#cobalt blue and white mug

[yourcoffeeguru]

Vintage EIT England Ceramic Mug || SWtradepost - ebay

[aqua-the-smiter]

Healing takes a long, long time. Who knows. It may never come. Cato Sicarius x female reader you are his only solace PART 3, APPARENTLY. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. Divider by @squishyowl . I'm sorry I keep @ing you but Cato is living rent fucking free in my head Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0z53F9I-93M

Fall with me, come on and fall with me, into the dark and scary hole inside the bottom of the sea ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things weren't perfect. But they seemed to be better, at least. Even if only marginally.

Cato was happier than you'd ever seen him in the weeks since you got together. At least, when he was with you. He was a surprisingly affectionate man once you got past his shell. He was still lonely, still in pain, but he had you, and he loved you. And he wasn't ashamed to show it either.

Some Ultramarines congratulated him on it. A few seemed a little envious. That one ambassador that Cato had had less pleasant dealings had glared at you like you insulted her mother. Overall though, the reaction was positive. Even Lord Guilliman seemed pleased, laying a hand on Cato's shoulder.

Astartes getting girlfriends wasn't common, but it wasn't entirely unheard of either. Most kept quiet about it. While he didn't trumpet from the rooftops about you, he wasn't afraid to kiss you or let you kiss him in public when you accompanied him, or allow you to hold his hand, or slip your hand around his elbow (as best you could) so the two of you could walk arm and arm together.

And flowers. You loved flowers, and every day when he came to you he'd present you with some, weaving them into your hair or tucking them behind your ears. You got the impression he enjoyed finding and giving them to you as much as you enjoyed receiving them, and you were filling out a whole book full of pressed and dried blooms.

He even had a pet name for you. Peahen, after the female of the numerous peafowl that inhabited Macragge. They had been brought over by early settlers and found a very comfortable niche for themselves. The males were especially pretty, with cobalt blue bodies and magnificent, long tails of green and iridescent eye spots that could spread out into a huge fan of feathers. The females were less showy, with plain brown and white feathers, but even they had a splash of bright blue and green on their necks. And the chicks were absolutely adorable.

The name always made you giggle. You supposed Cato was a like a peacock with his bright blue armor and plumed helmet. Your peacock.

For your part, you made up for things by being equally as affectionate as possible. It was pretty clear that he needed it. Giving it to him as freely as he did to you. You would let him scoop you up and carry you around just because he felt like doing it, or rest his head in your lap when he was particularly frustrated or put out. Stroking his hair, whispering to him softly that things would be just fine. He didn't seem like he believed it, but it made him happy to hear from you.

But...it was still pretty clear he wasn't doing well, and that irritated you to no end. You wanted to help him. You want to scream at everyone who made him feel like he had nobody to talk to about his troubles. And you would, too. You felt fiercely protective of him.

It was like he was in a hole. A deep, dark pit in his own head that he couldn't climb out of. Or he'd just gotten used to sitting in the dirt. Sometimes misery and pain could be awful comfortable if you lived with it long enough. Even if you didn't want it to be. Or if not that, then extremely hard to crawl out of. Like a tar pit.

And you weren't the only one who noticed his poor state, either.

Roboute Guilliman leaned back in his chair. In one hand was a mug of steaming mountain laurel tea. On a very small clear spot on his desk was a small plate that held some Eldar sweets Yvraine had brought for their weekly chat over tea. She held her teacup in the toes of her left foot, a plate in her right hand, and her gryrinx Alorynis tucked under her left arm. He kept trying to fling himself into Guilliman's lap, which he seemed to prefer because it was bigger.

He loved these meetings with her. They had become a weekly thing under the guise of "negotiation", and she was an accepted sight around the Fortress of Hera. It was nothing short of a relief to have her to talk to.

"Let him sit." Roboute said, amused as he watched the feline struggle.

"He'll get your lovely blue toga covered in sheddings." Yvraine said, sipping her tea. Placing Alorynis in his lap anyway. The gryrinx immediately curled into a happy ball, purring.

He stroked the creature's back, smiling. Although she could see it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't mind. I like cats."

"Robu, you're frowning again." She poked his wrinkled forehead. "What's on your mind this time?"

"Nothing unusual. I am concerned about one of my sons. Among other things."

"Which one?" She said, amused. "You have so many. I'm jealous."

He snorted. "Very funny, you unbearable xenos witch. It is Cato Sicarius."

"Ah yes. The one who never smiles."

"Most Astartes don't smile too often." Roboute pointed out.

"He only has two expressions from what I've seen. Grinding his teeth behind his lips, and a thousand yard stare."

"He's been happier recently. But that's because of his serf, I believe. The root problem is still there."

Despite her teasing, her expression was sympathetic. "What do you mean?"

"He used to be a very...arrogant man. He has gone through much humbling since, but I do not think all of it has been beneficial. I think he is as bad as he was in some aspects, but in the very different way. Instead of pride, it is pain that guides his actions. Although he adamantly refuses to talk about it to anyone."

"Have you tried asking him directly? He wouldn't refuse you."

"No, but forcing him to speak will do no good either. It will make him more evasive and mistrustful." He sighed. "I have asked, but only vaguely. I do not want to be overbearing to my Astartes, but I am worried about Cato. He pulls away from his brothers, and from me. He isolates himself, and wanders around in the night. There is no light in his eyes."

"Do you have any idea as to why?" Yvraine asked. "Maybe he just prefers to be alone."

"No. Some years ago, a ship he was traveling on got lost in the Warp. It was trapped for five years, aimless and constantly being invaded by daemons and Warpborn horrors. Many of his men died. I believe it has traumatized him."

Yvraine's ears flicked up in surprise. She looked sober. "I didn't know that was even possible. What does an Angel of Death need to see that will scar his mind so deeply?"

"It is very possible. Nobody likes to talk about it, but it is. Granted, it is also not common. In that you are correct. It takes a special kind of hell to leave that kind of scarring."

"But I suppose being lost in the Warp for five years is as special kind of hell."

"It is."

"He also doesn't seem to popular with your boys. I've heard some...less than flattering remarks."

"You probably hear everything with those ears." He said with a small smile. She snorted a laugh. "He is...a divisive figure. Many respect him. Many cannot stand him. I know one of my ambassadors really dislikes him."

"I've heard people calling him sexist."

"He is not. That rumor is stupid." Roboute said, thoroughly tired of it. "I thought my sons were more mature, but apparently not."

"Boys will be boys Robu." She pinched his cheek.

He sighed. "I wish to help him, but I don't know how. And..." He trailed off, uncertain of how much to share.

"Go on Robu. You know I won't breathe a word of it."

She read him like an open book. He loved that woman. "The mission I sent the Redeemed on. It is a success so far. If all goes well, I will be off to Medusa soon. If that goes well, I will need Cato then. And I will need him at his sharpest. Beyond, even."

The Redeemed were a...peculiar chapter of Astartes under Roboute's direct control. They were perfectly normal, except for the fact that it was entirely made up of former Chaos and traitor marines. He had a soft spot for them, and they were by far his best weapon against daemons and Warp spawn of all kinds.

"Ah. The thing with your brother?"

"Yes." That was the end of that train of discussion. "I know I cannot rush his healing, but I do not believe he has even begun to heal. His wounds still bleed. I fear if I try and intervene I will make things worse. I do not wish to hurt him."

"You said he had a serf he's fond of. It seems he's not entirely without comfort."

"He loves her. And it is good he has her. He does not trust his brothers with this. He does not trust me with this. Let him have her. Someone."

"I think you could reach out to him too. Don't force him, but merely inquire. Tell him you've noticed his change in behavior and be honest about your concerns. You are still his father, after a strange fashion. Maybe he could use some kind words from his Primarch. His Primarch certainly needs kind words too from time to time."

He smiled at that. "Not inaccurate. I will see what I can do. Maybe talk to his serf as well."

"See? There's the Robu I know. Always making plans." She patted his head. "And you are still as infuriating as ever." "Shut up and drink your tea before it gets cold." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a beautiful evening. The light of the setting sun was golden, the day was warm and the breeze was cool. It was nice enough that even the Ultramarines took notice, spending their small amount of free time outside in snatches.

Cato sighed. The wind made his robes ripple and flutter. He'd received a note inviting him to share a jug of wine and some small talk with a few other officers. His first instinct was to refuse, but then he remembered he was trying to retain some semblance of normality. So now he felt obligated to show up. He would have brought you with him, but you were fast sleep in the sunshine. Instead he'd covered you up with his cape and let you nap. You were cute like that anyway.

He found the others sitting in the shade of an old willow tree, the wind rustling the long branches. It sounded like rattling bones. Marneus, Uriel, and Demetrian were scattered across the benches around the trunk. They all looked unusually relaxed and in good spirits.

"Sicarius."

"Cato."

"Cato."

He sat on the edge of the bench Titus was on, who promptly handed him a clay cup. The liquid inside was a dark red, dry and sour tasting.

"Chapter master, Uriel, Titus." He nodded to each. "I wasn't expecting an invitation. Did anything special happen?" He asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Can't we just want to enjoy your company?" Titus asked, smacking his shoulder.

He snorted. "Nobody enjoys my company. I thought that was established."

"That serf of yours seems to enjoy it. Congratulations on that." Uriel smiled at him. "I never would have guessed you to be the type to seek out something like that."

Titus nodded. "It's very rare, but not unheard of. I know the Chapter Master had a girl once, when he was young and attractive."

Calgar raised a grayed eyebrow. "What do you mean was?"

"Well...you are old." Uriel offered.

"Brilliant observation Ventris. It's that tactical genius that made you captain of the fourth."

Uriel and Titus both snickered at that. Cato offered a small smile at the Chapter Master's witticism. He took a sip of the wine to offset the fact that he wasn't laughing. A small one, though. It was starting to look a bit too much like blood for his comfort.

