#gently chiding an unreasonable child

[mataglap]

still processing the Emperor arc

BIG SPOILERS FOR BALDUR'S GATE ACT 3 FOLLOW.

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Emperor's presence throughout the game is a fucking masterpiece of writing, and it's also a viscerally unpleasant lesson about the power of gaslighting. I've been processing it for days and it just won't go away unless I vomit it out, it seems.

Emperor manipulates you from the first time you see it, and gaslights you from the first time you dare to mistrust it. the mistrust is a perfectly normal reaction considering the circumstances, but Emperor quickly makes you feel otherwise: it's you who's being unreasonable, paranoid, ungrateful. it's saved your life, after all, and it's keeping you alive; is that how you repay your savior?

as Emperor's attempts to manipulate you become more and more obvious, the gaslighting only intensifies. the first attempt at seduction is painfully unsubtle, but it projects vulnerability at you at the same time, trying to play on your compassion -- and if you don't fall for it, you only end up feeling bad about it and thinking: what if I am wrong? what if I am being irrational and mean?

your doubts are cultivated throughout the game, even as Emperor progresses to straight up trying to control your every choice and every move. every reaction that isn't full compliance gets calmly rebuked and gently chided. you're being a child. you're not appreciating the help. you're being difficult.

then the final attempt at seduction comes, and you have only ONE option that isn't demure: you can rudely call Emperor a freak. but you wouldn't do that, would you? you wouldn't be rude to someone who did so much for you, would you? you wouldn't so cruelly reject someone who might truly feel for you, would you?

and only if you choose that option, the mask finally falls. you get scornfully blasted with the truth, complete with an incredibly uncomfortable scene of Emperor making Duke Stelmane its thrall -- I'm sure the visual parallel to rape is not accidental there -- and the threat that the same will happen to you if you don't comply. no more mr nice mind flayer, Emperor gives up on you, and even in that moment, it tells you you should be grateful it did not do to you what it did to Stelmane.

you were right from the beginning. you saw through the manipulation, you withstood the gaslighting, and your bitter reward is seeing your abuser's true face and knowing you can't do anything about it.

it's a perfect example of why gaslighting is so insidious. it's all about making you doubt yourself and second guess your feelings, and it's all written so well that instead of feeling triumphant that I did not submit to the manipulation, I only felt ill at the end.

my hat is off to whoever wrote Emperor. they owe me for a couple therapy sessions in my near future.

[flightofaqrow]

also: [ BACK ] or some combination of any of them + reverse because she has long hair gdi somebody has to play with it

hair ** always accepting [ BACK ]: sender, noticing a strand of hair fall from the receiver’s hairdo, carefully tucks the strand back behind the receiver’s ear. + [ BRUSH ]: with a hairbrush, comb, or their hand, the sender begins to gently brush the receiver’s hair. + [ BRAID ]: sender, sitting behind the receiver’s back, begins to braid their hair. + reverse all

qrow can't pretend not to notice.

this... feeling good... the worst part of Misfortune.

they made it to Atlas. the kids have better adults to look after them. qrow's taking care of himself for the first time in decades. the headaches, the nausea, the tremors, the demons on his shoulder and in his throat all fade now. feelings are stronger and colors are brighter and his brain sits right in his head instead of swimming.

every reason he can't help but notice everyone else and all of the kingdom fraying at the edges while he thrives. it's not fair, never fair. the weight on child soldiers' shoulders falls heavier. The Ace-Ops spread thinner. Penny can't compute things and Ironwood's eye bags make him look less human by the day.

Winter sits down next to him, staring into a 4pm coffee, sharp tongue dulled to silence and that perfectly placed bun falling apart. she must not even have had the time to look into a mirror today. too many demands from her rank and responsibility, carrying out all of Ironwood's unreasonable orders with only the support of worn out recruits offering varying degrees of respect. middle management sucks.

he reaches out with blazing intensity behind ember eyes, yet hardly a thought behind them; tucking two fingers beneath a stray wisp. he tries to lift and flatten it back into place, push it under the hairtie or bobby pin or whatever it was she kept her ice queen crown set in place with. he only succeeds in setting free more than a few loose loops. he can feel the chill pools of her eyes shift to icicles, and cuts her off before she can chide him, slices through the tension by taking the first strike.

"forget this," he grumbles, hand lowering from head, to shoulder, to the small of Winter's back, ushering her up with no room for retort, "i'll fix it."

he could. this is something he can do. whether she listens to and believes him, or just realizes she must not be up to her own standard enough to be seen in public regardless, if even qrow had a problem with it, he doesn't know and frankly doesn't care. it's about time he returned the favor, anyway.

her quarters were closest. she could even bring her coffee if she wanted. they sheathe any further words for now, for fear of wounding the tender truce between them lately, for not knowing what to say about it anyway.

Winter settles in front of her vanity, and qrow tucks a bunch of supplies from it away in his pockets. she doesn't ask and he doesn't tell. for the first time, he undoes Winter's hairdo himself; gentle plucks pull away all restraints until white waves fall freely, and qrow's fingers can work into them.

he combs his hands through clusters until they break apart, scratches zig-zags into her scalp until strands settle into even places and pieces around her head. then, he starts to brush. top to bottom, over and under. he finds a rhythm in the strokes, in the soft swish it makes, and keeps this beat the the rasp of a reticent chant beneath his breath, until every bit is smooth and silky and evenly spread.

finally, he speaks, if only to explain what he plans to do next, "y'wear all this hair up so tight all th' time an' it's just gonna start tearin' away some day, y'know. gotta let it breathe sometimes. Little sis has th' right idea." by that he means a braid.

Winter seems well-soothed enough into her seat that she doesn't argue.

qrow quiets again, shoving a few of those pins from his pockets between his teeth for easy access. after all that work, he yet separates her hair into pieces once more, though more tailored and textured. he falls into a calm, pleasantly empty mental space, familiar patterns from long before his more metaphorical pulling of her ponytails. a little boy foraging through a field and building flower crowns, a little bandit making his sister and her playmates pretty, a little bird weaving a nest in one of his safe spaces.

for Winter, it gave time for a good, long look in the mirror.

qrow twists and ties and tugs (and maybe some of those pins bounced off never to be found again, but...) until - as promised - the loose, knotted pattern of a braid fell overtop a gentle cascade of perfectly straight remaining layers.

nothing too tight, but nothing so wild that anyone could accuse her of presenting anything less than professional. his palms place on her shoulders and he presses a kiss to the top of her head to punctuate the gesture, let her know it was all done, and he would let her get back to whatever she needed without any other fuss.

well, she could keep it or not, but personally qrow thinks it looks better than a bun too demanding to keep held together, especially for a single evening. surely Winter was allowed a partial hair-down day now and again?

[booasaur]

Killjoys - 3x09 - “Am I holding a grudge?”

[whitherliliesbloom]

heartbeat concerto

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #03 - scale ]

[ alphinaud/wol ]  ★ [ 2,605 words ]  ★ [ nodame cantabile au ]

scale: an arrangement of the notes in any system of music in ascending or descending order of pitch

Illya prays to the heavens that the man beside her does not hear the fortissimo that was her pounding heart. 

“Rachmaninoff?” Her voice was equal parts confused as it was alarmed, hiking in pitch that sounded like an ear piercing squeak, almost grimace worthy. Trepidation rings loud in her chest, like shrieking white noise that deafens her. “I’ve never played a concerto in front of somebody before.” 

She had hoped that admittance would allow him to grant her some fraction of mercy. After all... for as gracious and supportive a tutor as he was a diligently observant audience for her playing, he surely wouldn’t throw her into the deep end after she’d just barely able to make some progress, right?

The boy merely smiles, navy blue eyes softening in its gaze as he waves the music sheets in his hands before placing them delicately upon the piano stand. He exudes an aura of gentle reassurance, but knows that his resolve to push her past her comfortable limits is implacable. 

“Now would be a good time for a first then, wouldn’t you agree?”

Illya heart sinks, lips pressed into a thin, paling line as she glances at the score that awaited her - notes upon lines that were rapidly blurring into nothing but squiggles and incomprehensible doodles in her vision... as if taunting her, daring her to butcher one of the most iconic piano concertos to have ever been composed - by one of the greatest virtuoso pianists to have ever lived no less? 

Sonatas were one thing - it took Illya a good amount of time to be able to even bring herself to play the first movement of Sonata Facile to completion in front of him without breaking down into a mess of cold sweat and trembling fingers. 

But concertos... by the twelve, even saying the word brings her chills down her spine. 

She was nowhere near good enough for pieces that demanded such high amounts of skill, precision and talent... nowhere even close to being able to perform alone on stage for a crowd to behold... let alone in front of an entire orchestra. 

When she had met the violin prodigy that had been her new neighbor and he’d offered to help her overcome the performance anxiety that had crippled her ability to play the piano in front of others for years, she hadn’t expected for him to have such sky high expectations for her - expectations that she was certain she’d never in a million years be able to meet.

Alphinaud is a confident, assured young man. Performing was only natural to him, came as naturally as music does flow through his very veins - he had even stated so on the very day that they’d met. Music is for ears to hear, for the world to enjoy. What point was there to keeping music hidden behind four walls? To hide away the sound of their instruments is an affront to the very reason those instruments were made in the first place. 

He moved into this apartment complex for a very different reason than she did - and she understood that he too, in his own ways that she could not yet fully understand, had his own troubles which kept him from reaching the heights in which he, and his family had aspired him to be. 

But the notoriety behind the difficulty of the pieces he plays has never once made his bow once falter, nor has it ever put him off the idea of even trying. Certainly, there were aspects of his playing to critique... but his determination and confidence alone makes him more of a capable musician than she is - something she both deeply envied and admired. 

Would that she could even possess half the amount of talent as he- she’d constantly tell herself, and it was a thought that possessed her even as she hung her head in defeat, trudging to the piano that sat in the middle of the living room before sitting herself down on the cushioned bench, the dent in the corner of the wood still visible from their first meeting when she’d knocked it over onto its side from panic. 

Violet eyes glance down at the black and white keys with a gulp - her greatest friend in her darkest times of sorrow... yet also the cause of many of her biggest regrets and worries in life. 

She stalls for a moment to pick her train of hair up from the floor and let it unravel gently behind her on the bench, her cotton slippers kicked aside to place her feet upon the pedals that were propped up by a well used extender - a necessity due to her short stature. 

With stiff, slightly shaky fingers that now laid delicately upon the surface of the piano keys, Illya sharply inhales, and forces herself to quiet the raging thoughts of potential failure and humiliation as she presses down to play the first notes. 

Alphinaud stands behind her by the window, quiet so as to not disturb the girl... but even with his considerate silence, Illya could not help but be acutely aware of his eyes staring holes into the back of her head. She could only begin to imagine what he was thinking - and while she’s befriended him long enough to know he was a man who was above ridicule, she still hated to disappoint - especially the first person who has heard her play the piano for the first time in years. 

A symphony fills the apartment, bright as the rays of sunlight that shone through the window, making Illya’s starspun hair appear to glow like a halo. Like little bells, the piano sings out a melody that is as light as the air. It sounds easy on the ears, gentle and kind as the timid pianist who was weaving this piece into being with her fingers. 

And that was the problem.

Rachmaninoff composed Piano Concerto No 2 during some of the darkest moments of his life - the piece that would go on to save his career as a floundering, helpless musician had been written from the very pits of his own despair - a song of tragedy and sorrow that tells of a struggling pianist and composer who feared to lose the very thing that gave his life meaning; something many other aspiring musicians would surely understand... something Illya herself knew all too well.

And yet when Alphinaud listened to the piece being played, it conveyed none of that sadness, none of the essence of what made Concerto No 2 become such an iconic classical piece in history. 

Illya played without fault - that much he is certain. She’s taking great care to play the right notes, attentive to her own pace that would be fitting were a choir of violins and cellos playing after her tune. But he can tell, even without looking upon the tense, rigid scowl upon her face that she was focusing too much on the technicalities that she’s lost all of what made him so captivated with her playing before - a mistake that he himself has been criticized for countless times. 

Father has chided him for that before - praised him for being a genius and young violin paragon both while at the same time admonishing his lack of improvement even after three years of performing professionally - three years of the same critique that would come back to haunt him over and over again.

Music was more than playing perfectly - it was about the inflections, the subtleties in the way one moves their finger across the piano keys, or the way one draws a violin bow... The emotions that would stir one’s heart in a way only music would be able to convey and can never be properly emulated with computerized digital sound. 

When Alphinaud closed his eyes, he did not hear the disquiet of a child’s heart as he heard the echoes of church bells ringing on a Sunday morning... but, just as it is - a nervous pianist who was pressing keys because she was told to, because she is doubting herself. 

“Illya.” he calls her name, softly so as to not startle... but more importantly, to convey that he wasn’t mad, disappointed or upset with her - as she is wont to often assume. 

The piano stops abruptly, and the girl turns to look at him, her piercing stardust hued eyes shimmering with a glossy layer of worry - it suits her less than the rare blossoms of joy that sprouted in her eyes whenever she seemed to genuinely be enjoying his company.

“Y-Yes?” 

The young man pauses for a moment to casually stroll up beside her, before gesturing for the lady to move. Though confused, she scoots over to her right to allow him space on the bench, questioning expression apparent on her face about his intent.

When he sits, the close proximity between them brings him warmth, and he feels the corners of his lips instinctively pull into a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, you must have been caught off guard with such an unreasonable request from me.” He apologizes before quickly holding up his hand when he sees the young lady’s lips part in an impulsive need to protest.. but it is quickly lowered when she draws back into herself and swallows her retort. “Maybe... a little warm up would be better before we move on to such a challenging piece.”

His slender fingers stretch, the pad of his index finger resting gently upon a D key, but not pressing down. 

Alphinaud has only the basic understanding of how a piano is played... and he has in the past tried to expand his musical repertoire to cover the undisputedly most popular classical instrument of all time, but he regrettably never quite got the time or chance to. But he is aware of a routine piano players would use to practice, not too dissimilar to the way violinists would warm up as well.

“May we perhaps practice scales? Just for a little while?”

The humility in his tone with his request compared to before doesn’t escape Illya’s notice, but she refrains from commenting on it as her eyes widen up at him.

“Um... s-sure.”

The hesitation in her response is only natural - after all he’d just challenged her to play a difficult piece of piano concerto only to reduce their practice down to repetitive scales - something even the most amateur of players could easily do. 

Perhaps he’d felt a tad sorry for his earlier forwardness and the not so subtle way he’d intimidated her into playing something she was clearly not completely comfortable performing for him.. and the only way he knew how to make amends was to correct the damage of his own transgression’s doing. 

Getting Illya to relax was important - not just for her music but for the sake of herself as well. If her Rapunzel length hair, lack of fresh foods in her pantry and well worn and weathered pink camise was any indication, the girl wasn’t the best at taking care of her own wellbeing in her pursuit for musical perfection. 

