#i feel pity for her because i now understand first-hand how deep main mixed with a sensitive nervous system

[novadreii]

Every day, I meditate on my anger and bitterness. I reflect on my seemingly bottomless need to ruminate on all the people who have abused and traumatized me starting from a young age. The unfairness of it all. The senselessness. I grieve for myself as a little girl who desperately wanted to be love and be loved, and whose desperation was like blood in water to sharks.

I send quiet internal prayers out to the universe and ask it to lessen my anger, because I truly don't think I need it anymore. I'm safe from harmful people for arguably the first time in my entire life. I have friends and family whom I love. I have cultivated a sense of self-love so all-encompassing that no other person will likely ever be able to rival it. I am safe. I'm okay. I'm happy. I don't need my anger anymore.

I reflect on how to this day my mother, who I had to cut off for my own sanity, is a bitter, miserable woman now in her 60s. How eerily my personality and potential echo hers. Her and I both were deeply wounded over and over, starting at young ages by our mothers. We both jump to rage when we are hurt, we both ruminate endlessly about those who hurt us, replaying the painful mental movies over and over again, hurting ourselves long after the harmful people have gone.

I see her in me, and I see what I have the potential to become if I don't release my resentment. It's hard to let go of something that has kept you safe in the past. My anger has time and time again scared off abusers, once they realize it makes me too unstable, unpredictable, and therefore difficult to control.

But I don't need it right now. It's best to internally send well wishes to all who have hurt me, because it takes someone equally hurt and dysfunctional to mistreat others. The only way I don't end up as one of them, to not end up a carbon copy of my mother, is to let the resentment go.

I've undertaken several self/life improvement projects that will hopefully bear fruit in early 2025. Not jinxing anything by talking about it yet, but I'm excited. I'm ready to look towards the future and leave my past where it belongs, and I do this with love and acceptance.

[morgansmoreid]

Do You Still Love Me • Derek Morgan • Chapter Nine

Chapter Name: " Reasonable"

Fic Masterlist

Italic writing stands for flashbacks.

Content/Trigger Warnings: Parental Abuse, Drugs Mention, Homophobia

Bold Writing stands for what happened at the station while Y/n was not present

---

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Four.

Y/n's feet clacked against the concrete floor.

Rubbing the palm of her hand against the outline of the pills, Y/n moved along the cars as she slowly walked to the station, this time her mind as empty as an open field.

The station was in her view quicker than anticipated. She pulled open the front door, the bell above it causing everyone who was in ear's views to turn their heads. Scanning each face carefully, relief swayed through Y/n as no face was anyone she dreaded to talk to.

Her relief was cut short as Aaron walked down the hall to her left with the team, her father, and James.

"That was all we needed to know," She heard him say as Aaron shook her father's hand.

James was the first to see her, alerting the rest of the people surrounding him by clearing his throat. Y/n made eye contact with James, her breaking first as her eyes fell to her feet. Thoughts of turning around and sprinting on her heels again popped in Y/n's head, but she ignored them and just looked to the floor.

"Y/n Y/L/N-Fields, please come with us." Emily moved from the center of the group and to Y/n, reaching out her hand to lead Y/n the way of the interrogation room. Y/n took it, keeping her head down as they walked past the group, eyes burning through her back as the pills in her pocket scream her name.

Emily opens the door and lets Y/n take a seat before heading outside again. Everyone is looking at the young female through the one-sided window, their eyes still leaving the same burning gaping hole.

Aaron and David come in, both faces stoic and tense. In hand, Aaron has a yellow pad and a pee cup while David has a blood test. Y/n's eyes grow wide at the objects placed in front of her before she sits up straight and lays her hands on the table.

"You aren't drug testing me." She says, her tone assertive but calm.

"But we are," David replies, looking over to Aaron.

"You understand that this is a federal investigation now? If you comply, these samples will not go on record but will be used for further inference. If you don't, they will go on your job record and you will be on leave effective immediately." Aaron threatened, leaving Y/n no choice.

"I'm clean." She mumbled as she rolled her sleeve for the blood test. Even if she wasn't, it wouldn't show for another 2 days, so it would be negative anyway.

Aaron said nothing as he opened the blood kit and wiped Y/n's inner arm with a sanitary wipe. Y/n winced at the needle entering her arm, the pain lasting as blood filled four tubes. Placing a bandaid on her arm, Aaron disposed of the needle in a different bag before opening the door and handing it to a hand outside.

Y/n may have not seen the person who took the bag, but she saw Derek. He was leaning against the wall across from the door, arms crossed. They made eye contact, this time neither one breaking it, just before the door closed.

"Do you need water?" David's voice pulled Y/n out of her thoughts.

Yes. Her throat was dry and scratchy.

Yes. Water would go well with the pills in her pocket.

"No thank you," Y/n looks up to David. He gives her the look of pity and sorrow and she feels herself hanging on by a thread.

"Come with me then," David holds the look as he turns around, cup in hand, and opens the door for Y/n.

Walking out, Y/n and David turn to the right from the small room while the team and others are on the left. David stands outside of the unisex bathroom as Y/n pees in the given cup. Washing her hands, Y/n stares at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes are red and her arm is now in pain. She feels like she's in one of those bad teenage romcoms, where the main character fucks up her life and in the end, it gets better. She's just waiting for her cue.

The silence lasts in the bathroom as Y/n bags her cup and places it on the small window ledge. She could run right now if she wanted to, but it wouldn't be worth it. Y/n turns on the bathroom faucet again and pulls out the baggie of pills from her pocket. 7 white tablets look at her as she takes one into her hand and shoves the rest back into hiding.

Just before she could bring her hand to her mouth and consume the evil, little miraculous wonder, David knocked on the door causing her to drop the pill in fright. Right into a puddle of "water," the pill went as Y/n hissed at the closed brown door.

"Fuck!" Her words echoed in the small room.

"Y/n? Is everything ok in there?" David's voice is muffled on the other side.

Instead of answering him, Y/n grabs the cup and pushes open the door, slamming the cup into the elder's hand and walking back into the integration room. She passes everyone, this time not bothering to even acknowledge Derek's presence, or his attempt to talk to her.

She slacks down in her seat and waits for the next person to walk through the door. It's Aaron again, with Penelope's laptop and a tape recorder in hand as he carries a file in his armpit.

"Before we start, shall I address you as Fields or Y/L/N?" Aaron precautions.

"Y/L/N, and only Y/L/N," Y/n says, voice cold as ice.

"Ok then, for the record, can you please state your full name, your age, and the year?" The first question leaves Aaron's lips.

"My name is Y/n Y/L/N, I am 29, and it's the year 2008."

Hotch scribbles Y/n's words down and opens the laptop. When he turns it to her, it's already open to a cheer photo from Y/n's sophomore year of high school.

"Please state who you recognize in this photo." Aaron opens the file that was once under his arm.

Eyes read the screen multiple times as the memories resurface in Y/n's head and the names leave her mouth.

"Sabrina Chains, Joanna McCarter, Daisy Miller, Rose Henry, Arianna Anderson, Megan Smith, Daniela Choi, Christina Middleton, and Catarina Paredes."

It's not in order, Sabrina is actually next to Daisy and Joanna is standing next to Daniela, but when Y/n recognized the face, she said the name.

"And who is this?" Aaron hits the right arrow key to move to the next slide. Y/n is horrified by what she sees. It's not another group picture or even a single picture of one of the women, it's a crime scene photo.

It's Arianna's crime scene photo, the only crime Y/n wasn't surrounded by the group for. The hotel room is way messier than others, the behavior completely changed from the last 3. Blood is everywhere, money and jewelry are splattered across the floor and there are no numbers on top of the body or anywhere for that matter. If the other kills weren't personal, this was. Arianna was killed by someone in rage and mixed emotion.

Just how Y/n left the team.

She can only look at the gruesome crime scene for so long until she reaches for the hood of the laptop to shut it off. Aaron is quicker and pulls it out of her sight as he switches to another picture of the crime scene, this time the bathroom.

Two looks and Y/n is ready to throw up. She trained for this, she worked her ass off for the last 5 years on how to keep her composure, yet, she's failing to keep herself together. The bathroom is a mess, clothes are ripped and makeup is smeared on walls, this unsub lost control or this is a new killer. Either way, it's not Y/n and there is no way that the team can possibly deem her that low.

"Please turn it off." Her voice is tense and demanding.

Aaron does shut the laptop and turns it to him. He takes a minute to write down his observations and proceeds with the integration further.

"When you left the Police Station, you were gone for 2 hours and 13 minutes, where did you go?" He asks, writing down the question as he says it.

"James, where is she?" David asks, handing Spencer a miniature Newton's cradle to calm him down.

Everyone looks at James for an answer. After Y/F/N was questioned, he and James were separated for the sake of the case. James was working on a different case file, wrapping it up on the end of the conference table while the team focused on Y/n.

"I'm not positively sure," James lied, rubbing the back of his neck as his handwriting started to get sloppy against the manila folder and its contents inside.

"Well, where do you think?" Derek spoke, his tone snappy and agitated.

After Y/F/N gave up his truth about Y/n's past and her drug problems, Derek was also questioned, not officially, just about how much he knew and what he wasn't letting on. Derek was honest with Hotch and the team, telling them he had no idea about Y/n's problem. Yes, it was true sometimes it intrigued him when they had date night and she never drank anything besides sparkling water, but when she blamed it on "past issues," he assumed it ran in the family.

He assumed because he trusted her.

And she broke that.

"Michael? The guy that Chief Fields couldn't stand? He lived right over here." James gets up and points to the computer screen. Y/n's last coordinates were still up so he dragged his pen across the screen, measuring out the distance for the team as he landed on the only colorful house in satellite view.

"I thought Michael was who introduced her into the drugs in the first place?" Aaron walks over to James.

"It's not really his fault, I've always told Y/n that she could've said no," James responds, becoming silent from everyone's glare at him.

"Saying no isn't easy," Derek mumbles, so low, no one heard him.

No one could say anything as another policeman came into the room frantically about a new body.

Y/n had only been gone 34 minutes at most. There was no way it could be her so quickly, but that didn't stop everyone's thoughts from going to the deep end.

As the team flies into the SUVs, Aaron orders Penelope to keep watch on Y/n's coordinates and dig very thoroughly of the lives of the 9 women, 5 now potential victims.

"Someone has it out for these women, and I wouldn't put it past that Y/n is the glue." He said, tightening his holster.

"I just walked around, took time to clear my head." Y/n lied.

Everyone knew where she was, but Aaron didn't call her out on her false truth and asked the next question.

"When was the last time you purchased any narcotics of the sort, Opioids, Cannabinoids, Hallucinogens, and or Stimulants?" Aaron asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer himself.

"Last time I was in town, 5 years ago." Y/n lies again.

This time, half of the team is unsure if it's true. James knows deep down it's a lie, but the rest of them don't want to believe it.

So Aaron doesn't push.

"And the last time you consumed any of the narcotics listed before?"

This question, everyone wants the truth, everyone is determined to figure out if they let another team member sink into their addiction before their eyes or if Y/n truly did put her life here behind her.

"As I said, last time I was in town, 5 years ago," Y/n says, her tone changing. It speaks of truth, which tells everyone, even her father that she lied about the last time she bought drugs and where she was, but they don't care about that at this moment.

All they care about is her sobriety, they were still her family after all.

Aaron smiles internally as he writes Y/n's answer on the yellow pad, then ripping the sheet off and sliding it underneath the cardboard. When he does this, the next yellow sheet visible is not blank, it's all of Y/F/N's previous questions. The horrible lights make it hard to see all of them but it still shines bright on the first one.

"What was discipline like as Y/n grew up?" Aaron asks his first question.

The question throws Y/F/N off guard. That had nothing to do with the investigation, what did the FBI want to know about his parenting?

"I believe you were asked a question," David says beside Aaron, arms crossed.

"This has to do what with the investigation?" Y/F/N asked, finally understanding the concept of what he was being asked.

"Agent Hotchner, are you implying that I abused my daughter?" He accused, now not feeling so compliant.

"I didn't say anything to imply, did I, Agent Rossi?" Aaron says loud and clear, bringing the tape recorder to him.

"Not at all, but I think you should repeat it, someone seems confused," Rossi taunted.

"Y/F/N Fields, what was discipline like as Y/n, your daughter grew up?" Aaron demanded an answer.

"Reasonable," Y/F/N said.

"Reasonable how?" Rossi pressed.

"If needed, I taught my daughter wrong from right," Y/F/N replied confidently.

"Did you at any given point in time, use your power as a parent to hit Y/n as a punishment?" Aaron asked bluntly. He hated abusers, it was something about finding pain and taking it out on others that he just could never understand.

"I did. But like I said when it was reasonable." His mouth forms into an undeniable smirk.

Y/F/N's hand went across Y/n's face.

"I said I was sorry!" The girl cried, she was only trying to show her dad an A+ she got.

"You're always sorry, there was no reason for you to knock that down." The angry male pointed to the empty cup on the floor.

Out of excitement, Y/n's elbow hit the plastic cup and knocked it down, but she was backed into the wall before she could pick it up, dropping her graded test midway.

"Reasonable," Y/F/N mumbled to himself.

Anger filled Y/n as her eyes went over the word reasonable.

Never once was Y/F/N reasonable.

Never.

Clenching her fists, Y/n sits up straight and zones back into her conversation with Aaron.

"Can you ask it again?" She says, making straight eye contact.

"Your relations to Daniela Choi?" Aaron asks.

Y/n doesn't know how to reply, she knows Derek is watching so she has to careful with her answer.

"I was-," She gathers her thoughts. "We were pretty close."

It's not a lie. They were close, extremely.

"Who would you say Y/n was closest to?" Aaron asks James.

The team started the investigation from the very beginning, so now everyone was a suspect.

"I've got a funny feeling about that dude, Hotch," Derek says, but his judgment is clouded, he's angry and hurt so to make him feel better, Aaron took James in for questioning.

"Daniela." James's answer is short.

"Why?"

"They dated, for a long time, blew up our whole group," James explains.

"What group?" Aaron flies through the files that he brought in.

Instead of answering, James takes out a picture.

"He's prepared." JJ points out.

The picture is a cheer team, James is nowhere to be found but the first person to catch Aaron's eye is the babyface of Y/n, she in middle, engulfed in a hug by a female with curly mixed hair- Arianna he later finds out. He wants to question why James has this but James continues to talk.

"Not everyone was supportive."

"What?" Rose asked.

"I'm dating Y/n," Daniela said slowly, it was time the two told their friends, the thought of banishment slipping their minds.

"You and Y/n? But your both girls!" Rose exclaimed, as the pastor's daughter, she was raised to what she thought was right.

"So? My mom said it doesn't matter and we both know Y/F/N won't bat an eye." Daniela spoke for both her and Y/n.

"Guys! Help me out here, tell them it's wrong." Rose looked around the booth, empty cups filled the large table as her high pitch voice filled the empty diner.

"How is it wrong?" Caterina scoffed, she could never have the courage to do what Danny and Y/n are doing but she'll stand by them no matter what.

"The bible-" Rose protests.

"For the last time, not all of us live by the damn bible!" James slammed his hand on the teal table before them.

Everyone loved each other, no one cared for anyone's flaws, like Rose's, who always ignored everyone when they try to tell her they don't want to hear bible quotes, or Y/n who always inserts herself into drama.

They were each other's little family and until now nothing has torn them apart.

"I refuse to be around them and their sins," Rose shoved her finger into Y/n's, finally the young girl to stand up.

"And we refuse to be around you." Y/n's tone is cold and tense.

"We all do." Arianna stood up.

"Christina?" Rose looked at the oldest for help.

"You heard them, you can't hate one without hating all of us." She said.

Christina's word was final. If she said someone was out, they were out, no discussion. She just had to say the words.

"Rose, are you staying or leaving?" She asked.

"I'm leaving, my dignity lasts." Rose proudly held her head high.

"Bye then. You longer are allowed to hang out with us." Christina said with much more pride.

The 10 at the table watched the first walk away.

"Not everyone agreed." James rephrased his sentence, fists clenching in anger.

As James told Aaron how the day that Rose left the group went, his fingers dug deeper into his hand, and when he finally let go, crescent marks left their place.

"When you say close, what do you mean?" Aaron wants to hear from Y/n, James is not trustworthy enough right now.

"I had a relationship with Daniela," Y/n admits.

Hearing the words makes Derek turn on his heels and leave the group in the hall. He needs air, he needs to be away from Y/n right now. He told her he was sorry about her friend and she just went with it, in his eyes, she lied to him.

She did the one thing that he always asked not to.

"Derek?" Spencer's voice called from behind him.

"Not now," Derek says, but it's more of a plead. He doesn't want to take his anger out on someone who doesn't deserve it, he wants to take his anger out on Y/n.

Spencer leaves him alone and Derek takes a few minutes to himself. When he heads back to the station, he refuses to join back with the group, he heads back to the table in the conference room and starts working, the way his handwriting fills each paper and picture easing his mind.

As the minutes feel like hours, Y/n's interview is finally done and she feels bare. She hates how much she revealed, she hates how much has been stripped, how her walls came down and she had no say.

She hates most of her answers were lies that found their way into her truth.

But she won't tell them that, they don't need to know.

They don't get to know.

Aaron lets Y/n head to the hotel first, but when she steps outside, it's dark. Her phone is dead and her body is tired, yet her feet take her to the hotel doors, they let her step into the elevator and into her room. Her hands ache but they plug her phone in and they pull her shirt off. Her hands ache but they turn the knobs of the shower and unbutton her pants. Her legs hurt but they step out of the jeans and help her feet kick them to the side. Her body is a temple of pain but as she removes her bra and underwear, as she steps in the shower, as her fingers run over her body and squeeze the soap out of her cloth out, letting it slide down her figure, she finds her self sitting in the middle of her bed, the air silent where she finally lets her self cry.

So many years of bottling up feeling, so many years of trauma, and it took 34 questions to strip her of who she was. Every single question she counted, every single time she felt betrayed, she counted, her life was out there to know, memories she hid taunt her.

A knock on her door pulls her out of her thoughts.

When she gets up, she takes notice of the black shirt she was wearing 24 hours ago. The feeling of Derek's hand run up and down her body in chills as she walks closer to the door.

24 hours ago everything was peaceful.

Now it's a shithole.

Cracking open the door, Y/n is surprised, to say the least. Both people are silent as she opens the door more and lets the person step in.

"Derek-" She tries.

"No. You don't get to talk. It's your turn to listen." He says, meaning every fucking word.

[emily-the-fae]

Every Day is a Lullaby

A oneshot. This honestly came to my mind yesterday night, I do not know how well the idea turned out to be.

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Arthur Ketch x OC

Warnings:probably language, blood, injury, background character death, brief mentions of sex, angst mith mix of fluff

Rated: T

Mr Ketch has many sides, likable and repulsing - but which one of his faces is truly his is sometimes an uncertainty even for him.