Then Marneus's gaze turned squarely on Cato. "But I'm not so old that a replacement needs to be considered yet. Sicarius."

He nearly choked on his wine. "Who, me? Absolutely not. I don't want to be Chapter Master. Keep your chair."

The thought was utterly laughable. He had aspired to it. Once. Not anymore though. he'd already proved himself too incompetent for that seat.

That earned him three raised eyebrows.

"What happened to you, Cato?" Uriel asked. "I thought you were counting down the days until Calgar was unavailable."

"I was. When I was young, and still had hope." He replied, then seeing the looks he was getting, "But it doesn't look like our venerable Chapter Master will be abdicating anytime soon." He added, forcing a joke.

"1st Captain Severus will be pleased to hear it." Titus told him with a grin.

"Seems I get a break from young upstarts for a while." Calgar said wryly.

"And when the time comes may someone worthy take your place."

He held up his cup in salute to the chapter master. Hoping that they believed his words were true. Because they were. Someone worthy. Not him.

The others raised their cups in return before taking a swig.

"Maybe one of you two." He added.

Titus shook his head. "I think I'm happier where I am."

"I never considered it." Uriel admitted. "I try to keep my aspirations reasonable."

"You would be a good pick though." Titus mused, agreeing with Cato.

He nodded.

"You have the track record." Calgar nodded slowly. "If you're not dead by the time I am, and if Agemman doesn't want to job for some reason."

"You're a hero, Uriel. The things you have accomplished go beyond even our line of duty." Cato said. "I believe you have a lot of qualities the Primarch likes to see in us as well. That might make you more a favorable choice."

"Don't sell yourself short Cato. You have done a lot of good too. Lord Guilliman wouldn't have made you captain of the Victrix for nothing."

The wine was starting to acquire an oddly metallic taste. Like iron. "Everything I have done has come off the heels of a spectacular blunder."

"I got sent off to Medrenguard because I didn't follow the Codex Astartes. Remember?"

Cato shook his head. "You did what needed to be done. I sent my men to their deaths."

"The Emperor's Will was not your fault, Sicarius." Calgar interjected. "Blaming yourself accomplishes nothing."

"And what about the losses at Damnos? Or Black Reach? I have proven time and time again that I am not a good commander."

"There is no leader of men who has only victories. Not even Lord Guilliman can claim that. You have failed, and you have failed hard. That is certainly true. But you have learned from it since. I doubt you would make the same mistakes again. Would you?"

"Of course not."

"There you have it then."

He felt a warmth in his chest for a moment before the doubts he held to be truths reasserted themselves. He had missed this. This fellowship. It was like he had been gifted a taste of the brotherhood he had lost, and he hadn't realized how bitterly he had missed it.

"That is something easier said than applied." He countered, and before he could stop himself, added. "Some things still haunt me."

It eve smelled like blood now.

Uriel nodded sagely. "I still think about the things I saw on Medrenguard sometimes. Although time has sanded the edges a great deal."

"Yes, of course." He said, a little too quickly. "It always does. But it's still unpleasant."

It didn't. He thought. Everything is still as sharp and painful as ever. Do you still smell the charnel reek? Do you still hear the screaming and moaning of the poor wretches of the Daemonculaba? Is your sleep full of daemon music and rot? Do you see Tyranids in every shadow and Iron Warriors in every doorway?

Time hadn't healed any of his wounds. He could still feel them, deep in his mind, pulsing with pain and oozing infection. That's how he felt. Like an infected wound. He had simply gotten worse and worse over time. That's why he was in this state now. Both his honor and his mind in pieces.

He wondered why they had asked him here in the first place. His hand shook, and he put the wine cup down. It all tasted like blood anyway. He wasn't like them. They were all heroes. They were everything an Ultramarine was supposed to be.

Maybe that's why he was here. So he could see everything that he wasn't.

He fell silent for the most part after that, listening to the other three and occasionally answering yes or no to some question or another. As quickly as that moment of warmth had come it was gone, and he felt hollow again.

Eventually he stood up to take his leave.

"Wait." He turned to see Titus holding out a few long sprigs of mountain laurels. Clusters of beautiful, star shaped white, pink and red flowers.

"Take these to your lady. I notice you've been bringing her flowers all the time." He said with a smile. Cato took them with a nod of gratitude.

"She likes them. Thank you."

"Good luck with her." Titus called after him, before his expression turned stony.

He was going to have to talk to someone about this. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Peahen." Cato called softly, opening the door to his quarters.

You were awake, sewing up a few ragged edges on his broad red cape. Looking up, your face broke into a wide grin when you saw him, and the gorgeous flowers he had for you. Putting your sewing down, you sprung into him like a rabbit into a trap. He gathered you up in his arms and held you tightly. Tucking the laurels into your hair.

"They're beautiful Cato. Thank you so much." You beamed at him. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

He smiled. Feeling all his earlier distress draining away as he held you close. You could see his expression soften, the tension drop from his shoulders.

"One of my brothers suggested them." He said.

"He has good taste." You ran your fingers gently over the petals. "You know you don't have to bring me flowers every day." He sat down, pulling you into his lap. "Maybe not. But seeing your eyes light up every time I present you with some makes it worth doing. I like making you happy."

You snuggled against him, as content as a cat with a stolen fish. "I appreciate it. You know I've saved every single one. I'm filling a book with them."

"Really?"

"Yep." You nodded. "I dry and press them. It's like a record of sorts. Since we...became and item."

He took your small hand in his and squeezed it.

"I want to make you happy too." You told him.

"You make me happy just by being here."

He kissed your cheek.

"You are my solace."

You pulled one of the springs of laurel from your hair and tucked it behind his ear. "You look so handsome Cato."

"I love you." He whispered. Holding you close. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Titus." Roboute greeted his son as he walked into his office.

"Lord Primarch." He returned. "Am I interrupting anything?"

He sighed. "Nothing out of the ordinary, lieutenant. Is something wrong? You look troubled."

"Forgive me if this is nothing, but I felt that I needed to speak to someone about this." Titus began. "I...believe there is something going on with Cato."

To his surprise Roboute's expression darkened almost immediately. "Tell me." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hole-dwelling, hole-dwelling, hole-dwelling, you’re just like me

[definitelynotstable]

Camomile pt. 3 [Ghost x gn!Reader]

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10

AN: Can’t stop, won’t stop <3

Synopsis: You and a tired and injured Ghost enjoy some camomile. Price has put him in charge of drills while he recovers ...oh shit. Words: 798 Warnings: minor injury Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign Rags): No explicit romance. Fluff as per usual. Relationship development. Soft Ghost <3

Not proof-read (I never ever proof-read).

✧.*

It was unspoken of, these midnight meetings. You would slink into the kitchen and fumble around with the kettle, setting out two mugs of camomile and shortly after the Lieutenant would appear. He would usually bring a book or some paper work and you would doze in your chair, watching over the rim of your mug as he concentrated. 

You had only been with the task force for a couple of months and the Lieutenant had proved to be the hardest to get to know. Soap and Gas wore their hearts on their sleeves, joking and laughing - they were easy too read. Price was kind and fair with a good sense of humour; eyes sparkling whenever he watched his team get together. 

But Ghost was different. The mask made him difficult to read. You prided yourself on subtle observations but the only way to assess the man was through his eyes. Cobalt blue. Hard with furrowed brows on missions, almost black. Softer when Soap was attempting to rile him up, and almost eager with Price. Like a boy searching for validation from their father. You knew that feeling all to well. Most didn’t end up in the Military without some type of familial dysfunction.

The Lieutenant was quiet but calm. You had spent most of your time in the team trying to gauge whether or not he even liked you - his mannerisms were so hard to crack. But after the first night he had wandered into the kitchen to find you sipping from a mug with a stolen teabag it became some type of ritual. And slowly but surely you were getting to know the man you fought side by side with.

✧.*

You hadn’t expected him to join you tonight. The mission had been a success but a tough one nonetheless. You were all a bit battered and bruised, Ghost more than the rest. Price had forced the stoic Lieutenant into the infirmary straight off the tarmac, giving him no chance to escape. It must be a habit of his, you surmised, ignoring wounds and ailments. The curse of needing to be strong all the time. 

So when he shuffled in at quarter past one in the morning, an arm wound tenderly around his ribs, it gave you a scare. You had been dosing on the couch closest to the table, mug of tea tucked in the crock of your arm; lukewarm and forgotten. 

A pale hand wrapped around the mug, pulling it softly out of your grasp. You jolted awake at the movement. He was wearing black neck-muff, covering his face from just under his sharp blue eyes, his white-blond hair tousled. 

You blink blearily up at him as he tilts his head, now having fished the mug out of your grasp. 

“Sleeping durin’ tea-time, Rags?”

His voice is soft and there is a teasing glint in his eyes as he watches you shake yourself awake. 

You push your hair back, stretching slightly. “Sorry LT, didn’t think you would show.”

Ghost nods, walking over to the sink to rinse your mug. You watch him tiredly as he flicks on the kettle.

“How’re the ribs?”

The man in question folds his arms, hip against the counter in his signature pose. “Sore. Price won’t let me train for a few more days so I’m back to runnin’ drills.”

You can’t stop the huff that escapes you. Ghost’s drills were lethal. The Lieutenant raises a pale eyebrow. His cool tone doesn’t fool you, there’s teasing in his eyes. “Somethin’ wrong Sergeant?”

You cough shaking your head, pulling yourself off the couch and sliding into a seat at the table. “No sir, your drills are great sir.”

He scoffs quietly, turning back to face the kettle. “You’re a shit lier, Rags.”

You don’t bother arguing. It’s true. He casts a look at you over his shoulder. Your cheek is resting on your fist, eyelids fluttering. He smiles a little. You don’t notice, too busy focusing on staying awake.

