#finally caught up in a timely manner for once! i only have three straggler finales left & then shinkalion but that's its bad for being late

[cospinol]

spring 2024 isekai log☆ we very, very narrowly missed a 1-2 isekai finish in my overall seasonal ranking this time around (thanks to tadaima okaeri stealing second place by finally deciding to lean into the sleazy side of its setting a little at the eleventh hour) so i think the takeaway of this season might be that i have bad taste in anime. anyways, highs and lows!

can you believe it, a season where the isekai log hosts the season's best show by a mile???!!! kantei skill is really, actually almost perfect in every way - neatly plotted, thoughtful in its theming, and absolutely bursting at the seams with delicious little character dramas. every single member of the main cast is good enough to carry an entire series on their own (as is appropriate to a plot about acquiring really good personnel), and the mock-battle arc that the season ends with once the whole cast's been brought together is not only a delight in its own right but a confirmation that this series both intends to commit to and is very clever at coming up with military strategy plots - basically all of its priorities are exactly what i want them to be ,and it executes them almost perfectly all the time. i haven't mentioned the isekai aspect at all yet because it's a classic case of 'we put tensei in the title to increase the viewcount of this standard fantasy series' and it almost never comes up in the series at all, except one random reference ars makes to hattori hanzo late in the series that came so out of left field that it made me laugh out loud. i can't overstate what a selling point ars is a protagonist, too, the rare case where his being a little plain and clumsy in some respects and highly competent in select others functions as *incredible* gap moe, he is so cute!!! nothing but respect for MY future emperor... this is a preliminary 8/10 but if next season continues to deliver while raising the stakes i'll increase the whole package to a 9

dainana ouji is structurally and tonally a lot more conventional - it's a goofy comedy about joining the adventurers' guild and killing demons and so on, it's just also insanely good on a technical level, understated but incredibly stylish with an excellent sense of comedic timing; its pacing is breezy and its cast is endearing, and the tournament arc in the manga (which it convinced me to read ahead in because i was enjoying it so much) promises even more. this series is a lesson in simple excellence, that's all!

after that of course there's nowhere to go but down, so we're immediately dropping down to the 'basically average on a normal isekai scale' sector with the new gate, which is really... generally pretty Fine for a normal isekai. it's hard to praise much about it when it has such stiff competition but while its writing is always thin and basic it's got close enough to an idea of what a story should look like to spare it from a lower score, and it never made me angry, so (<- a sad glance back at my usual standards for the genre). the only thing of any note at all about this show, unfortunately, is that it's incredibly ugly on a 'something went very wrong very early in production' level such that all of the characters look wildly off-model at all times; please look at what the protagonist's design already looks like on the poster and then imagine how the show's faring by episode eight

madome (not an isekai, but it's a basic fantasy LN with maou in the title, so) earns about an equivalent middling-four that i did also lightly consider bumping up just a little because its approximate competence in most respects eventually gets it to a pretty cute and decently well-earned no-harm-no-foul slice of life status quo by the very last episode, but ultimately for all this show's extensive parade of gimmicks and light-novel flights-of-fancy it never came up with anything that i cared enough about to give it an extra affection point. also, critically, i think the single most important aspect of the show (the romance between the two leads) is just nothing to write home about; it's not actively irritating but their respective neuroses don't interact in a particularly interesting or cute way - and i know they could, because this show is extremely similar to last fall's ikenaikyo (which has the exact same 'lol it sounds sleazy conceptually but it's actually fluff' premise (as well as just about the exact same protagonists), but which i didn't review at the time because it didn't put the demon lord part in the title, natch) and fares very poorly in comparison -- and as much as i liked that romance, i only gave that show a five, so. them's the breaks!

one level down, from 'nothing special here' to 'no, i mean there's literally nothing here', is dekisoko, where... there is nothing. the gimmick is kind of that it's not really an isekai because he was reincarnated in the same world, i guess, but it can't actually commit to it enough to give us any indication of when/where his first life took place relative to the current setting, which might give you some indication as to the care and consideration put into this series's writing. of course the premise is just a basic veneer and a justification for mc-kun's op abilities and what it's actually dedicated to is absolutely fucking nothing; it listlessly goes through some basic isekai motions (dad possessed by a demon! evil but not evil holy knights! elf forest! and other greatest hits), looks extremely bad the whole time, and then stops. the only character of note is the goddess (??) from the protagonist's previous life who also was reincarnated along with him(??), who has Two character traits (kinda goofy and speaks in the third person), which is twice as much as the rest of the harem, and a few cute interactions with the mc over their shared history, but then of course she's not even the main girl/actual fiancee, even though she's the redhead with twintails! the state of the genre, honestly...

and finally re:monster. this fucking show...... okay, so this show is pretty clear about what it is from the get-go; it's a basic tensura-like where the protagonist makes the most of being reborn as a low-level monster by using his random unrelated hax. the first few episodes of the show cover his early levelling-up as a small child whose peers are barely sentient, and instead of choosing to have very little dialogue it features a constant voice-over where the mc describes the events that happened to him, in first-person past tense, clearly almost verbatim from the light novel. it was around the fourth episode, when the protagonist was fully grown and now clearly having conversations with the other characters that we'd occasionally hear a line or two of between stretches of the same narration that had been going since the beginning in exactly the same overbearing quantity, that it hit me...... that this was going to be the entire thing. yeah, technically this is a television show; it's got pictures, and occasionally it trusts that you can understand that the protagonist is fighting a monster right now without having it explained to you, but for the most part what the experience of watching this series is actually equivalent to is reading a series of detailed episode summaries on a dedicated fan wiki, or possibly listening to someone read you a light novel!!! i swear could count on one hand the number of scenes where two characters exchange more than five lines of dialogue before the narration swoops back in to explain 'that scene happened to me' and shuffle us on to the next set-piece; we are never in ogurou's head in real-time; nothing happens in this show, it's all already happened. then we did this, then we did that. it never stops!!!!!

i did a little poking around to see if any other reviewers were as bothered by this as i was but it seems that i'm the only person in the world who this format drove out of their fucking mind - every time the 'next day' sound effect plays it's a drop of water on my forehead, slowly bringing me towards the brink. this fucking show... of course the plot's also atrocious even for a tensura-like and the tone (insofar as it's possible to set a tone in a wikipedia plot summary) is incredibly broken; in particular it's flippant about (and full of) sexual violence on a level that's shocking even for the genre and in a particular way that's downright nasty, given the fluff piece(????!!) that it generally seems to want to be when it gets down to character interactions; there's also all sorts of miscellaneous stupid crap like the names of the female characters not being revealed until after they've given birth to the protagonist's babies(??????????!!!!!!). i did ultimately just keep watching in the end to see if it would ever actually become a real show. it did not

and that's isekai for you. oh, i dropped tsukimichi 2 in the end; i'm only about eight episodes away from the finale but all of those episodes are the same showpiece-arc that i don't like the premise of lol. the moral of the season is that 'let's make a village for monsters' premise is the real evil and all the other subgenres should gang up on it and kill it

[shadowlight17]

Commander Cody Week - Day Three: Valor

Sooo two things. One, this is a day late because I had an eight hour shift yesterday and the muse didn't want to come after that. And two: I literally couldn’t help myself and combined several of the prompts from both Day Three and Day Two.

-how Cody gets his scar- -acting as a protector- in -desperate circumstances- -wielding a lightsaber- that just so happens to belong to the person Cody protects.

TW: Injuries are sustained...maybe not graphic, but if you don't like reading about this, best not to read.

Cody was going to kill Kenobi. Well, if they survived this mess, that is. It was supposed to be a simple infiltration mission, but turned out to be a trap. Wooley and Cody stood shoulder to shoulder, covering the rest of the unit's backs as they frantically tried to find the General. They were in a tunnel system where they’d heard rumors of a new secret weapon. Was there a weapon? Maybe. They’d only gone far enough for their escape route to be cut off before droids began filing out of the woodwork and appearing around every bend. At first it had been manageable, until they got to the extraction point. They were completely surrounded, and the droids weren’t taking prisoners.

Comms spiked as the jamming from the droids wavered. A choppy, though intelligible message connected to Cody’s internal comms.

“Commander Cody! We’ve got an extraction team ready to get you guys the hell out of there!”

“Negative, soldier. The zone is hot. It would be a massacre. They’re waiting for anyone else who comes into this trap!”

The hesitancy in the brothers voice was apparent as he tried to argue with Cody.

“But sir! We’ve got to get you and your men out of there!”

“I know that, trooper. You’ll need to scramble a fighter squad to cover any gunships you send in and it was my understanding that you’re in the middle of a battle!”

Wooley dragged Cody down as an ion cannon charge flew over their heads, crashing into the wall of the tunnel and causing the entire structure to shake. Cody tumbled to a stop, pulling a bead on the super battle droid, and quickly dispatched the largest threat to their group. Wooley groaned as he moved to get up. All of them were feeling a little beat up. They just had to make it back to the other group. A squad of B1 droids rounded the bend where the super battle droid sat smoking. The hunk of metal would slow them down, but not enough to keep them there indefinitely. Cody reached down and hauled Wooley to his feet, the disoriented trooper didn’t object and the two of them rejoined the unit around the bend. Two troopers immediately peeled off the group and started covering them and keeping the droids at bay.

“How close are they?”

Waxer breathed out as soon as they were close enough. The entire tunnel system shuddered again.

“Too close. Someone set charges here. We can collapse the tunnel here and slow down this group of droids. It’ll give us time to regroup with General Kenobi.”

Two troopers immediately moved and started setting the last of their charges. Wooley picked his weight off of Cody and Charger reached over to help Wooley regain his balance.

“Are you alright?”

Wooley nodded tightly and set to checking the charges on his blaster.

“Just took a knock to the head trying to keep the Commander from losing his.”

Cody nodded his thanks and then recalled the two troopers currently firing down at the advancing war machines.

“Alright men, from here on out we aren’t stopping for anything. We haven’t had any communication with General Kenobi since comms went dead, and that usually means he’s in trouble. Move out!”

All the men quickly set up pace while one of them started tracing General Kenobi’s comm unit. The two with charges finished and handed Cody a remote detonator. With an unspoken agreement, the stragglers turned and booked it. Cody waited until he heard the first couple units pass into the tunnel behind them, heralded by a few laser bolts hitting the tunnel walls around them. He hit the button and the tunnel shuddered for a third time, this time the supports in the tunnel behind them began straining under their weight while the entrance collapsed onto the droids. The dust settled behind them as they continued moving. The sounds of blasterfire became louder and they rounded a corner into another group. They were crouched in a defensive manner around some prone figures. A pang went through Cody when he recognized General Kenobi was one of the figures. His men immediately went to bolster the defenses, ignoring the lasers to the best of their abilities. Kenobi had been on the right track, the entrance to the maze was directly in front of them, being blocked by at least a full squad of droids. A brother was crouched next to Kenobi and Cody crouched down next to him, trusting the rest of the unit to keep the droids occupied.

“Is he alright?”

General Kenobi was unconscious and Cody wanted to growl in frustration. Their big gun was out of the fight, leaving the rest of them extremely vulnerable.

“He will be, though he’s not waking up anytime soon. Or fighting. He was caught in a collapsing tunnel not too long ago and he might have internal injuries.”

The cry of a brother in pain pulled the attention of the medic away. Cody nodded his dismissal and motioned Wooley over.

“We’ve got to punch through these droids, do we have anymore poppers?”

Wooly shook his head and Waxer pulled a brother out of the direct line of fire as the medic worked to stabilize and ensure that the trooper would live.

“We used all of the explosives. Our best chance is to have the extraction team ready to pick us up the second we blast through the entrance!”

A blaster bolt hit the wall close to where Waxer’s head was and he crouched low.

“So you’re telling me we’ve got no more artillery? Nothing that’ll thin the droids out?”

The medic snorted and motioned to the unconscious form of the General.

“Well unless you have some magic ability to get our Jedi back on his feet, then no. This would be a lot easier with his lightsaber.”

Waxer and the medic both stood, taking their weapons and swapped out brothers who’s blasters needed their battery packs switched out. Boil, who’d gone with the General crouched down next to Cody as he reloaded his blaster. He wordlessly handed over Kenobi’s lightsaber and rejoined the throng. The wounded trooper groaned slightly, but shifted his weight up so that he could take potshots.

“You got an extra blaster, Commander?”

Some droids were starting to file in from a new direction. It was all or nothing. Cody handed over his blaster, and fingered the button on Kenobi’s lightsaber. All clones had training in Beskad, so it wasn’t unreasonable that Cody use the one tool that had a chance of getting them out. His comms crackled to life again.

“Commander! Are you close to the extraction point? We’ve got a group making a run for your position. You’ve got...be...fzzt...ready!”

Mind made up, Cody stood and strode past the defensive line of brothers, igniting the lightsaber when he got clear. The droids stopped firing as their central processing unit tried to make sense of what they saw. Cody opened an internal line to all of the brothers around him.

“Be ready men, we are getting out of here. Wooley, grab General Kenobi. Charger, you’ve got Hotshot.”

The men all tensed as Cody raised the blade in a salute. Cody took a deep breath, and charged. The lightsaber had been heavier than expected, but the weight balanced well in his gloved hand, and he met no resistance as he slashed through the first three droids. He spun around and kicked high, knocking the head off of one droid. The droids scrambled backwards and started trying to train their blasters on him. Cody didn’t let them and stabbed out with the lightsaber, slashing through the weapons of some droid. Laser fire filled the air around him, and Cody kept moving. The straggler droids would be taken care of. He burst out of the tunnels, his HUD immediately compensating for the light from the sun. The momentary distraction was all it took for the droids to get him off balance. The field between them and the final extraction point was positively surrounded by droids. Cody faltered and a metal fist connected with the side of his helmet, pain exploded from the side of his head as the plastoid shattered. Cody reacted on pure instinct, spinning with the deadly energy blade and slashing through the offending arm. He’d just been punched by a kriffing super battle droid. Blood dripped down the side of Cody’s face and he grimaced. Another fist connected right in his blind spot and he went sprawling. The lightsaber deactivated as he hit the ground roughly. He distantly wondered how it did that, but turned his attention quickly back on the hopeless situation in front of him as he scrambled to his feet, raising the cylinder and igniting the blade once again. If droids could laugh, he was sure they would be. Another metal limb connected with his ribs on his blind side and he slashed blindly, taking the heads of two droids that had gotten too close. The circle of droids all trained their blasters on him and Cody frowned, blood washing into his mouth from the head wound. Where were they?!

He didn’t have to wonder long. Boil and the rest of the unit burst out of the tunnel raining blasterfire on the assembled droids, causing more panic. Cody burst into action, ignoring the protest from his ribs and carved a path to the extraction point just as some well placed shots from bombers and fighters above heralded the arrival of their ride. The troopers poured out of the tunnels, miraculously avoiding being buried as the tunnel finally gave in to the weaknesses it had gained from the earlier explosions.

The droids pressed in as the gunship dropped down to hover doors open. A fizzy noise and Cody barely made out what the pilot was saying through the now damaged comm system in his bucket.

“Get your men out of here, Commander!”

Cody made a quick gesture to the gunship and then placed himself close to the gunship as the men piled in. He swiped at any droids that got to close, growling in an almost feral manner. A pair of hands hauled him into the gunship and he thrashed. He had to keep the men safe, had to get the General to safety, had to.... The hands gently pried the saber from his grip as the gunship soared up into the atmosphere, doors sliding shut.

“Commander! Cody! We all made it. You can stand down.”

The medic was gently easing Cody’s helmet over his head, and Cody tried to slap the hand away, missing since the blood was still making seeing on his left side difficult.

“Tend to the General first!”

Waxer appeared in Cody’s right side periphery. Helmet off and held to the side.

“Commander, General Kenobi is stable, and Sharps here needs to stop the bleeding from your wound.”

Frowning, Cody tugged off his helmet, ignoring the protests of the medic as the broken plastoid scratched at his face.

“Do what you need to, Sharps.”

The medic in question pulled a crate over and directed Cody to sit on it, immediately going to clean the wound with what they had on hand. Cody couldn’t help but fidget, and the medic seemed to get what was going through his head better than Cody himself, because he angled Cody so he could see the Jedi General, laid out on a stretcher. Wooley slumped to the ground next to Cody and passed the General’s lightsaber back up to Cody.

“He’ll be so confused when he can’t find it again.”

Wooley slid his helmet off to display a nasty purpling bruise near his temple. Neatly mirroring Cody’s own new injury.

“We lived to fight another day. And we protected our General.”

Waxer’s quiet words assuaged the tense anxiety that had creeped in so soon post-battle. Cody sighed, once again resisting the urge to put his head in his hands, instead hissing as the medic apologized about something that Cody paid no mind his face went slightly numb and some of the haze left his mind. His men were safe, his general was safe, and they would continue to fight.

OOoof so that was REALLY long. Whoops. Well when the muse sings, you listen to the tune I guess XD @jate-kara @commandercodyweek

Oh and I forgot to mention but in yesterdays spiel, Helix is someone else's OC...I just borrowed them cuz I hadn't thought out my own medic character yet and the 212th doesn't have a canon one....

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

imagine being loved by me

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!poc reader

Summary: You clock him as a witcher the moment he steps into your tavern - his kind never scared you the way the did the rest of the village. So he kills things for money? What’s the alternative - being overrun and eaten alive by things that go “bump” in the night? Given your complete and utter lack of shame, you proceed to flirt mercilessly with the White Wolf, and the night just gets more interesting from there.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY I STG, GET OFF MY LAWN DAMN KIDS. Smutty smut smut, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, I’d say some dom!Geralt if you squint a bit, plus some standard violence and swearing. Geralt and reader both say fuck a bunch.