Illya’s shoulder is still relatively stiff as she begins to play, though not nearly as much as they were before while she was playing the concerto. Her fingers effortlessly glide across the keyboard to play an ascension of notes before moving back down. 

By the third repeat, she’s begun relaxing considerably and picking up speed, and her hands were moving with a practiced, ethereal fluidity that was akin to waves of the ocean... as were the sound of the notes being played - reminding Alphinaud of the push and pull of the tides upon a sandy shoreline. 

She transitions from C major to C minor, weaving in the scales of D-flat major and minor before the scales moves further and further up in pitch, so seamlessly that anyone who isn’t familiar with notes in the slightest would have trouble even realizing the switch in scales until she’s reached F major. 

In the face of something that comes naturally to Illya, she is at ease... and the piano is once more harmonizing in tune with her love for the instrument. 

It’s a not so subtle way of giving her a confidence boost, but Alphinaud claps as she finishes the B minor scale with a flick of her arms - and though her confusion is still apparent, he can tell just from the adorable tilt of her head that she’s relaxed now.

“Wonderful, Illya... It’s clear as crystal with the way you played how seasoned you are. I’d dare say you’re quite a prodigy yourself.”

Having a lofty title thrust onto her so suddenly without warning burns her cheeks a bright shade of red, and the girl is quick to shake her head.

“I-I... I appreciate it, Alphinaud... But I know you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Be that as it may...” He retorts before leaning forward to close the distance between them, his blue eyes swirling with a sincerity that begins to mirror in Illya’s bejeweled ones. “My praises are always truthful and well deserved. You’re a wonderful pianist, Illya.”

Something compels Alphinaud to continue speaking. Perhaps it was the twinkling of Illya’s eyes that held the radiantly clear reflection of himself within... or the dust of pink speckled upon her cheeks and across the width of her little button nose and pointed ears... or maybe it was the soft sound of air being inhaled through her barely parted lips - glossy, pink and befittingly cute for a woman of such beauty. But he deigns to open up his heart and speak his mind freely- he finds himself being able to do so more easily towards her than any other person for some reason.

“Besides... It was because of my own selfish desire to be able to hear you play that I offered to be your tutor. Being able to be by your side here like this and watch you play alone is an honor I would always treasure. So you needn’t be so afraid of playing how you wish to with me.”

When Alphinaud leans back, he finds the delightful cherry pink shade upon Illya’s face to have darkened, and her flustered quivering of her lips as him self-reflecting upon his own statement which causes him to dart his head to the side in an attempt to hide his own blooming blush.

Not that it’d be noticed by Illya in the first place, as she tilts her head down to hide her thoroughly embarrassed expression beneath the shadows of her white bangs. 

“I-I’m sorry. Maybe I said too much.” 

Illya doesn’t respond, and the young man is almost thankful she doesn’t... because he’s determined to force himself to recover and continue on with their practice.

Clearing his throat unabashedly, his head turns slowly back to look at the girl beside him.

“Well. Shall we continue? I could pick out an easier piece for you to try, this time.”

She nods, as halfheartedly as she did earlier when he’d asked her to perform  Rachmaninoff’s piece for him. And though her playing of Mozart was even more shaky, off-pace and lacking in original intent as it did with Piano Concerto No 2 before... Alphinaud could only acknowledge her efforts with an apologetic and bashful smile on his part... for the deep red flush upon Illya’s face never once dissipates during her performance. 

Nor does the trembling of her fingers - which, if nothing else, conveys the pounding of her racing heart more than clearly and loudly for him to hear. 

[not-from-the-absence-of-violence]

I exist as I am

it is yet again @jonnitweek time :D 

Day 4 - identity / fluff

Jonnit and their relationship with gender.

Jonnit sat at a table, breakfast among the crew these days was somewhat tense with their new status and the captain's death looming over their shoulders.

Dref didn’t like eating around other people so he had gone and locked himself in his own office to eat, Travis was sitting in front of him, he looked generally annoyed at the world while he ate his breakfast.

Gable arrived a few moments later, having gotten no food for themself as they usually stole from Travis, who always grabbed way too much.

“Hello Jonnit,” they said cheerfully, Jonnit smiled back, then they said “Travis.” who gave them a bleary glare.

They sat down next to him and in practiced familiarity went to grab Travis' mug.

He swatted at their hand like an annoyed cat. “That’s heartroot,” he said pointedly. “Which if you want you are going to have to blend yourself I’m afraid.”

They don’t seem at all surprised by this, just seem annoyed that they will have to get their own drinks later.

Jonnit stares at him, he has heard of heartroot before of course, it’s one of those things that he is aware of but has never actually thought about.

“You drink heartroot?” Jonnit asks in genuine curiosity.

Travis smirks. “Sometimes,” he says, “staying the same for so long would just be dreadfully boring don’t you think?”

Gable shakes their head a little. “I feel like you aren’t explaining this right.”

“Well how would you put it then?”

They seem to pause for a second. “You humans and your gender,” they say, then stare at Jonnit, “I’ve certainly never gotten it.”

And Jonnit thought he did, right up until that point where he wasn’t sure actually. He hadn’t grown up particularly sheltered, there are however things that you just don’t question, corsairs were generally a lot more free, and glamorous, in their expression.

-

“Dref, how does heartroot work?” Jonnit said as he was sitting on a desk in his office as Dref worked methodically to clean some equipment.

“I-It’s not s-something I’m an ex- xpert in b-but,” they say, turning to look at Jonnit, there is a bright slightly nervous energy about the way he kicks his legs, “It’s d-definitely m- magic.”

Jonnit rolled his eyes without malice. “I get that.”

Dref can’t help but smile at him. “I h-have p-ersonally n-never t-taken it.”

“I think i get how it works, i meant more in a,” he said and vaguely waved his arms around, “how do you know you want it, I guess?”

Jonnit seems lost in his thoughts for a moment and Dref wishes he knew better how to verbalize his own feelings, he hasn’t taken heartroot no, this doesn’t mean they don’t understand the anxious curiosity practically radiating from Jonnit.

“N-not everyone who f-feels d-different t-takes heartroot,” they tried. “B-but some p-people feel their b-body doesn’t align w-with who they are.”

Jonnit hummed impatiently. “But how do you know.”

“Experimentation? Often t-there is m-more to ex-xploring g-gender.”

Jonnit seems content with that answer, a small smile on his face as he stares at the wall. “Sure okay.” he flashes a smile at Dref, “Thanks, man.”

“Any t-time.” Dref says and they lapse back into comfortable silence as Jonnit ponders and Dref works.

-

Celebrations are always big on the Uhuru, the sound of music and laughter filling the ship with an almost magical energy.

Jonnit likes parties, the general buzz of fun and movement letting the gentle worry of the life of a corsair fade into the background.

It’s night and Travis is lamenting about it, a coyote on Gable’s lap. Dref comes into the room, they are wearing a floor length skirt and a coat other than his doctor's coat for once.

Gable smiles at him. “Look who pulled out all the stops tonight.”

He blushes and stammers a bit, “T-thank you.”

Jonnit can’t help but stare at it, the fabric looking soft and glittery all the same. “I didn’t know you owned skirts.” he remarks.

“T-they are i-inconvenient for m-most of m-my work,” he says, a bit solemn.

Jonnit nods, a pirate's life was not made for pretty and frilly outfits. Travis grumbles something about being able to wear skirts when she’s human and Gable laughs at him, genly petting her head.

He can’t help but keep staring at Dref’s skirt as they run their fingers through the fabric.

“I p-probably have one f-for y-you,” Dref says suddenly, “if you w-would l-like?”

Jonnit’s eyes go wide and he smiles excitedly, “For real?” he says.

Dref nods.

“Cool! Thank you.” he says, getting up quickly and practically dragging Dref to the door.

Gable and Travis watch them leave as Jonnit bables excitedly, Dref looks at him with a soft smile.

“They grow up so fast.” Travis says mocking at Gable’s incredibly fond look.

“Oh sush,” they say, “you are one to talk.”

-

Jonnit stares at himself in the tall mirror of the captain's quarters, the skirt Dref has given him is a deep blue, with what looks like stars embroidered at the bottom of it. He likes the sensation of it when he spins, the fabric swishing and all the constellations moving with him.

He isn’t sure why he has never worn a skirt before, mostly because it has never been practical maybe, but now he feels warm and happy as he looks in the mirror.

“It s-suits you,” Dref says,

“Yeah!” Jonnit says with glee. “Now let’s go dance.”

He pulls Dref by his arm, who then almost stumbles but quickly follows behind Jonnit, into the mass of dancing skyjacks.

Everyone seems excited to see them, of course they are the heroes of the hour having not so long ago taken down The Civility.

Everyone on the crew is fond of Jonnit, he mingels easily in the crowd and people seem glad to teach him all types of dances he eagerly attempts.

Gable pops in and out, occasionally to Jonnit's delight swinging him around like he weighs nothing. Dref mostly stays at the outskirts, nodding at the pats on the back he gets from the rest of the crew, smiling at Jonnit’s exited demeanor.

"I should wear this more often." He says later, twirling to make the skirt turn with him.

"Y-you can k-keep it," Dref says firmly.

Jonnit looks at him like he has stars in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, and leans in for a hug slowly, so Dref can back out.

Dref melts into the quick hug, holding Jonnit for a second, hoping he gets everything they didn’t get to have.

-

After Buzra Nyth Jonnit still owns the skirt. Dref was right of course, it isn’t very convenient in most situations but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t wear it.

It surprisingly doesn’t feel terrible to wear it, it brings with it only soft memories of Dref, and a nice glow like feeling that Jonnit can’t help but smile at. It’s the comfort Dref would give him, were he still here.

-

There is something about being called “boy” that just doesn’t sit right with Jonnit. He’d imagined it was because of how childish it made him feel, but there is something weirdly specific about the twinge of discomfort that comes with it.

Gable and Travis are listening to him ramble about in, trying to pay attention at this late hour. It is, Jonnit imagines, a bit like a sleepover you would have were they a normal friend group.

Except Travis, who is a snake at the moment, is curled around Gable’s neck, and Gable is nodding along while they idly play with a gun.

“Is girl any better?” Gable tries.

Jonnit grimaces a bit. “It’s not...worse?”

“Let’s just call you child then.” Travis says.

Gable vaguely pushes part of him off their shoulder. “This is important.” they say annoyed. Jonnit can’t help but laugh at them both.

“What about young man?” Gable keeps trying.

“It isn’t bad, doesn’t feel...me?” he says, gesturing vaguely. It was all confusing and not easy to explain.

“Well people don’t need to use gendered anything.” Gable says matter of factly.

“Or everything.” Travis says, and she smiles Jonnit a snakey grin.

As the night goes on Jonnit has a small list written down; he finds he doesn’t mind “son”, but he does prefer “sibling”, he decidedly dislikes “boy” and “man” feels distant, “sir” and “madam” both have a certain status they are excited about achieving someday. It’s almost fun really, repeating small sentences in their brain, imagining scenarios, Travis and Gable both occasionally sleepily adding commentary.

He ends the list with a twice underlined bold. “Captain Kessler.” which leaves him smiling stupidly at the paper.

This is my friend, they are a corsair and their name is Jonnit. He writes down carefully.

“Hey would you guys mind using they pronouns for me occasionally,” they say at the end of the night, feeling a small and unreasonable anxiety in his chest.

Gable smiles excitedly. “Of course!”

Travis lifts her head from where it was buried in Gable's hair. “Welcome to the club, kid.”

Jonnit smiles. “Yeah,” they say, “yeah I guess so.”

-

Jonnit smiles at the scene before him, Margaret had forced them all into what she regarded as a well needed rest after Nordia. So here they were now, cooped up into Dref’s former office, laying on the floor as Margaret did their nails one by one.

It was an activity that required patience, and forced you to sit down and enjoy eachothers company. Occasionally Margaret and Travis took sips from their mugs of heartroot, Travis’ balanced precariously on the edge of a book shelf, Margaret’s safely at her side as she chided Gable for moving too much.

Jonnit clinked their bright freshly polished nails against his own mug, they were a deep blue to match with their skirt and made a soft lovely sound against the ceramic.

Jonnit had, almost shyly, approached Margaret about blending heartroot a while ago, and had been blown away by her level of enthusiasm and knowledge.

So there he was, shakingly holding the tea, which was ever so carefully picked to stop facial hair growth and to make their voice just a little higher. Margaret had gently reminded him that the mix could always be adjusted, people and feelings change after all. It still felt like a big step as he took a small sip, it was sweet and almost floral and warm.

He couldn’t quite contain his giggles, a happy haze falling over them. His three companions turn to him with equal fond looks.

-

Many things happened when Jonnit went back to Akaron, the feelings and slight unresolved tension from when they had left home still hanging around the air and certainly explanations were needed from his sister, who had apparently also left home.

Both Zana and his dad were delighted to see him, embracing them in a group hug so tight Jonnit almost felt he couldn’t breathe.

His nervousness falling away as they entered their childhood home and sat down to have the longest conversation he had had with anything in a while.

There was a lot to digest of course, with both Zana and him retelling their adventures, their destinies, their fears. Jonnit’s gender journey in the end was only one of the many many items in the long list of explanations that night.

Whatever edge of nervousness there was it was worth it for the gentle peace of understanding that washed over all of them having talked.

It was worth the giddiness he got when he overheard Zana talking to a friend of hers.

“Yeah me and my sibling are home for a bit,” she says, “Jonnit? You remember them right?”

It was worth for the hug his father gave them when they left, full of unspeakable emotion.

“I’ll always be here you know,” his father said, blinking back tears, “whatever you do, you always have home to come back to.”

Jonnit was tearing up too “Thanks dad.” he said and added, “You’ll always be welcome on my ship too.”

His dad gave him a wide smile, tears now falling from his eyes as he nudged them towards the Uhuru where Travis and Gable were waiting. “Now go get them, captain Kessler.”

-

“Captain?” his quartermaster said as they slowly entered their quarters, Jonnit nodded at them to speak “Ma’am the crew is awaiting orders. Shall I tell them to get to their battle stations?”

Captain Jonnit Kessler moved away from the window where he was looking at their next target, a red feather ship gilded in gold, one of the last ones in the sky. He couldn’t help but smile, they should be used to this by now but some things never quite stop being a small novelty.

“Yes,” they said, “and tell Gable to come up to my quarters, I would like to see them before the battle.”

The quartermaster nodded, the excitement of upcoming battle clearly in the air. “Yes ma’am.” they said, exaggerating the salute a little.

Jonnit smiled and shook his head. “Well get to it then.” they said, not quite being able to shake the amusement in his voice

“Yes sir!” they say, with a final grin as they leave the room.

And with that Capitain Kessler prepares themself for one of many battles to come, one of the crucial ones that one day make them the best pirate to ever live, the ones that help him one day rule the skies.

[hb-writes]

Thank you for listening.

