick ‘Lumos’ so that he could see. He got to his feet.

The more of the house he saw, the clearer it was that no one had stepped foot in here in years, decades even. Every room he peeked into was barren and neglected. It seemed as though the house had been dead for a long time, with no flicker of life to taint it.

That was when he heard it. A low whining. Coming from somewhere ahead.

Snape continued his perusal, wand held in front of him, cloak clipping his ankles. With each step, the whining grew louder and more desperate. There was a panicked scratch at the door just ahead of him. The whining stretched on, increasing in volume and vigour.

His hand reached for the handle-

Someone wrenched him back, fist tangled tightly in the material of his robes, ragging him about. Snape grappled for the doorknob but whoever was holding onto him had a secure grip and was not letting go. He tried to kick behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

He stopped. He recognised that voice.

“Potter?”

Sure enough, when he managed to get free, and could turn around to face his assailant, he saw James Potter standing in front of him. Though perhaps ‘standing’ was the operative term, for the taller boy was leaning against the wall as if for support, clutching his side and wincing every time he breathed. His hair was a mess, more so than usual, sticking to his forehead from sweat, and there was dirt clinging to his cheeks and hands.

“What are you doing here, Snape?” he asked once more. Though visibly shattered, his eyes remained clear behind his glasses.

Snape sneered at him. “Black invited me.”

James’ face went white. He shook his head, and muttered, more to himself, “Sirius wouldn’t do that.”

“Really? Then how would I know to press the knot at the base of the-”

James blinked, seemingly remembered he was there and said, “Sirius would never tell you.”

Snape scoffed condescendingly. “Then how am I here, Potter?”

But James couldn’t reply. There was a bang, a crash from further down the hallway, before a howl cut through the silence. Both boys shot to look in the direction it came from. The sound echoed through the night.

James didn’t waste a second. He leapt forward, grabbing hold of Snape and shoving him in front of him, pushing them both back to the trapdoor.

“Whatever it is you’re hiding here, Potter, you won’t get away with it. You, or your merry band of imbeciles,” Snape snarled over his shoulder, though he found his feet more than willing to comply with James’ ushering.

James glanced behind him. He was deadly serious. “You can’t comprehend anything past your vicious prejudices and sick fancies, Snape. You have no idea-”

When they got to the trapdoor, Snape hauled himself away, holding his wand against James’ throat. James eyed it cautiously, lip darting out to wet his dry lips.

“No idea about what?” he demanded.

As if on cue, a howl cut through the house again, only this time it was followed by a splintering thud, louder and heavier than the last. Both boys watched the ceiling shake, sawdust raining down.

A rat scuttled along the bannister and past their feet. James’ eyes followed it.

He looked quickly back at Snape and said, “Go back to the castle. Climb into bed and pretend this never happened.”

Snape let out a derisive laugh. “And let you get away with whatever you’re doing here? No. This will get you expelled Potter. I’m sure of it.”

But instead of flustering, James just shook his head, almost sadly, and said, “Snape… I’m going to ask you one more time. Please. Leave.”

Snape smirked. He raised his wand, and pointed it right between James’ eyes, a curse brewing at his lips.

The opportunity was ripped away from him as there was another bang. James’ eyes widened, and his chest heaved. He jumped down into the trapdoor, wrapped his fingers around Snape’s ankle and lugged him down with him. Snape kicked to relinquish his hold, swearing and hissing, trying to twist so he could use his wand and curse the bastard-

Then, from around the corner, something appeared. It was huge, scrawny but tall, spanning the doorway above them. Its eyes gleamed yellow, narrowed to slits, and it was panting and drooling. Snape could only stare at the beast, feeling his heart stop in his chest.

James tugged the door down, hastily sliding his wand out and locking it tight.

“Werewolf,” Snape murmured. The trapdoor above their heads shook violently and he jumped. James just stared at the ground unflinchingly. “It makes sense.”

“Are you happy now?”

Snape looked up to stare at James’ blank expression.

“You nearly killed yourself. If I hadn’t been there-”

Snape scoffed. “Oh, spare me, Potter. You saved yourself.”

James’ face changed then, and he shook his head. “Yeah. Because I was scare I would get the blame for this when there’s nothing at all to incriminate me. Some things are more important than reputation, or a petty feud.”

“Like the full moon?”

Snape’s face contorted into a smug and sickening sneer. James simply said, “Tell anyone and I will make whatever fate could have made of you up there look merciful. I will make you regret the day you walked into my compartment on the train. Do you understand me, Snape?”

Snape’s lip just curled, and he began to crawl back along the tunnel, ignoring the way the trapdoor still shuddered and jerked from the other end every few minutes, and the rumbling growling. Just before he clambered out into the cool night breeze, he heard James’ voice float back to him, dejected and tired:

“Oh, Sirius. What have you done?”

oOo

“What were you thinking?”

The words were hushed and stolen, spoken to the silence and Remus knew, blearily, that he was not supposed to be able to hear them.

“James.” That was Peter, quiet, timid. “Keep your voice down. Remus is sleeping.”

There was a shuffle from beside him, the scraping of a chair against the stone floor. It made his head ache, and he wanted nothing more than to burrow deeper into his pillow, but he kept still. Though his body ached all over, and there was something stinging, and he knew he should rest, he needed to listen to this conversation.

He heard James swallow. “You know how he gets in that house! He goes stir-crazy!”

“I didn’t mean-”

Sirius.

“You didn’t mean what?” James demanded in a whisper. His voice was strained, almost agonised. “You knew what would happen! There was only one possible outcome to that… Are you stupid? Are you actually stupid, Sirius?”

There was no reply. Then, there was a long, strenuous sigh.

“Why did you do it?”

Nothing.

Then-

“I wasn’t thinking.” The excuse was small, intangible. Then, it grew in desperate vigour. “I was just so fed up with him looking at us like he knew us, acting like he could set Peter on fire whenever the fuck he wanted, like he knew about Remus and could treat him however the fuck he wanted- you heard him, he mentioned the Full Moon-”

“He was grasping for straws, Sirius,” said James tiredly. “He was monitoring you for a reaction.”

“Then why-”

“You didn’t see his face. You didn’t see Snape’s face when he saw it.”

James’ voice was so low, Remus almost didn’t catch the words. Almost. They sent a ripple of panic through him, hurting more than any scratch or bruise or broken bone could, feeling as though someone had winded him. His eyes grew hot. He wanted nothing more than to be alone.

It.

He’d been called that before. More than once. The first was by his father, in another conversation Remus shouldn’t have been listening to. His father had been arguing with his mother, claiming that this wasn’t natural in the Wizarding World, this… infliction. Remus had heard the shouting from his room and had crept out of bed and sat at the top of the stairs to listen, fighting the urge to run and hug his mother when he heard her start crying. His father had broken down and told her he couldn’t do it, that whatever was sleeping in his son’s bed, it wasn’t their son.

That had broken Remus’ heart.

“You’re just much more extraordinary than you realise.”

This felt like setting it on fire.

Sirius

The burning spread across his heart quickly, devouring it in agony, soaking it in a betrayal so profound and cutting he could only ask why.

Why did you do it?

When his friends had first shown him their animagus forms, he had cried, sobbed. The thought that someone, never mind his three brothers, loved him enough to do that had rattled him to his core. He had never thought anyone could love a monster. Remus had never thought anyone could ever love him.

And yet, his friends had disproved that. They’d kept his secret, bandaged his wounds, brought him hot chocolate when he was feeling low and handed in their homework under his name if he was feeling stressed about the Full Moon. They had loved him with so much vigour and passion, Remus was sure he had felt it resonate inside of his soul and perch there like a butterfly.

That butterfly fell limp now, landing in his gut with a dull thud.

Snape knew.

Oh God. It was over. Word would be out tomorrow, and the owls would come flooding in. Parents wouldn’t want their children gallivanting around with a werewolf. The mere notion was taboo. Dumbledore would have no other choice. He would never see his friends again.

Remus started crying, and when his friends realised he was awake, he moaned in pain and pretended it was the agony of his joints forcing tears from his eyes. He couldn’t even look at Sirius, as Madam Pomfrey was alerted and she bustled over to force a few more nasty tasting potions down his throat, but he caught James’ eye. He’d always found James the unwavering candle in the darkness, like some sort of pillar to lean against and look for in times of need, but even his eyes were poison. They held pity and, worst of all, they held fear.

Pure, undulated fear.

oOo

There were no owls.

Though Remus had held his breath and closed his eyes each time the mail came soaring in through the open window, there had been no gasps of horror, no frightened looks shot his way. He sometimes felt Snape’s eyes on him, though he ignored them. Things almost went back to normal.

There was that word again. Almost.

He had not spoken to Sirius properly since that night, nearly two weeks ago. It wasn’t that he refused to, simply that he had convinced himself he had buried the pain, and it was easier to leave it in the ground than to drag it all up and face again. Remus pretended that the image of his betrayal festering in his bone marrow did not keep him up at night, alongside images of his werewolf self mauling Snape before being carted off to Azkaban.

They had been sitting under their tree again, sunshine drying up any conversation they might’ve had. Lunch was nearly over, however, and it was with heavy legs that they’d decided to head back up the grounds to the school.

“Snivellus!”

Remus felt his breath catch in his throat. His heart dropped.

James had his wand out first, eyes deceptively clear of the disdain that marred his face. Remus didn’t know why he was doing it; he could see the reluctance coiled tight in the set of James’ broad shoulders, and how his knuckles were turning white.

Snape eyed the four of them with open distaste.

“Potter,” he spat.

Without warning, he was hoisted into the air, held at the ankle by an invisible rope. His books fell from his arms, bag slipping over his shoulder. He spluttered furiously.

James kept his wand trained on him. “I learnt that from you. You wrote it in the margin of your Potions book, remember? I’ve been curious to know what it does for a while now, and honestly, I was expecting something darker.”

He swallowed, moving closer, pulling Snape down so he could murmur, “Remember our deal.”

Snape spat at his shoes. “What deal? I don’t recall making one with you-.”

James’ lips tightened into a line. He jabbed his wand sharply, and Snape went hurtling to the ground, stopping short when his head was a few centimetres away from colliding with the dirt. A crowd had assembled at some point, and there was a ripple of gasps across them.

“Don’t tell anyone, or this will only get worse.”

The two stared at one another, as colour rapidly rushed to Snape’s head. Finally, he relented and snarled viciously, “I’m not going to cross my heart, Potter. Lift me back up!”

James did so, realising this was the best he was going to get to an unspoken promise. The counter-curse was about to touch his tongue, when his attention was snagged by a certain redhead barging her way through the throng of people watching.

“Potter! Let him down!”

Lily Evans stopped directly ahead of him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with fury. They flicked up at Snape, and she faltered ever so slightly before her glare hardened and she refocused on James.

“Evans, this has nothing to do with you,” Sirius told her disinterestedly.

Remus had to check himself to hold back the laugh that had nearly forced its way out of him. If Sirius thought he could use that tone with Lily Evans and escape unscathed, he clearly hadn’t learnt anything in the past five years. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Don’t you dare, Black! This has everything to do with me!” she fumed. “I am a Prefect! If you think your tyranny of this school will continue next year, then you are sadly mistaken-"

Sirius lowered his wand a little. "Did she just call us tyrants?" he asked, amused.

Lily wasted no time. She took full advantage of his distraction and disarmed him in a heartbeat, catching his wand in her free hand. Remus rolled his eyes. They made it far too easy for her.

"Now, put him down."

James just stared at her. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, as though some sort of battle was being waged within his eyes, something that was causing him stress. It disappeared too quickly for Remus to place what it was, and his cocky facade slipped back on in no time.

"I will if you go out with me, Evans," he grinned.

Lily regarded him in disgust. "Not even if it was a choice between you and the Giant Squid!"

"Hey now!" Sirius called, pointing a finger at her. "That's not fair! One's a handsy, hideous face-sucker and other is a ridiculously large squid. That's no fair comparison. It's the squid every time."

James shot him a look.

Lily chewed on her lip, glancing up at Snape again, who had stopped wriggling and was turning purple.

"I mean it, Potter! Just put him down! This stupid war has gone on for long enough-!"

"Stop it!" Snape spat out. The blood rushing to his head made his words gargled. "Just stop it! I don't need help from a filthy, little Mudblood!"

James, who had been in the process of lifting his wand to utter the counter-spell, stopped. His face grew murderous; there was no flicker of doubt across it.

"How fucking dare you," he said quietly, then roared, "She is twice the witch you will ever be a wizard!"

He started forward, fuelled on his rage, eyes livid and set on his target, hand wrapped tight around his wand. Lily ran in front of him.

"No!" she screamed. She pointed her wand at his chest.

Her face was red, almost as red as her hair, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. James deflated, arm dropping to his side.

"Lily, I-"

"No! Potter, I don't need your help! You are nothing more than an arrogant, bullying toerag!" declared Lily vehemently, throwing herself away. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes.

"Lily-" Snape began, and his voice was low and desperate.

She straightened, hand still clutching her wand. Her eyes slid to him. "Do you still intend to join the Death Eaters?"

Snape opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. The two best friends stared sullenly at one another.

At his prolonged silence, Lily's eyes widened fractionally, as if she hadn't truly believed it. Her face grew cold soon after and she said, "Have fun, Snivellus. Let's see how you get out of this one without your 'filthy Mudblood.'"

With that, she turned on her heel and started back towards the castle. Remus could hear her small whimpers, and shook his head, wishing his hearing wasn't so in tune to the suffering of the world. James' eyes followed her the whole way.

"You fucking idiot," he said, looking at Snape with thinly veiled disgust. "Did you not listen to what I said to you?”

Snape could only stare at him, hatred bubbling in his black eyes. James raised his wand, let it linger between those same eyes, and Remus sucked in a breath. There was a stolen second of silence where the world dropped away, and Remus was sure it was just Snape staring at James and James staring at Snape; two boys on different sides of a brewing war, two ideals boiled down to the basic symphony of school rivalry.

Then, James’ arm dropped to his side, and he started walking away, calling over his shoulder, “Hang in there, Snape,” though his usual vehemence was absent. Sirius followed after him, directing a quick spell and Snape’s pants flew down to his ankles. He struggled violently.

Remus started forwards. “James,” he began. The other boy didn’t even slow his pace. Peter patted his shoulder as he passed, giving him a small, hopeless look.

He continued after his friends, head down, feeling his head spin and his stomach grow cold. As he passed, he paused, eyes sliding over Snape’s discarded wand. Remus clenched his jaw before he swooped down and picked it up, holding it out for Snape to take.

The Slytherin eyed him for a moment of disdain.

Remus sighed. “Are you really going to let pride stop you from taking it? You’re hanging upside down with your underwear on show.”

Snape snatched his wand and Remus nodded tiredly, not staying to see him mutter the counter-curse and fall to the ground, as he set off up the hill to the school.

oOo

August 1976

It was a stormy night. Ravaging winds and eviscerating rain had swept in from the West, following a summer of nothing but eternal sunshine and hot spells. The skies were dark and swirling, and the road shone slick with water.

The old manor house stood largely unaffected, solid and unwavering in the face of such an onslaught. The trees groaned, shifting with the weight of the wind ploughing into their trunks, and there was a little broom shed that’s foundations looked as though they would be pulled from the earth and the wooden panels of the walls would go splintering. Other than that, there was nothing.

Until a figure appeared out of nowhere.

It was largely unremarkable, for the wind made one’s eyes hard to trust, but one minute there was solitude and silence, and with the next bout of storm, a boy stood in its place.

He was relatively tall, though his body was racked, and he was shivering violently. He ran with fear lacing his strides, clutching tightly at the thick cloak wrapped around him and lugging after his heels an old leather trunk.

The boy stopped only when he got to the house, collapsing against the doorway, gasping sharply for air. He knocked desperately.

There was no answer. Nobody even stirred.

But then, a light flickered on above him. And another. It was like a game of dominos, each light lit quicker than the last, until the door was flung open and a yellow warmth devoured him.

“Sirius?”

James Potter stood in the house, glasses shoved onto his nose, tired eyes slowly widening. His hair was stuck up in all possible directions.

Sirius tried to smile, but he could taste blood and knew it was more of a grimace.

“Dear Merlin,” James whispered.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Sirius offered quietly.

It was only then that James noticed the trunk behind him. He didn’t waste another second, throwing the door wider and ushering his friend inside, taking the trunk from his cold and clammy hands and hauling it into the entryway. The door slammed shut behind them.

James had seen many things in the five years he’d spent being friends with Sirius Black. He had seen him thrash around in the dead of night, pleading to an invisible man to stop, flinching and crying out when they didn’t. He had seen him determined and loving ferociously, stopping at nothing to make sure that Remus Lupin was not alone when the rest of society seemed to believe he should be. He had seen him cold, when the hatred burned through him, black as his namesake and eyes. He had seen him euphoric and free, laughing like nothing in the world could touch him and at one time, James had believed that to be true.

He had never seen him like this.

Sirius’ eye was swollen, purple and bulging, protruding from his ashen face like a stone from water. His lip was bust, still oozing blood, and there was a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, ugly and grey and pink. James knew that if he lifted Sirius’ shirt, even a fraction, he’d see identical bruises, like a meadow spreading up his skin.

He was shaking, trembling so vigorously, James was sure he would burst. He was convinced that Sirius would explode and everything he’d ever felt, everything he’d held inside of him, would come ricocheting out, all the red and gold and black traversing through his veins.

“I tried calling you,” he murmured. “On the mirror. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know where else to go-”

“Sirius,” whispered James, and he felt his throat close up. Without saying another word (he wasn’t sure he could), he pulled the smaller boy into his arms, hugging him so closely, so tightly, as if this embrace would make all of Sirius’ broken parts fit back together. But then James wondered if he wasn’t whole to begin with.

The two boys stood there, clutching onto one another so firmly they left marks. Sirius sobbed into James’ shoulder, fingers clenched around the material of his pyjamas and James didn’t mind that he was now as drenched and cold as the storm outside. His brother was safe in here, in his arms, and if it meant he had to hold him for an eternity, James would do so in a heartbeat.

“James, darling, what-?”

Euphemia Potter stopped at the foot of the stairs. She breathed in sharply, and her words were lost.

“Sirius, love, is that you? What’s happened? What’s-? Oh my.”

She didn’t wait any longer, rushing over and she bundled both boys into her arms, hugging them to her body as though they were till children in need of a mother’s embrace, and she felt Sirius cling to her, melt into her warmth.

Euphemia realised he had probably never felt the love of a mother’s embrace before. She made sure to hug him tighter.