Harper reflects on the changes on their relationship as they get out of a hunt gone wrong. While Ketch reconsiders some of his past choices... And reasons why he is still alive.

If he's a serial killer

Then what's the worst

That can happen to a girl

Who's already hurt

I'm already hurt

The first time Harper met him was a coincidence. It was long before the whole nephilim thing, long before she found out what kind of man he was, what kind of hunter he was. Yet even back then in the span of their first couple of meetings  she felt he was no good.

A stupid hunting coincidence.

Harper was not used to hunting alone. She did that to herself - separated herself from the Winchesters. However much she loved Sam and Dean, she could not bear continuously being around them, not after everything that happened. Not after Charlie. Because no matter what Dean said or how Sam reassured her - it was her fault. Charlie was a great friend. Charlie had the brightest soul. Harper was late to help her and now Charlie was no more. It was all Harper's fault.

Driving away and going head first into hunting was the outmost Winchester way of dealing with the guilt and grief. Hunting alone while slowly coming out of her lowest phase - those were the circumstances under which Harper met Arthur Ketch.

The first time it happened it was a coincidence - two hunters choosing the same target is not uncommon. Harper was already on spot and all in the fight when he arrived. "Are you insane going into a whole vampire nest alone?" - those were the first words she ever heard from him. She might have been slightly insane, but he sure was a damn psycho. To be honest if not for him she would have probably ended up dead or turned in that vampire nest that night. Harper hates being honest about it.

The second coincidence happened just a few days after the first one - she would later on doubt if it was a coincidence at all. Perhaps it was. Harper would never really know - what she did know though was that he still had a small scar left above his left eyebrow - a mark of where she hit him with the grip of her gun, thinking it was the witch that was creeping up to her and absolutely not expecting to hear a male voice swearing after her blow. Arthur had not known her for 24 hours in sum and they were already making a scene after a hunt - Harper almost pitied she had not knocked him out straight away.

What happened on the next day? He caught her in the town and suggested to team up to avoid "future confusions". Rule number one how to become friends with Arthur Ketch: hit him in the face. Harper wasn't going to become friends with him - with any hunters for that matter - but fate seldom cared what Harper was going to do anyways.

Harper definitely lied to herself when she said that they were going to be only friends or that she was going to hate him after all the British Men of Letters invasion story. She didn't. Not with the way they met in the first place: him ripping her out of the claws of the angry remnants of the vampire pack - slightly concerned greyish blue eyes and a British accent was what greeted her at dawn that day, even though mid in fight she had accepted she would not see the sun again. It seemed symbolic how he saved her from giving up, from herself. And certainly not after the way their relationship went from mutual curiosity to blind semi-professional trust. Harper did not need a "friend" to console her: if she had wanted that she would have stayed around Sam - she needed someone unfeeling but understanding enough to see through her and consciously let it be.

She remembered it clearly - three hunts into their relationship - a month after their first encounter - they were sharing a hotel room. Two beds, late night after a hunt, she lied on her side and quietly cried. It was a demon hunt. The memories were too much. Arthur came into view and stared at her for a couple of moments before walking to his own bed.

- I'd say you can talk about it when you want to, but I doubt you will ever feel the necessity, - a brief caress of his hand against her shoulder. He did not try to relieve her, he allowed her to get to her own way of coping. For that Harper was grateful more than ever. - We all have skeletons in our closets, it's the downturn of the job.

Oh, dear Arthur, we are both now  aware you knew far too well what you were talking about. Harper doubted any hunter had a closet cemetery as large as Ketch's.

Yet... Even after that - the awkward reuniting with the Winchesters, being pulled away from him as she came back to her old friends and witnessing, luckily from a safe distance, how the man she grew to trust without actually knowing him, uncovered darker and darker sides of his personality. What was worst - after she refused to join the BMoL, he would continue to sometimes keep her hunting company, going on like nothing happened. Like nothing changed. Why worst? It let the image of the heartless killer that she should have seen before her now connect and combine with the image of the man who would patch her up on her darkest nights and put a firm hand on her shoulder when Harper was too deep in memory to restrain herself. His presence around her became a reassurance in itself - because he did not have to know to understand. And because he simply had not been there - looking into his eyes Harper wouldn't get reminded of the times when everything was still right, wouldn't get reminded of that one time everything went very wrong. Probably those were the main qualities that helped him win a spot in her heart. Those and his unending casual flirting.

And now? After everything was over, after his very dark side was revealed, the confessions were made and the redemption was played, what did she think of him? The hunter, turned out just a very well trained assassin - he had served the British Men of Letters, he had served Asmodeus - now here he was separated from any commanding he ever had, living a hunting life of his own and sometimes collaborating with the Winchesters. Therewere many dark moments forgotten for the sake of peace. Many more had yet to come up - judging by how Ketch treated his own history and interests of others.

" - I wonder where Mick went, he was always so nice... Nicer than you, anyways. Pity he went away all of a sudden, - Harper mentioned once after a hunt.

- He did not go anywhere. I shot him in the head just like Hess ordered, - Ketch seemed calm and cold as steel. " Sometimes Harper thought that leaving BMoL would change him, but moments like that she realized how slowly the changes - if any - would have to occur. That night she simply walked away, not saying another word.

If anyone ever asked Harper how Arthur's spot in her heart had shifted after all the mess he had caused? She would say that he never even had one... And think that truth to be told there was no flame hot enough to burn him out of her chest - his name carved on her ribs would have been easier to get rid of than the bittersweet affection she harboured for the moral wreck of a man named Arthur Ketch.

If he's as bad as they say

Then I guess I'm cursed

Looking into his eyes

I think he's already hurt

He's already hurt

Despite that Harper never dared pursue a relationship. Why? She was very sure with people like Ketch the only right strategy was not to expect them to be capable of attachment. The flirting, the sweet promising looks he would give her after a well-accomplished hunt... Harper would dream of believing them to be genuine. She was very well aware thinking him in any way genuine was a risk she was not ready to take. She knew Ketch would not mind letting that affair happen - he made that quite clear. She also knew it would mean absolutely nothing to him apart from some company and a warm body in his bed. Arthur Ketch was cold, unemotional and taught himself well not to get attached to anyone - and even if that was not true, he tried his damn best to make it seem so.

Harper sometimes hoped she saw it in his eyes: a silent "please keep safe" when they would part after a hunt, a sparking "I missed you" when they would meet once again. Arthur sometimes hoped she would see it too - very deep in his soul, deeper than he would ever be able to admit even to himself.

In other words, the outcome of the new hunt would have presented itself sooner or later anyways. They were actually quite lucky to have it present itself the way it did.

The werewolf did not seem such a hard target - away from bigger packs, alone terrorizing the neighborhood - just because he could. Problem and solution crystal clear - a hunt where one clearly sees the root of evil is a blessing for a hunter that's used to all the versions of heartbreaking stories. What Harper did not so clearly see was the gun in their opponent's hands. To be more precise: she did see it, but a little too late.

Two gunshots rang at the same time: her silver bullet hitting right into the monster's heart and his normal one - ... Ketch fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor: his left shoulder bled, the bulletproof vest, even though being pierced in the thinner area, had preserved him from being too deeply injured - but not kept completely safe from wounding.

Several seconds of silence - making sure the werewolf is not a threat anymore - realisation and fear finally hitting Harper.

- Ketch?... Ketch?!... Arthur! - the hunter was too disoriented to answer and his silence was taken as a bad sign. - Oh Lord, Arthur, no! - gone are the self-restraint and professional coldness: the moment she sees blood on his chest, she rushes to his side, forgetting about everything else in the world. She needs to make sure he will be fine. He has to be. - Arthur, please, don't die on me! Arthur! - she calls for his attention, the hunter slowly regaining his senses.

For a moment there he believes he hears Tony. This reminds him of some of his unlucky hunts from the years before, though back then he had certainly had it worse. Besides this definitely was not Tony.

Tony would have said "Ketch's down" and carry on with the hunt, eyes on the target, and when the deed was done she would pass him with a short "How is it?" - more out of politeness than genuine caring. That was exactly what she did the only two times he had been seriously injured infront of her.

- Ketch, answer me right this instant, don't you dare fading out! - panic in her voice, genuine. The idea of someone caring as much as to panic at the thought of his death seems too good to be true - for him at least. Arthur feels hands investigating his chest, checking for the wound: cold thin fingers running over his blood-covered skin. Not Tony - Harper.

- I'll live, darling, it's nothing too serious, - attempting to sound confident, but his voice is rasp. It's nothing serious, but it hurt nonetheless: the blow on the shoulder was much harder than anticipated and the bleeding needed to be stopped.

Harper looks into the light blue, borderline grey eyes - he is staring up at her, his gaze unguarded only for a moment that lets her see the uncommon softness and hope in his expression - just for a moment - she believes the things she guessed about him were true, she believes the pain visible in his eyes is true, only by accident revealed to her. The state lasts only a couple of moments - but even that is more than enough for his visible emotions to imprint into her mind.

Arthur Ketch was able to feel. Arthur Ketch could be in pain. Arthur Ketch was capable of needing help.

I said "Don't be a jerk, don't call me a taxi"

Sitting in your sweatshirt, crying in the backseat ooh-ooh

I just wanna dance with you

Hollywood and Vine, Black Rabbit in the alley

I just wanna hold you tight down the avenue ooh

I just wanna dance with you

It was a wonder that the hotel clerk did not stop them on their way - Ketch looked positively dying - Harper was quite sure there was no legal thing that could have happened to him that would have explained this appearance. This was the reason normal hunters chose motels: less suspicion. Harper briefly wondered where he got the money to maintain his former lifestyle, since he was stripped of the BMoL funding, but she guessed there were other sources on his side and he was just too stubborn to change his ways.

When they stumbled into his hotel room, Arthur made a move to drop himself on the bed, but Harper grabbed him by the collar swiftly, dragging him away in the other direction.

- Ketch don't you dare stain the sheets, they'll report us, - she mumbled, pushing him to enter the bathroom and dropping him to sit on the edge of the tub.

He would have laughed if the sudden movement had not caused sharp pain to shoot through his damaged shoulder, making him wince. Alexandra. He had wondered for so long whom Harper reminded him of and out of all moments they shared it was this that made him realise. The memory reappeared in his mind so vividly now.

"Artie, no! Don't go to your room, you'll stain your carpet! Mum will kill us!" - and the older girl held him under his arms, guiding him to the kitchen.

He still remembered it: the years before school, before Kendricks, him and his sister mostly alone in the house with parents constantly away. Alexandra had brought him up before Kendricks had. Alexandra had a lovely voice, she would read him bedtime stories, she would sing to him, she was kind and caring - probably the only human being in his life that ever seemed to care. When he went to Kendricks was the last time he had ever seen her... Well, alive. Alexandra was kind and caring - and that was probably the reason why she had not made it through the training. In fact her death might have been the only reason why he survived and made it to the top - having no one care about you has a benefit: you don't have to care about anyone too.

After his sister's funeral life had never felt the same and Arthur had been quite certain before that it was for the better. Now, watching Harper rush about, trying to find the medical kit to help him, he thought that he had been terribly wrong all the damn time.

How long has she known him? A couple of years, not more, but the relationship between them reached beyond the borders of friendship or companionship. That little american hunter - the first time he saw her he thought she was suicidal, the second one - bold and full of sass. The following months proved her well capable of combining both while turning out to be so much more, one of which being: to be able to love Arthur Ketch. Of course he knew she loved him - this was among those traits in her that he openly treated with polite contempt and deep down envied more than anything.

He watched Harper come to his side, sliding his hunting gear off his shoulders - her movements so gentle, her eyes filled with worry and guilt.

- I'm so sorry Arthur, I should have... - you're always sorry. You always think it is your fault and none else's. This was most probably the main reason why it was so easy for him to openly reject her feeling: they both knew she loved him, they both knew he saw it, he toyed with her so many times, being suggestive, flirting. "As long as I enjoy the physical aspects of having an affair, the emotional attachment that other people believe necessary to form is rather pathetic" - he told her once. He actually said that, those were his words. I would like to fuck you as long as you shut your disgustingly human little heart. She stared at him for a moment, her beautiful face almost successfully hiding the hurt - then turned away silently, shrugging her shoulders. He was being a jerk. Harper never stopped him from that, Harper seemed to take it all in and believe he was right, believe that her feeling for him was utterly pathetic. That it was her fault.

- It was no one's mistake, love, it was an unlucky accident. Besides it didn't turn out that awful, - he trailed off. She was cleaning his skin over the wound now, preparing to apply stitches. Arthur could sense a little shudder in her at the word "love". He was so used to saying it that he forgot about all the connotations it held. Lord, was he bad at this.

Harper continued her work silently. She felt him studying her face and prayed to be finished as quick as possible - she did not need another heartbreaking hope and she had already made the mistake of looking into his eyes that night. When the last stitch was done, she turned away to put the materials aside and sensed him straighten up behind her back - Harper felt he wanted to say something else, but she could not give him that opportunity. She almost thought he would die that night - seeing him on the floor made her blood run cold - she did not need any more pain to add to the aftermath of the shock.

- I'm going to my room, but please call me if you feel worse during the night, - she spoke, not turning to face him, ready to walk out of the bathroom. Harper felt his hand grab her wrist in a rushed movement and turned abruptly only to see him staring back at her with unguarded softness in his eyes. The only time she remembered Arthur look at her like that was when she twisted an ankle during the hunt all due to his mistake. It scared her a little to see that expression on him.

- Why won't you just stay to keep an eye on me? - his voice low, with an undertone she so often heard when he flirted with her.

- You're a big boy, Ketch, we both know that even stitching you up was superfluous, you can perfectly well tend to yourself, - a smile. Harper tried to brush it off jokingly, ready to make her leave, but his grasp on her wrist only grew stronger.

- Stay.  At least for this night. Please, - the smile disappeared from her face. He sounded wounded, he sounded like he really pleaded. Harper broke away from his grasp, taking a step back.

- You don't need a... - she shook her head.

- But I do, - he stood up, taking a step towards her, not letting her increase the distance between them. His fingers came up to caress her cheek gently. - Harper, stay, - she shut her eyes, standing still and quiet for a couple of seconds, seemingly fighting back emotions.

- You don't mean this, - she said, looking up at him sharply and confidently, but in a moment, failing to restrain herself, she continues more quietly and softly. - Why do you have to be so cruel to me? - he could see tears brimming in her eyes.

They stood frozen in front of each other, her face so close to his, her eyes watering - not because of this particular evening, but because of all those times before he had behaved in similar nature. It was the first time she had so directly addressed the issue of her feelings for him. "Why do you have to be so cruel to me?" She seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. Why was she always so kind to him? Like he was normal, like he didn't hurt her? Arthur leaned down, his hand still cupping her cheek, his lips touching hers gently and firmly.

Harper closed her eyes - not as a girl would do in a pretty romantic movie - she shut her eyes, pressing her eyelids together, holding her breath, shuddering. A single tear ran down her cheek.

When they parted, though his face still stayed just a few centimeters away from hers, Harper opened her eyes again, her breath shaking.

- Arthur...

His free hand circled her waist, pulling her closer to him, as his fingers slid away from her cheek,  moving behind her head, running through her hair. Arthur leaned close to her ear, his breath ghosting over her neck.

- Because I hate how you make me feel like I can still have a life, like not everything is lost. I hate how you make me feel worth being cared about and able to care. I hate how you make me feel, - he said that rushed and quiet. Pressing his front to the side of her head, breathing deeply.

- And what if you are lying? What if this all is for the sake of one night? I'm tired of guessing if you have a soul or not, Arthur, I'm too worn out, - she wispered after some time, leaning her forehead into his uninjured shoulder.

- Then trust me this one time. I promise. Please.

- Why?

- Because I need you. I need you to feel alive.

Arthur felt her let out a deep breath, her petite form pressing itself to his, her arms sliding behind his back to hold him close. She raised her head, freezing for a moment before their eyes met, then leaning up - their lips meeting now less gingerly than the first time.

- Does that mean you'll stay?

- You're such an asshole, Ketch...

- I know.

Harper hid her face in his chest, sobbing quietly, her form shacking, worn out both physically and emotionally. Arthur kissed her temple softly, caressing her back, for once feeling like he did everything right. For once feeling like they had a chance.

Happiness is a butterfly

Try to catch it like every night

It's escaping from me into moonlight

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (18) || atz

You and Wooyoung are sitting in the rigging, staring out to sea.

The Treasure has left Tortuga for a few days now, sailing in the open sea for the town of Nassau. From what Wooyoung has told you, Nassau, Seonghwa’s hometown, used to be a port thriving with pirate activity… until one day, the Royal Navy decided retake the town from the pirates. Pirate ships were burnt to the ground, the crews hung at the gallows and anyone associated with them brought in for questioning.

It is during that purge that Seonghwa’s parents were killed.

Seonghwa has finally left the confines of the galley, escorted to the sickbay to sleep and rest. Yunho is keeping a vigil beside Seonghwa, while you’ve taken over his cooking duties and Yunho’s lookout role. You may not be as well suited to the job as the two of them are, but it’s the most you can do for being to blame for Seonghwa’s condition.

If only you had known what to do.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut.

If only you hadn’t let the herbs be stolen.

You know it’s stupid, but the thoughts won’t stop echoing in your head.

If only you hadn’t gone out to celebrate your name.

You chew your lips.

If only you hadn’t come to this ship.

Guilt tears at you from the inside like the teeth of a piranha. The pain is all too acute, all to real.

“Hey.”

You’re jerked back from your thoughts by Wooyoung, who’s grinning at you. Somehow, the head gunner has pushed past the air of gloom surrounding the ship, managing to keep a broad smile on his face despite the weight on everyone’s shoulders. How he’s doing it, you don’t know, but part of you resents how easily he can seem to forget that Seonghwa is still in the sickbay, struggling to block out the voices of his dead family from his ears while all of you are absolutely powerless to help.

Even now, Seonghwa’s still refusing the sleeping incense, but Yeosang has given given him back the steak plushie, which he hugs to sleep every night. Jongho helps by singing his hyung to sleep. San mixes relaxing teas for him. Captain and Mingi studying the overlay of Nassau, trying to find the most inconspicuous way they can enter the town without garnering the attention of the authorities.

It’s only you and Wooyoung who can do nothing. And the guilt you feel is swallowing you whole.

Wooyoung suddenly leans forward, shackles clanging as he uses his fingers to turn your mouth up in smile. “I’m sure captain and Mingi will think of something. We’ll help Seonghwa-hyung and everything will be fine soon. Don’t be sad.”

Anger rushes forth.

“Don’t be sad?” You snap, smacking his hand away. Wooyoung looks visibly wounded, pain flashing across his face as his hand falls to his side, but you’re too caught up in your fury to notice. “Seonghwa-hyung is in this state and you have the gall to smile and act happy?”