“Anotha’ tea, love?”

“Yes please,” you mumble. God you’re so tired.

A steaming mug is pushed into your hands. Ghost settles into his usual seat opposite you with a small groan. 

“Fuckin’ ell” he grumbles, resting his elbows on the table, mug to his lips. 

You quirk an eyebrow. “Feeling old, LT?”

His eyes snap to meet yours through the wafting steam. “Somethin’ like that.”

You yawn, stretching your arms over to rest behind your head. “Go easy on us tomorrow?”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, he can tell you’re tired. You all are. He takes a long sip of his tea, watching you carefully. “No promises, Sergeant.”

You nod, following suit. “That’s enough for me, LT.”

✧.*

Masterlist

Next Part:

[yatskari]

"Gzhel is a style of Russian ceramics which originates from the village of Gzhel not far from Moscow... In the distant past Gzhel drawings were colored. Local masters painted clay household items: plates, dinner sets, mugs, jugs, toys, etc. Today the pottery features distinctive blue designs on white background. This style of paintings was borrowed from the Dutch. White-and-blue paintings appear in an unusual way: At first, the object is painted with cobalt oxide which is black. Then it covered with white glaze and placed in the oven. After heating the glaze becomes transparent and cobalt acquires sky-blue color."

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hiiii hope you're having a nice day!!!!

Could recommend any fics where Derek is the True Alpha instead Scott? Preferably Sterek, but no-pairing/gen is alright too

Thank you!!

Hey @mayetaisho! I got you.

christabel by Petr1chor

(5/5 I 7,623 I General)

“Peter?” Stiles said, too shocked to keep it out of his voice, “Why are you calling?”

Peter sighed on the other end, genuine in a way Peter rarely was. “I thought you would want to know.”

“Know what?”

“About Derek.”

“Peter, I’m too old for your cryptic shit. Either spit it out or I’m hanging up.”

“Stiles,” Peter said, his voice shaky, somehow, “Derek is dead.”

Stiles had a phone in his hand, a shattered mug, a puddle of coffee and what might be a first degree burn on his foot.

“Stiles? Are you still there?” Peter’s voice sounded fuzzy when his phone wasn’t pressed against his ear. Without response, he hit end call.

Derek is dead.

xxx

Stiles goes back to Beacon Hills for Derek's funeral, but Derek isn't as dead as they assumed

..With My Teeth by Fayaheda

(1/1 I 7,763 I Mature)

"I'm gonna bite that incredible ass of yours, now..." She grins when she sees his cheeks flood and he looks down to his feet out of embarrassment. "...With my teeth."

The Bargain by dr_girlfriend 

(6/6 I 9,713 I Teen)

Time drags on, and it becomes apparent that this is not a part of the tradition. The wolves start to shift on their feet and murmur, but no one attempts to speak to Stiles. He stands, feeling the back of his neck growing red from the sun and his face growing red from embarrassment.

What will happen if Derek Hale cannot be coerced to the altar? Will the bargain be revoked?

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions)

(7/7 I 13,495 I Mature)

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

You’re an Understatement (you’re getting worse) by LadySlytherin

(1/1 I 13,510 I Explicit)

Erica’s goal in life was to be hired by Neckz’n’Throats. Not as a model, though she knew she was hot enough for that. No, she wanted to be behind the camera. And to do that, she needed two things. A glowing recommendation, and a portfolio that would grab their attention; that would make them take her seriously. For that, she needed the right models. Thankfully, she knew just who to ask.

I found you hidden in plain sight (why'd I take so long?) by Gorgeousgreymatter

(7/7 I 25,419 I Explicit)

Stiles is pretty sure he’s hallucinating. He’s got to be. There’s no other plausible explanation, he thinks, as he sits on the sidelines of the lacrosse field and feels the cold, hard bench underneath him, the roar of the crowd at his back like the worst white noise machine in the world.

There’s no other reason why he sees it, the hulking, black figure of a wolf peering at him from the treeline behind the bleachers. Its eyes flare in the glaring glow of the stadium lights, but they’re the wrong color, he thinks: blood-moon red instead of cobalt blue, but the familiarity of it all makes his stomach roll and clench.

"X" marks the spot by mmspring

(3/3 I 39,796 I General)

"Please, bring my nephew back" Stiles stays silent for a second, before clearing his throat and speaking again. "Do you remember that time when you asked if someone in this town could stay dead?" he asks, and waits for the other man to confirm that he, indeed, remembers. "Well, let's hope the answer is still no".

Or

Stiles has to save the day once again, but he doesn't want the recognition for it.

DNA by badluckvixen13 (fanaticmusings)

(28/28 I 127,882 I Explicit)

Centuries ago, the Alliance gained control of the majority of the free world. The rest of the world, the Frontier, are the magical wastelands where criminals hide and dark secrets are lost and the pre-Alliance divisions remain. To foster a sense of allegiance, peace, and progression toward human and supernatural equality, the Alliance created the Handler-Shifter system to enforce supernatural law on behalf of humans and supernaturals alike.

For a better alliance, Stiles enters the service just like his parents before him. For the sake of Pack, Derek returns to the Alliance and finds himself partnered with a smart-mouthed, pale, kid who has seen more darkness than most people his age. Together with Scott and Kira, they find themselves standing on the edge of a revolution thousands of years in the making with only one question to answer:

Are they strong enough?

[waythroughtheice]

Crossed Constellations, Part 1

For @absolutely-normal-about-x, who has graciously allowed me to play in the Legends Reborn AU.

“Ow ow ow ow owww,” Geo moaned, landing face first onto something hard, but slightly warm. “Where are we?” 

A slightly shocked, weathered voice as his answer. “This is the airship Flutter. Are you alright?” Geo blinked as a large hand appeared. He took it in his own gloved one, and let it pull him up. 

“X?” Omega-Xis yelped, shocked. 

“This isn’t X, Omega-Xis, he’s too….” Geo’s answer trailed off as he got a good look at the man--and it was definitely a human, or something like it, standing in front of him. The man was probably in his early forties, with ankle-length brown hair that was braided down his back to be out of his way. A good portion of his hair was white, leading to a pretty cool-effect where part of the braid was white but the other portion was brown. The man(?) was dressed in loose clothing, gray sweatpants and a loose cobalt blue t-shirt while barefoot. His face was slightly scruffy, and he had what Omega-Xis called a “Dad’s bod.” 

At first glance, Geo would swear that he’d never met this man in his life.

But at a second, his eyes--green, calm, intelligent, and old (and dangerous)--took Geo by surprise, and he knew. 

“X?” Geo yelped, not unlike his partner. 

X’s eyebrows shot up, and he firmly shut a book that was resting on a nearby chair shut. “That’s me,” he said. “But I don’t know you. Mind telling me your name?” 

Geo gulped. Though the question was kind and X’s tone light, his eyes were sharp, and Geo knew there would be no running away. 