Inspired by my 101 lovely followers and  @love-me-a-good-prompt’s “THANK YOU IDEAS” prompt list.

Summary: SherlockBBC story (same universe as this one). A look at how Lucy Watson ended up living with her brother, John, and the famous Sherlock Holmes. 

Featuring: John Watson, Watson!Sister (Lucy)

-----

When John finally located his sister, the girl was settled comfortably on a bench, earbuds firmly in place. The music was clearly too loud coming through her headphones and she had a hardcover book placed open in her lap. 

John had no idea how many times he had warned the girl about being careful, especially with herself, and especially when in unfamiliar places. London was certainly not the same as the small, rural area where the Watson children had been raised, and his dear little sister would do well to pay better attention to her surroundings rather than tuning them out completely. John shook his head, mildly frustrated despite knowing that the girl was far beyond change at this point.

From a few feet away, John watched Lucy, noting the differences introduced since their last meeting. His sister was no longer a child, this observation evidenced by the subtle change in height and the way her face and choice of attire looked like more of that of a young woman than a young girl. Her lips were a shade or so darker than what he imagined them to be naturally. The waves of her hair fell longer now and she kept them loosely braided, falling over her left shoulder. A pair of brown, thick-framed glasses hung low on her nose as her head tilted down.

Lucy felt a presence beside her before she heard or saw anything and tried to glance up without being too obvious or inviting a conversation. She started at seeing that the presence sat beside her was her older brother, a knowing look settled upon his face.

She nearly shouted his name before grasping onto him, knocking the wind out of John a bit as she fastened herself around his chest. A breath of relief that John didn’t realize he had been holding escaped and he continued to hold his sister so long as she wished to be held, his hand gently cradling the head that had nestled up to the jumper under his jacket.

It had been a long while since they had last seen each other, far too long if John was being honest with himself. She had been his avid pen pal throughout his time away in the war, keeping him abreast of updates in her schooling and life with Harry, but nothing was as good as having the girl with him in person. Even if Lucy was only there on account of her own mischief, John was still happy to have her.

As he held her, John silently cursed himself. He should have gone to seen her the moment he returned to the country but seeing Lucy meant seeing Harry, and he simply hadn’t been ready to face that. He would at least need to speak to their sister now, what with their young ward running to him.

When Lucy finally pulled back, she wiped away some stray tears with the back of her hand. John ran a hand over her head, resting his hand on the back of her neck and kissing her forehead.

“That's enough. No more tears, sweetheart.”

Lucy smiled at the sentiment and leaned back against the bench. “I’ve missed you, John,” she said.

“And I’ve missed you,” he echoed.

“Well, that’s a relief as I’m certain that you’re quite angry regarding this whole thing and about to be unreasonably cross.”

“I don’t think it is by any means unreasonable should I choose to be cross with you,” John answered. He had pulled his little sister into his side and she rested her head against him. “Why are you here, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t want to stay with Harry any longer, especially not if Sara won’t be there and you’re staying here in London. Harry’s just downright insufferable and she doesn’t understand me. She is not a very adept parental figure, John. You never should have left me with her to begin with.”

“Now that will be enough of that,” he answered despite knowing that much of it was likely true.

“I just couldn’t stay there,” Lucy mumbled.

With Sara gone, their sister Harry had been different. She had been drinking more, angry and aggressive with her younger sister, and Lucy had had quite enough.

“And you thought the best way to alleviate the situation was to throw a tantrum, hopping on the next train to London by yourself?”

A blush crept into Lucy's cheeks. She had been away from the responsible childrearing of her brother for several years and had forgotten what his displeasure, even if only slight, felt like. Their sister was largely a ‘hands-off’ type of guardian, allowing Lucy to essentially do as she pleased, though as of late the two sisters had taken to considerable bickering and shouting matches. John, on the other hand, had never stood for the shouting or the arguments or the tantrums.

“She told me to get out of her sight, John,” Lucy defended. "I was only doing as I was told."

“And that was not alright for her to say though I’m sure you did something to provoke it.”

Lucy moved them along. She didn’t intend on getting into such details, at least not at the train station, not so soon after their reunion. Instead, she offered her big brother a troublesome little smile, the glint reaching her eyes.

“Well, you and Harry don’t ever talk anymore." She shrugged. "I had to get your attention somehow.”

“Good to know you are still a willful little terror.” he chided with a smile.

"I think that's a bit harsh, John."

“And I think you know of better ways I prefer for you to garner my attention,” John answered, eyebrows raised.

“I know, John. I do. And I’m terribly sorry, truly. You, sir, are looking at the very sorriest of little sisters. But please don’t be cross. I just missed you and I wanted to see you and it didn’t seem as though you had any intention of ever coming home to see me and I honestly believe if I hadn’t come here, you would be down a sister, though admittedly I am not sure which one of us you’d be missing.”

“This wasn’t about you, sweetheart. It has never been about you.”

“That’s what you both say, but I seem to be the one getting the continuous ‘shit-end’ of the stick.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” she muttered, though John didn't miss the eye roll. “Horrid, entirely unsuitable habit, I know. I just mean, well, you both tend to take your issues out on me, whether you intend to or not. I’m like a child of divorce now.”

“And I apologize it seems that way, but that’s no reason to go all stroppy and storm off without permission.”

“She knew precisely where I was going, John, and I called ahead to let you know that I was on my way.”

“Yes, you called to tell me to come collect you while you were already halfway along on your journey to London. By yourself. With. Out. Permission.” John punctuated his point by jabbing his sister in the shoulder with a finger after each word.

“Now who’s being the stroppy one?” she joked, nudging him.

“Well, it should go without saying that you, my dear sister, are confined to the flat until we sort this out. Grounded, actually.”

Lucy scrunched her face up. “What about playing tourist? I haven’t been to London in ages and I don’t get grounded anymore either,” she said.

“And how does our dear sister deal with your various indiscretions?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t. Not that I have many. I'm a very well behaved, John.”

John tried not to scoff. He was far from surprised that Harry didn’t discipline their younger sister. She supposed that if any of that went on in their household, it would have been her partner’s doing. Sara had always been the sensible one in that relationship.

“Well, I wouldn't think it wise for you to expect things to continue in that manner while you’re here. You’ve always required a healthy dose of structure. You’re not to go out on your own. If you behave, I’ll consider taking you out myself.”

“Hmph.”

“Don’t ‘hmph’, me, Lucille Evangeline Watson.”

“That name is so bloody pretentious, John Hamish Watson," she mocked, sharpening her tone.

John rolled his eyes. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe give me a proper hug and take me for some lunch?”

John nodded and she stood up beside him. He took Lucy into his arms, feeling her relax in his hold before taking one of her bags and stepping off, leaving her to manage the backpack.

"Thank you, John."

"For what?" he asked.

"For listening before shouting," Lucy answered. "Harry shouts first and listens never."

John sighed, pulling his sister in to his side. "No sense in shouting if we haven’t a need."

--

Sherlock BBC Masterlist

[anxious-logic]

Chapter 15: Age 12, Part 2

Masterpost | Previous | First

Chapter word count: 1,057 words

Chapter warnings: Child hiding emotional confusion/troubles from parental figures

---

“Thomas?”

Remus smiled softly as the mortal looked up at him.

“Can I sit with you?” He gestured to the empty spot on the floor of his room, then patted the bag on his hip once. “Just needed a change of scenery and thought this might be nice.”

Thomas nodded, a slightly wary look on his face. “I guess that’s fine.” As Remus stepped into the room, the younger inhaled like he was going to say something, then cut himself off, shaking his head and looking back down to the puzzle game he was trying to solve.

“Hey, don’t do that, little rascal,” Remus chided gently. “What were you going to say?” Thomas didn’t respond to the teasing nickname at all - a certain sign that something was wrong.

Thomas closed his eyes, a slightly exhausted look crossing his face. “Just- I don’t want to talk right now. I know you all are worried about me, I know you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong. I’m fine. I don’t want to think about it.”

Remus nodded in acknowledgement of his wishes. “Those are two different answers implying two different problems, but okay. We don’t have to talk about that, or anything, right now. We can just keep each other company.”

Remus watched the boy’s shoulders relax, feeling a tiny stab of guilt at the fact that he hadn’t seen how tense they were before.

Thomas returned to the puzzle game, and Remus lowered himself to the floor, pulling out his notepad and beginning to scratch out loose ideas.

“…You’re really not going to make me talk about it?”

Remus looked up at the tentative question that was barely loud enough to break the silence.

“No, Thomas. You’ve said you don’t want to. And I might not agree with that choice, but it is the one you’ve made, and I will respect that as long as I don’t see the consequences being destructive to you or others.”

Thomas put down the puzzle and let out a measured breath. He closed his eyes and swallowed loudly.

“I just don’t want any of you to feel bad.”

Remus raised his eyebrows at the admission. “You know that-”

“-I’m not responsible for the way others feel, I know. But the way that I’m feeling right now is- it doesn’t make sense, it’s unreasonable. It’s not true, and I know it. But it’s still bothering me. And I don’t want to make you sad that you can’t do anything to fix it, because it’s not any of your fault. You don’t know-”

Thomas cut himself off before he could finish the sentence.

“…Know what, Thomas?”

Thomas looked down and mumbled something to the covers of his bed.

“I’m going to need you to speak louder, Thomas.”

The boy looked directly at Remus, the action almost looking painful from how much he obviously didn’t want to do it.

“You don’t know what you’re doing that’s hurting me.”

Remus felt his stomach roll at the admission, and slammed his emotional connections to the other gods closed so they wouldn’t sense his uneasiness.

“Is it something that we could easily change?” he asked Thomas, who looked back down at the covers on his bed, picking frustratedly at a loose string on the covers.

“No.”

Remus readjusted so that he was sitting on his knees, facing the bed and trying his hardest to make eye contact with Thomas. The boy was still looking down at his bed, and Remus could tell how close he was to tears.

“Is it something that happens often?”

His heart broke as a tear trailed down Thomas’s cheek, staining the blue comforter navy where it fell. “…Yes.”

Oh, Thomas. Remus reached a hand out so that it was sitting on the top of the bed palm-up, easily in Thomas’s reach if the child wanted the physical comfort.

“I’m sorry for whatever it is,” Remus said gently, trying his hardest not to flinch at the way the words only made Thomas’s crying worse. “And I hope you know that whatever is wrong, we want to know. We want to work with you to make it better. We want to make you happy.”

Thomas abruptly rolled off of the bed and to the floor, curling into Remus’s neck. The god pulled him into his lap, cradling him close.

“We’re here for you. We won’t go.”

Remus rocked back and forth the best that he could in the slightly uncomfortable position the two of them were in, ignoring the way that his legs were going tingly. He stayed silent until Thomas’s sobs were more spaced out, his breathing relatively steady.

“Can I tell the others what you told me?” Remus asked. He felt Thomas tense up and rushed to clarify. “Not so we can try to figure it out, or confront you about it more. Just so that we’re all on the same page.”

Thomas thought about the question for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “Okay,” he said, his voice sounding rather fragile. “If you- if you promise.”

Remus squeezed Thomas’s shoulder. “Yes, little rascal. I promise.”

Thomas let out a breath and then shifted back, bringing his shoulder out of arm’s reach of Remus. The god let him go, giving him a reassuring smile.

The mortal looked around at his legs, frowning before looking around him. Remus pointed to where the puzzle was laying on the covers behind Thomas, in a place where he couldn’t see it. Thomas gave him a grateful smile and turned back to the game, humming slightly.

Remus turned back to his notepad and carefully opened his connections to the other gods, slightly surprised at how little worry he was feeling from any of them. He sent a pulse of feeling down all of his connections, a gentle push reminding the others that they weren’t alone no matter what.

Remus’s shoulders relaxed as he absently turned the sketchbook in his hands over and over, rotating it and flipping it over absently. Although the true meaning behind Thomas’s uneasiness hadn’t been shared, he had been comfortable enough with Remus to tell him that something actually was going on, and he had been willing to say (at the very least) that it was an action that the gods performed regularly that was making him insecure and closed-off.

That was… progress. Yes.

Next chapter

[datheetjoella]

Fantober 2020, Day 18: Music/Dancing

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: T Part: 18/31 (read the full collection here) Word count: 1,833 Tags: Canonverse, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fiancés, Dance Practice, Wedding Stress Read at: AO3, FFn, or right here!

                                            -----------------------------------

Left foot backwards, right foot to the side and slide close. Or wait, was it right foot backwards, left foot to the side?

Haruka's hesitation made Makoto halt before he could step on his toes and he lost his balance. His hands clenched around the fabric of Haruka's shirt and Haruka caught him just in time before they toppled over and crashed to the floor.

With a sigh, Kisumi turned off the music. "Stop looking at your feet, Haru."

Haruka clicked his tongue. "Easy for you to say, you know what to do."

"I had to learn it like this too," Kisumi said, "You're overthinking it, it's not that hard."

"Swimming isn't that hard either, yet I've never seen you win a competition before."

"Now, now, let's not get personal, alright?" Asahi said, holding up his hands to appease them both before the situation could escalate.

"Why don't we take a short break?" Makoto said, bidding their friends a sheepish smile as if to apologise for Haruka's outburst.

"Fine." Haruka tore himself out of Makoto's arms, stomped over to the couch in the corner of the room and plopped down with a huff.

Deep down, he knew he was being unreasonable. Their friends were trying to help them, but he felt like he was dangling above the pit of despair here.

Their wedding was only a few weeks away and, organised as he was, Haruka made sure they were ahead of schedule and arranged all that needed to be arranged. The venue was booked, the invitations sent out and the cake ordered, and they had appointments for their final suit fittings. From the food served at dinner to the centerpieces and decorations, everything was taken care of. At least, that was what he thought.

During a video chat with Rin earlier this week, he asked how their wedding preparations were going and if they had a choreography for their first dance. When they told him they weren't going to do a first dance since neither of them even knew how to dance, Rin almost jumped through his screen to smack them both across the head. According to him, the first dance as spouses was a beautiful tradition that may not, under any circumstance, be broken.

Makoto and he hadn't been convinced yet, but when they discussed the matter with several other friends and family members, everyone agreed with Rin and insisted that the first dance was a wedding staple. Rei assigned himself the task of coming up with the choreography and Asahi and Kisumi offered to help them learn it and suddenly, Haruka and Makoto found themselves stuck in the center of a storm with no way out. Reluctantly, they agreed to it, on the condition the choreography would be short and simple.

So the following Saturday evening, their living room furniture was shoved aside to create a dance floor and Asahi and Kisumi came over to teach them the choreography Rei put together with the help of Nagisa.

To their credit, they had kept it pretty simple, with a couple of twists and turns and one dip as a grand finale. On top of a video of Nagisa and him dancing it, Rei also wrote a very elaborate explanation on every move and emailed it along. Clear and easy, no issues there. But when they started, the problems rapidly surfaced.