She patted his back to let her go, pulling away and wiping at her eyes, sniffing resolutely. She cast a drying and warming charm on him, smiling softly, holding his face tenderly in her hands. “Love, we need to get you out of these clothes. You’ll freeze to death if not. James, run and get him some of your pyjamas.”

James seemed hesitant to leave his friend, but his mother’s eyes urged him and he set off at a sprint, returning mere seconds later with a pair of clean Quidditch nightclothes, emblazoned with snitches and Puddlemere United. Sirius hardly had the effort to jab at James’ shocking allegiances.

“Can you walk, dear?” Euphemia asked him, brushing away some hair by his eyes. Though her face didn’t show it, she wanted to flinch at the sight of him. A child. And yet, here he was, beaten and bloody, almost a pulp. She tried to lead him upstairs, but he collapsed in her arms. “No, it’s okay. We’ll get you on the settee for tonight and move you upstairs to your room tomorrow.”

With James’ help, they gently led Sirius over to the settee, and Euphemia procured blankets and pillows to wrap him up with. She flicked her wand and a fire leapt in the hearth, bathing the room immediately in heat.

“I’ll just go and get some balm for his eye, and see if we have any potions for his bruises. I-”

“Mum,” James cut her off.

She fell quiet and the two looked at the broken boy on their settee. He had settled into the cushions, burrowing into their warmth, with the blanket tucked right up to his chin. In the firelight, the purple of his face made him look haunted, nearly dead. James’ throat clenched up at the thought and he cast it away instantly, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

Euphemia felt her heart melt. A sad smile formed at her lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Luckily, because they had a son as danger prone as James, their medical cupboard was well-stocked, and she was returning in no time with the necessary balms and potions and a warm cloth to wipe away any blood, but as she stepped back into their living room, she stopped in her tracks.

James had climbed under the covers beside Sirius, and was snoring peacefully, the smaller boy tucked against his chest. He had his arm draped over her son’s waist, and every now and then, his hand would seize into a fist and he’d clutch the material of James’ shirt. James absently stroked Sirius’ hair.

Euphemia faltered.

She and Fleamont had always had trouble having children. They had thought, as old as they were, that they might be condemned to live in a big, empty house, happy and in love, though missing something, missing the echoing of laughter and the high-pitched glee that followed it, spiralling out of control, and yelling after ghosts that sprinted down the hallways and slammed doors and made messes in the kitchen, and trailed mud into the house after a day spent dancing in the rain-

The day she found out she was pregnant with James was the happiest of her life, and though he was her blessing and her joy, it had come at a cost, and she was warned that another childbirth would kill her. And so, the dreams of a big family with several children had bubbled down to one child, whom she loved with all her heart.

Now, however, she thought that wasn’t true.

She laid the tray of medicines down on the coffee table, before quietly moving over to her boys. She pressed a lingering kiss to each of their foreheads, and pulled the blanket further up, making sure it covered their feet.

Euphemia stopped in the doorway, looking back once more at her sons.

No, she didn’t have one child. She had two.

#Marauders #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #lily evans #severus snape #prongs #padfoot #moony #wormtail #snape #marauders era #marauders headcanon #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #jily #wolfstar #Harry Potter

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intellectualshield · 6 years ago

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CRIMINAL MINDS WATCHLIST.

SEASON ONE :

Extreme Aggressor.

Compulsion.

Won’t Get Fooled Again.

Plain Sight.

Broken Mirror.

L.D.S.K.

The Fox

Natural Born Killer.

Derailed.

The Popular Kids.

Blood Hungry.

What Fresh Hell.

Poison.

Riding the Lightning.

Unfinished Business.

The Tribe.

A Real Rain.

Somebody’s Watching.

Machismo.

Charm and Harm.

Secrets and Lies.

The Fisher King, Part 1.

SEASON TWO :

The Fisher King, Part 2.

P911.

The Perfect Storm.

Psychodrama.

Aftermath.

The Boogeyman.

North Mammon.

Empty Planet.

The Last Word.

Lessons Learned.

Sex, Birth, Death.

Profiler, Profiled.

No Way Out.

The Big Game.

Revelations.

Fear and Loathing.

Distress.

Jones.

Ashes and Dust.

Honor Among Thieves.

Open Season.

Legacy.

No Way Out, Part II: The Evilution of Frank.

SEASON THREE :

Doubt.

In Name and Blood.

Scared to Death.

Children of the Dark.

Seven Seconds.

About Face.

Identity.

Lucky.

Penelope.

True Night.

Birthright.

3rd Life.

Limelight.

Damaged.

A Higher Power.

Elephant’s Memory.

In Heat.

The Crossing.

Tabula Rasa.

Lo-Fi.

SEASON FOUR :

Mayhem.

The Angel Maker.

Minimal Loss.

Paradise.

Catching Out.

The Instincts.

Memoriam.

Masterpiece.

52 Pickup.

Brothers in Arms.

Normal.

Soul Mates.

Bloodline.

Cold Comfort.

Zoe’s Reprise.

Pleasure is My Business.

Demonology.

Omnivore.

House on Fire.

Conflicted.

A Shade of Gray.

The Big Wheel.

Roadkill.

Amplification.

To Hell...

...And Back.

SEASON FIVE :

Nameless, Faceless.

Haunted.

Reckoner.

Hopeless.

Cradle to Grave.

The Eyes Have It.

The Performer.

Outfoxed.

100.

The Slave of Duty.

Retaliation.

The Uncanny Valley.

Risky Business.

Parasite.

Public Enemy.

Mosley Lane.

Solitary Man.

The Fight.

A Rite of Passage.

...A Thousand Words.

Exit Wounds.

The Internet is Forever.

Our Darkest Hour.

SEASON SIX :

The Longest Night.

JJ.

Remembrance of Things Past.

Compromising Positions.

Safe Haven.

Devil’s Night.

Middle Man.

Reflection of Desire.

Into the Woods.

What Happens at Home.

25 to Life.

Corazon.

The Thirteenth Step.

Sense Memory.

Today I Do.

Coda.

Valhalla.

Lauren.

With Friends Like These...

Hanley Waters.

The Stranger.

Out of the Light.

Big Sea.

Supply & Demand.

SEASON SEVEN :

It Takes a Village.

Proof.

Dorado Falls.

Painless.

From Childhood’s Hour.

Epilogue.

There’s No Place Like Home.

Hope.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy.

The Bittersweet Sauce.

True Genius.

Unknown Subject.

Snake Eyes.

Closing Time.

A Thin Line.

A Family Affair.

I Love You, Tommy Brown.

Foundation.

Heathridge Manor.

The Company.

Divining Rod.

Profiling 101.

Hit.

Run.

SEASON EIGHT :

The Silencer.

The Pact.

Through the Looking Glass.

God Complex.

The Good Earth.

The Apprenticeship.

The Fallen.

The Wheels on the Bus...

Magnificent Light.

The Lesson.

Perennials.

Zugzwang.

Magnum Opus.

All That Remains.

Broken.

Carbon Copy.

The Gathering.

Restoration.

Pay It Forward.

Alchemy.

Nanny Dearest.

#6.

Brothers Hotchner.

The Replicator.

SEASON NINE :

The Inspiration.

The Inspired.

Final Shot.

To Bear Witness.

Route 66.

In the Blood.

Gatekeeper.

The Return.

Strange Fruit.

The Caller.

Bully.

The Black Queen.

The Road Home.

200.

Mr. & Mrs. Anderson.

Gabby.

Persuasion.

Rabid.

The Edge of Winter.

Blood Relations.

What Happens in Mecklinburg...

Fatal.

Angels.

Demons.

SEASON TEN :

Burn.

A Thousand Suns.

The Itch.

Boxed In.

If the Show Fits.

Hashtag.

The Boys of Sudworth Place.

Fate.

Amelia Porter.

The Forever People.

Anonymous.

Nelson’s Sparrow.

Hero Worship.

Scream.

Lockdown.

Breath Play.

Rock Creek Park.

Beyond Borders.

A Place at the Table.

Mr. Scratch.

Protection.

The Hunt.

SEASON ELEVEN :

The Job.

The Witness.

Til Death Do Us Part.

Outlaw.

The Night Watch.

Pariahville.

Target Rich.

Awake.

Internal Affairs.

Future Perfect.

Entropy.

Drive.

The Bond.

Hostage.

A Badge and a Gun.

Derek.

The Sandman.

A Beautiful Disaster.

Tribute.

Inner Beauty.

Devil’s Backbone.

The Storm.

SEASON TWELVE :

The Crimson King.

Sick Day.

Taboo.

Keeper.

The Anti-Terror Squad.

Elliott’s Pond.

Mirror Image.

Scarecrow.

Profiling 202.

Seek and Destroy.

Surface Tension.

A Good Husband.

Spencer.

Collision Course.

Alpha Male.

Assistance is Futile.

In the Dark.

Hell’s Kitchen.

True North.

Unforgettable.

Green Light.

Red Light.

SEASON THIRTEEN :

Wheels Up.

To A Better Place.

Blue Angel.

Killer App.

Lucky Strikes.

The Bunker.

Dust and Bones.

Neon Terror.

False Flag.

Submerged.

Full-Tilt Boogie.

Bad Moon on the Rise.

Cure.

Miasma.

Annihilator.

Last Gasp.

The Capilanos.

The Dance of Love.

Ex Parte.

All You Can Eat.

Mixed Signals.

Believer.

SEASON FOURTEEN :

300.

Starter Home.

Rule 34.

Innocence.

The Tall Man.

Luke.

Twenty Seven.

Ashley.

Broken Wing.

Flesh and Blood.

Night Lights.

Hamelin.

Chameleon.

Sick and Evil.

Truth or Dare.

#episode list.#criminal minds watchlist.#oh my gooooooooodddddddd #sb: why have you watched so much of s10 #me: listen jennifer love hewitt was one of my biggest crushes as a kid when i watched ghost whisperer

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 7 years ago

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Trinkets, Necklaces, 1: Whether they're pendants, amulets, periapts, chokers, beaded strings, chains, charms, lockets or torques, “Neck Slot” type jewelry is a very common item in fiction and roleplaying. These ornaments give an immediate glance into the bearer's personality, wealth, rank or social class and often serves as an iconic part of that character's look. Ranging in obviousness from a soldiers dog tags, cleric's holy symbol or police detectives badges worn front and center over clothing, immediately visible on their chest as a clear indication of who they are, to the cliché locket containing pictures of family or lost lovers that's worn against the skin, just over the heart. Outgoing character's such as Phoebe Bouffette compliment their natural charisma with loud colorful costume jewelry while more reserved examples often go without, though what little ornamentation they do have is meaningful or of good quality like Katara's heirloom choker or Annie's half-a-locket. A locked metal torque can instantly mark the bearer a penniless slave, while a string of lustrous pearls mark their owner a flauntingly wealthy noble. Magical necklaces in fiction are powerful and mysterious from Inuyasha's Beads of Subjugation, Dr Strange's Eye of Agamotto or Yugi's Millennium Puzzle. None of these necklaces are intensely magical in their own right but can serve as basis for a magical or plot relevant amulet. When a DM rolls a d100, the bog standard amulet of protection +1 they were going to give out now has a unique look and personality rather than just a mechanical benefit.

A chain of heavy steel links meant to be worn around the neck. When worn, the bearer can recall the chain's firsthand experience of being forged as if it was a personal experience. The cooling and hardening of the cherry red metal, the hammering of steel, and the rough grip of the blacksmith moving it about. The chain's memories of it's fiery birth are fond and pleasant.

A moonstone pendant that make small laughing noises when misplaced or lost.

A coal medallion that allows its bearer to hear the voices of winter spirits on the wind.

A pendant carved from translucent blue stone that resembles vines or tentacles wrapped around an unseen object. Creatures who stare at it for an extended period of time feel vaguely uncomfortable in a way they cannot properly describe.

A glass pendant filled with water that stays still, churns, freezes or boils to match its bearer's mood.

A simple rounded, pendant on a brass chain that has no effect when worn. Even so, pleasant memories are crucial to survival on arduous journeys.

An old, worn strip of deer hide fashioned into a short necklace. On it hangs a small piece of rock hard, stale bread. If the bearer takes a sniff of the bread, they are momentarily flooded with fond memories of home.

A brass locket containing a portrait of man with fire for hair and smoke emerging from his mouth.

A brass pendant with a jet center. The pendant has different symbols on either side. One is a symbol of a white dove, while the other is that of a birdcage. If the pendant is spun quickly the two images become superimposed on each other so that the bird is both caged and uncaged.

A steel torc engraved with the image of wild boars charging.

—Keep reading for 90 more necklaces.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A moonstone pendant that make small laughing noises when misplaced or lost.

A coal medallion that allows its bearer to hear the voices of winter spirits on the wind.

A glass pendant filled with water that stays still, churns, freezes or boils to match its bearer's mood.

A simple rounded, pendant on a brass chain that has no effect when worn. Even so, pleasant memories are crucial to survival on arduous journeys.

A brass locket containing a portrait of man with fire for hair and smoke emerging from his mouth.

A steel torc engraved with the image of wild boars charging.

A thick lanyard made of soft doeskin from which hangs a pendant of golden amber with hairs of an unknown creature trapped within it.

A rope-like necklace made of coiled dire wolf fur that's coarse to the touch.

A fine gold chain necklace made of delicate links that never break but can be melted down.

A plain silver chain with a large, stunning, heart shaped silver locket on it. Inside is the image of a ghastly looking, snaggle toothed woman and an inscription that says “Together forever, my love.”

A thin, light brown leather cord with a tarnished brass cockroach pendant hanging from it.

A thin white cord with four driftwood beads, surrounding a large, green, sea glass pendant.

A lover's token made entirely of hair, woven into a necklace.

A pewter locket containing a faded portrait of a pale, middle-aged woman.

A long necklace made from colourful glass beads.

An uncomfortable necklace made of gears and other machine parts.

A necklace bearing a dozen glass eyes, no two of which are the same colour.

A multi-layered necklace bearing dozens of small glass beads that change colour with the mood of the bearer.

A necklace made of thin strips of braided sailcloth bearing a miniature, rusted iron anchor.

A ruby pendant that pulses with red light that syncs with the bearer's heartbeat when worn.

A silver pendant depicting an eye contained within an eight-pointed star.

A silver pendant depicting the runic symbol of illusionary magic, strung on an invisible steel chain.

An imposing torque made from an animal's jawbone.

A six-inch elongated teardrop pendant made of glowing crystal that seems to have no weight and very little physical substance.

A small bronze torc engraved on which is a scene depicting five people gathering around a mountain with lightning coming from the summit.

A steel amulet bearing the seal of an order of paladins that were excommunicated under suspicious circumstances years ago.

An amulet depicting the image of Orc god Gruumsh, anyone who wears it finds themselves unconsciously keeping one of their eyes closed at all times.

An iron holy symbol of a God of a Random Evil Domain that has a well hidden secret compartment. It contains a single blood stained gold piece wrapped in scraps of cloth so that it does not rattle.

One half of a white gold, heart necklace. Inscribed on the back are the words “Till next we meet”.

An asymmetrical piece of sparkling red crystal on a simple leather necklace.

A broken pendent in the shape of a silver dragon that’s always cold to the touch.

A braided hemp cord on which is strung a gemstone pendant that changes color every morning.

A necklace formed of the interlinked holy symbols of a dozen deities.

A necklace bearing the fossilized stinger of a giant insect creature that's long been extinct.

A choker necklace made of copper wire and the finger bones of dozens of rats.

A gruesome necklace of humanoid finger bones strung on braided sinew cord.

A necklace of varying spherical and odd-shaped shimmering stones that grants a sleeping bearer vaguely prophetic dreams.

A necklace with a beautiful green-blue gem that, if inspected closely contain the spiraling arms of a galaxy.

A pendant of blue crystalline material from which tiny wisps of blue smoke constantly unfurl.

A huge sinew cord necklace with smooth stones marked with frost giant runes. The necklace carries 17 dried, shrunken, human, right hands in-between the runes.

A silver, drow house-medallion bearing the image of a crimson scorpion. The house name “Ulrather” is inscribed on the back in the drow tongue.

An expertly beaten copper amulet displaying a starburst design.

A necklace bearing a complete set of human teeth strung on a chain of silver wire.

A small, white jade pendant that depicts a galloping unicorn with a cracked back leg.

A silver pendant shaped like a curled-up cat.

A thick rectangular copper necklace set with a small rounded aquamarine.

A pendant in the shape of a candle-flame made of red glass and strung on a chain. The area around the glass is as warm as a candle’s flame but cannot ignite or damage objects. If a creature makes skin contact with the glass itself, they stop feeling the heat. Instead the glass flame feels as though it’s made entirely of ice.

A thin, plain silver chain with a broken clasp.

A clear crystal pendant strung on a fine chain. The entire crystal is small enough to lie upon the outstretched finger of a halfling child and glows softly, and pulses whenever a red object is brought near it.

A prismatic crystal pendant strung on a steel chain, which echoes back (In a deep, melodious voice) every word spoken within earshot two seconds after it has been said.

Nymph's Tear: A teardrop shaped crystal on a fine silver chain. Legend holds that Nymphs who die of a broken heart shed crystal tears. This rare gem is as hauntingly beautiful as its name, and lends credence to the folklore by evoking sorrow and longing in all who view its solitary perfection.

A pewter pendant in the shape of a blooming rose with petals that are soft to the touch

A necklace made from a length of sinew and seven owl feathers.

A broken half of a medallion that emanates dark power untold by mortals. It’s power and true function is inaccessible without its other half.

A slender chain that bears a pendant of rough polished agate that comes from the halfling homeland, Lurien.

A black circular amulet that when closely examined reveals a dark moving swirl of colour at its center.

A gold, seven-pointed star pendant that symbolized an ancient religion that has since died out.

A ceremonial necklace made of desert shells, rumored to be owned only by those marked by fate.

A cold iron amulet stamped with geometric designs not attributable to any current culture. Anyone who wears the amulet does not dream.

A copper torc depicting a raven in flight.

A ceramic pendant displaying a smiling face that speaks in a friendly voice whenever it's bearer is in trouble. The language it speaks seems to be unique, and no one is able to quite understand it but it seems like it's trying to help.

A crystal pendant that shakes violently when wet.

A feather necklace that seems to attract small birds to the general area of the bearer.

A circular glass pendant with a hole in the center that a mild breeze always blows out of.

A golden locket containing a heart shaped black stone that occasionally cries tears of blood.

A small pouch on a braided hemp cord meant to be worn tightly around the neck. It is filled with sacred herbs and fragments of ancestral bones that supposedly attracts the attention of helpful spirits while in battle.

