#do I have too many WIPs? yes. will this go in the pile? perhaps.

[angryschnauzer]

I realised two months have gone by since i last updated you all, i'm not even sure if anyone is interested anymore. I know i haven't been on much, perhaps sporadically coming on and mindlessly reblogging Henry stuff just for a little escape, but its intermittent at best. I had hoped to be back to writing by now, but life is still a huge pile of shit.

I'm run ragged trying to pay the bills. My wedding decorations business is halfway between slow and dead; the cost of living crisis means weddings aren't really happening, and if they are most of the items i do people are making themselves. My side gig in ebay flipping is quiet too but at least its trickling by. I don't mention this much as people get a lot of abuse over 'thrift store flippers' (Charity Shop resellers here in the UK), but right now its what's keeping my family fed. I buy clothing for £1 from the stinky dregs bin in a charity shop, wash it, mend it, resell it for £4. I'm not making millions or even thousands. I'm lucky if i'm bringing in £150 a week which barely covers our weekly food shop. Its draining that when i do eventually mention this to my friends they immediately start moaning at me that i'm the one 'ruining' charity shops and why its pushing the prices up. But when i calmly tell them its that or i don't eat they go quiet. I'm not the one pushing a 2nd hand coat for £25 which was only £20 brand new which most high street charity shops are doing. Do i like doing this? No. Do i have to? Yes. Because i sure as ain't cute enough for onlyfans.

But the majority of my time over the last couple of months has been spent caring for our son. He's 8 and has type 1 diabetes, and since school started back in September one little shit in his class has spent every waking moment bullying him. This little shit has been stabbing my son with pencils, poking him in the kidneys with whatever he has to hand, laughing and sneering at him at every opportunity even when he's just walking past. Having the adrenaline and cortisol in my son's bloodstream affects how his insulin works, and he builds up an insulin resistance because of all the other hormones in his bloodstream. I've had so many meetings with the school, and have had to get the board of governors involved because when your 8 year old kid says quietly to you "It would be better if i wasn't alive as then *Little Shit* wouldn't be able to bully me" your heart breaks into pieces.

He needs my support more than anything, so every single other thing has been put by the wayside. And its tough. He acts out at home, messes around with his dinner because he feels he needs to be able to control something, but that in turn messes up insulin dosing so i'm spending half the night dealing with highs and lows for his blood sugars. I get at most 5 hours sleep a night.

I have no more energy left. I'm not eating, because i just can't stomach it. I'm 43 and hitting menopause, but my doctor doesn't want to know because "You just need to loose some weight" (don't get be started on fat bias from the NHS).

So i'm filling my time with volunteering at school so i can be 'around' for my Little Dude. He knows that if he's having an awful day, he will find me in the office sorting through paperwork for our next fundraiser. Its not what i want to be doing, but its what i need to be doing.

One day i hope to get back to my writing. I miss being creative and i hate that i have so many stories part written/published. As the months tick by i actually end up seeing stories written by others that have the same characters/plotlines. This is no-ones fault that two stories exist on the same synopsis, it would just seem that they and I have taken the same inspiration from media at some point. But it makes me scared that if i now publish a story i started 2 years ago, i'll be accused of stealing an idea. I don't know what to do. So i just leave my WIP folder abandoned.

For everyone that has stayed with me thank you. For those that have moved onto pastures new, i wish you well and hold no malice.

I do love you all

Mama Schnauz

x

[thelordofgifs]

20 questions for fic writers

Thank you @sallysavestheday and @grey-gazania! I was eyeing this one and hoping for a tag, some great questions here.

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 51, although one's a podfic.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 250,683. More than half of which is from last year alone!

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently exclusively the Silmarillion, with the occasional little LoTR ficlet.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? the fairest stars, Inflection, an ancient song, all those that follow, Ilimbë. I'm always surprised by an ancient song's popularity – it was a pretty low-effort ficlet – but a solid list nonetheless!

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes, always! (Glances nervously at the pile I've accumulated in the last couple of weeks of travelling). I love replying to comments, though. It's so nice to be able to engage with all my lovely thoughtful readers and their excellent thoughts!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? ever an anguish that pursued is pretty bleak. before the black gale is also a tragedy of sorts, though I'm not sure that makes it qualify as angsty as such.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Ilimbë ends quite joyfully, although while writing the final scene I did have the shadow of their unhappy future in mind! I think the cleaving's ending is also quite happy, or at the very least cathartic.

8. Do you get hate on fics? No, thankfully! All my readers have been very kind and appreciative <3

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Three fics so far! All of which were gifts for friends, and made me push my boundaries a little. I'm proud of all of them, though! Smut is less scary than I used to think :)

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? No, never! If I did, it would probably be more of a retelling/AU than straight-up having characters from different fandoms meet.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Not to my knowledge!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? No – I fear I am rather too much of a control freak for this, and would rather not inflict myself and my pedantry on an unsuspecting co-writer.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? Russingon... it's the forbidden romance and the doomed nature of it all and the fact that love wasn't enough to save them :( also the murders, of course.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? boats against the current, the "Maedhros doesn't swear the Oath" AU I blithely started back in 2022, is simply not going anywhere at any sort of speed. Perhaps this is the year! Let's see.

16. What are your writing strengths? Dialogue and characterisation! I'm good at emotional beats, I think.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Description... I tend to write VERY minimally and then have to go back on edits and add in some descriptive language so that the entire story isn't just two talking heads in an empty room. Always very pleased when people compliment my descriptions for that reason – they take conscious effort!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Fine if it's footnoted, I think. I tend to avoid it on the basis that all the dialogue I write has been "translated" from one of Tolkien's languages anyway; and I don't know any real languages well enough to write fic in them.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Harry Potter, although I've soured on the fandom now for obvious reasons :/ For a while I used to think that I could still enjoy the books I loved so much growing up while separating them from the author, but she's so continually hateful and bigoted that I just... can't gain any enjoyment from the franchise anymore. Which is painful, but I'm glad I have the silm fandom to absorb all my creative energy now!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? the fairest stars! My weird gremlin baby, I love it so. I never expected to care about this fic as much as I did, but I've poured so much thought and heart into it that it was perhaps inevitable. And it's taught me so much about writing cliffhangers :)

No-pressure tags for @eilinelsghost, @searchingforserendipity25, @welcomingdisaster, @that-angry-noldo, @swanmaids, @echo-bleu, @jouissants, @tanoraqui and anyone else who, like me, was eyeing this one hoping to be tagged – @ me and say I tagged you!

[effelants]

Tagged by @mxanigel (thank you!!! <3) to find these words in my WIPs! I'll try to look for them in fresh BG3 WIPs, but if I cannot find it, I shall go looking in my Dragon Age WIPs, namely in Super Secret Fic Project!

The words I was given are NIGHT, COMFORT, and TREE!

1. Night (@anderstrevelyan's Valas DeVir x my Vierna II Do'Urden)

“I don’t know. I was raised by humans. My parents died when I was very young.” A lie — but a good one, Vierna had thought at the time. Her voice hadn’t faltered, and her eyes had been steady and sure on his.

His jaw had clenched, ever so slightly, and that, right there — that had been the first glimpse of the man: that flash of emotion, deep within that dark gaze she’d known to be violet. What she hadn’t known, however, was what that emotion was, and she hadn’t known it for many weeks to come.

Not until tonight, when she sees it once again flash across his face by the light of their campfire in the midst of conversation. Only now, she knows him well enough to put a name to it: fear. Valas is afraid — and, perhaps more importantly, Valas had been afraid, that first night when she’d turned him away without a second thought.

She leans into his shoulder, reaches over to take his hand and twine her fingers through his, and he glances down at her in question. It’s not the right time to discuss it — and so she says nothing, merely gives his hand a soft squeeze and settles more comfortably against him.

With the slightest one-shouldered shrug — which, coming from him, she is happy to construe as acceptance of her affections — he turns back to the others. Before long, the campfire dies down to embers and the conversation to sparse phrases and single-word answers. One by one, their companions excuse themselves to their respective tents, until Vierna and Valas are the only two left sitting there, staring into final glowing coals sizzling quietly against the eternally damp cavern floor.

And still she cannot bring herself to broach the subject, even as it claws its way into her gut, burrowing the guilt deeper inch by painful inch.

“I have the first watch,” Valas finally says. “Aren’t you tired?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll stay with you a while longer.”

“I’ll get us some more wood, then,” he murmurs and stands. “It’ll be cold soon.”

“Wait, Valas.” She’s on her feet before she knows it, taking his arm and pulling him around to face her.

And so he waits. And waits. And, finally, sighs, though he does an admirable job of trying to cover it.  “What am I waiting for?”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“For…?” he prompts, raising a brow — whether in question or in amusement, she can’t quite tell.

“That night, on the beach by the nautiloid. Do you remember?”

He nods, and his mouth draws into a tighter line.

“You asked me about my parents, and I lied to you.”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching her face, until they finally come to rest on hers.

“I was afraid, and I thought I was protecting myself. But tonight, I realized…” she pauses — but no, they are past tiptoeing around each other by now. They have to be, after everything they’ve been through together. “You were afraid too, weren’t you?” She feels him stiffen under her hand, and she hurries to complete the thought. “I just wanted to say that I wish I’d seen it, then. I wish I’d helped you, then — but I didn’t.”

“It’s alright. It doesn’t matter.” He goes to turn back around, to head toward their pile of firewood, but that’s not how she wants to leave it — and so she steps into him to wrap her arms around him.

“It matters to me.”

She hears a sharp intake of breath, but the rebuke she half expects doesn’t follow — instead, he pulls her closer against his chest.

2. Comfort (@owls-den's Alisterius x my Malice II Do'Urden, Fake Dating AU)

 “Please, my lady, it’s quite alright![," Alisterius said. "]I assure you, the fault was all mine. Perhaps you would indulge me, let me buy you a drink? To dispel your troubles, and to apologize for my boorish lack of care?”

What was it with this man and buying others drinks? Still, it got her closer to where she needed to be, and so she nodded — oh-so-demurely, of course, and still facing away from him. “Thank you, sir; you are most kind.”

He frowned ever so slightly before leaning to the side, gaze seeking hers as he softly, gently, swept the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. “Are you sure you’re alright, my lady?”

She lifted her eyes — and found herself swept up, held in the embrace of an expression that was all silk and gossamer, not iron chains and biting shackles. His eyes were warm and brown, calm and comforting on hers, and his voice was… tender. He was tender.

It was moments of eternity that followed until she was finally able to find her way back to herself enough to swallow heavily. “Um…”

He smiled — and, that, too, was soft.  “Might I inquire as to your name, my lady?”

“Malice.” The truth slipped out, unintentionally, unthinkingly, and the mistake broke whatever spell he’d cast over her. She pulled her hand from his grasp.

How could a mere man be so disarming? 

He glanced up at her, brow furrowing in confusion as he straightened to tower over her once more. She hurried to rearrange her expression before he could ask if anything was wrong — she could not explain what had just happened even if she’d wanted to, and by the gods did she not want to. 

Praise be to Lolth, he was all too eager to accept her smile with another of his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alice.”

“No, it’s—” She stopped herself before she could stumble once more and ruin the blessing bestowed upon her by the cacophony of the tavern around them. “Yes, Alice. I’m Alice.” What in the Hells could this man have done to make her so quickly forsake the lessons her grandmother had etched into her skin — into her very bones? She needed to do better, to be better.

3. Tree (from the first chapter of Super Secret Fic Project! Moira Amell and Duncan heading to Ostagar)

For all he knew, she would be as useless a Warden as she was a mage, and he’d still taken pity on her.

Besides, no matter the cost of the Joining, it had to be better than the fate that would have awaited her if not for him. Irrationally, the thought made her feel better, and she nodded.

“Good girl,” he said, almost softly. He straightened to his full height, suddenly much more matter-of-fact: “and now, to business. There is a Warden in camp by the name of Alistair. He’s our most junior member, and so he will be in charge of helping you and the others prepare for your Joining. You should find him as soon as possible.”

“There are others?”

“Yes, we have two other new recruits here with us. You will all undertake the Joining together.” As he spoke, he moved off toward the camp, clearly expecting her to follow.

No sooner had she stepped beneath the next stone arch to do just that than she jolted to another sudden stop. What she had thought was a road ahead was, in truth, a bridge — which in and of itself would have been fine, were it not for the fact that it stretched over the steepest valley she had ever seen. Far, far, far below, a fine, gray mist swirled through the chasm, hurried along by the faintly howling wind so that it undulated almost like a river. But water it was not — the tops of a few fir trees, only just barely breaking through the soft tendrils of fog, ensured that it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was: certain death, at least if her violently heaving stomach was to be believed. 

Duncan turned around to look at her, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. “Is something the matter?”

Yes, something was the matter, and he clearly knew it. Still, she closed her eyes and shook her head vehemently, as if that would somehow help.

“This bridge is sturdy enough for armies, let alone two lone Wardens. There’s nothing to fear. Come.” 

Footsteps clattered on stone as he moved off once again. Moira forced herself to open her eyes, muttering a foul word under her breath. Why did it have to be heights? 

Still, Duncan was right — the bridge certainly looked strong enough. With a deep breath, she stepped forwards, keeping her eyes carefully on Duncan’s back and resolutely ignoring the renewed twist of her stomach.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

20 asks for fic writers

thank u @plecotusauritus, @kaaaaaaarf, @pinkthekla & @kaleidoscopexsighs for tagging me🥹<3 ily all

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

four but we only talk about three of those😌🤘🏼

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

about 13.8k words (i have no idea where to look this up i typed it into my phone calculator lmao)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

on my ao3 marauders, in the Docs marauders, haikyuu, atla and on Wattp*d🤬 young royals & shera lol (i was like 15 years old ok)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

🤓 my number 1 though is Always Pushing her Luck with a stellar one hundret and ten because yall are some sluts for a good lesbian smut fic

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yes!! i love interacting with people on art no matter if it’s theirs or mine<3

6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

hmm i think Teeth actually? not really angsty but maybe it kind of makes you go 😬😳 or WAIT maybe my very first jeg microfic thing, the Stag one yknow.. where James is dead😁

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

again, from my ao3 one’s probably Ribs but microfics probably just all the fluffy ones, i’m looking at the cookie baking one here esp, also Walk and Carry

8. Do you get hate on fics?

nope! but i was lowkey concerned for the new non-con fic jdkskd But so far so good hahah

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

why yes i do. mm mostly the unhinged kind in some way hdksks but ig the lesbian wolfstar one is very tender too<3

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

not crossovers per se but we love a good AU of another fandom universe, my marauders Maze Runner Au is very dear to me, we’ll see if she ever sees the light of the day

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge no

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nopesie

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no but! i will have to kick @pinkthekla cass and me in the ass to make it happen someday because the world deserves to see one james potter horny and humbled

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

this changes all the time honestly and they’re all very very close to each other but i’m gonna have to say iwaoi on top because their chemistry is just unmatched and something i hold so close to my heart, they just mean a lot of comfort to me! so thats prob why

15. What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

hm, i mean i’m only 20 i have all the time in the world. but perhaps that one barty in a maids dress smut one shot? not sure i’ll come back to that one again but who knows!