No matter how many times they played the video or watched as Kisumi and Asahi demonstrated the starting steps, they couldn't figure it out. They forgot the difference between left and right, messed up the timing and for the first time in their lives, they felt out of tune with each other. There was no rhythm, no perfect harmony, only two klutzes without a grain of finesse in their bodies, to Haruka's greatest frustration.

They were wasting their time. Not just their own, but Kisumi and Asahi's as well. It was better to throw in the towel than to continue with this shameful display, because there was no way Haruka was embarrassing himself like this at his own wedding.

Noticing his predicament, Makoto handed him a glass of water and sat down beside him. "Are you okay, Haru?" he asked softly so Asahi and Kisumi, who were discussing the matter at the other end of the room, wouldn't hear.

"I can't do this, I give up."

"Don't say that," Makoto said as he nudged Haruka with his elbow. "It's difficult, but I'm sure we'll get the hang of it eventually. You couldn't expect to be able to swim the first time you dove into the water and it's the same with this. If you gave up then, you never would've accomplished what you have now."

Haruka scoffed. "I've always been able to swim, this is completely different."

Makoto chuckled at his attitude. "Fine, walking then. If you gave up with learning how to walk the first time you fell and never got back up, you wouldn't even be here now, trying to learn how to dance."

"If I had stayed down then I wouldn't be having this problem."

"Come on now, Haru," Makoto chided. "Don't be so pessimistic. It's just as hard for me as it is for you, but I'm willing to give it a fair shot. Isn't this fun too?"

"Fun? Makoto, the wedding is in four weeks!"

"So that's what this is about. You're nervous."

"I am about this," Haruka said, defensively turning away from his fiancé and clenching his fingers around the glass. "This is so out of my comfort zone."

"It's out of mine, too, but I still think it's fun," Makoto said as he put a soothing hand on Haruka's knee. "Even if it's something that feels foreign, I think trying something new with you is a fun experience. I'm not confident in my dancing skills at all, but I enjoy dancing with you even if we mess up or step on each other's toes or bump into each other. Because it's another way I can connect with you, something only the two of us share."

Admittedly, Haruka hadn't regarded it like that. But when he thought it over, he found that it wasn't his inability to dance that frustrated him so, it was his inability to dance with Makoto. Everything always went so naturally between the two of them, yet this made him feel as though they were on different wavelengths.

But Makoto felt their connection even though they weren't perfect from the get-go. Maybe they didn't have to be a well-oiled machine to enjoy dancing; maybe twirling around in each other's arms in utter disarray could be fun too, at least until they improved.

"Why don't we get back up and try again?" Makoto suggested with a gentle smile. "We can practice every night, from dusk till dawn, until we get the steps right and you feel comfortable enough. And if you still don't feel comfortable on our big day, then we can forget about it and skip the first dance. It's our wedding, so we can do whatever we want."

After all those sweet words, it would be selfish of Haruka to decline. Their friends were adamant Makoto should lead since he was taller than him, so this was probably even more challenging for him yet Haruka was the one who sat here sulking like a child. The least he could do was try again.

"I guess I could give it another shot."

A wide grin lit up Makoto's handsome face and he leapt up from the couch, grasping Haruka's hand in his. He pressed a kiss to Haruka's knuckles and asked, "May I have this dance?"

Haruka rolled his eyes. "I guess you may," he said, leaning over to put his glass on the coffee table, then he allowed Makoto to pull him up.

"Alright, new plan," Kisumi said after careful deliberation with his assistant. "You can't expect someone who's inside a pool for the first time to swim perfectly, they have to get used to the feeling of the water first. So that's what we're going to do now."

"How?" Makoto asked, equally as confused as Haruka. Images of dancing with Makoto inside the pool flooded Haruka's mind and though the prospect was rather enticing, he was sure that wasn't what Kisumi meant.

"Put your hands on Haru's waist. Haru, you wrap your arms around Makoto's neck," Asahi instructed. When they did as told, he continued, "We're going to put the music back on and you're going to forget we're here and move along to the music. Considering you already live in your own worlds when you're together anyway, I don't think that's going to be very difficult."

"Just do what feels natural," Kisumi said, and with a tap on his phone, the music resumed.

Haruka didn't think this was going to work. It wasn't like he could simply ignore the presence of two loud and boisterous guys disrupting the air in their harmonious living room, and moving along to music could never feel natural to him. The sole place he could freely move as he pleased was inside the water, where he felt fluid and unrestrained.

And yet, as he stared into the forest of Makoto's eyes, how they twinkled with joy and affection, the world around them melted away. His heartbeat spiked and the corners of his lips curled up when he felt how intimate this actually was. Inside the bubble of a soft melody, only Makoto and he remained. As Makoto slowly began to sway along to the rhythm, his own body was swept up in his current.

This beautiful man who held him so gently was going to be his husband. Even though he always knew they were going to spend the rest of their lives together because he loved him more than anything in the entire universe, it was going to be official in four weeks. They were getting married, how could anything else matter?

Every droplet of panic and irritation inside him evaporated, leaving nothing but love and resolve in his veins. Whether it be winning Olympic races and ending up on the podium or dancing a three-minute choreography at their wedding, with Makoto by his side, Haruka was certain he could accomplish anything.

"See, we knew you could do it!"

And with that, the spell was broken and the magic in the air dissolved. Startled, Haruka and Makoto broke away from each other and looked back at their friends, who had blended in with the furniture up until that point.

"Asahi!" Kisumi yelped, but it was already too late.

"Sorry."

"It's alright," Makoto said with his sunshine smile, waving a dismissive hand to Asahi's apology.

"Thank you," Haruka muttered, pushing himself to voice his appreciation, "I think we can try the choreography again."

Learning something new was tough, but with Makoto as his partner and the support of their friends, Haruka was confident they could figure this out right in time before the wedding.

[themurphyzone]

Oneshot: Blood Doesn’t Matter

Decided it would be interesting to do a perspective flip. While Heinz’s treatment was horrible and we all know it, not everyone does. Sometimes you only see a sugarcoated version of events despite it taking place in front of you. 

Age 4

Heinz was in trouble again. Out of curiosity, Roger had started using an old floorboard in his bedroom as a tally chart to track his older brother’s mischief, but it happened so often that the chart was extremely inaccurate. 

“I thought it would help you, Mother,” Heinz said meekly, kicking a gear from the broken cube-shaped machine, originally designed to wash the dishes faster. However, instead of washing the dishes, it broke all the ceramics and made a mess in the tiny kitchen. 

Mother sternly pointed to the closet. “Clean it up. Then go to your room. We will talk later.” Then her clipped tone vanished as she tussled Roger’s hair. “Roger, would you like another cookie?”

Roger nodded. “May I have another cookie please, Mother?” Her cookies had won her fame in the village, since they were the only ones that couldn’t be used as a hockey puck.   

“So polite too!” she exclaimed, setting the largest cookie from the jar on his plate. “You need to be more like your brother, Heinz. You won’t go far with that horrible attitude of yours.”

Heinz sulked as he mopped up the broken pieces, shooting irritated glares at Roger when Mother wasn’t looking. Roger chewed contentedly on his treat. As long as Mother was happy, he was happy. 

So why was Heinz never happy? 

Maybe he was just a born troublemaker. 

Age 7

“You were wonderful today during errands,” Mother said, tucking him in neatly. “Keep it up and the Kinderlumper might give you something extra special.” 

At the mention of the Kinderlumper, Roger fell back against his pillow, tucking his teddy bear under his arms so he could go to sleep quickly. The Kinderlumper was large, but shy. He wouldn’t come if he wasn’t asleep. 

But a question had been nagging at his mind. His curiosity was getting the better of him. “Mother, why are you so hard on Heinz?” he asked. 

Mother wrung her hands as she pondered his question. She sighed, tiredly glancing at the door. “Your brother is not an easy child,” she said. “Your father and I must be strict to toughen him up. He might not like his chores now, but he’ll be thanking us when he’s older. Don’t associate with people like him, Roger. They’ll ruin your chances of success in the real world.” 

She kissed him goodnight and blew out the lamp, closing the door behind her. 

Roger turned over, listening to Mother scold Heinz for making too much noise. Yawning, he closed his eyes and dreamed of the toys that the Kinderlumper might leave on the doorstep. 

Age 11

“Heinz, I need you to do me a favor,” Roger said, dribbling his kickball against the dirt floor. 

Heinz ignored him as he opened all the cupboards, only to slam them shut again as he frantically searched for something. Boots thudded loudly above them, and Heinz and Roger flinched instinctively. They both forgot that Father was still tired from a late night hunting trip and was using the morning to sleep in. 

It was impossible to discern Father’s expression underneath his horned helmet and massive beard. Unlike Heinz, Roger possessed a sense of self-preservation, so he looked at the floor and shut his mouth. He learned early on that he would be invisible to Father if he remained quiet and did nothing to set his volatile temper off. 

Heinz was still checking the nooks and crannies of the kitchen when Father stomped in, irate at his sleep being interrupted. 

“Beveg dich nicht!” Father snapped. 

Heinz abruptly went stiff, looking like a deer in the headlights. Roger tensed too, but he didn’t dare raise his head. 

Father huffed in disdain and returned to his bedroom. 

The boys relaxed, relieved that Father was too exhausted to give any further discipline. 

“You know how the Preteen Kickball Tournament is this weekend?” Roger asked. 

Heinz groaned. “I’m not taking part. Mother thinks it’s embarrassing if I get on the field. Besides, I’ll just bring down the entire team.” 

“I know you’re terrible. But I was just gonna ask you to pitch the ball so I can kick it,” Roger said. “You can do that much, right?” 

Besides, everyone in Gimmelshtump knew he was the star player. No other kids could match the strength he poured into every kick. And the star player needed practice to be the best. 

“Fine, whatever. Have you seen my chemistry book? I can’t find it anywhere, and I’m not going with you until you tell me what you’ve done with it,” Heinz growled, checking the umbrella stand. Roger didn’t know what he was hoping to accomplish if he was looking in the umbrella stand for a book. 

“Heinz Doofenshmirtz!” Mother gasped from the front door, taking off her traveling cloak. She dropped the bag of vegetables from the market in shock. “How dare you accuse my boy of stealing! He would never do such a thing!” 

He wouldn’t. Mother had raised him to be better than a common thief. 

“Well, I was reading it last night!” Heinz protested. “And now it’s gone!” 

“Have you considered taking better care of your things?” Mother chided. “Thank goodness you’re so reliable, Roger. Why, when you were five, I gave you my wedding ring for Show and Tell at your school, and you brought it back safe and sound! Heinz would have lost it in ten seconds, I’m sure.” 

“I wouldn’t lose it,” Heinz muttered defiantly. 

“That’s enough. Go with Roger so he can practice,” Mother said. “You can look for that silly nonsense when you come back.” 

Heinz fumed all the way to the practice field. 

Roger wisely decided not to tell him that he saw a page of the periodic table sticking out of Only Son’s bed that morning. 

Age 14

As ditzy as Heinz was, even he had occasional moments of brilliance. 

“Why don’t you tell Frau Weiss about what you’re planning to do, Roger?” Mother asked. 

Frau Weiss sipped her coffee expectantly. “Do tell, Roger. Surely a handsome boy such as yourself would have some plans.” 

Roger squirmed in embarrassment. While he loved Mother, sometimes he wished she wouldn’t talk about him so much to her friends. “Well, I was thinking of going into politics. But in America rather than here, since it’s one of the most powerful countries on Earth. I could intern for a senator, that way I could be connected to a network and put my name out there.” 

Frau Weiss nodded in approval. “So much ambition at a young age. You did well raising this one. Tell me, whatever happened to the disappointment?” 

“Heinz?” Mother replied. “He boarded a ship bound for the states by accident a few weeks ago. While he will remain nothing more than a dummkopf, I must admit he did inspire Roger to travel to America himself to begin his career. I’ll try to convince Hans that the rest of us should do the same, but he’s a stubborn man. 

“I understand your pain,” Frau Weiss said. “Why couldn’t I have Roger for a son? Peter sits with his head in the clouds. I told him to find a girl with a sizable dowry, but does he listen to his poor old mother? Of course not.” 

Roger pushed his chair back. “Mother? May I be excused, please? I was planning to look at the stalls in the market.” 

“Of course,” Mother smiled at him. “Go right ahead.” 

Roger hurried out the front door, glad to be away from all the gossip. 

Age 20

It had been a week since Roger accidentally ruined Heinz’s painting. He quickly discovered that his brother was a master at holding grudges. 

“Well, plenty of artists didn’t get vindicated until after they died,” Roger tried to joke. 

Heinz wasn’t having any of it. He continued packing all his things into a large backpack, refusing to look at Roger. “How would you like it if I dumped a carton of grape juice on all your clothes?” he snapped. “Girls would never date you again. Unless you turned up the charm. But no, it’s never a problem for you, huh?” 

“Not really,” Roger blinked. “I can’t help it. Girls fawn over me. I’m just that charming to them.” 

Sometimes Heinz could be so unreasonable. 

“Yeah, perfect you with your perfect car and perfect ground you trod upon,” Heinz muttered. “I’m dropping out. Nothing here for me anyway. I’m going backpacking and you can’t stop me.” 

Even if Roger used common sense, Heinz was never going to heed his advice. There was little point in trying to stop him from doing something ridiculous. 

Age 24

“Forget about her, Roger,” Mother said, patting his back in comfort. “You’re too good for her.” 

He had no idea where he went wrong. He bought Yvonne perfume, found bracelets he thought she would like, and picked her up in a sleek black car that he’d bought with the money he’d been given from Great Uncle Frederic’s will. 

So if none of those things impressed her, then what did? 

“I should’ve been focusing on my studies,” Roger shook his head. “Not wasting time on girls. I’m sorry if I worried you, Mother.” 

Mother picked up her knitting, a beacon of calm amidst all the turmoil. “America is so strange,” she mused. “The girls here don’t recognize that they need to settle down with a man who can provide for them.” 

Age 28

Roger furiously picked the phone up from the table, while Mother sobbed her heart out. Father sat on the couch, not looking remotely interested in the matter. “Heinz, you’re making Mother cry! Don’t make her blood pressure skyrocket with your stubbornness!” 

“They aren’t seeing my baby girl, and that’s final!” Heinz yelled. Roger had to hold the phone away from his ear so he didn’t go deaf from his brother’s screechy voice. “I’m listening to my gut instinct here, Roger. Maybe I’ll consider it when Vanessa’s older, but not now.” A woman’s voice was in the background, gently persuading him to to compromise. “But Charlene, you don’t understand! They’ll hurt her! Yes, I’m being paranoid about this. Okay, you know what? Fine. Roger, you can come see Vanessa if you want. But only you. Don’t even think about bringing them.” 

The last word was filled with such venom, Roger almost dropped the phone in surprise. “What do you have against Mother?” Roger complained. “I can’t believe you, Heinz. She did everything she could, and you’re being ungrateful.” 