A necklace made from the onyx teeth of an earth elemental.

A hexagonal amber necklace that hums slightly. The intensity of the humming increases substantially when bees are nearby.

A necklace made from leather cord, with six ceramic beads, each one is painted a different Random Colour.

A lace choker with a light jewel in the center. Wearing it to sleep gives the bearer terrible nightmares.

A counterfeit gold necklace. The charm strung on it is a glass pendulum filled with murky ink.

A hemp cord on which is strung an ankh made of desert sand that was turned to glass by magical fire.

A twine necklace with six small bottle corks hanging off of it. When removed and used as a stopper, each of the corks will take on the size and shape needed for the container, expanding up to a maximum six inches wide and four inches tall. They can preform this ability only once each.

A stunningly maroon crystal pendant cut to look like a grape strung on a necklace of braided vines. When worn, the bearer craves red wine and if any other type of alcohol is consumed, the bearer becomes queasy and throw up.

A single ivory piano key hanging from a silver chain. When worn, the bearer believes that they are expert pianists, whether they are or not, and feel compelled to play any pianos available to them.

A hempen necklace strung through a bundle of tree nuts, that clack and clatter around when jostled.

A simple iron amulet in the shape of an eye within a helm.

A silver medallion in the shape of a rose.

A small iron pendant of a demon's face, which chuckles quietly whenever its bearer or any of his nearby allies critically fails at a task.

A necklace made of a shard of purple crystal on a leather thong. The crystal vibrates when the bearer thinks about his past.

A wooden medallion depicting the universal symbol of theater, the opposing twin masks of comedy and tragedy which have been painted white and black respectively.

A beautiful necklace encrusted with a dozen green jewels, each of which causes the bearer to experience a different horrific vision of an apocalyptic war when they are touched directly.

An oval pendant made of polished fine-flecked gray and white stone. When the bearer takes magical damage, the gray flecks grow and the white flecks shrink and vice-versa for physical damage.

An irregularly shaped, chunk of crystal that shines with all the colors of the rainbow, strung on a braided hemp rope.

A small polished piece of amber with a spider trapped inside, held in a silver web pendant.

A dozen ant queens perfectly preserved and encased in small, clear glass cubes, strung on a necklace of steel links

A single dragon hatching tooth encased in a rectangular block of clear glass, strung on a necklace of polished steel links

A thumb sized teardrop of magically preserved blood, encased in a rectangular block of clear glass, strung on a necklace of silver links.

A perfectly preserved, Randomly Coloured eyeball, encased in a small cube of clear glass, strung on a necklace of gold links

A macabre collection of two dozen perfectly preserved, human ears, each encased in clear glass and strung on a necklace of tarnished bronze links. Perceptive PC's will notice that they are all left ears, meaning there must have been two dozen “donors”.

A single perfect teardrop, encased in a glass cube, strung on a necklace of silver links

A large black iron amulet of the Unholy Star, the symbol of the God of the Black Sky. Knowledgeable PC's will know that the amulet is used in dark rituals, where it is heated until glowing red and placed around a sacrifice’s neck so that the heat and shock trauma slows kills them.

A long necklace filled with large, turquoise beads that when submerged in water, glow an eerie blue. Fish are attracted to it and will attempt and always fail to eat the beads, reacting as if burned and swim away unharmed.

An iron pendant adorned with a devil’s face. Inscribed on the back of this strange pendant is the name “Acererak”. The devil face has a large gaping mouth inside of which swirls a strange black energy.

A small sealed glass pendant containing a single grain of sand. Staring deeply into the pendant will grant the creature fleeting, rapidly shifting visions of the entire world bursting forth from the sand. The viewer cannot control the visions but can choose to look away at any time.

A golden honeycomb pendant that smells like honey and is warm to the touch, it brings fond memories of home and hearth. While wearing the pendant all food and drink the bearer imbibes tastes just a little bit sweeter and better.

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chaniters · 6 years ago

Text

Fallen Hero AU Fanfic Ranger Adventures 2

Second part to the new AU fanfic. Herald and Argent investigate some murders with the aid of the LDPD. I’m so starved for new scenes of these two. Made up a lot of stuff for Argent’s backstory hope you people like it!

Los Diablos Confidential

Outskirts of Los Diablos. Noon.

"So, are you going first, or should I..."

Argent shrugged, ignoring him.

"But I'd really want to know.. are we going to do good cop or bad cop..."

She groaned just a bit.

"So what do you think ...?"

She stopped and turned to him.

"Shut! Up!. I have the same information as you! Also I have no clue yet! Why don't you save the questions until AFTER we talk to the police ?"

"Oh.. yes.. sorry. I'm just nervous." Herald smiled at her. It was a charming smile. Infuriating. She would probably had done better with any of those alcoholic, depressive, moody male detectives from one of those old noir flicks any time of the day as her partner. Or better yet one of those alcoholic, depressive, moody female detectives in the modern noir flicks.

But no. She had to get the pretty boy instead. Steel and Sidestep had to be busy in some stupid political circus they had no business being part of anyways. And Ortega had to go handle another theft by the Crumpler on the other side of town.

Who even was that clown...? The Crumpler... What kind of shit-for-brains villain leaves crumpled notes of their next plan at every scene?!

She took a few long breaths "Look... Just... try to listen and follow my lead ok?. That's how i learned anyways."

Herald nodded and followed in after her.

She just moved on. She should have definitely dragged Sidestep here with them . He wasn't fast enough to dodge her without his suit. She could have just taken him by the neck, then rattled him in front of the witnesses for a few minutes until the telepathy trick was done, and the case would be solved.

The crime scene had been cordoned by police already. A small, semi-abandoned park with a playground and a basketball court. Five corpses, covered.

"Anderson" she said in an almost undecipherable low growl as she noticed the black LDPD homicides detective in front of her.

She turned with a blank expression that turned into a smile just a little too quickly. "Ohh hi Angie! I'm So happy to see you. You don't call, you don't text.. i'm starting to think you've forgotten about your old girl... And you must be Herald ... You know Angie, you never introduced your boyfriend to me"

"Ex boyfriend" Herald clarified

"Oh oh... that's right she dumped you too! And on Tv as well! We should definitely have a chat someday" she approached and whispered in a more serious tone "I mean it"

"Right.. ehrm.. hi! I didn't know you two knew each other"

Argent wanted to face-palm... of course he didn't know...

"Oh, she didn't tell you about me ? you know, Argent and I had a bit of a thing together... dated for two years of my life if memory serves me well..."

"Waaait... are you the woman in the police video where the..." he stopped as Argent gave him the EYE.

"Ohh you know about me! I’m the very same one! I became famous thanks to your ex here. I broke up with her and she trashed the entire restaurant and I had to fend her off with my police baton. But you shouldn't look at the police footage... It's the cellphone videos that made me famous. Did wonders for my career. So I had to do desk-work for almost a year, while seeing posters of you and her on the highway on my way to work every day! Everyone loves you two, right? Anyways, she let me off easy. I saw the pictures of YOUR breakup... She got you good, so many bruises. Oh wait, you'r not going to get back together ?" She smiled letting the venom in her words float in the air.

"Ahh..." Herald was more or less speechless, as the verbal slashes from Lillian didn’t seem to end

"Enough!" Argent interjected. "If you have things to say to me, i’m right here!”

“I know you’r here, but i want him to know because you are a fucking menace Argent! A disaster waiting to happen!”

“Lilian.. just do your stupid job for a change and show us the scene"

"I think I prefer Andersen. Lilian is for people i trust. So. Come see the corpses already, “LADY” . " She said, uncovering the bodies without much warning

Herald took a step back. Argent almost did too. She had seen many corpses in her career, but this was something new.

Entire sections of them where missing, as if someone had drawn a circle and took from them whatever was inside. Perfect round cuts. Maybe a laser?

"What the hells is this?" Herald managed to word out.

"Oh i asked the same thing you know? We've identified this one... she pointed at one of the corpses ... as Terry Morales, aka "Little C-Bone" gang leader. And these other ones, are.. ehrm.. were his gang"

"What... " Argent studied the inexplicable wounds "What happened to them?"

"That's a good darn question. I'm dying to know myself."

"Is there video on those cameras?" Herald pointed at a small Coffee bar next to them.

"I hope so. My partner went there to get the recordings... also, he owes me coffee, that must be what's taking so long"

They waited for a few awkward minutes in silence, with Herald standing in between them, clearly wishing to be anywhere else.

Eventually, Lilian's partner came back with the footage.. and coffee.

"Thanks Robert." she said, taking the memory card and plugging it on her vehicles video display.

Robert shook Herald's hand then gave Argent a "You touch my partner i kill you" look.

"Let's see what we've got in here...."

Lillian played the video in fast forward, stopping at the relevant parts.

1:36 AM A car stopped by the park.

1:49 AM A young white man approached the car. There was a brief conversation. The figure inside the car gave him a small bag trough the window.

1:55 AM The car left. The young man sat on a bench. He opened a bag and looked inside. He walked out of the frame for a moment.

2:03 AM The man returned, and sat on the bench again. He opened the bag and took something that looked like a some sort of small gun. He then rolled up his sleeve and shot it at his exposed arm.

2:09 AM The man started shaking as if having seizures, and fell down on the floor

He stayed there for 2 hours.

4:12 AM The man stood up awkwardly. He stumbled. Fell, and stood up again.

4:15 AM A group of five approached him. They pushed him and surrounded him. Started kicking him. On was trying to look in his pockets. Then ... black spheres appeared on the screen, increasing in size and floating in the air. They covered part of the assailants.

Footage showed one of them trying to pull his arm from inside one of the spheres, but he couldn't... Their victim stood up and was covered in a dark halo. Then the spheres disappeared... along with part of the muggers. Blood covered everything.The man seemed shocked. He just started running out of the image.

"So we've got ourselves a new miracle drug user" Anderson pondered. “Another Boost”

"That was just self defense" Herald pointed out

"Yeah. But he still killed five people. And there's no telling if he can even control those ... things... he created. We need to find him. Fast." Argent pointed out.

"I'll run the plate numbers..." Lillian rewinded the footage to the moment the car stopped. She entered the number in an app. "Here.. got it. Registered to one Adrien Courtis"

"See if we can get an address.. . hm.. wait do you have the syringe?"

"Yes. On both accounts.. It's not a syringe.. It's actually one of those.. what did you call it Robert?"

"Jet Injector" Robert answered. "I don't know who uses them nowadays."

"Can I see it?"

"Here. Can you make anything of it?"

She examined it closely with her special sight "There's a serial number on the inside of this thing, and the manufacturer... can you run those?"

"Sure let's see.." Lillian entered the numbers.

"FarmaCore bought a few hundreds of these last year" It was easy to track down items bought by official companies. "This serial numbers matches their stocks"

"How about we split efforts?" Robert Suggested "Lady Argent and I can go to FarmaCore, Anderson and Herald can check this Adrien's home."

Lady Argent and Anderson didn’t disagree.

.............................

Late afternoon

"So.. huh.. you and Argent" He had been driving silently for a few minutes. He didn't really know how to handle this.

"Relax... I.. I’m sorry. I’ve got nothing againt you... That's the result of so much time thinking what would i tell her if i met her again. I'ts not about you. "

"Oh. Well she does sometimes draw the worst in people..."

"She does." Anderson sighed. "What's your story? How did you end up with her ?"

"I didn't... it was for the cameras actually"

"Oh." She seemed to ponder upon learning that "That makes sense. Didn't think you where her type the first place. I mean.. I thought guys in general were not her type."

"Heck if i know what her type is."

"Ha! True that..."

"IT's not like i'm one to ask. I don't have any luck anyways... all my crushes end up with someone else. Or beat me to a pulp."

"Yeah.. I read about Locust. Dating the Handyman now ?.. Isn't he too old for her?"

"You know... I never told this to anyone but.. the hero community is... just weird. They just change partners like it was socks... They even turn Supervillains and then fight their former flings. I hate it..."

"Sidestep and Charge you mean?"

"Yeah. That’s how how fucked it is from the inside"

"Well, I did taste it... and it burned."

“Tell me about it.”

Herald parked the car perfectly in a small lot, close to the apartment building. He wasn't really used to driving, but that didn't meant he was bad at it.

The super let them in the building, and they knocked at apartment’s door.

"LDPD, open up" Anderson announced, badge in hand.

There was no response.

"Hey look" Herald pointed at a window on the corridor. Someone running trough the fire escape.

"Dammit. Let's get him!"

Anderson went down the stairs, while Herald jumped, floating to ground level.

The man ran as fast as he could, but he didn't count on flying pursuit. Herald descended on him like a Hawk, pinning him onto the ground.

"Stay still!"

"No! Let me go! Let me...! They'll kill me!" the man struggled with all his strength.

"Stop it! We'r not going to kill you..." He stood up and started dragging him back to the patrol car.

“Look out!” Adrien screamed

Bit it was too late.

Something just hit him squarely on his chest, sending him flying backwards. He spun in the air, narrowly avoided crashing onto the ground, hovering, and turned back to see what attacked him.

"hAhahaHAa..." A massive figure was holding Adrien with huge clawed (hands?). It's face had something resembling a smile with teeth the size of fingers. "aaaArEee yOoUuu loooOokiiInG FoR thIIiiiIsss oOonEee? yYyooUu CAn haAaaveeE HiiIm" The voice was truly out of this world.

It closed it's claws with one movement, cutting trough flesh and bone alike.

Herald could only watch as the still screaming remains of Adrien touched the ground.

"What in the hells... ARE YOU??" He asked, astonished

The beast emmited a guttural howl, and charged at Herald. However, he was prepared, and evaded the claws, spinning once more, taking advantage of it's impulse, and sending it flying behind him. Still, the creature managed to stand up faster than he anticipated, and got hold of him , slamming him against the ground.

"Aaack!" The thing stood with all it's weight above his right arm, not letting him stand. It raised a claw to finish him off as he struggled...

BLAM!

THe gunshot hit the thing chest, and made it recoil, but it didn't fall. It just turned with a shriek, and charged in the direction of his new assailant.

Herald realized what was happening, and took flight once again. He intercepted the (Monster?) lifting it from the ground before it could get to Anderson, flying up, then down, driving it into a brick wall at full speed, with enough strength that he could hear cracks from it’s bones.

The wounded creature didn’t stop, however, and tried to slash him again, but he dodged and sent a fist onto it's face, knocking it backwards. He silently thanked Sidestep for the long hours of training.

Anderson stepped in and shot at it several times, until there were only clicks of the empty chamber.

The creature stumbled onto them, bleeding profusely. Then it fell, and stopped moving.

"Are you ok?" Anderson asked

"It's nothing i just... " And then he noticed the bleeding scratch marks at the sides of his chest, where the thing had grabbed him, tearing his nanosuit as if it was paper "Oh shit..."

"I'll call backup.. in the meantime.. let's take you to a hospital"

.................

Meanwhile...

"Wherever did you find this?!" The scientist was besides himself. "It shouldn't be out of this facility!"

"So it DID come from here?" Robert confirmed.

"Yes... YES. It's... it's experimental" Dr. Patton spoke, minding his words as Ellison glared at him.

"Enough mystery. What's in it?" Argent asked.

"As you know, our company provides all manner of services. We provide what the public needs... and also carry classified research programs. We can't provide more information at this time." CEO Ellison explained.

"Could this act as a hero drug?" Argent frowned. "You could at least tell us that right?" She really had a short fuse for these types and she was at her best behaviour today.

Patton glanced at Ellison, who nodded after a few seconds.

"Yes.. it could.. lead to several.. powerful mutations. Yes, yes, it could be considered a hero drug."

"So you sell on the streets now?" Robert accused

"We would never..." Ellison started.

Argent's phone rang. Not a ringtone she had heard in a long time.

"Yes... Lillian?" She listened for a few seconds "What? Is he allright...? Crap. Oh... I see. I'll be there first sting after I finish here... " She turned to Ellison. "Do you know an Adrien Courtis?"

"Can't say I do" Ellison stated blankly.

"He had a security pass for your facilities on him. I mean on his remains. He's just been murdered by some manner of super-powered creature after him. Tore him to pieces. Then it almost killed our partners. You wouldn't know anything about that either, right?."

Ellison sighed and typed a few things on his computer.

"Ahh.. here. Adrien Courtis" He turned the screen to them, showing his file as a low level employee.

"What can you tell me about this Dr. Patton?"

"Oh.. he's on the project.. He must have stolen the injector!"

"I see. Mystery solved then" Ellison turned off his computer. "A rogue employee stole experimental drugs from us, sold it, then got killed, most likely by the Cartel for selling on their turf... Tragic.. but developing these technologies always comes with great risks"

"You honestly expect us to believe there's nothing more going on? Tell us what's in the fucking injector" Argent exploded walking right to his face, this time showing her claws.

"I hope you come with a court order tomorrow morning if you'r so keen on knowing. Also, you'll speak to my lawyers from now on. This meeting is over. Get out before i call security." he spoke with a smile right to her face.

She didn't move for a few seconds, until Robert put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back gently.

She finally walked out with him.

"He knows much more i bet" Robert said as he lighted a smoke while they walked to the car.

"Let's get to the fucking hospital. If something happens to them i swear I'll strike that smug grin off his face and kill him"

“What about the new boost?”

“I’ll call Steel. We still need to find him...”

____________________________

My Fanfics: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

#fallen hero: rebirth #alternate universe #lady argent #herald #fanfiction #Fallen hero

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ravenish-huffnpuff · 6 years ago

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I love fantastic beasts and all of the characters. However I’ve just noticed that perhaps Queenie doesn’t seem grow as attached to Newt’s creatures as Jacob and Tina do. For example when the thunderbird is released: Tina looks up in awe and wonder (adorable by the way), Jacob is a little tentative but still walks forward. Queenie however kinda lingers back with- I don’t even know how to describe the look on her face. But I just get the feeling she doesn’t like them as much (not that I don’t love her), and perhaps this will cause some conflict in CoG. She also doesn’t step out into Newt’s case- just stays in his shed.

This of course is just my opinion and might be just me reading into it too much- but this is what this short story is about and me explaining why she might not like them as much. Also Newtina. Because I love them. And Tina’s smile when she looks at the occamy kills me every time.

Ps. this is my first post ever and first fic ever. Enjoy!

Tina clambers down the ladder, two stairs at a time. Once again she has no time to proper inspect the mess that is Newt’s case on the way- Queenie’s heels are coming dangerously close to snitching her fingers. Her feet touch the floor, but still she waits, silently hoping, as her sister hesitantly takes her first steps into Newt’s abode.