16. What are your writing strengths?

i think i can do a dialogue quite good but it’s hard for me to get into a zone or scenario where it comes to that naturally, but whenever it does happen? i’m super happy and proud of the result (that’s why i like my hitmen jegulus microfic so much)

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

probably that i’m not really good at creating a storyline/plot djskks that’s something that does Not come easily to me and probably one of the only reasons i havent really finished any of my big fics or even their first chapters. If i have a plan/ a prompt or something in general i can orientate myself off of it flows super easily (all the microfics and Ant Pile) but coming up with something of my own is very hard and i often feel kinda bad about it too :,))

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

would love to, i have some smol things planned for mira mi amor that i will probably go and bother @appreciatedmoron bea about as well as my two irl bsfs since they’re quite good at spanish but besides that i’d only really trust myself with german since thats my first language

19. First fandom you wrote for?

actually shera i think

20. Favorite fic you've written?

i really love Ant Pile atm but from my published one’s i couldnt really choose actually djsksk i really like the metaphors and visuals i came up with in Ribs though <3

np tagging: @rottin6, @maliceofminds, @strezzlecki aand idk anyone that sees this and hasn’t been tagged yet!! (i see yall liking these i Will bully u in the dms)

[plegdoctor]

Taywhora better than revenge songfic enemies to lovers

[fandomfourever]

I was just thinking (and yes this is probably going into a fic since I can’t help but add more wips to the pile like I really need to finish some it’s becoming a problem but I’m having too many shiny new ideas) but, like, so the Upside Down has basically the same stuff as the regular Hawkins, yeah? So, if Eddie does end up being alive/a vampire, he could’ve easily gone to the Upside Down version of Hawkins’ hospital and patched himself up a little, ya know?

Also, he knows the whole light communication thing, so what if he started trying to communicate with the group through lights? Or the Lite Brite again? Well, we do know he asked Dustin to take over Hellfire, so he could easily find his way there in the Upside Down and make those lights flicker. Perhaps even mess with Steve and Robin at the Family Video. Especially Steve, lol.

This isn’t particularly going anywhere (again other than a fic) but I think it’s an interesting possibility for how Eddie could be brought back into the story.

[sleepyowlwrites]

find the word tag CCCXXXXI

it's been like, actual weeks since I've done one of my beloved tags. it's also been actual weeks since I've added anything to my wips thanks to this prolonged exhaustion but I've decided 'tis time to do one anyway. I have a lot piled up in the stash, after all. @spacetimewraithwrites

easy (the illusion, 2011)

I knew they were there. There was a definitive weight attached to my ankles that surely hit the damp earth repetitively as I ran. I just couldn't feel them. Slint had said this would happen. I'd tried to warn myself against it, to remember that lies flowed out of his mouth easy as blood from a wound. Then he'd forced my chin up and I looked into his eyes. They were all wrong; sometimes Slint told the truth. After all, I couldn't feel my feet.

Sharp sunlight on the river water hit my vision like a spear. I flinched, lost my balance and tumbled down the bank. A hand grabbed my arm as my legs dangled over a great tree root. Torash hauled me back up the bank and forced me forward.

"We can't cross here, the water's too fast." Even while hurried, his voice contained a trace of humor. "They'll be on us before we reach the other side. I know your feet hurt, but keep running!"

early (29 days of october, 2011)

Only a trick, just a trick, and his sword flew from his hands, leaving him panting before me on his knees, my sword point held wavering at his throat. Another five long seconds stretched out, but I couldn't move. I had not fought with someone who didn't want to kill me in a long time. Finally my arms dropped; I blinked as exhaustion seemed to overcome me. Strange, I could go on for hours before needing rest in a fight, but here my knees were buckling, my sword falling from my shaking hands.

In another moment Morren and the other ranger had their arms on mine, helping me over to lay nearer the fire. "Why can't I stand?" I asked groggily.

"Because Alfdan put something in the wine you drank this morning. You didn't sleep last night, and you hadn't slept a whole day before that. You were supposed to wake sooner after exiting the portal, then start sleeping in the early evening. But he was right, you have a strong body. You keep fighting." Morren's voice held a note of admiration, but I was too confused to acknowledge the compliment. My head fell onto his arms as sleep claimed me.

enter (the forest deep, 2011)

Enter, stranger, into the forest deep Be wary on your journey From here to mountain steep Lurking, quiet, in the shadows of the trees Sits many an unearthly beast Could give you cause to flee Softly, stranger, treading on the moss In this forbidden hollow Where you dare to cross Moving, silent, stirring on the wind Echoes of some voices gone Perhaps they are your kin

exist (the illusion, 2011)

Now Torash came from the opposite side of the fire. "Aline! Verain, why haven't you taken care of her?"

Verain shifted her eyes to meet his. "What are you talking about?" She moved my hands. "It's incredible. There's not a mark on them. I didn't know you were so tough. Is this a spell?"

I couldn't think of what to say. Yes, it's a spell, Slint did something to my feet! I can barely see them, I can't feel them, and you say that they're perfectly whole! But nothing came out of my mouth. Torash's face was incredulous in the firelight.

"Look at her feet. How can you say there's not marked? There're blisters all over them, and--, I can see her bone on this one!" Torash reached as if to touch my left foot, but I scooted away from him, pulling myself to a standing position by scrabbling up the tree at my back. As soon as I let go I fell over, though, and tried to ignore the strange knowledge of sticky liquid running from where my feet should've been, up my legs, almost to my knees. Was it blood? Can something bleed if it doesn't really exist?

effort (white, creased, 12. times new roman, 2021)

opinions are easy to have and easier to give, but poke quite a bit upon receiving, so in an effort to save my skin and my sanity, I maintain my right to have and not share everything, to present to you that wrinkled bit of sentiment and let you divine what you will from it; if you believe something false about me in the end I still won’t mind, for I never lied to you, I never was a wall.

empty (words for a poem, 2011)

It's hard to find the picture Of what you want to say When the words that you're looking for Just seem to fade away Right when you set your hands Upon the empty page Your fingers want to roll with feelings But instead there you sit And stare And age

behind, before, below, between. BONUS: believe, beware. @blind-the-winds @athenswrites @zmwrites @zoya-writes @did-i-do-this-write @spacetimewraithwrites OR ANYBODY

[elderbwrry]

Girls' Night

tags: the knights of ren, All Women Knights of Ren, Girl's night, Girl's Knight, haha please like me, Fluff and Humor, Adversarial Kylux, Very much a WIP, Kylux, although fair warning it might not be that relationshippy

Read it on ao3

Summary: Hux is surprised by what the Knights of Ren get up to in their free time - it's strangely humanising. Unfortunately, Ren is still being the Lord of all Assholes. Hux needs a way to get back at him. It gives him an idea.

Hux marched down the corridor in the Finalizer's quarters deck, the section dedicated to command personnel. The immaculately tiled and polished floors glinted as he whipped past them. He was walking a little faster than usual, he noticed with distaste, but it wasn't surprising; this was his last task before he could officially count his shift as “over” and, instead of standing stiffly on the bridge checking reports, he could settle down to checking them in the comfort of his quarters. His sofa beckoned, along with another three hours of beloved admin, then five necessary hours of sleep before his next shift.

Moments ticked by as he had to pause and wait for a security door to open, and he felt his frustration manifesting itself in his brow. He was currently delaying himself by heading approximately six minutes out of the way of his own quarters, all to give Ren little more than a telling off. This wasn't the first time the glorified poser had caused him this kind of issue – trust Ren to get in the way, he excelled at it – but it was the first time Hux was personally carrying the message round to his quarters that he needed to file a report for the mission he returned from over a week ago.

Hux had tried the usual ways of getting hold of Ren; on his return to the ship, Hux had informed him a report was due; an automated reminder had been sent; a follow-up reminder had been sent; Hux sent a reminder himself. Today, when his agenda noted that Ren still remained unresponsive, Hux hailed him over internal comms. No reply. He called Mitaka in, intending to send him to Ren's quarters, but the poor man had paled at the knight's very name. So, Hux had dismissed him, and undertaken to deliver the message himself.

Hux didn't bother to wonder the reason why Ren wasn't completing the report – undoubtedly it was because he was irresponsible, disrespectful, possibly illiterate – he only amused himself to wonder what foolish excuse would be employed this time. “Meditation,” Hux's mind supplied in a mocking approximation of Ren's voice without that ostentatious helmet, “important Force matters,” “training,” “I was just really tired and forgot :(”

He was just shaking his head disapprovingly at the imagined pout as he drew up outside the door itself. He pressed the button to request entry, pushing it harder than necessary until his thumb joint hurt, as if somehow that would convey through the automated, equalized buzz sound how annoyed he was with Ren taking up his time like this.

The door puffed open, and Hux's mouth was already opened to give Ren a piece of his mind when he realised that the person in front of him was not, in fact, Ren. Instead, stood before him was a woman nearly a head shorter than himself, her long, black hair piled on her head in a decidedly non-regulation messy bun, drawn away from her face, on which was slathered some kind of light pink paste. She was wrapped in a fluffy, pink dressing gown, under which appeared to be heart patterned pink pyjamas.

Hux's planned rebuke of Ren fell away into an, “Uh.” Usually, he had time to prepare himself for any kind of non-work-related interactions, but he had planned to go into this with a clipped, righteous annoyance and come out of it with a self-indulgent bit of riling Ren up, and now that Ren was not available for that, he had nothing.

“Yes?” she said, about as neutrally as Hux supposed anyone would, when called upon while attired as she was.

“I must have the wrong quarters,” was what he managed to reply.

“These aren't mine,” she explained, pointing behind her, around a corner which Hux couldn't see, “You looking for Kylo?”

“Yes,” Hux said stiffly, “is Ren here?”

The woman leaned back inside the door, around the corner Hux still couldn't see. “Kyle!” she called, “visitor.”

“He's not getting up, wet nails!” someone called back, another female sounding voice.

Just what was happening in there? How many women were there, and what were they doing in Ren's quarters, of all places, clad in such unofficial wear? Hux shuddered to think. Was he also going to have to remind Ren of the rules against fraternisation with inferior officers? That was sure to be a fun conversation of Ren not giving a kriff and Hux being able to do little but barb his words and maybe mention the situation to Snoke. Odd, though – Hux had never thought Ren had showed any preference for women... or perhaps that had just been wishful thinking.

The woman before him remained still for a moment, her brown eyes glazing over just slightly in a way which made Hux think she wasn't entirely mentally present. Then the look was gone as soon as it had come, and she frowned, annoyed. “He wants you to leave,” she informed him, “but he wasn't very nice about it, so you're coming in.” She turned and retreated back inside, beckoning casually for him to follow.

After a moment, once Hux's brain had caught up – Ren had just communicated with the woman through the Force, and now he was being invited in against those wishes. He slipped through the door, letting it puff closed behind him.

The first fact of the place was that Ren's quarters were larger than Hux's. Hux had known this, of course – he'd scoffed over the confirmation for the allocation when Ren had first transferred over, perfectly happy to take moderately sized quarters himself – but, as he walked down the grandly inlaid corridor from the entrance antechamber to what was presumably a living space, it contributed to the sense of an impending mystery as to what, exactly, he was about to discover. He hoped it was nothing too debauched.

“You're that General, aren't you?” the woman a step in front of him asked over her shoulder. “Hanks? Hugs?”

“Hux,” he corrected. He disliked intensely when people got his name wrong. He was the General of the ship they were all currently hurtling through space on, he was the General Starkiller – how could she not know who he was? “Who are you?”

“Ushar,” she replied easily. No rank, no designation of any sort, no actual deference to him as a General; all things Hux made a mental note of for later, when he could check the ship manifest.

“Might I ask what you're...”

Hux had begun to speak with an acerbic self-confidence – it was his ship, and he demanded to know what was happening on it – but it all became clear when Ushar opened the door to the central living area and the situation was revealed. It was the second time Hux had been caused to falter in his words in the last five minutes, and he didn't appreciate it. “What is this?” he asked, minorly horrified, as he took in the scene before him.

Ushar shrugged. “Girls' night.”

The room looked like some kind of stereotypical, tacky imitation of a Zeltronian spa had taken over. There were tall glasses of something bubbly scattered around, half-drunk, the bottle chilling in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, which was scattered with cosmetic items. A holo-romance was playing off to the side. Boxes of chocolates fountained forth crunched up wrappers. There were four women – two humans, a zabrak and a twi'lek – lounging around in the pit of cushions the room had been turned into. The cushions were allpink to match the identical pink bath robes and headbands and fluffy slippers the room's inhabitants were sporting. And, at the centre of it all; Ren.

“You...” Hux started, under his breath just enough that no-one would take notice of the stammering. He had certainly not expected this. “I...”

Ren, clad too in pink fluffy bath robe, seemingly with nothingunder it this time, finally took notice that Ushar had led Hux in, as he sat up quickly and angrily, removing slices of some green vegetable from over his eyes. The woman who had been painting his toenails – black, possibly the only thing that could reconcile the Ren Hux was used to with this strange, pink perversion before him – protested, but he ignored her, instead hurrying to his feet and wading his way out of the pillows.

“I told you to make him leave,” Ren growled at Ushar, but the effect was considerably diminished thanks to his appearance. The bathrobe he wore was the short, fun kind of style which only came to his knees; the pink headband kept all his hair back from his face gave him a kooky sort of bird's nest; his face was slathered with a light green version of what Ushar had on, all except for comical spaces around his eyes and lips.

Ushar glared at him. “You shouldn't have ordered me like that, then,” she said, going over to sit next to the zabraki woman, shuffling in closer than was strictly platonic and picking up one of the glasses. “I'm not some stormtrooper.”

“You're ruining the night,” Ren brandished the vegetable slice at her. It wobbled.

“You'reruining the night!” the woman Ushar was sat next to shot back. “He's here after you!”

“Yeah, Kyle,” the twi'lek said from the sofa in a tone that was very much mocking, but still friendly, popping a chocolate in her mouth. Who were these people, that they could speak to Kylo Ren like this and get away with it?

Ren turned back to Hux, glowering. The face paste made him look like a clown. The outside finally reflects the inside, Hux thought to himself while wondering if Ren had waxed his legs or if they were just like that naturally, and had to force himself not to laugh. He obviously didn't mask his expressions quite as well as he should have, however, because Ren seemed to sense that Hux was amusing himself at his expense. Seizing Hux's upper arm in a grip to rival that of a hangar-bay droid, Ren manhandled Hux back to the door of the room, away from the group.

“Unhand me, you oaf,” Hux admonished, shaking Ren off him and lowering his tone a little so as not to disturb the ladies, who, in their disregard of Ren's plumped-up edginess, had endeared themselves to him.