“Ungrateful? Who are you calling ungrateful, when all Mother did was-” A baby’s cry pierced the background on the other end. “Great, Vanessa’s crying because of you people! I’m turning it over to Charlene. Goodbye.” 

There was silence for a long time. 

“I’m sorry about my husband,” Charlene said calmly. “I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about, to be honest. Fatherhood’s just getting to him.” 

“I understand,” Roger replied. “I’d better go. Mother needs me.” 

He hung up, setting the phone back on the hook. Then he grabbed the nearest blanket and draped it over Mother. 

Age 44

“I present the new mayor of Danville, Roger Doofenshmirtz!” 

Roger stepped up to the podium, smiling and waving with practiced ease. “Thank you, everyone. It’s truly a wonderful moment to be here with all of you,” he announced to the crowd, who clung to his every word. Mother was given a seat of honor in the front row. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “As mayor, I promise to make this fair city prosperous and safe for future generations. Now, instead of boring you with a tedious speech, allow me to make this a memorable night with some of your favorite bands!” 

As the first act tuned their guitars, Roger managed to sneak inside City Hall. He shut the doors to his new office, taking in all the extravagance that his new living quarters offered. He’d have plenty of time to explore his rich lifestyle later. 

There was just someone he wanted to talk to first. 

He dialed a number, then quickly erased it when he remembered that Heinz had moved into a penthouse after his divorce. Funny how some details about his brother slipped his mind. Couldn’t even afford a house of his own. What a pity. 

“Hello?” 

“Turn on the news,” Roger said. “I’m the mayor now. Landslide election too. My opponent never stood a chance.” 

“Congrats. You want a medal?” Heinz asked dryly. “Oh wait, you have plenty of those. Needs to be something a little more special for you, I suppose.” 

Roger wondered if they would ever get though a conversation without Heinz’s irritation  getting in the way. Probably not. 

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Roger remarked. “Mother is a guest of honor. I’ve never seen her so happy.” 

“Then it’s only fair for me to let you know that I’m overthrowing you,” Heinz warned. “Then I’ll be ruler of the Tri-State Area, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.” 

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Have fun with that.”

The line went dead. 

But for some reason, he could only stand there with the phone hanging from his loose grip. 

They had never been close, but Roger never questioned why until now. Maybe it was the grape juice incident. Could it have been Heinz’s selfish refusal to allow their parents to see Vanessa? Something else that slipped his mind? 

Or maybe he would never know the true cause of it all. 

[eyescenario21]

Riku, Yamato, Mizumachi, Kongo Twins, Kurita, Hiruma, Clifford, Juumonji, Ikkyuu father headcannons/reaction to daughter bringing home first boyfriend and their s/o tries to calm them down.

Kaitani Riku:

At the top of Riku’s wish list, was to have an armory that matched if not surpassed Hiruma’s impressive warfare collection [he also wanted to be taller but you can’t always get what you want]. He was staring down at the boy with the same intensity that Gaou stared at his prey.

“Riku,” you chided softly, elbowing your husband gently. The grip on his chopsticks only tightened. Your daughter shoved herself lower into her seat while the boy sat sweating bullets. “So…” you smiled tightly, “Do you like any sports?”

Riku sat up a little straighter, attentive.

“No, Kaitani-san,” the boy stammered underneath Riku’s gaze.

Your daughter looked at you pleadingly. You frantically searched your mind for another topic because Riku’s stare was turning worse than murderous. “Um…Oh! What—What are some your interests?”

“I… basically like staying inside,” he admitted easily, oblivious to Riku’s growing blood lust. “I like playing video games and reading; I write short stories in my pastime.”

“Out.”

“Dad, please.”

“Riku, no.”

Unfortunately, despite the height difference and the words of the people he loved most, Riku already had his hand on the boy’s collar and was dragging him out the door.

Yamato Takeru:

Yamato seemed somewhat calm during the dinner, smiling pleasantly if not forcefully. The boy spoke politely and answered when questioned but failed to notice the fact that the football player was practically stabbing his chopsticks into the home-cooked food.

“Takeru, please,” you huffed to your husband quietly. You smiled warmly at both your fidgeting daughter and the unaware boy beside her. Yamato’s posture relaxed and your daughter sighed in relief—maybe her dad wouldn’t kill the boy. 

Unfortunately for the poor girl, her chosen boy had decided her parents were really chill and made a bit of an obvious flirty pass at her with a hint of sex on the side. You tackled the boy out of his chair as Yamato nearly broke the table in half in his attempt to gut the teen with his chopsticks.

Of course, you were insulted by the boy’s innuendo but that didn’t stop you from poorly attempting to save the boy’s life. You didn’t know what you would do if Takeru ended up in prison. 

Mizumachi Kengo:

Of all the dads of the former Team Japan, Mizumachi Kengo liked to think he was by far the coolest. Like, legitimately. 

His little girl’s boyfriend thought so to. To him, Mizumachi-san totally had the surfer vibe with his attitude, blonde hair and tanned skin. To the teenager, he really had that “go-with-the-flow” kind of attitude. 

“Kengo,” you whispered as you reached up to cup your husband’s elbow, because of course, of course, Mizumachi Kengo picked the cutie that was nearly as short as Sena. (You were more than proud to say you were taller by a full five centimetres!) “Don’t scare the boy off, please? _______-chan seems to like him very much.”

Kengo waved you off. “Don’t worry so much! I’m not going to eat him alive! Besides, he’s not big enough to count as a snack!”

Your daughter and her boyfriend made identical strangled noises. You facepalmed. 

Kengo was still a stickler for height details. 

You kinda felt bad that _______-chan brought home a boy that was just a tad shorter than her, but she should’ve known considering how much Kengo made fun of you.

Kongo Agon:

I really don’t see this fucker having kids, I am so sorry.

Agon had always, always, always been a possessive bastard. Always.

While sometimes his possessiveness was too overbearing—near abusive—when the two of you had dated, he had toned it done a lot. Mainly because you threatened to leave and it seemed he actually cared about you enough to change his egotistical and unreasonable ways. You were pretty certain Unsui nearly had an aneurysm when he saw the change in his brother’s behavior. 

While he wasn’t so possessive of you nor unreasonably overprotective, this didn’t transfer over to your daughter. 

She really was such a beauty—and such a sweetie too!

(Hiruma had questioned whether or not she was actually Agon’s daughter which, suffice to say, pissed the man off. A lot.)

To you, it was a no brainer that she would attract boys like flies to honey. 

Agon, was less than enthusiastic.

Which was why he was currently burning a hole through the fidgeting boy that was seated beside your daughter. The football player hadn’t said a word, leaving all the questioning to you. You were more than satisfied by his chattering answers, he really was a nice boy. 

Your daughter certainly had better taste than you.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Startled, you looked at Agon that was sporting a gaping mouth and his eyes gleamed with hurt? I am hallucinating, you thought.

“What did I say?”

“Are you implying that this—this trash, is a better choice than me? Fucking Kongo Agon?”

“Oh, that,” you sighed, stealing your husband’s sake from him. “He’s nicer, actually has some manners and doesn’t have an ego thrice the size of his genitals. Overall, yes.”

Kongo Unsui:

He cannot be worse than Agon.

That was Unsui’s mantra the whole week leading up to the dinner where he and his s/o would be introduced to their daughter’s boyfriend. 

Boyfriend. Ugh, he was disgusted by the word, especially mentioned in the same sentence as his precious little girl. 

“Unsui, stop brooding,” you commanded, bumping him with your shoulder. You had set the table, cleaned and cooked all while your husband was dead to the world due to his brooding. 

The man grumbled and straightened his clothes, standing up. You nodded in approval and gestured for him to get the food in the kitchen. “_______-chan should be in in a couple of minutes with her so-called boy—“

“Don’t say it.”

You laughed at his disgruntled expression as he marched off. Suddenly, the front door swung open along with the clinking of keys and amused laughter. You heard Unsui let out a strangled, pained moan. 

“Okaerinasai, _______-chan,” you smiled at your daughter and turned to the boy at her side. “And you must be—“

Cue screaming. Screaming as in the girl about to be murdered in any horror film. 

“Unsui?!”

“Dad?!”

Both you and your daughter rushed to your husband’s side on the ground. He had landed on his tush, spilling the tonkatsu—you half-wanted to kill him for that—when he had fallen. your husband’s wide fearful eyes were focused on your daughter’s boyfriend. Specifically, you realized, the teen’s hair.

“Unsui—”

“Why does he look like Agon?!”

“…Dad, are you fucking with me?”

The poor boy simply stared as your daughter cursed profusely—something she had gotten from Agon—while you chastised your husband like a child. 

“First of all—“

Kurita Ryokan:

The gentle giant was so nervous the night of the dinner, someone would have thought he was the boyfriend meeting the parents.

“Ryokan, stop worrying,” you soothed. “You’re an amazing father and you and I both taught our daughter to always respect her self-worth first; there’s no way she’s going to bring home some asshole that’s going to take advantage of her.”

“It’s not that!” He bawled, and you stepped back in shock and exasperation. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he thinks we’re boring? What if he convinces her to move in with him because he doesn’t like us?! We’re going to lose ________-chan!”

You rolled your eyes at his cries.

You really loved the man, you really did. But he was a bit too much of a worrywart at times. And emotional. Very emotional. 

“Ryokan, breathe.”

It was good thing you had about six hours before your daughter came back from school with her boyfriend. That was just barely enough time to settle your husband down, change, and cook. 

“Ryokan, if you don’t stop crying, he’ll really think you’re lame and we won’t have anything to eat too.”

He wailed.

Hiruma Yoichi:

Your husband glanced over the boy dismissively, nodding then sticking his hand out for a handshake.

The boy, so naïve, breathed a sigh of relief, took your husband’s hand in his.

You and your daughter simultaneously sighed. 

“So, _______-kun, right?” You cringed and your daughter clasped her hands as if in prayer. The boy nodded, moving to pull his hand away but was stopped by the demon’s iron grip. 

Yoichi pulled the boy uncomfortably close, examining him in a way that made the teen feel as if he was some sort of amoeba. “You don’t look like a boy that wet his bed until just last year.”

“What?! How do you—“ The teen blushed and stammered, looking at everyone with angry red cheeks.

“Yoichi, please.”

“Dad….” your daughter whined. “You said you’d be nice.”

Your husband cackled that signature laugh of his, not too gently ushering the mortified and terrified teen into the dining room. 

You glanced at your daughter, disapproval on your face. “_______-chan, haven’t I taught you that: ‘the Devil is liar.’”

“Mom, it’s not my fault I have him as a dad, it’s yours.”

“I don’t want to hear that from the girl that literally wrote hymns for him.”

Clifford D. Lewis:

Suffice to say, dinner was very awkward. 

Whenever your husband had looked at your daughter’s boyfriend, he had instantly looked away. The look was so dismissive, so uninterested—the teen must have been embarrassed, no, beyond mortified. You couldn’t help but feel bad for the boy but Clifford tended to have that effect on people. 

You glanced at your daughter who looked absolutely miserable. 

Your heart squeezed. She probably knew Clifford thought she had chosen trash. Clifford’s opinion meant everything to your little girl too, as much as it pained you to admit that she was a daddy’s girl.

With a sigh of frustration, you set your cutlery down and looked over at your husband. With a raised brow, he did the same in a much more composed fashion. You jabbed your chin in the direction of the young couple, your lips twisting into a frown. 

Clifford glared back defiantly. 

Ugh.

“________, right?” the teen nodded jerkily, surprised etched on his face. Your daughter raised her head in a mix of hopefulness and fear. “You’re very quiet, I’m sorry, have we made you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, no Mx. Lewis, it’s just I didn’t want to bother you and I was unsure if your family really talked during dinner. I didn’t want to disrupt your schedule.”

You smiled, your daughter hesitantly mimicking the action while your husband’s stare bored into the your temple. “That’s a very mature and considerate of you. I wished there were more boys like you when I was your age.”

If the muffled giggling and glare you received from your family were anything to go by, you successfully lightened the mood.

Although, Clifford would certainly get back at you for that jab at him—he hated being made fun of, especially when he was being compared to someone younger (and, therefore, to him, dumber).

Juumonji:

Okay, but why did your husband have to bring in Toganou and Kuroki?

You didn’t know who was going to die of embarrassment first, you or your daughter. Your husband and your daughter’s godfathers had marched in, or in reality, slammed, through the front door just minutes after the young couple had walked in.

The smiles and bright mood had disappeared with the intensity the three Ha-Ha Brothers radiated. 

And why the fuck was Kuroki fingering the handle of a metal baseball hat? And had Toganou actually brought a rusty bike chain?

The poor boy your daughter had brought home arm-in-arm was sweating bullets—so much so, you were sure you’d fill Hiruma’s armory thrice over. 

Your poor little girl looked like she was going to burst into tears, whether from embarrassment or anger, you didn't know. 

But you did know what to do in the situation. 

It would be the last thing you’d do before you started pushing up daises.

“What are you three idiots doing?”

“Hah?”

“Hah?!”

“HAH?!”

“Don’t you use that shit on me, Ha-Ha Brothers! Kazuki, what the actual fuck do you think you’re doing—“

Ikkyuu:

Ikkyuu counted himself a very lucky man. Very.

He’d married the oni cutie from uni, and had an even more oni cute daughter. 

He was blessed, he felt, twice-over. 

“Ikkyuu, are you going to be okay?” You asked, lightly putting a hand on his shoulder as he sat in the middle of your living room and meditated.

While he couldn’t quite get the act, or really appreciated it in high school, he had learned to do both in uni. It had helped him relax before mid-terms, finals and games. Meditating had become a habit to do before something he found stressful or made him nervous, like your wedding or his first job interview.

But you hadn’t seen him meditate since your daughter started school over a decade ago.

Your husband didn’t respond—he was likely in a deep meditative state. But still, you persisted. 

“Ikkyuu?”

You turned when he didn’t respond to you, intent on finishing the final touches before your daughter and her beau arrived—

“I’m ONI not okay!”

“Ikkyuu?!”

“What if she leaves to be with him?! I’m going to lose my daughter!”

“Ikkyuu—“

You tried to grab your husband’s hands away from his hair as he moaned and groaned, thrashing as he did so, about your daughter’s boyfriend. 

“What if he’s like Agon-san?!—Not like there’s anything wrong with Agon-san! But my daughter—“ he bawled. 

“Ikkyuu!—She’s my daughter too!”

“He’s not going to appreciate an oni cutie like her! She’s once in a hundred years!”

“...I don’t know whether to be offended or insulted.”

“I mean look at her! My baby’s so gorgeus! Man, if there were cuties like her when I was her age—“

“Ikkyuu, you sick fuck.”

“Eh?! Wait—________! Stop!”

And that was the scene the young couple walked into; you balancing on Ikkyuu’s shoulders, knees digging into his neck as you yanked at his hair while he yelled and cried for you to stop, even trying to shake him off. 