A/N: Inspired by my current obsession with Hozier’s song, “Talk”. Y’all, I think this is the first legit thing that I’ve written in several years. Like, at least 5. Maybe more. It’s not perfect, but I still did the damn thing, and that feels pretty rad. Some of you lovely people requested tags - like a dingus, I did not keep track, so this is me doing by best. I honestly don’t think I have to fortitude to keep up a taglist, so I’ll do my absolute best to tag everything under #tutu scribbles so it’s easy to find.

I'd be the sweet feeling of release Mankind now dreams of  That's found in the last witness Before the wave hits, marveling at God

He appears in the doorway towards the end of the night. Most of your patrons have stumbled home, save for one small table that has been carousing with a mission. You’re ready to read them the riot act when the stranger steps into the tavern, ushered by a blast of sharp winter air. You notice him right away, mostly because he might be the largest man you have ever seen. He’s tall, and so broad-shouldered that he brushes the door frame on his way in. You momentarily forget what you’re doing in favor of gawking a bit, bar rag paused mid-swipe when he pulls back the hood of his heavy cloak.

Gods on high, he’s handsome. Almost pretty.

Features that belong on a marble statue and a soft looking mouth that you can’t help but focus on.

He takes a cautious glance around the room and catches you staring. Given that you don’t know the meaning of the word “shame”, you don’t bother to duck your head, though you have enough sense to not grin out-right like a loon. It’s difficult, though.

White hair. Honey-gold eyes.

What really gives him away is the silver medallion that swings out from under his cloak. The size of a large coin, it shows a snarling wolf’s head in profile.

A Witcher.

He holds your gaze and something shivers its way down your spine. His boots carrying him silently across the worn floorboards and you find yourself trying to fluff your hair, make the riotous curls behave for once. You move to meet him when he sits at the end of your bar – even seated, you’re nearly eye-to-eye with him. The smile you offer is a crooked one, bordering on coy.

No harm in a little fun.

“Just in time, friend,” you rib him gently. “I was getting ready to close down and call it a night.”

“Lucky me,” the witcher rumbles. Rumbles - you’re not sure what else to call it. His voice sounds like gravel and thunder. His golden eyes take in your face, and you feel warm, in spite of the drafty space. Something in the vicinity of your stomach starts to flutter excitedly.

Testing the waters, you lean against the bar top with crossed arms. His eyes dip to the swell of your breasts at the top of your bodice.

You grin. “What’s your pleasure, Witcher?”

Gold eyes snap up to meet your darker ones and there is heat in that gaze. The witcher lets out a low kind of a sound, that soft mouth of his turning up at one corner.

The fluttering thing in your belly turns liquid – molten.

 “Ale,” he says, handing over a few crowns. “Please… miss.”

 “Right away.”

You pull a clean tankard from it’s spot and you turn your back to fill it. Being under his gaze isn’t unlike standing in direct sunlight – you can feel it press warmly against your back and shoulders. You try to focus on pouring a decent pint, but all you can think about is the fact that it’s cold out, and it’s been far too long since you’ve had someone warm and vital in your bed. The golden-eyed man behind you certainly seems vital.

Mind made up, you turn to present him with his ale and lean into the bar again. His eyes dip down the line of your neck, a little farther, and then up to find you grinning.

“Enjoy,” you tell him “Get comfortable, Witcher. I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

He “hmms” at you, very nearly grinning himself. Teeth caught against your bottom lip, you pull yourself away and begin your end-of-night duties – gathering empty bowls, cups, dirty utensils – to bring them through to the kitchen. You find yourself stealing one last glance at the witcher as you bump the kitchen door with your hip and slip away. A song, some manner of bawdy barroom ballad, comes to mind unbidden and you find yourself humming tunelessly to yourself as you start the washing.

You swear, you’re barely gone a few moments when you hear the racket begin. Raised voices, drunk voices – damn, you’d forgotten the table of stragglers – and the low rumble of the witcher. An irritated sigh huffs up from your chest and you dry your damn hands on your apron, leaving the rest of the washing in the basin.

The loud voices of drunk men become more clear as you step up to the door separating the kitchen from the tavern: “We don’t want you here, fucking mutant.”

There’s a crash, then the thud of fist hitting flesh. Dammit. So much for your fun tonight.

You swear under your breath and reach for your only real weapon – the heavy wooden baton has a place of honor beside the kitchen door. Slowly, quietly, you easy your way back into the main room. With the layout of the tavern, you’ve appeared behind the drunks – the witcher can see your movements from where he stands, the idiots can’t. The witcher’s mug of ale has been shattered on the floor. He’s surrounded, three drunks around him and the bar top at his back. The red mark high on his cheekbone gives you a hint as to who swung the first punch.

Golden eyes meet yours. You see his jaw tense, and he gives a short jerk of his head; ‘stay back,’ the motion says. It’s almost enough to make you take pause, until you see the glint of a blade; the witcher is focused on you, not on the knife that one of the drunks just pulled. Adrenaline zips through your system and you lunge without thinking, wielding language most unbecoming of a lady. How you manage to keep from tripping on your skirts is beyond you. The would-be knife fighter gets three bone-rattling strikes – knee, diaphragm, nose – and drops, clutching his face with some creative profanity.

His drunk cohorts gawp stupidly at you. You glare daggers in return.

“You are no longer welcome here,” you snap. “Get the fuck out, or it’ll be you on the ground next.”

They considering their bleeding, whimpering friend on the floor and decide not to chance it. You keep your club at the ready, watching as the morons pick up their wounded friend and usher him out the door. The breath that you didn’t remember holding comes whooshing out, and then you turn to your last guest. He’s tense as a wire, fists still clenched – your voice seems to snap him out of it:

 “All right, Witcher?”

He exhales, pulling his focus from the door and back to you. “Yeah… yes,” he replies. You watch him flounder a moment, as if he’s just realizing what happened. “Thank you. That was… thanks.”

 “Any time.”

That’s apparently not a response he’s heard before – it shows on his face for the briefest of second, and then you can see the barrier drop behind his pretty gold eyes. He seems cold as the winter outside when he speaks again, “I’m sorry for the trouble, miss. Thank you for the ale.”

A few more crowns appear from the folds of his cloak – he leaves them on the bar, and you can’t help but blink at him as he starts to make his way to the door. It’s entirely possible that you should leave him be, but you still find yourself calling out:

 “Hold on, Witcher!”

He almost ignores you, leather-gloved hand on the heavy iron handle of the tavern door. You can’t help it – he starts to curse under his breath, and you find yourself grinning about it. He’s still grumbling when he finally turns and those honey-colored eyes find your face again. You tilt your head, curls akimbo across your shoulder, and offer up a soft smile.

Some of the ice behind the witcher’s eyes starts to melt and you could swear he’s trying not to smile back. “… Geralt,” he rumbles at you. “My name is Geralt. Of Rivia.”

 “Geralt of Rivia,” you murmur, and offer your name in return. “Please, Geralt. You’re nearly knifed in my establishment and I think courtesy dictates I offer you something by way of apology. Besides… when was the last time you had a hot meal?”

That perks him up. He may not be fully human, but he’s still male.

You exhale, a breathless chuckle of sorts, and move closer. If there’s an extra sway in your hips, well, you can’t help that and he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s momentarily distracted by the cut of your bodice again and you preen internally. You offer him the hand not holding your club and smile up into his face.

“Come and sit with me, Geralt of Rivia.”           

         ___

After the broken tankard is swept up and the spilled ale dried, you disappear into the kitchen and return with a plate for your guest – the night’s dinner special. Braised beef, potatoes with garlic and butter, and roasted winter vegetables from your garden out back. Geralt, finally stripped of his cloak and gloves, tucks in with the ravenous hunger of a tired traveler. He shovels a mouthful down, then stops, blinking down at the plate.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, frowning.

He very nearly speaks with his mouth full, thinks better of it, and swallows. “This is fucking delicious,” he says, deadly serious. You laugh.

“Thank you.” Pride swells in your chest; you’ve always been proud of your cooking. “Most of it came from my own garden.”

Geralt hums. His next bite is smaller, and he takes his time chewing it. The sight of him enjoying his meal makes you feel contented. He eats, and you go about your work. The fire in the hearth has burnt down some, but it’s enough for you to be able to finish the night’s cleaning. When you slip back behind the bar, Geralt’s plate is empty – he may have actually licked it clean. He seems almost content himself as he finishes his ale.

 “Still hungry?” you tease. He squints at you for a moment, but the corner of his mouth ticks up.

 “No, thank you. I may not need to eat again for a few days.”

You laugh at that, “Good, that’s what I like to hear. Stay put, all right?” You nod at the bruise that’s started to bloom on his cheek. “I think I have something for that…”

The empty plate is cleared and you grab a small basket from the kitchen. After filling Geralt’s mug one last time, you pour a small goblet of wine for yourself and come to sit next to him at the bar. He watches you as you open your small kit. “A cook, a fighter, and a healer?” he muses. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Can’t sing for shit,” you shoot back. “And a cook, yes, but you’re very generous, calling me a fighter, or a healer. Really, I think I just know enough about either to be dangerous…”

Geralt snorts indecorously. “I think our friend with the broken nose might beg to differ.”

“Doesn’t take much skill to break a nose – long as you swing hard enough. Hah!” You’ve found it – the little salve jar at the bottom of your kit. You turn to Geralt with a grin and hold out the jar for his inspection. “I hear your lot are the expert on this kind of thing. What do you think?”

He “hmms” again – you rather like that sound – and twists open the top of the jar. You watch him give a careful sniff before he peers in to look at the contents itself. “Frankincense,” he mutters. “Honey… mugwort? Good mix.”

You grin. “Thank you. Does the trick for black eyes and stove burns. Gimme that – “ Taking the jar back, you take a sip of your wine before tapping the big witcher on the knee. “Turn this way, please.”

He cocks an eyebrow, but obeys, and you move to stand between his splayed legs. Gods, but he’s warm. Heat rolls off of his body like the warmth of your tavern fire and it’s all you can do to keep from leaning into him. By the way he’s eyeing you, you’re not sure if he’d mind. You tap a little of your healing salve onto the pad of your ring finger and place the jar back on the counter – when you meet his gaze, he nods in silent consent. Gently, you take his chin in your hand and turn his bruised cheek towards you.

 “You heal faster than most, I’ve heard,” you murmur, gently pressing the salve into his skin. “But I can’t imagine getting hit in the face feels good.”

Geralt snorts again. “No, it doesn’t. Not something you really get used to, either.”

“… Geralt, how many times have you gotten punched?”

 “This week, or…?”

You blink at him. When he smirks back, you realize that he is, in fact, pulling your leg. “Oh, you’re the funny one, are you?” you say drily.

He continues to smirk as you grumble, tugging his chin so you can finish applying your salve. Both of you go quiet. The silence isn’t strange – it’s almost comforting. You hear the last intact log on the fire pop. Outside, the wind has picked up. It whistles past the windows, makes what’s left of the fire gutter in the hearth. It’s going to be wickedly cold tonight. You consider your room upstairs, that empty bed…

 “Geralt?”

 “Hmm.”

You chuckle. Your hand drops from his chin and he uses the opportunity to meet your gaze again. It’s at that moment that you realize just how close you are, and perhaps he notices too. Golden eyes scan your face lazily – heat blooms in your chest when his gaze drops to your mouth. He can probably hear the way your pulse kicks up, what with those heightened senses of his.

Maybe the night wouldn’t be a wash after all.

“I have a hunch,” you mumble. “Don’t be alarmed.”

You kiss him. His lips are dry, but smooth. He lets you lean into him, hands braced on his powerful thighs. His palm is so warm against your hip that you can feel it through your skirts; the sensation makes you shudder against him and sigh into his mouth.

Geralt growls, and you feel a desperate, aching heat settle between your legs.

The hand at your hip presses into your lower back and you stumble into him. You taste the ale on his tongue, try to lick the bittersweet flavor from your mouth as his other hand joins in to squeeze at your ass. He crushes you closer – even through the sturdy material of his trousers, you feel the hard line of him straining against your belly. A whine cracks its way up from your throat, and you want…

You want.

 “Stay with me,” you gasp, pulling back for air.

Geralt’s eyes are hooded, his lips slick and kiss-swollen and it takes every ounce of your willpower to keep from lunging in to bite at him. You run your tongue along your own bottom lip and he tracks the motion hungrily.

“Stay with me,” you say again. Your arms wind around his neck. “Keep me warm tonight, Geralt of Rivia.”

He grins slow, pulls you back to him – the tip of his nose is cold when it traces up the line of your neck. “I think I’d like that…”

Teeth and tongue and lips map the curve of your neck. Your fingers tangle their way into the witcher’s hair and tug when he sucks a bruise onto your pulse point. He rewards you with a low sound, breathless and hot on your skin. Oh, he likes that.

 “Keep that up,” he growls. “And I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

You tug again.

The dam breaks.

You’re not sure how, but his hands feel like they’re everywhere; pushing through your curls, squeezing at your hips, groping at your waist. It’s like he’s trying to break you apart, piece by piece. Strip you open until you’re nothing but bared nerve endings and gasping breath.

Somehow, you make it upstairs and into your room. It’s a miracle that the only clothing left behind in the tavern is his cloak and gloves. Everything else is strewn this way and that through your room – your bodice ends up thrown over a chair and Geralt’s shirt nearly gets stuck on a rafter. One of his boots ends up by the cold fireplace and he kicks the other one off as he whips your chemise over your head. He crowds close, pushes you back until he has you laid out naked across the bed.

Geralt’s grin is lopsided – wolf-like – as his golden eyes take in your bare skin. Your breath stutters when he lowers himself, lips hot and smooth on the skin of your neck. He nips and bites his way down your torso, pausing only to lave his tongue over the dark peak of one breast, then the other. Fire shoots through you and your eyes slam shut – you gasp his name, make him chuckle into your flesh. Strong hands ease your legs apart and you jump when he bites at the softness of your belly, just below your navel. You can feel his low laugh more than you can hear it.

 “Easy, little rabbit,” Geralt murmurs. You breathe out a shaky chuckle and prop up onto your elbows, just in time to watch the witcher reach up to tie his shock-white hair away from his face.

Your mouth goes dry. That wolfish grin is back.

His breath is hot on the crease of your thigh. “I’m just getting started,” he rumbles.

Then Geralt swipes his tongue up the slit of your sex and you wonder for a moment if this is what being struck by lightning feels like. His tongue finds your clit and it is suddenly very hard to think anymore. Your back bows up from the bed as you groan brokenly. One hand shoots down, fingers reaching for something to keep you from flying through the roof, and you grip at the witcher’s hair again. The growl he lets out buzzes against your core and it all goes fuzzy after that.

You feel him grip bruises onto your thighs. You feel the rasp of his stubble. Then, pressure, followed by delicious fullness a Geralt pushes one finger, then another into your slick heat. He stretches you, twisting and thrusting his fingers in time with the flicker of his tongue. You gasp for breath, hips lifting to meet Geralt’s mouth. He seems to be enjoying himself as much as you are – he growls against you, and the hand on your thigh jerks you closer. The sound his mouth and his fingers on you is utterly depraved, wet and sloppy.

Geralt’s fingers curl inside of you, pressing up towards your navel. You come, hard and fast, crying his name.

Over the thunder of your heart, you hear him growl against your thigh, “Fucking beautiful…”

He lays a few biting kisses to your inner thigh before he stands and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. You stare up at him with outright hunger as he strips off his trousers. He’s solid muscle, battle-scarred and gorgeous, thick cock curving up towards his belly. He smirks, but doesn’t move, seemingly content to let you feast your eyes.

Once you’ve had your fill, you meet Geralt’s hooded gaze and push yourself back on the mattress. With a little extra arch in your back, you crook a finger. Geralt crouches and crawls up the bed to you. His hips settle between your parted thighs, hands braced on either side of your head. Those eyes of his scan your face hungrily before he lunges in for a kiss.

You lick the tang of your cunt from his tongue. The underside of his cock slides against your clit, making you arch into him with a whine, “Geralt…”

He hums low in his chest, shifts his weight to bring one hand up to cup your cheek. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he rasps. His thumb strokes slowly over your cheekbone. “Look at me – want to see your face – “

Geralt shifts back and thrusts home, hard – the blinding pleasure punches the air from your lungs in a shout. Your hands fly up to grip his back. “There it is,” he groans. “Good girl…”

All you can do is mewl in response, trembling. The thumb brushing at your cheek moves to your mouth, pressing and stroking at your bottom lip. You meet Geralt’s gaze with lust-glazed eyes and suck the tip of his thumb into your mouth.

 “Fuck”, he hisses.

He drags a slow thrust out, and pushes back in to the hilt over and over. Each heavy thrust of his hips drives you into the mattress and you meet him eagerly, pitched cries muffled by his thumb. Geralt curls himself over you. His thumb pulls from your mouth with a wet sound so he can grip your chin instead, force you to meet the heat of his eyes. It’s skin and sweat and heated, desperate pleas. Your hands grip at his shoulders, his back, nails leaving lines of red that only spur him on. The witcher pushes at your chin, baring your neck to him so he can scrap his teeth against your sweat-slick skin. You clench around him with a low cry.

His lips press against your ear and he starts talking, rumbling, low and filthy. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head.

Fuck, the mouth on him. He tells you how fucking good you feel around his cock, how wet you are for him; it’s a litany of debased promises and you can only gasp in return. The rumble of his voice, the drag of his cock pushes you higher and higher, tightens the coiled lightning in your belly. You are unconcerned with keeping quiet.

Geralt slips a hand between your bodies. The pad of his thumb pulls across your clit and you are gone, your orgasm fierce and relentless. You keen, whole body curling up into Geralt’s chest; your teeth catch his shoulder and you bite down hard enough to bruise.