“Why are you here?” Ren demanded before he'd even finished speaking, also at subdued pitch.

“Why are you here?” Hux returned, hissingly. “Who are these people? Why are you not completing the mission report which you have had no fewer than five requests for? Why the hells are your quarters this gods-awful colour?”

Ren took a moment to glare at Hux.

Hux interpreted this as having the upper hand. “Well?”

“I'm not completing any more of your stupid kriffing reports,” he said as if it were obvious. “I told you that already.”

Hux cycled through his memory quickly. He remembered Ren slamming down the last report onto his desk and threatening something similar, but he'd disregarded it, because reports were Necessary, and it was not a possibility for anyone to simply not do them.

“You will do the report,” Hux replied.

“No.”

“You'll do it now.”

Ren snorted. “No.”

Hux bristled. “Ren, I have been forced to come down here – well out of my way – to extract this report from you, only to find you sitting around like some... pampered princess, when I could be-”

“Good point actually, let's return to it. What are you doing down here?” Ren frowned and crossed his arms, but his lips curled cruelly, ready, Hux was sure, to make some insult about his doing such menial work.

“That brings me to the next matter,” Hux plucked the opportunity of throwing in this additional argument, squaring up. “You have intimidated my administrative staff to the point where it is necessary that I waste my time in a way which is thoroughly unacceptable to me.”

Ren widened his eyes in mock sympathy. “Did you forget how to use a comm?”

This only pissed Hux off more, because something about the movement was ridiculously attractive. He wasn't sure whether it was the slight shrug which emphasised Ren's muscular arms, the fact that the pink really brought out the rich shade of his hair, or even the cruelty behind the act itself, but it could not stand.

“I'm quite familiar with the comms system,” he spat, “it seems that you are the one having trouble, since you failed to reply to my hails. As my co-commander,” (Hux had practised in his bathroom mirror not grimacing as he said this) “you are expected to answer your comms when I call. It is highly unprofessional of you to shirk your duty like this.”

Ren momentarily pursed his lips. His next words were caustic. “I don't intend to waste my life away at work like you do, slaving over a tablet until I look like the living dead. At least I know how to relax.”

Hux's eye twitched. “I know how to relax.” An imagined image of himself on his icy blue sofa in his black and red robe, his cat to one side, his data-pad in hand, appeared in his mind. That was relaxing.

“No you don't,” Ren scoffed. “You should see the bags under your eyes. You look more drawn out than all the Starkiller blueprints put together.”

Mentally, Hux's self-image adjusted so that his porcelain skin turned grey, the lines of his face more prominent, the room dark until only he was visible by the harsh light of the data-pad. It could not have been more different than his current surroundings of pink and fluffiness and companionship and soft lighting.

“Get out of my head, Ren,” he said, putting the warping of his imagined scene down to some Force meddling.

“I'm not in your head,” Ren replied, “you're just sad and lonely and jealous that you have to go do a report while I have a nice night with my knights – my friends. You,” he pointed sassily, “could never have this,” he pointed back to the ladies. “Now kriff off, I'm not doing the report. Maybe you should do it yourself, since you have such a boner for that kind of thing.” The door far behind Hux puffed open, presumably manipulated by the Force.

“I expect the report before the end of my shift tomorrow,” Hux said, voice dangerous and low. How dare Ren speak to him like that. How dare he judge what Hux did to relax, while he was being a layabout with these random, cool ladies... doing... fun things like... painting nails and getting tipsy... and watching holo-dramas... and... he wasn't jealous.

“Leave,” Kylo told him.

Hux narrowed his eyes. “You will regret this, Ren.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, commenting to himself once more as the door puffed closed behind him, “You will regret this.”

[line break]

Kylo watched Hux retreat from the room, waiting until the door had closed to turn and make his way back to his knights. He flopped himself back down onto the floor, jostling Ap'lek's sofa cushions in the process.

“Ah kriff,” he complained as he saw his black-smudged toes stretched out in front of him, “he made me ruin my nail paint.”

“I'm not doing them again,” Trudgen said, tossing the little black bottle at him, shifting around to watch the holo and grabbing a chocolate. “You shoulda been more careful when you got up instead of rushing off to be a bitch.”

Kylo sighed over-dramatically and called out, “Cardo!” She and Kuruk were in the kitchen, probably making an unsightly mess of the place, but Kylo knew only she would be willing to finish the paint for him. Of course, he would have to take the chance that the stuff would end up even more smudged than it already was, and, now he was thinking about it, he would probably be better off just dipping his entire feet in nail polish.

A chocolate wrapper hit the side of his head. He turned to see Ushar had thrown it. “Just do it yourself,” she told him, “it's not like it's hard.”

But he wanted to feel spoiled, that was the whole point of this spa evening anyway. He called Cardo's name again, whinier this time.

“What?!” came the shouted reply, “We're making mug muffins!”

Vicrul frowned, straightening up a little where her arm was thrown around Ushar's shoulders. “In the microwave?”

“Yeah!”

“Huh,” Vicrul shrugged, settling back down again. “Good luck cleaning that.”

Kylo groaned, letting his head fall back onto the sofa cushion behind him. First Hux was on him about a report, then none of his knights would do his nails for him, now Cardo was splattering his lovely microwave with chocolate batter. This was all Hux's fault. Kylo wasn't sure how yet, but it was.

He opened his eyes to see Ap'lek looking down at him, where his head rested by her left elbow. “What's this about a report then?” she asked flatly. Kylo just groaned again and re-closed his eyes.

“You can't be procrastinating this stuff again,” Ushar nagged him over the sound of footsteps, accompanied by a smell of chocolate, and a thunk-clink of a tray with spoons being set down on the table as the cooks brought the muffins through. “Your job is important, here, Kylo. Snoke wants you to do well.”

“To hell with Snoke,” Kylo mumbled, hoping the crusty fart wasn't spying on his thoughts as they spoke. Paperwork was a fate worse than a fate worse than all the Sith hells combined.

“Then we want you to do well,” she continued.

“Plus we blew up so much shit on that mission,” Vicrul added, and Kylo opened his eyes to glare at her as she accepted a mug from Kuruk.

“You have to tell the General about that some time, why not put it in a report? You'd save him lots of time, probably. I bet he'd be so appreciative.”

Kylo accepted a mug proffered by Kuruk and waved it about a bit. “Since when do we care about saving Hux time? I meant what I said, he loves paperwork so much he probably,” he picked up a spoon and stabbed it into the fluffy top of the muffin, watching steam come out as he tried to pick a suitably ridiculous image of Hux. “He probably sleeps with all the files strewn over his bed and like,” he made a face, “rubs them on his body, gets all cozy with them at night. I don't know.”

“I'm pretty sure he does paperwork on his data-pad,” Ap'lek said, and she was right, though Kylo resented that she'd killed his roll.

“Just do the kriffing report, Kyle.” Trudgen hadn't pulled her attention away from the holo enough to face him as she'd said it, but apparently had been paying enough attention to comment, “Anything to stop him showing up and interrupting us. Girls' night is a no-business zone.”

Cardo chose that moment to vault over the back of the sofa and land heavily on the cushions. “Ooh, General Hux came over?” she asked cheerfully. Her hands were, predictably, still coated in chocolate powder. “I can't believe I missed him, I want to see if his hair is gelled that solid from close up.” She grabbed her mug and dug into the muffin.

“The General shouts too much,” Kuruk said, sitting cross legged on a cushion by the coffee table. “He should check his blood pressure, it can't be good for him.”

“Hey, a bit like you!” Cardo added, “You must call me through next time. He's cute.”

Kylo opened his mouth – partly to gape at what had just been said, and partly because the muffin was too hot and he hadn't had the impulse control to prevent eating a large spoonful. “Hey!” he started a few times, mouth full and burning. Finally, he was able to swallow. “He is not cute, and there will be no,” he wobbled his mug and spoon in a no-fingered version of quotation marks, “next time.”

“Then do the report,” Ushar shot back.

Kylo made a loud complaint noise.

“He's not gonna do it because he wants the General to come over again,” Ap'lek teased, and, to Kylo's horror, all his knights laughed. Traitors. He didn't want Hux to come over again.

“I don't,” he replied vehemently, “I want him to kriff off and stop annoying me.”

“I think that's against his job description,” Kuruk said, prompting further laughs.

“You should just do it,” Ushar said, getting to her feet after a moment more.

“Hey, where you going?” Vicrul asked sadly, not letting go of Ushar's hand.

“Babe, I gotta peel my face.”

“Wait, let me come with, it's really satisfying.”

The two disappeared off, and Kylo had to add 'his knights screwing in his bathroom' to his list of sub-par things to happen this evening. He wasn't going to do the report. He couldn't be bothered, he didn't want to, he hated writing things and making them sound 'formal'. No, tonight he was going to finish his mug muffin, paint his nails and fall asleep with his knights in front of a trashy holo-romance. Hux would get the hell in eventually and do the report himself. Give it a few more days, and Kylo was sure Hux would drop the issue.

[nonbinary-octopus]

Not Just the Two of Us Chapter 6: A Lot of Information

Wordcount: 1.3 K

Summary: Logan likes to talk about his research. Patton likes to listen to Logan, and he also wants to know more. Win win.

Chapter 1: Confession

[Masterpost]

[More of my writing]

~

Virgil and Roman, having done the least before-dinner work, were given the after-dinner chores. Virgil cleared the table, putting the food away and bringing the dishes to Roman, who filled the sink with soapy water and began the washing up.

Every time Virgil brought him a dish, Roman ‘paid’ him for it with a kiss on the lips. They had stacked the plates and gathered the silverware for easier carrying, but after Virgil had carried over a cup in each hand and received a kiss for their delivery, he brought the rest of the dishes over one piece at a time. It took him quite a while to clear the table in this manner.

Patton hopped up to sit on the counter, and Logan leaned against it beside him. “Logan?” Patton asked.

“Yes?”

“Are there other configurations? Besides Vee and Triangle?”

Logan considered the question for a moment. “Not for three people,” he said. “There’s really only two ways to connect three nodes, provided one assumes that the nodes are interchangeable. Else there’s four, but three of them are Vees, simply changing who is the vertex. I believe that a polyamorous relationship involving four people is called a Quad, regardless of the particulars of the configuration.”

“How many people can you have?” Patton asked curiously.

Logan looked thoughtful. “I think the upper bound would be determined by a person’s time and availability, as well as interest,” he said at last. “It’s important not to neglect any one partner, so resources would need to be considered. However, my research indicated that a polyamorous network could, in theory, be infinitely large and sprawling, containing many smaller clusters.”

“How does that work?”

Logan shrugged a bit. “Well, suppose you’ve got a triangle,” he said. “Three people, all dating each other. And then suppose one of the people in that triangle has a third partner, who is metamour to the other two members of the triangle. Further suppose that they belong to another triangle or a quad, or perhaps that they and their partner from the first triangle are two parts of a triad or quad or other. And someone from that group has another partner, and so on.

“Or you could have a long chain of people with two partners each. Perhaps one person in the chain has three partners, so they form a Y junction. You could mix and match all these things to make a unique and complex system.”

Patton nodded slowly. “Getting everyone together for dinner must be tricky,” he said.

Logan laughed. “That it would,” he agreed. “I suppose they could do a potluck.” He shrugged. “However, they wouldn’t necessarily all know each other. It’s possible even to not know one’s metamour, let alone one’s metamour’s other partner, or those further down the line. And even if they do all know each other, that doesn’t mean that they get together or share meals — though I’m sure there exist networks which do function that way.”

Patton frowned a bit. “I get not knowing your metamour’s partner, but how could someone not know their metamour? Doesn’t that edge on cheating again?”

“No. In this case, the metamours would be aware that their mutual partner is seeing someone else, and are fine with that, but are not interested in knowing that person.” Logan shrugged. “I understand that many people prefer this version, and while I think I personally would not enjoy it, I can see the appeal.” Patton was still unconvinced, and it must have shown on his face, because Logan added, “I have friends whom you have never met, and I’m sure you have friends I don’t know.”

“That’s different!” Patton protested. “You know all of my other Best Friends, and I’d introduce you to my boyfriend if I had one.”

“Yes, it’s different, but the concept is similar.”

“I’d want to know my metamours,” Patton continued. “If anyone’s that important to my boyfriend, they’re important to me too, and I wanna know them.”

Logan smiled. “Yes, as I said, I’m the same. However, nothing is one size fits all, including polyamory, and there are those for whom it is different.”

Patton considered that, then conceded the point. They were quiet for a moment, watching Virgil present Roman with a fork in exchange for a deep kiss that left soap suds in Virgil’s hair where Roman ran his fingers through it.

“Will Virgil be moving in with you?”

“Perhaps at some point, but not in the near future. We intend to discuss it again when his lease draws near an end. We’re not currently set up here to have three people living in the house full-time, either. Roman is vying for a bigger bed.”

“Isn’t your bed the same size as the air mattress we use for sleepovers?” Patton asked.

“Yes, they’re both queens. However, his argument is not without merit. As comfortable as it is to pile four people together in a ‘cuddle puddle’ once a week, it would feel quite crowded if it were a regular thing every night. Besides, at least one person ends up on the floor by morning as often as not, and I would prefer to avoid that occurring with our regular bed, especially considering that it has a frame and a box spring and is thus rather taller than an air mattress set directly on the floor, and would be much more painful to fall out of.”

“Plus I dunno if I’m ready to share a bed all the time,” Virgil chimed in, offering Roman another fork. Roman took it and kissed him. When they pulled apart again several seconds later, Virgil continued, “I haven’t even shared a bedroom since my crib was in my parents’ room, let alone having the same bed. And no,” he added, putting a finger against Roman’s lips in the ‘shush’ gesture before Roman could say something, “sleepovers every weekend don’t count. Six nights out of seven, I sleep alone in my own bed in my own bedroom in my own apartment. Moving in with you guys is a big step.”

Roman grinned. “You’ve already got a toothbrush in our bathroom and a drawer and a hamper in our laundry room and a key to our front door,” he pointed out.

“So does Patton, I’m not special,” Virgil countered.

Roman looked offended. “On the contrary, you are very special,” he protested. “And anyway, what I was trying to say was that you’re practically half moved in already.”

“I suppose,” Virgil said, leaning into Roman, who held him. “Still a big deal.”

“I know,” Roman said gently. “So I’m gonna try not to push you about it until you’re ready. Even if that’s never. Though I really hope it won’t be never.” He scrunched his nose a bit. “Am I being pushy right now? I can’t tell if I’m being pushy or eager or both.”

“A bit of both,” Virgil answered.

“Sorry.”

Virgil was quiet for a moment, then said, very softly, “You know, tonight is going to be the first night we share a bed as boyfriends instead of best friends.”

“Yeah,” Roman agreed with a grin. “Kinda exciting.”