Lmao, I really don’t think the boys would change very much from high school. Especially Clifford. 

Also, I read somewhere that the gender neutral term for Mr., Miss, and Mrs., was “Mx.”. I can’t remember the source but that is what I remember it as. If someone would like to correct me on it, feel free to do so. 

I’m sorry if it’s not gender neutral enough.

Also, whoever sent this, you took great advantage of the no character limit or specifications pertaining such. I am so proud. Tired, but proud.

[rather-impertinent]

Hey darling! If you're still taking prompts, could I perchance inconvenience you with no' 9 ?:)

A/N: Hi friend! This is very long, I hope you don’t mind!! 💓 Also I’m v tired so please excuse any mistakes haha! Enjoy! xo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Perhaps she could smother him and no one would ever know. Dwight was, after all, the best doctor in the county (and Caroline wagered even in all of England) and perhaps it was only he who could distinguish between accidental and deliberate death. And how could he do so if he, himself, were dead. But then he turns over, and she sees the features of his face and his sunny hair in the dim candlelight, and all such thoughts vanish. That is, until moments later when that godawful sound escapes from his mouth again.

She takes a cushion and hits him forcefully on the chest. “Dwight Enys! Wake up this instant!”

He jolts up with a start and blindly looks around the room, tired confusion etched on his features. He rubs his eyes aggressively. “Caroline? What is the matter?” he asks sleepily.

“You were snoring!” she complains, an illogical amount of anger surges through her body - which can be attributed to the growing human inside of her who has taken a particular dislike to her lower ribs.

“Oh? I’m sorry, my love. I am very tired,” he explains somewhat sheepishly, before turning around and settling back into bed.

She hits him with the cushion again. “As am I!” she huffs, her eyes alive with fury, “how can I hope to get a moments rest between this brat hammering away at my ribcage and with that racket coming from your mouth!” Dwight is completely lost at this point; what on earth is going on? Why is she so angry? “You are henceforth banished from the room until you can control that godawful sound!”

“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!“ he argues, amusement and slight indignation colouring his voice. His wife raises her eyebrows and glowers pointedly at him, making him gulp slightly. He sighs. "But where shall I sleep?” he whines.

She considers this momentarily. “One of the guest bedrooms should do, I find that the rooms in the east wing are warmest,” she says seriously.

Dwight stares at her, unable to believe he is seriously being banished from his own bed- his own, comfortable, warm, wife-containing bed. He pulls the covers back, genuine annoyance creeping up on him. He could understand that she was not her usual self at the moment and perhaps even slightly uncomfortable but he felt she was being entirely unreasonable; though he would not dream of saying so lest she banish him from their bed for good.

He lights a candle and stumbles from the room, making an effort to slam the door behind him. Normally he would never consider such childishness but at one o'clock in the morning on a cold winter’s night, Dwight could not imagine anything worse than being roused from a pleasant sleep to be told to go sleep in a cold bedroom at the opposite end of his house, alone. He reaches the end of the long corridor and decides that he is too tired to walk all the way to the east wing and so settles on the Pink Room at the very end of the hall. He can see his breath as he enters but is pleased to see an extra, thick blanket folded on top of the covers. He sighs and grudgingly lights a fire in the hearth and warms his hands in the glow before retreating into the icy cold bed.

He has not been asleep long when the creaking of the door rouses him from his dreams. “Dwight?” a voice mumbles from just inside the doorway. He cranes his neck and sees Caroline standing, in merely a shift, with a lone candle lit. Once his eyes adjust to the light he notes that her eyes are red and that her cheeks cast a glow against the light of the fireplace. He very nearly leaps out of bed at the sight of his distressed wife. “Caroline, my love, what is the matter?” he asks, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“I couldn’t find you!” she wails, almost childlike in manner. “I searched the entirety of the east wing and you were nowhere to be found! I thought you had left! Had left Killewarren, had left me - your stubborn, cruel wife - and had ridden in the cold to Nampara or some other familiar place! The images I had in mind of you frozen to death on the moors!” She continues to sob inconsolably and Dwight cannot help but laugh.

She glances up at him with hurt in her eyes. What could possibly be funny? “Forgive me, my love,” he begins, stifling his laughter, “you have been reading far too many novels of late! Of course I had not left. Do you suppose for one moment that I would leave you - the very reason I draw breath - behind? Not to mention our impending arrival,” he says, caressing her large swell, “I rather think she has caused you to go rather delirious, my dear.”

Caroline sniffs but says nothing. She shivers in the draught of the cold room and hopes that Dwight did not notice. He does, though, of course. “Caroline, what are you doing walking around the house in nothing but a shift?” he chides crossly. “It is freezing, you’ll catch your death!”

She shrinks into herself slightly. “I’m sorry, I wanted to find you as quick as possible and apologise. I find I cannot sleep without you anymore,” she mumbles shyly.

A warm smiles forms on his face and he moves to whip the large blanket from the bed and wraps it around her. “There.”

She smiles lovingly at her kind husband’s gesture before a grin appears on her face. “I feel like princess Charlotte!” she giggles, twirling around in the large blanket which has created a very long trail at her heels.

Dwight rolls his slightly at his wife’s childishness but cannot help but smile at the sight before him. “Make haste, princess Caroline, we must return you to bed.” He takes the candle from her and leads them out of the room and into the corridor.

They have only walked a few paces when Caroline inhales sharply.

He stops them both in their tracks. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she lies quickly before doubling over in pain.

Dwight holds her firmly. “Caroline, you must tell me what is wrong! Where does it hurt?”

“My ribs,” she gasps, tears spilling from her eyes.

Dwight’s stomach knots in sympathy, he wishes he could alleviate her pain and wracks his tired brain to think how he could possibly help. He supports her as they slowly trudge towards their bedroom, the cure coming to him as soon as they step over the threshold. “I shall fetch you some special tea and perhaps a small massage will help. We must also find you more pillows.”

“Alright,” she says weakly as Dwight props her up over a mountain of pillows.

“I shall return directly,” he reassures, hurrying out of the room before Caroline has a chance to protest.

She crosses her arms and taps her somewhat swollen feet together as she impatiently waits for him to return. He does so soon, with almost inhuman-like haste, and places a cup of tea beside him on the floor by the bed. “We must wait for it to cool first. Would you like me to give you a massage?”

She nods and pulls her shift up until it sits underneath her breasts. Her face colours as she self-consciously tries to partially conceal the large bump, not wishing for her husband to see just how unattractive she has become. Dwight notices this - of course he does, she thinks, the man notices everything - and gently lifts her hand away and places a loving kiss where her palm had been placed. He begins rubbing her ribcage which initially causes her to wince in pain but soon the pain dulls and almost entirely disappears. His sure fingers continue to work at the area and Caroline jealously wonders if he has had to perform such an intimate task on another woman.

“No,” he answers softly, reading her thoughts after noticing her body becoming more rigid. “But I saw a great deal of it while I was a student in London. A mentor of mine, Dr. Gregory, was a very caring man and insisted that women - especially those of whom were with child - should be treated with the utmost care and respect.” This was said with such a conviction which only men who are in strong agreement can possess. “How is the pain, my love?” he dotes, brushing some hair from her face.

“Much better.” She smiles coyly at him. “You truly are a miracle worker, Dr. Enys. How is such a thing possible?” she flirts.

“‘Without you, nothing is possible,’” he quotes quietly into her ear.

She can feel his smile against her and her heart skips several beats as the memories of that day come flooding back to her. “I do love you so terribly much,” she admits, to her own surprise; she had intended to tease him about his sentimentality. The child is making her foolish.

Dwight does not mind, though, and places a less than chaste kiss on her lips. “And I you.”

[inklingleesquidly]

THE WISDOM OF LEE SQUIDLY

CHAPTER 3

Lee Squidly has been called into  action. Callie has gone missing and according to Marie he’s her only hope in finding her. There is a lot more going on in Octo Canyon than Lee truly knows but Is he up to the task when he is uncertain of even his own feelings?

A new journey of discovery awaits our hero as he comes to realize what the true meaning of the relationship between the Squid Sisters is, and what they mean to others..

Featuring an unreasonable facsimile of another squid...

Word count: 2,461

Chapter 2 can be found here

Some familiar with Lee Squidly knew him as a negative influence, a magnet for trouble, a luckless somebody just unable to avoid getting into unfortunate situations. No time was that more apparent than now where he found himself in some kind of gladiator arena smack in the middle of Suction-Cup Lookout. His journey was impeded by a hulking brute of an Octarian known as the Octo Samurai.

This was someone Lee was actually familiar with. Back in Shee-Booyah he heard tales from immigrants of Octo Canyon of a man who was something of a local legend. Known for his movies, his wrestling career, and his fanaticism for motorcycles, he was a hero that many looked up to. There was always a lingering sentiment in Lee’s mind that it would be so exciting to meet him; the illustrious Octo Samurai –

“AHHH, AIYEE, WAAAAH,” Lee screamed, dodging walls of ink flung at him from the octopod’s mighty roller by skittering about on the ground like a frightened insect.

--He never thought he would meet him under circumstances like this.

Octo Samurai let out a roar, “Hold still, you lousy little squid.” The Octarian boss let out one more earth shaking battle cry before slamming his weapon down directly upon Lee. A massive wave of ink erupted from the ground. Once it cleared it was revealed the teenager had been knocked onto his backside at the edge of the ink.

“AUGGH,” Octo Samurai screamed, “That’s enough goofin’ around, now I’ve got you right where I want you.” He watched the Inkling slowly, fearfully try to scoot backward. It would just take one swing, one more swing and he would be rid of this little pest. Something stopped him; his roller, when he tried to swing it felt so off-balance.

The giant Octarian peered up to inspect what it was that threw off his equilibrium only to discover the little robot attached to the child’s back clinging onto the weapon. “What the,” he gasped, “Get off there you little hunk of junk!” He shook it in an attempt to get rid of Mooky and when that didn’t work he wildly flung it every which way.

Defiantly, Mooky yelled, “No I will not,” and he held onto the ink flicking weapon with everything his tiny blocky body had. “I will do everything to protect Master Lee,” he proclaimed, and then turned to order, “Run away Master Lee, I will distract him as long as I can!”

That was out of the question; Lee couldn’t and wouldn’t abandon Mooky. He wasn’t going anywhere without him but what could he do against someone like Octo Samurai? Without any plan, Lee’s first instinct was to ink a safe space for himself but upon raising and attempting to fire his .96 Gal Buster…

Click click click

He was out of ink!

What was worse Octo Samurai let out a gruff huff, “Fuhgeddit, Im gonna flatten you with this and your little robot! HURRAAH,” he swiftly raised the gargantuan roller high then brought it crashing down to the ground. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide Lee could only vainly cover his head in preparation for the worst.

BANG!

There was a massive metallic noise and somehow—nothing, he was okay. One eye peeked open to see a mysterious figure cloaked in a long form fitting coat that stopped Octo Samurai’s roller with a pair of rods. No, they weren’t rods, they were a unique weapon, tonfas.

With a mighty rumble, the unknown savior parried the attack, knocking away the roller and nearly throwing Octo Samurai off his unicycle. “Step off Octo Slob,” they snarled in a grave, gravelly voice. Lee knew who they were! Though they may have been shrouded in mystery, he was certain of who it was.

Steadying himself, Octo Samurai sneered, “Ohh great, another one of you rotten squids show up.”

Lee’s savior replied, “You got a lot of nerve picking on just one little kid, try picking a fight with someone your own size!” Shifting the bladed weapon in his hand, he challenged the Octarian boss in Lee’s stead.

Octo Samurai gripped his roller in both hands, unphased by the new challenger. “I’ll splatter a hundred of you squids before tea time,” he declared, racing toward Lee’s masked rescuer.

“I’ll give you 45 seconds Octo Slob,” he fired back, charging into the fray.

“WAIT, STOP!!!” Before they could clash, Lee’s voice rang all throughout the arena, stopping them dead in their tracks.

Lee stood up and stepped between them, his gaze transfixed on Octo Samurai as he said, “Mr. Octo Samurai, please, I don’t want anybody to fight!”

Both Octo Samurai and even Lee’s support gave a unified, “Huh” in confusion. The Octarian hero peered down at the boy with narrowed incredulous eyes, “What are you trying to pull,” he wondered, skillfully managing to maintain his balance on the unicycle as he bent down, locking eyes with Lee.

Lee shook his head, “Nothing, I swear, I’m just here looking for a friend who’s lost in Octo Canyon.”

“Probably another trouble making brat,” he scoffed scornfully, “And why should I trust anything you say, you’re a squid.”

His gaze was so frightening but Lee answered his skepticism, “I promise she isn’t—she’s lost somewhere and I—I—hii, I just want to find her!” His voice choked as he uttered those words. Desperate to end this fight and continue his search, Lee sunk down to his knees and clasped his hands together, pleading, “I’m begging you Sir, I promise I don’t want to hurt any Octarians, so please let me leave so I can find my friend!” He shook his hands then clutched them tight against his heart, imploring mercy from the Octarian hero.

Octo Samurai analyzed everything about that look the tiny green squid gave him. He peered between him and the other who just stood there watching the boy beg and plead. The way the small one’s lip trembled, the way his eyes watered, the way he panted as if he couldn’t get enough air to breathe—it was a pathetic sight for any creature, big or small.

Knowing he would regret this, he let out a long huff and decided, “All right, fine, you can leave.” Even though he had his orders, it would be a dishonor to bring harm to someone begging for their life, and who claimed such a noble undertaking.

Lee’s eyes lit up like the stars in the sky and he smiled from ear to ear, “Y-You mean it?!” He shot up to his feet, shaking his tightened fists in glee, “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, I swear Mr. Samurai, as soon as I find my friend I’ll leave right away.”

The boss mumbled, “Yeah, yeah, just make good on what you said, if I find out you lay a single tentacle on any Octarians I’m gonna smash you flat! Now get lost before I change my mind.”

“There’s just one more thing,” Lee timidly murmured.

“What?”

Pointing up, Lee requested, “Umm, can I please have my robot back,” referring to Mooky still dangling from the octopod’s humongous weapon.

A low grumble escaped from Octo Samurai as he gently lowered Mooky, allowing him to slide off. “Fine, here ya go kid, just be thankful I didn’t decide to crush him into a hubcap for my bike.

As the metal butler secured himself onto his owner’s back, Lee replied with a glad, “Thank you very much Sir.” He ignored the comment about harming Mooky as he could tell the octopus before him was every bit the good and influential creature he knew him to be. The mercy he was willing to show to him was evident enough of that.

Leaving Octo Samurai’s arena, Lee & Mooky were tailed by their earlier rescuer who soon stopped them. With his arms crossed, he sternly chided the starry eyed youth’s actions, “Lee, I’m glad to see you haven’t stopped being you but not every opponent is going to show you mercy.  Don’t you remember what I taught you about standing on your own two feet and—“

He was stopped by the sudden, speedy movement of Lee who threw his arms around his waist, “Mr. Jonn, I can’t believe it! Thank you so much for helping me out of that jam, you’re the best!”