Queenie walks straight to Jacobs side, the side which the silvery mass of Demiguise does not accommodate, and roots herself there. Her normally pleasant face is slightly morphed; she’s biting the inside of her lip in the manner usually reserved for the comeuppance of early morning shifts. Tina can’t help but notice her perfect hair has become slightly skewed from their recent adventures.

You okay? Tina thinks, concerned at the lost expression on her sisters face.

“Fine,” she replies out loud and squeakily, crossing her arms. Tina attempts to take her hand, but Queenie flits away, closer to Jacob.

Really? Tina asks again, attempting to think in the most sarcastic yet worried tone she can. Jacob who has said something to make Newt to laugh- a charming burst through his nose- hasn’t noticed Queenie’s discomfort and averts his arm. Tina cocks an questioning eyebrow at her little sister.

“It’s just…,” Queenie jingles her whole body anxiously, “I can’t hear them. I can hear them of course. Just like a crowd of people, but I can’t hear them,” she nods her head minutely towards the door.

Tina leans back on her ankles at a ragged wooden door, which has managed to open itself slightly amidst the chaos in the tiny area. A beam of light shines in. As does a cacophony of twittering, scratching and snorting. A small smile falls onto Tina’s face.

It’s so obvious she doesn’t know how she didn’t realise before. Of course Newt’s case isn’t just a small work area, with several small creatures running around his feet. Not just, an adorable tiny leaf who sits on his shoulder and the extraordinary, life-saving, bat like ‘swooping evil’ in his pocket. He’s a man who likes breaking the rules, after all. This must be only the beginning. How many creatures does he have in here?

In a trance she wanders across the wooden boards, hearing the beastly noises getting louder and louder. It’s like music in a jazz club, intriguing and buzzing. It makes her foot tap and blood race. She reaches out a hand, and goes to slightly push when-

“Tina?” Newt says quietly. She whips round, her hand quickly jumping off the door. The others are all staring at her- Queenie restlessly, Jacob distractedly, and Newt…well Newt. He’s removed his great coat, and she watches his chest breath underneath his musty waistcoat, refusing to meet his eyes. What must he think of her? She’s was about to open what must be the most important room in his life (if there is such a thing for everyone) and without his permission. It would be like a person she just met snatching her old auror badge out of her hands. She can feel the anxiety dancing against her chest by just imaging it.

And worst of all- realisation suddenly hits her like a slap. She already has. She took his case, without his permission and handed it in. To people, she thinks bitterly, who wouldn’t have treated it or the beings inside with the respect they deserved. And not just to one or two creatures like she previously believed. To apparently many, innocent creatures who had done nothing wrong.

But, the reasonable side of her brain argues, you thought you were doing the right thing. You thought he was helping the person causing all the damage to no-maj’s and wizard’s alike. Handing him in to your government was the logical thing to do (at the time). He’d just escaped from your house in the middle of the night with no explanation for Circe’s sake, what were you supposed to think?

Yes, her conscience says quietly back, but you were wrong. And don’t forget what you said yesterday- ‘an extermination guide’. That’s the impression you gave him of what you would do to his fantastic beasts.

Her eyes burn a bit and she swears at them in English and Yiddish until she feels the tears retract themselves. He must hate her. She would. She does.

“Tina?” he repeats concerned. She looks at him properly. His eyes are blue. And gold. With flecks of green. They’re all at once soft, compassionate and sad. They move between her own and the occamy baby, who has slivered out of the tea pot and has made it’s home around his neck. Newt’s expression never changes between her and his creature, and it squeezes her heart a bit.

“I’m so sorry,” she stutters, “I didn’t mean to, well I did, at the time, but now,” she squeezes her fingernails into her palms to the point of pain, begging him to understand the context beneath her words. He does. Newt’s posture straightens. His mouth is set in a solemn line. She gives a shaky intake of breath, wondering if getting on her knees would be enough. Or and most likely, it would make her look even more pathetic.

“I didn’t understand, but I do now,” she says to her shoes, “I was wrong. I only thought…but I promise, again, I never meant…it’s just” she rocks backwards and forwards on her heels awkwardly. How can she tell him, that after all that she’s done and said, that this place calls to her? In a way she only thought she’d feel again after solving a case or finally getting Credence out of that awful woman’s hands.

A sharp cry breaks her out of her thoughts. The occamy opens its golden beak giving another loud screech. It seems to have gotten sick of it’s post around Newt’s neck and is wanting attention. It’s eyes are just as mesmerising as in Macy’s, deep and dark and completely trusting. It bumps Newt on the head, hard. But he still seems to be frozen, not even flinching although it must’ve hurt. Stuck in time by the job of comprehending her staggered speech, he completely ignores it. The occamy shakes it’s dainty head agitatedly, and leans back again, seemingly going for an even harder hit.

“No darling,” Tina says quickly, pushing her palm between Newt’s head and the assault. The occamy, unable to stop itself, crashes into her hand. Tina doesn’t know which is worse. The pain of a sharp beak or the slight tingle enlightened her skin which came from brushing a few hairs of Newt’s fringe. The occamy stares at her, and Tina feels like she’s inherited Queenie’s talent for a second. ‘Another human!’ it seems to say, ‘will you pay attention to me?’ It slithers its strong body around her wrist, a feathered bracelet. Deciding it likes it’s new home, it wraps even tighter causing her bones to crack.

“Ahh,” Tina breaths out a painful laugh, “like this I think,” she cups her hands, gesturing motherly to the makeshift bowel she’s made and the occamy slips into it. It settles down, testing out it’s new environment- pulling at the buttons on the edge of her sleeve, noticing it’s own reflection in the shiny surface of her necklace. “Yes, there you go,” she whispers, smiling in wonder at it’s acceptance of her.

“It’s okay,” Newt says softly. Tina whips her eyes up. He’s staring at her, in a way she hasn’t seen before. Hasn’t seen from anyone before, “I forgive you,” he offers her a small grin, and gives a slight stroke to the occamy who has nested happily onto her fingertips.

“Do you- want to go in?” he asks, bobbing his head towards the door. Contented again, back in his element.

“Yes, of course. If you’d like me too,” Tina says, a bit too quickly.

“I’d like you to,” They stand there stupidly, nodding at each other, eyes bright. Tina offers up her armful of occamy.

“No, no,” now Newt seems to be the nervous one, “I want you take her. I’ll…supervise,” he gives a huff of laughter. He finally trusts her, Tina thinks breathing out a thankful breath. And I trust him.

“Okay then,” Tina grins down stupidly at the occamy who has started fidgeting again.

“Well, are we doing this?” Jacob’s voice rings out, re-adjusting his arms around Dougal, whose eyes are currently flashing a bright blue.

“Yes, yes,” Newt claps his hands together. He moves around Tina, refusing to meet her eyes again and pushes open the door. He walks briskly into the magical environment, and Tina’s eyes burn in the burst of light. She takes one step, then another, looking around in wonder, clasping the occamy closer to her chest. She hears the brusque sounds of Jacobs steps following her. Then…nothing. Twisting her head around slightly, she notices Queenie hanging by the edge of the shed. She hasn’t taken a foot outside.

#newtina #newt scamander #tina goldstein #queenie goldstein #jacob kowalski #fantastic beasts

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authormitchel-blog · 7 years ago

Text

GOF: Part 13

Throughout his life, Harry had woken up to quite unsettling and unusual things. Aunt Petunia in her rollers and green face cream, Percy’s bottoms on top of his face as he ran around Ron’s room chasing his Prefect’s Badge as Fred and George had enchanted it to fly away at his touch, Goyle’s bare chest every morning since he started getting chest hair, so Dobby’s big eyes almost didn’t scare him out of his seat. Almost.

He had fallen asleep in the library, his invisibility cloak slipping off him some time during the night.

“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaked Dobby. “The second task starts in ten minutes and Harry Potter….”

“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked. “Ten….ten minutes.”

“Harry, Harry Potter,” squeaked Dobby, plucking at Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!”

“I can’t. It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry moaned hopelessly. “I don’t know….”

“Harry Potter will do the task!” squealed the elf. “Dobby knew Harry Potter had not found the right book so Dobby did it for him.”

“What?” said Harry. “How?”

Dobby thrust something into his hand.

“You has to eat this, sir,” squeaked the elf. It looked like slimy, grayish green rat tails.

“Eat this right before you go into the lake, sir…..it’s gillyweed! It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!”

Thoughts of the last time Dobby tried to help him ran through his mind.

“Dobby, are you sure about this?”

Dobby nods solemnly.

“Dobby is quite sure, sir!”

And since Harry had no choice. He accepted it.

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harry said with a broad smile.

“Dobby will be missed….good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!”

Harry made it to the lake just in time to be scolded by Percy Weasley.

“Where have you been? The tasks about to start!”

He was sitting at the judges’ table, Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up again.

“Now, now, Percy, let him catch his breath!” said Mr. Bagman.

Then after assuring him that Harry really did have a plan. Bagman announced the task.

“All of you champions are here, and are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. It is easy and admirable to save and love what is natural to us, but difficult and even more admirable to accept the traits in others that confuse and challenge us. Champions find the thing you despise the most and embrace your envy. On the count of three. One, Two, Three!”

The whistle sounded, Harry pulled the handful of gillyweed from his pocket, toasted Dobby, stuffed it in his mouth, and jumped into the lake.

Harry thought he was drowning. The gillyweed hadn’t worked. He opened his mouth to scream as he felt a slicing pain on each side of his neck.

Harry felt his neck….he had gills? Great, Dobby had turned him into a merman. He hoped they would fade in the hour or else Harry was going to have to get quite cozy with the giant squid. Fred and George had always said he could be a tad prickly.

Small fish zoomed past him like silver darts. Dark shapes flirted just outside his vision. Harry swam past seaweed and large rocks that turned into caves and a ….village. The merfolk looked nothing like the image in the Prefect’s bathroom mirror, but had greyish skin and wild green hair. They blended in so well, Harry wondered how he had noticed them at all. In the center of their town rose a crude sort of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a large boulder.

Four people were tied tightly to it’s tail. Ely McGovern, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Hermione Granger.

Bagman had said who you despise the most, what you envy, the clue was what you’d never miss. Harry immediately swam towards Draco, but then thought who did Ely belong to? Surely Fleur and Krum wouldn’t have cause to envy or despise Ely. Harry doubted they really knew him, but as Harry swam to look at Ely. Cassius Warrington swam right beside him. Some sort of bubble was wrapped around his face. But Harry could see his face clearly. He stared at Ely in what could only be seen as horror.

And Harry knew that it wasn’t Ely that he was taking back up to the surface. Harry drew his wand and sent a burst of fire toward the rope that held Draco to the statue, grabbed the prat by the arm and tugged him toward the surface, leaving Warrington behind him.

When they popped to the surface Malfoy woke out of whatever state he had been placed under and instantly started screaming that Harry was attempting to drown him.

“I’m trying to save you, you prat!”

Harry was announced as being the first to complete the task as he dragged Malfoy to the platform. A towel was tossed over his shoulders as an eager and lost looking Crabbe and Goyle told Draco about the clue?

“Aw, ack… Potter…I never…kkknew…you admireddd meee so…” Malfoy carried on despite his shivering.

Harry could barely roll his eyes he was so cold.

Thankfully someone thought to cast a warming charm over the platform that they were on. The way Malfoy looked you would have thought they did it just for him.

“Ever want a repe….”

“No,” Harry said, stopping the boy from discussing anything that had happened in that bathroom. Harry certainly wasn’t thinking about it, no, definitely not.

In quick succession, Hermione and Fleur broke the water and then Viktor and Blaise. The two champions were only a few seconds apart, but Cassius was still under the water. The look on Fleur’s face as she stared down at the murky water hinted that the witch knew why Warrington was yet to finish.

Then Warrington and Ely’s head popped above the water. Cassius seemed to cradle his boyfriend as the two made their way to the platform. Ely was enjoying the attention, allowing Cassius to garner the cheers of the crowd for saving him. Cassius helped Ely on to the platform and the Slytherin boy took a deep nod toward the people.

“Well done, all of you,” Bagman’s voice boomed from the crowd.

“Alas, the task is not over. Each of the champions must confront the object of their envy, the vessel of their distaste for the only way to overcome an obstacle is to face it.”

Viktor held out his hand for a shivering Blaise and the two moved off into a secluded corner. Harry watched for a moment in case Blaise needed him, but in a matter of moments Blaise was laughing at something that Krum had said. And Krum seemed to be blushing. Some of the other Durmstrang students fought to hear what the pair were saying, but neither seemed to care.

“I do not hate you,” Fleur said near Harry’s ear. But she wasn’t talking to him, she was addressing Hermione.

“I envy you.” The blonde part veela was soaked to her skin, her wet hair plastered to her skull, and yet she still looked enthralling.

“What?” spluttered a recovering Draco Malfoy before Hermione had a chance to say anything.

“You’re jealous of this mudblood?”

Fleur turned sharply in Malfoy’s direction.

“I don’t know what that word means, but I do know that she is far better a wizard than you. It was like dancing with a piece of bamboo. Not to mention trying to talk with one.”

Malfoy scoffed. But Fleur continued.

“She is strong and independent. She is smart and doesn’t care to cover it up. She doesn’t hide herself from others like I do.”

“And you,” she turned on Malfoy.

Hermione looked at her.

“But you’re a champion?”

“Yes,” said Fleur. “But several Beauxbatons students believe that a woman’s place is secondary to their husbands. Ruthlessness is not an attriubute that we are taught to strive for. Intelligence is neglected in favor of more aesthetical charms. But you,” she turned to face Hermione.

“But you have no fear in being the one who stands on her own. And that is why I envy you, that is why I despised you without knowing.”

“But, France is full of independent women, most of the queens took a quite active role in the making of society and even modern culture.”

As Hermione pulled Fleur to the side to educate the girl on her own fierceness it suddenly made sense to Harry. The girls who had cried and balked when Fleur had made champion. The looks from the people when Fleur was at the ball dancing with more than one person before she quickly peeled off to give attention to just the one.

Harry could see how even a girl who seemed to have it all like Fleur would envy his friend. Hermione was a force to be reckoned with. She knew it, and she made sure that others knew it too.

Malfoy having recovered from Fleur’s verbal beat down turned to Harry.

“Anything you’d like to say to me Potter? I can list at least several things that I have that you would be jealous about. My confident personality,”

“Cocky,” Harry supplied.

“My handsome looks,”

“Protruding cheekbones,” Harry corrected.

Draco stopped. “That’s a compliment, Potter.”

Harry ignored that one.

“Mother always does say that us Malfoy’s have exceptional bone struct….”

“It’s that!” Harry said. He hated himself for raising his voice, but Malfoy always did get the better out of him.

“It’s the fact that you have a family that loves you, and that supports you!” Harry shouted. The whole platform now had eyes for the pair. “It’s that you got to be raised by a mother and father who loved you and who wanted you. Yes, maybe they spoiled you into the little rat that you are today, but at least you have them.”

Malfoy looked stunned.

“I envy that you have that, but I also despise you because all that love seems to have been wasted.”

Harry stood from the platform, prepared to make a grand exit when Ely McGovern and Cassius Warrington knocked into his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Ely hissed. “I can’t believe this.”

“Ely, wait, it’s not like that.”

Ely turned on him, his blonde hair disheveled but still nicer than Harry’s ever is.

“I heard what the man said, Cass. Am I what you hate? Really? Am I something that you would never miss? Am I the thing that you despise the most?”

“No, no, E, let me explain. You just have to listen to me.”

Ely laughed cruelly. “Actually, I don’t.”

He turned and jumped in the water as graceful as could be. His body barely made a splash as he swam towards the shore faster than Harry thought possible. And without hesitation, Cassius jumped in after him. But he wasn’t fast enough. Ely was already to the shore by the time Cassius was almost halfway. Harry watched as Ely walked up on the shore and headed toward the castle. The Slytherins around Harry gave each other a look. This was something that couldn’t be missed.

The scores were announced as soon as Ely hit the water, each of the champions having completed their tasks of facing their envy and in Harry’s case his enemy. Millicent pulled his arm and the two got on one of the first boats back to the castle, Malfoy far from his mind.

The other Slytherins looked eagerly toward the castle. If there was one thing that Slytherins loved more than the possibility of watching people nearly drown to death it was drama. And that’s exactly what they were due for in their common room. Ely McGovern would go no where looking like he did now, and both were too proud and too involved to let this go that easily so Harry walked steadily toward the castle.

To anyone else it would have looked like the horde of students were just returning to their rooms eager to get close to the fireplace. But as Tracey Davis nudged Millicent in comradery Harry knew there was something in the air.

Someone whispered the word to the common room, and they were let in.

Ely McGovern was standing the middle of the common room, dripping water on to the carpet from his clothes. Cassius stood in front of him.

“Please, Ely, you know it isn’t like that.”

“Then explain it to me, Cass, because that’s not what it seems like. It seems like you have been lying to me all this time, and that I don’t mean as much to you as you.”

“Of course you do, it’s not just that…it’s just…”

“Just what, Cass?”

“That you’re so free with it,” Warrington mumbled.

“Free with what?” Ely asked. “I don’t understand.”

Cassius sighed. Neither boy seemed to be conscious of the crowd that had gathered around them.

“With us, with being who are, with not having the expectations of a father who refuses to acknowledge anything that his son tells him.”

Ely seemed to drop his guard.

“I know how your father is Cass.”

“Yeah, but did you know he’s literally been counting down the days until I leave Hogwarts.”

Ely’s eyebrows scrunched together. Then recognition.

“He’s been counting down the days that you leave me.”

Warrington nods.

“He doesn’t think that we’re going to make it. He thinks I’m just going to lay down and join him at the ministry. And I’ve never once told him no. I’ve never told him that it’s not going to happen. I’ve never told him that I wasn’t going to join the ministry or marry a nice pureblood witch. I’ve never told him that I want to live my own life, but I know that you would. You have no issues in being exactly who you are, and I can’t even tell my own father the truth when he’s throwing lies in my face.”

Suddenly, Harry feels like he is intruding on a very personal moment. He feels sick with it. But just when he thinks that the pair are going to launch into another tirade. Ely crossed the room and kisses Cassius in front of everyone.

“This,” Ely says when he pulls back. “This is who you are, Cass. And I don’t give a damn about your father or about what he thinks because I see you. And while he may doubt the kind of man that you are, I don’t.”

Harry was warmed by the conviction in Ely’s words. He could only wonder what the effect they had on Warrington was. But as Ely took Warrington’s hands they seemed to become aware of everyone else in the room, and Ely dismissed them with a cool look.

“Enjoy the show, kiddies?” he taunted. And the people in the room disassemble like they just hadn’t been watching the whole thing at all.