The witcher gives a ragged shout into the side of your neck. He pulses into your clutching heat, hot and steady.

Neither of you move for what seems like an age. You feel sticky, and sore, and it feels good. Geralt shifts at last, carefully slipping out of you – you both shudder with the last aftershocks. “Fuck,” he grunts.

“Pretty sure we just did, love,” is your slightly slurred response.

Geralt squints down at you, but you just smile sleepily back, and it’s enough to make him laugh. Like a good gentleman, he makes certain to roll off of you before he collapses on his stomach with grumble. He pulls you into his side; you hum contentedly. The blistering heat beneath your skin has begun to cool, and you feel wonderfully boneless.

The witcher can barely keep his eyes open, but he tries to focus on your face. “All right?” he mumbles into a pillow.

“More than,” you murmur back.

“S’good…” And he’s out cold.

 You follow soon enough.

         _____

You don’t wake until the next morning, sore, but very pleased with yourself. Winter sunlight, bleached and cold, pours in from the casement. There is a brief pang of disappointment when you reach for Geralt and find him gone, but then you hear the crackle of a fire and turn over. It’s a lovely sight. The witcher stands from his crouched position in front of your now-lit fireplace, and you take a moment to admire the well-sculpted curve of his backside as he pulls his shirt on. He’s found his trousers and boots, as well – pity.

 “Thank you,” you mumble, sleepily. He turns to you as you sit up, bedsheet clutched over your nakedness.

 “Don’t mention it.”

You study his handsome face for a moment. His expression is unreadable, but his golden eyes are warm. “Leaving?” you ask.

 “Have to,” he tells you. “Unless your town has a noonwraith that needs destroying.”

 “No, thank fuck.” You stand and stretch with a groan, tying the bedsheet over your breasts. “Well, come on, then.”

Geralt chuckles, but follows you downstairs and to the kitchen. Into a kerchief you tie a loaf of bread, some good cheese, salted pork, and dried fruit. The witcher looks at you with something akin to surprise when you hand him his provisions. You simply smile back and step into him. He allows you to wind your arms around his neck, meeting you halfway in a kiss that makes your heart skip a beat. You don’t want to let go, but you force yourself to step back after a few breathless moments.

 “Goodbye, Geralt of Rivia,” you murmur. You consider more, almost don’t, and then, “If, ah… if you ever find yourself out this way again – “

“I will. I’ll have to.” He gives you a crooked grin. “Only place I can get good meal around here.” 

You laugh outright, and it seems to make Geralt’s grin widen. Following him back into the main tavern, you insure he has his effects and provisions before you watch him take his leave. With a shiver, you recall the newly lit fire in your bedroom and find yourself taken the steps two at a time to get there. Between the cold, bleached sunlight shining in from the window and the warmth of the fire in the hearth, it doesn’t take much to convince yourself that a lie-in is just what you need.

Your pillow still smells like him.

[quentinblack]

The Squib

Featuring: Gawain Robards & Walden Macnair (with Harry Potter, Rhea Savage and Femi Wakanda)

Warnings: Swearing, Mature content

Link to full story on FF.net

Walden Macnair looked absolutely terrible. He was about as broken a man as a man could be. The Death Eater sat, if you could call what his broken back was allowing him to do sitting, in a hastily erected bean bag on the marble floor of the interrogation room.

The bean bag had been the only thing that Macnair had been able to sit in or on without screaming in agony for the best part of a week - and judging by the look on his face he was now about as broken mentally as he was physically.

An eager looking Gawain Robards sat opposite him in a fairly comfortable looking oak and leather chair. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement aimlessly fiddled with his quill as he studied the notes in the pieces of parchment on the table in-front of him.

Robards was the only one who was on the interrogation side of the chamber with Macnair. Harry, along with Rhea Savage and Femi Wakanda, the pair of whom had spent the most amount of time interrogating the Death Eater in the last fortnight, were behind the charm-field section on the other side of the room.

The charm-field, which Harry had discovered was a quintessential feature of almost all interrogation chambers, allowed for other Ministry agents to watch an interrogation without the suspect being able to see or hear their presence.

They were actually very reminiscent of the sort of glass-mirrored screens that Harry had once seen on old repeats of ‘The Bill’, a police-detective program which regularly aired on the muggle television. He had often watched that and another similar detective show called ‘A Touch of Frost’ on the few occasions that the Dursley’s had gone out for the day and left him to his own devices.

A common theme of those sorts of programmes was the “good cop, bad cop” routine, where one detective would aggressively interrogate the suspect, whilst the other would be somewhat kinder. Harry was not quite sure on the exact phycology of this method, but it seemed to work for the fictional police officers.

It was fairly safe to say that Gawain Robards liked to take an altogether different approach to his questioning.

His approach was less “good cop, bad cop” and more just plain old “bad cop, bad cop”.  

“I always thought you did lack a spine, Walden,” Robards said sarcastically. “Life imitating art I suppose,” he added with a smile, enjoying his own witty remark considerably more than anybody else watching on had seemed to.

Macnair said nothing. He merely glared at Robards with an intense look of fury and pain on his scarred and slightly wrinkled face.

“I’m sure that Savage and Wakanda have already informed you of the considerable case The Ministry has against you, Walden. The charges that landed you into Azkaban several years ago in the first place were not too pretty, but since then you broke out of prison, continuously colluded with The Dark Lord, played a crucial role in the illegal international transportation of many murderous giants and of course, most notably, are the prime suspect in the murder of Broderick Bode. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“No comment,” Macnair spat.

Robards grinned nonchalantly.

“As I have said, the charges levelled against you, much like the state of your back, are not pretty. However, any cooperation on your part that may lead to the arrest of one of your comrades will of course be heavily considered when you are sentenced.”

Macnair rolled his eyes in disgust.

“You want me to betray my friends like some kind of traitor…and for what? A couple of years shaved off of a life sentence?! I’m not fucking stupid, Gawain. I know that I don’t know enough to receive a get out of jail free card like some of the others might. Sure, I could sell out Selwyn to you, but you won’t drop all of the charges against me even if you did manage to make an arrest. I’d sooner take my chances on him and the others that got away doing some damage and breaking us all out of here.”

Robards sighed heavily.

“You really think that a handful of stragglers are gonna manage to do some damage to us and break you all out?!” he asked in an incredulous manner.

“I don’t see why not! You would be incredibly naïve to write them off,” Macnair snapped back defiantly. “Judging by how emotional your little bitch has been in the last few days… I expect they already have done some damage!”

Savage swore under her breath next to Harry, as Wakanda, who towered over the both of them in her leather heeled boots groaned.

“I warned you, Savage. I told you that you were emotionally compromised. You should have listened to me when I-

Savage loudly shushed Wakanda as Robards began to speak once more.

“You know, Macnair. I think you’re the one who is being incredibly naïve,” Robards said. “You talk about bargaining to get a couple of years off of your life sentence… I don’t recall saying anything about a life sentence. The act of murdering an unspeakable is a crime that has historically carried only one possible sentence… and it is not life, but death.”

Macnair eyed Robards with a slight sense of caution, but Harry observed that he did not truly yet seem to believe what Gawain was suggesting.

“You won’t execute any of us,” Macnair attested in an arrogant tone. “The Ministry hasn’t executed anyone in decades. Barty Crouch liked to make out that he was tough on crime at the end of the last war, but even that silly old shit never sentenced Dolohov, Black or the Lestranges to death… and they committed the worst crimes of all.”

Savage stole a glance at Harry when Macnair mentioned Sirius.

It had been just three days prior, on the same day that Hagrid had received a pardon of his own that Kingsley had also posthumously cleared Sirius of all charges against him.

Harry was very glad indeed that Barty Crouch had never sentenced Sirius to death, for if he had then Harry would’ve never even met his Godfather for the fleeting few years that he did.

Robards glared at Macnair with something between contempt and pity in his eyes.

“Do you know why Dolohov, Black and the Lestrange trio were never sentenced to death for their despicable crimes?” Robards asked in an irritated tone.

“Everyone knows why,” Macnair replied confidently. “Barty Crouch believed that a life-time of the Dementors was a much harsher sentence than a killing curse, although I guess he never banked on The Dark Lord returning to power and setting everyone free.”

Robards chuckled to himself and violently shook his head at Macnair.

“The only thing he never banked on was his son falling in with The Dark Lord. Allow me to let you in on an age-old Ministry secret, Macnair. Barty Crouch was full of shit. He never believed any of that bollocks about life sentences being the harshest sentence once could suffer, although I’m sure he said it enough times that even he might have believed it in the end.”

Robards rose to his feet and wandered over towards a fearful looking Macnair, who could do nothing but look up at the head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement as he towered over him.

“Dolohov and Black were never meant to have life sentences. They were both in line for the death penalty – and they would’ve gotten it too, if Barty’s own bloody son hadn’t have winded up getting caught torturing the Longbottoms with the Lestranges. That left old Barty with quite the predicament. He couldn’t execute Dolohov, Black and the Lestranges but spare his son – the cries of bias would’ve finished his career. But he couldn’t execute his son either, as that would’ve finished his marriage. So we got the compromise option. It all worked out very well for The Dark Lord and his cronies, probably the only reason why you recruited the useless little fucker in the first place!”

Macnair said nothing. He re-positioned himself slightly, trying not to make eye contact with Robards and swearing under his breath in pain as he did so.

Harry trembled slightly at his new-found knowledge that Sirius may been sentenced to death if not for Barty Crouch Jr’s turn to the dark side. It was hardly a glowing endorsement of capital punishment.

“The mood of the public is one of finality, Macnair. They want some closure. They want some justice – and unlike Barty Crouch, as you well know, I do not have a child in the docks awaiting sentencing-

“You don’t have a child full-stop,” Macnair spat.

“Oh, Merlin,” Wakanda sighed under her breath, as Savage swore violently.

An enraged Gawain Robards instantly pelted the defenceless Macnair square in the head. The connection of his shoe to the Death Eater’s nose saw it break on impact, making a loud crunch and crack in the process.

Blood began to trickle down Macnair’s face and onto the cream coloured bean-bag, as he cried out in pain at the abrasive movement this had caused his injured neck and back.

Harry looked on in utter bewilderment at what had just happened, as Wakanda exhaled loudly.

Savage turned to him with a saddened look awash her pale face.

“Gawain’s daughter,” she whispered. “She… she died when she was only seven years old… dragon pox.”

Harry suddenly understood Robards’ extreme reaction and wondered if Macnair had known, judging by the look on Savage’s face he assumed that he probably had.

Robards began to pace frantically in-front of Macnair, as Wakanda eyed her boss with great caution and concern, perhaps fearing any further retaliation, although he seemed to have calmed down a little.

“You know actually Walden, I’m glad that you want to talk about family,” Robards said with an evil looking grin. “Savage and Wakanda took the liberty of informing me last week that you didn’t actually want to speak to or see any of your family at all. I must confess, given your reputation years ago at the Ministry as a devoted family man, I considered this development to be, well, strange.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Macnair replied, to which Robards grinned with glee.

“I’m sure you remember your wife used to be quite close to mine once upon a time, so naturally I felt given the circumstances it would be my duty of care to reach out to Cara and make sure-

“You shut your filthy mouth, Gawain! Don’t you dare talk to my fuckin-

Robards motioned to punt Macnair in the head once more, but he had only pretended, which nonetheless still caused Macnair significant pain as he had flinched when reacting to the expectant kick.

Macnair tried to spit at Robards, but due to his hunched posture he succeeded only in spitting on himself.

“Oh, but I did dare to talk to her, Walden!” Robards jibed. “And I’m very glad that I did. Cara was most forthcoming about the issues in your broken marriage… and it all seemed to stem back to one thing…

“Don’t you fucking-

“The Squib daughter of a Death Eater,” Gawain mocked triumphantly, as Macnair looked shattered at Robards having discovered this revelation.

Harry noticed that there was a different kind of pain on the Death Eater’s face at this divulgence though. It was not one of discomfort or anger, but rather, for the first time Harry saw vulnerability in Walden Macnair’s eyes.

“The way Cara tells it, most of the blame falls at your feet, Walden. She thinks that little Niamh was so embarrassed when her Father got sent to Azkaban for being a Death Eater that she started repressing her magical abilities, so much so that she never actually has shown any magical abilities.”

Macnair, defeated, said nothing at this point. Harry watched the blood trickle down the pathetic looking man’s nose. He was no longer even bothering to wipe it on the dirty sleeve of his jumper like he had been previously.

“What was your plan if You Know Who wasn’t defeated, Walden? Wouldn’t it look a bit suspicious when your daughter didn’t get a Hogwarts letter this year?” he asked, more rhetorically than literally.

Harry felt his boss was perhaps pushing too far now, but either Robards didn’t sense Macnair’s agony or did and was merely trying to use it to his advantage.

Gawain now retrieved a piece of parchment from his desk and unravelled it.

“Do you know what this is, Walden?” Robards grilled, as he flashed the piece of parchment in-front of the captive.

Macnair remained silent.

“I’ll tell you what this is… written by Dolores Umbridge no less… this… this is what The Ministry’s official policy on Squibs was under your exalted leader’s control… and I quote…” he began, taking an exaggerated deep breath, which seemed more for show than any sort of respiratory benefit.

“The Ministry of Magic defines a Squib as a person whom is born with the assumption of possessing magical blood, yet possesses either extremely limited magical abilities, or indeed, is entirely devoid of any magical ability whatsoever. The primary cause of the birthing of Squibs is believed to be caused by the Mother fornicating, whether wilfully or against her will, with either muggles or mud-bloods - it is also a possibility that the Father may have falsified their own family history, thereby concealing their un-pure blood from the pure-blood witch who birthed the defected child. Either of these crimes, whereby a deformity such as a Squib is created, are punishable to the guilty party only by the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Macnair did not look up at Robards, instead much preferring to look at the floor, perhaps in the desperate hope that it would open up and swallow him whole.

“Alternatively, in cases where Squibs have previously shown some kind of magical ability at a younger age, but have since lost the ability, it is believed that their magic was stolen from them. There are many mud-bloods that defy the conventions of logic and biology by possessing magical abilities without magical blood – and this fairly modern phenomenon is believed to be caused by the mud-blood stealing magic from magic-users, i.e – Squibs. It is thought that the most common method of magical theft is achieved through fornicating, but research has also shown that a muggle may achieve the theft of magic by stealing the blood of a witch or wizard. The crime of allowing a muggle to steal one’s magical blood, even if the muggle somehow achieved this by force, is a crime that is once again punishable only by the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Robards finished reading and discarded the parchment onto the floor in-front of Macnair.

“You’re clinging onto an ideology that would’ve seen your only child suffer a fate worse than death, Walden!” he shouted incredulously.

Macnair looked considerably defeated at this point, but did not seem to be rising to Robards’ bait.

“You refuse to sell-out Selwyn and Travers and Co, but would they have stood in your corner when The Dark Lord came to take Niamh away and give her to the Dementors?” Robards asked in a disgusted sounding tone.

Macnair tried his best to hide it, but he had become increasingly uncomfortable and significantly more distressed since Robards began talking about his estranged daughter. He had flinched momentarily at the mere mention of her name again. Harry was not sure if Robards, Savage or Wakanda had spotted it, but he certainly had.

Robards continued probing and taunting Macnair for a further fifteen minutes, but no matter what was said to him he failed to take the bait and showed absolutely no intention of co-operating.

The only time his eyes ever truly showed signs of fight or life where when Robards mentioned his daughter, but Harry supposed that there was nothing they had to tempt Macnair to sell-out Selwyn or any of the others.

Robards was offering Macnair the chance to avoid being sentenced to death and merely see out a life sentence instead, but the Death Eater had previously assumed he was seeing out a life sentence anyway, so this must have barely seemed like an upgrade to him – perhaps the prospect of a quick exit even somewhat appealed to him in his broken state.

What they really needed to get Macnair to talk was something to truly tempt him.

“He’s a lost cause,” Wakanda commented to Savage and Harry after Robards had been at him for another quarter of an hour after that.

“If he was going to talk then he would have by now. I thought the reminder of his daughter might push him to it, but it looks like the prospect of dying and never seeing her grow up isn’t even enough for the sicko.”

“He does care about her,” Savage quipped back in a knowing fashion. It seemed Harry had not been alone in noticing Macnair’s body language when his daughter was mentioned.

“But she’ll grow up to be a Squib,” the Head Auror continued. “She’ll be an outcast and he knows both his daughter and his wife will always blame him for it… maybe he’d rather die than live with himself knowing he caused that.”

“Perhaps,” Wakanda conceded in an irritated tone, as the three of them watched on as a slightly exasperated looking Robards continued to interrogate him. “But all the same… if he won’t talk, he won’t talk.”

“What if we gave him a reason to talk,” Harry said, as an incredibly bold idea suddenly popped into his head.

“I’m all ears, Potter,” Savage replied. “What would you suggest?” she asked, as Wakanda eyed Harry with a slight look of bewilderment.

“Well the thing that is upsetting him the most is that his daughter will grow up to be an outcast and hate him, right?”

“Right,” Wakanda and Savage replied almost in unison, surprising themselves in doing so.  

“What if she didn’t have to be an outcast?”

“But she’s a Squib… how could she not be an outcast?” Wakanda replied, not cottoning on to what Harry had been suggesting at all.

Savage eyed him very carefully, perhaps pondering what she thought he may be implying.

“But don’t you see?” Harry began. “That legislation that Robards read out earlier about Squibs. They weren’t treated that badly before Voldemort was in power…”

Harry paused briefly as Savage and especially Wakanda reacted wildly to Harry so openly and boldly using Voldemort’s name. He forgot that people reacted that way to it and he thought it seemed especially silly since he was now long dead.