Virgil made a soft, mumbled sound of maybe-agreement, turning his face to press directly into Roman’s chest, and Roman added in a gentler tone,

“Kinda scary too, I suppose. Makes you wonder how it’ll change things.”

“Mm-hm,” Virgil mumbled into Roman’s shirt.

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” Roman said soothingly, spreading bubbles on the top of Virgil’s head. “We can still just all pile on the mattress like normal, and fall asleep during a long and meandering conversation, just like every other weekend.”

“I think I'd like that…”

~

Chapter 7: Sleepover | WIP

[frostsinth]

Random Scene 1 - The Pirate King

Masterlist

Ok, so I’m going to start posting random scenes/WIPs I have. Some are multi-part-ers, some are just one-shots. Not everything is monster related. Not much editing, no real continuity. Just stuff I wrote because I wanted to write it. For example, this next scene... Well, enjoy it or whatever.

Thanks for being my follower! Hit me up if you have any questions or thoughts or comments or... anything... Ok Bye!

She looked around herself quietly, studying the grand fixtures and ornate columns. The hall felt almost like a throne room, with tall wooden pillars stretching up to the steepled ceiling and a plush carpet rolled down its center to the raised floor at the end. But instead of a throne, there was a table with five chairs set around it. One sat at the head of the table, the others equally set on opposite sides. Despite the decadence of the room, it also rang of a great, hollow ship, with the windows set behind the table not unlike the ones of a Captain’s quarters set into the back of a ship. She could see the skyline of the city through them, but the sea stretched more prominently beyond them, filling most of her view.

Chests of gold, chalices, necklaces, gems, and other sparkling treasures lined one wall, set amid cases of rum and bags of incense as well as rolled up rugs and fine silks. A trove of riches, the like of which she couldn’t have ever imagined. But she hardly spared them a glance as she moved quietly towards the raised floor, wondering exactly why she had been brought here.

She turned at the sound of the door opening, and found the two men who had tossed her in holding the broad double doors wide. Another man stepped in, hands clasped behind his back, a small platoon of fellows behind him.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and thick legs. His skin was leathery and tanned, with the same look as all the other sea-farers of the city she had seen so far. His clothes were of a fine material, with a sharp looking tunic over a pair of dark trousers and an equally dark vest with gold buttons atop that. But his coat was red, crimson like drying blood, with shiny gold fastens and gold embroidery at the edges. He wore a broad black hat upon his messy brown hair trimmed short at the sides and a scruffy beard.

The others followed behind him a few respectful paces, and they were similarly well dressed. Each had a weapon strapped to their belt, whether a sword or rapier or, in one case, a mace, varying from individual to individual.

She faced them hesitantly, light on her toes and not sure how to place herself. Still not even sure where she was or why she was there at all. The most forward man paused in the center of the room, considering her with one hand rested on the pommel of his cutlass.

“Who’s this then?” Growled one of the men behind him, crossing his arms with a scowl. He was older, with a hastily braided beard and a dirty looking face.

“Entertainment for the night?” Another proposed, smirking mischievously and eyeing her hungrily. His appearance was more sleek and colorful, with vibrant red hair and a dark purple vest in lieu of a coat like his companions.

“We have business to attend to.” Grumbled a wizened looking sailor, who didn’t seem too keen on her presence. He tapped the short sword at his waist, as if considering removing the distraction.

“Beggin’ pardon, sirs,” one of the pirates who held the door piped up.  “She’s the one from the Greenhorn--”

“Greenhorn?” Echoed the first speaker, running his hand over his beard, “I know that name. Who’s ship was--”

“Our meeting-” Interrupted the foremost pirate, silencing them all, “-Is being postponed.”

“Postponed!” Snapped the oldest of the group, “Ye can’t-”

“See yourselves out.” He waved his hand, dismissing them. Despite their babbling, he ignored them, striding forward over to the table. Catch had to step to the side to avoid being mowed over in his wake.

The men squabbled and snarked, but allowed themselves to be led out of the room by the men holding the door. A simply dressed older boy darted out with a gilded tray which held crystalline flutes and a decanter with a deep red liquid in it. He placed it upon the table, ducking his head and bowing out.

Catch watched the pirates being escorted. Waited for one of the men to come to fetch her and do the same. But they didn’t. The doors closed behind them, even as she watched. None of them had spared her a second look, and the room was plunged into silence once more.

Silence, except for the slight clink of glass as the man removed the top from the decanter on the tray. Quietly, he poured two glasses to their brim before replacing the decanter and picking up one delicately. He swirled the liquid about for a moment, sniffing at it thoughtfully before taking a slow sip.

“Your reputation precedes you.��� The man said finally, with his back to her.

She looked around, but the room was empty aside from herself. “...Yours does not.”

His soft, amused laughed bounced about the polished wood of the chamber. “Aye, so you don’t know who I am?”

He had turned to face her as he spoke, so she shook her head. “Should I?”

“I should think so.” He took a sip, watching her for a moment. “After all, it was my ship you ruined.”

“Your ship?” She echoed, glancing over his shoulder at the horizon beyond the window.

He nodded, picking up the second glass and making his way down the few shallow steps from the elevated floor languishly. “Yes. One of many, of course. But, still, under my command.”

“If--”

“Your name is Catch, right?” He interrupted her before she could finish.

“..That’s what they call me.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, stopping a few paces away from her. “So I’ve heard. I’ve heard all of your story, actually. How the Greenhorn found you. How you created a brilliant plan that allowed even that fool Kartik to capture the ever elusive and festering Duermon.” He took a slow sip of his wine as he looked her up and down. “Of course I was fascinated. Intrigued.” He held out the second glass to her. “Especially how a girl fished out of the ocean managed to take out an entire ship’s crew and escape with their prisoners.”

She hesitated, glancing down at the offered glass. Gingerly, she took it from him. Even as he stalked slowly past her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

“Now, Kartik was not exactly the sharpest nail in the box,” He continued as he circled around behind her, “But Lestat? Now, he was one of my best and brightest. So imagine my surprise to find that not only was he duped,” he was to her right now, “But drugged with his own supply.”

Steeling herself, she turned, glaring at him. “If you are looking for your pound of flesh, go ahead and take it and spare me the theatrics.”

The man smirked, circling around to stop where he had started. “Apologies, my lady. I failed to give a proper introduction. Benedict Kunh, of Ship Kunh. First High Captain of Quassan.” He swept up her free hand with his, bringing it to his lips, “A pleasure to meet you.”

She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held it firmly. Gently, he kissed her knuckles.

“Should I be impressed?” She asked bitterly.

He raised an eyebrow, still holding her hand firmly. “By the most powerful man on the Western Coast? Perhaps. Or you should learn to be.”

Catch managed to scowl at him, despite the fear tickling at her stomach. “Don’t hold your breath.”

His smirk grew slightly. “I was told you were a tough lass,” He stepped even closer, “Your intelligence and stubbornness matched only by your beauty.” He pulled her closer to him, “I see no lie in that.”

The High Captain didn’t flinch at the wine she threw in his face, and even as the drink dripped down his jaw, he kept his eyes closed. But a dark look cast shadows over his features. Slowly, he released her hand and opened his eyes, turning and walking back towards the table. The boy darted forward, obviously terrified, placing a small pile of napkins on the table. He didn’t dare to meet the man’s gaze, eager to be away from his obvious wrath.

“If you intend to kill me or imprison me, please do so,” She told him angrily, “Otherwise, let me go.”

Benedict wiped his face down with a cloth napkin, dabbing it down the front of his neck before turning back to face her again. He smiled, as if unperturbed by her insult, the malice in his face suddenly gone.

“Oh, but I intend none of those things.” He told her, dropping the wine stained cloth on the table and refilling his glass.

She waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, she crossed her arms angrily. “Then what?”

He turned, considering her. Then he gestured for her to come closer. She didn’t, offering him the best scowl she could. Despite the nerves in her stomach and the dread in her chest.

“Amuse me, my dear,” He implored her, extending his hand, “I want to show you something.”

After another long moment of silence, she did step forward, though she ignored his hand as she approached him. He curled it into the air behind her, guiding her further forward. She placed the glass on the table as they passed, but allowed herself to be led deeper into the chamber. To the great windows that lined the back wall.

“Tell me what you see.” He asked her when they had stopped before them.

Catch shrugged. “A city.” She jerked her chin at the horizon. “The sea.”

“This is my Kingdom,” he told her calmly, “My father and my grandfather before him were both First Captains. And I will do whatever it takes to keep it. For myself. For my sons.”

“Mazel Tov. What does any of that matter to me?”

He took a slow sip of his wine, then replaced the glass on the table behind them. “The strongest men are born of the strongest line. The line with the most grit, strength, intelligence.” She felt him moving closer to her, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose up on end. “Both from their father.” She almost jumped as his hands slid down her arms, “And their mother.”

Catch spun, stepping back. “What the hell are you--”

“My father always told me, when he was my age, he sought out the bravest, strongest, toughest woman he could find.” He interrupted, watching her even she backed further away from him, “And he made her his own.” The pirate took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I intend to do the same.”

The window was at her back now. “Fuck off.”

That put a small smirk on his lips. “If what I hear is true, you are exactly the woman I have been looking for over the last two years.”

“Keep looking.”

He stepped even closer, blocking her escape. “I don’t need to,” He told her, “As soon as I saw you, I knew.” One hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. She twisted it in his grasp. “And I knew I would make you mine.”

“You’ll die trying.”

“It is to your benefit as well,” He explained, ignoring her threat, “Your children will have the best possible life, and the best chance at life. Isn’t that what you want for them? Isn’t that what any mother wants?”

She wriggled in his grip. “I’m not a mother.”

A smirk. “That is easily remedied.”

His head snapped to the side from the force of her slap. Though if it surprised him, he didn’t show it. She ripped her wrist from his grasp, moving to step around him.

“I am sick and tired of you bloody fucking pirates thinking you can claim me for yourselves,” She snarled, “I don’t want or need a fucking man to decide my life for me, and if I have to beat every last one of you off with a damn stick, then I will.”

He raised his arm to block her escape, but made no other move to pin her or touch her. “Forgive me if I seemed overly forward, my dear; I am simply excited to have finally found you. I have met many women, great women all, and not one even came close--”

“I don’t care. Your life, your search, your plans. Those have nothing to do with me. Keep them to yourself.” She interrupted, moving to push past his arm.

He side-stepped, a small smile on his lips as he blocked her again. “I don’t believe you have--”

“Shut up. Leave me alone. And let me go.”

“You--”

Placing both hands on his chest, Catch shoved at him with all her strength. He fell back a step in surprise.

“Me nothing. I don’t care who you are.” She shoved him again. “I don’t care what you want.” Another shove. “I don’t care how long you have looked for it.” A final shove had him almost against the table. “You. Do. Not. Own. Me.”

The High Captain seemed more than a little surprised, watching her as she started to stalk off. At the last minute, she turned, pointing one angry finger at him.

“Not one single fucking one of you has ever even bothered to ask me my name let alone what I want.” She threw her hands up and stomped away. “So fuck the lot of you.”

He watched, considering her as she stopped beside one of the wooden beams. Crossing her arms and leaning against it angrily. Angry that she had no power to leave. Angry that she was right back where she had started. Angry that once again, she had no choices.

Slowly, calmly, he walked over. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Catch snorted, shaking her head. She didn’t bother to look at him.

The man moved with a lithe grace, as a man half his size might, as light as air but as formidable as a bull. When he stood before her once more, he tucked his hands in his pockets and looked her up and down. As a snake may a mouse before it strikes.

“I don’t suppose if I asked for your name now, your real name, you would give it to me?”

She shot him a dark look, and found herself caught in the darker shadows of his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed a lump of fear building in her throat.

He smiled, and perhaps to the less wary it would have been quite disarming. But to her, it was merely a cobra baring its fangs with a hiss.

“Alright, then how about what you most desire in life?”

“Freedom.” She replied without hesitation.

He tsked softly. “What is freedom? Hmm?” The predator stalked closer. “I will grant you freedoms. You are free to roam my house. You are free to visit the gardens. You are free to go to market, so long as you take an escort with you.” He threw one hand wide, gesturing to the treasures lining the wall. “You are free to take whatever you’d like.” The Captain reached into the nearest pile, pulling out a pearl necklace. Coins clinked as he freed the necklace from their clutches. “You are free to anything that is mine.” He looked at her coyly. “So I have granted you freedom.”

“You have granted me a gilded cage.” She spat.

Benedict chuckled darkly, slowly reaching out with the necklace in both hands. He reached behind her, stepping closer to connect his hands together behind her neck. He was so close she could smell the salt air on him, mixed with the scent of smoke and rum. The pirate clasped the necklace together, then slowly traced his hands back along its length as it settled upon her collarbone. She didn’t move, casting her eyes downward. When he had reached the center of the chain, he released it. Then reached out and delicately untucked her hair from beneath it. His fingers brushed her skin as he did, and a chill ran down the back of her neck.

“What’s mine is yours,” He told her, “What greater freedom can I grant?”

His hand lingered in her hair, and he spun the curls around his fingertips. She pushed his hand away.

“Freedom to choose a life you do not have,” She said bitterly, “A life you would not choose for me.”

“Hmm,” He breathed again, “That is… not something I will grant.”

The words he chose were not lost on her, and she clenched her teeth angrily. He reached out again, skimming the back of his hand along her jaw lightly. Catch jerked away from his touch, moving to walk away from him entirely.

“Then I will find my own freedom,” She replied, then glanced over at the windows. “...However I can find it.”

The High Captain followed her, catching her wrist as she moved away. He spun her back to face him easily, despite her attempts to resist, and pulled her close.

“I have an alternative proposal.”

She twisted her wrist back and forth in his grasp, tempted to slap him again. “I’m sure I won’t like it either.”

Benedict smiled his dark smile, leaning over her as he held her hand against his chest. “Stay with me. Stay in my home. Stay at my table. Stay in my gardens--”

“In your bed?” She interrupted sourly.

His replying smirk made her skin crawl and her stomach turn in knots. She could almost see the dirty thoughts rolling behind his eyes.

“If you’d like.” He ran his thumb up and down the length of her hand still caught in his. “But regardless, stay.” He held up one finger, lifting their hands up between them as he did, his other digits still wrapped tightly around hers. “For one year. Just one year. If I have not convinced you to stay of your own will by then, you will be free to go.”

She twisted her wrist in his grasp. “No.”

He smiled again. “It is a good deal. I give you my word that I set you free at the end, and it’ll be your choice to stay or go.”

Again she yanked at her hand, but he held it firm. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow, considering her. “I feel I have been quite generous--”

“You have given nothing of value to you. No incentive. No risk.” She interrupted, finally managing to pull her hand free. She backed away. “So no. You have everything to gain, while I have everything to lose.”