Mr. Jonn, or rather Jonn Inkra, Agent Binary, another founding member of the Justice Society of Inkopolis couldn’t help but smile and pat Lee’s shoulders. Feeling the embrace of the excitable, appreciative teen, the mystery man hooked a thumb underneath the face mask he wore and peeled it down. With that removed, his deep, menacing voice was replaced by something strangely soft, almost melodious as he said, "Who could stay mad at a kid like you? It’s been too long."

Along the way from Suction-Cup Lookout to Beaker’s Depot, Lee informed Jonn of his situation thus far. Hearing the story, the agent let out a heavy sigh, “So you’re the one she brought in for this search? Hmm—I thought it would be you but a part of me really wished it wasn’t.”

Though Lee was unsure of what he meant by that there was a much more pressing thought in his head. “Well now that I’m here, have you found anything about Callie?”

His hopeful smiled and tightened, shaking fists were met by an unfortunate shake of the head from Jonn. “I’ve been back and forth between these sectors for awhile now and I haven’t seen or heard a thing, I’m sorry.”

Lee loosened his fists and his arms dropped to his sides; two people he had to meet had nothing at all for him. His head tilted down, a downtrodden look upon his face that Mooky was quick to console. The little servant spun around and patted Lee’s shoulder with one hand, “There there Master Lee. We still have one more informant to meet and much more of Octo Canyon left to see, we must press onward.”                                                                                                            

“Right,” Lee muttered, “Yeah,” he said, lifting his head back up, his morose look not leaving . Ready to leave to find the next contact he turned to Jonn and said, “Well thank you for saving me Mr. Jonn but we’ve gotta get going.”

Just as he took his first step he was halted, “Hold on there, Lee, we’re not done talking yet,” Jonn called.

“Huh?”

“I want to talk to you about Marie.”

Hearing that name made Lee let out a quiet sigh, he said, “With all due respect Mr. Jonn I already heard plenty from Mr. Bl— Blueshift. There’s no excuse for what she’s doing. Callie wouldn’t want this.”

Jonn was forthright in replying, “This is about Callie to. There’s some things you should know about the both of them.” Lee was unsure of what he was getting at but he listened as Jonn continued, “Listen, I’ve known these two longer than anyone so I can tell you they need each other.” There was a lot of that Lee couldn’t argue; he knew of his history with the Squid Sisters beyond their work as Agents and him as their personal bodyguard.

“I swear, ever since we were kids in Calimari County those two were inseparable. They did everything together, and I mean everything.” A small, nostalgic smile spread across Jonn’s lips as he looked off at the scenery of the canyon. “Every scraped knee, their first day of school, their first ride with training wheels, every lost baby tooth, every lost or broken toy—.” He started to regale Lee with a number of stories about their lives together.  Some of those tales were new to him but many he happened to have heard previously from Callie. Quite often during their time together he would hear these stories.

His train of thought was broken as Jonn revealed, “—And that’s why getting their big break was one of the happiest moments of their lives.” He breathed deep,  “It wasn’t the fame, the fans, or getting to sing and dance like they love, it was getting an excuse to finally have fun together all they want.”

Them making music together—their partnership as the Squid Sisters was a cornerstone in Lee’s very life.

Jonn’s tone then became glum, “Them being apart like this—they both just get so out of whack!” He waved his hands about as he spoke, as if trying to piece it all together himself, “Things were all ready pretty rocky between them after they started doing their own thing months ago, especially for Marie.” He sighed, holding his hand over his face after stroking his chin, “Whenever she was sad, Callie would always be there to make her smile better than anyone. Whenever she was frustrated, Callie could calm her down the best. Whenever she was at a loss, Callie could help her get back on track.”

Jonn paced about before he quietly mumbled; “Now all this happened and just-- Marie is just a wreck.” Lee thought back to his initial meeting with her what felt like hours ago. He thought of her hurried, muddled tone of voice, the way she fidgeted with her parasol. There was more he didn’t notice that stuck out in his mind now; particularly her inability to put her thoughts together.

Crossing his arms, Jonn was deeply serious as he said, “I’m not gonna force you to believe me but if it was Marie who was captured, Callie would be doing crazy things to get her back to.”

Lee couldn’t think of anything to say or even fathom a means of reply, especially when Jonn said, “Keep this in mind Lee, you’re not the only one who needs Callie in their life. That’s why we’re all here.”

He tried to talk but nothing came out. He could say anything, anything at all. By now he should be feeling sympathy for Marie and her plight like Blueshift and Jonn wanted him to-- but he couldn’t.

Mooky ended up speaking on his behalf, “That is a lot to take in Mr. Jonn, Master Lee will certainly keep in mind the importance of Miss Callie to others and her necessity in their life, right Master Lee.”

“Y-yeah,” Lee muttered unconvincingly under his breath.

Jonn could see right through him, there was no deceiving one of the Agency’s top operatives.”Think long and hard about that Lee, I’ll be in touch, if I find anything, you’ll be the first to know about it.”

With that, Lee & Mooky were back on their way. Conflicting feelings ran rampant in Lee’s head but in the end his resolve returned to one thought, I promise Callie—I’m doing this to help you, and not Marie.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

day after tomorrow

firewalker post-ep au, second installment in my x files rewatch series. (the two stories i’ve posted insofar are unrelated to each other; there’s no planned connection between these stories.)

summary: She almost died a few weeks ago. But she is here, alive. And her partner has kissed her. 

note: i have little to no knowledge of quarantines, so this is probably horrifically inaccurate. 

Trepkos disappears into the volcano with Jesse O’Neil and Scully waits for the government to arrive in the dark, rubbing her raw wrist. It feels almost normal, after everything that's happened, and that feels worse than anything.

“You okay?” She jolts at the sound before she realizes it's just Mulder; they should turn some goddamn lights on. She turns towards him in the shadowy room, still rubbing the sore spots. “Your wrist hurts,” he says quietly.

He's spoken quieter to her since she was returned, touched her more. She's not sure whether she likes it or is annoyed by it, but she'd felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder for long minutes after he'd left. Now he touches her wrist gently, turning it over to try and examine it in the nonexistent light. “I'm fine, Mulder,” she says determinedly. “It's just a little sore. All things considered, I'd say I'm pretty well off.” (They don't know that they aren't infected, she thinks. They could be dying right now.)

“C’mon, let's take a look at this,” he says stubbornly, in that soft, nudging way he’d had since the abduction. Somehow, they both move in opposite directions at the same time and she crashes fully into him. And then the next thing she knows, he is kissing her. His hands soft on her hips, his mouth hot on hers. She kisses him back with something like eagerness, anticipation, until he pulls away.

“We should… find you something,” he says unevenly. “For your wrist.”

“Mulder…” she starts.

“Scully, I'm sorry.” His hand is still cupping her wrist; he lets go and turns to head down the hall. “I'll be right back.”

His footsteps echo down the empty hall, eerie in the dark like they're in a haunted house. People have died here, she remembers. She almost died a few weeks ago. But she is here, alive. And her partner has kissed her.

“You don't have to be sorry,” she says to the empty room.

week one

Their temporary residence consists of a hospital-like room, with two beds on either side like a college dorm. She's asleep on her bed when he enters the room, wearing a robe over what looks like a paper gown. Her pale face has a scary resemblance to her time in the hospital, although her curled position gives her away - she was a lot stiffer in the hospital, looked almost dead. Now, he can see her breathing, pulse in her neck.

He brushes some wet strands off of her face before making himself at home in the other bed.

---

“It's kind of morbid,” Scully says, propping socked feet up on the end of the bed. “Being in quarantine during the holiday season.”

“I bet we could get a radio,” says Mulder. “Play some Christmas carols.”

He's trying to make her laugh but she's quiet, chewing on her lower lip. “My mom's going to have a heart attack,” she murmurs.

He instantly feels the crash of guilt, the dark, murky feeling he got whenever he talked to Mrs. Scully while Scully was missing. “Scully, I'm-”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “Hush. It's not your fault. You never know what cases are going to be the ones that hurt you, and it was time for me to come back to work anyway. I just wish they'd let me call her, tell her I'm okay.”

Mulder nods like he understands, drums his fingers against the windowsill. Says, “I'll be right back,” before getting to his feet and heading down the hall to talk to the doctors.

An hour later, Scully is calling her mother on a disinfected phone. Mulder stands awkwardly out in the hall, watching her mouth move without hearing any of the words, watching her twist her cross between her fingers. He goes and asks the doctors for a radio and they glare at him like he's a spoiled child but three days later, they have one.

“You're ridiculous, Mulder,” Scully announces when she sees it. “Although you're practically spoiling me, compared to recent quarantines.”

“Might as well be generous, you only live once,” he says, rolling the volume knob between his fingers. “Oh, hey, I like this one. I can serenade you if you want.”

She throws a pillow at his head.

 week two

They play cards with a ragged deck Scully found in one of the drawers. Mulder can see her hands perfectly when she deals - her nails are ragged, chewed down to the quick. Her nails have never looked like that in the year he's known her.

She has a nightmare on the tenth night, a sweaty, blanket-shoving nightmare that wakes Mulder up. “Scully?” he whispers, because it's easy to forget that she's back and even harder to remember that they're suddenly sharing space again. “Scully, are you okay?”

She mutters something frantically. Something like get away get away.

Mulder struggles to sit up on the rickety cot. “You're okay, Scully, you're dreaming,” he says, frantic. “You're okay, you're safe now.” Or as safe as you can be in a month-long quarantine.

He doesn't want to touch her, doesn't want to startle her more, so he keeps talking, words running together. She finally jolts awake, shaking on the tiny bed. “Mul-” She swallows hard, effectively ending whatever she was going to say. “Bad dream,” she mutters, closing her eyes. “I'm okay.”

Mulder crouches on the ground beside her, feels her forehead. It's clammy under his palm. “Do you want some water?” he asks quietly. “Should I get the doctor?”

“Really, I'm fine,” she says, pushing aside blankets. “This isn't the most abnormal thing in the world; I've had nightmares since I got back,” she adds, and he winces, moving his hand from her forehead.

“Excuse me,” Scully adds, getting to her feet (socked feet still, because it was unreasonably cold) and padding into the adjoining bathroom. The door snicks shut behind her with a sense of stomach-turning finality.

Mulder stays sitting on the floor. The weight of it all is coming back, night after night of unimaginable guilt. He hadn't been able to save her. If he'd been faster, he might’ve. If he hadn't brought Krycek, he could've made it (because who else could be responsible for the disappearance of the tram operator). If he hadn't lingered at the car for so long. If he’d convinced Duane to take him instead.

He'd had a dream the night before she was supposed to die. He was sitting on a dock and she floated just out of reach in a canoe. She hadn't said a word. Don't die, he'd said. Not yet. Please, come back.

She hadn't said anything but she smiled at him over the water, dipped a hand into the green-blue and sent ripples moving towards him. He'd woken up with her hand still stiff under his and wanted to cry, managed to hold it together until he got home.

Now the bathroom door opens and Scully comes out. Her eyes are puffy but she seems to have regained her composure. She crawls onto the cot, wrapping the blankets around herself, before acknowledging Mulder's spot on the floor. “You okay, Mulder?” she asks, brushing her fingers through his hair.

The ridiculousness of her comforting him comes over him, making him almost sick. “I'm so sorry,” he says, all at once. “For everything that's happened.” Because of him, she almost died; it's a miracle that she's sitting here talking to him.

“It is not your fault,” she says evenly, voice hard. “You have to stop blaming yourself, Mulder.”

“You know that's not true.” Somehow her denying it makes him angrier. Maybe because she should be pushing him away instead of pulling him closer.

“No, it is true.” Her voice is hard. “I made my own choices on what to be involved in. You did not force me. You did not cause my abduction. Mom told me how hard you fought to save me… caused a scene at the FBI… I’ve heard the stories from Skinner, the Gunmen. It was never your fault in the first place, but you still had my back the whole time. You would’ve saved me if you could’ve.”

He takes a sharp breath and her hand slips off of the edge of the cot and into his. Her fingers curl tightly around his. “You have to stop blaming yourself for things, Mulder,” she adds, more softly, and he thinks she means more than the abduction. “You are not a martyr and you can’t save everyone.”

“I brought you here. I left you alone when I went to look for Trepkos; we'd be okay if I'd agreed to let you come.” He remembers the chiding in her voice when she told him they had to get past her abduction. He doesn't think he'll ever get past it; he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the desperate loss of her. “We wouldn't be stuck here if I'd…”

“You tried to get me to stay, and I decided to come. On my own, Mulder. And I'm glad I did because who knows what would've happened to you if I hadn't?”

Some of the tension falls away at their banter. He scoffs jokingly, rolling his eyes. She grins at him in the darkness and he grins back. He’s missed this, them. “I'm not mad at you,” she says, her palm curling around his. He thinks she means for the kiss. He thinks she means for a lot of things. “I'm not.”

“I'm glad. I don't know what I'd do without you.” Neither of them say anything. He adds, “To debunk all my theories, of course.”

“Sure, Mulder,” she says wryly. Her hand slips out of his. “It's late, you should get some sleep.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek.

He stumbles a little getting to his feet. He can feel the heat from her mouth, like it left a mark on his skin. “Don't let the bedbugs bite.”

 week three

On the twentieth day, the heat goes off.

“We're in the long stretch,” Mulder had said the day before. “Almost there, Scully. Just a few more days of total and complete boredom, and I'll have you home in time for Christmas.” They were virus-free so far, nothing popping out of their necks. It hadn't seemed like it could get any worse, and then.

The doctors apologize profusely and assure them that they are working on fixing it - although they can't call anyone in to fix it because of the quarantine. “Well, you fooled me, I thought this was a four-star hotel,” says Mulder, and Scully smacks him on the arm. The doctors offer them extra blankets as consolidation.

It doesn't seem so bad, at first. They stay in bed because there is nothing else to do. Scully piles most of the extra blankets on top of her and reads A Comprehensive History Of North American Volcanoes for the third time. Mulder plays three hands of Solitaire before getting too cold and crawling under the blankets to count ceiling tiles. The day is fine, it seems, if not a little tedious and mind-numbing, but the night is a hundred times colder.

“I give up,” Scully says somewhere around midnight. “Let's push the cots together, Mulder.”

He's half asleep, cocooned in the blankets, and he blinks blearily at her when she says it. “What?”

“Body heat, Mulder. And we could share the blankets. C’mon, let's shove the cots together.”

He's confused but isn't going to argue. They get up and shove the cots together, Scully arrange the blankets over the center so they can be underneath them both. They huddle together near the divide, under the mound of blankets. Scully reaches for his hand under the covers and he takes it.

“Freezing out here,” she mutters.

“Yeah,” he says.