“… but even in civilised wizarding society they seem to be largely outcasts,” Harry continued. “I think the one thing that would make Macnair talk and lead us to Selwyn and the others is if he knew by talking he could stop his daughter from becoming an outcast.”

“But again, Potter, what exactly are you proposing we do? Send an owl to Minerva McGonagall and ask her to send an acceptance letter to Macnair’s Squib daughter if he talks?!” Wakanda asked in a condescending manner.

Harry did not reply instantly, but Savage again eyed him up cautiously.

“I think that’s exactly what he’s proposing,” Rhea said carefully, as she appeared to begin to contemplate the idea.

Wakanda looked mortified.

“But - but you can’t be serious,” the mature witch began.  “The implications – the mere idea of a Squib attend-

“Robards said that her Mother believes she repressed her magical abilities,” Harry interrupted. “If she was put in an environment with other children and felt confident and accepted for who she was then she might even develop some magical abilities.”

“And if she didn’t?!” Wakanda interrogated.

Harry’s mind darted into action as he tried to think on his feet and justify his reasoning to the older witch.

“Well, you don’t use magic in every subject at Hogwarts,” he mustered. “Potions… Herbology, erm…

“Divination,” Savage added. “Astronomy and History of Magic too, I guess even Care of Magical Creatures and…

“Arithmancy and Ancient Runes… oh and Muggle Studies too,” Harry quickly interspersed.

“You can’t seriously be entertaining this idea, Rhea,” Wakanda mocked.

“Do you have any better ideas?!” she snapped back. “This is all hypothetical regardless. There’s no guarantee that Macnair would talk even if we offered this to him, but yes, I think it’s certainly an avenue worth exploring.”

Wakanda tutted and then sighed dismissively.

“Good luck selling this idea to Gawain,” she snickered.

“Gawain won’t be a problem,” Savage replied confidently. “It’s Minerva McGonagall that I’m worried about.”

Savage smiled and then suddenly slapped Harry on the back affectionately.

“It’s a good thing we’ve got Potter here for that one,” she grinned, as she stared thoughtfully at Macnair through the charm-field.

[pens-swords-stuff]

Cough Syrup and Popsicles [Short Story]

So this is a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class! It was my first time since middle school that I attempted to write a short story, and also the first time since middle school that I’ve written in first person!

It’s gone through a couple of drafts, but it’s still a little rough around the edges. But since I deemed it decent enough for my interim portfolio, I figured I’d share it with you all here :)

This is very different from what I write normally, and it was a great challenge! It’s not my best work, but I hope you guys like it.

(I apologize if the formatting is a bit wonky, it copy-pasted really weirdly)

If you would like to read this on your dashboard instead of my blog, please click here!

Warning: Long-ish writing; 2927 words.

The harsh lights of the fluorescents flickered overhead. The shopping cart shuddered as the defective wheel squeaked and groaned across the linoleum. The grocery store was nearly devoid of people, with only the occasional employee ducking past me to restock some shelves. Their eyes flickered towards me as they passed, regarding me with disdain before their gaze drifted to the clock mounted by the ceiling. The employees probably wanted to go home—it was almost closing time. I couldn’t blame them. I always got irritated when people came in at the last minute at the restaurant where I worked.  They probably would be able to go home if it wasn’t for the few stragglers lurking among the shelves. I ducked my head whenever I felt their eyes on me. Pretend like they’re not looking at you, Alexandria, I chanted to myself. Just grab what you need and get out. It wasn’t like I wanted to be here either—I had just crawled into my bed when my seven-year old approached me with a bright red face and a burning forehead. The last bit of cold medicine left in my dwindling medicine cabinet had expired three months ago. I wasn’t about to risk poisoning my son just because I didn’t have the time or the funds to replenish my supply of medicine.

I tried to hurry through the store, dragging along the stubborn shopping cart as best as I could, but I realized that my legs weren’t moving as fast as they should.  As any good mother would do when their child was sick, I should be racing down the aisles, tearing through the shelves to find what I need so I can get home as soon as possible, but no. I had stopped completely when I realized something: I could hear the hum of the lights overhead; I felt the cold rush of air every time the doors opened several feet behind me; and my thoughts weren’t drowned out by my kids constantly tugging at my legs and begging for snacks that I can’t afford. It was the first time in days that I had a moment to myself, to just breathe and take in the world. Did the produce section always have that sweet scent of strawberries and cantaloupe wafting in the air? I didn’t want to leave, I realized. I had missed being alone; I missed being able to pick out my fruits and vegetables carefully to find the best ones; I was finally able to think instead of being rushed out of the door because my child threw a tantrum. I didn’t want to leave this dingy, dismal grocery store with its too bright fluorescents and dusty shelves because despite all of that, it was the first time in a while that I had the time to realize how red apples can be.

I’ll go home soon, really soon, I promised myself as I took an apple in my hand just because I could. It was heavier than I thought. I just need a moment, a few moments here first…

The container that usually held all the apple slice samples was empty by this time of night. The only thing that remained was the occasional apple stem left in the plastic box.

“Did you want an apple?” A lady with brown glasses and a kind expression asked from behind.

I must’ve looked particularly disappointed that it was empty. “Maybe a little,” I admitted with embarrassment. How intensely was I staring at the container that a stranger noticed? “It’s just been a while—I don’t know what I was expecting at this time of night.”

“Here.” The lady offered me an apple slice. “I grabbed the last one, but you look like you need it more than I do.”

What in the world did that look like? “Thank you, but it’s yours. I’m fine.”

"I insist. I’m not that hungry anyways.” The lady handed me the apple without leaving much room for protest. Then with a smile and a wave, she was gone.

That may have been one of the stranger experiences I’ve had at grocery stores, albeit a very kind one. When I bit into the apple slice, it was one of the sweetest apples I had ever tasted. Who knew that an out-of-season apple slice was what it would take for me to feel a little bit more like myself again? By the time I left the produce aisle, I felt like I could breathe again, like a huge weight was taken off my chest.

When I reached to open the glass door for a carton of milk, I paused. There was a woman staring at me, bone-weary and exhausted. I blinked, and she blinked at the same time. I moved my hand and she moved hers at the same time—I flinched when realization dawned on me: that was my reflection in the glass, staring blearily back at me. Vacant, sunken eyes with dark circles underneath; limp, scraggly dark hair, hollowed out cheeks with protruding cheekbones; the pallor of my face looking even more sallow underneath the harsh lights… I touched a trembling hand to my cheek and followed the planes of my cheekbone with my fingers. The feeling of weightlessness vanished immediately, and I felt all my burdens fall back upon me like stone. Who was she? I didn’t recognize myself. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror. It was me, but distorted, twisted and strange. It wasn’t me—or at the very least, I didn’t want it to be me. Where had that young, vivacious woman with the perky smile and confidence in her posture gone? I know I had let myself go quite a bit in terms of self-care as I gave everything I had to my kids; anything extra that I had was for them, whether that be food, clothes, supplies, love, affection… There was very little left for me. Despite that, somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t think I had changed so much. I still thought that I was the hopeful young adult, ready to grab life by the horns, but no. The young woman who dreamed of graduating college and starting her own business was gone. I was older now, beat down and struggling, trying to make ends meet as best as I can by working two dead-end jobs with no future career prospects in sight. My heart sank as I took in reality, as I took in the disheveled, tired reflection staring back in the glass.

I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as I could, trying to leave that reflection far behind. I had wasted too much time already; my kids were waiting. The brief respite I had found in the grocery store was over now, and I was ready to step back into my chaotic life again where I was too busy to reflect on myself. I swiftly made my way towards the medicine aisle and knocked the cheapest box of cold medicine that I could find in the cart. Other necessities like bread, peanut butter, jelly, eggs, ketchup and boxes of macaroni and cheese joined the medicine. I didn’t know when I would be able to go out shopping again.

The last stop was the freezer aisle, for the popsicles that I always gave my kids when they were sick. I was perusing the selection, comparing prices and making calculations in my head when someone bumped into me from behind, roughly. Thoroughly jostled and caught off guard, I turned to see a tall man with sharp eyes boring straight into me. He cleared his throat and jerked his head to the left, gesturing me to move and get out of his way.

Was I not even worth an excuse me? I knew I looked rough around the edges, but I was still a person that deserved a ‘pardon me’ if someone walked right into me, especially when the aisle was big, empty and full of space to walk around. “I just need one second,” I said with a tight-lipped smile. “There’s enough room in this aisle for you to give me a little bit of space.”

It was a clear hint on my part, but the man with sharp eyes didn’t move. He just looked at his watch meaningfully and cleared his throat. What was an obviously busy man like him doing in a grocery store in the middle of the night, harassing me in front of the popsicles? As much as I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, it wasn’t worth it—I was busy too, and I had a sick child waiting for me. I reached into the freezer for the cheapest generic brand of popsicles and stepped away. The man with sharp eyes didn’t back down and didn’t stop staring at me.

I didn’t want to admit it, but this man had gotten to me: I felt a little shaken. I left the freezer aisle with a bad taste in my mouth—the sweetness of the apple had soured considerably.

“Are you alright?”

I must really look rough today. I looked up, and the lady from before was looking at me with her forehead creasing in concern.

“I’m fine, I guess.” I said. It was a lie, of course but there was no other answer to give.

“Did something happen?” The lady asked, not letting it slide like I had hoped.

“A really rude man walked straight into me and demanded that I move, even though there was enough space to walk around me and wait politely—if he had been taught any manners.” I said with a roll of my eyes. It came out more venomously than I had intended. I wanted to shrug it off like it was no big deal, but in my current mental state, all I wanted to do was cry.

“Some people are just like that,” The lady said sympathetically. “I remember people walking all over me when I was younger, just because they thought they could. Their time isn’t more important than anyone else’s, but common sense is lost on some people.”

I didn’t say anything, I just nodded. I turned my face away from the lady when the tears began to well up. It was stupid to cry at something like this, but once it happened, I couldn’t stop it. It was just a jerk who thought he was better than people, and a nice person making sure I was okay. It was nothing to cry about—but still, my vision blurred a little bit.

Politely, the lady looked away as if she didn’t notice me tearing up. “Really, are you alright? Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Thank you so much, but I’m fine.” I said. I took a moment to swipe my sleeve against my eyes. No more crying. I had things to do. “I really appreciate your concern though—it’s been a while since anyone has been nice to me. It almost makes the rude guy worth it.”

Was that too much to say? It probably was.

 “The store will be closing in ten minutes. If you have any remaining purchases, please go check out cash register number seven.” The intercom crackled. With that interruption, I hastily parted way with the woman after one final thank you. Reacting quickly to the announcement paid off; I managed to squeeze into the front of the line, just barely beating out the man with sharp eyes and the others filing in after him.

“Did you find everything you needed?” The cashier said in a monotone voice.

“Yes, yes.” I said, throwing my items onto the conveyor belt. The eggs were placed a little bit more carefully. I didn’t have much patience for small talk. Fortunately, he only responded with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Beep. Generic brand cold medicine: $4.97. Beep. A carton of milk: $3.99. Beep. An 18 pack of popsicles: $4.99. Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep.

 “Your total is $22.79. The cashier said, not even looking in my direction.

 I pulled out my credit card and swiped it. Beep beep, your card has been declined. I felt my heart stop.

The cashier raised a slick eyebrow.

“There must be some mistake.” I wetted my suddenly dry lips. I had paid off my credit card, right? I didn’t max it out already, right? “Let me try again.”

Another swipe, another decline. I glared at the credit card machine, as if reaching my credit card limit was the fault of its cold, clinical beeps. I could feel panic rising in my throat, and I pulled out my debit card next. “Let me try this one,” I said weakly, trying to smile. It was probably more of a grimace than a smile, and the cashier looked back with apathy.

Beep beep, your card has been declined.

I felt positively nauseous at that point. If the ground could just open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly jump in. Was my checking account really so depleted that I couldn’t pay twenty-some dollars at a grocery store? It wasn’t even a big purchase!

I heard a dreaded clearing of the throat, accompanied by the tap tap tapping of a foot. It was the man with sharp eyes from before, the new bane of my existence. He glanced meaningfully at his watch again because his time was clearly more important than mine.

“Ma’am, if you don’t have enough money to pay for this, you’ll either have to get rid of something, or just leave.” The cashier said, annoyance coloring his tone.

“Get rid of something?” Frantically, my eyes combed over all the items I had wanted to purchase. The cold medicine was non-negotiable, and so was the milk. Maybe the small loaf of bread was unnecessary? No, no—bread was so important, and the small jars of peanut butter and jelly would make it a complete meal all on its own. All I had gotten was food that I could stretch over a few weeks if I had to. That was valuable. I didn’t have enough time to pull up my bank account and check my balance. I would just have to keep taking away items until I found the price I could pay.

The popsicles then? I reached out to it but my hand hesitated. They weren’t strictly a necessity, but popsicles were a treat my kids would only get when they were sick. My son would be so disappointed.

There was another clearing of the throat behind me. My cheeks burned. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologized to my son silently as I grabbed the cold box—

“Are these all things you need?” A kind voice that I had become familiar with over the last half-hour said from behind. The woman with the brown glasses that I had talked to twice before stepped out of her place in line and approached me.

Numbly, I nodded. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, prickling at my skin. I just stared at my shoes.

“I’ll cover it.” The lady said. My head snapped up in disbelief, and she just smiled at me.

“Wait, excuse me, what?” That was all I could manage. My mouth felt like cotton.

“I’ll cover it. All of it.” She said, already adding her own items to the conveyor belt.

I was dumbstruck; my mouth was gaping like a fish. “I don’t even know what to say. You don’t have to do this.” I knew somewhere in my brain that I had to thank her, but it was like my mouth forgot how to form the words.

“You seem like you’re having a rough time, and I want to help.” The lady said, already swiping her own card and signing the machine with a flourish. “No, you don’t have to say anything,” She interrupted, when I opened my mouth to at least justify my situation. “We could all use a helping hand every now and then.”

I didn’t realize that I was crying until a hot tear rolled down my cheek. I grasped her hands, trying to squeeze every bit of emotion into our clasped hands so that she might get a sense of the overwhelming emotion that welled up in my chest.

“Thank you.” I finally said through ragged gasps.

“Don’t worry about it.” The lady said, squeezing back.

I didn’t know why she covered my costs, and she never told me. I have no idea if she was a wealthy person who went around paying for the groceries of single mothers in her spare time, or if she just saw me and thought ‘this person looks rough, maybe she needs some help’. Was it too cheesy to think that she was an angel of some sort? Maybe. I’m not the religious kind, but I believed it.

When I went to bed that night, I wasn’t thinking about the man with sharp eyes who probably thought me as nothing better than a dust bunny, or the fact that I felt thirty years older than my actual age, wondering where it all went wrong. I was thinking about the fact that my children had full bellies and were sleeping soundly, and that my son would be okay in a few days because he had medicine. I was thinking about the lady who’s name I don’t even know that made it all possible.

Life gets hard sometimes. It’s the small acts of kindness like this that remind me that there are more important things to remember and cherish.

[writeyouin]

Connor X Fem-Reader – Do You Dream? Chapter 1

Summary – You and Connor are best friends, having met on the force after the android revolution. However, when Connor suddenly sees you as more, he has no idea how to go about it without ruining the friendship the two of you share. How is an android to deal with a whole new level of emotions?

Chapter 1 - The Ache

A/N – So, I was toying with this idea for a while and here it is. Here’s hoping you like it. This is rated T for now, but it will hit the M rating in later chapters. Oh, and I’m no master designer, the only reason I know the dress I described is because of Hellbunny, the site where I got it; the best site for dresses in my opinion.

Warnings – Swearing.

Rating – T

It had taken a long time, much longer than anyone would have liked, but the tensions surrounding androids after their liberation were finally abating. Connor adored his new-found freedom. He had a home with Hank who had become like his adoptive father, a regular pay check from the DPD which didn’t feel like the allowance Cyberlife had given him, he had a routine in work, and he had a best friend in you.

Before deviancy, Connor didn’t understand the complexities of human social chains nor how people could choose one friend over another to be the ‘best friend,’ but after you were assigned to be Connor and Hank’s partner within the DPD, he finally got it; a best friend was someone you could share every secret and aspiration with, trusting that they would understand and support you with everything they had.

Connor thought about you with a smile as he entered the DPD on the crisp Detroit morning, surprised to find that you’d actually beaten him there for once. He grinned, sneaking past you, into the canteen where he poured a cup of green tea. He stalked silently behind you, hoping to frighten you when he leaned over, putting the cup on your desk; unfortunately, he’d played that trick one too many times and you were prepared for it.  You didn’t even look up from your report.

“I’m not drinking that,” You said drily.

“It’s good for you; much healthier than coffee,” Connor smirked, pushing the cup closer to you.

“C’mon Robocop, if the coffee here is shit, then green tea, which is naturally shit must taste like sewage.” You finally looked up, “No Hank today?”

“It was too early for him.”

“And?”

“And he threw his alarm clock.”

“And?”

“…And it hit me in the chest.”

You nodded thoughtfully, “Sounds about right.”

Connor perched on the edge of your desk, looking much more human in his mannerisms than when you first met him. “You’re here early today.”

“Yep,” You got back to your work, avoiding Connor’s gaze.

He stared at you long and hard, “Wait… Don’t tell me you pissed off the Captain again?”

You threw up your hands frustratedly, “I was right this time!”

Connor shook his head exasperatedly, “What’s the punishment this time?”

“Desk duty till I apologise.”

“Then say sorry already.”

“No. I don’t care if he is the Captain, I caught a major Red Ice dealer… who cares if I didn’t call for backup?”