#Harry Potter #Slytherin!Harry #Slytherin Harry #Harry Potter rewrite #Harry Potter and the Goblet of fire #Harry Potter and the goblet of fire rewrite

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years ago

Photo

Congratulations Leah you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Aidan Avery

↳ please refer to our character checklist

We’re always so pleased to see our members taking up another muse as it means that you’re happy being a part of our little roleplay family! Just from reading your app we can already tell what a great addition to the dash Aidan is going to be and we’re so excited to see what you do with them. Each and every section of your app paints such a clear, fleshed out image of Aidan and we truly cannot wait to see how you choose to develop them and see the impact that they’ll have on everyone.

application beneath the cut ( tw: insert )

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Leah, 25, she/her, EST

ACTIVITY

Probably a six? I don’t know, I’ll let my current activity in the group speak for itself.

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Taylor :)

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

I’m going to say Luna and leave it at that rather than include my rant from my first audition

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nope

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Aidan Aurelius Avery

Every child in the very family has had a first name starting with A for years. Some families have Christmas traditions or family heirlooms. The Avery family as A names. Maybe their middle name starting with an A might be a bit of overkill, but they don’t much mind. They actually quite like it. Aurelius may be a bit outdated, but Aidan has to admit—their name does have a certain ring to it.

FACE CLAIM

I’m definitely on board with keeping Avan

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

Here’s the truth, I looked at applying for this group several months ago but wound up not going for it. At the time, Aidan was the first one to catch my eye. There’s something wonderful in those dark characters who just don’t give a shit about the things they do. When I came back around to audition this time and I saw Xen I had to grab him instead. But honestly, Aidan’s voice in my head has never gone away and they’re a damn persistent muse.

There’s something really enthralling about playing dark, twisted characters. There are those characters who are just dark and twisted but ultimately think they’re in the right or have the right viewpoints to justify what they’re doing or don’t realize that what they’re doing is wrong. But that’s not Aidan at all. They’re Slytherin in all the very worst ways. And honestly? They’re proud of it. Aidan is out for no one but Aidan and fuck everyone else. If it doesn’t help them and their goals—namely to be one of (ideally the) most power and influential people in the wizarding world. Even Voldemort and the Death Eaters are just a part of that plan. The Death Eaters are where the people they’d consider friends, sure, but it’s the most powerful and pure families out there. If anyone is going to be able to help them to greatness, it’s this group of people. Do they believe in Voldemort’s message? Sure. Do they believe in Voldemort? Honestly, Aiden isn’t sure he has what it takes to do what needs done to ensure total blood purity. And if Voldemort stumbles and Aidan is the one to step up and take is place? Then so be it

Aidan is dark and twisted and self-serving. They thrive from chaos and get off on the pain of others. They like watching people squirm knowing they’re the one with the power. They’ll wind up at the top one way or another. And some times that means playing along, being sweet and king—acting like the perfect friend and sweetheart and they can (somehow) manage to pull that off perfectly. They’re a master at doing anything to get exactly what they want and nothing less. They make it easy to fall for their charms and they can pull off the character well. But don’t ever be fooled—it is a character, a mask, nothing more. Aidan doesn’t have a genuinely good bone in their body. And they don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit themselves.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Aidan is certainly pansexual. They care more about having a good time and fulfilling their own needs far more than what parts their partner has.

While Aidan certainly has a healthy sex drive, romance is far less so. They’re far too self-centered for that. Aidan isn’t aromantic exactly, but certainly along the gray-romantic scale. It’s just not one of their goals and not something that fits with their life right now. It might still happen, it may be possible Aidan has the capacity for love, but it’s just not in their plans right now. Sure, one day they’ll marry a fellow Pureblood, if only for the power and to keep the Avery family line going, but Aidan seriously doubts they’ll love the person they wed.

That being said, Aidan has a deep fascination with Bellatrix. She’s pure twisted evil and he loves it. They’ve always been a bit jealous of Rodolphus for being the one to marry her—they had hopes for a brief time that perhaps Andromeda would turn out to be more like her sister but that’s a flat joke and even Narcissa is spoken for now. It’s not a crush they have for Bellatrix really, not necessarily romantic in nature (not that they’d deny a chance with her if something ‘tragic’ were to befall Rodolphus), just a deep fascination with her as a person, a love of the idea of her and all she stands for.

When it comes to gender, Aidan is far prefers neutral prefers neutral pronouns. They can accept male pronouns upon occasion, but agendered pronouns just fit better. They feel right. And frankly they’ll only tolerate masculine pronouns from certain people and for so long.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

-AN AESTHETIC

Aidan’s Pinterest can be found here

-A MOCKBLOG

Mockblog for Aidan with a handful of posts can be found here

-A PLAYLIST

Playlist for Aidan can be found here

-A FEW HEADCANONS

Aidan’s birthday is October 27th, making him a Scorpio

Aiden doesn’t work currently—the Avery family has more than enough money to keep up with their lavish lifestyle. They’ll work eventually when something worth their time shows up. However, if you ask Aidan what their current employment is, they’ll simply respond that they’re and Unspeakable and there’s nothing more they can say about it. In function, they’re currently dedicating a large portion of their time to recruiting for the Death Eaters and making forward progress in blood purity.

Aidan really only has one goal in life: To be the most powerful person in the wizarding world. Now most people would take this to mean they want to have the most magical power and prowess. No, the magic capabilities don’t matter, Aidan wants the most power, the most control of anyone in the wizarding world. They have their eye on being the Minister some day. Which would be a start. But that isn’t nearly enough.

Coming from a long line of Slytherins, it’s little surprise that Aidan is able to speak Parseltongue, but they thrilled their parents with just how easily it came to them from a young age. Aidan’s very first word was Parseltongue, not English, and they’re just as fluent in the serpentine language as they are English. It’s not uncommon of them to grow bored or annoyed in a conversation with a human and start responding in Parseltongue.

Aidan has an enchanted flying motorcycle. They insist It’s better than Sirius’s which they call a cheap knock off.

Aidan’s wand is a 13-inch ebony wood want with a dragon heartstring core and a slight serpentine curve to it. They connected to the want almost immediately upon entering Ollivander’s wand shop.

Looking at their build—slim and lean—many people easily underestimate Aidan physically. During first year when they walked onto the Quidditch pitch and announced they were going out for beater, their fellow Slytherins quite literally laughed in their face. By the end of try outs, three students had numerous broken ribs and one had a broken nose. Needless to say, Aidan got their desired position and their teammates learned not to laugh at them.

As a master manipulator, excellent at reading people and getting them to bend to their desires even without magical aid, Aidan puts their skill to use helping the Death Eaters recruit new witches and wizards to join their ranks.

Of the Unforgiveable Curses, Avada Kedavra is actually by far their least favorite. It’s too kind and takes all the fun out of playing with one’s pray. Crucio ultimately beats out Imperio for a favorite spell as they find it far more entertaining to manipulate victims without the use of magic. Crucio does tend to have the unfortunate side effect of making the hexed rather useless after its use though.

The Avery family has a long history of being overwhelmingly Slytherin and rather embrace their serpentine past. Aidan has never been without at least one pet snake. They always found it quite unfair they couldn’t bring their familiars with them to Hogwarts—at least not if they played by the rules. But Aidan’s never been one to do that. Nearly every year they would sneak snakes on campus and then send them off with orders to go terrorize anyone they could find with even the slightest hint of ophidiophobia. Sure, it landed them in detention nearly every year but it was more than worth it. You won’t find anyone more comfortable round snakes than Aidan.

In addition to a strong Slytherin past, the Avery’s have also been tied to Voldemort for years. Aidan’s father has a friendship with Voldemort that dates back to their own days at Hogwarts and was one of the earliest Death Eaters. It’s a double-edged sword for Aidan. On one hand, being raised steeped in their ideals, Aidan is incredibly committed to the Death Eater agenda and has been a member for quite some time themselves. Aidan received their Dark Mark before their sixteenth birthday. They tout the family legacy of being some of the earliest members like a badge of honor. On the other hand, they’ve heard their father’s stories about little bullied Tom Riddle. For Aidan, Voldemort holds little of the dangerous mystique he does for most of the Death Eaters. While Aidan’s father would follow him blindly into anything, Aidan’s loyalty is far less faithful. They aren’t really positive that someone who isn’t Pureblood should—or even is capable—of leading this fight. Sure, he’s strong now, but Aidan’s waiting for him to faulter at some point. And if it’s Aidan that steps into the power vacuum it creates, they wouldn’t complain. But one way or another, they’re certainly not dying for their father’s schoolmate.

Aidan is quite literally a sociopath and their actions and reactions boarder on psychopathy. Aidan knows the things they do would often be considered ‘bad’ or that a ‘good person’ wouldn’t do them—but they’re not a good person and they don’t care. If someone is standing between Aidan and what they want, they will find a way to take you down. They don’t care the cost of their actions as long as they’re not the one paying. They are selfish and self-centered and care about little else than bettering their own position.

-CONNECTIONS

(All connections would be pending player approval of course, but would be a good jumping off point with Aidan)

Severus—It’s important to get one thing straight—Aidan does not consider Severus Snape a friend. That does not, however, keep them from acting like it. A sad, picked on Slytherin, Severus has potential to become a wonderous Death Eater—if, that is, Aidan can get them to fully turn their back on the likes of Lily Evans. Aidan has seen the potential for darkness since they were young and has always tried to drag it out of him. They pretend to be a friend. But only because he’s so easily manipulated to do their bidding and not due to any real connection between them.

Natalie—Aidan never much liked the idea of having a Hufflepuff in the Death Eater ranks. They are, by far, the weakest of the houses in their eyes. They were frustrated to say the least to see Natalie join the, especially when she keeps her alliance so quiet. However, there are benefits. She seems to want to become a better Death Eater and learn more about how to become more enthralled with them. It’s a unique opportunity to take someone like her and darken her. Aidan is serving as a mentor of sorts, drawing her further in and corrupting her in a way that will leave their undeniable fingerprint on her.

Sirius & Andromeda—They could have been good. They could have had power. They could have been part of a legacy. And they both walked away—for what exactly? Aidan has never understood. They can’t help but scoff and roll their eyes at the cousins. They could have had everything and they threw it away. The two traitorous Blacks are pathetic and yet another sign that the Black family isn’t as strong as everyone thinks. Sirius and Andromeda are failures who turned their backs on everything and it’s just sad. They’re worth nothing and Aidan likes to remind them of it.

Cassius & Augustus—Friend is a complicated term when it comes to someone like Aidan but were anyone to hold it when it comes to Aidan, it would be Cassius and Augustus. They’re both dark just the way Aidan is. Cassius is a Pureblood Slytherin just like themselves and has the physical violence to compliment Aidan’s dark mind. Augustus is a perfect sheep in wolves’ clothing that Aidan appreciates and can relate to. They both only bring out the worst (which Aidan considers the best) in Aidan and they do the same to the others.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

The following section should be looked at like a survey for your character. Answer them in character and feel free to use gifs. Or, if you’d rather, answer them in third person or OOC without gifs. Answers do not have to be extremely lengthy.

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“A more efficient and effective form of Legilimency. Sure, I suppose technically it already exists but it’s painful and obvious for the hexed and too complicated for the castor. A spell itself or perhaps just a potion to make Legilimency easier to cast and the hexed more pliable to the castor.” A devious smirk crosses their lips as they recline in the their chair, their pet snake twining through their fingers. “A stronger mind reading spell would mean more fun in playing with our victims. And if you can read someone’s mind, manipulating them becomes a snap and then Imperius is no longer needed. One less necessary Unforgivable Curse. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but using a non-Unforgiveable means you’re less likely to get caught and even if you are, it’ll cary a lighter sentence, so really it’s a win all the way around.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Well I don’t believe in playing by the rules, so I’m not just taking one person with me. It would be far more fun with both Cassius and Augustus. A trip through the forest with the two of them would be much more entertaining than choosing just one, so that’s who I’m taking,” they say with a shrug. “Besides, the more hands to gather up unicorn blood and centaur hooves for potions, the better. Taking just one would be cheating the whole world of something wonderful. And not that we would need to bring anything along with us but the only obvious answer is Salazar’s locket. No one really knows what powers it has or where it is, but if it comes from the original Slytherin, they have to be strong. And let’s be honest, needing to speak Parseltongue to use it won’t be an issue for me.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Honestly?” they look bored as they twist a long strand of dark hair around their fingers, “any that don’t involve me. I just don’t really see the point. It’s unimportant at best, so I don’t see the sense in having any input much less making any sort of decision.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“That I’m weak or ignorant,” they say, eyes burning furiously even at the idea. “I’m neither, regardless of what other people may see. Neither should ever be said about me. But certainly not that I’m weak. I’m not weak and I never will be.”

REACTION TO LAST EVENT DROP

(I’m pulling from both the full July update and from the St. Mungo’s party with a few places I see Aidan fitting with them both)

Being from a well-off Pureblood Death Eater family and someone who values status, Aidan would definitely be in attendance at both the St. Mungo’s fundraiser and the engagement party. When it comes to the St. Mungo’s party at least, Aidan is certainly not above being the masked Death Eater who made off with the funds to cast doubt on Aversio. It’s definitely the kind of manipulative plot Aiden would come up with. And if it meant gaining more power in the organization, they would certainly go for it.

Another place I can definitely see Aidan getting their hands dirty would be trying to convince Gilderoy to join the Death Eaters. I think trying to bring in new members is a place where Aidan’s manipulative abilities would be put to good use by the Death Eaters there. Aidan would also definitely like to see someone with as big a name as Gilderoy Lockheart on their own side—not the Death Eaters’ side per say, but Aidan’s side. Who knows where that kind of influence could come in useful down the road.

Aidan would also definitely see the argument between the Black’s and Lestrange’s as a point of opportunity. It would be a chance to win over people on both sides of the argument and as a place for the Avery family (and thus themselves) to possibly step further into power if the divide goes any further. For now, they’d be planting casual seeds that they and their family are the right choice to lead. Meanwhile convincing those that support the Lestrange’s that they believe the Lestrange’s are right and those that support the Black’s that the Black’s are right, always laying the full field. (If they had to choose between the two families, frankly it would probably be the Blacks, even if Andromeda and Sirius are rater large let downs, the family as a whole is better.)

WRITING SAMPLE

(Forgive the godmodding please and thanks, only used for audition purposes)

“I’m just saying, I think you need to be focusing on yourself, your potential. You have so much of it. You don’t really want to look back and see you’ve wasted it all away, do you?” Aidan’s tone was the soft and warm of a sweet supportive friend. It made them want to vomit. Almost as much as the boy they were talking too.

Even now Severus Snape couldn’t seem to fully pull their eyes away from the red head who was being disturbingly cute with her boyfriend.

“You can do better. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Don’t-”

Before another word could come out, Aidan help up a hand, the candlelight of the Great Hall shining off their family ring. “I wasn’t insulting Lily. I know, I know, she’s perfect you’ve said it a hundred times. I’m just saying I don’t think she really sees you. She doesn’t see what you could be. And if she’s spending time with people like that,” Aidan sent a pointed look to the Gryffindor table, “then she’s not good enough for you. Find someone who appreciates you. Not someone who spends all their time with people who quite literally shove you around Sev. If she really respected you the way you think, she’d be spending her time with you.”

Here, Aidan leaned across the table and took the younger boy’s hands, giving them a gentle squeeze of reassurance. It was the kind of action Lily would have taken, something Severus would appreciate, so Aidan would too. “I just want someone who sees you. Really sees you. All your potential. All you can be. Someone who will actually love you. And I’m sorry to have to say it, but I just don’t know that Lily’s that for you. You deserve more, that’s all I’m saying Sev.”

A voice over their shoulder cleared their throat. “Come on Avery. You know how much of a twat McGonagall becomes when we’re late.”

The smirk on Aidan’s face became a bit more genuine when they heard Cassius’s voice. “Well you heard him. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around Sev.” Aidan stood and walked away with Cassius and Augustus. The moment they were out of the younger boy’s sight, they shuddered. “Good lord, you couldn’t have come in any sooner? I think I’ve got to go bathe my entire being in bleach.”

“You don’t have to talk to him you know,” the simple statement from Augustus earned a shrug.

“I do if I want him to keep doing my potions homework. Only a third year and still manages that shit better than I do.” Aidan let out a long sigh. “Minor benefits I suppose. It’ll pay off eventually. At least if it can stop being so fully pussy-whipped by that Gryffindor bitch.”

“I was reading earlier about a potion that calls for ground centaur hoof. It’s supposed to hold a lot of power.”

Aidan cast Augustus a look. “What’ve I said about the Ravenclaw babbling Auggie? Keep it relevant.”

“The potion I found can render the poisoned fully immobile for up to twelve hours.”

“Ah, see, skip to the relevant parts.” Aidan smiled genuinely now. “Lucky for us, we’re going to right where there’s a large herd of them. Not that they’re likely to just give us a hoof but, we know how to get what we want, don’t we? Unlucky for them I suppose.”

#lsrp #hp rp #accepted app #marauders era rp #harry potter rp #avan jogia fc

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ash · 8 years ago

Text

What I Learned about Russian Men

by Elizabeth Eagan

Coronet Magazine, June 1947, pp. 173-196

Before going to Moscow, I had a double-image idea of what Russian men looked like — the same idea, I imagine, that a lot of other American girls still cherish.

My Russian man was a brawny, muscled, six-foot Adonis of iron, with arm forever stretched challengingly before him, clutching a sickle (or was it a hammer?). Yet at the same time, muffled somehow in the background, was the vision of a tall, handsome, dark-haired Czarist prince, with booted legs, military jacket and lots of gold braid.

Today, my double-image dreams have vanished. I have seen plenty of Russian men. I have talked with them, learned to know them, gone to parties with them, even had “romances” with them. And for the benefit of other American girls, I would like to report that the romantic vision of Soviet supermen is plain bunk.

I have seen plenty of Russian men, but few of them measured six feet — or even close to that. Of those in overalls, few looked very exalted, and the only sickles I saw were in the hands of women. Most of the men were in uniform when I arrived, but only fat generals' jacket fitted snugly. And even if I had run across a “tall and handsome prince,” his charm could not have been for me, since Russian men live in a controlled State where romances with foreigners are snuffed out by rules and regulations.

For instance, I recall a Monday morning when I was coming into Moscow from my cottage in the country. I had ridden a commuters' train to the city's outskirts, then switched to the subway. The Metro cars were packed, so instead of finding a seat I hung onto a strap. Now aside from the merit of spotlessness, the Metro has on virtue that you don't find in crowded American transportation systems. There are no mashers in Moscow. The pretties girl in the entire city can ride the subway, and no matter how much she is shoved and mauled, she knows it was impersonal shove, an accidental maul, caused only by the incredible 24-hour crush.