The pirate considered that, running his now free hand over his beard. “Fine. I see your point.” He pointed out the window. “The first frosts will hit any day now. I propose that you stay until the first spring thaw. If your path takes you away from Quassan, you will likely need to sail. And all ships will be docked until then.” He pocketed his hand again. “So the day the first ship launches from port in the spring. I have until then.”

Catch considered that, looking out the window too. Honestly, what alternative did she have? Trying to escape. Trying to fight her way into the streets of a city she knew nothing about. To find allies she wasn’t sure even existed… or to take a more drastic freedom for herself…

“I have no reason to believe you’ll keep your word.” She argued.

He straightened slightly. “I am a High Captain of Quassan. My word is my bond.”

“Until you can break it.” She shot back. “You’re a pirate.”

The Captain huffed slightly. “Do you have any other choice?”

She studied him up and down, her face grim. “There’s always another choice.”

He waited patiently, watching her. And she watched him. Both waiting for the other to speak, or give some ground. Neither willing to be the first.

“Well? Do we have a deal?”

Shaking her head, she crossed her arms. “Addendum. No one can not touch me, you especially. You can not lie to me, or have your men lie on your behalf. You can not try to trick me, or hurt me. Or our deal is off, and I can leave. AND,” She added before he could speak, “If you do not convince me, or break any of these rules, not only can I leave, but I take your three best ships with me.”

That seemed to surprise him. “What do you want with three ships?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Just that you won’t have them anymore.”

He grinned ear to ear. “I like a good bet.”

“So do we have a deal?”

He raised one finger into the air again. “Second addendum. You cannot try to leave, or escape.” A dark look crossed his face, “And you may pursue no other man, nor allow pursuit.”

Catch almost rolled her eyes, but decided against it. She shrugged instead, sighing exasperatedly.

“Further,” He continued before she could speak, “I will add another addendum. Or more, an edit to the wording of yours,” He told her, “I cannot touch you… unless you ask me to.”

She scowled, shaking her head. “I will never.”

His grin grew by a few molars. “Then there is no need to worry.” The pirate king extended out his hand into the air between them. “...Deal?”

She eyed his hand.

He smirked apologetically. “The last time I’ll touch you without express permission, I promise.”

Sighing, she extended her own hand. “Fine. Deal.” What other choices did she have?

Benedict took her hand firmly in his and gave it a gentle shake.

She almost couldn’t stand the shit-eating grin on his face. As they slowly released hands, he took a step closer.

“...Don’t suppose you’d tell me your real name now, would you?”

“Fuck off.”

[alma37]

I checked on AO3 and, a year ago today [02/02/20, for those of you who are a few hours behind France], I started posting for a deliciously wicked fandom, Dracula 2020.

So, to mark the occasion, I decided to post here (on AO3 later today), a little one-shot I thought about a few days ago. I wanted to put it in one of my wip, but it didn’t quite fit. I still liked the idea, though, and I needed to write it.

This is also kind of a gift for @hopipollahorror and @lady-of-the-wolves, my steadiest supporters of late. Thank you, girls, I am not sure I would have started writing again without your support.

For @thebeautyofdisorder, I know you had a rough year and I wish you a great 2021. We have so many tastes in common, It seems I continuously reblog from you. I am well aware it won’t make your troubles disappear, but I hope this little piece will make you forget them for 5 minutes (and that it won’t be perceived as further punishment or what’s the phrase? Cruel and unusual punishment!😉) .

For my other mutuals, I know we don’t talk much, if at all, but I am glad you came to see and stayed.

And, of course, for all my followers, occasional readers and everyone else who took the time to come and check my little nothing of a blog, leave comments, reblogs and likes. Thank you guys.

And now, i leave you with a small piece I had great fun to write. As usual.

I apologise for the long-ish introduction.

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

This is a Dragatha, sometimes in the future (theirs, not ours; perhaps it is our present, in fact, who knows?). Dracula turned Agatha into a vampire. A long time before this fic.

Some sort of enemies with benefits.

And it actually answers to this prompt. I think.

Title : A [h]arrowing evening

Fandom : Dracula TV 2020

Relationship : Agatha x Dracula

Rate : I’d say T or light M

Words : I don’t know, I didn’t count, go check on AO3 when it’s posted!

- Come on, Agatha. Just admit it : you like me!

The former nun turned vampire, Dracula's most fervent opponent, was backed up against the wall, a small wooden arrow in her hand. Why did she decide to come and see him in his own apartment, she’ll never know. Her nemesis was crowding her, a triumphant smile on his face. She defended herself.

- Stop being so arrogant, Count. I don't like you.

- Oh but I think you do. Very much so.

His growing smirk, his roving hands and, mostly his acumen were too much for her. Suddenly blinded by years of pent up rage and frustration, she drove the arrow into his chest with ferocious intent. The small stake slid under his ribs upwards towards his heart.

For a moment, they stayed still face to face, Dracula's smile slowly fading, morphing into an expression of utter stupefaction, as his eyes fell on the weapon thrust into his thorax. Annoyed, Agatha pushed him backwards. To her absolute consternation, he stumbled with a groan, then bent over, his hand reaching blindly for the small piece of wood. His face was now wearing an expression of agony before his legs started to give out under him. With horror, Agatha watched him slowly falling to his knees before his upper body followed suit and he went down like a dead weight. By chance or instinct, he fell to his side, only just avoiding the stake from driving through his heart. Once on the floor, he started writhing in pain, barely able to hold his screams. Finally, Agatha understood : the arrow must have stopped short of piercing the heart, but was probably touching it if his convulsions were any indication.

After a moment of indecision, Agatha grabbed his shoulders to hold him flat on his back then straddled him.

- Stop squirming. You'll only succeed in piercing your heart yourself.

- As if you didn't intend to do it!" Her victim hissed through his pain.

Agatha opened her mouth to retort, then closed it, before she finally replied, surprised with herself :

- I... don't know.

His face was deformed by the unusual pain he was in. She supposed he probably hadn't felt this bad in centuries. Serves him right, but... His strained voice made her jumped out of her thoughts.

- Whatever you intend to do, Agatha, please do it now. It is unbearable.

At his begging tone, the younger vampire froze for a long time, undecided : finish him off, like she promised herself a long time ago, as it was a chance she certainly wouldn't have again, or remove the arrow and stop the bleeding, against all her principles?

Her nemesis was in a state of anguish she had never seen him before. He was shaking so hard, trying to control his body.

But he wasn't begging anymore, just waiting for her decision. She could see in his eyes the torture he was enduring. He still didn't utter another sound.

And she realised that, as much as she thought she hated him, she couldn't bring herself to just end his life, as lifeless as it was.

He was not only a unique creature, he was also the only one who understood her and she realised with a shock that she came to care about him in a way that prevented her from driving the small arrow all the way through his heart. She actually liked their fighting : it was invigorating and, yes, fun. They hadn't really tried to kill each other for years now. His half-hearted attempts to get rid of her, lately, was his way of flirting, she supposed. And apparently, she thought in dismay, became hers too.

But the biggest blow came when she finally realised she actually wanted to tame him somehow or maybe convince him to redeem himself in some ways, which was barely thinkable, much less doable. She just wanted him. Full stop. And annihilating him forever didn't suit her purpose anymore.

- Whenever you want, darling." The count groaned through gritted teeth, his brow drained in sweat.

At last, Agatha came to a decision and, instead of doing what her conscience was telling her, she chose to follow her heart : she wrapped her hand around the piece of arrow that stuck out from his chest and pulled it out without warning.

She was thrown out from his lap by his violent recoil as he screamed out of his lungs in pain. Agatha, not deterred, scrabbled back to him and pinched the wound to stop the bleeding. That last part was easy, as Dracula had promptly passed out.

When she understood he wasn't going to wake up any time soon, she put him to bed and took a book, while keeping watch over him, berating herself all night long for her weakness.

At dawn, the older vampire slowly emerged from unconsciousness. When he opened his eyes, he looked around as if searching for something - or someone. When he found her watching over her book, he started asking in a rough voice : "What..." He cleared his throat several times before trying again :

- What happened?

Agatha lifted an eyebrow.

- Don't you remember?

Dracula began shaking his head :

- I don't... I seem to remember flirting with you and... Ah!" His face cleared. "Yes! You tried to kill me.

Agatha shrugged.

- And I would have succeeded this time.

Dracula straightened up with a groan. Agatha, taking pity on him, piled up a few pillows behind his back and helped him get a more comfortable position on the bed. When she tried to sit back on her armchair, the Count held on to her hand, so she was either obliged to sit on the bed or tried to shake his grip. She chose the easy path and sat next to him.

- So why didn't you finish me off?You had me at your mercy, you could have cleared this world of my evil presence.

Agatha didn't look at him but rather at their joined hands.

- I.. I don't know.

- You would have missed me!

Agatha snapped back.

- Don't be ridiculous!

Dracula smiled his devilish smile.

- You, Agatha van Helsing, like me!

- I most certainly do not!" Agatha protested, outraged. She tried to remove her hand from his, but he was holding fast.

- Well, I wouldn't blame you, you know. I am probably... Definitely head over heels in love with you after last night's little demonstration.

Agatha finally pulled her hand out of his, and stood up, shaking her head.

- You are a...

- monster?

-... beast! And obviously better. So I am leaving. Goodbye, Count Dracula.

Dracula reached for her once more :

- No, wait!

Agatha sighed, annoyed :

- What?

- You could at least kiss it better.

The former nun was about to will him to hell but something in his apparent casualness made her change her mind. She came back to sit on the bed and, after barely an hesitation, she straddled him. She felt him tensed momentarily, probably a reminder of the previous night. But he relaxed when she gently unbuttoned his shirt. She glanced at him and smiled when she saw his look of intense concentration turned towards her. She bent over and she licked the disappearing scar under his ribs. She felt his entire body shudder with pleasure, which made her smile grow larger. She had cleaned him the previous night, so there was no blood to tempt her. His all body was temptation enough. She nibbled at the scar then soothed it with her lips and tongue. Her nemesis had grown rigid from repressed desire. She finally moved from the scar to make her way upwards with slow, languorous and arousing kisses.

The first time he tried to touch her, she took his hands and flattened them back on the bed. The second time, she just held onto them.

The third time, she felt his eagerness wouldn't be denied, so she deftly evaded his grasp before he could close in on her. She moved swiftly out of the bed and put some distance between them, so that he could not reach her fast enough.

- And that's about all the kisses you'll ever have from me. Get a rest, Count Dracula. I will come and check on you tonight.

Without waiting for an answer, she left him in a state of obvious arousal, but laughing at her cunning.

- I can't wait." He called after her. He couldn't resist having the last word. Agatha shook her head in disbelief, but she was smiling.

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

Soooo, what did you think? (If it’s bad, please don’t tell me! 😉)

Anyway, I just really really wanted her to stab him at close range and truly physically HURT him (like Zoe, in TDC, but more purposely, if you know what I mean).

For the arrow, I imagine she has a small-ish one, like those used for a crossbow, except it is completely made of wood, even the tip. Something like that...

But, well, you know me : I always prefer a happy (-ish) ending. Reality’s sad enough. We don’t need it into fiction. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it.

If you really liked it, give me a shout and I’ll post the little follow-up I just had an idea of. Which is more on the comedy side (as in funny).

[nervousladytraveler]

🥰👀🥰

end of year WIP meme!

send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)

Thanks @juicybeatles for the ask.

This bit is another modern Poldark AU. I won’t say anything else about it other than it is wholly unfinished and takes place around Christmas. If the Poldark fandom is still alive on tumblr in December 2021, I’ll post the rest (promises, promises...).

Happy New Year Everyone!

---

A Rose in December

They’d been talking for hours.

And in that time the pub had transformed itself more than once. Eerily quiet in the late afternoon, when they’d been the sole patrons in the place, then a round five o’clock someone began playing some crooning Frank Sinatra. That lasted until the after-work horde filed in, then Old Blue Eyes morphed to overly cheerful Christmas music with far too many bells. Now it was loud and crowded and would grow even more so as the night wore on. Everyone seemed to have a heightened celebratory edge as they moved closer to the holiday and a few days off.

Ross noticed she hadn’t raised her voice to be heard over the raucous. Perhaps that was deliberate? He had to lean closer to hear her.

“You know I hate the dark spicy shite breweries put out for winter. Pumpkin and clove and cinnamon--it’s disgusting. I don't want to drink my pudding and if I want mulled wine, I’ll make mulled wine,” she tried to make a disgusted face but couldn’t help laughing at her own joke. Her teeth gleamed white and her lips were inviting but it was her eyes--her bright and smiling eyes--that he found so compelling.

Ross laughed too. He noticed they were coming easier now and from deeper in his gut. With each chuckle out, a deep breath was drawn in. A new breath. He remembered this feeling. But he didn’t shy away from the familiarity. Instead he wanted to move further into it. That feeling of coming home and knowing you can open all the doors--to any room.

---

Ross woke to a blinding morning light coming in through the east-facing window behind him. It was a cold, relentless light--the kind usually found in January, reflecting off the vast expanses of frozen snow. December sunlight was supposed to be softer, more muted. But maybe it was the last night’s drink that was making his eyes so sensitive now.

He sat up and tried turning a stiff neck then stretched his arms above him. He laughed--he hadn’t had aches like these in some time.

He knew he’d be alone--that wasn’t a surprise--but he was struck by how comfortable he felt in her room after only a few hours.

Someone once told him that beds shouldn't be placed against a window--it was bad feng shui, she’d said--but it worked well in this space. There was no headboard only the long white curtains that mingled with the white bed clothes. A tall bookcase--also white--stretched nearly to the ceiling and was stuffed with all manner of books. Some smaller ones were stacked sideways, two deep on the shelf, to make room for as many as possible; piles of overflow books stood on either side. A stuffed armchair that delicately walked the line between antique and rubbish was covered with clothes. It wasn’t untidy, just lived in, inhabited by a body whose mind was perhaps occupied by other things.

On the mirror at the dresser someone had stuck a note.

Someone.

He pulled on his trousers and managed to shuffle the few feet without stumbling or finding himself unstable. That was a good sign.

“Ross--Despite your *best* efforts to keep me busy all night, I somehow managed to get up on time! I think it must be a Christmas miracle. I don’t dare wake you--I think you earned your sleep ;) I have to get to work but if the invitation is still good--and not just a drunken impulse--then I’ll come by your place tonight when my shift ends. Ring me if plans change. Last night was lovely.”

He laughed. It wasn't the drink that had inspired him to invite her over to spend Christmas with him but he had been intoxicated all the same--by her. After hours in her company, in her bed, and so close to her skin. He considered climbing back under the covers so he might find her scent lingering on a pillow.

Yes, inviting her to Christmas had been impulsive. But so was spending the night with her. Technically he’d only just met her that day.

Ross had no regrets. And he was heartened by the tone of her note. It meant he’d be seeing her again soon.