Something in Wooyoung’s normally bright viridescent eyes darkens suddenly as he silently watches you rant.

“I hate how you’re still so happy go lucky! It’s like you don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone even though you’ve had family like Jongho-hyung and Yunho-hyung!” You continue raving, not seeing the way Wooyoung’s fingers clench so tight around the ropes his knuckles turn bloodless. “ I’m the only one who has no family, alright? I’m not like all of you, I don’t know what it’s like, but you’ve had family before, so shouldn’t you try to be more understanding?”

Silence falls between the two of you as you finish. Then you realise that you’ve just literally just thrown everything, your hurt, your pain, your guilt onto Wooyoung, who must be suffering too somewhere deep down inside. To your horror, his head hangs low so that you can’t see his expression, but from the way his shoulders are curled in on themselves, you must have wounded him deeply. Regret and guilt fills you.

You can’t seem to do anything right.

“Wooyoung-hyung, I’m sorry-”

“What else am I supposed to do, then?” Wooyoung breathes, turning to meet your eyes head on. You desperately want to look away, but his gaze is unbreakable as steel. There’s something utterly frigid about them, almost terrifying, like a dragon rearing its head. “Cry? Complain? Feel pity for myself? Curl up in a ball and hide until all the problems disappear?”

That’s exactly what you want to do right now under the weight of his of his intense stare, pinning you down.

“Hyung, I didn’t mean it-”

“You did.” Wooyoung cuts you off fiercely, his green eyes burning. “You meant every word of it and I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I don’t intend on moping around because that’s not going to help anything. So get those stupid thoughts about it being your fault out of your head because none of them are true and smile because you need to believe things can get better.”

The resolve in his voice is unshakable, and you curl in on yourself to avoid Wooyoung’s stare, shame burning on your cheeks. All this while, you’ve only been thinking about yourself and your guilt, forgetting that you also affect the members of the crew and that moping around hasn’t helped at all.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper quietly under your breath, but Wooyoung hears you anyway and his smile returns once more.

“I forgive you.” He beams at you gently, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. Your head rests against his shoulder, seeking comfort. “I understand.”

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you swallow down your emotions. Right. Smile. Be positive. Staying negative isn’t going to help anything.

Then Wooyoung frowns as he looks down onto the main deck. “Yeosang is coming over. I wonder what he needs.”

“Wooyoungie! Is Chin Hae up there with you?” The navigator stops in front of the main mast, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks up. Wooyoung nods. “Yeah! Do you need him?”

“Can you tell him to come down? I have something to discuss with him.”

You frown, a little confused as Wooyoung glances at you in surprise. Then he leans forward to pinch your cheeks into a smile again, mirroring his own. “Go on. Don’t forget to smile.”

You manage a real smile for the first time in days.

“Thanks, Wooyoung-hyung.” You say as you climb over the side of the crow’s nest, making your way down and dropping lightly to the main deck. Yunho would be so proud if he saw you doing that. “What do you need, Yeosang-hyung?”

“San spoke to me earlier about your encounter with a fortune teller.” Yeosang explains to you as the two of you make your way across the main deck. Your eyes widen as you realise what he’s talking about. “Since Hongjoong-hyung is steering and Mingi is sleeping in the main hold, the captain’s quarters are empty and I thought that I could take this time to research on what the fortune teller said with you.”

Your heart leaps into your chest with ecstasy at what this could mean, but then you pause a little.

“Should we be doing this now? With everything that’s going on?”

Yeosang stops in the middle of pushing open the door to the captain’s cabin to look at you seriously. You’ve never realised how big and clear his eyes are, completely genuine and free of any trace of ill will. “It’s not like we can do anything now. What we can do is keep our spirits up and be strong for Seonghwa-hyung until we reach Nassau. And you’ve been looking down lately, so I thought I could try to cheer you up by clearing some of your questions.”

Warmth blooms in you at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Yeosang-hyung.”

The navigator smiles happily at you, almost radiant. “No problem. It’s my honour you’d trust me with such an important piece of information.” He opens the door and ushers you in.

You’ve never been in the captain’s cabin without the captain being present, so the room is unnaturally quiet and still. Yeosang, however, seems to know the room like it’s the back of his own hand, moving towards one of the shelves at the far end of the room while you hover awkwardly at the door.

“Please sit.” He indicates to the bed as he pulls out a scrap of parchment. You recognise it as the one Seonghwa had written your prophecy on the other time when you were discussing your visit to the fortune teller. Yeosang brings the paper over to you.

“So, what part haven’t you figured out?” He asks seriously, as he reaches in his pocket for a small wooden case, producing a pair of thin, gold rimmed eyeglasses and placing them on his nose delicately. You look over the words.

“The sea witch and the jar of clay.” You answer honestly.

Yeosang nods and moves over to his array of books. The walls are covered in them, from texts to maps to travel rutters to books of varying languages. There are even some tied up in stacks and placed neatly on the floor, all of them well kept and not a speck of dust on them.

He pulls out a few books, putting them in his arms as he mumbles to himself, eyes flitting among the shelves. Then he returns to you, setting the books on the table with a huff. “Let me look through these for a moment.”

You study him intently as he flips through the books faster than you can blink, fingers flying along the pages. The title on some of the books read ‘Legends of the Sea’, ‘Mythical Folk’ and such.

“The sea witch is a powerful entity who was once human with a bond to both the land and sea. She holds immense power, drawing upon the sea to cast spells. In return for a high price, she grants both magical and non magical folk alike what they desire.” Yeosang reads aloud, meticulously focusing on every detail. “Only people in great desperation can find the sea witch, as her lair lies hidden in a magical realm of the sea in which mortals cannot find. The entrance is rumoured to be off the coast of several uninhabited islands in the Atlantic, guarded by the sirens and fierce tidal straits rip through the waters, smashing any ship that dares pass through.”

“That’s… good to know.” You swallow uncomfortably. The only one who probably knows exactly who you are, and she’s probably out of reach. You’re unwilling to put the crew in danger because of your own problems.

“Those who have made a deal with the sea witch tend to have a token on which the deal was sealed.” Yeosang continues, glancing at the necklace hanging from your neck. “The price is often exorbitantly high, and is rarely something of material worth. It often is something of immense value to the person making the deal.”

Your memories.

You had given up your memories.

“In popular folk stories, she was responsible for taking the voice of a mermaid who’d fallen in love with a prince of the land in return for her legs. She also gives out pieces of ropes with three knots. Pulling the first knot could yield a gentle, southeasterly wind, while pulling two could generate a strong northerly wind, but the third knot would unleash a hurricane.” Yeosang looks slightly interested. “Hongjoong-hyung has one of these, but he’s used the first knot already.”

“Really?” You gape. This sea witch can’t be mere legend now.

The navigator nods as he picks up another book. “We were being chased by the Royal Navy, but he used the wind to blow the ships away. That’s when hyung really started to believe in myths a little.”

He opens a book called ‘Symbolism Through Ages’. “Jars of clay, jars of clay… Jars of clay refer to humans. In many books such as the Holy Bible, humans were described to be jars of clay, having mortal bodies while holding precious souls of great value in them.”

A jewel resting in a jar of clay.

Yeosang’s eyebrows pinch together as he continues reading. “This is a interesting explanation, but not rather helpful as it’s quite metaphorical. You said that the fortune teller asked you who’d made you?”

“Yeah…” You shiver a little at the words. “Then she told me the sea witch was my mistress.”

Yeosang frowns thoughtfully, and you can literally hear the gears in his mind turning. He picks up another book, flipping through it absentmindedly as he glances through it. “Made… Clay… Vessel… Humans… Sea Witch… Bargain...”

Then he stops.

All at once, his eyes fly wide open, pupils dilating in realization, mouth going slack, face ashen. The expression on his face can only be described in pure, unadulterated shock, and he stops breathing for a second as if air has trapped itself in his lungs.

Your heart skips a beat in excitement.

“Did you find something?” You begin to ask excitedly, but Yeosang barely seems to hear you, staring in horror at the page, then at you.

Unease begins to crawl up your skin, but you force it to the side and ask. “Yeosang-hyung… what is it?”

That seems to snap Yeosang out of his daze and he desperately tries to smooth his face in a neutral expression, but he can’t quite hide the terror in his eyes. “It’s nothing. I just thought of something, but it’s no big deal.”

The way his voice is trembling tells you it is anything but.

Your eyes narrow in suspicion and barely restrained anger. “Yeosang-hyung, what are you hiding from me?”

“It’s nothing.” The navigator insists, slamming the book shut. You get a mere glimpse of the cover. Prome-, but then Yeosang’s hand slides over the title and you can’t see it any longer. “It’s nothing at all, so just let it go, please.”

Usually, you’d let anything he says go, but this is different.

“Then let me see it.” You hold your hand out to take the book, but Yeosang wrenches it from your grasp before you can even hold it, eyes flaring in panic.

“Don’t touch it!” Yeosang shouts furiously, clutching the book to his chest. Rage fills you, what may be an answer to your identity is right there, but Yeosang won’t give it to you. You storm over to him, ready to rip the book from his hands if you need to.

“What are you doing?” You snarl at him, almost animalistic as you reach to tear your only clue from him, but Yeosang shakes his head, arms folding around the book.

“You can’t see it!” He screams at you, tears streaming down his cheeks and you feel red hot anger thrumming in your veins, purring to life like an awakening monster. Icy calm washes over you, in complete contrast to the fury burning in your heart. How dare he cry as if he’s the one losing anything from this?

Yeosang must see the shift in your eyes as your expression settles into one of dark determination, because his knees start knocking uncontrollably and his eyes dilate with pure, undiluted and primal fear.

“Give the book to me, Yeosang.”

In this moment, Yeosang makes a decision.

His fingers fumble with the latch behind him. Before you can realise what he’s doing, he’s opened the pothole, turned away from you and tossed the book into the ocean.

You feel like your last hope has been crushed into shards and scattered to the wind. Broken fury and grief screams within you like two clashing hurricanes, tearing you apart and ripping through you. Your eyes land on Yeosang, who looks stunned by what he’s just done.

You finally manage to find words in your rage to convey to him what exactly you’re feeling now.

“I hate you.” You spit with every bit of loathing you can muster, and with that, you whirl around and dash out of the cabin, the door slamming shut behind you.

Yeosang doesn’t say anything. Instead, he merely slides to the ground on his knees, body curled into a ball, wishing he could beg for your forgiveness.

And his fist pressed against his mouth to stifle the sobs pouring from his chest.

[goldenlaquer]

Hey, can I ask for some headcanons, please? For Gin, Toshi, Sougo and Kamui. About how they were in a fight, separated from their so and something happened like an exposion or whatever, anyway the main point is that they thought that their so have died but later they see her alive and relatively unharmed. So the headcanons of them when they thought they lost their so and when they see that she is ok. Sorry, this is so specific and long, I'm just a slut for some angst and I love your writings

Thank you for the support and sorry for the wait! I don’t know if I’m that much good at conveying angst but let’s bring on the feels! 

Gintama Headcanons: 

Hijikata Toushirou: 

Hijikata stands on top of a pile of rubble, and surveys the destruction around him. 

His hands don’t shake. His feet are firm against the ground. His shoulders are straight and rigid against the fleeting wind. Smoke escapes him in steady stream, and when he inhales in, the dust and fire of the air sticks to the walls of his lungs like sludge. 

To the men who stop to look at their vice-commander with their ugly concerns plastered on their ugly mugs: He’s fine. 

To the Gorilla who can’t stop asking him the question every ten minutes and that, he really should take a break or else at this rate, he’ll collapse: He’s fine. 

To the brat who stubbornly stays by his side like spit-up gum on the sole of his shoe: He’s fine, damn it, so go do your job and leave him alone. 

For once, Sougo doesn’t have anything clever to quip back at him. He doesn’t need to-- the silence between them speaks better than words. And Hijikata hates what it says, so he turns back to the grey landscape, eyes darting and sifting through the mangled and charred parts to see something, anything that is you. 

Nothing. 

He reaches for a cigarette, pulls it out of his pocket like second nature. The lighter is the trickier to work. The blasted thing refuses to flicker on. Oh, the cigarette falls down. Hijikata bends to pick it up. He tries again. The cigarette falls down. He stares at it. His shoe crushes it. He’s stomping down hard. Sougo is still silent, watching. Hijikata doesn’t care. 

The facade of normalcy is gone. Here he is: Taking his frustrations out on a sad little cig, like it’s the cause of all his fucking problems, like it’s going to bring you back. Harsh pants come out of his mouth, and in another series, they’d sound like something akin to sobs, but his face is dry.

“Hijikata.” He ignores Sougo. The cigarette is reduced to paper and dry leaves scuffed against concrete. “Hijikata.” He doesn’t answer.

Okita, with an eye-roll, kicks Hijikata square in the back and knocks him off the pile. 

Sougo, what the fuck? He. Is. Mourning. Hijikata has always known Sougo to be insensitive, but this is blatantly crossing several lines and he clearly doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with. 

But if it’s a fight that bastard wants, Hijikata will give it to him. He leaps up from the ground, ready to hand Sougo an express ticket to hell, misty eyes narrowing in anger as he looks up

and the breath is knocked out of him in a way that years of chain-smoking had miraculously failed to do 

Standing before him, white particles clinging to your clothes, hair, and eyebrows, is the damn most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. The feet move faster than he can process, and by the time his arms are around you and he’s breathing in the scent he thought he’d lost forever

“Fuck.” Because that’s the only appropriate response he can say without his voice cracking. “Don’t do that again.”

Kamui:

Loss is not a new thing. It was in the labored rise and fall of his mother’s chest, the pallidness of her white skin. The feel of his sister’s small hands, fisting in his clothes and pleadingly tugging back, her blue eyes wide and wet. It was in the looming shape of his father’s retreating back.

But there were other, worthier things to focus on. The pain in his knuckles slamming against bone and muscle. The taut stretch of his lips as he licks his wounds, tasting metal and victory. The title of ‘Universe’s Strongest’ nearly within his grasp. He didn’t have time for the weak. Didn’t have time to be weak.

Loss is not new, and yet there is something about this loss. Now, Loss is a sentient being, latching to his throat and squeezing as he grapples through the mud.

Abuto’s face is too blank and too careful. His voice is low and calm and reasoning, and he is saying things, but Kamui doesn’t listen. The words ‘she’ and ‘gone’ don’t mix, they don’t make any sense, so why should he listen? He digs and digs and digs, not hearing, he can’t, his ears and eyes are filled with the same muddy brown that must also be filling yours. Kamui works even faster, his nails splintering against the rocks embedded in the wet ground.

Hair released from its braid, trussed and caked in dirt. Pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. His face abnormally slack as he claws in frenzy, in desperation at the ground like a wild animal.

There are few things in this world Kamui can’t fight. No matter his strength, one cannot simply beat Mother Nature into submission. But there is no excuse. If he cannot save one woman from something as stupid as dirt, then what is the point? What use is his strength? He didn’t leave that tiny, rainy planet, ignoring all the things left behind with it, to become this weakling who couldn’t even manage to keep you by his side like he promised.

He’s a young brat again, helplessness coloring every pore. A damsel in distress. Someone who can’t save, but needs saving. He is no different than the baldy. Unable to keep promises. Unable to protect. Unable to do anything. Was he always this fragile? Pathetic.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. The word is a punishing mantra in his mind.

Something crashes into him. It’s not near enough to make him pause in his digging, but the something is tugging on his clothes. Incoherent, muffled shouting in his ears. He doesn’t pay it any mind because mud keeps slipping back in place despite all his useless strength and you’re still trapped, waiting for him--

“KAMUI!”

He blinks in surprise, snapping from the heavy cloud covering his mind. He’s flat on the ground, staring up at you. How he got there, he doesn’t know, but you are here in front of him, covered head-to-toe in mud and crying.

He is silent, watching as you blubber concerns and curses. A curious hand reaches out to your face in wonder, carefully tracing the path that a salty tear had made down your cheek. The familiarity of your soft skin warms his numb body and a small smile emerges from his lips.

As you sit on top of him, crying not because you are scared but because he’s such a stupid idiot, he realizes that that he isn’t all alone just yet, that there’s one thing that refuses to leave him. 

Okita Sougo: 

It’s happening again. And it honestly makes him want to laugh. 

He doesn’t believe in it, karma, but when you think that you’ve gotten used to the pain of losing someone you love, his rotten, black heart has to go and get ripped out for the second time as if he forgot, as if he needed reminding that there’s no way someone like him deserves something as good as happiness. There’s no other explanation to this shit luck other than that, for the accumulation of every filthy deed he’s done with his filthy hands and every fucking sin he has committed once and twice and will most definitely commit thrice, someone has to pay for it. 

And because Karma is two bitches and a half, that someone wasn’t him. 

There it is. The laughter finally comes out as he looks at the torn fabric in his clenched fist. It comes out harsh and hollow and, if you listened hard enough, choked, but who’s checking? Not him. Not Mitsuba. And certainly not you. 

He reported it to the vice-commander himself, voice robotic, telling how he was walking front of you when it happened, how the enemy somehow managed to predict your movements and ambushed the both of you on a bridge, how he had been unable to react in time to stop the silver flash of a knife and how the world tilted, too fast and too slow, and that there was a piece of hanging rope that he managed to snag on to with one hand and when he blindly flashed out the other to grasp at you, reaching through free air and snatching at cloth, it ripped from his fingers, and you fell to the chasm below.  Deep enough, Okita said as he looked straight into Hijikata’s eyes, that death would be quick and painless.

If nothing else could go right for him, then at least for this, he hoped, even fucking prayed, that it was painless.

Hijikata doesn’t react to the report with anything unnecessary, just a stiff upper lip and an “okay” before he walks off to stand somewhere far enough, yet close enough. For all their differences, Hijikata knows. He understands losing youthful love, and that the pity that comes with it is nothing more than steaming trash. In this way and other ways that he’d sooner eat shit than to admit aloud, Okita is grateful for him.  

He stops mid mirthless chuckle to shove the hand holding what’s left of  you up to his eyes, slanting his head downwards so his bangs cover what he doesn’t want the world to know what he’s somehow still capable of. Hijikata is tactfully looking away. Over the distance, Kondo is bellowing orders to his men who keep a wide berth from the spot where their 1st Division Captain stands. This is the only opportunity he can afford to be an eighteen year old again. Sougo swallows thickly, feeling the roughness of fabric dampen against his eyelids. 

Acutely, he hears the sound of footsteps. It is slow and steady and he thinks that they belong Kondo at first but the weight of them is too light for a gorilla. Before he can process this information further, the steps halt for several long seconds before starting again, this time faster and more urgent, lurching in his direction. Hijikata mutters an astounded “shit” but  for whatever reason doesn’t move to intercept. Okita really isn’t in the mood to deal with dumbasses but the sword by his side is already unsheathed and he’s aiming his red eyes to glare at whoever the fuck--

Arms wrap around his waist. A face burrows into his chest. His knees almost give out, but his name is Okita Sougo and he has already maxed out his whiny bitch points for the next decade. Instead, he drops his sword to cup the back of your very-much-alive head, caressing the wet silk of it before threading his trembling fingers through the strands to

sharply tug you from his chest and grasp your cheeks with one hand, squeezing your expression to that of a startled fish. 