On this Monday Morning, I suddenly become aware that someone was staring at me with greater intensity than the normal staring-at-foreigners. This man was actually flirting! I was more surprised than flattered when a second glance revealed that he was a passably handsome, black-eyed Red Army major.

I was surprised, first, because there aren't many passably handsome males to be found in the Soviet Union. Second, because Red Army majors should know their political catechism, which damns all foreigners. In today's Russia, no man, woman or child who fears the midnight knock of the secret police dares have much to do with a foreigner.

I forced my way through the crowed car to the handrail and got a good grip on it, along with a dozen other impersonal hands. In a moment my hand was “accidentally” covered by the major's. His glances might have been meaningless: this certainly wasn't. I moved my hand. So did he. I glanced sideways. He was looking at me almost with a smile.

I guessed that he took me for a Russian hussy. It was raw fall weather, and I was wearing a Russian scarf and an old raincoat. He couldn't see my shoes, standard office wear for Americans but a dead giveaway because Russian women's wartime footwear was in sad condition.

Anyway, it was fun flirting with a strange man in a strange city under strange rules — anonymously, with not even my nationality showing.

When I got off at my station, the major followed me up the stairs, through the crowd and across the square to the little street where I lived in the Finnish Legation, which was then rented to the Americans and constantly guarded by two State policemen.

As I neared my house, the major at my elbow, I turned to him with a smile and an unlit cigarette. “May I take a light?” I said in Russian. He broke into a self-satisfied grin, lit my cigarette, took my elbow and tried to lead his conquest down the street.

But I crossed the street, said good-morning to the staring guards, and tossed a farewell to the Russian major. I have yet to see a more shocked and startled face than his as he realized he had almost been caught flatfooted — guilty without question of being friendly with a foreigner! And especially, with a foreigner from that never-never land — America!

Now, that I am back in New York, I keep recalling that inconsequential adventure. I keep reminding myself that, as a citizen of the capitalistic United States, I can do pretty much as I please, when and where I please, and talk with whom I choose. Those are freedoms that life in the Soviet Union taught me to appreciate more than I had ever appreciated them before.

I arrived in Moscow on D-Day — June 6, 1944 — with a strong, positive faith in our ally, a classless nation of vigorous and diverse peoples who were fighting their way back across the devastated Ukraine. I came home in December, 1946, with a simmering disapproval of the caste system, the police spying, and the hatred of foreigners in the Soviet State.

In those two-and-a-half years, I made many friends in Russia. I learned things about Russians that may have escaped newspaper correspondents. I got to know much about Moscow women that even Americans married to them do not seem to know. And no man could properly be expected to match the data I accumulated about Moscow's males.

I am not anti-Russian. I am anti-misinformation, because I believe that our lives depends on getting along with the Soviet government, And when I say ”our lives,” I include the Russians. I am also convinced that “getting along” can best be furthered by learning more about each other.

As Moscow editor of Amerika, the OIC-State Department magazine published in Russian, I did my official best to tell the Russians about the United States. As the first American woman sent to work in the Moscow Embassy, I had unique unofficial opportunities to demonstrate what Americans are like and how we live.

Now, and also quite unofficially, I want to put down in detail some of the interesting, exiting, exasperating facts about Russia that one does not find emphasized in the newspapers.

I left New York for Russia in April, 1944, by ATC plane, bucket-seat by day and ridged metal floor at night. I am a moderately friendly soul, not a helpless female, but I have seldom felt more friendless or helpless than on my three-stop flight from Tehran to Moscow.

Accustomed to the easy comradeship of the ATC boys, I smiled and spoke to my Russian pilot as we disembarked at Baku for breakfast. Ge looked right past me, never so much as flicking an eyelash. I was, to be British about it, somehow taken aback.

At Astrakhan, our second stop, a husky Red Army girl traffic cop flagged us in from the landing strip. Ignoring the unresponsive male fliers, I approached her with what I hoped was a cheery greeting. I might gave spoken to a flaxen-haired automation. She literally didn't see me, though I stood an arm's length off. I wasn't abashed this time — I was crushed.

Moscow was not unlike what I had imagined except that it sprawled so widely over the plain on either banks of the Moscow River. Its outskirts were simply clots of villages, close-packed, weathered log cabins, each clot separated from the next by open fields. Within this circle of villages lay the city proper, a wide smear of low brick buildings which give the city a distinctive dark-red color from the air.

I was met at the Moscow airport by two American male friends. Because the knew the Russians would be shocked by my slacks, they spirited me off to the Embassy where they made me change into a wrinkled, unpressed suit before they would take me to my hotel. So, before actually settling down in Moscow, I had had two lessons in how to live with the Russians.

The first, of course, was that foreigners, even Allies, weren't accepted as friends. The second, was that ladies — in the Russian caste sense — do not wear pants. I had yet to learn just how rigid the class rules in Russia are, and how very difficult it is to make friends.

But I began to learn — and learn quickly. Perhaps my illusions about Russian men were naïve. For one thing, I had expected them to be tall. When I arrived in Moscow, almost all the men in the street were in uniform — Red Army, Navy and Air Force. But they were all short — far too short for me, with my five-feet-eight. Yet, I must confess, I found them quite exciting.

As I walked through the streets I stared at them with interest And they stared back but without a glimmer, not event a gleam of flirtatiousness on their grim visages. Any American girl knows how to look at a man on the street so that it is understood at once just what attitude she wishes to convey; and she knows, too, what the looks given in return mean. American men look hard at American girls — right into their faces and eyes — with often a half-smile, friendly or flirty. It's flattering and fun.

But I missed all that in Moscow. After a few attempts I gave up expecting Russian men to notice me and talk with their eyes, and soon I was glowering right back into their square, dark, dour faces.

My OWI job made me it possible for me to observe at rather close quarters the public behavior of Russian women, as well as the men. Generally speaking, there are three classes — Soviet classes — of women in Moscow. They can be distinguished at a glance by their clothes. Silver fox is the badge of the high official's or general's wife, or the successful actress. The secretaries and students, the white-collar women, favor mannish suits and silk prints. The working girls, unskilled and semi-skilled laborers at the bottom of the income scale (at best, about 500 rubles a month), wear square-cut, peasanty linen or cotton dresses with a turnover collar and cross-stitch embroidery.

Except for the ballerinas and some of the film and stage stars, few Russian women gave what we call good figures. The average Muskvitcha is BIG. Really big but not tall. Heavy-boned, broad, with thick, shapely legs.

In wartime, during the winter, the white-collar girls usually wore dark fabric coats with narrow fur collars and small fur muffs. Beneath the coats they commonly wore wool dresses or suits and a couple of sweaters and, under the dress, cotton flannel bloomers over heavy wool underwear.

The shawled women, the factory workers, the street cleaners, the hod-carriers, the snow shovelers, gave a second distinctive winter garment — a padded, quilted jacket which reaches just below their hips. This gives them a boxy look — ungainly and sexless — like walking pincushions. And to a woman, Muskvitchas wear valenki, mostly heavy gray felt boots that reach to the knee and double the size of their great calves.

Few Moscow women wear lipstick, except for dress-up occasions. All I saw was orange — or foreign loot. Orange is the only cosmetic color manufactured in the Soviet Union. Exceedingly few wore nail polish, also orange but light in tone, Their perfumes, again unless foreign, are heavy and sweet, almost barber-shop tonic scents, bearing such political names as Red Moscow and October Revolution.

About May 1, the ladies begin to peel for the summer. My first May Day was warm and sunny and I had gone for a walk around the Kremlin. Suddenly I was conscious of seeing again the normal outlines of the female figure. The girls had probably been shedding under layers for weeks before sloughing the outer padding of jackets and coats. But to me it was a startling and pleasant sight to see legs bare of valenki and bare arms swinging as the big girls came jostling and giggling four abreast down the sidewalk.

Despite all one hears about “free love and promiscuity” in Russia, I never knew a Russian who took marriage or divorce lightly. Quite the contrary, and for a very simple reason. We in America think we have a housing problem. But we can't hold a candle to the Muskovites, whose housing shortage has had a discouraging effect on marriage. There is no such ting as an empty apartment in Moscow. Every square foot of space is assigned to someone, though it is possible to “buy” a room illegally — and pay through the nose for it.

Suppose a women has a two-room flat — living room and bedroom. Her husband has been transferred to Kiev for two years. She cannot leave her job to join him, and she wants to buy a piano. So she decides to sell the bedroom and move into the living room. She sets the price at 20,000 rubles — a very stiff figure — because the “sale” is for life. The purchaser will be registered as her cousin, nephew or niece and will thereafter be the legal resident of that room. The seller is gambling that her husband will qualify for better apartment by virtue of his two-year hitch in Kiev. If he doesn't, they will be stuck with a one-room home.

News of the room for sale spreads discreetly by word of mouth. The woman is besieged by buyers. She likes best the young couple who want to get married. But they cannot meet her asking price. So she settles for 15,000 rubles, 10,000 down and the rest on terms. After that the room is theirs, and they are luckier than the most young couples.

Marriage almost always means doubling up in the home of whichever partner is less crowded. Often newlyweds move into a single room with parents, a brother or sister, or even another young couple. Whole families groan in unison when the bride announces she is going to have a baby. But the baby, on arrival, is not only adored, but absorbed — somehow.

One might think that such crowded conditions would not only discourage marriage, but make for divorce. They don't. One can divorce a man — though the process in expensive and long-dawn-out — but one can't get him out of the house.

For instance, Tatiana goes home from the courthouse, released at least from the brute, but there he sits in his regular chair, reading the Evening Moscow.

“Hey, we're divorced!” she cries.

“Yeah? So what? Where do you think I'm going to live? Under a tree in the Park of Culture and Rest?”

Of course, if Tatiana marries again, she can bring her new husband in to protect her against the insults of her ex-spouse. And if he remarries, he can bring his bride home, too. So... as an apparent result, marriages are pretty well stabilized in Moscow.

Before the war, of course, one could get a divorce for a post card. And one could have an abortion simply by applying for it and agreeing to pay 10 per cent of one month's salary. Today a divorce costs 2,000 rubles, and an abortion — an illicit abortion — costs up to 10,000. Naturally, at those prices, there are few abortions and the birth rate is rising.

Of course, more births make for ever more-crowded quarters, but then, only really crowded rooms were livably warm in the wartime winter. No matter how tightly squeezed they are, most Russians shun the outdoors in cold weather. In summer, however, they flock to the park, the river beaches, the outlying villages. Only men and wives with husbands can, with propriety, go to restaurants, but everybody can go picnicking and swimming, and go together. In the “all-together,” too, with qualifications.

Americans seem to have an almost insatiable curiosity about nude bathing in the Soviet Union. Here's what I saw of it.

I lived one summer with some other Americans on the banks of the Kliasma River, in which we — with other foreigners, the members of a Russian summer colony, scores of Red Army convalescents from a near-by hospital and about 100 neighborly cows — all took a daily dip. Except for the children under 10 or 12 and a group of young men who swam in the raw a hundred yards or so from the rest, there was no nude bathing. However, there were very few bathing suits — unless what I took to be bloomers, rayon undershirts and bras are a new style in bathing costumes.

One day when I had gone walking along the river unprepared for a swim, a group of young people asked me to join them. I merely peeled my cotton dress over my head and dived in, in panties and bra. There was no comments other than that my panties were much briefer than theirs. I was as covered up as I would have been in almost any suit in America, but I couldn't have appeared that way back home.

The only really nude swimming I saw was after the war, at Batumi, a Black Sea resort. The beach was devided into three sections — Ladies, Ladies and Gents and Gents. Elma Ferguson, one of the editors of British Ally, a Russian-language weekly magazine published in Moscow, joined me on the Ladies Only beach the first day.

We changed into our suits in little cabanas and afterward paraded out among the sprawling multitude of bronzed, naked Russian women. Our suits were more than cute — they were downright fetching. But after an hour of being stared at, we slunk back into the cabanas, stripped, and sauntered out again, feeling foolish but far less conspicuous.

A limp strand of barbed wire separated ours from the mixed beach. There, families sat around in odd bits of costume, eating pickles and buns and going for an occasional dip in the cold Black Sea. Up beyond them, another 50 or 75 yards, was the beginning of the men's beach where nude bachelors by the dozen were sunning themselves in absolute un-selfconsciousness.

Twice during our ten days there, newly arrived Red Army groups blundered — I'm sure by accident — onto our beach, clumping along in heavy boots. A shower of stones and a chorus of indignant feminine imprecations — “Louts! Lecherous ones!” — sent them running, with tunics flying, all holding their caps over the near side of their faces.

If it was difficult to meet Russian men at the beaches, it was quite the opposite in a Moscow night club. My first visit to one was withing few hours of my arrival. D-Day — the actual opening of the long-awaited second front — obviously called for celebration. I was invited to a restaurant for dinned and dancing by a group of young men — American sergeants in the military mission, boys who worked in the Embassy, a couple of engineers from the wilds of Siberia and a French sergeant.

We went about 10 o'clock. Earlier the place would have been empty. Just off Gorki Street we entered the Astoria, pushing by two Red Army men standing in the entryway with mounted bayonets. I got used to seeing these M.P.'s in all restaurant lobbies, and learned they were there to squelch fights that inevitably broke out among the hearty guests, most of them soldiers on leave.

They boys checked their caps with two bearded old men behind a coat counter, and we went up six steps into a brilliantly lit hall. I caught my breath, both at the gayety and the decor. The room was large and long, its ceiling held up by great columns ornamented with voluptuous stone beauties.

Along the right side of the room stretched a row of little cubicles made private by dark red draperies — and at the rear a mixed male and female orchestra was playing very bad jazz.

Almost none of us could speak more than a few words of Russian, but we managed to get served with enormous quantities of food and drink, simply by leaving the matter up to the waiters, who brought what the same number of Russians could put away. And that's a lot.

First we were supplied with two plates, one on top of the other, an array of silver and a myriad of glasses — vodka glasses, champagne glasses, wine glasses for red and white, and liqueur glasses. We started out with zakuski, which consisted of several huge plates of lettuce, lamb, chicken and potato salad, onions and cucumbers, all arranged in towering pyramids. Plus a big bowl of caviar, a little dish of chopped onions and great piles of white bread with little squares of butter.

With the zakuski came carafés half-filled with vodka. This — unlike the Russian who tend to dash it back against their tonsils — we sipped while we nibbled at the salad.

Such behavior! Every Russian eye in the room was on us. I could see that surrounding parties had stopped eating to watch us. Someone walked casually by our table. Other, bolder, simply walked over and stood near us, getting a good eyeful of the inostranki (foreigners).

After our zakuski the waiters brought steaming cabbage soup. Then big, thick, juicy steaks — each with a fried egg on top. On the side, fried potatoes, fried carrots and dry, red Russian wine. For dessert there was ice cream with canned fruit on it, with which we drank Soviet champagne in tall Russian champagne glasses. We finished, three hours after we began eating, with demitasse of thick, black ersatz coffee. Even in a commercial restaurant like the Astoria, you couldn't get real coffee. But that was about all you couldn't get.

During all this time, between courses, and even between bites, I had been dancing with the Americans. Whenever we danced, the Russians withdrew to the side lines to watch and applaud after each number. Word spread that it was, without question, a nastoyashaya Amerikanka — a real American girl — who was dancing. Tgat brought more onlookers and finally, probably as a result of a bet, a Red Army lieutenant came smiling to our table and inquired of my escorts if they had any objections to asking the Amerikanka for a dance.

The boys all agreed that he might ask me, and I was enchanted. So we danced. He got a firm grip around my middle, stretched toward the far end of the dance floor, his shiny black leather boots sometimes coming down hard — and there's nothing harder — on my feet. But he loved it and so did I.

When the music ended, my beau gallantly took my right hand in both of his and tenderly kissed it, looking me straight in the eye. Then he guided me back to my table, kissed my hand again, thanked the whole table for the pleasure, and disappeared.

That started it. My friends quickly made a rule that I might dance only every other dance with the Red Army stag line which swarmed about our table. Each Russian cavorted as ebulliently as the first, and each kissed my hand at the end of the performance.

Red Army officers far outnumbered civilians that night at the Astoria — and generally in Moscow night clubs, I was to learn. Many had their wives with them, bulging, drably dressed women, who were as energetic in the dance as their husbands. Some had their girl friends, and some had tramps — who looked just about like tramps anywhere, except that these had more than their share of shiny gold teeth and stiff-braced bosoms. They wore more of the orange lipstick than nice girls would — and, anyhow, nice girls did not go to restaurants unchaperoned.

Being the only American girl free to go where I wished, I had numerous opportunities to learn about Moscow's night life. There were scarcely more than three restaurants open when I arrived. The Moskva was the hot spot during the war and afterward. It was the largest restaurant — with the largest dance floor and the biggest, noisiest crowds. It was rowdy and expensive and promised a skandal (fight or furious argument) at any moment.

During the war there was a 1 A.M. curfew. And strict. It meant that the Metro, all street traffic, everything but military movements stopped at that hour. The result was that the night clubs stayed roaring full all night long. The orchestras quit at 3, but the waiters kept on bringing drinks, and the celebrants guzzled themselves sleepy, quarrelsome or amorous until the curfew lifted at 5 A.M., when those who still could, made their way home.

Foreigners could get away after 1, often just by showing their identification cards, very impressive with big red seals. We Americans could argue that we lived just across the square. Once outside, we generally were able to talk the bayonet teams into passing us.

Though D-Day night was a special exception, I seldom went to a night club where Russian fighting men did not dance with me. Always, and punctiliously, they asked me my escort's permission first, and generally they left me afterward. But on a few occasions, vodka-emboldened warriors heavy with medals braved the foreigner taboo and remained at our table to talk, and sometimes hopefully offered to take me home.

One cold blustery night, an American who lived next to me in the Hotel National knocked on the wall. He had some extra rubles, no desire to sleep and a craving for a midnight steak. Would I go to the Moskva with him?

We took a table rear, far from the crowded dance floor, and attacked our beef. But in the middle of it, a stocky, black-haired Red Air Force pilot came over to our table and asked for a light. Then he sat down and helped us finish our bottle of wine.

By the time the NKVD* (secret service) spotters caught up with him — all waiters were required to shoo Russians away from foreigners — we had decided to hell with it! We were a threesome and so we would remain.