Oh yeah. Definitely X.

~~~

“You travel through timelines?” X said. “That’s a new one, even for me. Sit, sit.” 

Geo awkwardly sat down at a small kitchen table at a cozy warm kitchen nook. A hot mug of--something was pressed into his hands. 

“Just some tea with milk and sugar,” X said. 

Oh. “Thank you,” Geo said. “I don’t know if I can….” He was in Mega Man’s form, so his ability to interact with the non EM world was limited. 

“We should detransform, kid,” Omega-Xis said suddenly. “It’s X. We’re safe.” 

Geo considered that, and nodded, letting himself split away until he was Geo Doran Stelar, a twelve year old human boy once more. 

The air felt heavy, and odd, and pressed against his chest. The surroundings suddenly felt malevolent, and against him. X made a small noise in the background, probably shocked at his appearance. 

Geo’d gotten that a lot from WAZA--they’d assumed that Mega Man was at least sixteen, if not older, since his Mega Man form looked like an older teenager or young adult. 

“Breathe, kid,” Omega-Xis said. “I checked. You can handle it.” 

Geo nodded and sure enough, the heaviness in the air slowly dissipated, and the black at the corner of his eyes faded. 

“That’s not as new,” X said mildly. “Are you a Cyber Elf?” This was directed at Omega-Xis, who was using the Hunter VG’s properties to be seen by people other than Geo, and to appear and interact with the physical world. 

“Huh? Whazzat?” was Omega-Xis’s eloquent reply. 

X smiled. “That answers that question. Though I guess you could also have amnesia….” 

“I’m an alien,” Omega-Xis said bluntly. “An AMian from the Planet AM.” 

“Aliens exist?” X asked, genuinely shocked. Then he grimaced. “Of course they do. Why am I even surprised anymore….” 

“They might not exist in your timeline,” Geo said anxiously. 

“We probably do,” Omega-Xis said. “But we might not’ve ever visited. The EM Waves on this planet are weak.” 

“EM Waves?” X asked. 

“Like radio waves,” Omega-Xis said, waving a claw. “My species uses it to bounce around and interact with electronics and stuff. The Internet and all that.” 

“Ah,” X said, nodding to show his understanding at the paltry explanation. Geo had no doubt that he did. X was really, really smart and it would be scary if Geo didn't know that X could always be trusted. “So you’ve met me before?” 

Geo nodded. “A few times. But you always look--” he faltered. 

X quirked a smile. “Younger, I’m guessing?” He said. “Blue armor, red jewel?” 

Geo nodded, relieved. “Uh-huh.” 

“Back when I was an android, then,” he said. 

“Yeah…..what are you?” Geo asked. 

X sat back with an amused-fond-exasperated feeling. “A Carbon, a sort of human-machine hybrid,” X said. “And before you ask, no I don’t know how I became one.” He gestured towards the drink. “Before it gets cold.” 

Geo took a sip, and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. 

“You’re welcome. If you don’t mind my asking…” X’s eyes roved over Geo and Omega-Xis before settling their intense gaze on Geo. “What’s a child like yourself traveling through different timelines? You can’t be older than thirteen.” 

“You ask that in every timeline,” Omega-Xis muttered under his breath. X shot him a sharp look before recasting his gaze 

“I’m twelve,” Geo said. “I’ve done this before. Omega-Xis is with me, so it’s okay.” 

“If you’ve met me when I was an android you’ve probably seen Maverick battles, if not seen parts of the Wars,” X said. 

“When I’m Mega Man most of the attacks phase right through me,” Geo said calmly. How many times had he had this discussion with X specifically? It was always X, too--seriously, no other adult seemed to really care all that much. 

(Well, if X wasn’t around Zero always did it, and if Zero wasn’t around Axl tended to. If not one of them, Ciel or--heavens forbid--Signas did it. Geo still feared the Signas debrief.

Dr. Hikari had been….weird. He hadn’t really said anything, but Geo knew he’d watched any and all battles very closely. But he’d still let him go without saying anything, so? 

Dr. Light, the few times Geo’d met him, seemed more resigned to having a twelve year old fight than argumentative.

Vent and Aile had believed him without a fight when he said he could fight, and Gray and Ashe were more interested in sparring with him.

So basically, it was only X's time that had adults that actually argued with him on this. It was so weird. ) 

“Most isn’t all,” X rebutted calmly. 

“I’m faster than light as Mega Man,” Geo said. “I run when I can’t fight and they can’t catch me.” 

“Hmmmm,” was all X said. “Why are you traveling?” 

“It’s kind of habit at this point,” Geo admitted. “I got used to jumping timelines thanks to an older adventure of mine that needed me to jump through space.” He decided to change the subject. “Are Zero or Axl around?” That was always a fair bet with X. Where one went, the other two followed. 

A shadow crept over X’s face. “No.” 

Geo winced. “Sorry.” 

“It was a long time ago,” X said. “Thousands upon thousands. I hold out hope that maybe, but we’ll see.” 

“Do you live with anyone?” Geo asked. If he didn’t, then Geo was going to come back to visit. The thought of X living alone was too sad. 

The shadow fled away. “Yes,” he said fondly. “My kids and two family friends.” 

“The Guardians?” Geo said, surprised. 

X blinked. “You’ve met them too, huh?” He asked wryly. 

“A few times….” Geo said. Not always nice, but they were good people. “We met sometimes on the other sides of a battlefield, but they were always good--to me, at least.” 

“Battlefield?” X said sharply. 

Geo took a pointed sip of his tea (a lesson he’d learned from another X) and didn’t answer. 

X sighed, and moved on. “Well, I woke up to meet my youngest son, Volnutt.” 

“There’s a fifth?” Geo said. 

X smiled. “There’s a fifth,” he confirmed. “Sweet boy, hardworking too. You’d probably get along well--you’re close in age.” 

“Where are they now?” Geo couldn’t help but ask. 

“Out and about,” X said. There was no mistaking the light in his voice or eyes. X was happy. “They’re a good bunch, my kids,” he said. “A lot of trouble, no mistake, but worth it.” 

“That’s good,” Geo said. X was happy. Pegasus, Leo, and Dragon, X was happy. It came off of him in waves of contentment-joy-elation. 

X wasn’t often happy, from what little Geo saw. Though he sometimes had happy endings--at least the couple of versions Geo had met, did--that was only after Geo had been involved in a few things, which he didn’t think was the norm. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” X said. It was kinda late, wasn’t it, now that Geo turned and looked outside. The sunset turned the sky and sea red as the waves lapped gently against the ship. 

Geo shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t--” Then his stomach growled, the traitor.

“Go wash up, and come back and help me with dinner,” X advised, and there was something in his tone that Geo immediately responded to. 

“Yes sir,” he answered, and got up. 

“Omega-Xis, stay here, would you?” X said. “Bathroom’s on the left, Geo. You're sweaty--go take a shower. There are spare changes of clothes about your size if you look under the mirror. They’ll be dusty, but they’re clean.” 

From the way X was eyeing Omega-Xis, it was probably going to be a very thorough Q&A session. 

Geo sighed. “I’ll be back,” he said. Better take a shower like X suggested. The more time X had to question Omega-Xis, Geo’d learned, the better. 

Omega-Xis, for his part, didn't even protest. He and X'd gone through this song and dance before, and it probably wouldn't even be the last.

[secretly-a-catamount]

A collection of all current Malcabel fics that have been written by me, because i’m insane about them (positive) and have been debating which one I should work on next

Currently Untitled | Finished Beach Fic

  It was all Catarina Loss’s fault really.

  “Honestly, Malcolm,” the sky blue warlock had told Annabel’s husband when he’d called her positively panicking about being in charge of her (many times removed) nieces and nephews for a day, “why don’t you and Annabel just take the kids to the beach?”

  Trusting his friend’s judgment more than his own had been a rather terrible idea, Annabel thought amusingly as she watched the blond warlock race down the shoreline, waving his arms like a mad man, shouting that under no circumstances were the children to poke at that beached jellyfish with a stick, yes, Tiberius, even if it was already dead.

  After some whining (the children) and some poorly concealed begging (Malcom), the Blackthorn kids dispersed into the water and across the sand.

  Malcolm trudged back up the beach, and stood at the edge of the shade thrown by the umbrella stabbed into the ground.

  Annabel looked up from her drawing pad, her black brows furrowing in irritation at the shadow abruptly cast over her sketchbook. “You’re blocking my light.”

  His pale skin flushed a delicious raspberry red as he stammered out an “Oh, right, sorry” and moved to sit beside her on the blanket, smiling sheepishly. After a moment of comfortable silence, Malcolm absentmindedly ran his hand down her arm, stopping only to trace the black lines, curves, and whorls of her Runes. His touch was soft and light as a feather. “What are you drawing?”

  “You obviously.”

  “Obviously.” A pastel sketch of Malcolm in his striped black-and-white bathing suit, looking tall and thin and almost frail, with a softness to his frame and features that matched his disposition. A faint salmon-pink sunburn covered his face and shoulders, and his lips were cracked (Annabel would solve that one way or another, either by gifting him the tube of chapstick she’d squirreled away in her purse or by kissing him until he couldn’t breathe).

  “The kids.” Ty and Livvy and some golden-haired Mundane boy that Annabel didn’t know chasing a seagull. Mark and Helen teaching Tavvy how to build a sandcastle. Dru, Julian, and a different golden-haired child that Annabel didn’t know, this one a Shadowhunter girl with a spill of bright curls and a practice training sword, diving into the ocean and swimming around in the shallows.

  “Church.” The fat, blue feline crouched down in the dunes, fluffy tail held erect, eyes focused on a mouse in front of him, mere seconds away from a pounce that Annabel knew would end in failure.

  “The L.A. Institute.” An imposing building that Annabel didn’t think could ever have the ability to look homely.

  “Home.” A snapshot of their living room, a Polaroid pinned with a paper-clip for reference, Malcolm’s latest draft of the Codex — her illustrations not yet accompanying his neat, meticulous writing — spilling off the end table onto the soft, red couch, one of Annabel’s favorite mugs (which would always be filled with tea, Annabel and Malcolm both hating the taste of coffee) filled with paint-streaked paint brushes and colored pencils.

  “And my first love, the sea.” Cerulean and cobalt-blue waves crashing to the shore.

  “Should I be jealous?” Malcolm had moved from her arm to her hand, gently interlacing their fingers together.

  “Oh, immensely. I’m definitely leaving you for the ocean.”

  Malcolm’s laughter was interrupted by a shriek of pain.

  With a quickness that could belong only to a Shadowhunter, Annabel leapt to her feet. Heart hammering, she scanned the beachfront with frenzied eyes, her fingers itching to pull the wickedly-sharp daggers from the sheath she wore on her ankle . . .

  There — there was no danger present other than one of the children perhaps twisting their ankle. It hadn’t been a scream of pain, but a shriek of childish delight as Dru and Julian teamed up to toss the golden-haired girl — Annabel wanted to say her name was Emily? — into the shallow waves with a mighty splash of saltwater.