Connor’s LED flashed yellow, spinning a few times as he looked up recent closed cases pertaining to you. Almost immediately, his LED turned red. He straightened up, taking on a serious air, “(Y/N), you took on Vixen without calling for backup! She’s the Blood Gang leader!”

“Ugh, don’t research me Con, you know I hate that.”

“Don’t try and play cute here (Y/N), you could have been killed. Why didn’t you call me or Hank? We’ve been working that case with you for months now. What were you thinking?”

You fiddled with your pen guiltily, unable to bring yourself to look at Connor, or more specifically his LED which hadn’t changed back from the violent red, indicating his anger. Usually, he would have berated you then let it go but at this he seemed genuinely upset; you understood of course, if the roles were reversed you would have reacted the same way.

“It’s not what you think Connor,” You said sullenly, “I just… I got an anonymous tip about Vixen and I went to do some recon. When I got there, she was alone, no security and you know that’s a once in a lifetime opportunity… Please forgive me. Pretty please. I’ll drink your shitty tea if you do.”

Conor sighed, his posture relaxing and his LED switching back to its usual calming blue.

“Fine,” He conceded. “Just don’t do it again.”

“You think I’ll get a chance? I’m gonna be on desk duty for the rest of my life… I guess it’ll be up to you to save the city for a while, Robocop.”

Connor winked before walking away, “Drink your tea, desk jockey.”

You scowled disgustedly but didn’t argue further, fulfilling your promise and draining the Styrofoam cup as you got back to the dreadfully dull task of filling out reports.

Connor held a neatly boxed cake under his arm, his attempt to cheer you up on your fifth week on desk duty. Evidently, the Captain didn’t appreciate your insubordination, and you were much too stubborn for your own good. If Connor played his cards right, he might be able to bribe you with the delectable dessert he knew to be your favourite so you would at least fake an apology to the Captain.

He headed into the unusually busy bullpen; normally by this time it was just you and him, with a few stragglers from the previous shift. He scanned around for you, going to Hank’s desk when he didn’t see you. Hank eyed Connor carefully as he sat gracefully down, placing the cake box gently on his desk as if it were the most delicate thing in the world.

The way Hank stared him down made him ask, “Is something wrong?”

Hank scrubbed a hand over his beard, “You heard from (Y/N) this morning?”

“No. As you’ve just witnessed, I entered the building only a minute ago.”

“Don’t be a smartass… Look, I’ve got good news and bad news for ya, kid.”

Connor waited patiently.

“The good news is that (Y/N)’s finally done paper pushing.”

“She apologised?”

“Hell no! Fowler finally cracked is all. That and he found a case that (Y/N) has the ah… specific talents for,” Hank blushed uncomfortably, leading Connor to wonder what skill set of yours he could possibly be embarrassed about; he was about to ask until Hank started speaking again.

“The bad news is that (Y/N)’s still not in the all clear and this is basically a test run to see that she can follow the rules, so she isn’t working with us. She’s working under Gavin.”

“Under Gavin? How can she work under Gavin? They’re both detectives, and why him anyway? Why not anyone else in the damned precinct?”

“Relax kid, (Y/N) can handle herself and Gavin’s the lead Detective on this case. So long as (Y/N) shuts up and follows orders for once, she’ll be fine.”

“Why are you okay with this?”

“Hey, pick your fights Connor. The sooner Gavin’s case is done, the sooner things will go back to normal.”

Reluctantly, Connor accepted Hank’s reasoning, surprised the Lieutenant was showing such restraint about everything. Hank hated Gavin as much as anyone, and if anything, he also looked upon you as something of a work daughter. Although it probably wouldn’t solve anything, Connor found himself wishing Hank would war with Captain Fowler over your punishment.

“Hey Robocop,” You called; Connor found himself relaxing again at the sound of your voice. “Gramps here fill you in on the good news?”

“Fuck off, I ain’t no gramps,” Hank grumbled, though there was no real bite to his tone.

Connor prepared a witty retort, but it died in his mouth when he swivelled in his chair to face you. During all his days with you, he’d only ever seen you in the casual attire detectives tended to wear, which were usually clothes fit for a chase. Now, time slowed in his android processor as it always did when he scanned his surroundings. You were in a black ballgown style dress which cut off mid-calf, exposing the rest of your leg down to the elegant heels you wore. The dress was patterned with golden constellations and at either side were three leather straps acting like fabric ribs.

The longer Connor looked, the more he saw. Your hair was different, and Connor couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw you were wearing makeup. As he took everything in, he began to feel strange; it was like something was clutching at his insides. Being an android, Connor was still learning which emotions were which; this new one taking over him was completely unrecognisable. What was happening to him?

“Hey Connor, is something on my face?” You asked innocently.

Connor blinked rapidly, wondering when he’d stopped scanning you and had let time catch up with him. “Uh, no, nothing unusual.”

“Then stop staring at it,” You laughed.

Connor looked down at his feet awkwardly, finding himself glad he couldn’t blush, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered to him so much.

Fortunately, all pressure was taken away from him when Hank spoke, “Wow, when you told me what was going on, I didn’t think you’d get so into it.”

“Going on?” Connor repeated, latching on to anything that would distract him from the heavy weight on his chest.

You smiled playfully, leaning against Connor’s desk in a way that only distracted him further. “Okay, so, nine women are killed in separate locations, all in the same way, and Gavin gets his head out of his ass long enough to put two plus two together and realise the killer’s M.O. and get this, only one cop here fits the bill of each victim perfectly,” You pointed to yourself. “Each vic was my average height, weight, and hair colour. I mean, what are the chances right? I don’t have the eyes, but hey, what’re contacts for if not this? Anyway, after looking into the case file Gavin had, all I needed was a change of clothes, which I already had at home and-”

“Wait, you already owned that?” Hank snorted. “Fuckin’ princess.”

“You know, I do go out without the two of you sometimes. Getting back to the story, Fowler gives me permission to work with Gavin, who thinks he’s found the next location. In a few hours, me and Gavin will be in the Sunset Vista Bar so I can-”

“Act as bait!” Connor growled frustratedly.

“Go Undercover,” You said forcefully, wondering what had gotten into Connor to make him act so weird; by now he should have been getting excited at the prospect of your unique case.

As you considered what might be wrong with Connor, he was asking himself the same question. He knew you were capable of handling yourself and that while Gavin was an ass, he was also a great Detective. Despite that, Connor wanted to ask you not to go, he wanted to tell you Gavin couldn’t protect you and that you should stay with him and Hank instead. He ran a diagnostic check on himself, expecting a virus, but finding nothing. If he didn’t have a virus, why did he ache when he looked at you?

Before anyone could say anything else, the three of you were interrupted by a long, appreciative whistle. You rolled your eyes, folding your arms over your chest as Gavin approached. “Wow, gotta say (Y/N), you clean up good. If all it took was a serial killer to get you all pretty, I would have found one ages ago. So, we know what it takes to get you into a dress, tell me, what does it take to get you out of it?”

Connor clenched his fists tightly over his thighs, staying firmly planted in his seat in case he did something he would later regret. Normally, whenever Gavin said something stupid or derogatory, which was often, Connor was able to ignore it; he’d never actually wanted to hurt the man before.

Fortunately, Hank said what everything was thinking, never fearing the consequences because of his rank as Lieutenant, “Why don’t you fuck off back to the hole you crawled from, Gavin.”

Gavin ignored Hank, moving uncomfortably close to you, conveying his intentions clearly. “How about it after work? Just you, me and a lot of alcohol.”

You sighed, wishing you weren’t backed against a desk, yet gathering your composure anyway. “Reed, you didn’t have any interest in me before, get off my case now, yeah?”

Gavin let his eyes traverse your body. “Just think about it. One date with me is one hundred percent guaranteed to end in sex.”

You smiled cheekily, meeting his eyes for the first time. “Aw, Gavin, precious, whatever you do with your hand at the end of the night is your business, but I wouldn’t call it sex.”

Hank laughed heartily while Gavin glared at you vehemently, trying to repair his damaged ego. “Hey, you remember who’s keeping you safe tonight,” He warned, storming away moodily shortly thereafter.

You waved at his back triumphantly, basking in your victory as Hank hooted in his chair. While you and Hank celebrated, Connor found himself in a conundrum. He got up, leaving his desk mechanically so he could gather his thoughts in the bathroom. Once there, he stared at himself in the mirror, breathing hard and thinking of you. The ache hadn’t gone away, and unlike the cake in the box on his desk, it would not be forgotten. Hank was wrong, things wouldn’t ever go back to normal, at least not for Connor.

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[jakkosisle]

The Battle For Lordaeron: Part VII - Exit Strategy

After picking up Soozee, Jakko flew back over to the Southern Courtyard, and not a moment too soon.  The Horde was pulling back from the courtyard and was making its way through the eastern half of the city to the second rally point in the palace gardens.  “Alright.” Jakko said.  “We’ll just follow them from up here and-“

An arrow hit Jakko right in the wing.  “BWONSAMDI FUCKS HAMSTERS FOR BREAKFAST!” he swore as he quickly lost altitude and crashed into the courtyard.  The two goblins on his back tumbled across the ground as he morphed back into troll form.  He looked to his shoulder to inspect the wound.

Yup.  Darnassian Arrow in his shoulder.  Pretty deep.

He looked around - most of the Horde had already fled, and in front of the Boomsprocket siblings was a very large, very angry Alliance army that had now spotted the three of them.  Several Stormwind footmen lowered their spears and charged at them.

Oh, this is just hilarious. Jakko thought to himself.  After surviving the horrors of the blight and the vengeful wrath of a paladin with a vendetta, it’s some random-ass night elf archer who got off a lucky shot that ends up killing him and his sisters.  Whatever being is responsible for weaving the fate of mortals must be laughing its ass off right now.

Before the Alliance could close the distance though, someone landed between them.  They screamed so loud at the soldiers that they had to cover their ears (so did Jakko and his sisters - they cursed trolls and goblins alike for having such big ears).  The stranger then fired several arrows at the footmen before turning around.

It was Sylvanas Windrunner.

“Don’t just sit there!  Move!  Second Rally Point!  Go!” the Warchief shouted at them before engaging the Alliance once more.

None of them had any trouble following that particular order, as they all ran off toward the east side of the city.�� Jakko spared a glance back and watched in horror and awe as Sylvanas held off the entire Alliance army more-or-less single-handed.

Damn.

She was an evil bitch, but for the briefest moment, he was glad that she was on their side.

Marbelma had finally gotten free of those damned vines and made her way down the rubble back into the courtyard.  She saw Roniaar, on his hands and knees, panting next to a dead hydra.  “Roniaar?  What the hell happened to ye?” she asked.

“Things got hairy.” Roniaar said.  “I…” he gasped for breath.  “I had to ascend.”

Marbelma’s eyes widened.  She didn’t know a whole lot about shamanism, but she knew that becoming an ascendent, even temporarily, was incredibly dangerous.  Things must’ve really gotten bad down here if Roniaar was willing to take a risk like that.

She looked around and saw that the courtyard was largely devoid of Horde now.  Save for one particular Hordie…

“Sylvanas…” Marbelma breathed as she watched the Warchief fire a seemingly endless amount of arrows into the Alliance, leaping from place to place.  “What’s she doin’?!”

“Trying to cover her Horde’s retreat.” Tendalel reported.

“Gah!” Marbelma jumped.  “Don’t do that!”

“Can’t help it.  Void elf AND a rogue.” Ten said.  “Anyway, there’s still a few Horde stragglers in the courtyard and Sylvanas is trying to cover their retreat.”

“She’s vulnerable…” Marbelma said with a grin as she unsheathed her hammer.  “This is our chance!” she shouted as she ran towards the Banshee Queen.

“Marbles!  Wait!” Roniaar said as he took off after her, still struggling to catch his breath so soon after ascension.

“…I’m gonna have to go with them, aren’t I?” Ten asked no one in particular.  He sighed.  “The things I do for guildies…” he muttered before sprinting after the two.

The three Alliance heroes didn’t get very far.  Sylvanas eventually hopped on top of a large pile of rubble and aimed her last few arrows not at any Alliance troops…but at the massive vats of blight that lined the sides of the battlefield.

“…Oh, son of a bitch.” Marbelma cursed, realizing what was about to happen.

As the arrows hit the massive canisters, they detonated, blight rushing across the battlefield.  The trio hit the ground, somehow believing that would shield them from the worst of it…

…And somehow, it did.

Marbelma looked up and saw, much to her own surprise, that she was surrounded not by Blight, but by a large dome of holy energy that shielded them.  “Quickly!” said the priest who must’ve saved them.  “Back to the other side of the battlefield!  I don’t know how long I can maintain this shield!”

Marbelma nodded and stood up.  “Come on, you two!  On yer feet!” she barked at Roniaar and Tendalel as they stood up and walked with the priest as they, and several other priests who managed to bubble some very lucky Alliance soldiers, made their way to the western end of the courtyard where there wasn’t any blight.

The priest dropped his shield.  “Thanks.” Marbelma said.

“It was an honor, hero.”

…And that’s when Marbelma realized just who, exactly, had saved her life.

The face of Anduin Wrynn smiled down on her, before the High King walked off to meet with Proudmoore and Greymane to discuss the next course of action.

It then occurred to Marbelma that hers wasn’t the first life the High King saved today.  Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.  Perhaps she had misjudged him - it takes stones to walk into a cloud of blight just to save a few random adventurers, after all.

The Horde’s next order from their Warchief was a surprising one - evacuate.  They were to withdraw back into the Undercity, where mages were waiting to teleport the battle’s survivors to a safer place.  As Baine herded the Horde’s champions out of the gardens and through the throne room, Jakko caught a glimpse of Sylvanas and Saurfang arguing about something.

The troll supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that they were pulling out.  They had defended the city as best they could, but with the Alliance now completely overrunning the ruins on the surface, it was only a matter of time before they’d take it.  He’d heard that Sylvanas had detonated the last of the blight bombs in the courtyard, but he knew that was just to buy the Horde more time to withdraw.  It wouldn’t hold the Alliance back for long.

They took the elevator down into the center ring of the Undercity.  Striding by Spritzie’s side was the only pet Spritzie brought with her to survive the battle - Angel, her wolfhawk.  It whined as it sensed her mistress’s distress and tried to nuzzle the goblin to comfort her.

Soozee was fiddling with her belt, muttering curses as her void suit seemed to be sparking.  “Shit.” she cursed.  “Void suit’s been damaged.  Must’ve happened when we took that spill after that arrow shot you down, Jakko.”

“Yeah, the arrow…” Jakko said as he eyed the bandage where a shamanistic healer took out the arrow, slapped some healing water on the wound, and called for his next patient.  Orcs weren’t known for their bedside manner.  Course, that wound was minor compared to what that dwarf had given him.

He rubbed at the handprint on the right side of his face.  The flesh was still raw.  It would probably take weeks to heal, even with trollish regeneration.  Except…doesn’t fire nullify regeneration?  He wondered if this scar would actually heal.

If it doesn’t, one more for the collection.  Jakko looked down at the gash scar on his palm, and rubbed at the jagged scar on the side of his torso.  Orcs viewed scars as badges of honor, and proof of courage and strength.  Jakko didn’t really see it that way.  His scars felt more like monuments to his mistakes.

They eventually found a mage with a portal.  Standing beside the mage was Commander Johriah Lawrence.  “Do not despair, Horde.” he said to his champions to try and lift their spirits.  “Though we may have lost this battle, the war is far from over.”

As if THAT was a comfort.

Jakko and his sisters stepped through the portal.

With the blight blocking the Alliance’s path, the only way past it was with the flying machines Gelbin Mekkatorgue had brought with him through the ren’dorei’s portal.  The problem was that there weren’t much of them, so only a handful of the Alliance’s champions could go with Anduin to finish this battle once and for all.

Marbelma and her group would not be among them.  For her, the battle was over.

“It can’t be over!” Marbelma raged as her group marched back through the breach Jaina had created earlier and back to Brill.  “I’m not done yet!”

“You are.” Vindicator Rhyliaandra firmly told her old squire.  “You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Marbelma.  You fought with righteous fury this day, and in doing so, inflicted a wound on the Horde they will not recover from.  You have earned this respite.”

“You don’t understand!” Marbelma said.  “The troll!  The one who killed my parents!  He was here!”

“…He was?” Rhyliaandra asked.

“I dueled him on top of the battlements!” Marbelma said.

“I DO recall her seeing dueling a troll atop the wall.” Roniaar said.  “Are you sure it was him?” he asked.

“Positive.” Marbelma said.  “The fucker even admitted to it.”

“How did you know it was him?” Tendalel said.

“I heard him saying ‘piksap.’” Marbelma replied.  “He said the same thing the night he murdered my parents.  I’d know his voice anywhere.”

“Strange.” Tendalel said.  “‘Piksap’ is actually a goblin curse word.  Why would a troll know it?”

Marbelma paused in thought.  It WAS strange, now that she thought about it.  In fact…  “He didn’t really talk with a troll accent.” she realized.  “He talked more like a….goblin, if anything.”

“Interesting.  Did you get his name?” Ten asked.

Marbelma shook her head.  “I had him dead to rights before he caught me off guard.”  She reached up and touched the claw marks that dominated the left side of her face, nearly taking her eye.  “Didn’t see the point in learning his name.”

“Well, without knowing his name, it’s gonna be harder to find him in the future.” Tendalel said.

“Assuming he survives this battle.” Marbelma said.  As much she wanted to kill him herself, she’d settle for seeing his corpse piled among the hundred other Horde corpses that will be collected once this battle is over.

“And if he doesn’t?” the rogue asked.