For some reason, perhaps because the little pilot had about 20 medals jingling on his chest, we got away with it. He ordered a steak and vodka, scorning our wine, and talked about his friends in the French Normandie Squadron fighting in the north, and his dream of flying an American four-motored plane.

At 2 A.M., after we had eaten and danced till we were tired — the Russian pilot insisting that only he and American tovarisch should dance with me — he said he had a friend we should call on. We left the restaurant, persuading him that it would be unwise to wake up a friend at that hour, particularly with two foreigners. He agreed, but insisted it was much too early to go to bed. Besides, his bed was about 13 miles outside Moscow at an Air Force barracks and his only chance getting there now was to hitch-hike. Couldn't he please come home with us?

So we let him. When we reached the hotel we again tried to send our pilot on his way, but he was just tight enough to be tearful, and he painted such a grim picture of icy roads and unfriendly patrols that finally my escort said: “Okay, tell him to come up and sleep on my couch. But it's on his head if he gets into trouble.”

I translated and the weepy pilot swore that nothing could be worse than going home. “Besides,” he added ingenuously, “if they get tough with me, I'll just tell them I was drunk and don't remember anything.”

We walked past the policeman at the door as if we didn't know each other and the pilot followed us upstairs, all of us tiptoeing past the little old man on night duty whose inquisitive, terrier-like face was buried in his arms; he was asleep.

Fingers on lips, constantly shushing our talkative guest, we made t unchallenged up the four flights to our floor, where we hid the Russian pilot around a corner while we awoke the old woman who served as floor clerk to get our keys. Barely waking, she handed over the keys and resumed snoring. I went into my escort's room, where I helped him fix covers and a pillow for the hard little couch. As I left, the pilot was already out of his boots and stripping off his blouse. We never leaned just how he manged to get out of the hotel undetected next morning, but he made it. Two weeks late I met him again at the Moskva. He was still on furlough and having fine time. He danced once with me, but he didn't ask again if he could see me home.

* In 1946, the NKVD was succeeded by the MVD, the Ministry of Home Affairs

Because Moscow's young lades cannot be seen in night clubs without loss of reputation, home parties are a big social item. But they are likely to be crowded. Even a small guest list packs a two-room apartment. At that, it's safer for an American new to Moscow attend a party where guests sprawl on the floor than a more formal sit-down party, for Russians take an unholy delight in ganging up on strangers at such affairs — just as Stalin's aides are reported to do at the big shindigs in the Kremlin.

My friends, Alexander and Olga (nicknames Sasha and Olia) once staged a party for six Americans and six Russians. We Americans parked a block away and arrived in pairs so as not to attract attention. The main room, about 12 by 16 feet, was crowded with furniture and guests. A dozen chairs and stools were drawn up around a big table and a small phonograph was squeaking out Russian jazz from a warped record. There were plates full of appetizers and black bread and, at every third place, a bottle of vodka and one of wine.

As soon as the last guest arrived, we were seated. Apparently the was no formal seating plan, but it happened that every American found a Russian on either side.

Then the toasts — and the fun — began. I knew what to expect. I saved my concern for an American major opposite me, a man who had just arrived in Moscow and obviously had not been told the facts of Moscow night life. He was flaked by two cute, chubby, ex-Red Army girl officers who saw their duty — and did it.

For once I was first with a toast — to Olia's mother. That started things. I had the woman's prerogative of toasting in wine and refused to be drawn into a vodka drinking bout with blond Sasha on my left or Misha, a dark, gay, big-eyed Red Army tank man, on my right. Instead, I kept my eye on the major.

First one of his pretty companions tapped him on the wrist and proposed a toast: “To the American Army and the Red Army.” The major, being a man, had to drink the toast in vodka. Moreover, being a member of one of the organizations toasted, he had to drink it do dna — to the bottom.

Meantime, the girl who had wisely ignored the first toast had been stowing away zakuski, including a stable drinking-base of black bread. Three minutes after the first toast, she proposed a toast to Victory over the Fascists. The major drank another one — do dna.

He turned now to the pickled fish on his heaping plate. Meanwhile the first girl had practically polished off her first full plate of everything. Now, she returned to the contest and, engaging the major in casual conversation, discovered he was the father of four children.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “in all the world there is no better toast that one to children. I drink to your children and to all children.”

The beaming major agreed, and downed his third straight vodka in less than 15 minutes. He had scarcely touched his food, but his two companions were already at work on their second helpings. Now the other girl tried him out again.

“TO DROOOOZHBA!” she cried with a flourish, holing out her small glass of wine. “To friendship between our two great peoples!“

By now the major was cocky. He winked at me. “Say — this is the way to drink. I could go on like this for a long time.”

He did. The girls kept thinking up toasts that no gentleman could ignore — to Stalin and Roosevelt, to peace, even ti health. The major was quite a man, but. . . .

The rest of us, knowing what our partners were up to, managed to drink in wine or not to drink do dna. The Russians were a little piqued, but when the party broke up at 2 A.M., the major was our only casualty. We got him out, with a helper under each arm and a silk scarf stuffed into his mouth to muffle the wailing baritone in which he begged the world to “bury me not on the lo-oone prairie-eeee!“

I was able to give a number of parties myself when I was at last assigned to an apartment outside the Embassy. My three-room apartment in a Russian apartment house — with no police guard at the door — was a magnet for the curious.

All my simple furnishing were American. Being used to quarters stiff settees, monstrous tables and hip-high beds, my guests were fascinated by the ”emptiness” of my home. Best of all, there was room to dance. Other attractions were American jazz records and home movies.

My practice was to invite one Russian whom I knew and have him or her invite the rest of the party. That way there was no danger of Russians bumping into others they didn't know or couldn't trust. On one typical occasion, the entire party of five Russian men and four girls arrived half and hour early, just as I had smeared my face with cream after preparing the drinks — grapefruit juice and bourbon — which had less authority but more zing than Soviet Koktail of straight vodka which orange peel has soaked for 24 hours.

I shooed the men into the living room and the girls all flocked into my bedroom while I finished dressing. In five minutes they had tried on my hats and shoes, tested the bed by bouncing on it, gone through my jewelry box and experimented with my makeup, then rubbed it off and replaced it with their own orange glow. They giggled over everything, especially my quaint practice of wearing my slip outside my pink snuggies. I giggled too when they flipped up their skirts to show me how they tucked their white cotton slips inside knee-length gray boomers.

I finally got them away from the dressing table and into the living room, only to discover that the five men were crowded into my tiny kitchen. One had pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and was examining the motor on top; another had the door open and was extracting an ice tray. Two others had discovered the pop-up toaster, and the fifth sat on the window still taking it all in.

I held the ice tray under the tap, put the cubes in a bowl and refilled the tray with water. (Later I noticed that a first-time guest named Sergei went several times to the kitchen, pulled out the tray and tested the process of freezing with his finger. Thereafter, at my parties, Sergei was official iceman and no one else could remove the cubes.) For the toaster addicts I demonstrated with a slice of bread. They goggled with gadget worship and insisted that I take the marvel into the living room to show it to the girls.

Eating was always a problem at my parties because uncorrupted Russians eat and drink simultaneously and copiously. But I served only koktails before the movie with a plate of hors d'oeuvres, usually dainty round bits of white bread with a smear of cheese or a slice of Spam. Strange Russians would be aghast at this queer cup of tea. Drinks but no food except these piddling tidbits? But one of the regulars would usually take them aside and spell it out for them.

After the movie, I would serve an American buffet supper. This, too, stumped the uninitiated. The food would be put on the table — meat pie, biscuits, pumpkin pie, apple pie — and the chairs placed around the walls. One of my older friends would explain that, since Lisa had such a small table and so few chairs, each was to help himself, then sit down where he could. The consternation never lasted long. Russians are good picnickers and mostly ended up cross-legged on the floor. The more sophisticated of my guests liked to smoke my cigarettes — one of them always requested a “Looky Strooky” — but incautious first attempts to handle our cigarettes ended in confusion. The Russian cigarettes are called papirosi, and are mostly paper. Each has a two-inch cardboard mundstuck, an individual holder, attached to an inch-and-a-half of cigarette. Russians, consequently are “wet” smokers. When they smoke our cigarettes for the first time, they wind up with their teeth full of paper and soggy tobacco shreds.

Most of the Russians I got to know in Moscow didn't go to work until 10:30 or 11, and this always constituted another party problem. They never wanted to go home. At about 1 A.M., therefore, I would give the high sign to one of my friends and word would spread that Lizotchka had to get up at the ungodly hour of 8 and be at work the unheard hour of 9, so it was time to go home.

They would finally go, noisily shushing each other, down the stairs and out into the blackout. Some would return at the next invitation. Others never came back. Still others would risk three or four parties before, their curious satisfied, they would decide they had better swear off foreigners before they got into trouble with the NKVD.

As I made friends among the Russians, I came to be invited to nice, small, spontaneous evenings out. Someone I knew would call up and say that a friend was in unexpectedly, from Odessa or Leningrad or Omsk, and wanted to meet a real live American girl.

And often I'd be asked not to wear “that drab brown dress” — which I valued because it made me relatively inconspicuous among my shabby Russian friends. “Come looking like an American,” they would say. “Put your hair on top of your head, put on a lot of makeup and wear your red suit with the pale blue blouse.”

So I would dress as directed and go. Feeling a trifle silly, like something from the zoo, I would meet the visitor from Omsk and eye him as covertly as he did me. But usually, the problems of language broke down our embarrassment and we were able to accept each other as friends of a friend. We would talk of rationing, of German atrocities, of differences between our two great countries. But we never got much beyond that.

For a young Amerikanka traveling about Moscow, a car is a luxury, so I welcomed the use of office machine. But I never drove more than 80 miles outside Moscow. Russian roads do not arouse the tourist urge, even if you have permission to travel. Plane and train are the only conveyances for long distances and, until the summer of 1946, even these were restricted to priority travelers.

A year after the war, however, a formal announcement from the Kremlin lifted travel restrictions, so Elma Ferguson and I decided on a Black Sea vacation and set off by train. All went well at first. All would have continued to go well, no doubt, if we had not decided to test the amount of actual freedom given a foreigner by leaving the Intourist route. Moreover, we decided to see how far we could get without using our foreign diplomatic-identity cards.

In Tiflis, where we had given ourselves 24 hours for sight-seeing, we men a pleasant young Georgian woman who suggested we take a picnic lunch next day to Gori, a three-hour train ride, and visit the birthplace of Stalin. We did. We saw the works, including the humble cabin where Joseph Vissarionovitch Djugashvili was born and which is now enclosed in a fancy Greek temple.

We walked, viewed and picnicked our fill and, with a couple of hours to kill before our 6 o'clock return train to Tiflis (which would give us just ten minutes to make our connection to Batumi), we were back in the station. Our guide had gone off to see about tickets.

When a big, double-chinned, oily-skinned man in uniform entered, we paid no attention until he addressed us jovially in Russian and invited us to go out with him to “see something interesting.” The day was hot and the man's uniform was not trig. I recalled afterward that his hat was pushed well to the back of his head. He led us through a trim lawn-garden and through a charming rustic stone doorway to a near-by building which I thought was perhaps a museum.

We entered a rectangular room containing a long table and an official-looking desk. The big man gave us chairs, sat at the desk and, taking off his cap, tossed it top downward on the table. I stiffened. It was red and blue. An NKVD cap! Our jovial guide was really a lieutenant in the secret service.

I looked up at the window. It was barred. The door was shut. I nudged Elma. “Do you see what I see? We're in jail!”

The boorish lieutenant didn't approve of our speaking English. He growled: “You both speak Russian?” I answered that I did, but my friend only a little.

He smiled. He had thick lips and his smile wasn't friendly. “Very well, talk. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

II told him my name was Elizaveta Eagan, that I was an American from Moscow on my way for a vacation at Batumi; that my companion was Elma Ferguson, British, also from Moscow and going to Batumi. We had been routed by Intourist by way of Tiflis, where we had decided to make a side trip to the birthplace of Marshal Stalin. We had now seen the sights and were waiting for our train which would make a connection at Tiflis for the Black Sea.

“Now,” I said, “I see you are NKVD. Will you please tell me why we are being held here and how er are going to make our train?”

“Train?” He grinned. “You have no need to worry about trains.”

He tossed a chuckling comment to a swarthy little man who had entered the room as the questioning began and was sitting silently. I took it that he was the local Communist Party secretary, just observing.

I began again pointing out that we were legal travelers with Intourist tickets, that Moscow had lifted wartime restrictions on travel, and that he had no right to restrain us.

“Now, Tovarisch Elizaveta — ” the lieutenant interrupted.

I interrupted right back: ”I'm not your tovarisch and, to you, I am not Elizaveta. You will please address me properly.”

That stung him. After a few flustered words in Georgian to the party man, he returned to the attack.

He asked for our passports. I told hum he should know that Intourist had taken them away as soon as we registered at the Tiflis hotel, and we wouldn't get them back until we checked out.

By now it was nearing time for our local train to Tiflis. I said as much to the lieutenant and demanded that a decision be made. I insisted that, if we were to miss our train I must at once be allowed to call Intourist in Tiflis and friends in Moscow. That stumped him. He said he would have to submit the matter to his kapitan.

“Bring on your kapitan,” I said. “I'd like to discuss this phony arrest with him. You were going to show us ‘something interesting.’ Show us your kapitan.”

Soon he came back with a tallish, spare-haired captain. The lieutenant was talking volubly. The captain was looking worried. They stopped in the corner and held a conference in mumbled Georgian with the party man, then the captain came to the table and addressed me. He asked all the questions the lieutenant had asked, and got the same answers. Then he asked the one his fat aide had not: “Did Intourist route you to Gori?”

I admitted it had not. He shrugged. “See?”

”I do not see,” I snapped. ”Is it forbidden to go on a picnic without a special pass? We have ridden an interurban train up here from Tiflis to have a picnic and see the great Stalin's birthplace. What is so illegal in that?”

The outburst got us nowhere. Mumbling a few words, the captain left the room. At 15 minutes of train time, I insisted that the lieutenant go get Kapitan. He left. The party man left. The train came and left. Elma and I could hear it through the barred window.

I was concerned then. How could Intourist, or our Embassies, trace us? Had we got ourselves in a jam we couldn't get out of? I confess we were worried and scared.

Finally Kapitan and the lieutenant returned. They had questioned our guide. Her story agreed with ours, but they were taking no chances. We were not to be turned loose . . . yet. At this point, I knew it was time to play our trump card — and hope for the best. I pulled myself up, took a deep breath and let my words rip:

“Listen, Mr. Captain, I am a diplomatic attaché from the American Embassy and the editor of the magazine Amerika, published by the Bureau of Information and Cultural Affairs in Moscow. My friend is a diplomatic attaché of the British Embassy and an editor of British Ally, published in Moscow. Now, are you satisfied?”

Kapitan studied us and his lean cheek twitched. Then he turned on the lieutenant with old fury. Even in Georgian, I knew what he was saying. ”Great grunting son of a pig! Look what you have got us into with your clever spy catching. Diplomats! Immune diplomats! No one can arrest them. We shall be lucky if this does not cost us both our heads.”

I broke in on the captain by asking if we could go now. “But certainly, certainly, a great mistake . . . You understand, of course, you have not been arrested . . .”

Not arrested? Then how explain the missed train, the missed connection in Tiflis? If he had released us in time to catch our train, we should not have considered ourselves arrested. As it was . . .

Kapitan bellowed for the station master. In a moment the little man appeared. “The express to Tiflis — when is it due? Stop it!”

The little man answered calmly: “Impossible, Tovarisch Kapitan. The express cannot be stopped.”

What look the Kapitan turned on him then I do not know, but I saw the little man's face blanch. “Yes — yes, Tovarisch Kapitan. I shall stop the express.”

Ten minutes later Elma and I were installed in a luxurious compartment, having been handed up the steps by the bowing, scraping captain. Behind him stood the lieutenant, timidly smiling and bearing Elma's coat. The captain tried to make his last smile friendly.

“And please bear in mind, Citizens,” he said, “that you have not been under arrest. One so humble as I, a mere kapitan, could not presume, you know, so much as to question diplomats.”

I did not sleep well that night. I kept wondering what might have happened if we had not been immune diplomats.

No Russian has immunity from arrest, and the fatalism with which they undertook friendships with Americans often astounded me. They risked their jobs, ration books, even apartment leases by befriending me. I felt imepped, in turn, to protect them. There is no one I am more concerned with protecting than the man who bought my Christmas tree decorations.

It was my second Christmas in Moscow. When I heard that the Mostorg (Moscow's Macy's) had the ornaments, I couldn't stay away. Aroun the counter where the baubles were on sale, the crowd was five deep.

I had pushed well to the front when it dawned on me that I did not know the Russian names for these things. I looked around for help. On my right was a short, shoving, Red Army pilot. On my left, a studious-looking, pleasant, dark young man in civilian clothes. Perhaps because he was at least five foot ten, I turned to him.

“Bute-lubezni . . .” I began — which means something like “Have the goodness . . .”

He smiled a really warm, attractive smile and said, “Pazhaluste — Your pleasure, Citizeness . . .”

I told him, first, that I was an American and, second, that I wanted to get some of the ornaments but didn't know their names.

“Merely point out what you wish,” he said smilingly. “I shall do the rest with pleasure.”

I did, and he did, and I thanked him. Then we prated — as simply as that.

About a month later I was in the between-acts promenade in the Bolshoi Theater. He was standing on the steps. Our eyes met. I smiled and his eyes lit up. He nodded, ever so slightly. Here was a cautious one, I thought; he'll have no dealing with an inostranka. And I decided to forget him.

Later, after we had taken our seats, I swept the theater with my rented glasses and saw him. He was looking at me. I lowered the glasses and smiled. So did he. And that was all there was to that.

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The next time I saw him, perhaps two weeks later, was when I was enjoying a manicure and he was having a haircut in the hotel barber shop. We paid our rubles at the same time and he followed me out. Instead of turning toward the Embassy and its vigilant guards, I turned in the opposite direction and started walking purposefully — nowhere. Within a block I heard his quick step crunching on the snow-covered sidewalk and, glancing sideways, met his shy grin.

“The Russian lessons?” he asked in English. “How do they go?”

As I fumbled for an answer, he went on in halting but correct American. He apologized for “accosting me,” and when I brushed that off by asking where he had learned English and why he hadn't used it at the Mostorg, he explained, now in Russian:

“I speak English, though not well, partly because I am a metallurgist and must read it, partly because for several years I worked as an interpreter for an American mining engineer in the Urals. Also, partly because my mother's first husband was an Englishman.”

He stopped speaking, but his eyes twinkled. Then he added: “But you are the only American I have ever spoken since nine years ago when the mining engineer was ordered home.”