  Collapsing to the ground as quickly as she’d risen, Annabel scrubbed at her face, her eyes starting to sting with tears. This was how it always was whenever she and Malcolm left home, whenever they left Cornwall. She would be fine, and then she wouldn’t be. She would be fine, and then she would have a breakdown. Blood splattered against her lips and — blood?

  She wasn’t bleeding, her ruined hands barring no scraps or marks (although plenty of Marks), but she had a sinking suspicion of who was.

  “Ouch,” Malcolm said, “I think you grabbed my hand just a little too hard.” He smiled — why the hell was he smiling, she’d gouged her nails into his skin until he bled, she’d hurt him, she’d hurt him — moving to sit beside her on the blanket once again. His purple eyes darkened from the pale petals of violets to polished chips of amethyst with worry.

  “Are you hurt?” He took her hands in his own, turning them over gently and examining them, his head bent. Shadows and sunlight caught on the strands of his white hair.

  “No. But you are.” She yanked her hands out of his grasp and ground her teeth together, telling herself that she was not going to cry in front of the children (who were not remotely paying attention).

  “It’s fine, darling, really.” A flash, a spark, and pale light wove between Malcolm’s fingers until it looked like he held a burning star in his cupped hands. The scent of his magic — burning cinnamon and crisp snow and freshly spilled ink — reached her nostrils just in time for his flesh to knit back together.

  Drawing her knees to her chest, Annabel buried her face in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut so hard her skull hurt. I hurt him, I hurt him, I hurt him, I hurt him, I—

  Annabel barely heard as Malcolm got to his feet and shouted to the children that they needed to leave. She could barely hear anything over the dim in her head, the memories threatening to drown her. The clashing of wolves’s teeth, her father carving off her fingers, her sister crumpling dead to the ground from the blow she dealt to her temple with a fire-poker. She could still taste her husband’s blood in her mouth, she could still smell her sister’s blood, she could still feel her blood flowing from wounds made by her father’s knife.

  A wave curling around her ankle, Annabel was being dragged out to sea by a hated, if familiar, riptide. She was treading water, but she was so tired of fighting to live, of fighting for the right to live. She stopped for a moment to rest her too-tight skin and weary bones, and then she was drowning.

  She was drowning.

Currently Untitled | Unfinished Canon Divergent AU

  Her hair black, her skin white, her eyes blue and green and gray and all the colors of the ocean that swallowed men whole with little regard to their flimsy, mortal lives: Annabel Blackthorn was dead.

  Wearing angelic brands, the barred teeth of a wolf, laughter, complacency, and lies, drawn tight around her like a cloak, like a shield, like a funeral shroud: Annabel Blackthorn was dead.

  White hair and purple eyes and a whisper of her name as the last words on his lips, she had died months ago when they had looped a noose around Malcolm’s neck.

  She had died, but her body still wasn’t where it was supposed to be. She had died, but her body did not rot in the grave, did not decompose under the crust of the earth. She had died, but she had not swung — they would not let her. Her family had been ruined from when she had tried to flee with her beloved, a suicide would be inconsolable to their reputation.

  So they had arranged for her to be married to her cousin and shut away in one of their houses far away from Cornwall, far away from even Idris, as if she were mad, as if she was dangerous, as if she was deadly.

  They were right, of course, one of the few things they were ever right about. And they didn’t even know that they were right, they underestimated her, they always had, that would get them all killed.

  She was the mad girl — and she was a girl, barely past eighteen — who shattered a looking glass with her coiled fists and used the jagged-edged shards to cut lines and whorls into her skin. They took away everything sharp after that — or, at least, away from her, a Shadowhunter family never being able to not have weapons on hand.

  She was the dangerous girl who mixed rat poison in her sister’s wine. This sister, youthful and kind as she was, had been the one to sell out Malcolm and Annabel to their parents, had been the one to release the wolves who tracked them down, had been the one to physically restrain her when they executed Malcolm. They fired the rat catcher after that — wrongly thinking he had committed the killing as a product of jealousy from being born a Mundane.

  She was the deadly girl who, when the party was over, when the sky was as black-and-blue as the the bruises her cousin left on her thighs and hips and arms, straddled her husband, fitted her hands to the curve of his throat, his pulse beating beneath her fingertips, and squeezed, a Strength Rune etched on the deceptively delicate-looking wrist hidden underneath one of her billowing sleeves. She did not know what they would do when they found out — she did not intend to live that long.

  Thrashing like a netted fish, he clawed at her fingers, her hands, and her arms. Crimson blood splattering into his mouth and eyes, drowning and blinding him as he died. His cries for help were silenced into choking, wheezing gasps.

  He fought. Annabel fought harder.

  She lingered for a moment before slipping to the floor.

Currently Untitled | Unfinished Soulmate AU

  The First Mark, as they were called, carried from birth on the skin, where a gift from the Angel. A way to lead his children along their path to their soulmate, a way to bred better Shadowhunters, birth better warriors.

  And as everyone knew, decrees from the Angel could not be challenged.

  They were Law.

As the World Burns | Unfinished AU

  “So, that’s it than? We’re all fucked?” Annabel Blackthorn stood at the counter, shoulders set, taking her anger out on the wilting tomatoes spread across a dented cutting board, her posture as perfect as a taunt piano wire. Outside the window the sky was black as pitch and completely starless, almost as it knew what was coming, almost as if it mourned for the thousands of lives that were going to be lost. Innocents, slaughtered by his hands, his magic, his inventions.

  “I don’t — I can’t . . . I’m so sorry, Annabel. So, so sorry.” Malcolm nearly collapsed to the floor but managed to catch himself on the edge of the counter at the last possible moment. His briefcase clattered to the stone tile, emptied of everything that had made it important just hours earlier.

 She softened, as she always did when he spoke, and abandoned their last dinner, pulling him into a soft embrace. Malcolm stilled under her touch, his breathing slowly evening out. He wasn’t safe here, he wasn’t safe anywhere, not anymore, not in so, so long, but he was safe with her.

  Together they collapsed to the floor.

Currently Untitled | Unfinished Vampire!Annabel AU

  “No, please!” the woman said fearfully, “Don’t hurt me!” Her dark eyes desperately tried to find something in the swallowing darkness.

  “Now, now, my svelte beauty,” purred the creature as it slipped out of the shadows, “no need to make a fuss.”

  It was a man, with sharp, inhuman teeth, pupil-less eyes, and unnaturally pale skin. He wore a black cloak with a high collar and a blood-red gemstone clasp. He spoke with a foreign accent.

  The woman screamed as the monster grabbed her by the shoulders and sunk his fangs into her throat. Blood splattered against her white dress as she struggled, shrieking for mercy, then suddenly, with a burst of strength, the woman—

  “Don’t worry, kid, there’s not enough blood in your veins for any one of us to want to do that to you.”

  Kit jumped. Heart skipping a beat at the abrupt appearance of a girl — who looked around nineteen, and quite obviously a vampire, which was weird because he thought vampires weren’t allowed in the Institute thanks to the Shadowhunters’ magical racism — he spat out a string of profanities, and then said, “God, you scared me.”

  “Nothing to do with God here. Creature of the Dammed and all that.”

  He blinked, not sure what to make of her joke, and then decided to focus on the more pressing matter. “Who the hell are you? How the hell are you here?” He tightened his grip on the dagger he’d liberated from the Blackthorn’s weapons-room.

  “Now that’s more in my wheelhouse.”

  The girl neatly sat herself down on the couch beside him. Her movements weren’t particularly inhuman, but the sword that hung from her hip certainly was. The blade was sleek, long, and almost delicate-looking. Seemingly made from the same material that the Shadowhunters’ special knifes were made from — some sort of crystal-metal alloy that belonged exclusively to the Shadowhunters, because they’re just so good at sharing, Kit thought bitterly — the sword shone subtlety, while the black runes inset into the blade.

  “I’m Annabel Fade, the Head of the L.A. vampire clan.  As for why I’m here, I need to talk to Emma and Julian. Do you know where they are?”

  “They went on a patrol.” Kit answered, turning the dagger in his hand over and over as he talked, a mindless, repetitive motion that brought him comfort. “But how are you here, like, in the Institute? I thought—“

  “Auntie Annabel!” A shrike, a blur, and Annabel was engulfed in the littlest Blackthorn’s embrace.

“You came! You told me she wouldn’t, but she came.” Tavvy clung to Annabel’s black leather biker jacket like a determined octopus as she moved to give Livvy — who’d just come into the room with a ridiculously giant tub of popcorn in her hands — a one-armed hug. Standing next to Livvy, who wasn’t by any means particularly tall, Kit realized that Annabel was actually kind of short.

  Livvy accepted the hug, stuck her tongue out at Tavvy, and said, “I didn’t say she wouldn’t come, I just said it would be hard for her to. ‘cuz of the warding.”

[coolbeanzeaglbones]

Chappy chap chap 8.

Jimmy had been in the storage unit with Christian for two months now and it was still terrifying. As a humanoid robot, he felt emotions differently than humans, but he felt an overwhelming urge to protect, just as his mother protected him.

He admired how defiant Christian was. How he stood tall to their captor. How he would be nonchalant and sarcastic with him. Of course, he wasn't like that all the time and, when Christian thought Jimmy was asleep (or when he shut Jimmy down) he would silently cry.

Jimmy would hear. He would always hear. So he did what any loving, caring, robotic protector of mankind would do, he would offer silent, subtle comfort. A failed attempt at humor that was usually funnier than the joke itself would be.

Then, one night, the unit door opened. Christian did his normality of standing, his arm out to guard Jimmy, just in case.

The teen, Chad was his name, was carrying something. Something human shaped, wrapped in a blanket, “What the hell did you do?!” Christian shouted, charging Chad with his handheld flashlight.

He was easily knocked down by the taller person, hitting his face on the wall hard, “Christian!” Jimmy knelt near him as Chad placed the human shaped object on the floor and left.

Christian was whimpering slightly, Jimmy could see something dark running down his mouth, “My toof!” Christian exclaimed, a lisp in his voice.