“Now,” Okita murmers, the smirk on his lips at odds with how fucking great it feels to see you again. “What should I do with you?”

Sakata Gintoki:

Before they say anything, he knows. 

He has seen that type of expression too many times to ever forget the set jaw, the horrible attempt at stilling a trembling bottom lip, the unshed tears of eyes that can’t seem to stop roving, unable to face the recipient of bad news for more than half a second, and the pallidness of knuckles straining against skin, holding onto their clothes like a lifeline. 

He knows this expression so well he can gaze down at Shinpachi and Kagura with well-placed apathy, perfectly appearing as if his lungs aren’t threatening to collapse on itself when he notices who is not there with them, and tell them in his same old way to stop sucking on their teeth and finish what they can’t seem to get out because he has an appointment at the pachinko parlor at four and if they don’t finish up this job by three-thirty he is going to dock their nonexistent pay by 80%. It hides the rising nausea and stone weight of the stomach well. 

This time, however, his casual rudeness doesn’t make them react the way he wants them to, it only makes them fold into themselves even further. 

The thing is, no matter how many times you see it and know better than to entertain it, there’s always this one glimmer of hope, so ridiculously strong that you’d gladly pray to anyone and everyone, even if you don’t really believe, because if anything is possible then it better be possible that this isn’t bad news, or that even if it is bad news then the worst of the pinched expression is just a by-product of eating food gone bad or the pain of an ingrown toenail, that it isn’t about someone dying or dead. 

But life rarely goes like that, and Gintoki lives in an extra-shittier life compared to most people. 

When you stumble across them, hair singed and smelling of gunpowder and smoke, there is something so thick and so wrong with the air, something that makes you stop from crying out in elation at seeing the people you love most. Shinpachi is fastidiously rubbing his eyes and Kagura has her face buried against Sadaharu’s fur and Gintoki

Gintoki looks alone. And you don’t think you have ever seen him look like that, so withdrawn into himself that even if he is surrounded by people, there’s nothing that can come close to him, nothing that can ease the dull bleakness of his eyes and the defeated hunch of his shoulders. He looks like a single thread worn too thin, on the verge of snapping. He looks like nothing matters anymore. Nothing. 

You dislike it. You hate it. You hate it so much, to see this man turn into something so unfamiliar and terrifying and gut out. You don’t know this Gintoki. You want the other one back, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to smear dog shit and boogers on the back of your jacket and the one who doesn’t really mind it when you take a sip of his spoiled strawberry milk. 

So when you shout out loudly, so loud that vibrates the space, that you’re here and alive and that you didn’t, couldn’t die because how could such a measly explosion off you when there were idiots waiting back home for you, to see Kagura and Shinpachi fly to you, screaming and whooping as they open their arms wide for your hug, snot running down their noses, and Gintoki snap his head up, disbelieving at first, yet searching your form with a speck of hope that brings life back to his dead eyes, and when he finds whatever he was searching for, he goes to you on steady feet, folding his arms around the group, gaze still drinking your form up as he leans across Shinpachi’s and Kagura’s heads to bump his forehead against yours, his breath sighing out something like relief-- it almost makes you cry, or maybe it does because you can feel something wet trailing down your face.

Gintoki is silent for the most part, because Kagura and Shinpachi are doing most of the talking for him, but when he does speak, it is to say: 

“Damn, there goes the life insurance money.” 

[raevenlywrites]

Ties That Bind 22 of ???

Of course the first person I encountered upon waking was Adelina.

Rei was long gone from the tent, if the chill of the bedroll was any indication. I’d expected to find him just outside the tent flap. Instead I was met by the long, lean body of Zane’s primary guard.

And lover.

My cheeks immediately flamed in spite of myself, knowing what she must think. My mouth worked uselessly as my mind offered no words to explain. I couldn’t exactly claim it wasn’t what it looked like, though Rei and I certainly hadn’t spent our time together in the way I knew a serpiente would assume.

But surprise followed surprise, as Adelina ushered me back into the tent with a conspiratorial air.

“We don’t have much time,” she whispered, nearly knocking me over in her rush to get us back under cover. “Our men will only keep each other busy for so long.”

“I-- what?”

I couldn’t begin to parse it. Adelina didn’t seem to mind my clueless state. She rushed on, eager to say her piece.

“I need to know how we’re meant to play this. Is Zane to be your lover or not?”

I could only blink.

“I know how the serpiente would read this, but I just want to be sure. You’ve taken his hand before you mother, you danced with him last night before the crowd. But when its just us, you’ve made no overtures. So I just want to know what role I—I mean he—is meant to play before you people. Are you two seriously planning to join our kingdoms?”

I stumbled to a seat, sitting before my wobbling legs made the choice for me. Did they really think--

“Danica, please. We don’t have much time.”

I felt like I was missing something, great swaths of something. I suddenly wished I’d stayed behind to walk and talk with them more as the serpiente had made their way here.

“I… honestly have no idea.”

It was the best I could give her. I felt this woman deserved the truth, but Zane and I hadn’t really discussed it. Mostly because I hadn’t thought either of us had taken the suggestion seriously. But looking back on all our conversations--

“What do you mean you have no idea?” Adelina snapped, but even without a serpent’s ability to read emotions I knew she wasn’t cross with me. The tense, pent up energy that so often drove me to pace was obvious in her posture, her tone, her entire being. I realized suddenly that if the serpiente could sense emotion anyways, there was no reason not to wear their hearts out on their sleeves. Or lack thereof, as was often the case.

I was getting side tracked. My mind was working furiously, but not in any useful direction. Adelina, like a dog among sheep, was not having it.

“Sweet Anhamirak, Danica are you listening to me? How will we be presenting Zane to your people?”

“I had wondered that myself.”

Adelina’s head whipped around as the man himself pulled back the flap of the tent. Rei scowled just over Zane’s shoulder. But amazingly, he didn’t pull the serpiente away from me to make sure I was unharmed. Adelina, at least, it seemed he trusted.

“Shall we have this conversation out in the open?”

The question was ostensibly for me, but his eyes remained locked with Adelina’s.

“You were never going to ask--” she began, tone pleading.

“I was biding my time,” her prince asserted. “Neither I nor Danica appreciate being rushed.”

“We’re at the bleeding gate!” she countered. “If not now, then when?”

“If we could maybe refrain from shouting?” Rei suggested. “And maybe come out of the tent? We’re making a scene.”

Zane nodded and backed up, holding the tent flap with a magnanimous sweep of his arm.

“Ladies.”

The last thing I wanted to do was face a mixed assemblage of curious serpiente and avians, but I didn’t think hiding in the bedroll with a blanket over my head was an option. I let Adelina help me to my feet, drawing the coolness of her hand into my demeanor. I hoped that maybe, some small of my reserve went to her as well. The shaken woman looked like she needed it.

The sun was well and truly risen, slanting sharply through the trees. It was mid, maybe late morning, but any sleepiness I might have felt was burned away by the singing of my nerves. Time to face the day.

Adelina, to my surprise, stayed on my far side, keeping myself between her and Zane. Rei fell into step on Zane’s other side, the four of us making the short walk to the main central fire and the breakfasts cooking there. Food suddenly sounded wonderful, and not just because it would present further delay. That was simply an added bonus.

Zane handed me down onto a log with as much grace and decorum as he would if it were a dining room chair. The absurdity of it made me smile, which I realized was the goal when he rewarded me with one of his own. I was learning to tell the difference between his pleasantly bland, haughtily mocking, and genuinely pleased smiled. I hoped I got to see the latter one more. It looked good on him, turning an inhumanly beautiful sculpture into something warm and soft and touchable.

And just like that I was blushing again, with merely the hint of thoughts of intimacy.

Zane laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound.

“And here I thought I was being on my best behavior. Courtly manners too forward for you, pretty Danica? You didn’t seem to mind my hands on yours last night.”

I scowled at the abrupt shift in his tone, the venomous suggestion I knew was meant to wound. Was he really mad at me for showing genuine emotion? Well, too bad. He was about to get even more.

“That’s petty, Zane. Don’t threaten my reputation just because you’re unhappy with something.”

Zane blinked, and Adelina laughed. She reached down and squeezed my shoulder, startling me, Zane, and Rei all. That only made her laugh harder.

“Well done, Dani. You’ll handle him just fine.”

“That’s Shardae, to you,” Rei bristled.

Zane opened his mouth, and whatever was going to come out of it was not going to be good. I gave a sharp pierce of a whistle, not thinking, just determined to cut this off before it got any worse.

“Alright! That’s enough.”

Adelina removed her hand, which I was surprised to find I missed, but it was time for me to take the reins while I could. I could invite her to be more informal with me later, if there was a later.

“Adelina brought up a valid point with me Zane; we need to sort out what kind of impression we intend to make.”

For a moment, Zane looked pained, almost like he would plead with me. But he straightened, put his feelings aside, and just like that, I was talking with the Arami of the serpiente, the man who would be king. Like Adelina’s hand, I missed seeing the genuine him, but appreciated his cooperation.

One ego down—and another immediately took its place. Rei fidgeted beside me, and without even making a sound, he was throwing just as much a fit as Zane had. I could ignore him—I should ignore him—but I’d had enough.

“Yes, Andreios?”

“Nothing, Shardae.”

“No, no. Speak your piece. You obviously disapprove of something.”

I watched him pull away from me, drawing his emotions deep inside--only to come rushing back in an even larger wave.

“I do. As your alastair, I take offense to serpents barging into your tent, and taking liberties with your person.”

My mouth dropped open, eyes as wide as the moon. I absolutely could not believe my ears. This was not my Rei. It was so utterly unlike him to be speaking of such personal things in front of company. Had one single evening of kissing really changed him so?

I was suddenly more glad than ever that I’d not let my mother bully me into an announcement last night. I had some reevaluating to do.

“The man I name as my alastair will have to be comfortable with the serpiente way of doing things. I don’t need a hoverhawk. I need a partner, who understands me.”

It pained me to have to speak so bluntly with others listening. I’d have much rather had this discussion in private—or better yet, not at all. This was not my Rei. Unfortunately, I did not have time to deal with him now. And if he really intended to be my alastair, he needed to understand that my people and this peace would have to come first.

Rei’s face went stony, then empty. This time, it was no retreating tide. It was a frozen glacier, his hurt feelings behind a wall of ice for good.

“Of course, Shardae. I don’t approve of it as a guard, either. But Adelina is hand picked by the Arami, and its not my place to question her.”

Just as my words were meant to subtly remind him that he was not yet my mate, his were intended to throw Zane and Adelina’s relationship in my face. It steeled me against pity I might have been feeling before. I had neither time nor patience for this.

“Quite right, Captain.”

I turned my back on him, and my own hurt, and gave all my attention to Zane.

“Please pardon our rudeness, Arami. Now, let’s discuss introducing you to my people.”

The Ties That Bind Tag list: @thehellinsideyourhead @therecouldbecolorsandlove @adventuresofacreesty @writing-with-melon @rainydaydarling @faithfire

Raev’s Gen Tag List (should I tag you guys in this? It IS a thing I wrote. I’m gonna say yes unless you guys are like “no of course not we’re sick of hearing about your stupid fic for a twenty year old book XD)

No one has complained yet so yall gonna keep getting tagged :P

List is currently: @lordkingsmith @writinglyra @drbibliophile @mperialscribe @adie-dee @lexiklecksi @theramwrites @writinginslowmotion @raenawrites @apollon-arium @anika-writes @faithfire @thehellinsideyourhead @adventuresofacreesty

[lanzhans]

Zoya fidgets with the necklace at her collar, a thin gold chain that is all she has left of her mother. It is less of a nervous gesture, more anticipation, and it has been years since she has set foot in this old town. It has changed a bit but not to the point of unrecognition. The cobblestoned path remains the same however, and Zoya is pulled into a reminiscence from her high school days, walking down this same path to the coffee shop on Main Street. Her caffeine addiction still remains but she doubts the coffee from the city is nearly as good as the one from here.

Her breath puffs out into a cloud of moisture and Zoya watches it dissipate. She cannot say she has missed the biting cold of this town but she has grown accustomed to it, something she hasn’t lost even though she hasn’t set foot here in years. It is nostalgic, and it brings a soft smile to her face.

It’s been close to ten years but the high school is still the same. A massive red brick building, covered in spray paint from what the school board had deemed “vandalists''.  Zoya thinks the paint is nice, however, unlike the board, who believe it has marred the school’s exterior, when really it is really quite beautiful. There is a mural of a piano and notes flowing from its keys, and one of a locked heart seeped in darkness. It keeps the school alive, in her very respectable opinion. 

She hears a crackling of leaves behind her and turns to meet a very smug grin, one that she has not expected to meet, one she hasn’t seen in years. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Nazyalensky.”

Nikolai Lantsov.

She does not reply, instead glares at him, mustering all of her get-the-hell-out-of-here energy she has. Zoya has not seen her former next-door neighbor since she went to college and she would have very much liked to keep it that way. But Lantsov shows no notion of leaving, instead he leans against the giant oak tree in the courtyard. “I’m hurt, Nazyalensky,” he continues, mock-wounded. The hurt in his voice is so exaggerated it is comical, fitting to his personality. “You come all the way out here and don’t even visit?” 

“And why on Earth would I do that, Lantsov?” She lifts an eyebrow. She hates that she has to look up to him, given that he was very, very tall and Zoya was, well, not short per se, but tiny by comparison.

His hand very dramatically flies to his heart, and she remembers their high school production of Hamlet, starring none other than the blonde-headed idiot in front of her. It is a pity that the death scene had only been an act. “I’m wounded, tsaritsa.”

And there it is- his childhood nickname for her, a name that she has been called over swing sets and over family dinners pretending to be civil. Zoya suppresses the urge to laugh, but Nikolai picks up on it anyway and gives her a grin that would have melted the heart of any other person. It does not melt hers (she has to deny that there was a corner of her heart that twinges in something akin to endearment seeing the look upon his face). She rolls her eyes, and he picks himself off the ground, brushing dirt that has gotten on his trousers. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asks wryly, finally taking note of his gray suit. 

His all-too-familiar smirk reappears. “Why, only for you, Nazyalensky.”

·☾·

Zoya rummages through her suitcase, silently cursing Genya for telling her to wear something “pretty”. The redhead herself is lounging on Zoya’s bed, red-varnished nails glinting in the afternoon sunlight and her large wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop her playfully messy curls. To anyone who didn’t know her, the look would be casual but Zoya knows that every aspect has been carefully done, though the glasses were likely going to go before they met Genya’s fiance David. 

“Why don’t you pick something yourself?” she asks drily. Genya lifts her head to look at her with appraised eyebrows. 

She adjusts her glasses so they are now framing her deep amber eyes perfectly and joins Zoya to look at her suitcase in distaste. “Well, clearly it seems you are unable to function without my help. How ever do you live without me?” Genya huffs playfully. Zoya resists the urge to make a face at her.

“Luckily, that is a circumstance I will never meet,” she says primly instead. 

“You should be grateful for it, my darling Zoya.” Zoya will never admit it, hell, she’ll deny it a thousand times, but she silently agrees. 

·☾·

Zoya has nearly forgotten the taste of good food, food that is not merely edible but food that is enjoying to eat. It is one of the (now that she thinks about it, many) downsides of living in a large city. Perhaps it is the homesickness she has always denied herself, mixed with a little bit of nostalgia, but it feels like the best dinner she has ever eaten. 

They are sitting in the dining room of Lantsov’s house (though it really can’t be called a house, it is so large that Zoya, despite having visited it countless times, still gets lost. She, Genya, and David have dubbed it “The Little Palace”), and the affair is a mix of casual and formal. It serves as an early high school reunion of sorts, although most of the people present have kept in touch. They mingle regardless, and Zoya can hear laughter and the voices blend all into each other until they are nothing but white noise, fading away...away…

And then they are back again, blaring at full volume and it is too loud, too, too loud and her pulse is racing even though she hasn’t exerted herself. The transition is jarring. Her head suddenly feels like it is splitting apart, cracked down the middle and she is having one of the worst headaches of her life. She fumbles for her purse before realizing that she has borrowed one of Genyas’ for tonight, and none of her medication is in it. 

She curses vehemently. 

A part of her manages to pull together, however, and she is able to make it to the porch and sit on the swing hanging from it. A dry part of her notices that even the swing is fancy. Quite expectant of the Lantsovs, having everything in top quality. It was what they were known for, after all, being the richest people in the town. Though perhaps money didn’t buy everything, considering their relationship with Lantsov. 

Her headache, which had previously dulled a bit, is back in full force and distracts her from her thoughts of the Lantsovs. The pain is splitting, and once again the world feels like too much to handle. Voices from the front yard are rattling in her head like pennies in a glass jar, and quite unfortunately, Zoya’s head is the glass jar. She buries her head in her hands to try and dim the sheer volume of it all but it only helps so much.

Then there is a gentle tapping on her shoulder, and she believes the person is also attempting to speak to her but her head is such a mess she does not register the words. Zoya lifts her head and she is met with a pair of wide hazel eyes reflecting a lit chandelier. “Lantsov,” she attempts to grumble but the words are lost in the noise. He seems to understand what she is attempting to say, however, as he grins at her, that same grin she has seen a thousand times before, but it is somewhat charming in the moonlight. She blames it on her state of mind and not in any part on Lantsov himself. 

He sits what is an awkward distance away from her, clearly attempting to give her space while still being able to be there to check up on her. Zoya grudgingly gives him points for the matter. She looks at him, too tired to speak. Lantsov must be feeling exceptionally perceptive today because he understands her once more and gestures towards the Mercedes parked in the exceptionally large driveway. She nods, and he helps her up, albeit a little awkwardly. 

Her head is still fairly hazy but she seems to have recovered most of her senses. Lantsov lets her choose the music (which wins him more points though Zoya refuses to admit it) and his lips quirk up into an amused smile when he hears the heavy metal. “I didn’t think you’d be into this kind of stuff, tsaritsa.” It is the first thing he has said to her tonight and it is lighthearted, teasing. 

She studies him quizzically. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugs, and Zoya arches her eyebrows. 

Lantsov very suddenly starts laughing. His hazel eyes are alight with mirth, and his laughter turns into very high-pitched wheezing. Zoya mutters a very colorful curse. 

“Lantsov for saints’ sake stop laughing, you're going to get us killed! What on Earth is so funny-”

“I just realized….I don’t…..know…..where to….drop you off……” is what he manages to get out in between bursts of laughter. At this, her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, and she is holding back inane laughter of her own. 