He looked around at the other items on the dresser.  A cosmetic case, crammed full of brushes and eye palettes. A hairbrush with long red hairs sticking out of the bristles. An empty eyeglass case--did she wear glasses? Apparently so. A few photographs of herself when she was younger were tucked in the mirror frame. The other people in them must have remained important to her these many years later.

He suddenly felt he was prying and turned away at once. He grabbed up his shirt and went in search of the toilet.

---

“Morning,” a deep voice said without turning from the stove.

“Um, yes, good morning.” Ross tried not to mumble but realised his mouth was dry. He also thought he could taste her on his lips; he tried not to panic at the memory of such pleasure.

“Coffee?” the young man asked then placed a mug on the table in front of an empty chair without waiting for Ross’s response.

“Thank you,” Ross said and after a moment’s pause took a seat. It would  definitely be rude to take the coffee and go back to bed.

“I’m frying eggs. Can I make you one too?” Was this man familiar with the routine of entertaining her abandoned guests the morning after?

“Yes, please. I’m Ross Poldark. You live here?” It sounded warmer and more conversational in his head.

“I know you, Ross. We met years ago but I suppose you don’t remember. I’m Sam.” Now Ross saw the resemblance in the eyes, the smile. He also saw the gold cross around the young man’s neck.

Good god, that’s right, he remembered now. She’d said she shared a flat with her brother but didn’t mention it was the religious one. He took a gulp of coffee hoping Sam hadn’t heard what went on behind the bedroom door just hours before.

“Melz said she was going to your place tonight for Christmas,” Sam said as he went back to cracking eggs with expert efficiency.

Melz--a family nickname but not one he’d ever used with her.

“Yes, I’m happy Demelza agreed to come. You should join us.” Another impulsive invitation. And this time it was followed with regret.

“Thank you but no,” Sam said. “We’ve mission work. It’s an important night for us.”

Of course take advantage of the sad and down trodden on the loneliest day of the year in your conversion efforts. That seems fair. He was glad Sam’s back was turned again so he wouldn’t see the undisguised disgust on Ross’s face.

“Last year we fed over 300! In one night,” Sam continued.

Shame spread through Ross’s gut. At least Sam was doing something to help those in need.  Who was Ross to be so judgmental?

“Congratulations,” he mumbled. Was that the proper response? He suddenly was feeling less and less certain of himself, of his place, of what he thought he knew about her, and what he now saw he didn’t. “Does Demelza help you...in your work?” he asked tentatively.

“No, she’s too busy and it’s...not really her thing,” Sam laughed then grew serious again.

Ross wished Demelza was there to shepherd him through this conversation. She seemed to know how to frame things so the world made sense. He wasn’t sure what to say to her brother now and grew desperate to push away images from last night that flashed across his memory.

Her face, her body was so lovely as she leaned over him in her moonlit bed. Her voice soft and low yet rich as she purred his name: Ross, Ross.

“Sister works hard, long hours. She deserves to enjoy herself now and then,” Sam slipped an egg onto a plate for Ross, then fumbled to find a clean fork. “It’s nice to see her happy again.”

[autumnslance]

Thavnairian Nights!!! (The name intrigues me)

WIP Ask Game:  Post the names of files in your WIP folder, regardless of how  non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title  that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell  them something about it! and then tag as many people as you like.  

Also requested by @elveny and @earthlystar!

Sadly(?) it’s not very “Arabian Nights” like. At least not the famous Sheherazade part. It’s a working title to remind me which fic it is; who knows if it’ll change!

This actually got backburnered because of the FanFest Showcase and the announcement we’re finally going to Radz-at-Han; I was originally working on this for Femslash February--a first for me, but I was fiddling with a F’lhaminn/Nashmeira fic, set when our Songstress and her self-appointed bodyguards fled Eorzea at the end of A Realm Reborn and ended up in Thavnair where, as we learn in the Dancer quest chain, Lhaminn met a certain troupe principal and became fast enough friends they have endearments and familiar nicknames for each other.

F’lhaminn’s been holding onto Nielle’s memory for years and it seems she doesn’t let many close. But the Banquet’s consequences have had lasting repercussions for the Scions, and far from home and full of fear for her loved ones, she needed some understanding and comfort.

I don’t think it was a passionate romance; they’re both too practical, and F’lhaminn always meant to go home as soon as they knew it was safe--or as soon as Hoary and Coultenet felt strong enough themselves to do something about the situation (hence their undertaking the Trials of the Braves while there).

However, now Nashmeira is in Eorzea and has handed the reins of Troupe Falsiam to her protege, and F’lhaminn’s using her contacts and connections to aid the dancer in her teaching others the kriegstanz and perform while seeking out the corruption the Dancers fight, so...perhaps these two ladies will find more time for one another as well.

But now I kinda want to wait until we see Radz-at-Han and can explore it and know more about Thavnair for realsies instead of me making more things up! I only had a few scenes drafted and various note outlines in between, mostly from Lhaminn’s POV and starting with getting off the ship until the day the trio of Scions leave to return to Eorzea.

Excerpt under the cut:

---

“You’re not alone, F’lhaminn,” Nashmeira said, voice softer than usual. F’lhaminn turned to debate that, but the words faded as she met Nashmeira’s intense gaze. Nashmeira smiled and raised a hand, fingertips gently brushing F’lhaminn’s cheek. “Not while I’m here.”

Like a pair of Ironworks magnets they leaned closer, Nashmeira’s hand sliding back into F’lhaminn’s hair as their foreheads touched. “Call me Lhaminn,” she whispered.

“If you call me Meira,” the other woman replied in kind.

“Yes,” F’lhaminn answered, just before their lips connected.

The kiss was soft and careful, full of warmth and reassurance that left her dizzier than any other since…

Menphina help her, since her Nielle.

In the many years since losing him, there had been only a singular handful of times F’lhaminn had given into her loneliness, her body’s wants. They had all been rushed, desperate moments. Some had only been interested in the Songstress. Some, even unaware of who she used to be, had been more interested in sating their own desires.

Meira understood being seen as an object, not a woman. She understood loss, and the loneliness of life, and the need for understanding from another. To receive as much as one gave. She felt like the softness of rose petals, tasted like the berry wine they had sipped earlier in the evening.

The cautious kiss ended, eyes opening to gaze at one another until their breaths began again. F’lhaminn sighed and rested her head on Meira’s shoulder, her arm wrapped around the dancer’s waist. Meira’s fingers carded through F’lhaminn’s hair, other hand gently stroking up and down her back. They simply sat for some time.

“Thank you,” F’lhaminn began. “You know I cannot stay.”

“Your daughter and the Scions need you,” Meira replied, her usual matter of factness tempered in this moment. “But for now, you are here with me, and that is enough, dear Lhaminn.”

They held one another for awhile longer, until by silent agreement they rose and made their way through the rooftop door again, hands clasped, as Meira drew F’lhaminn along to her room.

The principal’s chamber was as practical as the woman herself, despite the sumptuous decor in the lower levels of the building. Veiled drapes hung around the room, keeping out insects and affording some hazy privacy while allowing air to flow through the muggy nights. Silky pillows piled on the low bed, thick rugs protected bare feet from the cold, hard floor.

There was no rush as they shucked their house slippers and put aside their glasses, taking turns washing their faces in the elegant basin sink. Not much more was said; it was comfortably quiet, considerate requests and answers, a few light laughs. A kiss pressed to the nape of a neck as a bodice was unlaced, fingertips sliding over bared shoulders after unhooking a chemise. The sheets were turned down, the lights put out as they embraced, close despite the warmth of the night.

[kiarcheo]

     One for the Books    1 / 2

The first time Cathy talks to the girl is...quite clichéd – Jane would perhaps compare it to a scene in one of the rom-coms she loves – as they are both reaching for the same book. The girl quickly retracts her hand, mumbling that she doesn’t particularly need it, before scurrying away.

Okay. The first time the girl talks...at her. Mumbles at her, if she has to be precise.

I was in the mood for some Parrward so I decided to finally finish this that had been in my head for a year or so and in my WIP folder since summer.

Can read on Ao3 too

                                 ——————————————–

At first Cathy noticed her in a sort of unintentional, subconscious way. Like when you see the same person on the bus every day on your commute and even if you never talk to them and don't know anything about them, they are familiar. You expect them to get on at that specific stop. To get off at another specific one. Always the same, day in and day out. And then you notice when they are not there.

So Cathy is aware of the girl at the university library she frequents. Always in the sitting area next to her favourite desk, always curled up in an armchair, reading, sometimes sleeping.

Then she takes notice of the books she reads. The varied topics. How quickly she seems to go through them. How she never has a laptop with her or even a notebook, never taking any note.

She notices the long hours, even longer than the ones Cathy herself pulls, which is saying something. Her friends are always teasing her that she would live at the library if it was allowed. Even more this year, since all four of her closest friends are spread around Europe on year-long exchanges and masters, leaving her all alone in the UK...and free to spend all the time she wants at the library without them dragging her out.

The first time Cathy talks to the girl is...quite clichéd – Jane would perhaps compare it to a scene in one of the rom-coms she loves – as they are both reaching for the same book. The girl quickly retracts her hand, mumbling that she doesn’t particularly need it, before scurrying away.

Okay. The first time the girl talks...at her. Mumbles at her, if she has to be precise.

The next time doesn’t go much further...or better. Once Cathy is done with the book, she brings it to her. She hovers by the armchair awkwardly, hands clutching the book.

‘Yes?’ The girl asks, a wary undertone in her voice.

‘If you still want it.’ Cathy thrusts it toward her.

She blinks up at her. ‘Thanks?’

She hesitantly reaches out to take the book. She puts it in her lap. They stare at each other in silence for a beat before Cathy turns on her heels and goes back to her desk.

But third time is the charm. Seeing the girl disappearing among the shelves with the book in her hand and coming back with another one, Cathy assumes that she has finished reading it. She hopes she is right as she approaches her and tries to strike up a conversation about it.

The girl looks baffled at being addressed, but she slowly seems to get more comfortable and soon they are involved in a lively chat about it, Cathy leaning against the arm of the armchair next to the girl’s one. Luckily, it is quite late and there is nobody else in the area so they can talk, albeit in low voices, without disturbing anyone – Cathy had waited until everyone had left so that there would be no witnesses to her awkward, and likely to fail, attempt at being a normal-functioning human being.

‘I’m Cathy, by the way. Well, Catherine but nobody calls me that.’ Cathy had been in the middle of a rant about the latest topic she has been looking into for her assignment when realisation had hit her that they had never exchanged names. Like she said, a disaster, she never claimed otherwise.

‘I get it. Nobody really calls me Katherine anymore.’

‘So what should I call you?’ Cathy just learned her name, but she already knows she doesn’t like to see that sorrowful expression on her face. ‘I’ve been calling you library girl in my mind, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.’

Being funny is not one of Cathy's strong suits, she is aware, so she is half-surprised and half-elated when a small smile appears on Katherine’s face. ‘Kat. With a K.’

Few days later it’s Kat who approaches her desk, a few books in her hands. ‘Have you read these?’

Cathy looks at the titles. ‘I’m quite sure I haven’t.’ She is also quite sure they are not even on the never-ending list of books to read she has, the titles not ringing a bell at all.

‘I had a hunch.’ Kat looks quite pleased with herself. ‘They are in another section because, well, different subjects.’ Yes. Cathy had not wanted to point that out, that the titles didn’t seem related to her topic at all. ‘But there are some interesting bits. This has a whole chapter,’ Kat points to an edited volume, ‘the others just paragraphs, but...you know. Different perspectives and approaches...maybe they can help?’ She seems to lose steam by the end, confidence draining away.

And help they do. Her lecturer is actually impressed by her citing one of those books. After wracking her brain trying to find a way to thank Kat, Cathy decides to go for something that she is pretty sure no student would ever say no to: coffee.

Kat accepts the paper cup, albeit a bit wary. Cathy tries not to take it personally. She had noticed that the girl is perennially on guard. She is comforted when she sneaks a glance towards her later on and sees her sipping from the cup, both hands wrapped around it, eyes closed, content expression on her face. Laying on the small table in front of her armchair are empty sugar wrappers and pots of cream and milk portions...not a single one had remained untouched. Cathy makes a mental annotation to bring Kat a cappuccino next time. Maybe she would prefer that to an Americano (maybe she could ask Kat herself, but that’s another matter).

.

‘I thought you weren’t coming at all today.’ Cathy is on her way back to her desk with a pile of books in her arms when she notices that what is in Cathy’s mind ‘Kat’s spot’ is now occupied while it was not when she passed by earlier.

Cathy cringes, realising she sounded a bit stalkerish, and indeed Kat shifts in her seat looking slightly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, she replies. ‘Double shift at the restaurant.’

Right on cue, Cathy’s stomach loudly growls. ‘Sorry.’ She mumbles sheepishly.

‘Have you had dinner?’ Kat looks like she has something on her mind.

Cathy shakes her head. ‘Just some snacks. I really need to finish this,’ she shifts the pile of books in her arms, ‘by the time I realised how late it was getting, everything on campus was closed already...so I raided the vending machine.’

‘Want to share some cold leftovers?’ Kat asks after a moment of hesitation. ‘They let me take them...’

Cathy’s stomach answers for her, letting out another rumble.

She repays the favour by bringing Kat a cappuccino at the earliest opportunity. And yes, Kat seems to enjoy that more than black coffee, she thinks giving herself a mental high-five. She stills pours all the sugar in it though.

They develop a sort of routine, or perhaps kind of a standing appointment. Cathy pretty much knows when Kat has her shifts at the restaurant, and if she times her study breaks for when Kat is around...well, sue her for wanting some company. And she does it for Kat too. She swears that the girl never leaves the library when it’s open 24/7, which is quite often. Cathy had tried to wait for her but gave up every time, always falling asleep on her desk more than once before relenting and dragging herself home, grateful to live quite close to the campus.

When it’s not raining, they often go for a walk around the campus, Kat always bringing her backpack with her. Cathy had wanted to question it, even if jokingly, once or twice, but Kat seemed to tense every time she noticed her glancing at it, so she never did. And after the first couple of times the small, folding, umbrella in it got them back at the library more or less dry when they got caught out in the rain...never going to question it ever again, not even in her mind.

They talk a lot. Kat never talks about her family or her course, Cathy had noticed, but she will happily chat about whatever book she is reading at the moment (or any of the many she has read), the customers at the restaurant or what weird thing she had seen on campus or around the city that day. Cathy is curious, of course, but she is not going to push. It’s not her business and she is sure Kat has her reasons for not wanting to touch certain subjects. Maybe she is still trying to figure out her academic journey and talking about it just stresses her out. She would certainly not be the first fresher to be confused and agonizing over courses choices, career direction and more in general what to do with their life. And there is probably not enough time in the world to list all the possible ways family can be crappy and a topic that people prefer to avoid.

Cathy keeps bringing Kat drinks every now and then, varying from cappuccino to mocha to hot chocolate...the sweeter the better, she learned. Kat keeps accepting them with hesitation and a touch of discomfort.