Jimmy was scrambling for the flashlight when he heard a groan. Both he and Christian sat up straighter, suddenly scared.

Jimmy reached and turned on the lantern in the middle of the room. Fluorescent white light filled the area. Christian's face was covered in blood that was stemming from his mouth, though he was trying to staunch it with his sleeve. Jimmy turned back to the blanket wrapped person.

He hesitated for a moment before clamping a metallic hand on his shoulder and shaking.

The kid was instantly up and, after he took one look at Christian's bloodied up mug, started to scream and scurry away. Jimmy put his hands up in a placating manner, but this kid wasn't having it. His screams had subsided to a whimpering and cowering in the corner, eyes fixed on Christian, who was attempting a smile.

Jimmy went near Christian, “We need to calm him down.” Said Christian, bringing his hand down to see if the bleeding had stopped. Jimmy nodded, pursing his lips before standing up and walking to the other side of the unit and sitting near the new kid, “Hello, my name is Jimmy.” He said, his cobalt blue eyes meeting the new kid’s dark ones, “R-ricky.” The kid said.

He was a short kid, Jimmy was taller than him. Ricky looked on the edge of tears, eyes darting from the robot in front of him to his new human roommate.

The bleeding from Christian's mouth had subsided and he was now walking over, “I'm Christian.” He said, holding out a hand for Ricky to shake.

Ricky stared, fearful of the blood on Christian's rash guard. Christian awkwardly pulled his hand back, “How'd he get you?” Was all Ricky mustered the courage to ask, his voice a bit squeaky, “Waterpark, camp Fortlatye, you?”

“Little League practice.”

Christian let out a little laugh, “what? What's so funny?” Christian was silently laughing, “frickin nerd.” Ricky looked affronted, “I'm not a nerd, I just like to run.” Christian was still laughing, causing Jimmy to smile. Ricky turned to him, gazing at his metallic portions, “What are you? A robot?” Ricky asked. “Yes.”

“Oh.” There was a stretch of silence. The only sounds were early fall crickets chirping, “So, you like to run.” Ricky nodded, “Yeah, I'm a super.” Jimmy and Christian looked over, “Wait, no, not really.”

“Yeah, really, my mom passed it to me before she left.” 

Jimmy and Christian looked shocked. It was known that all the supers were extremely rare, you'd be lucky in your lifetime to even hear of a friend of a friend of a friend of a distant cousin had known one.

Ricky smiled, his teeth uneven and said, “I get the same reaction every time, it's really funny.” Christian and Jimmy looked at each other and did the face.

You know the face. The face that you make at your friends before bursting into laughter. Laughter filled the unit and Ricky allowed himself to join in. Hey, he was going to relish in the fact that he had actually woken up, but a nagging little voice in the back of his head was reminding him of where he really was and he couldn't get rid of it, no matter how much he tried.

Well, this chapter kinda sucked, but I promise to make it up to you guys

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

well now that ao3 is down for maintenance how would all of you like a snippet of Supernova?

This takes place around chapter 50 (?). At this point in the story, Dora has learned that Ted is her father and she is meeting his mother for the first time. Elsie Tonks, Ted's mother, is beyond thrilled to be meeting her granddaughter. Snippet under the cut! Enjoy :)

“Here she is! My granddaughter!” 

A silver-haired woman with big spectacles, a flowery dress, and a crisp apron came out of the back room and engulfed Dora in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Oh, how grand it is to have a grandchild!” she said, standing back after a moment and taking Dora’s cheeks in her hands. “Look at you! What a beautiful young woman you are! To think I’ve lost all these years with you—but we’ll make up for lost time in no time, won’t we, dear?” 

“O-okay,” Dora stammered, taken aback by the Muggle woman’s enthusiasm, assuming she had to be Ted’s mother, Elsie. 

“Mum, take it easy—”

“No, you take it easy, Edward Tonks! This is my one and only granddaughter! You don’t get to meet your grandbaby for the first time every day, you know!” Elsie looked Dora up and down and tsked in a way that reminded her of her mother. “You’re looking peaky. Come with me, I’ll give you something to eat.” 

“I’m not hung—”

“Just go,” Ted said quietly. “She doesn’t like to hear ‘no.’” He gently patted her shoulder and guided her through the doorway on the other side of the narrow staircase. There Dora found a round table with three mismatched chairs, and just beyond it, a narrow kitchen with pink cupboards and black-and-white flooring. 

“I’ll be right there, dears!” Elsie called. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable!”

Dora sat in an oversized yellow chair. She couldn’t settle her eyes on anything in particular; a vase of wildflowers sat in the middle of the table, its bright blooms drooping over the edge of the vase. Countless objects were hung on the walls around her. Some were paintings, others photographs, and yet others were made of cloth. Embroidered pictures of animals, houses, and flowers filled the crevices between pictures and paintings, and behind them the wall was papered with something neon. Dora wasn’t sure if it was because of how crammed it was, but Elsie’s house looked even smaller than Ted and Millie’s.

“Baked them just this morning!” 

Elsie interrupted Dora’s activity and put a plate of chocolatey biscuits in front of her and Ted. She bustled back to the kitchen and returned with mugs and a kettle. Ted flicked his wand at one of the cupboards and a tin of teabags came zooming out. It landed just as Elsie turned around to look for it. 

“Edward,” she said sternly. “Warn your mother before you go on with your tricks.” She turned to Dora with a toothy grin. “Sweetheart, don’t let him be too hard on you. He was just terrible about magic during his summers. Almost got kicked out of Hogwarts, he did!” 

“It was one time,” Ted said, rolling his eyes. “One warning. That hardly counts as expulsion.” 

Elsie put her hands on her hips but sat down in a cobalt blue chair. Instead of turning to Ted to finish her conversation with him, the woman turned to Dora.

“Eat, sweetheart,” she said, pushing the plate of biscuits at Dora. “We all know Millie’s a decent cook but she likes experimenting with those American concoctions.” Elsie pressed her lips together with a slight frown. “What you need is meat and potatoes, the kind of food that’ll stick to your ribs, not that namby-pamby gelatin loaf that’s all the rage these days.” 

Dora peered over the wildflowers at Ted, her eyes wide and begging to take her away. She could sew her own Muggle clothes for all she cared. Spending one more minute with the overbearing woman would kill her, and she wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t something afoot with the chocolatey biscuits in front of her. But, to her dismay, Ted didn’t understand the message (her mother would have) and instead he smiled encouragingly and gave her two thumbs-up. 

“Go on, baby, have a biscuit,” Elsie repeated. “My Ted told me about how you and your mother grew up. You can eat as much as you like. There are no hidden messages, no ulterior motives.”

The walls felt like they were closing in on Dora, but she took a biscuit from the top of the pile to placate the Tonkses. She took a small bite, surprised by the still-gooey chocolate within. The unexpected mmm that flowed from her lips earned her an even brighter grin from Elsie.

[mscyb0rg]

The LAW mug is complete!!!

I think it turned out as good as I could hope for but yay!!! I was hoping to do more on brand colors but I'm working with a select few so blue it is💕

Made with white clay (stoneware), cobalt oxide, black and cerulean (or Robin's egg I can't remember) glaze

[bigboxcar]

Mugshot Monday - "Little Tall Mug" by Clarice Allgood of Mostly Good Pots with Ethiopia Single Origin Light Roast by Peace Coffee

My friend Adam (@px10_pottery) and I had a fabulous time at the annual Minnesota Pottery Festival in Hutchinson, MN.

We saw a ton of amazing pottery and had great conversations with so many incredible potters.

One of those amazing people was Clarice Allgood.

I first met Clarice when I was walking through the resident artist area at Northern Clay Center and saw a small cart in the hallway overflowing with some gorgeous pottery.

Clarice said, "Hi!" and I asked if the cart was hers. She had just unloaded the kiln and was heading back to her studio space. I told her the mugs with that white slip on the black clay-body were just incredible.

It's been about 3 years since then and now I'm stoked that I finally have one of her mugs!

The texture is amazing on this cup. And I love how when the sun hits the mug's lip just right, you can see some bright blue cobalt peeking through. 😍

It was great chatting with Clarice about her work. The whole day was awesome--there were Raku firing demos and a "Pottery Olympics" to watch. What a great event.

See also my 700+ photos from the Mugshot Monday project here: www.MugshotMonday.com – Every Mug Has A Story

[ninhaoma-ya]

24 days of Christmas: Peppermint

Thanks to anonymous here on tumblr for the peppermint prompt! Hope you enjoy :)

JillWellington/Pixabay

The sharp green tang of peppermint filled the air as Law closed his eyes in bliss, inhaling deeply. The mug was warm in his hands, cold fingers slowly thawing with the radiating heat. When the world disappeared behind closed eyes, his whole world centred on the little handful of bliss in his hands and the promise of a moment of respite.

It reminded him of teenage years spent on an island covered with snow and yet filled with deep delight tinged in blue. Of a bashful polar bear who shyly offered to share a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps. Of days spent in front of the fire, feeling the skin around his eyes get singed by leaping sparks and feeling the ache in his belly from too much laughter with his friends.

“You look a million miles away.” A bright voice broke through his reverie, teasing out a smile as he slowly blinked awake.

Of course, although his teenage years had their ups and downs, the present day was also something to treasure.

“Nami-ya.”

The rival navigator leaned against the railing beside him, gazing out over the sea. A momentary lull between winter storms and their ships had managed to find each other, now tethered together for safety. A sharp tang of citrus wafted over him as the wind played in the tresses visible under her bright blue beanie, making the bobble on top nod in the breeze.

Everything was blue, except the nip of peppermint in his hands, a sharp green streak in the blue winter day. The sky arched high above, white tufts of cloud lazily moving across the sapphire dome. The waves were a deeper shade of cobalt, the dips shaded in midnight and swells highlighted with ice.

The only other splashes of colour in the monochromatic world were the bright orange of Nami’s hair. And the flash of white and red, intertwined in her hand.

She had found a candy cane.

Law swallowed, his own minty treasure forgotten.

The way she was eating it was not doing him any favours whatsoever.

AO3

ff.net

[wnkprice]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Set of 4 Mainstays Coffee Cups Mugs White with Cobalt/Navy Blue Band Trim.

[arctic-hands]