“Why didn’t you just ask, idiot?” Zoya’s voice is shaky, amusement and a hint of endearment evident in her tone. Lantsov gives her no answer, but a sheepish grin spreads across his face. She shakes her head mock-exasperatedly. “I’m staying at Genya’s.” It is an address familiar to both of them, so many high school days have been spent there. 

With the heavy metal blaring in the background, she lets her mind wander to other things, but her thoughts seem to always circle back to the idiot driving next to her. It is strange, she has not seen him in years yet he remains unchanged, the same irritating person she has grown up with. Though perhaps he has lost a little bit of what made him so irritating because looking at him now, she is feeling a little fond. Zoya can remember when they were children, he could always be found at her aunt’s house because he hated staying at home. She’d barely given him the time of day back then, but most of her childhood had been spent with him nonetheless. 

Reminiscing sends a pang of homesickness through heart even though she is here. Zoya is reminded of how much she loves this town. She wishes she had visited more often, and promises herself that she will visit whenever she can. 

The car stops in the driveway of Genya’s house. The headlights illuminate the door in stark contrast to the pitch-black darkness of the night. Zoya steps out of the car, and before she has the time to really think the invitation to come inside tumbles from her mouth in a breathless rush. “Would you like to come inside for coffee?” 

He grins. “Why, of course I’ll join you, Nazyalensky.” 

Genya, of course, is still at the Lantsov manor so it is just the two of them in the house. The first thing Zoya reaches for after slipping off her jacket is the coffee machine, which she shouldn’t considering that it is so late but it has become habit for her. “I see your caffeine addiction hasn’t left you,” Lantsov remarks, a smile in his voice though she doesn’t look up to check.

She doesn’t reply, being too busy with her coffee so he continues. “You know, I think you single-handedly kept the coffee shop running for two years. Half of what I was paid came from your orders.” To this, Zoya huffs, mock-offended, but she is smiling. 

She brings a cup for him too. It is red, with a small fox painted in gold. He takes it from her gingerly and winces slightly when his fingers come in contact with the surface of the hot mug. Lantsov takes a whiff and his nose wrinkles in distaste. “How on Earth do you drink this stuff?”

Zoya gives him a scathing look, and he recoils in mock fear. “Don’t you dare disrespect the coffee.”

Lantsov sighs dramatically. “Only for you, tsaritsa, only for you.” He takes a deep breath, plugs his nose (a gesture which Zoya does not appreciate and she glares daggers at him but he only winks in response) and drains it all in one gulp. Which is a mistake since the coffee is burning hot. 

“Idiot,” Zoya mutters but makes no move to help him. He has dragged himself into this situation after all, and she does not clean up the messes of irritating blonde imbeciles. 

His face does, eventually, return to a color that is not as red as the plastic cherries that the bakeries in the city place on their cakes. She has since then finished her own cup, but unlike him, through careful sips that she somehow does not choke on despite the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. 

He stays longer than he should but neither he nor Zoya entertain the fact that it is very, very late. Hours have slipped away, spent reminiscing. It is nice to just sit here and talk and listen. There are an endless number of things that they talk about, ranging from old memories to their respective jobs. 

Zoya will deny it to her grave but she realizes she has missed him. 

She eventually tires, and when she wakes up, she is met with a Genya’s appraised eyebrows. She realizes that she has been sleeping on Lantsov’s shoulder. He has fallen asleep as well but she makes no motion to wake him.

Genya’s eyes gleam in triumph. “David owes me so much money.”

[shadowdianne]

You wanted a prompt? The blob has a prompt! Cissamione, if that's OK. Boat ride from Azkaban -- both Narcissa and Hermione were there (the reasons are up to you) and share a Tense ride back. Bring on the angst!! (or don't! Maybe you've hit your head and become The Master of Fluff, who knows!)

Sweet sweet blob, fluff? I don’t know her!

Thanks for the prompt tho, Nara. I hope this one it’s to your liking 😉

PS: Some non-canon thingies going your way. JK can suck it. Also, pre-relationship. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

The soggy wood beneath her fingers gave up a fraction of an inch as Hermione grasped into it, eyes lost into the slowly disappearing Azkaban tower, the grey waters lapping mercilessly against the rocking boat that slowly made its way to shore. It didn’t matter how hard or long she stared at her back, however, as she could feel the stormy eyes that had been following her every move ever since she had looked at the enchanted boat with her feet firmly planted into the pebble-covered road that made its sinuous way towards the main entrance of the prison.

She had known what she had agreed to when she had offered up her name when rumors about Narcissa Black being permitted to visit her sister had spread all through the Ministry. Yet, when she had asked for the permit, pulling up the rank her status as one of the Golden Trio gave her, she had felt just as dirty as she now felt the back of her throat to be: as if something had gotten stuck there, a non-said spell, an almost swallowed curse. And now, as the blonde witch kept on looking at her, beyond the sea waters, beyond the invisible set of magical wards they kept on slowly trespassing as they moved away from Azkaban, she felt as if about to implode.

“You don’t need to keep on gloating.”

Narcissa’s voice reached her beyond the sound of the waves as they kept on moving: two witches aboard the only magical way left to reach and return from the dark island. She sounded defeated, tired, and the younger witch pursed her lips at the words, knowing there was very little she could say in order to defend herself. It was, after all, what could be perceived as what she was doing: staring, gloating.

She always had found difficult keeping her mouth shut, however. And knowing she already was halfway into a hopeless discussion couldn’t really make her do it.

“I wasn’t.”

She turned towards the prow of the boat, glancing at Narcissa fully for the first time since they had left the deepest caverns that took their root well beneath ground level back at Azkaban: the humidity of the air visible on the dampened rocky walls. The blonde looked paler than usual, grey tint around her usual ice-like eyes. Back straight, however, hands neatly folded on her lap, the previous Malfoy matriarch still looked very much the nobility-holding title witch she had once been.

A shadow of something close to a sneer colored the rictus on her lips, though, and Hermione couldn’t do anything but roll her shoulders, knowing the conversation they were about to have was long overdue. After all, she had expected to have it such when they first had embarked in that very same boat a few hours prior; with the blindness the still-yet-to-have met up brought with it.

But Narcissa had remained silent then, eyes piercing the horizon rather than Hermione and a part of the brunette had been happy for it. Relieved. It seemed, however, that her luck had run out.

“Don’t even try, I know you insisted on coming, Miss Granger.”

The words didn’t quite hurt as much as the use of her surname. The brunette could remember how their last lengthy conversation had ended: with them waiting, surrounding by press, witches, wizards, mages, as the Lestrange trial started beyond the Wizengamot’s closed doors. She had made a promise, after all. A deal with the devil.

She could remember Narcissa’s eyes then, blue, like gems, as she had tried to feign she wasn’t about to cry with every bit of shame and guilt making them glow with unshed magic. She could remember the way the older witch had broken, like glass against stone, the way she had used her name as she had uttered how she knew it was far too much to ask, for her, who had suffered so much back at Malfoy Manor, for, at least, the ability to be able to visit the dark-haired woman whose fate was already sealed.

And yet, when the resolution had been shared, despite her promise of trying, Hermione had eyed Harry, had eyed Ron, and she had walked away. She hadn’t felt remorse from her decision, but she had seen the eyes, the glances, the magic, the promise taken ahold inside her chest.

Lowering her eyes, she looked back to Narcissa’s fingers, to the way they were pressed together, interlocked, knuckles whiter, magic dribbling through.

“I know you had been insisting on the visit. I wanted…”

She halted there, not knowing what exactly she was supposed to say. She had asked for her being the witch assigned to the task out of a sense of duty she couldn’t quite understand after all. And so, not even explain.

Ron had gurgled out curses when she had shared what Narcissa had asked out of her, with Harry looking at her with that mix of curious and doubtful glimmering its way through his irises. She ought to have felt much more incensed, she had told to herself: the gall the blonde witch possessed of even asking maybe too much for her. Yet, she hadn’t quite reacted to the words, numbness slowly eating her insides while she merely nodded, knowing beforehand she couldn’t really give a straight answer of what she could do.

War wasn’t always about battlefields and dates that became important once they passed: it was the remains what mattered and, by the time of the trials, there were far too much fragmented pieces of her still being rebuilt for her to have been capable of answering the tiniest fraction of a question.

She also knew that Narcissa, deep down, had understood her hesitation. Yet, expecting a logical answer from either of them when Bellatrix was involved was too much on itself. And so, she let her tongue fell flat, firmly between her teeth as she tried to find a way of adding to an already rotten layer of words.

I was concerned.

That was probably the best type of answer, but it implied much more, and Hermione glanced at the foam gathered against the external walls of the boat as the tension kept on mounting: Narcissa’s eyes following her once again. She had, indeed, been concerned. About what could potentially happen to Narcissa, to Bellatrix, to the reunion that had been bound to be difficult from the start.

Because, as they had quickly confirmed, Narcissa’s own necessity of checking that her sister was alright despite her situation, her condemnation, the older Black sister didn’t feel the same. Her screams had followed them both out of the caverns, the expletives as bad as -and even probably worse than- the ones a younger Hermione had once heard in the Black mansion, when she had been little more than a teen and there still had been adults padding the way to war.

She feared what any other mage, any other wizard or witch, would have done with an obviously devastated Narcissa whose divorce had already been long and extraneous enough.

Yet, concern and pity hold the same image when reflected into the Black’s mirror and the brunette knew that it wouldn’t be accepted so she sighed, deeply, while glancing up once more, the shadow of something close to land beginning to extend at Narcissa’s back.

“You had the privilege of a visit. You deserved it.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation and she tensed as Narcissa tilted her head, eyes as piercing as before but a glow of rendition on them. The grey around them had been red before stepping into the boat, the very much mortal and human wardens around the island silently watching as they retrieved their wands from where they had needed to leave them: open mockery and hate on their postures. Hermione knew she should never mention that detail: not in her report, not to anyone else.

Looking away from the brunette for the first time, Narcissa crossed one leg over the other while remaining as upright and as unbothered by the rocky waters as before, pushing the question inside Hermione’s subconscious if she had gotten her clothes magicked in some way.

Ironing lines that weren’t truly there, picking up lint that was indeed invisible, the Black sister sighed, lips pouting for a moment, before she took into Hermione’s form once again.

“And I suppose you are expecting some grateful words due to it.”

The younger witch shook her head. She didn’t deserve them: she had been duplicitous and they both knew it, a way of both shooting the guilt she felt and the words they both had shared during the trials. She wasn’t proud of her decision, but she knew there were worse actions to take.

“But I will ask on being your assigned witch if you ever wish to come back. The permit let you such, if you wished it so.”

And, despite her words, Bellatrix hadn’t said she didn’t want to see her sister anymore so…

The blonde hummed as the boat rocked and stopped, the small bumping motion against the shore the signal they had reached their final destination with more gates to cross until they were considered to be completely clear. Standing, the older woman stepped outside the boat and looked quizzically at Hermione, following her steps while the scent of salt filled their nostrils, seagulls framing her answer.

“I suppose it’s fair. Hermione.”

And so, she turned, her footsteps leaving prints as light as smoke on the wet sand. Her words, however, heavy.

Thank you

[msjr0119]

Hold my girl

Part 2 - Homesick

No one really knows about TRR Main characters past …. Most of this series is based on flashbacks from her childhood. I’ve changed the main characters name to, Freya Johnson as Riley Brooks is used in my other series.

Freya is in love with Drake, but he hasn’t returned the feelings- instead just acts horrible towards her. Will Freya return back to Cordonia with the court or will she stay in the USA after the UN party.

Warnings: swearing

Ive lost my tag list for this series 👎🏻

Just tagging everyone- if you want to be removed let me know 😊

@annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @drakesensworld @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @butindeed @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @pedudley @captain-kingliamsqueen @duchessemersynwalker @insideamirage @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @kozabaji @texaskitten30 @ibldw-main @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @dangerouseggseagleartisan @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs @whenyourheartskipsabeat @jovialyouthmusic @nz1091 @yukinagato2012 @indiacater @seriouslybadchoices @rainbowsinthestorm @cordonianroyalty @custaroonie @beardedoafdonutwagon @dcbbw @qammh-blog

********

Freya got ready for the UN party, although she felt like not attending due to Drake’s attitude towards her. She’s been through heartbreak before, so in the back of her head she knew she’d get over him. If she didn’t attend, there would be questions and gossip regarding her absence. Adding the finishing touches, she was disturbed from her thoughts as Maxwell came bounding into the room.

“Is my lady ready?” Wearing that cheeky grin he always wore, she couldn’t help but laugh before returning to a melancholy expression.

“Yes.” Maxwell wasn’t convinced with her tone of voice that was now matching her facial expression, as she responded to him.

“What’s up blossom? You can tell me anything.”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yes Max, I’m sure. It’s just being back home. The home that I abandoned. The home that I should have stayed at.” She lied, hoping that Max wouldn’t see straight through her. “I just miss my parents too. I saw Daniel before, you know my colleague from the bar. I feel guilty leaving him in the shit- he’s looked out for me ever since we were four. When my parents died, he was my rock.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“Simple. No one asked.” Maxwell felt guilty now too- she was correct. When she came to Cordonia she was the glue that held everyone together- always asking about each and everyone’s past, listening to them ramble on about their self pity. No one had actually asked about her, maybe because she seemed so strong they all believed that she wasn’t hurting deep down. Maybe they believed she was invincible.

“From now on, you want to talk about anything at anytime time of the day- I’m your man. I’m so sorry. But you’re like my sister, I’m always going to be here for you no matter what happens.”

“Even if I decide to stay here?” Asking the rhetorical question, she didn’t want him to provide an answer- she hadn’t made up her mind yet as to where her future would be. “Anyway, come on Lord Beaumont- people will be wondering where we are.”

*****

Arriving at the venue, the two of them walked in arm in arm. The usual gesture for any type of ball. Fixing a fake smile towards the rest of the nobles- scrutinising the room they found Hana.

“Freya! You look amazing.”

“As do you Lady Hana.”

“Are you okay? You’ve been extremely quiet.” Hana asked looking concerned at her friend. She wasn’t the usual Freya they knew.

“Homesick right blossom?” Maxwell confirmed, winking at her. Not wanting to spread gossip even if it was towards Hana. He knew when the time was right, Freya would talk about it to Hana herself.

“Right.” She smiled at Maxwell, hoping he would understand that was her way for saying thank you.

“I’ll be right back Ladies.” Freya and Hana decided to just people watch - both wishing they didn’t attend. There was a morbid atmosphere surrounding them.

“Freya. You look absolutely stunning. Same to you Lady Hana.” Turning around to Liam, she smiled softly- even though he was engaged to Madeleine he still knew how to charm the women.

“Thank you, your Majesty. Welcome back to my city.” The two ladies curtised, Liam shook his head laughing- he treat them both as close friends, he didn’t expect them both to curtsy every time they spoke.

“It’s good to be back.”

“Freya is feeling a bit homesick.”

“Oh. Well maybe we could all do something together after the party finishes. What would you suggest?”

“Well you’re in the city that never sleeps. There’s a few things you could do.. Times Square, a walk around Central Park. I’ll let you all come to a conclusion. As a local I’ve done everything a billion of times.”

“Very well, excuse me- duty calls.”

Hana watched Liam walk away and her eyes caught Maxwell waving frantically towards them. Walking over to him, they could see the panic written across his face as well as sweat dripping from him forehead.

“Hana, Frey thank goodness you are both here.”

“What have you done? You’re acting very suspicious.” Maxwell explained how he got the country flags all mixed up and in a flap he couldn’t concentrate on rectifying his mistake. Drake confirmed this and elaborated on what else he had done incorrectly in a sarcastic manner of tone- as if Maxwell was some kind of idiot. Mistakes happen.

“Oh Maxwell.” The Ladies said in unison. Freya had avoided all contact with Drake until now- she knew she was stubborn, after all he always got ‘lumbered’ with her.

“How about you Sir Walker? Caused any diplomatic disasters yet?” She asked in a sarcastic manner, revenge for him talking the way he did about Maxwell.

“Johnson. Can we speak in private please?” Just apologise to her, that will be the first step.

“Whatever you need to say you can say in front of Max and Hana.” Maxwell and Hana looked at each other, they knew Drake wasn’t the type of person to need to speak to someone in private.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” Hana ran off towards the bathroom. Freya knew Hana, and she knew this was an excuse. At least she had Maxwell she thought.

“I need to check up on Bertrand.”

Not you too, for fuck sake. Freya thought.

“You look lovely. I just wanted to apologise for before.”

“Thank you. Apology accepted. Excuse me.”

“Why are you so stubborn?” Freya raised her eyebrows, thinking about how much of a hypocrite he sounded right now.

“Why are you such a jerk?”

“You know what, ignore what I said. I’ll leave you alone. I shouldn’t have apologised.”

“Have a good life Walker.” A good life? What’s she going to do ignore me for the rest of her life. Just tell her you love her you moron.

******

Leaving Drake, Freya decided to mingle with the guests- trying to regain her courtly friendships prove that she wasn’t the person that she had been stereotyped as. Adelaide waved her over, holding the bottle of champagne ready to pour it into Freya’s empty glass.

“Duchess Adelaide, it’s so lovely to see you.”

“As you dear, now I know technically we shouldn’t be allies- but I think you’re good for court. I’ve been watching you and I believe that you have gained many friendships during your time. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your grace. Some friendships, some enemies- but that is life.”

“Tell me some things about you. I’d love to know the real Freya Johnson.” Feeling slightly tipsy, what had she to lose? The more she thought about it the more she didn’t care anymore. After much deliberation, she had decided that she wasn’t returning to Cordonia- so the gossip about her may as well spread like wild fire. Who’s best to spill all her secrets out to? Duchess Adelaide- the gossip girl.

“The real me.. let’s see... my life has been a rollercoaster. I’m not American, well I am but I was actually born in England. I was adopted after my birth mother tragically passed away due to an overdose, then my adopted parents passed away when I was a teenager. I’m a qualified nurse- so if there are any medical disasters I’m your girl. There you have it. Nothing much more to say.” Adelaide for the first time was speechless, not knowing what to say- wondering if anyone else knew or had she just confessed all of this due to the drunk mind.

“Oh dear, you have been through so much. I didn’t know. Regina and Madeleine have painted such a negative image of you. Now you have this scandal hanging over you. If you ever need to talk we can talk over wine. Just let me know.”

“Thank you. Excuse me. I’ll have to mingle with some other people - but i will take you up on that offer at some point.” Lying knowing she would never take the Duchess up with this offer, she left keeping her head held high.

******

The champagne was being swallowed easy as if it was water, slowly beginning to affect her. Finding Maxwell, he explained how he had accidentally hit the Turkish ambassador with some bruschetta- regretting missing the scene, she comforted him. Freya then noticed Drake in the corner, her drunk mind was encouraging to jump into his arms- she had a school girl crush on him even if he was an ass with her- always getting ‘lumbered’ with her.