Marbelma scowled at the void elf.  “What business is it of yours, anyway?” she demanded.

“I’m a rogue, but more specifically, I’m a spy.” Tendalel said.  “I’m less about assassination and more gathering intelligence.  Wouldn’t be the first time I had to track someone down.  Granted, it’d be hard without a name, but a troll with a goblin accent?  Not many of those in the world.  I’m pretty sure I can find a name soon enough.”

“…And what would it cost me?” Marbelma asked.  She knew that rogues of all stripes never did anything for free.

“Oh, I’ll think of something.” Ten replied with a wink.  “Favor for a favor.”

It was then that the group heard a series of explosions coming from the Ruins of Lordaeron.  They turned around and stared, wide-eyed, as clouds of blight erupted from all the buildings...

And began to pour towards them.

“Move!” Rhyliaandra barked as the withdrawing Alliance forces all broke out in a run for Brill, away from the blight.  Thankfully, they all had a decent headstart on the blight, and were able to make it to Brill safely just before the blight stopped just shy of its outskirts.  After catching their breath, the Champions of the Alliance all looked up at the city and stared in horror.

Jakko really shouldn’t have been surprised by what he saw from the railings of the Horde gunship he and the others had been ported to.  The Ruins of Lordaeron were completely covered in blight - Sylvanas’s final contingency, no doubt.  He should’ve known that she would rather destroy her own city rather than allow it to fall into Alliance hands.

The Champions of the Horde looked on as the gunship they all managed to evacuate onto turned west and flew for Kalimdor.  It was bittersweet.  They had lost a strategically valuable city, and with it, most of Lordaeron.  But they could at least take comfort in the fact that the Alliance wouldn’t be able to use the city as a fortress of their own, like they were likely planning.

The Forsaken had taken it the hardest.  They weren’t an emotional people, but they seemed even more melancholic than usual.  Jakko sympathized with them, despite himself.  They had just lost their home, after all.

Just as the night elves had lost theirs.

Guess we’re even, now. he ruefully thought to himself.

Though that’s probably not how the Alliance sees it.

Right now, the Horde was en route back to Orgrimmar, where it will heal its wounded, bury its dead, and plan what its next move.  The Alliance will likely do the same, sailing back to Stormwind.  Jakko didn’t really know what was going to happen after that.  After taking so many losses in the Battle for Lordaeron, it was hard to imagine the Horde, or the Alliance for that matter, mustering enough strength for another battle of this scale anytime soon.

But it was also hard to imagine either the High King or the Warchief giving up so easily.

Jakko knew one thing for sure, though.  This wasn’t over.  Not by a long shot.  This wasn’t Warsong Gulch or Arathi Basin.  This wasn’t some glorified slap fight over flags or resources in some box canyon in the middle of nowhere.  This was it.  The big one.  The final showdown between Alliance and Horde.

The Battle for Azeroth.

And it was just getting started.

[shazyloren]

The Room: Chapter 21 - The Champions

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12710496/chapters/30294486

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Daenerys felt sick to her stomach.

It was quarter to six on Halloween evening and there was a hive of activity in the hall. All the schools were once again gathered following the welcome feast the night before and this time, the air was laced with a poisonous rivalry. Students from all schools were talking down at each other, claiming their school would wipe the floor with theirs. All daenerys could think of as she and Missandei sat together, trying to ignore the chatter, was that she'd possibly been the world's biggest idiot.

At least Snow was good at Defence, he'd got them out of that situation easier than you could say Salazar Slytherin, but Daenerys, will successful in other areas, was scared for the first time about the competition. Sure she'd been nervous, she knew she lacked in that particular area but now, only a few minutes out from the champions being chosen she was beginning to think she might throw up her breakfast.

To make matters worse, Joffrey Baratheon was going around telling everyone to kill her if they got the chance while in the arena if she was chosen. She'd ignored him, and thankfully none of the other students who entered were listening to him either, but she thought if she heard his bitch mouth talk anymore shit about her she was gonna throw a bat bogey hex his way. She was good at those, quite fabulous actually.

She didn't want to be so obvious with him however, she was in Slytherin after all, even if in all her years of being here she'd never felt less like one than in her final year. She'd lost her cunning edge, her calculating brain had become docile and she'd even given up hexing people - save the odd one at Jon on prefet duty. She knew it was just the pressure of everything that's happened with her mum's passing that she's become so empty. She also knew that in time she would become her old self again, but it was time to change and give the chance to have a normal life after all of it.

If that was even possible.

"Red headed bitch, wouldn't be able to beat me in a duel if she tried" Daenerys heard Joffrey's voice sound out with a couple of his mates snickering with him. Daenerys found ehr hands balling into fists as he described his attack on the Stark sisters he'd performed in the charms corridor the other day. "And that bitch sister of hers, hexed her in the hall the other day, stinging curse. Nasty little brat she is"

She'd heard all about it, they were suppose to be meeting Jon so he could help them with their homework. He'd told her that on Head duties. He'd turned up to one of their many meetings the past few days with his hands shaking and his eyes seeing red. Dany hadn't even needed to probe him for further details due to his shouting voice that started before she even said hello.

Joffrey was snickering and the two girls in question were sat on the other side of the school together with Robb on one side and Jon on the other. Theon sat in front of them with Jon's Hufflepuff friend Gendry. They were all glaring at Joffrey who didn't seemed phased by them. He just kept going into detail about how Arya had tried to fight back by biting his ankles.

"Joffrey, be quiet" Daenerys sighed. The silence that rang along the Slytherin table was palpable.

"Excuse me?" He walked towards her menacingly. "What did you say?"

"I said be quiet" Daenerys was unphased by his menacing prowling. He was about as threatening as a puppy in a wooly coat. The Sand twins were snickering, trying to hold their giggles in. Joffrey sent them glares and they shut up sharpish. "It's not nice to pick on people younger than you - nevermind that they're girls too"

Daenerys eye caught Jon's for the briefest of moments, a fleeting exchange of worry as he surveyed the situation. Daenerys looked Joffrey up and down, he was skinny, scrawny even, and so pale. How he had any sway over the descent students in Slytherin house she did not know, but it must be something to do with the money and favours he'd be sitting on from his rich parents.

"Listen, inbred witch-" Joffrey started.

"So original" Daenerys sighed. She stood up with her bag and signalled for Missandei to follow her, she didn't fancy leaving her with this lot. They'd rip her to pieces and she wouldn't be able to fight back. She turned towards him for one final exit line. "Come back to me when you've got an insult you've actually thought of yourself"

She began to walk over to where Jon and his family were sat, Missandei in tow. "You can't talk to me like that, I'm a Baratheon!"

"And I'm a Targaryen" She warned him, a small spark of fire in her fingertips as her heated blood flowed through her veins. Underneath all the pain, her tenacity was still there, still fighting to keep her afloat and not be weighed down. "Speak to me in a manner that degrades my family again and I'll be sending you to yours in a matchbox!"

She stormed away then so he couldn't say anymore and plonked herself next to Jon while Missandei sat the other side of her. There wasn't time to explain herself however as the Headmasters from all three schools filled the hall with an eerie silence as they walked down the middle of the tables, Professor Lannister leading the way. The clock stuck six and everyone's intake of breath could be heard.

And then, as silent as a feather landing on a soft pillow. Daenerys felt her breakfast threaten to come up once more, the taste of bacon still present in her mouth as Lady Melisandre and Headmaster Baratheon took to their seats. Professor Lannister waked up to his podium, cleaning it a little. This gave Daenerys a few seconds to look at Jon, a single drop of sweat had formed on his forehead and he looked paler than she'd ever seen him.

It was almost reassuring to know he was feeling as riddled with fear and nerves as she was. If one of them were chosen then she'd be forced to ask for help from him in defence (not that she'd tell anyone else that - working with her four year long rival wasn't an announcement to make the papers). He may ask her for potions help, it was a known fact she was the best at potions in the school besides Professor Lewin himself so he may come to her for the same reasons she'd go to him.

It all reminded her of their patrol the evening before, when she'd stupidly let it be known that he was the first person to ever kiss her. His had said it all, surprise and amusement. She wasn't happy that her inability to produce a meaningful relationship with someone enough to kiss them was amusing to him. Of course, she gave him some leeway for not knowing that she isn't comfortable with people touching her. But he'd still annoyed her.

Of course, he hadn't said a word to anyone because it would go around school quicker than you could say Bertie Botts and it'd be another thing added to the list of things people would laugh at her for. She had decided however not to let any of it bother her, their words didn't hurt anymore. She'd hit the bottom with such a crash and fall that nothing affected her anymore. It was just another thing to add to the shitpile as she kept saying to herself.

"Students, local and from afar" Professor Lannister started his speech. The ceremony was about to get underway and they hadn't even eaten. Usually it was tradition to have the feast and then call the names out after desert. Daenerys thought this way was going to cause more issues but she overheard Theon saying at least it will be out of people's systems by curfew and there won't be any stragglers talking predictions. So eating after the announcement it was then.

"Today, the goblet of fire will tell us who our three champions will be" There was a generous clap that echoed around the room. "Yes, exciting. The Goblet of Fire is a magical binding contract; if you are chosen, you must compete in the three tasks. The prize, one thousand five hundred galleons, is a life changing amount of money. If we do not have any late editions to the cup, let the ceremony commence"

He took the age line down on the cup so he could step through safely and work on the enchantment that stops it from accepting any more names. The room was silent besides his small muttering of the charm. Jon turned to face daenerys, she could feel his eyes on her but she refused to say anything. Everyone in this hall will not be the same after today's ceremony. She found courage however in the reason she entered in the first place. To stop others from making that sacrifice, to make the school realise she cared for them and she'd fight for the school's name.

As Professor Lannisters words ended,, she drew on these thoughts and found that she was forcing herself to smile. To not appear as nervous to those who could be chosen or she could be representing. She was completely ridden with angst and tension however, and the drumming of Jon's fingers on his own thigh she could see below the table suggested that he too was about to lose the plot.

"Time for our Beauxbatons champion" His voice was sharp and clear throughout the room. the flames in the goblet turned from Blue to red as it spat out a piece of parchment that looked like two joined together. No one else seemed to have noticed this until Professor Lannister was holding it in his small hands. His face paled as he stared at the parchment. "It's given me two names... there's two names on this piece of parchment"

He scanned the crowd to gage the reaction from the students. Everyone was wide eyes and whispering, shocked hissing and gasps of excitement tingled through the room like an warmth that spread across cold skin. Lady Melisandre stood in her seat, eyes dark in their colour, now red instead of blue. She was a changeling, a Metamorphmagus. her entire face was piercing into Daenerys very being, an angry she did not feel from other people.

"How can it chose two?" She demanded to know.

Professor Lannister had no reply. He did not know, so he just read out the names. "Irri Dothrak" There was a cheer from Beauxbatons table as a small but fiesty looking woman with tanned skin and a pixie haircut stood and walked towards the front. The other houses gave a respectful clap. "Greyworm"

Daenerys had heard about the infamous Greyworm. He was a muggleborn who's prowess as a melee combat fighter was going around school. He could throw a punch. Apparently he was really good at creating different weapons through magic and had been a popular hope to represent Beauxbatons in the tournament. He stood up, a tall man with gorgeous brown skin that popped in the candlelight of the great hall. He looked sturdy and muscular and so much so even Missandei sat next to Daenerys was looking with interest.

"Our Beauxbatons champions, if you'd like to go to the trophy room with your head mistress where you will await further instruction" Professor Lannister was rubbing his head, a weird occurrence that he could not explain. Someone had to have tampered with it to cause this to happen. Just like the last time the tournament was held. She felt like gloating to him, telling him that she told him the tournament was a bad idea. But her argument to that had gone out of the window when she entered. "Time for our Durmstrang champion to be chosen"

The flames that were ice blue grew and turned red once again to spit out a piece of parchment with a name on it. Once again, it was two pieces of parchment together and it had spit two names out to be the Durmstrang champions. "Daario Naharis" A tall but muscular white boy stood, his hair slicked back and a blue flower on his uniform. He winked at several girls as he passed them by on his way to the front. Daenerys screwed her face up. He was a bit of a pretty man for her liking, he thought as much too. "Doreah Qarth"

Another skinny and small girl stood up and walked to the front. Her hair was in dreads and her eyes were a hazy blue. She skipped with joy as a respectable clap once again sounded out. She hadn't heard anything about this girl, but she did not look like she'd just been told she was participating in a deadly tournament. Instead, she looked like she'd won a date with the lead singer of Free Cities. Stannis Baratheon stood up then and took his two champions into the trophy room to await instruction of what to do next.

This left everyone in the hall on the edge of their seats over who the Hogwarts champions would be. It was bound to be two people, the other two schools had enjoyed double champions chosen so Daenerys wasn't holding out that Hogwarts wasn't going to be in the same boat. Professor Lannister didn't even say anything, he just clicked his fingers and watched as two pieces of parchment joint together once again was spit out of the raging flames before fluttering down and landing in his hands.

He looked at the names and sighed. Jon breathed in deeply all while Daenerys caught the eye of Jessica Flint, a fellow student who entered. Professor Lannister opened his lips, a deep sigh fell from them once more before he spoke. "My heads"

Shit.

[randomactuallywrites-57]

Candid Complex (Chapter Three)

Title: Candid Complex Author: randomwriter57 Rating: G+ Pairing/s: sormik Summary: Wednesdays are always hectic. But at least Sorey has something to look forward to, today.

AO3 Link

Wednesdays are always hectic.

For all intents and purposes, there’s no reason they should be this chaotic. He only has a couple of classes today, the first one being in the morning, hours before the rest. Really, his day should be a lot more relaxed than it actually is. But there is never a Wednesday morning which does not turn into a catastrophe, thanks to an arrangement Sorey should have called off ages ago.

To be fair, he didn’t know at the time that Rose had terrible time management.

It’s strange. Rose somehow manages to be where she needs to be, exactly on time, no earlier and no later, at all costs. Yet, she never leaves the house early enough for Sorey to be sure he’ll be on time for his own lecture, which is on the other side of campus from where Rose parks the car. His Archaeology lecturer must think he goes to the gym before class, because he always shows up out of breath and red-cheeked, three minutes before the start of class, due to panic.

(It can be argued, paradoxically, that Rose’s time management is impeccable, since it gets her exactly where she needs to be, when she needs to be there. She has no concept of an appropriate time to show up to classes, though.)

Still, it’s more beneficial for him to get a ride from Rose when he can; it saves getting up as early to walk there, and she only lives next door, so it’s no trouble for her.

Having Rose next door is both a blessing and a curse, though. Sure, it helps in the department of getting a ride to university, and it’s nice to have a friend living so close by. Rose, however, practically lives in Sorey’s comfortable one-bedroom flat, considering how much time she spends on his couch. Even if she makes it to his house at an acceptable enough time for them to leave without being late to class, she always comes up with a petty excuse to stay a little longer.

“Rose, I appreciate your help,” Sorey says, clenching and loosening his fist restlessly, “but you really don’t have to choose an outfit for me.”

With a double-dagger glare, Rose says, “Sure, maybe some chicks dig the nerdy aesthetic, but if you’re going on a date, you need to look presentable.”

“Mikleo’s not ‘some chick’, though. Besides, it’s only the ice cream parlour.”

“Don’t you think that nerd boy will appreciate you making an effort?”

In all honesty, he doesn’t think how he’s dressed will make so much of a difference. It doesn’t look like he’ll be able to get out of this though. At least Rose’s fashion sense isn’t completely terrible.

(She isn’t even that interested in fashion. In fact, Sorey can’t remember a time when she’s ever fussed so much over her own clothing choices; she prefers comfortable clothes which are easy to move around in. He supposes it’s because she wants this relationship to work out, even if she knows it isn’t supposed to be real in the first place.)

Rose pulls some clothes out of the wardrobe, scrutinises them, then stuffs them back inside. “Anyway, I thought you wanted things to work out with him.”

“I do,” Sorey says. “But with Mikleo, appearances don’t matter like they do for other people. That might be why he seems so modest about himself.”

“So what, he’s the living embodiment of physical perfection?” Rose says.

Flustered, Sorey waves his hands in refusal. “What? No, I didn’t-”

“I’m teasing you,” she says, turning to him with a smile, “but it’s obvious that you think he’s hot.”

Sorey looks down at his hands. “It’s not just his looks, though. He’s such a great person.”

Rose turns away, pulling a different shirt out of the wardrobe. “I hope you’re right.”

Before Sorey can ask what she means, Rose thrusts the shirt into his hands and pushes him into the bathroom to change. He decides not to push the subject - after all, it’s unlikely he’ll get an answer from her, now.

Once their classes end for the day, Sorey and Mikleo meet up beside the statue of Meliodas, as usual.

(The statue doesn’t really fit Ladylake University, in Sorey’s opinion. Meliodas lived centuries before Ladylake was founded, so unless he visited the lake itself whilst unifying the continent, this choice makes little sense.

It still makes an interesting feature, though, especially considering the rumours surrounding it. Apparently touching the sword held by Meliodas allows you to get away with any wrong act with no repercussions. Sorey isn’t sure how believable the rumour is, but Meliodas was supposedly a bit of a tyrant, so he can see how it came about, at least.)

When Mikleo arrives, his eyes hold a hint of questioning. Sorey shrinks a little, suddenly feeling the naked judgement the clothes chosen by Rose are conducting. It’s not like she chose anything outlandish, either - only a blue shirt and black trousers, paired with his favourite feathered earrings and a red and black bracelet, also with feathers on it. Maybe it’s his jacket - the white definitely contrasts with his darker shirt, though the navy detailing makes it blend more nicely. Or at least, so he’d thought.