[Image Description: photo of two porcelain mugs, the lower third white and the upper two thirds cobalt blue, and black handles. At the top of the blue is a large repeating pattern that looks like a cross between floral and a butterfly. End I.D.]

COBALT BARANOVSKY PORCELAIN FACTORY CUPS | LISTING 

[fangedmagick]

@the-raven-dhampir

Raven was silently observing the surroundings, half hidden by the obscure night shadows. Inky obscurity reflecting on black clothes, black hair. And white skin framing cobalt blue eyes.

Motionless as a statue, he was barely even blinking. Or breathing.

There was something about that young man he was contemplating. Something impossible to define in one word or in a thousand.

His vampire aura was lingering in the air, strong and vivid to whomever possessed the necessary means to grasp it. Vampires, Dhampirs, or vampire hunters maybe…?

But that was not it. There was something else. Something far darker and more destructive. A powerful energy slithering under his skin, different than any magic Raven had ever encountered.

Impossible to say whether it was still trapped inside him and ready to explode or it was a trace left by a vestigial power.

Raven squinted his eyes.

“You have blood on your cheek,” he pointed out loudly. A weird conversation started indeed. And that was not all.

"Been a bad boy tonight, ah?" he winked.

Curiosity will definitely kill the cat. Eventually.

He vaguely smiled.

Aurelius should have guessed he was being watched.. then again, in this world he had been tossed into, being watched was all to common. But he didn’t pry given he hadn’t sensed any need to defend himself or any attack coming yet.

He hid it best he could, but a Tremere with a power that was darker and shouldn’t be taught by any means outside of LaSombra circles did confuse some. But he hid it usually, that darker side of him. A side that, if found by the wrong Kindred, would give him the final death for a crime he didn’t mean to commit.

But he walked without a care in the world. The one he fed on would not have remembered outside of being attacked and some valuables stolen. He needed some money like usual. So he got some extra money from his feeding. 

Tremere shouldn’t have the power that slithered dark under his now less pale skin. A point out made him frown and check his cheek in a nearby reflection... sure enough-- damn. He began to wipe it off and flick it to the asphalt like trash. “So you finally reveal yourself?” He called back, finally looking in the direction of the other.

Now the scent was strange. It wasn’t Thin Blood.. no, it wasn’t another Kindred. Was his nose playing tricks on him? “He had it coming. Muggers of innocents should get mugged is my motto... well, not really, but I prefer the ‘they had it coming’.” He blinks at the wink. Okay, either the guy was playing innocent to try and mess with him, or was genuine. “Is this your territory? I am just passing through. The guy won’t remember outside of maybe a hangover and lack of funds.” He smirked some.

[nikethestatue]

 Ode to Joy

As we are all inundated with angsty Elriel fanfiction (excellent, but angsty), here is something without ANY angst, or pain. Book a dentist appointment. Sugar sweet fluff. That’s the only warning.

Azriel was running late.

It was unlike him, but here he was, rushing from place to place, feeling uncomfortably frazzled. He thought that preparing a romantic night in for his wife wouldn’t have been fraught with difficulties, however, it all started messily in the morning.

Firstly, he overslept. He. Overslept.

If that was an impossibility in itself, he slept so soundly that he didn’t hear Elain leave. Not just leave the bed, not just sneak in and out of the bathing room, not just get her outfit for the day, but he didn’t hear her in the kitchen, wasn’t woken up by the smell of coffee, the scent of freshly baked morning buns. When he did finally move and opened his eyes, he observed his shadows sleeping languidly all around him, unperturbed, unbothered.

Glancing at the clock, he moaned and rubbed his face. Mother’s Tits indeed.

The shadows immediately skittered back, pretending to have been awake just a moment prior. Liars. He wished he could fire them and get himself some new, responsible shadows. They were worse than Elain’s shadow companion Lex, who listened to no one, did what he wanted and lived up to his name, being lax in most tasks. But at least he protected Elain and kept her company.

These though…Shaking his head, Azriel grunted, “You are about as useful as a cock-flavoured lollypop!”

And that’s how the day went.

Sweet bun in his teeth, coffee mug in his hand, he ran down the stairs, taking two or three at a time, risking an ungainly splat, while also trying to jam his arm into the sleeve of his jacket.

At the flower shop, he was stopped in his tracks. Firstly, Elain came to this very shop almost daily, to pick up daily flowers for their apartment, sometimes plants, also fresh herbs.

The adjustment to flowers was a complicated one for Azriel. Before Elain entered his life, he was a proud owner of one houseplant, which he kept alive for over three years. He wasn’t going to lie and say that he wasn’t both proud and impressed with himself.

As any male, after a certain age, he prided himself on being good at a few core things—drinking excellent if expensive whiskey, looking good in reading glasses, knowing how to order a suit and have it tailored well, making a killer bowl of pasta, providing a female with quality orgasms, being a decent dancer, having a private collection of music that he enjoyed, and keeping a plant alive for more than a week.

He didn’t anticipate, however, stupidly as it may have been, that if he ended up loving a woman whose nickname was ‘the flower girl’ that his world would be filled with greenery of all sorts. He wasn’t always very bright, especially not for a spymaster. Elain was, in fact, rational about the flowers and did not make the apartment look like a wedding orangery, but there were still flower arrangements in every room. The apartment was monochromatic, with lots of whites, grays, cobalt blues and darker tones, so the splashes of colour were a welcome addition. Nevertheless, Azriel still called all the flowers and plants ‘weeds’ for the first six months of his relationship with Elain.

 At the flower shop, he realized that he didn’t know anything about the meaning of flowers and what would be appropriate for the first-year anniversary. Roses? Roses were always nice, but what colour? Tulips? Elain loved tulips. Maybe azaleas? He finally settled on peonies, though he fretted that they were not the right flower. The shop owner assured him that peonies were always appropriate and that he would not tell Elain anything about this, should she visit the shop later in the day. Azriel thanked him profusely, and then headed to the pastry shop. Even though he was planning to be very ambitious today and actually make dessert himself, he wasn’t so arrogant as to assume that it would turn out well. Therefore, a stop at the pastry shop was a must. And there, he got lost. Well, not geographically lost. But his eyes, nose and brain were overwhelmed. If he didn’t love Elain, he might have married the pastry shop. So, what should’ve taken no more than fifteen minutes, resulted in a 45-minute adventure and he exited the pretty shop laden with cream and pink boxes. Yes, he was a giant winged Illyrian, but did he care that he was clutching an enormous bouquet of peonies and four large boxes of pasties—not at all. He was excited about the pastries—huge meringue filled with cream, raspberry charlottes, tarts with exotic fruits from Day and Summer, eclairs, chocolate and chestnut bombes, and many more. So what if he might not be able to take to the skies tomorrow? What if he gained a chunk of pastry weight and Cassian would truly wipe the dirt with his him? It would be worth it.

His two last stops were at the market, where he picked up ingredients for dinner, and finally, Elain’s gift. He was under a strict order of ‘no jewelry’. Which was ridiculous, of course. He still had a jewelry gift for Elain, but he decided that it would remain modest and unassuming. He was a little unsure about the other gift, but there was no going back now.

 And now, he was still running late.

He had set up the table, nicely, he’d hoped, though Elain was ridiculously forgiving and accepting of everything he did, so she’d never even notice any imperfections.

Spring was blooming outside, the scent of lilac and jasmine permeating the air, the orange and lemon trees that they had out on the terrace blossoming with their flowers. Azriel had left the terrace doors and most of the windows open and was enjoying the delightful scents—it was something that he’d never paid attention to before. Not until Elain had gently entered his world and scented it with jasmine and honey and love. Nowadays, he took the time to enjoy…Enjoy the scenery, enjoy the smells, savour the tastes, feel things that were pleasant and beautiful with his scarred hands.

He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the crème brulee that he’d made, though he followed the recipe precisely and measured every ingredient obsessively. But, desserts were fickle things, so he was happy that he went overboard at the pastry shop.

 When Elain’s soft pale arms wrapped around his torso, it startled him. ‘Happy anniversary,’ she whispered into his ear and kissed his cheek.

“My shadows are utterly useless at notifying me of things,” he complained with a chuckle and Elain laughed into his arm, kissing his bicep through the material of his shirt.

“That’s because I ordered them not to,” she giggled, doing a little dance against his hip, bumping into him.

“And those shadowy bastards listened to you?” he exclaimed, indignant.

“They do!” she stuck her tongue out, “because I am cute.”

He couldn’t argue with that and turned around to face her.

Gods she was beautiful.

Her unbound hair was gilded in the setting sun, the strands golden and bronze and blonde, all pinned up with her engagement hairpin, which she never parted with. He cupped her face between his hands and kissed her lips with gentle, measured pressure.

“You are cute,” he whispered against her lips. “And adorable,” another kiss, on her nose. “And smart,” a kiss on her eye, “and intelligent,” a kiss on the other eye, “and fearless,” a kiss on her temple, “and a Kingslayer,” a kiss on the forehead, “and exquisite,” he kissed her lips again, “a woman of magic and valour” he returned to her lips.

“And you are my friend,” Elain vowed, even if her eyes filled with tears of gratitude and emotion at his words, “the one who knew me even when I didn’t know myself. The only one who never let go. The only one whose hand I could hold at any time and be assured that you’d catch me when I stumbled, or fell.

“Also,” she added, “you aren’t hard to look at.”

He grinned, though his hazel eyes blinked a few times, pushing back at the tears that threatened to spill.

“I am glad you are using me for my looks,” he nodded approvingly.

“Someone has to,” she shrugged. “Otherwise, they were wasted.”

She glanced around his body at the stove and inhaled with pleasure, “that smells divine!”

“Yeah?” he was pleased and then gave the sauce a stir with a wooden spoon. “Try it?”

She nodded immediately, leaning in and opening her mouth for him, at which he laughed, amused. He scooped some sauce for her to taste and pushed the spoon between her lips.

Mesmerized, he watched her lick the sauce with a flick of her tongue and because with her, he lacked all self-control, he pressed his lips to her pink mouth, tasting the sauce off her lips.