“You know, of course,” he added, “that we Russians are discouraged from having contacts with foreigners — that I should not be walking with you. Do not think I disapprove of such regulations. I approve. I believe it is a good thing to discourage Russians meeting foreigners.”

I took issue with that. In a world grown small by virtue of radio and aircraft, I argued, all the world's people needed to know about all the others so as to create peace and brotherhood.

“No,” he said. “Our country is young. Our political and economic system is the most advanced in the world, but it is still not strong. We do not yet have physical comforts. Our people are not yet wise. Many might become overcritical if they knew how great is the difference between the way we must live and the way the big capitalistic countries do.”

He went on to say that he felt no qualms about talking to a foreigner because he was quite satisfied with his life and his future. He could withstand the “temptation.”

“But I'm no fool,” he added. “I know I am breaking the unwritten law in walking and talking with you. Anyway, may I go walking with you again some day soon? Sunday at 5 P.M., say, on Gogolovski Boulevard?”

I said yes, and that I understood the situation, but wasn't he risking a lot just to practice his English?

He flushed, then grinned shyly and looked me straight in the eye. “It is not the English. I would like to know you. So — shall we walk on Sunday?”

I said what any girl would. Yes. It was only after we parted that I realized we had not even introduced ourselves.

It is dark in Moscow in winter-time at 4:30, but we had no trouble finding each other for our date. We struck across the little park above Pushkin Square and out the boulevard. This time I took the initiative. Perhaps he already knew my name, but I said: “My name is Elizabeth. What is yours?”

He told me — Alexei — and asked me my father's first name. I answered William, and he told me his father's name was Mikhail. That put us on a very formal footing and we remained Elizaveta Vasilevna and Alexei Mikhailovich for the next several meetings. For we made other dates and walked miles through the bitter Russian nights.

It was at the third meeting that Alexei brought me a bundle of press clippings — stories about Russian women scientists, doctors, writers, politicians, soldiers. I explained 6hat we got all these stories at the office, and he rather lamely excused himself by saying that he wanted to be sure I saw what marvelous opportunities the Soviet Union granted its women.

Suddenly I realized that I was being wooed. Alexei Mikhailovitch had a motive in trying to sell me on a future in the Soviet Union.

We walked all winter — once or twice a week. When spring came we were still walking thought we had got to the Lisa and Alyosha stage. But Alexei never came to my apartment and I never met him anywhere but on the street.

One day in May we took a train to the country. We got off at a little village station on the edge of a birch forest and walked through the sodden leaves to a hillock just beginning to green. We ate our picnic lunch. Afterward we strolled through the sunlight into the helter-skelter cluster of log cabins that was the village-proper.

Alyosha stopped a sweet, wrinkled old Babushka and asked her if there was a place in the village where we could buy a glass of tea. She insisted we come into her house. As we entered the old lady's cottage, I whispered to Alexei that he must explain I was an Amerikanka.

So he did, and she did not seem to fear me. Instead she beamed all over and, turning again to Alyosha, asked: “And you, boy, you are the husband of the young Amerikanka?”

Alyosha turned to me. “What shall I sat? May I tell her, Lisa, that I soon shall be?” Then, in a swift outpouring of persuasive Russian: “Let me say it, Dorogaya moya — my dear. Will you stay in Russia with me — be my wife — join me and my people? . . .”

I had known it was coming. But this was — literally — too sudden. I lost the words of Alyosha's impassioned plea, but the gist was that he was offering me the greatest gift in his power to bestow: that I should, by marrying him and becoming a Soviet citizen, fulfill the destiny of modern woman by renouncing the false idols and ideas of imperialistic capitalism for world-wide communistic brotherhood.

I don't know, really, how I should have reacted to such a proposal — by moonlight, say, on the banks of the Moscow River, or even if it had been offered in a peasant cottage without political orchestration. But I could not help looking beyond Alyosha to Babushka. I saw her eyes darting from his lean, strong figure in his dowdy, almost-threadbare civilian “uniform” of shiny blue-serge coat and worn brown trousers to my old, but still firm and well-cut, mustard-colored tweed suit.

I realized, which Alexei had not, that he was speaking Russian and that Babushka had anticipated my answer with her eyes.

“Alyosha,” I said, and I spoke in English but my answer was American. “Alyosha, you are kind, considerate and most patriotic. But I cannot marry you. Not for the reasons I see in the eyes of our hostess — not for any reason that would occur to you, because it has nothing to do with clothes or food or housing — not for the reasons you defend as justified in keeping Russians and foreigners apart.

“Believe me, Alyosha, I cannot marry you—” and here my voice almost broke, because he had never before looked so admirable, so almost-heroic, so dedicated — “because you do not really love me. You love Russia. You would love to make a convert. You want a disciple, not a wife.”

I had got a grip on myself now. I was filled with a rush of recollections of Red Army men and women — fliers, foot soldiers, policemen, housewives, students — all of them living in daily dread of a visiting from the secret police.

“I am an American woman, Alyosha,” I concluded, “and I have bred in my bones the conviction that a man — or woman — is not born to serve the State but that the State is born to serve the man or woman.”

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speedocs · 8 years ago

Text

Wolf Hunters

Rain in Yorick was barely ever a cause for alarm. Most inhabitants of Trevain had come to expect it so much they dare not leave the house without proper gear to ward off water, so the visuals of the gray clouded sky and the torrents of water battering the old window panes was just another scene.

Young Ms. Roslyn Shuck sweeps the tattered floorboards of her place of work, the old bookstore in Old Yorick, humming pleasantly to herself as thunder looms gently in the distance. Her mind is not fixated completely on her chore, however, as she finds herself accidentally sweeping in one spot longer than is needed. Her bright green eyes staring almost vacantly at the floor like they’re supposed to be, but her mind wanders beyond what is immediately physically possible. She corrects herself, uttering a small “oh!”, before shuffling to a different spot to focus on. She wills herself to her chores, but its a difficult shift in focus.

Not too far from her sitting hidden behind a tall retail counter cluttered with candles, incense and small oddities is her employer, who seems to be lost in a world of his own. Mr. Serj Legrande chews his lip, sharp mind calculating behind a mess of dark curls. Long fingers tracing words in an old antiqued tome marked with dark ink symbols of a foreign tongue, he puzzles quietly but gives a small hum of his discontent with confusion. He considers asking his employee for her opinion, but stews on it a few moments more instead to see if he cannot figure it out.

They were both thinking of the same subject, the one that had brought them together in the first place and one that had been the obssession of Mr. Legrande his entire life. Still for the afternoon, the silence between them is calm and comforting.

Serj lifts his head up over the counter, craning his neck to look for his assistant, but as hes about to speak heavy booted footsteps against wood breaks his concentration. Roslyn perks at the intrusion and they both stare as a tall, soaked, broad chinned man in a tattered cloak swings the front door open, splashing water across the freshly cleaned floor. His clothes are muted tones, and the cloak around his shoulders and protecting his gray hair is clasped with the image of a pewter wolf’s head. He shuts the door behind him as quick as he can, rattling the framework of the storefront slightly from the force. His eyes scan the room, expression terse before brightening once he sees the two curious pairs of eyes on him.

Though curious, Rosy was not at all pleased with the new mess of wet leaves and fresh mud tracked in by the stranger and bites her tongue gently with her arched brows high up on her forehead. She forgets to focus on any other determining features on him and instead her focus goes directly to his huge hunting boots, drenched in water and caked in...outdoors.

“Uhh.....bonjour.” The traveller addresses in a deep, inviting voice in a very flat Trevainian accent. The greeting immediately labels him as a foreigner. He seems only somewhat interested in the books surrounding him, but Serj’s eyes were fixed on that cloak he wore over his broad shoulders. Though it was hard to discern what he was focused on as his hair hid most everything on him.

Serj nodded in response and offered a polite smile before replying “Bonjour, welcome. ‘ow are you today?” while Rosy looks directly at Serj as if asking him with her eyes if he was witnessing the same thing she was. Serj gives a gentle nod to her, acknowledging her, but doesn’t remove his gaze from the cloak, causing Rosy to take her time and inspect the visitor as he was. She offered a small welcoming smile on her dark lips as well.

The traveller steps forward slowly, weight creaking the floor. He was tall, muscled and grizzled in the face, with a very warm overall feel. “Doing well,” He replied, crossing into the threshold of the old store. “Was wondering if you all could maybe give me some ideas of where I could find some things. Ain’t from here, this is my first time in Yorick.”

Serj nodded. “Of course, of course. I am knowledgeable for zat sort of sing and can ‘elp you. But ehh.....excuse me for asking but...where did you get zat cloak?” and Rosy’s eyes snapped into focus on the pewter wolf head clasp on his shoulder as if suddenly understanding why this man, despite feeling warm and friendly, should be met with suspicion. She shuffled gently behind him, broom in hand, pretending to busy herself with sweeping beside the door.

The traveller lowers the hood off his head and grins brightly. “You have a good eye!” He tugs at the worn furred leather of the cloak as he speaks, attempting to give a better view of the garment. “This here is a cloak given and passed down to wolf hunters. Its a badge of honor, I guess you’d say. Given only to hunters who proved their worth to wear it. I was hopin’ you all could give me some pointers on where to look if I was lookin’ for some wolves.”

Serj is silent with his lips a line, eyes cold and fixed, but Rosy gently steps forward to clarify. She replies “Wolves? A wee bit too far into the city to be lookin’ fer wolves ah thenk.” but something in her knowing voice says to Serj she knows exactly what hes talking about. The hunter misses the subtext and laughs warmly as he shifts his attention to her.

“Ain’t like that miss, I’m lookin’ for the shifters. The ones that wear human skin durin’ the day and hunt the innocent at night. Heard Yorick is supposed to be filled with ‘em, got a real problem y’all do. S’why I’m here. I don’t think y’all deserve to suffer under the jaws of those monsters.” Rosy keeps her warm, polite smile and nods a bit, though its obvious her mind is elsewhere far more sentimental and her jaw is struggling to not clench.

“I see...you thenk the lycanthropes are monsters, aye?” She offers him a chance to elaborate and he simply chuckles as he replies. “Lycanthrope, miss, is the word we use medically. Politically correct, even. Ain’t nothin’ medical or deservin’ of reservation either. You call ‘em lycanthropes they’ll start fightin’ to be human. But there ain’t nothin’ human about them. They may have been at some point miss, but the ones I seen lost the shine to their eyes. And far as I’m concerned, I seen all of ‘em. Ain’t none of ‘em can be saved, ain’t none of ‘em can stay alive for the safety of mankind.”

“Ohhhh I see...well, yanno we might know a few places ta look.” her eyes meet with Serj’s as hes put on the most disarmingly warm smile she’s seen on him in a while. He pushes himself against his sturdy cane to stand, grunting gently from the effort before calmly swaying his way in front of the counter. His motions are somewhat hasty, as something in him has definitely clicked and Rosy understands immediately. He chuckles gently, getting the hunter’s attention on him again as the tip of his cane grinds into the wood under him.

“Oh yes, we can ‘elp each ozehr out quite a bit I sink.” He shuffles to be beside the hunter, who’s height makes even the tall Serj look average. Serj’s fingers motion behind the hunters back to Rosy, motioning for her to get the door and she’s quick to react and bustles behind the two of them as Serj places his hand on the hunter’s shoulder. “But fehrst, you must come upstairs so I can fix you some herbal tea. It is a special blend my good friend makes, he is an aposecary you know. You must be tired from your travels, aftehr all.”

The hunter warmly chuckles and obliges. “Oh, that’d be nice. I don’t remember the last time ah had somethin’ warm to drank, or somethin’ that wasn’t rain water. Its been dismal for days on horseback.” Serj nods sympathetically, guiding the hunter in front of him towards the stairs.

“Ah, oui. Trevain she is so unforgiving in zis way. She may one day drown us all. But eh, though cold, she is nevehr ehh....cruel or unjust. She mostly is fair.” The hunter nods, accepting the weird comment as local charm and pride in home.

“I feel thats how we should all be, sir. By the way, whats your name? If I’m havin’ tea with y’all I should at least know that.”

Serj grins with sharp white teeth as Rosy flanks the hunter’s other side, her emerald eyes bright and warm as she gently pads with them in front of the

“Of course, ‘ow rude of me. I am Serj Legrande, and zis is my lovely assistant Roslyn Shuck. And we are so pleased to ‘ave company wiss you.” The hunter’s interest was piqued at the mention of Rosy’s last name, but he couldn’t place his finger on why. Instead he smiles at her and she smiles right back as Serj lingers back somewhat behind the two.

“S’been real nice meeting you, Ms. Shuck and uhh-”

Mid-sentence, Serj grips the front of the retail counter and whips the hook handle of his cane out in front of him, catching the front of the hunter’s ankle and snaps his arm back to his side. Off guard and unexpecting to be assaulted, the hunter topples and staggers forward, falling flat on his face. Dazed from the collision, he quickly tries to muster to his knees but Roslyn meets him bluntly with the handle of her broom against his temple, a loud cracking sound projecting against the old walls. Just the sound was enough to cause a stinge of pain in Serj’s back. Again, the hunter staggers to try and stand but Rosy meets his tenderest meat and bone with the ragged wood of her broom until he fails to retaliate.

Not dead, but definitely not in good shape.

Serj leans gently against the counter, waiting for the pain in his hip and leg to subside from the physical force of the assault, and stares at the poor unconscious fool on the floor. Rosy was gently out of breath as she recognizes her actions may have come from a deeper place. She looks to Serj and he gently looks back.

“Never ded tell you about my uncle did I.” he shakes his head gently with his palm against his hip, willing the pain to subside.

“Was zat for him?” Rosy looks at the hunter, his ribs expanding with his breath though he was far gone. Her mind races back to a few fateful encounters from childhood, remembering her family torn in half because of men who think like the one on the floor. She nods softly and inhales deeply.

“YEAH. It was. I didn’t expect to project tha’ much unto this poor idjit but. Hearin’ him talk aboot them not bein’ worth mercy, somethin’ jes. Went off. Anyway. Shouldn’t keep this sod here.”

Serj nods and chuckles darkly as he slowly lowers the tip of his cane back into the wood. “If you would not mind ‘elping me get him to ze basement.”

It took some trying to get a man his size for both of them to lumber over to the cellar doors. With a slight heave they flip the hunter into the cellar and allow his body to roll and tumble gracelessly down the stairs into the unforgiving darkness. The vision of him laying at the bottom, blood starting to pool against the stone of the basement floor with the darkness creeping in should be unsettling.

Serj ends the vision by slamming the doors shut and re-setting the padlock, cancelling out all light and all life for those below. He would not want Rosy to be scarred, but she’s proven multiple times that she is not one to falter. Gentle hissing and scraping of nails against stone can be heard from behind the heavy cellar doors, threatening but preoccupied.

Serj doesn’t stick around, he leaves the minute he gets the lock fixed but Rosy can’t help but dissociate gently at the sounds. She remembers seeing the imps that live in the cellar. Their imagery mixed with flashbacks of her younger days of crying with fear at the mention of Dogwood and Wolf Hunters. The hard crack of bones breaking snaps her back and she turns her back on the cellar doors.

Her mentor looks to her with sympathy and smiles genuinely for the first time since he had arrived. “I sink for today, we should close ze shop early and maybe ‘ave some tea. I spoke of it earlier and now I ‘ave a strong craving for it. Monsieur Sparrow makes ze best herbal blend.”

Rosy smiles back at him, relaxed despite her vulnerable internal feelings. “Aye, sounds goot. I could use somethin’ t’eat as well.”

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

The rain had finally let up the day following, leaving the world a little bit damp and the air filled with the aroma of wet churned earth. Small rivers of water would slosh down cobblestone and finally drain into the sewers below.

The cracked black paint of the old bookstore door creaked open in the early white morning light, and would have Serj make his debut for the day in his broad brimmed hat and long black overcoat. His cane dug into the wood below him and he closed and locked the door for safety sake before he proudly carried himself to the street. He had a very particular destination in mind.

Coming to the windows of the apothecary shop, Serj allowed himself inside and subjected himself to the strong, musty yet spicy smell of herbs and powders. His gaze scanned the room and he was immediately met with a gruff greeting.

“Oh, hey Serj. What in the world are you doing over here so early? Ain’t even open yet.” Serj beamed at the gruff visage of his dearest friend, eyes glancing over his rough manly features marked by his bright honey-golden eyes, peppered hair and soft pointed ears. He had been busying himself with dusting the shelves behind the counter. Serj hurried gently as he chuckled.

“Ah, monsieur Sparrow! I know it is early but I could not resist, I ‘ad to see you as soon as I could today.” He waited till Sparrow had wandered out from behind the counter, his big bushy brow quirked on his forehead, scrutinizing Serj’s excited behavior.

“You feelin’ alright? You look a lil more squirrelly than usual, are you up to somethin’?”

“Ah, non Monsieur. Why must you sink I am always up to somesing? I cannot come visit my dearest friend in ze world and tell him I loved his ‘erbal tea? Rosy and I steeped it yestehrday and it was.....magnifique.” Sparrow’s expression lightens a bit, touched at the sincerity.

“Aww well thank you Serj. I wasn’t sure if it’d be good, I don’t usually make tea and such. It was more me just dabblin’ with leaves if we’re bein honest. If you like it so much I figure I could get you some more.”

Serj’s smile shone brightly under his hair at his dear friend. All he could think of was fondness for this man and all they had done for each other over the years, how Sparrow at one point was all he had in the world on his darkest days, and nights spent sheltering him in his wolf body from antagonizers and Dogwood hunters. “I would love zat.”

He extends his arms and motions with his fingers asking for Sparrow’s hands. Sparrow slowly obliges and offers them, letting Serj run his fingers running over the silver burn scars in his fingers gently. Mr. Sparrow’s hands were larger and thicker than Serj’s, most everything on Sparrow was larger, though Serj would claim the honor of being the taller of the two, but the hands really put it into perspective.

He gazes at the justification for his actions the previous day with bittersweet empathy, before his eye catches what appears to be new scars and he lifts his hands closer to inspect them. Sparrow draws his hands back. “Uhh.....yeah. Kids today. They started this new thing where they like....paint over silver coins in brown paint so I think they’re copper till I touch ‘em. Its real annoyin’ cus I thought I could stop wearin’ gloves at work.”

Serj’s face twists with disgust at Sparrow’s new predicament, crossing his arms over his narrow chest.

“Am I going to ‘ave to kill some kids?”

#serj #sparrow #rosy #trevain #valderas #writing #what the fuck is my tag for my writing shit again

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