“Why do you keep giving Drake dirty looks, then change it to a swoon?”

“Max shut up please.”

“Am I missing something here? I thought you was feeling down because we were back in New York?”

“It’s me that’s missing something- I’m missing brain cells. I’m in love with him and he hates my guts Max.” Maxwell tried to gain her attention by waving his hand next to his neck.

“In love with who?” The familiar voice asked as he crept up to the two friends.

“Oh, erm. Daniel. My ex colleague. I’m in love with him, in a best friend kinda way- always have been we’ve known each other since we were four. I saw him before and he’s still pissed that I abandoned him without any goodbye.”

“Oh, I see. Why do you look sheepish Maxwell?”

“Erm. Erm. Well the truth is Liam.... I just threw bruschetta all over the Turkish ambassador. Freya here, was just explaining that she lost her brain cells that day she left here, and that Daniel is mega pissed still.” Feeling thankful that Maxwell had agreed with her impromptu excuse- she knew he was going be demanding questions once they were alone.

“Very well. Don’t worry Lady Freya, I’m sure he will forgive you in time. I’ll see you both soon.”

Watching Liam leave, Maxwell grabbed her hand- leading her out of the venue and up to the rooftop for some privacy.

*****

“So?”

“So?” Freya mimicked Maxwell, in an annoying tone of manner, knowing he was going to be persistent until she told him the truth- the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Come on blossom, you can’t drop a bombshell like that then not talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to say Max, I’m stupidly in love with someone who would never return the feelings.”

“When did you....you know gain feelings for him?”

“Honestly, probably Lythikos I started to fall for him. I know I was supposed to fall Liam, and I did try - honestly I did Max. Then when I was thrown out of the coronation- I knew I was madly in love with Drake Walker. We have this love/hate relationship. Sometimes he’s a good friend, then he’s an arrogant pig...”

“Have you told him?” Shaking her head, she began to cry before composing herself. “When you guys were sleeping before, I saw him and we went shopping then ended up in my old bar. I told Daniel that Drake was ‘my hot date’ and he looked disgusted at me. Said that ‘he didn’t like me that much and always got lumbered with me’. Asking him if he couldn’t take a joke and asking why he was an ass with me- he was just cruel. So I left him- Max there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Shoot! I said I was always here for you. Drake’s just being Drake.”

“I know. Erm. I’ve been thinking a lot since we arrived back here...” Maxwell looked concerned, not knowing what she was going to say- but vibes were informing him that it wasn’t positive. “I don’t think I’m going to return to Cordonia. I’ve had a fantastic time, meeting you all- I’ve loved every second of it even with the scandal- life has to have that bit of drama in it right?”

“What? No you have to come back! You’re my sister. Fuck Drake. Please tell me it’s not to do with Drake? You have me and Hana.. and Bertrand... and Liam...”

“Max I will come and visit, I promise. But I can’t be around someone that I love who doesn’t return the feelings. I can’t be around Liam when he has confessed that he loves me. I’m a qualified nurse Max, earlier on I applied for a job in Vegas.”

******

Maxwell escorted Freya back to the hotel after her heart to heart with him. Furious that she didn’t want to return because of one person especially. Heading back to the party- everyone tried to reach out to him wondering where Freya was. His mind was set on finding Drake and giving him a piece of his mind. Anger building up inside of him- he knew he had to escort Drake somewhere private.

“Walker. I need a word. Follow me.” Drake looked bewildered to Maxwell’s out of character personality- he had never witnessed him looking like he was about to explode.

“What’s up Beaumont?”

“You see here? I’ve just had Freya emotionally break down here, confess things to me that I never knew about.”

“So what? Where is she anyway? You’re usually both glued to each other. At least I’m not lumbered with her tonight.” Drake needed to keep his feelings towards her a secret- knowing that everyone was trying to clear her name, if they managed to do this Drake knew that Liam would instantly propose to her. Before he could think about it anymore- he felt Maxwell’s fist against his jaw.

“She’s gone back to the hotel crying over you! I’ve lost my sister because of you. What has she ever done to you? I hope your jaw hurts, but it won’t be as much pain as what she’s going through!”

“Why have you lost her because of me? She was probably drunk, hence why she was emotional. She’s done nothing wrong to me Max.... it’s all a facade.” Drake rubbed his jaw- before furrowing his eyebrows. Maxwell noticed the change in expression before Drake elaborated. “The truth is... once her name gets cleared, Liam is going to propose to her. If she had any brain she would say yes...”

“No, she wouldn’t say ‘yes’ Drake. She’s madly in love with you.”

“I’m a nobody Max, she may think she loves me but she will soon realise it was never me that she apparently loves. I keep acting like a jerk, to push her away from me- because I don’t want to get hurt, or get my ‘ice cold heart’ shattered when she marries the King. I’m a jerk that is madly in love with Freya Johnson.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

He’s never felt a pull like this, a tug on his powers, on his soul. It’s like he’s sensing someone in need, someone who might be worthy of being offered wishes - but it’s not a human. It’s a bigger, older soul. He’s unsettled, to say the least, at the thought of someone powerful needing help so badly.

Nadeem sets out without a moment’s hesitation, walking through semi-crowded streets with little anxiety at the number of people close by. No one seems to be hurt; there are no bodies folded up on the ground, hungry and pleading for help. Who can it be that he senses? He passes shops on his left and stands where elders sell their wares on his right as he gets closer to the end of the town’s main street.

He hears it before he sees anything alarming. Crying. It’s sort of muffled, as if they’re crying into their sleeve, or into someone they’re hugging. There are hitched breaths and soft miserable sounds mixed in, and they remind Nadeem of how he sobbed in the human’s cellar, willing to be loud and messy with his despair because he knew no one would hear him.

As he rounds a corner, he comes upon someone on the ground, their hands hiding their face, knuckles pressed to the cobblestones. He sees dark skin, and light hair, and fine, loose clothing - a djinn. A dirty, crying djinn, crumpled to the ground and feeling so alone that he could sense their need from halfway across town.

From the slight frame and the pitch of the crying he gathers that it’s one of his Sisters. His soul aches for her; Nadeem falls to his knees at her side, only a faint twinge of stress striking in his chest at lowering himself in a way that his kind would scoff at him for.

“What is it, Sister?” He asks, touching her back lightly. “Why do you weep?”

It was a mistake to touch her. The other djinn flinches away from his voice and shifts her weight away from his hand, still hiding her face. “Leave, leave me alone, I want to be alone,” She gasps brokenly.

“I won’t leave you. Why do you hide? Sister, if you’re hurt -”

“Please go, Brother, I - I am no longer a djinn.”

What? Nadeem frowns, turning his emotions over in his head as he puzzles over what that could mean. There are scrapes along her arms, there is dirt etched into her tunic. She was harmed. He understands better than anyone how that can make one feel unworthy, unholy, deeply wrong… but one instance alone of being hurt usually isn’t sufficient to make a djinn give up.

Her face. She’s still hiding it. Nadeem pales, a chill running down his back. “Sister, your markings…?”

The other djinn lets out a jagged sob and starts to sit up, lowering her hands from her face. Blood stains her forehead, dripping down from where it crossed her temples; she must have been lying on the ground when the bloodflow started. It seems that small swirls and lines have been cut through and around her markings, unable to affect their tie to her soul and powers but still scarring her. They’ll heal and be raised, unusual marks, impossible to hide. To other djinns it will read, look what I let humans do to me.

“I see,” Nadeem says softly, doing his best not to stare. After a pensive moment, he raises a hand to touch his own markings. “Do you not recognize me by my markings, Sister? Mine have been changed as well. It didn’t hurt as much as what happened to you, but… a knife was not used. It changed them.”

The other djinn’s arctic blue eyes flick up to his markings and follow the curves, blinking at the unusual additions. She can see them now, the places where someone filled in the natural gaps with arbitrary designs. “What does it feel like?”

“It was uncomfortable at first. Very frightening, as well, I was deeply upset. But with enough time, I grew used to them. I even think they’d look incomplete without the… the changes.”

A faint sound from the street makes her go tense, her eyes flicking to the end of this little side-street. “If others see…”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Nadeem nearly blurts, then takes a deep breath. “You were hurt. It is not weakness to have been hurt. Please - come here.” The djinn leans forward, hands lying palm-up on his knees, eyes catching hers and holding her attention.

“You can’t,” She hisses, alarmed by his offer. “I am - if others see -”

“You’re perfectly worthy,” He argues, and then watches her expectantly. After a tense moment, she matches his position, kneeling directly in front of him and laying her hands in his. She leans forward, and their foreheads touch, markings against markings.

“I’m sorry,” Comes her whisper, as if he must be regretting this simple act already.

Nadeem closes his eyes, since she has already. This gesture is like a hug, with less touch and more meaning - or a kiss, sharing only camaraderie and nothing more. Fragile, patient, steadying. “We’re worthy. You are. You’ll heal, you’ll be strong, you’re no less of a djinn for it. Just breathe with me, Sister. It will be alright.”

~

Days after finding the bleeding djinn, after returning home to wash the blood from his face and to stay up late thinking about her morose words, Nadeem feels drained. A deep exhaustion has taken over him, but he can hardly sleep. The logical solution to such a problem, feeling like his physical form isn’t quite functioning to suit his needs, is to go into his vessel, to rest his soul for a short time.

Dark, slender fingers grip around the glass of his vessel, tremors making the little bottle shake. He can’t get in. It must be broken, somehow, although the cracks that once spiderwebbed up the side of it have mended themselves and he’s had no problems with it since.

Why won’t his vessel work? He is Nadeem, and this vessel was made for him, for only him. His mere existence grants him the unrestrained ability to escape into this little magical world. For it to refuse his entry - to remain cold and lifeless as he tries to coax it into breathing the cool blue mist of his life force - he must not be himself. Nadeem must no longer be Nadeem, or - or no longer a djinn. What has changed him in such a way?

It must be the djinn that he helped days ago, his Sister. He didn’t even know that touching markings with a… with a damaged djinn could hurt him. He thought was only superstition, only prejudice against those not deemed to be pure.

What did she do to deserve being tainted like that? Why did his helping her mark him as unworthy? It’s not fair! Why is it good and just to offer three wishes to a rich man, but wrong and pitiful to be hurt, to lower himself into the dirt and help those who are hurt like he once was? Why does showing love for one of his kind stain him when all that torture at the hands of a human brought him was disdain from his Brothers?

Nadeem folds his knees up to his chest and clutches hard at his vessel, pressing it against his chest as if to get it as close to his soul as he can. He belongs in there, away from the touch of the human world, but he isn’t allowed anymore. He must finally be too tainted to be a djinn, too unusual to fit in among humans. That must be it, the last touch to his growing unholiness: showing empathy.

[lurafita]

Obsession - Chapter 3

Read the prologue here: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184483191964/obsession-prologe

Chapter 1: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184510347369/obsession-chapter-1

Chapter 2: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184622702054/obsession-chapter-2

Obsession – Chapter 3

 “Okay Parker, try to top this. My first couple today: the guy orders a plain hamburger and the woman with him a hamburger ketchup only, right? So, I serve them and am about to go to my next table, when they call me back. The man says he ordered it plain but got ketchup and the girl says she wanted ketchup but got a hamburger plain. Apparently I mixed up the plates when I set them down. Big deal, right? So they look up at me like I had ruined their whole meal. I bent down again and picked up the plates, walked around to the other side of their table, and then set the plates down again, this time in the right order. The guy goes 'That's better. You be more careful in the future, young man. Not everyone is as understanding as us.' I have no idea if they were trolling me, or if it really didn't occur to them to just switch the plates themselves.”

His fellow waiter said, as he struggled out of his work uniform and into his usual street clothes. Peter laughed as he did the same.

“Sorry Brian, but prize for 'worst customers of the shift' is definitely mine tonight. I had just asked this sweet looking elderly lady if there was anything else I could do for her, she says no, so I continue on my way through my section. I haven't even taken five steps away from her table, when she throws her teaspoon at my head. Turns out she wanted to see the dessert card again, and couldn't be bothered to think of this two seconds before, when I specifically asked her, or just call out to me to come back. She did this two more times. I was this close to replacing her cutlery with a plastic spork, though she would have probably thrown her glass at me then. When she finally demanded the check, via spoon to my head, of course, she gave me a tip of exactly ten cents, and wrote on the receipt that I needed to be more attentive to my guests.”

Brian laughed as well (because in this business, you either learned to take people's atrocious behavior with humor, or you developed an ulcer from all the repressed anger)

“Fine, you win on account of flying silverware. You gonna be in tomorrow?”

Peter shook his head as he finished putting his work clothes into his locker and grabbed up his backpack. He noticed that one of the straps needed to be taped together again, the old duct tape beginning to peel off.

“Nah, man. I need to finish an assignment for my main, so I traded shifts with Becky. I'll be here for the late shift on Friday.”

Brian grimaced in sympathy. “Damn, my condolences, man. All those nine to five, Monday to Friday people ready to cut loose.”

Peter let out a forlorn sigh. “Tell me about it. Friday's are the worst.”

The two left the restaurant through the back door, thankfully being able to navigate the narrow alley easily by now, as it was already dark outside and the lamp that was supposed to light up the backstreet, had been shattered a long time ago. The two walked together, bantering friendly with each other, until they reached an intersection.

“Well, see you later, Pete. Good luck on Friday, try not to let yourself get groped too much!”

“Like anyone has ever been able to work a Friday night without a bruised butt to show for it. Later!”

They bumped their fists together in farewell, before Brian went right and Peter turned left down the street.

He was exhausted. While it hadn't been a particularly busy shift at the restaurant, Peter had had a very early class this day, as well as two tutoring sessions in between his afternoon lectures. Thank god their manager had taken pity on them and closed the restaurant thirty minutes earlier than usual. Now Peter might just make it home before midnight. It was a bit of a walk to his and his aunts apartment, but the restaurant paid it's workers above minimum wage and the tips were usually pretty decent as well. So the almost fifty minute travel on foot was well worth it. Also, the lengthy walk presented a chance for him to go through his mental check list and think through the assignments he still needed to hand in, as well as his schedule for the next few days.

So deeply in thought was he, that he didn't notice the group of six men that followed him into the alley he used as a shortcut.

Until he was suddenly grabbed by his shoulder and spun around and against the dirty wall to his right. His eyes widened in fear when he looked at the group of rough looking men in front of him.

“Now what do we have here? Out for a late night stroll, little lamb?”

The brunette resented that remark. He was not a 'little lamb', okay? Just because he had a bit of a baby face and wasn't as brawny and muscly and tall and intimidating and rough looking and... on second though, he got it. He pressed himself further into the brick wall at his back, when the man in front of him, (the apparent leader of the group) slowly pulled a jackknife out of his pocket. He held his hands up defensively.

“U-uhm,... hey,... uh.. look, I don't want any trouble, okay? If, if it's money you want, I d-don't have much, but you can have it! Okay? There is totally n-no need for any violence.”

The man in front of him and his compatriots grinned widely and dangerously at that.

“Oh really? Well then, why don't we-”

“Hey! I called the police! Drop the knife and get away from him!” Was suddenly shouted from the entrance to the alley. The group of thugs looked at each other, at Peter, and then at the figure that was speedily making their way towards them.

“This isn't worth the trouble, let's scram!”

And just like that, the six would-be robbers ran the other way, out of sight.

Peter's knees nearly buckled with relief, and he hastily bent over and breathed deeply.

“Oh thank god...”

“Hey, you okay there?”

He almost flinched at the words, before realizing that his timely rescuer must have reached him while he was fighting off his shock.

“Yeah,.. yeah, I'm... I'm okay. I'm... thank you. Thank you so much! I-”

“Hey, hey, breathe. It's alright. All safe now, okay?”

The male voice was deep and calming, and as a strong hand started stroking his back in comforting circles, Peter slowly managed to relax. He took a long breath, and then straightened back up.

“Thank you, again. I... I don't even know why this stuff still gets to me like this. This is hardly the first time I have been mugged.”

It was hard to make out detailed features in the dim light of the alley (all Peter knew regarding his rescuers appearance so far, was that he was a bit taller than himself, a lot broader than himself, and had a beard), but he noticed how the man in front of him stiffened at his words.

“You have been assaulted before?”

Peter shook his arms out, feeling like he needed to move a little, to get rid of what was left of his shock.

“Well, I wouldn't call it assault. I mean, if you just give them your money, they leave you alone. Sometimes they don't even get their weapons out.”  He almost didn't notice when the man wrapped a supportive arm around his waist and steered him out of the dark alley and to the main road. He let himself follow the others lead easily, thankful for the strong arm around him, as his knees were still a little shaky. He just kept rambling. “So, nobody gets really hurt. But, yeah, muggings are pretty common here, especially when it's this late at night. I know this sounds bad, and it kinda is. But I'm really, really glad that you were there, because I really need the money I made tonight to buy some parts to repair that stupid heater in the apartment, since the landlord refuses to acknowledge that there is a problem with it. And the forecast said to expect a cold wave for next week, and my aunt just got over her bout with the flu.” They had at this point made it to the well lit street, and Peter was finally able to get a real look at the man who saved him, while the slowly decreasing adrenaline continued to make him spit out a horrendously embarrassing amount of word vomit. “So, really, I'm so very, very grateful to y-”

The following words got stuck in his throat.

That was Tony Stark.

He had been saved from being mugged by Tony Stark, and then made an absolute fool of himself by babbling like the complete idiot he truly was. Oh god. That thug should have just stabbed him, at least he wouldn't have embarrassed himself by bleeding out on the ground. Then again, if anyone could make a fool of himself while dying, it would be Peter Parker.

And now Tony Stark was looking at him weirdly. Oh god, he hadn't said any of that out loud, had he?!

“Are you okay, Peter?”

As soon as the name slipped out, Tony wanted to kick himself. He wasn't supposed to know Peter's name yet!

“I-I,... yeah, I,... you are Tony Stark... you are one of the brightest minds of this century and I just... I uhm. I uh, hi. … Hi, I'm Peter Embarrassed. PARKER! Oh, my, god. I'm Peter Parker. And really embarrassed. Hi.”

Tony almost sighed in relief. It seemed Peter hadn't noticed his little slip. He smiled.

“Hello Peter Embarrassed Parker. I'm Tony Stark, but you already know this.” He couldn't help but tease a little, and he relished in the deeply red blush that overtook the brunettes face.

The younger man then buried his head in his hands.

“You know, I should just legally change my name to this? It would be accurate, at least.”

Tony snickered, and then gently pried Peter's hands away.

“Don't worry about it. I would pick the embarrassed, tousle haired, cute guy, over the usual reaction my name inspires, every day. It's very charming.”  Which wasn't an exaggeration at all. The last rabid Tony Stark fan he had encountered during the Stark Expo, had ripped his shirt off and thrown himself bodily at the genius.