She scoots closer to him, and the gap between the cots widen. He grabs her to keep her from falling, shuffling backwards until he's against the wall and pulling her so she's not hanging in between the two beds. She grabs the edge of the blankets and pulls them up with her. “Thanks,” she murmurs, almost inaudibly.

“Course,” he says softly. His cheek is pressed awkwardly against her hair, their arms trapped between each other. She shifts, head on his shoulder. His arm curls around her back. “You any warmer now?”

She shifts upwards, leans forward to kiss him on the mouth. It's brief, but sweet, her hair dangling and brushing his cheeks. “Yeah,” she murmurs, shifting back to curl against him. “I'm warmer now.”

 week four

The quarantine has turned into some kind of bizarre vacation. (Like the comedy movie vacations where the place is crappy and a bunch of shit goes wrong but it ends up being really fun.) They haven't worked on cases for a straight month, Scully has more or less been forced to relax and recover from her abduction and coma, and she's taken up residence in his bed for the past week.

They haven't talked about it, mentioned the potential repercussions or Bureau procedure or how much he missed her during her abduction. They just… do. Effortlessly avoiding the subject, that's what they're good at.

On the last morning of the quarantine, Mulder wakes up with Scully curled against his back, arm slung over his bare stomach. The sun is poking through the part in the curtain. He remembers all of a sudden that they get to leave today. They get to leave this cramped little building and go outside, home to their own beds (or couch, in his case) and fully functional heaters. “Scully,” he whispers. “Hey, Scully.”

“Mm, shut up, Mulder,” she mutters to the back of his head.

“Scully, wake up.”

“I am sleeping.”

He tugs her hand. “We get to go home today.”

Silence, then: “I'm up, I'm up.” Her tiny, freezing feet brush his legs as she climbs out of bed.

“Virginia, here we come,” he says, making her smile as she crosses the room to dress.

A few hours later, they have been cleared, deemed healthy, and are on their way home. Mulder orders an in-flight movie, relieved to have something to do besides reading the same books over and over. Scully sleeps, head tipped back as she breathes easily.

(They haven't talked about whether or not their relationship will continue past their quarantine, but she grabs his hand before the flight takes off and pulls it into her lap, doesn't let go for the entire flight. His fingertips are directly at her pulse point, he can feel the life inside her.)

The process of retrieving their luggage seems brief compared to the past month. An hour off the plane and they are standing in long-term parking. “Long term is an understatement,” Mulder cracks.

Scully laughs quietly, head dipped down so her hair hides her face. Mulder waits for her to say something, clarify whether or not they'll be seeing each other before returning to the office after Christmas.

“I should head home,” she says, fingers tightening around her suitcase handles. “I'm going to see my mom and sister tomorrow, they've been worried. And no offense, but I need some time to myself… that's been rare over the past month, you know.”

“Of course,” he says, awkwardly. He understands, he really does, he's been itching for some space since the third week. He's just unsure of what to do now.

She looks up at him, shadows falling across her face from the street lamps. Her eyes glow in the darkness. “My brother and his girlfriend won't be in for the holidays for a few days,” she says. “Would the day after tomorrow be a good time?”

He tries to hide his surprise: “For what?”

She shrugs. “Thought we could have dinner, maybe watch a movie. Enjoy our time off. I'm buying.”

A grin spreads slowly over Mulder's face. “Sounds good,” he says. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours. You have the bigger TV.” She rises up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “See you the day after tomorrow.” Then she turns, suitcase rolling behind her as she heads to her car.

“Day after tomorrow,” he repeats, smiling a little as he fiddles with his luggage tag. She's here, and hopefully she won't be going anywhere.

[jadisjavaisuncoeur]

“maybe we’re just not meant to be.”

@lydsmartinskis

James propulsed a pea at full speed to Ugo's forehead, who hissed like a cat and showed very white teeth. His bestfriend was strangely attractive and James knew he had it from his father, Blaise Zabini, who was a several-times widower, just like his own mother had been before him. Ugo talked about family business, James was just plenty happy Ugo didn't seem to be interested in him romantically, because he loved life too much to die from an « unknown reason ».

« What do you mean ? » He asked, glancing at his girlfriend who was currently going through his plate, eating the mushrooms he had put aside because of his very strong and unmoveable hatred for them. He grabbed a new pea, but before he could settle it into his spoon, he had to dodge the bread coming quickly to his face. He snorted a chuckle, picking a piece of carrot as a new projectile.

« How can you not love mushrooms ? » Alice sighed deeply, eating the last one of them. James snorted at this, his carrot missing its target and he swore to himself. The kick he threw ended up perfectly in Zabini's shin, though.

« The texture is gross. » He replied, indignantly. Sometimes, he wondered if he was dating Aunt Hermione. Even Aunt Fleur wasn't so unreasonable about chiding him on his dislikings. He wasn't four anymore, he was pretty sure at eighteen, nothing would convince him that mushrooms were edible. « Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic ? » He added, as an afterthought.

She poked his side, pretty harshly actually, which made him look away from his bestfriend for a split of second, long enough to miss the opportunity to see an actual spoon flying to his face. It smashed violently against his cheekbone, close enough to his eye and he gasped in surprise and mild pain.

With a look of utter betrayal, he stared at his bestfriend who seemed a bit startled himself that he managed to succeed on this one.

« You fucker. » James hissed, narrowing his eyes. Ugo kissed quickly the wheek of the girl he was currently dating and fled from the Great Hall. He might be saved for now, but James had now all his time to plan his revenge. And he'd wait. He'd wait for Zabini to forget and then pounce and humiliate him. An evil frin grew on his lips.

Rubbing his cheek with the tips of his fingers, he winced towards Alice, before pouting miserably. « You started it. » She commented, trying to convince Violet to eat the last spoon of yoghurt. James stole the spoon meant for his child and faked eating it. The baby squealed in unhappiness, pushing a grin on his lips. «Look at her, such a Slytherin. Can't let anyone have anything, even when you don't want it, hm ? » He cooed gently, offering the spoon that she eagerly gulped down. « Such a good girl. You take that from Daddy. »

Alice puffed at this one. « Surely. »

[balsamina]

✖ — a repressed memory ✈ — an eye-opening memory

✈ — an eye-opening memory

He’s gone, they tell her. Repeatedly, over and over, with sickeningly gentle and sad voices, as if it will make more sense to her this time. As if Mohn is dead and she is a widow, prostrate and unreasonable with grief. As if she is a child who needs a simple concept explained to her. When she demands a better explanation from those who were with him last, they can come up with none. He’s just gone. We don’t know where or why, he just– disappeared!

But… he left something.

Notes. He left piles of notes, along with the creature he’d dubbed Cosmog. Having been found near death where Mohn was seen last, the latter had been returned to the labs to recuperate. Lusamine, meanwhile, spends hours pouring over the notes.

They’re incomplete, but full of the loving detail typical of Mohn’s work. There are illustrations, descriptions of behavior, minute by minute observations. It’s akin to the work of a Pokemon behaviorist, but it doesn’t match any Pokemon she’s ever seen. Looking at Mohn’s sketches, the closest comparison Lusamine can think to make is to a male Frillish. But this is something entirely different– surely one of his Ultra Beasts.

Finally, she has a lead and not an excuse. This is what he was studying. This is what lead him to connect to that wormhole. This is what took him–

“Father isn’t coming back, is he?”

The folder nearly goes flying out of her hands at the interruption. She swivels her head to look over her shoulder, and– it’s Gladion, standing in his pajamas in the doorway.

“Gladion!” she says, her voice an octave too high. She takes a steadying breath and reclaims her stern mother voice, pointedly ignoring his question. “Oh, Gladion… You scared me. What are you doing up? Go back to bed this instant, young man.”

He stays where he is, stubborn as ever. “Mother…”

There’s a sadness in his voice and his face that makes her heart ache. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him look so lost.

“Oh… Oh.” She sets the folder aside and turns her chair around, beckoning to him with her arms outstretched. “Come here, love.”

He does, letting her hold him and smooth back his wild blonde hair.

“Now why are you saying awful things like that?” she asks gently. “Of course he’s coming back. I would never lie to you.” Pulling away just enough to look at him, she searches his eyes. “Did someone tell you that he wasn’t?”

“No.” Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, he refuses to meet her gaze. “No, but I heard some of the researchers talking, and…”

Lusamine pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh. Disgusting. She would have hoped her staff would be intelligent– or just sensible enough to know not to discuss something like that where her children could hear. Then again, this was Gladion, who was crafty and curious like she was when she was his age, and prone to weaseling his way into places he shouldn’t have been in in the first place. Perhaps she ought to make a rule against discussing Mohn’s disappearance at all on the premises, and promptly fire anyone who fails to comply.

“Now, Gladion, you know it’s not nice to eavesdrop…” she scolds. When she sees the guilty look flash across Gladion’s face, she takes him gently by the shoulders and lowers her voice to a secretive whisper. “And it’s a waste when it’s done on liars.”

He blinks at her smile. She can already tell he won’t be satisfied with just that.

“Your father…” she starts again, carefully. “What I told you is still true. He’s on a trip for research. But… something happened, and he’ll need some help getting back. You remember.”

He gives a slow nod. He does remember– but this time it isn’t nearly as comforting. Before, she had said that Father was just going to be late. He had been held up by some problem. But she had never mentioned Father needing… “Help?”

“Mm-hm. That is where your mother comes in!” She puts on a proud, self-assured smile. “I’m going to take care of it. What I need from you is for you to be patient for just a little while longer, and be extra brave for your sister, hm? That is your job. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Gladion?”

“But–”

“Won’t you?”

There was a time Gladion admired her so much that he thought her capable of most anything. Judging by the lingering doubt in his eyes, he’s outgrown that way of thinking. Still, he nods, opting to trust her once more. “… Yes, Mother.”

His reply is hesitant (Lusamine sees the doubt, the uncertainty, and it makes her heart ache again), but it will have to do. He won’t have to doubt for much longer, after all. She breathes another sigh.

“There’s a good boy. So strong and brave, my Gladion…” She combs back his hair again before planting a kiss atop his head. She waits until he gives her a smile to turn her chair back around. “Now go get some rest. I have just a little more work to do before I can join you.”

Gladion takes one last uncertain look at her back and the papers piled up around her. They shine ghostly white in the light from her desk lamp and seem to tower over her when she hunches back over the folder. Any moment, he thinks, they will crash down and swallow her up. He goes back to bed.

✖ — a repressed memory

When she first makes contact with the Ultra Beast herself, it is on Alola’s Route 9, within the cavern known as Diglett’s Tunnel. She is alone, save for the Bewear standing faithfully at her side– and, of course, the creature, which hovers silently before her, tentacles slowly swaying back and forth. It looks just like Mohn’s illustrations.

She’s filled with rapturous joy. She’s done it! She’s done it! But the connection between worlds is unstable at best, she knows. There isn’t time to celebrate the success of her experiment, and she finds it hard to even smile as she watches the creature begin to drift aimlessly through the air, reaching its tentacles out toward nothing, as if searching for the rift that brought it to her. It reminds her of a lab Rattata scratching at the sides of its cage.

“Hello, Nihilego,” she attempts, speaking to it in the same gentle way she would any other scared Pokemon, or perhaps a frightened child. The beast whirls, then pauses, considering her. She manages a warm smile. “Or… whatever name it is you go by in your world. Nihilego is just the name Mohn gave you… It’s all I have, I’m afraid.”

The beast says nothing, does nothing. It’s then that she remembers with a sinking feeling that she has no idea what level of sentience this creature possesses, if any, let alone what understanding of human language it might have. It’s most likely that she might as well be speaking gibberish.

It has no eyes, but she can feel it staring. At the very least, it seems she has its attention. She tries again.

“He… He is why I wanted so desperately to meet you. He is why you’re here now! Why I… did this. Do you understand?”

Unexpectedly, the Nihilego shifts, raising a tentacle up toward its bell, and makes a noise. It sounds like the murmuring of a sleepy child, and, with its tentacles positioned where they are, it looks not unlike a long-haired youth pondering a complex question. Mohn’s notes had mentioned something about Nihilego’s behavior being reminiscent of a young girl, but Lusamine hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect from that.

Soon, the Nihilego lowers its one raised tentacle and, with a slow incline of its bell, produces another cry that sounds vaguely affirmative. Lusamine gives a laugh, short and clipped but full of fascination. It nodded! They’re communicating! If Mohn could see this…

“So you do? Mohn, he– He’s my husband. He went missing during an experiment– He was studying you! Your kind… I think your kind might have taken him. Into– that world. Your world. He called it Ultra Space.”

This time, the Nihilego doesn’t respond. Disheartened, Lusamine stops smiling. Still she continues, her voice becoming increasingly desperate with each word. She must sound like a madwoman, pleading with this creature that barely understands her words, but she can’t seem to stop.

“You took him… You took him, and I need him back. Give him back to me, won’t you? Or– Or, at the very least, show me how to get to your world, so I can find him myself!”

Again, nothing. Her voice elevates to a shout.

“Give him back! Give him back to me!”

The Nihilego flinches, shudders, and recoils from her in a burst of startlingly fast movement. Once it’s a good distance away, it goes back to grabbing at thin air with its tentacles, making that pathetic murmuring noise again. Guilt closes tight around Lusamine’s heart. She can almost hear her father chiding her like he did when she was a child trying to play with new Pokemon housed in the conservation area.

Look now, you scared it… You must be more patient, schätzchen. Do try to think of how it must feel, hm? All alone in a strange, new place it’s never seen before…

But there isn’t time for her to ease her way into the beast’s heart by tossing it food from afar and soothing it with gentle, coaxing words like she would a conservatory Pokemon. Its form is already flickering, the tethers keeping it in this world already loosening.

“Then… you leave me no choice. I can’t let you go back home yet. I’m sorry, sweet beast.” She signals her Bewear with a solemn nod and a sweep of her hand. “Petunia, darling.”

Instantly, Petunia rushes forward and lunges, swinging her powerful arms with the intent of knocking the creature out of the air. When she lands the first strike, the screech the Nihilego gives sounds like the scream of a child. Hearing it makes Lusamine’s stomach turn, and for a moment, she can’t bear to look.

That moment is all it takes for the Nihilego to get close. She doesn’t manage to see how, but when she looks up again, the beast is beside her– and its tentacles are on her arm. It is not a restrictive grip, but a delicate touch that pulls her imperceptibly closer, as if it were about to lead her in a dance.

And then the pain comes. It’s sharp, intense, paralyzing; Lusamine chokes back a cry.

Before she loses consciousness (and before the Nihilego finally vanishes entirely), she feels it staring at her again. It has no facial features to emote with, but there is something almost guilty about the unintelligible whispers that leave it as it plucks its tentacles from her skin one by one. Maybe if it could speak like a human, it would have said, I’m sorry, just as she had. Or maybe not.

She doesn’t dwell on it, or rather can’t. Instead, she sinks down, down, to where the stinging pain can’t reach and her mind is buzzing pleasantly.