“More spice,” she recommended, licking his tongue playfully.

“Even more?” he seemed surprised. Elain’s palette changed since she became Fae, and her love for spicy food knew no bounds. Lately, it seemed, even more so than usual.

She nodded.

“I put four chilies in there,”

“Two more,” she pleaded sweetly.

“You are going to breathe fire soon,” Azriel moved to the counter, with Elain attached to him like a tree bear, her face buried in his chest. He chopped two more chilies, reaching over Elain’s body, and right before he put them in the sauce, she took his hand that was holding the peppers and popped his fingers in her mouth. She sucked on the spice, and he felt the heat penetrate his skin, even through the scar tissue.

“It’s so good,” she moaned.

“Good thing I bought you a chili plant then, huh,” he winked at her and she screeched…screeched with happiness.

“You did?!?!”

“Sure did,” he jerked his head towards the terrace. It was then when she also saw the extravagant bouquet of peonies, which impressed her just as well.

“Az, it’s so beautiful,” she gushed.

But what was beautiful to him was hearing ‘Az’ fall from her lips. Not Azriel, not spymaster or shadowsinger, but Az. It took a while for her to start calling him Az, and she was the only one beside Rhys, Cassian and Mor who did. Even Feyre didn’t call him Az.

He was Elain’s Az.

“Go sit down,” he told her, but she insisted on helping.

“This is a recipe from Day,” he was explaining, as he slid the cooked pasta into the sauce. “From Helion himself. They have great seafood there as well, so I figured that I can adapt it to what was available at the market today. The scallops and mussels looked incredible, and I added fennel and some extra chilies for spice—which apparently wasn’t enough for my spicy girl.”

He babbled on and on, and Elain watched him from under her eyelashes, loving how relaxed he was, and how incredible he looked in only a white shirt, and black trousers, and his gray apron. She’d given him the apron and he liked it, and it emphasized his narrow waist perfectly. The rolled-up sleeves and the tattooed brown arms didn’t hurt either.

“What?” he finally noticed her scrutiny.

She smiled, tossing a simple salad together in a bowl and shook her head.

“You are just very handsome, I think.”

An adorable blush touched his high cheekbones and he suddenly looked younger, more innocent, as if her compliment did something to him from the inside.

“I think it’s a symptom,” he announced, tossing the pasta with the seafood and the sauce with a sexy flick of his wrist, almost like he was a professional chef.

“Of what, may I ask?”

“Love.”

“It’s my favourite illness,” she confessed and then went to kiss him again.

Somehow, they made it to the low table that they had in the living room, and which they liked to use for informal eating, as it sat right in front of the fireplace. Cushions and pillows served as chairs. A late evening breeze came from the terrace and as Elain nestled in the cushions and stretched her legs on the soft rug, she shivered with enjoyment from the fire in the slate-covered fireplace.

Azriel arrived with the pasta dish, and set it in the middle of the table, crossing his legs under the rustic table and then poured them both wine.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he raised his glass to her, and they clinked their crystal glasses. Maybe the setting was informal, but it didn’t mean that Azriel didn’t go all out and didn’t set the table with the finest dishware, crystal gobbles, silver utensils, thick linen napkins.

“Rhysand rubbed off on you,” Elain chuckled in her glass before setting it aside and having him pile her plate with the pasta and seafood.

“Pff,” he jerked his shoulder, “maybe I rubbed off on him.”

Elain laughed, “you are the only cultured and polite one amongst all those heathens.”

“True,” he said modestly.

“Az, this is incredible!” she twirled the pasta on her fork and her eyes rolled back in her head when she tasted the dish. “I might have to kiss Helion!”

“How about you kiss me first? Before you move on to the handsome High Lord…”

“He is handsome,” she agreed and Azriel offered a strained chuckle which made her laugh.

“Jealous Az,” she teased, and he shook his finger at her, “if you are going to be bad, you won’t get your gift!”

“Is it nice to threaten your wife?”

“Is it nice to be kissing High Lords?”

“Ridiculous jealous Fae males,” she muttered around a forkful of succulent shrimp. “I’ve never even kissed a High Lord. Even my brother-in-law!”

“You are Fae,” he reminded her.

“Not by conviction,” she announced proudly.

He rose up and she exclaimed, “where are you going?”

“Only because it’s our anniversary, I am giving you a gift,”

“You give me gifts all the time,” she sang.

He smirked and went to his study. While he was away, Elain pulled out her own gift, and fingered it nervously, putting it next to her on a pillow.

“Close your eyes,” he called out.

She shut her eyes and he ordered, “no peeking!”

“I am not peeking!” she even put her palm over her eyes.

“Open.”

Azriel was standing above her with a medium sized box in his arms, covered by a dark cloth.

“What is it? What is it?” she clapped her hands excitedly, as he set the box on the floor.

“I hope you like it,” he said, a little unsure.

“Of course, I’ll like it,” he pulled the cloth down and immediately yelped in pain, jolting back, clutching her hand to her chest. “Auuu!”

“Like I said,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “hope you like it…”

“Az,” her brown eyes blew wide, in shock and awe, “it’s…is it? It’s, oh gods, oh gods, is it him?”

Seated in a delicately built cage was a small gray wyvern. He snuggled around his spiked tail; small, almost translucent wings folded around him. After he’d bitten Elain’s finger, he seemed content and satisfied, and was squinting at both Elain and Azriel with minimal interest.

“How did you get him?” she cooed with happiness, watching the little lizard stretch and yawn.

“Well, I could be very persuasive,” Azriel smiled, and she didn’t insist on further explanation.

About two weeks ago, they’d gone to a folk fair, which was held about 50-60 leagues from Velaris. Technically Illyrian territory, it hosted artisans from Illyria and Velaris, and in addition to all sorts of arts and crafts, Illyrian cooking classes, pie stalls, there was a travelling circus that performed at the fair. By far the most exciting part of the circus was the sword-thrower, who flung an assortment of swords in every possible direction, catching them from dizzying heights and eliciting shocked gasps and screams from the audience. The women yelled in appreciative delight, for the sword-thrower was a strangely handsome, if absolutely enormous Fae, with granite-hewn features, onyx eyes and jet-black hair. His half-naked body was chiseled and honed on par with Cassian’s and Azriel’s—muscles and sinew and fine, elegant grace for someone so large.

Azriel had to gently pull her away from the spectacle, threading her arm with his, and promising her a show, where he’d throw some knives and swords just for her. Elain gave him a doubtful look, which only spurned his competitive nature and he murmured, as he pinched her behind, “baby, you haven’t seen nothing yet!”

Finally, laden with boxes of blueberry and rhubarb pies, country sausages, some old cookbooks, a couple of Illyrian daggers—because Azriel left Illyria, but Illyria never left Azriel—a couple of new leather belts for him, a nice pair of leather boots for her and at least four scabbards, they were on the way out, when Elain saw yet another display.

There were puppies for sale, kittens, birds, and lost amongst the yipping and the ruckus was a small cage with a gray wyvern inside.

Upon noticing it, Elain stopped in her tracks, almost dropping whatever she was holding. “Is that a dragon?” Elain stood in front of the cage, her mouth open.

“A runt, lady,” said the Illyrian seller, giving the wyvern a displeased side glance. “He ain’t for sale. He’ll never grow large, maybe the size of a dog, and I hope to keep him around. Don’t know if he’ll make it, small as he is, but he’ll make a decent guard for the chicken coop.”

Elain wasn’t listening, as she squatted in front of the cage and stuck her finger between the slats, cooing ‘come little dragon, come…”

“He’ll bite your finger right off, lady!” cried the seller, grabbing her arm and yanking it back.

That solicited a warning growl from Azriel, and the seller dropped her hand at once.

“Don’t mean no offense, lady,” he said quickly. “Sorry.”

He wyvern also didn’t take lightly to Elain’s manhandling and snarled at the seller, hissing and beating his wings.

 Now, Elain opened the cage and gingerly picked the wyvern up, stroking the back of his neck with her finger.

“Hello,” she whispered.

Glancing at Azriel, she asked, “is he really mine? Is he ours?”

“Yes, I don’t think there is a return policy on him,” Azriel sipped his wine, watching her, enjoying her excitement. He did well with his gift. “Unless you are not too keen on getting bitten,”

“He is so beautiful, and he didn’t bite me. He said hello. Right? You did, didn’t you?”

“Alright.”

“What should we call him?” she wondered eagerly. The wyvern looked very comfortable in Elain’s arms, unbothered and already feeling coddled and at home.

Azriel offered, “How about Graysen?”

She threw him a withering glance and he burst out laughing.

“I am not calling my perfect wyvern Graysen!”

“I figured you wouldn’t. Fine. No Graysen. What then?”

“I will call him Lorcan,” she decided. “My little ray of light and sunshine.”

“Ahhh…Lorcan it is then. Welcome to the family, little dragon.”

Elain crawled over the cushions, clutching Lorcan to her breast and moved into Azriel’s embrace.

“I love you, Az,” she said simply. “I’ve loved you always. Even when I didn’t know that I was loving you, I already did.”

Azriel kissed the top of her head and confessed,

“I don’t remember falling in love with you. I just remember holding your hand and realizing how much it would hurt when I’d have to let it go.”

She laced her fingers with his and said, “I have a gift for you too.”

“Yes?”

She nodded.

He kissed her cheek and then said,

“I’ve made terrible crème brulee. Would you like to try it? Or would you like amazing bakery desserts?”

“Crème brulee,” she said immediately, but then kissed his hand and added, “I think you might like your gift first.”

“I would. I also want more pasta and wine and everything else on the table.”

Elain reached to the pillow and grabbed the gift.

It was small, fitting in the palm of her hand and she clutched at it tightly, while Azriel waited for her to actually hand it to him.

“I really hope it’s one of those pens that sign all of my stupid documents with my signature, in all the right places.”

She smiled faintly and finally handed him the object. It was no bigger than a pen, held in a velvet pouch. His brow furrowed as he tipped the object onto his palm. Elain was known for giving him odd, amusing, and always useful gifts. He cherished them and often didn’t use them, keeping them as his own private keepsakes, but this glass tube…

“What is it?” he had to ask. His nose meanwhile picked up a familiar scent. A scent he loved, indulged in, enjoyed and worshipped.

“Tap, on top there,” she instructed.

He did. The tube shimmered with an incandescent light and he almost dropped it.

Now he knew.

His eyes flew wide open.

Elain offered him the biggest smile she’d ever given him and buried her face in his chest.

The tube shimmered with life.