He didn't think it was possible for Peter to blush even more, but there you go. Damn, he really was cute.  But even Peter's adorably flustered self couldn't change the fact that it was well past 11 pm, and there was a chill wind out. And Peter was only wearing a thin jeans jacket. Tony really needed to get the precious thing home.

“You probably already figured that out, but that bit about me calling the police was a bluff. Which means there is no reason for us to keep standing around here. So, where to?”

He gestured to the sleek, red sports car that was parked, only a few feet from them, along the sidewalk. (Was the hot rod red polish a bit much? Possibly. Were the golden hubcaps a bit much? Definitely. But what could Tony say? He wasn’t a very subtle man) Peter's eyes widened dramatically, when they landed on it, and he quickly shook his head.

“Oh, no, Mr. Stark. I couldn't possibly make you drive me home after everything you have already-” But Tony nipped this in the bud right away.

One finger placed over his lips had Peter all but holding his breath. Tony looked directly into the deep, brown eyes before him, his voice just a touch lower than before.

“Let me drive you home, Peter.”

He didn't remove his finger from the soft lips until the younger man nodded his head slightly, and instantly missed touching them.

He would taste those lips soon enough.

He guided Peter, hand gentle but firm on the small of the brunettes back, to the passenger side of his car and opened the door for him. Peter tried once more to feebly protest.

“Really, Mr. Stark, you don't have to-” and was just as easily rebuffed as the first time.

“I insist. Wouldn't do to have kept you from being mugged by those guys, just to give someone else a chance on the rest of your way home now, would it?”

He narrowly kept himself from buckling Peter in, that might have been just a bit too much at this stage of their relationship acquaintance, and simply shut the door when Peter was seated. He quickly walked around the hood of the car, glancing covertly through the windshield to see as chocolate brown eyes stared in amazement at the luxurious furnishings of the car’s inside. Peter's reactions were so endearingly genuine. Then he was behind the wheel, forgoing the seat belt as he usually did, and started the engine.

“Where do you live?”

He knew, of course, but he could not allow himself to slip up again. He had gotten lucky the first time. So he waited for Peter to rattle off the address and pulled onto the street.

“So, how come you were out so late in the first place, especially in an area where people regularly get robbed?”

Again, Tony already knew this, but he wanted to get Peter talking a bit more. It would help alleviate the younger man's nervousness, and also, Tony enjoyed the sound of the youngers voice very much. He listened contentedly as Peter told him about his job as a waiter at the 8 Islands restaurant, which he had taken on to help his aunt pay the bills, while he studied at Berkeley college in New York. Skillfully asking questions about topics he knew Peter would answer passionately to, Tony relished in the conversation they were having. While most of the the things Peter 'revealed' to him, were already known by Tony, the simple act of talking with the younger man was so... so... He didn't know how to describe it. Though Peter was still a bit embarrassed and rather shy, he answered all of Tony's inquiries openly and honestly. Honesty was such a rare treat for Tony to come across. People always tried to make themselves out to be more interesting, more daring, more experienced, more smart, just overall more than they truly were. The billionaire couldn't remember the number of fake personas he had met in his life, who would tell him all the things that they thought he wanted to hear, that they believed he would find alluring, just for all of it to come crashing down at a later time.

But Peter was different.  He freely admitted that he personally didn't hold more than a passing interest in mechanical engineering, though still admired the progress that Tony had made in the field. No false praise along the lines of: 'Oh, Tony, you are the most genius man on this earth.' even though it was readily apparent that the person knew nothing about what Tony even did.  How often had Tony heard things like: 'Oh, Tony, I was so fascinated by your presentation of the latest Starkphone design.', even though the person had no idea what the terms 'Interface', 'CPU' or 'AMOLED' meant.

Peter didn't try to make himself seem perfect, or flawless. “I should have known that those chemicals wouldn't mix the way I needed them to, and I would have, had I just taken the time to research them properly. But I was just being a brat. Totally full of myself, thinking I knew better than the teacher. So, yeah, that literally exploded in my face. I definitely deserved having to clean it all up myself.”

How often did people just try to skirt around their own accountability? How often did they try to shrug off any responsibility for their own actions? How often had Tony heard the phrase: 'Well, that wasn't my fault.' and 'Well, someone else messed up.' or 'Well, I couldn't be expected to account for that.'

Peter was curious, but not invasive. He asked Tony questions about one of his current projects, but didn't even try to pry into his private life. (Though Tony would gladly allow him to) One would think this common decency, to not ask deeply personal questions of someone you had known for barely five minutes. But normal etiquette rules didn't apply to famous people. Be it reporters shoving their microphones in his face, screaming questions at him about how his break up with Virginia Potts would impact the future of Stark Industries; or the runway model that approached him in a club, asking if it was true that he was into orgies; or any random person he would come across anywhere, feigning sympathy while inquiring how his rehab was going.

Peter was a rambling fountain of scientific curiosity (and maybe he had a little oversharing problem), but he was respectful and polite and sweet.

Tony had already purposely taken three wrong turns, just to extend their time in the car together that little bit longer. But all good things had to come to an end, and soon Tony parked his car on the side of a dilapidated looking apartment building. Which meant that now it was time for part two of his plan.

“I really can't thank you enough, Mr Stark. Not anyone would have done what you did, you know? I just,... if there is any way I can make it up to you...”

Most people in Peter's situation right then, would have said this in a tone of voice that suggested a sexual favor in payment for the good deed. Would have moved their body in an alluring way, would have licked their lips seductively, would have touched his arm or thigh in a clear indication of what they had in mind.

But not Peter. Peter was genuine in his gratitude. Peter really just wanted to find a way to thank the man who helped him. No ulterior motives, no underhandedness.

And he had played right into Tony's hand. 

He killed the engine and turned to the younger man.

“Well, if you are that hellbent on thanking me, there is actually something you could do for me.”

Peter nodded eagerly. “Anything.”

And oh, what delicious, debauched, fantastical images ran through his mind at that word. Anything.

But he shook such thoughts off. It wasn't time for that yet.

“See, there is this charity event coming up, and I just know that it's going to be dreadfully boring, just as these things always are.” He rolled his eyes for effect, before fixing them on Peter again. He allowed himself to be a bit daring, and brought his hand up to cradle the side of Peter's face in it. “Being in the company of such a delightfully brilliant young man as you, would surely make it much more bearable. So, wanna be my plus one?”

Tony had no idea whether it was the sudden physical contact, or the matter of the question itself, but his gorgeous sweetheart looked completely overwhelmed.

“I... I couldn't... I... but I'm just... “

It seemed the only words Peter was capable of forming right then, and Tony decided not to give him the chance of coming up with a reasonable excuse to decline the invitation. He softly stroked his thumb along the heated skin of the others reddening cheekbone.

“Of course you can. Here, give me your phone number, I will send you all the details tomorrow.” Peter drew his phone out of his pants pocket on autopilot, and Tony snatched it up with his other hand, before the sweet thing regained enough of his faculties to register what he was doing. He quickly called himself with Peter's phone (and used the connection to install a cloning program on it, that he had prepared before hand.) “When are you free to go to a tailor? I bet you would look ravishing in a smart suit.”

Peter didn't answer, still caught between trying to find the words to convince the older man that he was not 'important-charity-event' material, and the hypnotizing sensation of having a rough, strong thumb running along his cheekbone. The sudden click of his seat belt releasing, and the slight pressure of his phone being pressed back into his hand, partly brought him back to reality.

Mr Stark smiled at him.

“Let me walk you to the door, Peter. I need to make sure you make it all the way home safely, don't I?”

And before Peter really knew how he had even gotten out of the car, he was two steps away from the door to his and aunt May's apartment complex, his phone clutched in his hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, and Mr Stark's arm once again solidly wrapped around his waist.

The man steered him the last two steps before the buildings entrance, and then leaned down to his ear.

“Open the door, Peter.”

And Peter did, fishing his keys out of the side pocket of his backpack and unlocking the door, all in quick succession, not even thinking about it. As soon as the door sprung free of its lock, Mr Stark tightened his arm around his waist, giving him a slight squeeze.

“Good boy.”

Peter blamed the shudder that ran through his body right then on the cold wind.

Then the arm around his waist carefully turned him to face the taller man, while also maneuvering him through the opened doorway and into the entrance hall.

“I will contact you tomorrow.” The arm was gone from his waist, but the hand was suddenly back on the side of his face, and the thumb was again stroking lightly over his cheek.

“Go to sleep now, Sweetheart.”

Had he really heard that? Had Tony Stark really just called him, little nobody Peter Parker, Sweetheart? But before he could think even further on this, there was the sensation of a pair of lips on his other cheek.

“Sweet dreams, Peter.”

“Y-You t-too, M-Mr S-Stark.” He somehow managed to stammer out, while bringing a hand up to the cheek that had just been kissed by the genius engineer in front of him. The same genius engineer who then smiled sweetly at him.

“Call me Tony.”

He could not do that. He could not possibly be that informal with someone of Mr Stark's stature.

“Sweet dreams... T-tony.” How the hell had he done that?

And then Tony smiled at him again, and as he leaned into the entrance way, Peter didn't know if he expected to be kissed again on the cheek, or maybe this time on the lips, or for Tony to follow him in, but what he certainly didn't expect, was for the other man to grab hold of, and then close the door. 

As the 24 year old Berkeley student stood there, staring at the closed door, unmoving for a whole 31 seconds, he couldn't decide if he was relieved, or disappointed that Tony hadn't kissed him again.

Making his way back to the car, Tony felt like whistling to himself. This had gone exceptionally well. More so, the way Peter had reacted to him had trumped all of his expectations. It had been perfect. So perfect in fact, that not even the sight of Barnes leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest and looking absolutely unimpressed, could dampen Tony's mood right then.

He grinned at the man.

“Gotta hand it to Natasha, you really are good. Since when have you been following me?”

He wasn't even perturbed about not having spotted the man sooner. Just thinking about that shudder that had gone through Peter when he had called him a 'good boy', as well as the easy way Peter had followed his lead, killed any annoyance he might have felt otherwise right at the spot.

The bodyguard shrugged. “Since you left the tower. Without telling anyone. Again.”

Interestingly enough, Barnes didn't seem all that annoyed by that, either.

“You know there are easier ways to ask someone out, than to hire a group of thugs to stage a mugging, right?”

Tony scoffed as he climbed into his car, only a little surprised when Barnes got in on the other side.

“I didn't hire anyone. Diego and his little gang still owed me.” He turned the key in the ignition, giving the gruff looking man next to him a questioning look.

“Don't you have to get your bike or something? Or did you follow me all the way on foot?”

Again, the other man just shrugged.

“It's taken care of. Should I be preparing a security detail for Mr Parker?”

Tony was almost impressed by Barnes knowledge of Peter, but then again, he probably shouldn't be. After all, this was the man that Natasha had recommended.

“Yeah. As I have very recently discovered, this part of the city is even more unsafe than I thought. But get someone discreet. Or better yet, you do it. Natasha is scheduled to arrive back tomorrow, which should free you up some. I don't want Peter knowing that he is being watched protected. At least not yet.”

Barnes only nodded, and Tony decided he liked the man.

tbc.

I have simply added everyone who has commented on previous chapters to the tagging list. If I have forgotten anyone, or if you at any point loose interest in the story and don’t want to be tagged any more, just let me know.

@professional-fangirl75 @djspooky-jim @the-neon-demon @itfeelssogoodmrstark @haylove5 @unknownshadyperson @diamondheart31 @spadestorm696 @starkravingspiders @goldenbadass @hoe4parker @harmonystarker @kawaiiloverofanimu @httpkye 

[fantroll-purgatory]

World: Alternia

Name: Eunoma Lesedi

(The Greek goddess of law and legislation, name translates to good order/governance according to good laws + the word for light in South African)

Age: 9.5 sweeps

Theme/Story: Law/Politics/Mutation? I think I just thought it was a cool idea for a mutation and liked the backstory I came up with for her

She is a rare fuchsia with an even rarer mutation, which would under normal circumstances entitle her to a culling. That is had she not been taken pity on by her mother. She had no idea why she showed her such kindness. It was probably a combination of the similarity of her look to that of the rainbow drinker and the opportunity for the mother to insure a proper ruler was raised for a change. She was raised in the caverns by her jade guardian with other jades acting as sisters but now that she is old enough to take care of herself she has been sent off to live in an old abandoned desert hive which long ago belonged to a jadeblood who raised a virgin mother grub like Kanaya. It is deep enough in that sandy deathtrap that she doesn’t have to worry about anyone finding her. It gets pretty lonely and she misses her mom and sisters but it also allows her to focus on her work and studies. (There is A L  O T going on in this backstory, but I think it’s kind of workable? I think there needs to be considerable intent in why she was saved, however. This isn’t the kind of thing a Jade (especially not many of them) would do lightly. Eunoma might not learn why yet, but there has to be a motivation, a goal they’re trying to achieve. Perhaps the Fuschia blood is part of it? Maybe they’re some Jades who wanna stage a full on rebellion and want to use her as a figurehead? An albino Fuschia taking down the Condesce would be a potent political symbol.)

Goals: One of my ancient OCs I wanted to fix up but turns out I need some help! So a general overview/everything (Alright, here we go!) (As a heads up, I took pity on you and am not deleting the other trolls you submitted in rapid succession, but for future reference- please don’t do that.)

Strife Specibus: 3dentkind

(Uses a trident she made herself with the help of her mother) (I’m really getting “Raised to be a political symbol” out of this. Why would she be raised to be just like an Heiress if there wasn’t a purpose behind it? Logically she’d otherwise be raised to be more Jade than anything.)

Fetch Modus: Idk honestly

Blood Color: Fuchsia

Symbol and Meaning: Pira, Sing of the Visionary

Handle: luminousJurist

Quirk: Ta|k in a ca|m yet cønfident vøice. (Proper punctuation, replaces L with | and O with ø) (Like this. Simple is often the way to go.)

Special Abilities: Her mutation, which would best be described as form of albinism that mimics rainbow drinker looks and abilities (meaning she can stay out in the sun) (hmmmmHMMMM I am unsure how exactly this would work- Kanaya could just go out in the sun before she was a Rainbowdrinker. I guess you can just handwave it as “unlocking dormant parts of the Fuschia genome” or something. Trolls have a tenuous link to biology as it is.)

Lusus/Guardian: Raised by a jadeblood in the caverns with other jades acting as her sisters before she left, mainly because she was always presented as a mutant jadeblood (which is also why she is hiding her sign, wearing it as a necklace under her shirt) by her mother in order to have her be more accepted (My main gripe with this is that it’s very unlikely, unless she never really interacted with the other Jades, that they wouldn’t know she’s not a Jade. Troll tears are tinted, and wrigglers are highly pigmented. Also all it would take is a slight cut and the jig is up. I think you’ve got to make them more complicit in the hiding and raising if this backstory is gonna come off as plausible.)

Interests: The crime, mystery and legal drama genres, whether it be books, movies, shows or games. She is also fascinated by law and the legal system and she loves studying about it, writing reforms and planning how to bring justice and order into Alternia when she claims the throne. Calligraphy is also something she finds fun to do while brainstorming. Her only non work related hobby is collecting plushies. (I like this a lot. I bet she reads about Redglare and gets mad all the time. Maybe she’s a big Summoner fangirl? He was a mutant who raised a rebellion against the culling system.) (I’d ordinarily recommend having more hobbies that aren’t “work” related, but given your character’s history, it makes a lot more sense for her to be fixated on it, even if she doesn’t realize that quite yet.)

Personality: Eunoma is obsessed over making the right decision and being a fair and just ruler. She has first hand seen and felt the cruelty of Alternia and while she is honest to a fault and rather blunt, she does this not to hurt feelings but because she feels it is the right thing to do. She is pushing herself into indifference and molding herself into the perfect middle man, erasing any opinion which might sway her judgement. Still she is disciplined and harsh, mainly on herself but also others, a strict believer in following rules to the letter and always scrutinizing her own actions. She thinks she can always do better, a perfectionist to whom nothing will probably ever be enough. She is uptight and antisocial, awful at working and even just talking with other trolls, as social cues tend to go over her head and even her own emotions very much confuse her, not to mention those of others. But on the other hand lies and motivations are something she understands and sees through all too well. She is good at predicting what people will do and spotting a liar or faker from a mile away. (We got a Mind player here! I’ll talk more about this later but you’ve got a solid character written in here. But I think you’ve got something mixed up in here: You open saying that she’s opinionated and blunt, but latter say she’s indifferent and grey-aligned?) (I think you meant “impartial” as in, “having no bias”, though. Which would make a lot more sense. Obsessed with being equal- having a character flaw of not quite getting the difference between Equal and Fair would help flesh her out, especially given that she’s right at the age where she’d be viscerally learning that difference.) (I think “follows the rules to the letter” is a little... odd? For someone who’s only course of action on the current law system would be to die messily. I think her having her own code of ethics that she strictly follows would be much better (especially with her classpect) than being a blind rules follower. She’s a path-maker, not a path-walker!)

Lunar Sway: Prospit (I think an interest in that “genetic destiny” thing that Trolls love would do her some good with this. Get her a little more going with the flow, taking threads of the past and weaving them into changes today. Seeing herself a bit in The Sufferer and The Summoner and other ancient rebellions would do her a lot of good, I think. Give her some motivation.)

Title: Mage of Mind

(She suffers form being an overly logical outcast and needs to learn to not only let loose but also let people in, she is way too defensive from having to hide her whole life and needs to learn to open up and allow herself to feel emotions) (I do think Mage is the way to go with her. The Active Knower, the Leader and Shepherd as opposed to Seer, the Teller and Teacher. She’s someone who NEEDS to get up on her soapbox and tell the world that this isn’t how it has to be, that we can make other choices, and she’s making those choices right now.) (Pathwise, I think she needs a bit more spirit of her own. Her Dolorosa-stand in needs a firmer hand in her development if she is to grow as well. There needs to be an interplay of “I know you THINK you know what’s right, Mother, but I KNOW what needs to be done, and I’m going to DO IT my way” by the end of her arc.)

Land: Land of Forums and Debate

(The Denizen has devided the people of her land and pinned them against each other. With corrupt politicians, censorship and high tension in the air, this whole place is one wrong word away from a civil war. It is her job to fix the corrupt system, unify the people of the land again and open up constructive discussion.) (She’s gotta win the arguments and lead the people! A pale girl in a world of fountains and marble! It’s pretty classic, but it fits her development as already-being-half-there on her Classpect, but needing the extra push to really do it.) (This was a much easier review than I expected, my comments are mostly for guiding this vision of her to completion as opposed to full overhauls. You’re most of the way there!) -SA

[ilosttrackofthings]

May I please request simmons and hive with "Can I be of assistance?"

this got soooooo long

A bright lightpierces her eyes. She steps back, twisting her head away from thelight source, only to gasp as white-hot agony lightnings up from herthigh. Her knee slips beneath her and she keels dangerously to oneside.