Mikleo lifts a hand, hesitating for a moment at the side of Sorey’s face. Gently, he lifts one of the feathered earrings with the tips of his fingers. “I’ve never seen you wear these before,” he says softly.

For a moment, Sorey forgets to reply, too distracted by Mikleo; lips pressed into a small pout, eyes focused and curious, with a touch lighter than the feather it holds. Most people might be uncomfortable, with someone they barely know in such close contact. Sorey, however, leans into his touch. Purple eyes to latch onto green, caught in a moment of unexpected intimacy.

Mikleo pulls his hand away.

It takes a second for him to snap out of it. When he does, Sorey finally responds in a more rushed manner than he’d have liked. “I’ve had them for a long time, but I don’t usually wear them for classes.”

Making an ‘oh’ shape with his lips, he nods slowly. For whatever reason, when he meets Sorey’s eyes again, it feels like he has more questions, but he does not ask them. Instead he says, “Shall we get going, then?”

The two begin their walk towards the ice cream parlour, chatting absently about whatever comes to mind. Sorey can’t help it when his thoughts go in a different direction, distracted from Mikleo’s casual conversation about his morning lecture. All he can think about is how nice it feels to walk by his side, to listen to his voice, to be able to experience moments like this with him.

If only they were dating for real.

It’s only as he thinks this that he remembers that, even if this relationship is temporary, the purpose of dates like this is to make it seem like they are. If they’re supposed to be on a date, then it’s only fair to assume they should be acting more like a couple - or at least, that’s how Sorey sees it.

How does a real couple act? There aren’t any other couples around at the moment, only single stragglers. Thinking back to whenever he has seen couples, though, he always remembers seeing them showing affection through physical intimacy, like holding hands, hugging, or… kissing.

(The last thought makes heat rise to his cheeks, and he dispels it.)

Holding hands should be a good start, right?

Carefully, he extends his hand across the short distance between them, the back of his hand brushing against Mikleo’s knuckles.

“Sorey?”

He looks up to find that Mikleo has stopped. Mikleo gives him a concerned look, even more questions popping into his eyes.

“A-ah, sorry!” Sorey gives a nervous laugh. “I just thought that, since we’re meant to look like we’re dating-”

Mikleo interrupts him by finishing what Sorey started, twining their hands together between them. Though the warmth comforts him, he is frozen in place by the action.

“Your timing is awful,” Mikleo teases. He starts walking again, pulling Sorey behind him and continuing his story as if nothing had happened.

For the remainder of their journey, their hands stay clasped between them, a link growing stronger with the contact. Sorey actually feels some regret once they reach the ice cream parlour, at which point he is forced to drop Mikleo’s hand so he can open the door.

(It’s required two hands to shove open ever since The Incident a year ago, or so he’s been told. He honestly doesn’t know why the owner hasn’t had it fixed yet, or what The Incident even entailed, but no matter.)

As ever, the ice cream parlour is quiet, mostly due to the time of day and week. It’s dinnertime on a Wednesday, after all - not exactly peak ice cream time. As such, most of the diner-style booths and tables are free, save for a woman Sorey doesn’t recognise reading a newspaper at a table in the corner of the room.

One would think the bright colours and welcoming nature of the parlour would make it more popular, but with it being on a back street, he supposes it makes sense for it to be so quiet.

In any case, this is Sorey’s favourite time to get ice cream, and he’s happy that today he’ll be able to share this happy moment with Mikleo.

They make their way to the counter, which is currently unmanned; the staff are most likely all in the kitchens right now. Sorey looks over to Mikleo, trying to gauge his reaction to the place. Mikleo’s face does not betray much, though his eyes are fixed on the menu hanging behind the counter, moving over each item and scrutinising it.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Sorey asks, both in an attempt to make conversation and out of genuine curiosity as to what kinds of flavours Mikleo likes.

Mikleo hums, putting a hand on his chin in thought. “They have a good variety of flavours, so it’s difficult to choose. I’ll probably go for matcha, then.”

Suddenly, a new voice enters the conversation. “Matcha for Meebo? Why am I not surprised.”

Behind the counter is one of the workers, a short girl with blond hair and a teasing smirk, aimed at Mikleo. Sorey recognises her from a few of his past visits, though he hasn’t spoken to her much, save for ordering his own ice cream.

Mikleo groans. “I forgot you worked around here.”

“Is that any way to greet a lady?” she admonishes. “Have some respect.”

“Hello, Edna,” Mikleo says in a flat tone. “Is that better?”

Edna does not answer, instead looking over to Sorey with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“I could say the same for the two of you,” Sorey says with a laugh.

“Oh, Meebo and I have a long and complex relationship,” Edna says.

Mikleo crosses his arms over his chest. “By which she means that she’s friends with a family friend of mine, and I’ve had the unfortunate opportunity of knowing her since I was quite young.”

Edna does not make any further comment, instead turning to Sorey. “I’m guessing you want two scoops of vanilla in a waffle cone, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Punching the order into the register, she tells them how much they owe. Sorey pulls out his wallet and passes some gald over, much to Mikleo’s chagrin.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” Mikleo says.

“We’re dating, right?” Sorey says with a grin. “Let me treat you every once in a while.”

Mikleo, surprisingly, does not push the issue - not that he gets a chance to. At Sorey’s words, Edna speaks once more.

“What? Meebo, you finally got a boyfriend?”

“Can you stop calling me that?” Mikleo says with a sigh. “But yes, Sorey and I are dating.”

For a moment, an expression of sincere surprise crosses Edna’s face before she returns to her usual poker-faced expression. “Well, he’s something, alright. Just keep your gross affection out of my store.”

Sorey frowns, not really understanding what she means by ‘something’, but he doesn't ask.

“It’s not technically your store,” Mikleo points out, but Edna ignores him in favour of scooping ice cream into two separate cones. She passes Mikleo his first, and he takes off to a table in the corner.

“Sorey,” Edna says quietly. Her eyes glint with an unexpected determination which takes him aback. “You’d better be serious about him. Meebo doesn’t like being played around with.”

Before Sorey gets a chance to answer, Edna passes him his ice cream and disappears into the kitchen once more, leaving them on their own. Sorey shrugs to himself and moves over to the table where Mikleo waits for him.

“I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable,” Sorey says as he sits down. “I didn’t realise you two knew each other.”

“It’s fine,” Mikleo says. “I knew she worked in this area of town, but I didn’t know she worked here.”

“Oh, okay.”

Sorey eats some of his ice cream, smiling as soon as the familiar flavour hits his taste-buds. This is the reason he loves this place so much - he hasn’t found a better tasting soft-scoop yet. None of the others have such a smooth texture, or such an enticing flavour. They’re all either too grainy or bland for his liking.

Across from him, Mikleo raises an eyebrow with a fond expression. “You really like that ice cream, don’t you?”

“It’s my favourite,” he confesses. “Do you want to try it?”

Mikleo nods. Sorey tilts the ice cream towards Mikleo, watching as he leans over to try some. In the background, someone starts coughing rather loudly, but when he turns around in concern, all he sees is the door to the kitchen swinging shut.

“It’s good,” Mikleo says as he leans away again. “Though it’s not as good as the ice cream I make.”

“Woah, you can make ice cream?”

“Yes. It’s the first thing I was ever taught to make.” Mikleo opens his mouth, as though to say more, but his expression turns to surprise as his own ice cream drips onto his hand. He saves his ice cream from any more catastrophes by eating some, at which point Sorey remembers to eat his own before it also melts.

After a few minutes, Sorey says, “How’s your one?”

“It’s good.” He tilts it towards Sorey in offering.

Without a second thought, Sorey tries some of the matcha ice cream, humming at the sweet flavour, which leaves an unexpectedly bitter aftertaste, at which he wrinkles his nose. “I prefer vanilla, but that one’s good too!”

“I guess you like sweet things,” Mikleo says, going back to his own ice cream.

“I’m not particularly fussy, actually,” Sorey says with a shrug. “Ever since I was young, I’ve pretty much had to eat whatever is put on my plate.”

“Strict parents?”

Sorey looks down at his ice cream, sunken beneath walls of waffle cone. “Not really. I mean, I grew up with just my Gramps, so I ended up doing a lot of the cooking.”

He feels Mikleo’s eyes on him as he says, “Did your parents…?”

“My mother died just after I was born,” Sorey says simply. “I was premature, and her body was pretty weak at the time.” He honestly doesn’t feel saddened by the thought. As much as he would have loved his mother had she lived, he doesn’t remember her at all, so it’s not like he knows what he’s missing. He can’t deny a little bit of curiosity as to what she might have been like, but it’s never been all that important to him.

“I see,” Mikleo says. By his tone, Sorey can tell he understands, somehow. “What’s your Gramps like?”

Finally looking back up at Mikleo, Sorey grins. “He’s amazing. Even though he’s pretty old, he’s still doing stuff for everyone in the village. I think you’d like him.”

“You’re not from Ladylake?”

“Nope! I’m from Elysia, a village in the mountains.” At the name of his village, he feels a pang of homesickness. It’s been a while since he’s been home. “Hey, you should come visit with me sometime!”

Mikleo gives him a small smile, which for some reason doesn’t manage to completely reach his eyes. “That sounds nice.”

Sorey grins, and they go back to eating their ice creams for a few minutes. That is, until a thought strikes Sorey, and he turns back to Mikleo.

“Were you born in Ladylake, then?”

“No, I grew up in Camlann. It’s not too far from Elysia, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that place! The Origin Village, right?”

“Yes,” Mikleo says. “A village which became the origin of hope once the last known Shepherd defeated the Lord of Calamity. Or at least, so the legends say.”

The idea of growing up in such a historical place amazes Sorey. He wonders if that’s why Mikleo is so interested in history as he is.

“Isn’t it where The Celestial Record was written, too?”

Mikleo nods. “Most of it, anyway.”

“That’s so cool,” Sorey says. “There must be so many places to explore there, so much history to discover!”

“Maybe you could visit, sometime.”

Something in Sorey’s chest heats up at the pseudo-invitation. “I’d love that!”

Despite his happiness, however, it’s only once he and Mikleo part for the night that he remembers that this is only meant to be temporary. Once Mikleo suggests they ‘break up’, their friendship could be on the line. After all, the feelings in Sorey’s heart only continue to grow, and he’s not sure what will happen if they reach overflowing capacity.

In any case, he can’t burden Mikleo with feelings he doesn’t reciprocate. From what he’s seen, Mikleo isn’t interested in a romantic relationship at all, and Sorey has managed all his life so far without one, too. Even if he has to live with unrequited feelings, he can survive so long as his friendship with Mikleo continues as before.

Until he can put these chaotic feelings in his heart to rest, Sorey will do his best to support Mikleo in whatever way he can. He will not burden him with these feelings, not if it will only end up hurting him and putting a stopper on their friendship. He can’t imagine having to live knowing that he’s made Mikleo feel uncomfortable with him. To stay with Mikleo, he’ll put up with keeping his emotions hidden.

Even if that means heartbreak.

[tastesoftamriel]

Whiterun, part 1 (a long tale by Talviel)

Middas, 4th of Frostfall, 4E 205. I was saddle sore from days on the road. Since leaving Riften, I had covered the three major cities up north: Windhelm, Winterhold, and Dawnstar. In between I’d encountered bandits, fellow travellers, all manner of beasts, as well as some unsavoury folk like necromancers and vampires. Yet in the three months since I left home, I didn’t feel as homesick as I thought I would. I had already travelled from one end of Skyrim to the other during the Dragon Crisis, and once I’d learned all I needed to learn, my heart was fully invested in discovering the rest of Tamriel that I’d only ever seen in maps and books. I downed a potion of stamina and continued to trudge south towards Whiterun, where my calling as Dovahkiin all began.

I reached the city of Whiterun early in the morning. One of the guards on patrol, who recognised me from the Battle for Whiterun, saluted me heartily and we spoke at length while I unloaded my horse, who I’d named Roach, and left her in the care of the stables. Sounding almost alarmed at my change in career since the defeat of Alduin, he wished me luck and pointed me to the Bannered Mare as they were apparently short-staffed since the Redguard woman, Saadia, who worked for them disappeared without a trace. I thanked him and I shouldered my satchel and sacks, labouring up the stairs towards the Plains District. The early risers greeted me warmly for having saved their city, but I waved them off modestly as I made my way through the market square and into the Bannered Mare. Ysolda, the new proprietor, had only just woken up and was occupied with lighting the pit fire in the middle of the room.

She turned to me, yawning, when the door swung open, and her face broke out into a wide grin. “Well look who it is, Talviel of Riften, the saviour of Whiterun and all of Skyrim. Welcome back, friend.” She said warmly, helping me lay down my heavy cargo. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Ysolda. What was I meant to do, leave everyone to roast in the flames of the Stormcloaks and dragons? How are you? How goes business?” I asked, giving her a hug. “Business as usual, same faces and same antics. The city has been rebuilt since the battle, so well done you’d never think anything would have happened. But you’re here early, Dragonborn. Do you need a room?” “Actually, Ysolda, a guard tipped me off that you’re short of staff again. I’m now travelling as a cook, and would love to help out for a while, learn some recipes from you if I can.” She looked relieved and brushed a stray hair from her face. “I swear I’m cursed! Every person I hire either gets sacked or runs off. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m at my wit’s end trying to find someone to help me out here. How long are you planning on being in town for?” “Well, that depends really. I’ve covered Eastmarch, The Pale, and Winterhold in three months. Haven’t really learned much aside from at Candlehearth Hall and preparing a feast for Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter in Windhelm. So depending on how much there is to learn, I’d say about a month or so.”

Ysolda smiled knowingly. “There’ll be plenty to keep you occupied. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, as well as a big recipe book Hulda left for me. I also have contacts in old Balgruuf’s kitchen, so let’s just say you’ll be overstaying that month. Of course you get Saadia’s old room and three square meals a day, no questions asked, as well as 350 septims per month. Two days off a week, alternating with me. How does that sound?” “Sounds great, Ysolda. I’m in.” I said, and we hauled my things through the kitchen and up the stairs to a modest but clean room. Ysolda left me to unpack and freshen up, and when I was ready I came downstairs. “Right, it’s now almost nine. Markets should be busy by now. First order of every day is to make sure we get all the freshest ingredients.” She instructed me, and we made our way outside. Gawping faces and cheers surrounded me as I walked along, and I had to resist the urge to pull my hood up to hide my face. We purchased fresh fruit and vegetables from Carlotta Valentina,who was so happy to see me she insisted on gifting me with an enormous wheel of cheese. Staggering to the stall opposite, Anoriath the hunter let out a loud whoop of laughter when he saw me, partially hidden from view by the cheese. “What in Oblivion are you doing here, Dragonborn?” “Working for Ysolda here, actually.” His jaw dropped. “Doing what, shouting rude customers across the room?” Ysolda giggled. “Actually, that would keep those Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes in line. Anyway Anoriath, I’ve got a recipe for venison stew that I want to try out. Will you have venison anytime soon?” “Certainly. I’ll be sure to bring some back for you the next time I go hunting.” “Make it quick, and there might be a bowl of hot stew in it for you.” She said with a wink, as he wrapped up a few slabs of beef and pork for her, throwing in a few rabbits as a hint of his admiration.

We brought our shopping back inside and I began to shelve or set out our wares. Ysolda prepared the bar and talked happily about the events of the four years I’d been gone, as well as telling me to keep an eye out for the Khajiit caravan who would soon be bringing in some barrels of fresh seafood, milk, and butter. I tied on my apron and stoked the cooking fire, checking the day’s menu before getting to work. At noon, the lunchtime crowd rolled in, and stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra head as I took orders and brought out plates of steaming food while Ysolda ran down to Pelagia Farm to buy some grain and flour. I spent the entire afternoon awkwardly explaining the reasons for my visit about 500 times before Amren noticed the exasperation on my face and offered to run up to the Cloud District so that the Jarl and everyone else could know of my arrival. I thanked him profusely, adding an extra dollop of mashed potatoes to his steak. Nonetheless, citizens who had heard of my arrival came in to greet me and hand me gifts of appreciation, as I was busy trying to clear up and prepare for dinner. Ysolda came back with a huge basket of eggs, with Nimriel and Gloth in tow carrying large sacks of millet and wheat flour. She paid them for the goods and their help before they scurried off, casting furtive glances at me. I was in the middle of awkwardly smiling and nodding to Olava the Feeble when Ysolda clapped her hands for attention. “Alright people, show’s over. Yes, the Dragonborn is back and yes she’s now my head chef. She’ll be here for a while so you can all stop your lollygagging and head home unless you’re here for food, drink, or a bed.” About two-thirds of the crowd shuffled out, mumbling embarrassed apologies.

Just when the parade was over, a messenger from Dragonsreach burst into the tavern, looking for me. He explained apologetically that Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had summoned me, so I sighed and tossed my apron aside. Looking sympathetic, Ysolda promised to take over for dinner. I thanked her, then climbed to the Cloud District. Jarl Balgruuf was leaning in his throne, talking to his steward Proventus Avenicci. The guards announced my arrival with great flair, and I cringed, making my way up to the Jarl. He thudded me on the back in greeting, asking me about my unexpected return. I explained to him (for hopefully the last time that week) why I was in Whiterun and his eyebrows raised in amusement when I mentioned I was working as a cook at the Bannered Mare. “A…cook? Well, I suppose you’re too young to join the Greybeards, if you could even grow a beard, that is.” He joked. “If you’re really interested in becoming a chef, come work in my kitchens for a while if you’re really ready to prove your mettle.” I thanked him, saying I would definitely take him up on the offer when I was ready, and was dismissed.