One day she decides to ask. She knows Kat likes them, but she also always looks uncomfortable receiving them, so if that trumps the enjoyment...she will stop.

‘I just don’t want you to spend money on me.’

‘You know how I work at that coffee shop?’ Cathy waits for Kat’s nod. ‘Well, the pay is crap, but we get drinks for free.’

She is a bit ashamed to admit it. Yes, everyone always says it’s the thought that counts, but nobody likes a cheapskate. Kat, however, looks relieved to hear that. It is weird that she seems happier now that she knows that Cathy is not paying for the drinks, which confuses Cathy...so she asks.

‘I just don’t feel comfortable with you buying me stuff,’ Kat explains, ‘especially since I can’t reciprocate.’

Check your privilege, Cathy! Now she feels even worse. She knows she is lucky. She wouldn’t say rich, but she is certainly economically comfortable. She is working at the coffee shop because she doesn’t want to rely completely on family money, but that’s how she can afford to rent her flat without having to share with anyone else. And her closest friends are from the same standing, let’s say, so while she knows that not everyone is in her situation...economic difficulties are not at the forefront of her mind.

‘Wait, what about when we went out for dinner? For my birthday?’ Cathy blurts out, before cringing slightly. Just because she could do it once, it doesn’t mean she always has money to spare. Or even worse, what if she didn’t have money to spare but she still did it? Did she feel like she had to, when Cathy had offhandedly mentioned it was her birthday while apologising for their chat being interrupted by her friends abroad calling her to wish her a happy birthday?

‘The restaurant belongs to the husband of my boss. Yes, they are both chefs, but they have different styles and,’ she shrugs. She had been surprised when she learned it, thought it strange that they would not work together at the same restaurant, but...if it works for them... ‘anyway, got the employee discount and took the rest off from my pay. Besides, it was a special occasion.’

‘Does it mean that I can take you out for your birthday?’

‘We’ll see,’ Kat looks disillusioned, ‘if you are still around.’

Cathy frowns. Why shouldn’t she still be around? But anyway. Kat’s birthday is in summer. That’s a long time to go. She wracks her brain. ‘What about a picnic? I could cook or just make sandwiches and we could-’

‘It’s November.’ Kat interrupts her, drily.

‘Right.’ Cathy deflates. How could she have forgotten about English weather?

‘Why are you trying so hard?’

Cathy is taken aback by the question. ‘I like you. As a friend. Obviously.’ She takes a fortifying breath. ‘But I’d like to be more-’

‘Like what?’ Kat’s voice is unusually sharp.

Cathy swallows, a prickle in her mind pointing out that Kat doesn’t look disgusted. Or angry. Her face is quite inexpressive, to be honest, but she can see the distress in her eyes. And it doesn’t look like nerves like her own. Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Holding your hand? Cuddling? Dating? Calling you my girlfriend?’

Kat doesn’t seem reassured by her answer. Cathy has a fleeting thought that maybe she is worried and unsure about relationships in general. She is younger than herself and perhaps she never dated before (she is a beautiful girl, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? She learned her lesson about assuming everyone date as teenagers with Jane). She is suddenly happy that she didn’t include kissing, even if she does want to kiss Kat. She remembers that with her first, and only, boyfriend, what she had wanted was...what Thomas later on branded as ‘lame’ affection while all he seemed to want was to stick his tongue down her throat...and more.

‘That’s it?’ Kat scoffs. ‘Nothing more?’

‘Not if you don’t want to.’

Kat looks like she doesn’t believe her. Cathy feels slightly hurt at that, before another thought occurs to her. What happened to Kat for her to be so distrustful? The more her brain comes up with possibilities, the angrier she gets, so she tries to stop it before it gets out of hand and she assumes things that might not be true.

‘If you want to just stay friends, that’s fine.’

‘But?’ Kat is tense, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

‘But if you would like to give it a try,’ Cathy can’t help thinking that Kat never said she is not interested. That’s like the first thing people do, right? Turning the other part down by telling them they only see them as friends or stuff like that. ‘We don’t have to…label it. We can just…spend time together. See how it goes?’

And that’s what they do.

                                 ——————————————–

If everything goes according to plan, the second chapter should be out next weekend.

[akindofmagictoo]

roygbiv tag game

thank you @vellichor-virgo ! 

rules: find all seven colours of the rainbow in your WIP(s) 

red (this is long but context. and the discussion is fun) 

She merely laughed as Tempest turned to face her. “This is where you picked us up, wasn’t it, jefe?” 

Tempest smiled. “Aria caught you trying to steal her purse. I remember.” 

“I wasn’t trying,” said Marisa, feigning mortal offence. She put a hand to her heart. “I succeeded. I got it all the way off her belt before she noticed.” 

Tempest just laughed. “At least you gave it back.” 

Marisa joined her laughter, but after a moment it died and her expression became serious. “I picked the right purse to steal, I think. Life is better now. No more going hungry every few days, and this job comes with much nicer clothes.” 

A perk of piracy. Marisa was very attached to her long black skirt and embroidered red shirt. Tempest didn’t blame her. The clothes were good quality, and they suited her. Perhaps a little fancier than Tempest would have chosen, but each to her own. 

orange (and bonus yellow) 

Emmy rolled her eyes, hauled herself to her knees, and rummaged in the locker underneath her bunk in which she kept her personal belongings. Like many of the crew, including Aella herself, she’d slept in just a shirt and pants. Now she grabbed an orange waistcoat out of the locker and wriggled into it. In Aella’s opinion, the waistcoat was truly hideous, but Emmy liked odd fashion. Emmy had also pointed once out that Aella wore a bright yellow sash, so she supposed she couldn’t judge too harshly. 

yellow (Theo we see you noticing Aella’s fashion choices) 

He found Tempest and a few of her crew by an empty berth and a pile of strewn ropes. The same dock where he’d seen the man the night before. The nearest crew member happened to be Aella; she’d changed out of the yellow dress and back into her regular ship’s clothes, but her hair was still in the same two braids as the night before. He tapped her on the shoulder. 

green (I have definitely posted this before, but green is one of my least-used colours) 

Aella pursed her lips. “Addie, you can go talk to Cai—over there, the Chinese woman in the green shirt, that’s Cai—if you want. She’s our Master Gunner. Otherwise stay here ’til someone asks you to help. That goes for you, too, Theo.” When they both nodded, Aella went to head for the crow’s nest. 

blue (Aella is looking respectfully) 

She stepped closer and leant one knee on the edge of the hammock, though this time she left her other foot firmly planted on the ground. “I can’t see it. The light’s bad.” 

“Probably the fog.” 

She grinned and caught his chin to steady it, tilting it upwards to make the most of what light there was. His face was very close to hers now, his eyes suddenly very blue. Light freckles speckled his nose and cheeks. Had she seen those before? Her heart skipped a beat. 

Oh, yes. The scar. No wonder it had been hard to see; it was small, just a thin white line. 

indigo (THIS is actually my least used colour for probably obvious reasons) 

All of a sudden the rocky passage opened into indigo sky and calm dark sea, the fog gone like it had never been there. Theo and Victoire slumped as one. Theo rubbed his bruised jaw, the sirens’ images floating through his mind. A worm of doubt coiled and uncoiled in his stomach that had nothing to do with the twinging bullet wound. Tears pricked at his eyelids. Was that the last he’d see of his family? No. Tempest and Aella had both promised to take him home. He’d see them all again. 

purple (and bonus red) 

The Marquess left Red Sands before they could arrive, and pulled out of sight overnight, but the wind was good the next morning when Tempest took the helm. She fixed her gaze on the horizon, hoping for any sign of those ridiculous purple sails. The wind was cool on her face and she lifted her chin a little, the better to enjoy it. A hand appeared in her vision, waving. Aria. “Tempest?” 

@zmlorenz pretty sure you got tagged in the same post I did but you can count yourself tagged by me if you like. as can @ardawyn @etjwrites @writingbyjillian @isherwoodj @starryeve88 @ink-fireplace-coffee and @sleepyowlwrites 

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

After The Dawn

Hello, hello! I am indeed still around, and sometimes even do non-work-related stuff. About, oh, 2 years ago, this got sent in as a prompt, so have a little 4 times + 1 thing, for the occasion of me processing my recent DS9 comfort-rewatch (by which I of course mean “mostly spending a lot of time gazing adoringly at Kira Nerys and crying”). As far as I recall, I’ve never actually posted anything from my giant decade plus WIP pile of Trek stuff, so this is a first - I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

The prompt was “five different sunlights”. So here are five snapshots of Kira Nerys from joining the resistance to DS9 and beyond, ~4400 words. Veers into Kira/Jadzia because I’m hilariously predictable. Also includes brief appearances by (in order): Lupaza, Furel, Shakaar, Damar, Garak, Kaksidy, and Jake. Mentions of several others.

Contains discussion of the occupation of Bajor and canon character deaths, but nothing explicit I can think of to warn about.

---

After The Dawn

1. 2356

The raid was long over but her fingers still shook – cold, always because of the cold, never from fear. Every so often they would twitch more decisively, as if recalling the sensation of the phaser rifle she was just barely big enough to hold jerking to life in her grip. But then they’d travel to her right ear of their own accord, tracing the lines of her new earring. A proper d’ja pagh all of her own, with the symbol of the Kira family emblazoned in the metal – echoing the beautiful engraving she’d always admired on her father’s. 

Lupaza had worked through the night to make it for her, by the feeble light of one of their few still-working heaters, with skill that seemed otherworldly to Kira (who, though by far the youngest among them, knew better than to ask about anyone’s life before joining a resistance cell). Lupaza, who had looked at the scrawny thirteen-year-old hanging around their camp, and who’d chosen to believe in her, and speak up for her. Who’d presented her handiwork to ‘their newest member’ at sunrise, during the change of guard at the mouth of their current cavern hideout, letting the winter light glimmer on its silvery surface for all to see. And Kira had beamed at her, not caring about who’d been around to witness it or how young it may have made her look. 

I’m in the Resistance, she wanted to shout over and over again until the reality truly set in, flooded and near-overwhelmed by the newfound sense of belonging and pride and brightly burning defiance mixing in her chest.

Again and again her fingers went – over the cuff hugging the shell of her ear snugly, down the single deceptively delicate chain, to the simple but beautiful main piece. She could almost believe it was still warm to the touch, heated by the orange-glow burn of Bajor’s atmosphere on Cardassian hull metal – made from stolen Bajoran ore, mined with stolen Bajoran labour. It was only right and just that it be returned this way. The rest of the beritium hull salvage they’d stripped from the ship would be used for lining the walls of their hideout, shielding them from sensor sweeps and the bite of the winter cold alike. But this small bit of it was a shield all Kira’s own.

It was a comforting presence, a slight but grounding weight with a depth of meaning that its size belied. Lupaza smiled at her fascination and distraction every time she happened to pass by, promising she’d get used to it. Furel agreed, for once without a trace of a joke in his voice, and slapped a hand on her bony shoulder with a gruff: “You’ve more than earned it, kid.” 

Shakaar himself, in between whatever it was his leaderly duties entailed, took a moment to consider her. “It suits you,” was all he said on the matter, though if he meant the earring or the phaser Kira had for the first time stuck in her own belt instead of giving it back after cleaning was anyone’s guess. Then, turning to leave, he added, “Good job out there.”

There was something like sadness behind all of their eyes. Kira chose not to see it, or dwell on it.

She was in the Resistance.

She didn't even know if any of her (many) shots during the ambush had found their mark, but it didn't seem to matter. She could, she would help protect her father and his little garden, scrounged up, cobbled together, but growing. Protect her remaining brother, for the one she had failed to. She would honour her mother, the bravest woman I've ever known, Nerys. She saved us all, at great cost to herself.

Whenever her fingers floated back down and twitched for want of a rifle trigger again, she told herself to be patient. There would be more work for her, more chances to be useful, more chances to prove herself. No more sitting idly by, and no more fear.

-

2. 2369

Even after weeks on the station Kira had yet to manage to sleep through an entire night, but she sincerely doubted it was the bed's fault. Sure, the Cardassian-designed beds in the Cardassian-designed quarters on the Cardassian-designed station left much to be desired, but they certainly beat the ground of a half-frozen cave. And yet here she was, with endless damn bunking arrangements as one of the most frequently brought-up complaints among the crew body. Why and how those PADDs always seemed to end up on her desk was anyone's guess. She'd been prepared for a more administrative role, yes, but…

“The time is oh-six-hundred hours,” the computer helpfully informed her.

Kira huffed, and tossed aside another PADD with a blinking Request denied, then shrugged on her uniform jacket and made to leave her quarters for a quick breakfast.

It was still an odd thought that took getting used to: her quarters – hers alone; a viewport in the bulkhead, allowing her to see the stars and, when the rotation was right, Bajor’s own familiar sun from a very new perspective. Regular meals thanks to Federation engineers patching up Cardassian replicators and whipping them into shape. Shops and eateries opening on the Promenade. The ruinous mess the Cardassians left behind them slowly coming together again into something functional. Kira permitted herself a wry twist of the mouth at the thought – hopefully the planet the station had formerly orbited could manage to do the same.

The discovery of the wormhole brought fascinating, colourful crowds to the station so quickly and in such volumes, she didn't envy Odo at all. Even the small segment of the Promenade she saw on her way from her quarters to the replimat was enough to reinforce, every morning, that this was no longer Terok Nor: grey in every way imaginable, filled with throngs of terrified, beaten-down Bajoran workers and their Cardassian overseers, delighting in the former’s disposability.

The small but lively, chattering crowd in the replimat seemed to underscore all of her thoughts – no more waiting in line for gruel with the exhausted shift that had just left ore processing.

“Good morning!”

Instead, a friendly Federation face. The pattern of spots that ran down the sides of Lieutenant Dax’s face and down her neck was fascinating to Kira still – not Bajoran, and certainly not the grey, flared bony Cardassian necks that had made up most of Kira's world up until not so very long ago. She had to stop herself from staring often, even though, judging by that smirk, the Lieutenant did not seem to mind. She appeared to relish attention in general, of all kinds. Kira ducked her head, and tried to focus on the replicator instead.

“Something wrong? Quark interfering with the menus again?” Dax was right behind her, peeking over her shoulder, eyebrow raised, and smiling. Somehow she always seemed to be doing that.

“Oh, no, nothing like that, thankfully. Still not quite used to this, is all.” She shuffled her feet and made no real move to complete an order.

“Hm. Well, if I may, Major, I’d recommend the raktajino for early morning starts like this.”

“Raktajino?” Kira repeated oafishly, biting back the Early!? her mind had immediately supplied.

“Klingon coffee. Try it – I think you’ll like it.”

Kira was sceptical, but Dax seemed to be very sincere – so after a few button presses she found herself holding a large mug of something hot, dark, and quite thick. She wrinkled her nose and took a sip.