I made my way through the Wind District, passing Jorrvaskr, when I bumped into a slim auburn-haired woman with green warpaint on her face. I recognised her as Aela the Huntress, one of the most esteemed members of the Companions. I apologised, turning to go, but she gripped my arm with surprising strength. “You’re Talviel of Riften, aren’t you?” She asked in a deep, confident voice. “I am. Saviour of Skyrim, Dovahkiin, blah blah blah.” I said, sounding annoyed. She grinned and let me go. “One of those modest types, I see. Nice change after dealing with all the bravado in there.” She nodded towards Jorrvaskr. “Not going to ask you what brings you back to our humble town since you’re probably sick of it, but the Companions have been in awe of you since you trapped that dragon up in Dragonsreach and slayed Alduin. We never let strangers in, but come by sometime. I’m sure the family would love to meet you, maybe test out your battle skills in person.” “Sure, why not.” I shrugged, taken by her straightforward manner. “I’ll let you go then. Have a nice night.” She said, turning around to head inside Jorrvaskr, but not before I caught an eyeful of her toned legs and behind ascending the stairs in her very short excuse for armour. I blushed, and headed back to the Bannered Mare.

Ysolda looked frazzled as she ran between the bar pouring drinks and doling out bowls of hot cabbage soup with bread. She shoved me into the kitchen as soon as I stepped in the door, and I immediately picked up the slack, naturally working the way I did for Keerava. Soon she looked less stressed as she passed tankards of mead and bottles of wine across the counter, gratefully pocketing the coin. The night wore on, Mikael strummed his lute and sang, and I had to kick a few drunk brawlers out (something Ysolda was not good at doing due to her slight build). I threw out the leftovers and washed up, finally extinguishing the kitchen fire just after midnight. Ysolda shooed a couple of stragglers out, and we ceased trading for the night. “Are you sure you can’t stay forever? I sure could use you more often! Well done on an impressive first day’s work. We wake at 8am tomorrow and start again.” I nodded, and climbed the stairs to my room yawning. Loredas rolled around, my first day off work, and I gratefully slept in until 10. Waking up and having some bread and cheese for breakfast washed down with a potion of stamina, I stepped out into the bright Whiterun morning. I got my knives sharpened at Warmaiden’s, bought a few more stamina potions at Arcadia’s Cauldron, then looked around, at a loss for what to do with my day. I contemplated going hunting, but felt too lazy to take my bow and run around outside. Suddenly, I remembered Aela’s offer from the other night, so I ascended the steps to Jorrvaskr and opened a door hesitantly.

I was greeted by a mixture of loud cheering and heckling, and came face to face with a woman and a man throwing well-executed punches at each other while the rest of the Companions cheered. Unsure of what to do, I just stood in front of the door pretending to look indifferent until the woman landed a cracking blow under the man’s ribs and he crumpled to the ground. Coin was exchanged, glasses were raised, and the fighters wiped the blood off their faces, congratulating each other on a job well done. Aela spotted me from across the room and let out a loud whistle, bringing all activity to a standstill. All eyes turned to me and I smiled awkwardly, raising a hand in greeting. “Come here to try out?” A burly man in heavy steel armour called out. “Oh, no, um…Aela asked me to come over the other day. Practice fighting and stuff. I’m Talviel. Of Riften. The Dragonborn.” I stuttered, hating every second of public speaking. “Aah.” They all said knowingly, and dragged me down to the main room, which was dominated by a fire pit and a long table piled with food. I made a mental note to ask who their cook was.

Introductions were made, and I was greeted coolly by Vilkas, the new Harbinger since the death of Kodlak Whitemane: a Nord who was a dead ringer for the man who first spoke to me when I came in. He had dark brown hair and a greatsword strapped to his back, and wore even more kohl around his eyes than I did. “So, Dragonborn, eh?” He said, sizing me up and grunting when he saw my short, single handed Nightingale blade. “Don’t suppose you can teach us how to shout in a day?” I shook my head. “Either you train for years like Ulfric Stormcloak did, or you just happen to be the Dragonborn.” “Damn.” He sighed. “Well, either we have a nice cosy storytelling session, or we head to the practice yard and see if you’re as formidable a fighter as they say you are.” We all decided firmly on the latter and headed out the back door to their training yard.

We devised a system where lesser members would come at me in twos, while the seniors would attack me one by one with their weapons of choice. Ria and Torvar were the first to face me, and I adopted a battle stance, readying the blunt practice sword I’d been given. The two Companions were heavy handed, and I dodged them easily, taking Torvar down with a swipe behind the knee and Ria with a blow to her ribs. Njada Stonearm and Athis, the brawling pair from earlier, came at me with the same fervour, but dodged around me cautiously after seeing what I’d done with their friends. It turned out Njada was called Stonearm for a reason, and my blade was almost knocked out of my hand as hers smashed against it. Using the opportunity, Athis sprang up behind me, but my perception skills, honed by the Thieves Guild, sensed him coming. I quickly shoved Njada so she stumbled back and ran at her, planting my feet against her chest and backflipping over Athis. Shocked by what had just happened, Athis had little time to react as I threw myself at him, pinning him down, and stabbing my sword into the ground half an inch from his head. He tapped out, but not before Njada sprang towards me, blade pointed at my heart. Grunting, I leaned as far back as I could to avoid her reach, then flipped to my feet before rushing at her. As before, she tried the same tactic of disarming me, but this time I ducked before our blades could make contact, causing her to stumble. I shoved a boot into the small of her back, ramming my sword against the thick protective belt she wore. “Who’s next?” I yelled, panting.

“Come at me.” Farkas, the man in heavy armour said, drawing his greatsword. I sighed, as I hate dealing with heavy fighters. Scanning him quickly for weak spots, I noticed his upper arms were uncovered. Perfect. Lumbering towards me, he took a great swing at my head as I stepped easily out of the way. There was no sense in trying to push, kick, or knock him over- the man was like a brick. I simply hopped around him for a while as he continued to swing heavily, then made my move when his guard was down. I swiped, and the blunt sword in my hand bashed against his unprotected left arm. “Ow!” He shouted, and I hopped to the right, doing the same thing. I ran backwards and took a bow as Aela cackled. “Both your arms are off, Shield-Brother.” “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” Farkas grumbled, patting me on the shoulder as he went to the patio. “Good fight.” Just Vilkas and Aela left. Vilkas was much like his brother, only much more limber and with almost impenetrable armour. “I think by now I’ve killed one of every living thing in Skyrim. May be time for a trip to Morrowind.” He said, and charged towards me. I rolled to the side, taken aback by how he used a greatsword as if it were as light as a butter knife. Wearing him out took a lot longer than his brother, and I gave up on that tactic after a few minutes. Finally, as he made a downward swing, I skipped over his sword and caught his eye, feigning expression of combined pleading and beguiling that Sapphire made me master, which caught him off guard. I took the moment to slash forward, stopping just before his throat. “Bam, you’re dead.” I smiled, and he raised his hands in defeat, looking at me with increased respect.

Finally, Aela stepped forward, drawing her bow. “I notice you have no shield. You’re in trouble.” She winked at me as she walked to the far end of the practice yard. Without warning, she fired at me, and the arrow whizzed past my right ear. I sharpened my senses the way Niruin taught me how in the cisterns, and prepared myself. The arrows came almost unrelentingly at me, as I jumped, ducked, and weaved, making my way towards Aela. As I was almost within arm’s reach, she fired a last arrow at me and I deflected it with my blade without thinking. “How the-” She spat as she drew her knife, crouching. It turned out that she was just as nimble as I was, and a force to be reckoned with. We danced around each other, blades clashing, when she suddenly leapt up and threw me to the ground. We wrestled as her Shield-Brothers and Shield-Sister shouted words of encouragement to her. I wrapped her in a headlock and she struggled to break free. With my free hand, I jabbed her in the ribs with my sword. She rolled facedown on top of of me, groaning in defeat, then unexpectedly bit me on the lip, a knowing look in her eye. I didn’t know how to react, but felt something stir within me that I only ever felt when I touched myself in the dead of night thinking of Brynjolf. She pushed herself off, and pulled me to my feet, as if nothing had happened at all.

“Well, I don’t know how you did it, but you bested all of the Companions without a scratch on you. You sure you’re not going to join us?” Vilkas said, impressed, as we stepped onto the patio, still out of breath. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be leaving Whiterun soon.” I smiled, pouring myself a tankard of water from the dining table that was set out. “That’s a shame, Dragonborn. We would be formidable with you as our Shield-Sister. But enough talk. A good fight makes one hungry, and I’m sure you’ll agree. Come, Tilma is sure to have brought out the apple pie by now. Best in Skyrim.” The rest of the Companions agreed, and we trudged inside, dirty and sweaty from our scuffle. We sat at the long table, eating hungrily and passing each other dishes. Finally, an old woman ascended the steps in a corner, carrying a large, fragrant apple pie that she set down and began to cut into slices. When my slice was placed in front of me, I almost smashed my face into it. As Vilkas had said, it was probably the best in Skyrim. “Hey Tilma? Would you be willing to share this recipe with me, by any chance?” I grinned, burping. “Well, that’s a closely guarded secret, dear, but bring me some cooking of your own and we’ll see if you’re worthy.” She smiled, clearing away the used plates and tankards. “Huh? The Dragonborn cooking?” Ria chuckled. Full and happy, I leaned back in my chair and told my tale, which evoked laughter from everyone. “The best fighter in Skyrim, working at the Bannered Mare as a cook. Tilma’s right, you’ll have to bring us something to prove your worth. Just not dragon stew.” Farkas laughed, coughing into his napkin. “I get Tirdas off. I’ll take you up on that.” I was hellbent on getting that apple pie recipe.

End of part one

[probably-lucifer]

The Beginning of a Harry Potter has a twin sister story I'm writing

When Harry, and Hylo were nine they runaway; and with good reason too, all the various forms of, what they now knew as abuse, wasn't worth it. After all, who wants to be beaten, treated like a slave, and given The Bad Touch just because they exist? Certainly not our intelligent twins-who-lived. And so, this is how we find them Saturday night sneaking things to take with them. They've got one thousand dollars they've been swiping for over a year that's hidden in a box in the front garden, all the portable food they could fit in one suitcase, and the other they're filling with they're blankies, books, and clothes. It only fits because they've three outfits between the two of them, not including what they're wearing of course. It's only when they're about to walk out of the door that they look to each other. "We'll never get past the ticket person dressed like this; Uncle Vernon makes us dress like "typical hoodlums"." Harry points out, Hylo however comes up with an idea. "Why don't I swipe one of Dudley's dress shirts, and we can try that thing Ms. Morell showed us in class last week?" "The dress thing? Yeah that could work. Yeah, let's do it, quickly; you pick the shirt and meet me in the bathroom, yeah?" Hylo nods and walks briskly up the stairs, the Dursley's shouldn't be home for awhile yet, but it's better safe then sorry they've learned, so the bags are hidden in the cupboard when they go. No one will look in there until morning even if they're caught so they know they're safe. 'I know just the one, and I'll leave him a lolli for helping us too, I'll hide it under his pillow.' Dudley had been helping them for years now, ever since they started school, and Dudley got picked on for being overweight. We were, thankfully, invisible. Grabbing the shirt he hated most because of the color she turned away from the closet, hid the lollipop, undressed, then put the dress shirt on, buttoning it fully. A quick look in the mirror confirmed all the buttons were done, and she ran downstairs, packing away the raggedy cloth, then runs to the small bathroom immediately afterwards. Harry was already there with the scissors from the kitchen. "Ready?" He asked; with a nod he cut up all the way to the top of the sleeve, then cut it off completely. The shirt, or dress now, ended just below Hylo's knees, and it looked as though it was supposed to be cut where the sleeves were, the dark blue color was Hylo's favorite, and the silver pokadots were Harry's favorite color. It looked like a baby doll dress. "Perfect." They said in sync, they giggled at each other after. They pulled out their cases, and left them by the door, then made it look like they were asleep under the stairs via various hair trimmings, and a small blanket around two broken balls Dudley had hidden away previously with their instructions. Satisfied they had everything Hylo dug the money up from the gardens, while Harry grabbed two water bottles. One last time they looked at the house and said "Goodbye." simple as that, no fuss, no worry. Unknown to them wards quickly dissolved from the house, and into their individual persons. The two walked quickly, and silently out down the street. It took them nearly an hour, even though they only took one five minute break during their five mile walk to reach the train station, Harry hid in the bathroom while Hylo went to buy the tickets; Harry would meet her by the train. A bored looking, dark skinned lady with hair in a bun, and a magazine in her hand was the only sign of life around aside from the odd straggler or three. "Pardon me ma'am." Hylo put on her "well mannered daughter" mask, of which she thought suited her well, even with her tan skin, and long curly, nearly unmanageable hair. The lady, Erica according to the nametag looked down, and raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "May I purchase two tickets to central London please? For the next train in, 20 minutes I believe my papa said." The lady seemed sceptical and wary. "It's only, papa is testing me to make sure we, that's my brother and I, can get a ticket home on our own, I know he's waiting on the train, mum is watching us from just outside the station were I "can't see her", and I really would like to impress them. It's the only way I can visit my friend Lulu this summer, please help me." Pouting, and adding in the eyes, with slight waterworks made Erica cave in with a small, amused smile, and in no time at all Hydrangea Lotus Potter had acquired two tickets for her, and her brother. She thanked Erica profusely, and went to wait on the platform. Meanwhile Harrison James Potter was in the bathroom, changing into an outfit hidden in a plastic zippie bag on the back of the toilet for him by Piers, who had lost a bet about how far Hylo could throw. He would miss games of hunting with Dudley's gang, and using his, and Hylo's cunning and intelligence on them. It was quite fun most days. Dragging "his" suitcase he sat by Hylo and handed her the premade sandwich and chips he'd asked Piers for. (Who by the way did not cry at all when he heard the twins were running away) The two sat, and ate quietly, stomachs churning with anxiety, and excitement. Eyes far older, wiser then any nine year olds should be, hearts heavier then expected, and hands shaking they ate. Thanks to the school year just ending they'd been eating somewhat regularly, and since the Dursley's were celebrating Dudley they didn't have any fresh wounds to be seen either. They were just throwing away their garbage when they noticed the third man watching them curiously. He seemed shocked when they looked right at him, and then he opened his trunk, and WALKED DOWN INTO IT. The twins ran over to see how, cases being pulled behind them, not even noticing the odd feeling passing over them known as a muggle repellent. The man looked up, not too surprised 'Probably muggleborns.' "Would you like to see inside? You can leave the top open, and your cases up there if you'd like." Using a thing they called Twin-Telepathy they quickly decided they were far too curious not to look around, not to mention neither felt the bad energy they felt when they were in danger. After setting their cases aside, and leaving the lid open (they've a bit of self-preservation after all) they went down the plain, softly carpeted stairs. The walls were blank, and white, there was a couch on a wall against the bottom, and a window that once tapped by the odd man's stick thingy let in a lively sort of light, though the sun was nowhere to be found. The floors were some lightwood or another, and there was even a nice kitchen, with plenty of space. The man showed them around two bedrooms, furnished with fully dressed beds, and dressers, not to mention closets, and each had an ensuite bathroom. Plus the one in the hall. Once they had seen everything the man said, not believing they'd have enough regardless, and that he could simply hand them a book or two from his shelf (that he hated, as the place was his ex's, and what kind of guy wants to stay in his ex's place) to help them ahead-"I'll give it to with everything, or mostly everything, heaven knows kids don't need firewhiskey, for 100 pounds." After another Twin-Telepathy conversation Harry spoke up. "No tricks?" The man was shocked, though as a Slytherin he didn't show it (much), they had the money; though he didn't mind, he really does not like this place. Besides they'd probably use it as a play-house when they got home anyways 'Rich kids probably given the clothes." "Not a one, though I'll need one of your cases too if you don't mind, I've not got a single suitcase in here." Pulling Harry off to the side(The man, who's name is Terry by the way) had gone to make tea no one dislikes tea. A few moments later, with money in her hand Hylo said "This place will be great, we will be set so far ahead hear, did you see the kitchen island? It's got a garden! We can plant our own food, and get whatever we need, plus it won't be hard to win a few games, and get payed for that like we usually do. Plus, we can do other work, it's not like we don't know how. Chores and such." Harry nodded having already thought a lot of that. "I can't see any downsides, besides maybe how to hide it." The man had come back by then, "Here you are, I noticed you only had waters earlier, and you finished them, have some tea, here's the sugar, and not to worry, you could park this baby in the middle of central London and only others like us would see it, and be able to touch it, though if you buy I'll teach you how to lock it, I've a feeling you can do it." The man is confident with their magic levels wandless magic would be easy. The twins were happy, and sated once they finished tea, and smalltalk (one shouldn't seal a deal too soon, it's amateurish, and unwise.) They held out the money. The man, who had introduced himself as Terry finally, had then showed them how to lock the door (after taking a small drop of blood the twins weren't much worried about anyways, more curious how that "wand" works really.), he explained that until they turned eleven he would still be able to unlock it, but that if he saw them again, he'd knock first. (He was joking, but Fenrir Terry Greyback is a very peculiar man, and wolf. Usually a good one, however when, quite literally forced, he's quite terrifying. For a moment Terry would entertain the idea of these being the children that took off his leash so to speak when The Moldy Egg™ died. The twins however were completely serious, and as they did not yet know Sirius, though I'm sure they will, they can not laugh at that amazing pun.) Terry boarded a train to Wiltshire, and said something about looking up the Malfoy's if they're ever in town(he's quite sure Lucius was unhappy being a maniacs puppet as well, and, being the petty, spiteful man he was he'd adopt them if, at all, possible, purely out of spite, and pettiness.) Twenty minutes later the twins are sleeping on a train to London, and, though they did not yet know it all would be well. Lily, and James were working hard to make sure of it.