“It’s, uh… strong.”

“Hits the spot, right?”

The crooked, almost sly smile on the Lieutenant’s face was contagious. Kira didn’t even feel like bringing up growing up under an occupation-enforced famine as an excuse for her own lack of a developed or sophisticated palate or culinary taste in general.

The drink did have a real kick to it, and Kira took another sip. “Yeah, it does.”

“Just don’t go overboard with them – let me tell you, I made some grave mistakes there right after I became a host. Curzon,” Dax smirked, shaking her head, then waved at the table they’d found themselves next to. “Mind if I join you?”

Kira thought about it, but only for a moment.

“Not at all, Lieutenant.”

And ah, there it was then, as soon as they sat down: the small, incessant, bitter sting of you knew what they were doing to us and you sat by and did nothing that insisted on making itself known at very inopportune times. It was, however, becoming more bearable by the day and with every individual met, every new reassurance that they were here now, despite everything, to make a good start. Together.

When the Cardassians came they were helpful and charming too, nagged the little voice at the back of her mind. But this couldn’t be like that, and just looking at Dax was enough to… well, perhaps Kira was being a naive fool, but there seemed to be ground to build here, and she found herself willing to try. And after all, she knew she herself was ready to do anything, to lay her life down for Bajor. She just needed to be pointed the right way – or, rather, she needed to be able to point herself the right way. Now that knowing who the enemy was and who the enemy could turn out to be had gotten more complicated. Still, if nothing else: she wouldn’t let it be a repeat of anything, and she was prepared to be a thorn in anyone’s side, Federation or provisional government or otherwise, for as long as was necessary. 

“You seem to be mulling over something grim already. Everything alright?”

The concern was genuine enough, but Kira had no idea how to even begin to explain all of it, even if she’d wanted to.

“Just thinking about some complaints about quarters I need to handle,” she lied smoothly – or what she hoped was smooth, anyway.

Dax caught on, and backed off. Lifetimes of experience to thank – or perhaps Kira was just that easy to read. A transcript of Trakor’s annotated ninth prophecy just waiting on a lectern, as Lupaza would say. 

“Sure. Let me know if I can help.”

“With station admin? Aren’t you a science officer?”

“Absolutely. But it's in all our best interests to get this place running as smoothly as possible as fast as possible, right?”

Kira narrowed her eyes at her, entirely unconvinced. “Right.”

“Fine,” Dax threw her hands up in the air in a very silly, exaggerated gesture, “I admit it, I’m after juicy gossip. There’s bound to be quarter reassignment requests in there! What could be juicier?”

Kira couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, then. “You are ridiculous.”

Dax grinned right back. “Glad to be of help. Let’s get to Ops, you can tell me all about it on the way.”

When Kira got to her feet, both she herself and the entire day – if it could truly be called that on a space station – felt somehow lighter already.

-

3. 2372

It was swelteringly hot under the sun of some new, as of yet unnamed planet, in the midst of a survey mission that had already gone on longer than scheduled. Hardly Kira’s idea of a good – or productive – time. 

The place was an unpleasant dustbowl broken up by stray glass-encrusted rock here and there, and Kira was surrounded by a bunch of bustling, tricorder-armed Starfleet explorer types she would have sneered at, not so long ago – but many of whom she’d now consider fast friends. She’d hardly consider herself an ideal choice for helming this particular mission, but Sisko had been insistent, and so here she was. It would appear that, if nothing else, it gave her time to indulge in reverie – a truly rare occurrence.

The unfamiliar stars of the Gamma Quadrant, unimaginably far from everything she’d ever known, could now be reached within seconds, thanks to the wormhole – more proof of how the Prophets kept looking out for Bajor in sometimes quite unexpected ways. And Kira, as Bajor’s official representative on the mission, was determined to do her best to facilitate and build upon their efforts.

“Take a look at this, Major!” It was Dax calling her over, her tricorder beeping over some bizarre green-magenta form of plant life she found beneath a rocky outcrop a little off the not-so-alien dirt path Kira was stomping down. 

“What've you got for me, Lieutenant?”

“Some kind of elaborate root system stretches on for more than a kilometer underground, running beneath the very acidic soil, with an impressive – and perfectly symmetrical – array of large tubers.”

Kira shot the sensor readings a look. “Huh, could’ve fed a whole resistance cell for an entire winter on nothing but a few of those.”

She frowned as soon as the words left her mouth – Jadzia Dax, decorated Starfleet science officer and dedicated, studious initiate who’d earned the approval of the strict Trill Symbiosis Commission, certainly hadn’t had such prosaic, practical implications of her findings in mind. For a very, very brief moment, Kira felt a sting of embarrassment – but then her mind snapped decisively back into its standard guarded, resolute position: she had nothing to be embarrassed about.

Dax, as had somehow become a somewhat frustrating habit of hers, seemed to be able to encompass Kira’s entire internal dialogue with a glance. But somehow she did it… gently, without making Kira feel small or inadequate in any way. No smug Starfleet superiority here, even with all the accumulated bragging rights of all the lifetimes under her belt. And – perhaps most importantly – no trace of pity to be found. Instead, a wellspring of enthusiasm.

“Their composition is interesting, I agree. Starchy, and rich in several key proteins – this has potential for significant contributions to agriculture. I bet Keiko will love to get her hands on this – see what she can set up in one of the hydroponics bays.”

Her smile was as bright as the orange-tinted light of the unfamiliar sun, but Kira took up the challenge of matching it.

Jadzia leaned in, almost conspiratorially, “Help me catalogue it?”

“I, uh, don’t really know what the procedure–”

“No worries, I’ll walk you right through it. It’s fun!” Kira’s scepticism must have been written all over her face. “I swear it is! I’m not just saying that, you’ll see.”

“Not to mention,” Jadzia winked, “it’ll get us under some nice shade and right next to a cooling unit.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“And you love it.”

Kira couldn’t disagree.

-

4. 2375

The weak, grey light of Cardassia Prime’s sun filtered through the slits in the cellar windows – if they could even be called that.

Another very literally bleak dawn. No contact with the Federation. No hope of reinforcements, or extraction, or help of any kind. Negligible chances of news from Deep Space 9, of the fleet, of Odo’s health, of anything at all. And here, far behind enemy lines, Kira and her unlikely comrades presumed dead, their network of allies and carefully-hidden carefully-built-up resources destroyed, all three (three) survivors hidden away in the capital of a people she’d once have termed her worst enemies, relying on the goodwill of an old woman.

Kira, a veteran of hopeless causes, had been in worse spots – but not many.

Whatever Damar’s less… pleasant compatriots had thought, she found no joy in any of it. Not even a flutter of satisfaction at all the irony the situation was positively dripping with. It was enough that it meant that twice now she’d been witness to oppression and destruction on an immense scale – civilisation-ending, one might term it. It was wearing, and wearying, no matter who it happened to.

Would she have cheered for the destruction of Cardassia as little as a handful of years ago? Perhaps, if it would have meant Bajor being left alone. The moral quandary aspect certainly wasn’t something she wanted to be thinking about at the moment.

While the others seemed to still be asleep, Kira lay on her back on one of the thin blankets Mila had provided them, and thumbed almost idly through a list of signals intercepted nearby, identifying potential sabotage targets. There were still things three people with extremely limited resources could do to make themselves useful - or disruptive, depending on your perspective. 

Two Jem’Hadar barracks complexes (a hatchery would be better, and far less dangerous). A comms central (they might not have the proper tools available to make it truly worth the risk). Long-term storage warehouses (they needed to maximise short-term effects on the Dominion occupiers, not minimise the chances of Cardassia’s eventual recovery). Weapons manufacturing plants (tempting security gaps during shift changes, but still far too well-guarded for the three of them to take on alone). A power distribution junction (...remote, potentially high-impact, and definitely worth looking into). Kira made a note to ask Garak for any further details he could muster about it.

She should have, perhaps, been saving her strength, getting what rest she could while she could. Restless, that was what she was, even with all her experience and her awareness that so, so much of a resistance fight was simply spent waiting, biding time. With another brief glance around the murky room, she gave up even the pretense of repose, and got up to stretch her legs and pace out her nerves.

Garak was asleep in his corner, or at least pretending to be. Whatever suited his purposes best.

“Commander,” came a low murmur from the other side of the room: Damar, sitting up on his own improvised bed, very much awake. The Starfleet rank still sounded strange to her, but Kira could appreciate the way Damar made sure to respect it from the start, and never allowed himself a slip. “There’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about. If you have a moment.”

“Somehow I have both far too much and far too little time these days. What is it?” She asked quietly, stepping closer, though the chances of Garak actually sleeping through whatever their conversation was going to be were negligibly low – as were the chances of him ‘waking up’ before they were done.

“I know it might not make much difference. And I do not ask for your forgiveness, or understanding. But I wanted – no, needed to tell you this. I'm sorry – for what I did to Ziyal.”

Her mood miraculously sank even lower. “For murdering her, you mean,” Kira didn’t even try to hold back the bite, nor had she ever been one for softening any blows.

Damar’s lips twisted. “You are right to call it what it was. Hiding from the truth won’t accomplish anything anymore. I killed her, and I deeply regret it.”

Kira said nothing, and Damar continued. “I’m not asking you for anything, believe me. But I hope… she can become a herald, of sorts. Her presence can live on in our alliance, a spirit of cooperation, and a new dawn for both our peoples.”

It was hardly the first time Damar made her think there could be a future for Cardassia after everything, one of reinvention and coexistence. Even Kira, with her underdeveloped imagination (Jadzia's efforts notwithstanding – ah, there was the stab of that hastily half-handled grief), could let herself imagine it.

Kira nodded, and pursed her mouth. Forgiveness wasn’t something she felt was hers to give, even if she wanted to. Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s.

“Nice speech, Damar,” she said, flatly. Ground out, almost. “It’ll be good for you, to’ve had the practice.” Then, after a moment of consideration of what she was prepared to give: “I hope I'll get to hear you make more of those someday soon. And I hope Cardassia will get to hear them, too.”

It only took another tragically small circle paced before the weight in the room became unbearable. Kira decided to make for their somewhat improvised refresher and what little privacy could be scrounged up – and caught Garak watching her, lying motionless but as alert as ever.

She silently met his eyes, then turned away.

-

5. 2376

The first day of her long-awaited leave dawned beautiful and clear. It seemed a small thing, to be sure – but perhaps the Prophets, prompted by their Emissary, had had a hand in making it so. No matter the reason, the sun shone on a Bajor that was growing prosperous and whole in ways Kira had feared it wouldn’t ever be again. 

The document that had just brought peace to two quadrants of the galaxy was called the Treaty of Bajor. There was talk, increasingly common and growing louder, of reactivating Bajor's suspended Federation membership application, and Kira had been made aware of the validity of her Starfleet field commission and the implications on her future career. The Vedek Assembly would be announcing their choice of the new Kai within the week. The soil beneath her feet was healthy, fertile, fully reclamated and ready for planting. There were now schoolchildren on Bajor who had never lived under the occupation. 

And there was Kira, who had helped liberate it, and hadn’t lived on it since.

This was the first time she’d returned to her home planet after the formal end of hostilities with the Dominion, and all that that had entailed. The light of B’hava’el was strong but not harsh – the same sun Kira had spent most of her life under, but that had never hit her more differently than it felt now. B’hava’el, that she had now seen from so much closer and so much further away – had, in a horrifying, memorable incident, helped prevent the destruction of, even. Her! Not just scrappy little Nerys from the Shakaar resistance cell anymore, small enough to slip through narrow passages in the labyrinthine caves of the Dahkur province and gaps in the Cardassian sensor nets alike.

She was Colonel Kira Nerys, commander of Deep Space 9, and, as a dear lost friend had made sure she was aware a while ago, a public figure in her own right. Ah– her own importance was something she would need to confront some other time, perhaps, right after she somehow went head to head with her grief. Ezri had been dropping some suggestions, in her capacity as a counselor, for all of the senior staff and beyond. It would be foolish not to consider her recommendations, both as the commanding officer and as a friend.  

Kira was well aware she had lost so much and so many. And she could sit down and catalogue the losses on a PADD, like freighter cargo inventory, but what for? She had gained, too, and lost again, and gained yet more. Like waves and eddies, pulling along a lightship on its way through the stars.

“Prophets help me if I try being a poet, too,” Kira mumbled to herself. Maybe she would take up writing tortured metaphors about the Prophets watching over and guiding ancient Bajoran star sailors on their journey all the way to Cardassia, for better or worse. 

A stray breeze toyed with the chain of her earring, carrying the scent of ripening moba fruit, and as she crested the hill, the outline of a house well under construction came into view.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Kasidy asked from just behind her, Jake right at her side, holding her arm.

“Just thinking aloud. Nothing important. Anyway… where did you want to start?”

Her two companions caught up to her quickly enough. The gasps of surprised joy at the sight of all the progress that had been made on the house were by themselves more than worth the trip planetside.

“Well,” Kasidy began, “we have all the plumbing specifications and details all worked out thanks to the local architect you recommended – thanks again, by the way. I think… the kitchen should be first.”

It was an obvious tribute. A longing and anticipation there, too. Kira's heart ached just a bit stronger then, for a beat or two. She nodded, scrolling down a PADD loaded with floor plans and interior concepts. “I know some people who can help with that, too. Ceramics and pottery artisans, and a few others. I’ve got some favours to call in.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Kasidy started, but didn’t get too far.

“Yes I do, Kas. We’re going to see this through, and we’re going to see it done properly.”

“Only the best for the Emissary?” Jake asked, pointedly. There wasn’t bitterness there, though Kira would have understood it, and perhaps expected it, from a young man longing for the return of his father. 

“For a dear friend and his family,” Kira corrected. “But – yes, I’m sure they’ll be happy and honoured to contribute. Now, Julian and Ezri will be down with the next transport, just in time to meet us for dinner in the village. We have a few hours to handle things here, check on the progress so far, make notes – any complaints or requests you might have. Remember, I’m here to make sure they listen to you.”

They started down the path into the almost startlingly green valley, Kira catching herself marvelling along the way at the visibility of all the growth and healing made possible by the hard, dedicated work of so many. Who knew what could be in store for an old civilisation of artists, architects, and philosophers, forced to reinvent itself, and the sometimes tenuous connections to vast stretches of heritage that Kira herself had grasped at in various ways for most of her life, born into struggle and desperate, determined rebellion, like so many others. 

Well. Nothing to stop her from trying her hand at poetry, after all.

She felt her lips twist wryly at the private joke – she knew her place and her strengths. And she thought she could say she knew herself, too – precious knowledge, by any accounting. She knew there'd be no rest for her, not really, as long as there was something to be done for Bajor, and for her station, and for her unlikely family, wherever they might end up, scattered among and beyond the stars.

But Kira allowed herself a moment, gazing up in what she imagined might be the direction of the wormhole’s entrance.