“Shh. Gentle.”The voice is warm and comfortingly familiar, as is the arm wrappedsuddenly across her back. It holds her steady, providing muchappreciated support while she tries to breathe through the pain.

“I’m sorry. Ididn’t mean-” That’s the man standing in front of her, the one she only barely glimpsed through the light. He’sshort, balding, round about the edges. All together he makes asomewhat humorous picture. Which she might find more humorous of thesight of him didn’t come as such a surprise.

She doesn’t knowhim, has no memory of ever seeing him before. Considering that he wasdirectly in front of her when she opened her eyes, that’s somewhatworrisome.

That first voicespeaks again, a soothing “It’s all right, Ned,” coupled with afaint rumble like laughter in the chest she’s currently leaningrather heavily against.

She looks up warilyand finds her worries both justified and relieved. His face is asfamiliar as his voice, but she can’t put a name to it. That doesn’tseem to matter though, as his smile sets loose butterflies in herstomach and the brush of his fingers over her ear warms her straightto her toes. She may not be able to remember him, but she knowshim.

“It’snot your head that hurts you, is it?” he asks. And, as if to answerhis own question, holds her in place while he moves slightly away tobetter see her leg.

Theattention brings the pain right back to the fore of her mind and allat once the weight of standing is too much.

“You’vedone well,” he says over her head while helping her to a nearbybed. “Send Anastasia as you go.”

“Sir,”Ned says and fairly scampers from the room.

Shehardly notices him, too busy easing into a more comfortable position.

Theother man proves to be of assistance yet again, taking a seat on thebed’s edge and propping her foot in his lap. She studies hisprofile while he examines her leg, using his hands to seek out thesource of her pain without a moment’s hesitation.

Still,she has no idea who he is. Her reactions to him have all beenpositive, but there’s a faint, niggling sense of disquiet in hergut as he continues his exploration of her body. It’s nothingsensual—he’s fairly clinical in his attitude—but with her ownlack of knowledge of him, it feels almost invasive.

“Youare safe with me, Jemma,” he says softly as though he can read herthoughts. His eyes remain on her leg, his hands roving slowly higher,ever closer to the source of her pain. “I promise you that.”

She wants to believe him. But no matter how she strains at her memory, she finds that beyond the moment that lightshone in her eyes her mind is a frustrating blank slate.

“Jemma?”she asks, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Or perhaps that’ssimply the act of speaking at all. Who knows how long she’s beensilent.

Helooks up at her, a mix of surprise and pity in his eyes. “Yes,”he says after long moments, “your name is Jemma.”

“Oh.I didn’t-”

“Know.Yes, that is an effect of what was done to you.”

Sheallows her expression to ask her question for her and it earns heranother smile.

“Alwaysso curious,” he says fondly. “That could never be stolen fromyou.” He seems almost inclined to let that stand and she waits himout, holding his gaze steadily until he sighs. “You were stolenfrom me. By SHIELD. Do you remember them?”

Sheconcentrates on the name and … she doesn’t rememberexactly. It’s more that she knows, in the same way she knows herABC’s, what SHIELD is.

Protectors.Defenders of the Earth.

Or… not. There are other things mixed in beneath the supposed purposeof the organization. Dark secrets, hidden evils.

“Ican see that you do,” he says heavily, allowing her the excuse topull away from such dire thoughts. “I do not know what has passedwhile you have been away from me. I am sorry for that, for all youmust have suffered while in SHIELD’s tender care.” The hand heslips into her hair is a sharp contrast to his dangerous tone. “ButSHIELD was recently driven from their main base and several of theirmore valuable assets were … frozen, so to speak. A bit ofmanipulation arresting physical functions for a brief period of time,likely to make the transport of these assets easier.”

“Sowe wouldn’t fight back,” she says, guessing at both the purposeof such a treatment and that he would only mention it if it had beendone to her.

“Yes.Precisely. Ned was able touse his abilities to release you, but I was warned your mind mighthave suffered.”

She—Jemma—allowsthat to sink in. She was a prisoner, held against her will andtreated as a literal object by those who took her. And then, worse, they tookher from not only this man who warms her with the slightest look but from herself.

Theblankness of her memory seems to morph into a dark maw, simmeringwith emotion. Above the comfort she finds in this man is somethingmore visceral, more real than anything else: she hatesSHIELD.

Thesoft brush of a woman’s fingers against her temple startles her outof her thoughts. Cool relief washes over her, running through thespace between her skull and skin. Immediately her shoulders relax.She hadn’t even realized how tense she was.

Shelooks up to find a pale haired woman standing over her. Brilliantblue eyes blink open after a moment and, without a moment’shesitation, the woman bends to rest her palm flat over Jemma’sthigh.

Againshe feels the rush of cool relief, deeper this time, and when theinitial shock recedes there’s no pain. She points her toes to testthe muscles and feels no strain whatsoever.

“Asyou can see,” the man says, “Anastasia is a gifted healer. Thankyou, Anastasia.”

It’san obvious dismissal but a syllable of protest erupts from Jemmabefore Anastasia can do more than turn away. As such, Jemma is ableto see the strain it puts on her to halt her movements and the wayshe favors her right leg.

Still,she smiles through her discomfort. “Can I be of furtherassistance?”

Jemmadoesn’t know how to ask what she wants but, when she looks to him,the man only regards her curiously.

Shetakes a steadying breath, drawing strength from the idle play of hisfingers over her ankle. “If my memory was damaged…”

“Ah,”he says. He smiles encouragingly at Anastasia, doing away with someof her sudden distress. “Anastasia’s abilities are limited. It ispossible she could undo the damage done if there is some physicalcause, however-”

Hepauses delicately and Jemma already knows what he’s going to say.“There’s a cost,” she says, thinking of Anastasia’s hurtingleg and the discomfort on her face before she turned to Jemma’smore prominent injury. She looks up at thewoman. “Ifyou can heal me, you might lose your own memory in return.”

Shenods in obvious relief. “I’m sorry, but yes.”

“It’snot your fault,” Jemma says. Because it isn’t. It’s the faultof the people who kidnapped her.

Anastasiaslips quietly away and once again it’s only Jemma and the man—hersupport, her rescuer.

“Iam sorry as well,” he says. “If there were any other way…”

Shesits up, the motion easy now that her pains are gone, and takes thehand wrapped around her ankle, pulling it to her lap. She can feelhis pulse pick up while she runs the pads of her thumbs over hisknuckles, examining his large hand. It’s as familiar as the rest ofhim—he’s an island of stability in her sea of confusion, atouchstone she doesn’t understand but one that is beneficial allthe same.

“Tellme your name,” she says softly.

Whenhe doesn’t immediately answer, she looks up. His eyes have turneddeep and fathomless, dark with thoughts she cannot hope to read.“They call me Hive,” he says and she knows by his tone that hemeans SHIELD. “But to you I am Alveus.”

“Alveus,”she says, smiling over the name. She likes it. She likes him. Andwith time, she hopes she will learn again why she loved him.

[nottswitch]

Avalanche

Part 1: Announcements

This moment right now is such a big deal for me because this fic that I’m going to write is literally my baby. I put myself into every single word (not that I don’t do it with everything I write but here it feels special). I’ve been dreaming about this story for a while now and finally I got my hands on bringing it to life!

In the end of each part there will be a translation box because this fic’s going to have quite a bit of my native language (read: Russian). Keep in mind that all Russian characters initially speak it but for the most part I’ll write their dialogues in English so that you won’t misunderstand too much.

Oh and yes, this is an OC fic. There was no way this could be a reader insert. No way.

I really, really hope you will enjoy it and join me on this journey! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged ;) (and please if you’ve read, give me a sign if you liked it or not or I’ll literally go insane)

Word count: 2,726

Series masterlist

“Sirius, why did you even… I can’t put it into words… What the hell is wrong with you?”

Remus was frantically waving his hands and almost shouting as three of the boys, who liked to call themselves Marauders, entered the common Gryffindor room. As a lucky owner of rational mind, he couldn’t get his head around that idea of a crazy duo of his best friends. It wasn’t their idea, to be fair, it was an idea of Hogwarts’ authorities, but the fact they agreed in the first place — that was unacceptable!

“What was going through your head, I wonder!” Remus exclaimed, falling on to the couch and crossing hands on his chest, ready to listen to Sirius’ explanations.

“Why so tense, Moony? Chill.”

Sirius took a seat in front of him, lounging on another huge couch, one of those scattered around the room. James did the exact same, imposingly spreading all over the free end of the couch and putting his hands behind his head. Both had smirks on their lips and their usual mischevious expression painted on their faces.

“Really, what’s so bad? No need to shout,” James added, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t seem to protest, huh?”

“That’s because I didn’t want to mess up with Professor McGonagall, you dummie.” Remus looked at James as if he was ready to turn him to ashes using only his eyes. “But now, tell me — what the hell?!”

“Oh come on, Remus! Since you’ve heard the announcement, did you really think we wouldn’t volunteer?” Sirius raised his eyebrows in a pretentiously surprised way. “We wouldn’t miss this chance for the world, right, Prongs?”

“Of course we wouldn’t!” James was indeed as pretentiously surprised as Sirius. “You’re just coming in the set with us, Rem, it’s time to accept. Pity Peter couldn’t join!”

Remus couldn’t handle these two anymore, facepalming and heaving a frustrated sigh. Why was he even wasting time talking to them if they’re unfixable and had zero control over their actions?

“Okay, let’s view this from another point,” he began again as calm as possible. “Do you know Russian?”

Sirius thought for a second.

“Does vodka count?”

“No, vodka doesn’t count.”

“Oh then I don’t.”

“You?” Remus directed to James.

He shook his head.

“And why on Earth did you agree to take part in exchange program with a Russian school?!”

Sirius and James looked at each other, at Remus afterwards and synchronously slapped their palms against their faces.

“Do you really not understand?” James asked from under his hand, shushed by this obstacle.

“I really do not understand, yes, please explain to my stupid, oblivious self.”

“Okay. Alright,” Sirius raised his hands in defense. “Actually, I didn’t think it’ll be a problem with you, Moony.”

“Me neither,” James put in.

“First of all, brand new experience.” Sirius bent a finger. “Secondly, it’s a bloody Koldovr… Koldsot… Koldot…”

“Koldovstoretz,” Remus prompted with all sarcastic politeness he had. “You can’t even say this name right!”

“It’s a bloody Koldovstoretz!” Sirius exclaimed, completely ignoring the last remark. “One of the most secretive magical schools of all of them! And now they’re offering an exchange program! How could anyone want to miss this opportunity?”

James stuck his head out behind Sirius’ back and nodded in agreement.

“Moony, isn’t it tempting? To visit such a distant country?” Remus didn’t have time to notice how Sirius was already sitting near him, his hand patting Remus’ back. “To learn all their spells? Read their books? Know their secrets?”

Remus frowned, hesitating. In a plain way, but Sirius was telling the truth. This trip would have offered great opportunities to broaden the knowledge, he was right here…

“And? You decided?” Sirius raised his eyebrow, getting his victorious grin ready. He witnesses every emotion on his friend’s face.

“We don’t know Russian,” Remus made the last attempt to defend his point of view. He knew it would fail but he tried.

“Not a problem!” Sirius carelessly brushed his words away. “You heard that McGonagall said that it’s not necessary, there are special English-speaking classes.”

By that moment it was obvious that Remus gave up already.

“Just imagine how many stories we will tell when we come back! Isn’t this dreamy, really?”

“Alright, you win,” Remus spreaded his arms, letting James and Sirius high-five each other and exchange knowing ‘we told you’ looks. “How do you always persuade me to do crazy things?” he mumbled under his breath, causing his friends to laugh.

“It’s a special power of ours.” Sirius shrugged, smirking.

“This is the craziest thing so far,” Remus noted, getting up and heading to the dorms. “Can’t believe I agreed.”

“There was no way you could’ve not!” James shouted after him as he was walking up the stairs.

And Remus thought that he was maybe unfortunately, but completely right.

Only the first day of November it was but a wave of freezing cold and timid snowflakes had time to cover the neighbourhood. Zoya shivered under the two of her warmest blankets and yawned, stretching every possible part of her body. It was Tuesday, just the beginning of the week, but she already wanted to sleep her life away. She loved studying, but this weather — it was driving her crazy. This gap between autumn and real winter, called November, was usually a disaster.

While Zoya was contemplaiting life, on another bed someone started tossing over and over, making totally unsatisfied sounds.

“What’s the time?” moaned a girl from under the duvet, reluctantly sticking her head out. Firstly, she got a pillow in it and only then heard the answer.

“Eight,” Zoya said, chuckling, watching how her friend rubbed her eyes and forehead at the same time. “We’re scarily close to being late, actually.”

“Ah, that’s okay, we’re never late anyway.”

“Late for breakfast,” Zoya corrected herself, raising her eyebrow. “Wanna stay hungry? We’re having FE today.”

“Dear Lord!” the red-haired girl, who had already sat up, fell back on the pillows and burrowed her face deeper into them. “Who even created Flying Education? A sadist?”

“You’re asking that every other morning. Cheer up, at least we don’t have Physical Education anymore.”

“Yeah, that was hell. Why are you complaining about FE though? You’re taking Rug Flying!” The girl lifted herself, resentfully staring at Zoya. “It’s me who should be whining!”

“It’s also you who chose Brooms!”

Zoya had hardly any time to dodge from her own pillow, thrown in her direction.

“Hey, I didn’t make you!”

“Will you shut up maybe?”

Another voice interrupted girls’ little squabble.

“Look who woke up! Maria, if you don’t get up right now, I’m killing you, decided.”

“Don’t call me Maria,” mumbled a bush of blond hair which turned out to be a girl, currently not very pleased with life. She just crawled out of her fortress made out of blankets.

“Okay, Masha, whatever your name is, we need to head for breakfast because otherwise we would be hungry for the rest of the day and we have FE,” the redhead spoke quickly, already out of bed and looking for her uniform.

“Ooooh, FE!” Masha bursted into laughter, watching her pacing around the room. “I see why you’re so happy then. It’s Lilya’s lucky day!”

“Another rug flier,” Lilya mumbled under her breath, grabbing her towel and heading to the door at the back of the room. “At least I’m the first in the shower!” she stuck her tongue out, shutting the door.

The two girls looked at each other and synchronously rolled their eyes.

Walking out of the house which was called ‘terem’ and where all the students lived, Zoya took a deep breath in and… madly coughed because several snowflakes got straight into her nose. Her friends, following her, merely laughed, patting her back (together, at the same time, it did hurt!), and hurried to the castle of Koldovstoretz. In front of it they stopped for a brief second, glancing over the fascinating building. It was an unsaid tradition between them — to pause at the main enterance and admire the beauty of the castle. If it was sunny, another thing to draw someone’s attention would be countless gems, decorating the space above the gates and sparkling, catching light. But unfortunately, today’s weather sucked — obnoxious drizzle mixed with occasional gusts of wet snow and piercing wind didn’t do any good — and these gems looked like dull, slightly tinted pieces of stone.

The atmosphere inside though, from the very moment the gates were shut behind the backs of another newcomers, made it up for an awful weather situation. Zoya joyfully slided into a flow of students, smoothly moving towards the Great Hall. She liked when it was noisy around, when everyone discussed how they slept this night, what their plans for a day were and so on. Sometimes she could have overheard something funny another student said and then tell it to Masha and Lilya, if they weren’t with her at that moment. All in all, she very much enjoyed mornings in Koldovstoretz and wouldn’t change them for the world.

Entering the Great Hall was another exciting part that regularly happened. The thing was, you never knew what it would turn into. Every day it took either beautiful, wondrous or even funny theme. Yesterday it was an enchanted forest with quaint trees and plants, fantastical small creatures under your feet — neither of the girls appreciated this detail after a weird heavens-know-how-much legged insect crawled on their table.

Today it was a moon. Literally, since stepping in the Hall you were walking on a surface of the moon, starry sky distant planets around. It has never been done before, Zoya thought, waving to a tiny alien flying by. But she liked it and how unfortunate it was that the new theme held only for the morning! After the last person left the Hall, its furnishing turned standard, wonderful — red, white and golden with hints of blue and green — but still standard.

“Here!”

A shout from Masha came somewhere from the left, and Zoya turned in its direction, surely knowing where to go. The three of them had their table and apparently everyone else knew it was taken as it was always free.

“So, let’s see what we have today, shall we?” Zoya took out her wand after getting comfortable enough on a chair. “Скатерть-самобранка, накорми завтраком!¹” she said very clearly, tapping the tip of her wand three times against the table.

As the last word escaped her mouth and Zoya’s wand froze in the air after the third tap, mere shapes of dishes full of food started appearing from nothing, getting more and more visible.

“We’re getting samovar tea again! It’s going traditional,” Lilya excitedly exclaimed, already pouring herself some green tea.

Besides a big golden samovar, decorated with coloured gems, similar to those above the main gates, on the table there was a huge plate of pancakes called ‘blini’, two small deep dishes with two kinds of dips and fully served sandwiches with red caviar.

“We look pretty strange,” Zoya said, looking around and seeing that they’re the only table with a traditional Russian breakfast. And to be fair, they did look kinda weird, considering the whole spacey theme the Hall was going for.

“I could care less,” Lilya muttered barely legible, having already stuffed her mouth with a sandwich.

As the breakfast went by, nobody really noticed how the Headmistress stood up — teachers never had their own special table and sat wherever they wanted, among students — until she cleared her throat, magically making herself sound louder.

“I totally forgot,” Masha hit her palm against her forehead, scolding herself. “Remember when yesterday at Koldozoology Natalya said she’ll make an announcement today?”

“We don’t take Koldozoology,” Zoya and Lilya hissed through their teeth, turning their heads at the headmistress.

“Oh, I forgot.” Masha also looked at a tall, shapely woman whose fair hair was stuck in a tight braid and twisted at the back of her head.

She coughed and began her speech.

“Судари и сударыни!² I’m very happy to announce that since tomorrow our Academy is opening an exchange program with other magical schools from around the world!”

She paused, glancing over the tables and by her satisfied face one could understand that student’s faces showed the exact reaction she expected. A second after everyone loudly cheered and she seemingly got even more pleased.

“From the day after tomorrow to the end of January there will be three students from an English school, Hogwarts — I bet you know that already — staying here and studying with us.”

Another portion of cheers.

“If you would like to fill in an application, you’re welcome at my office after afternoon. We need to choose the lucky three by the evening. Good luck!”

With these words she got out of the table, neatly sliding the chair back and, whilst students got back to their meal, lively discussing just announced news, came to the girls’ table. They all gave her surprised looks as she quickly threw “Would you please come to my office after breakfast” and walked away so fast they didn’t have time to answer.

“I hope we’re not in trouble.” Masha worriedly frowned, resting her chin on her crossed hands on the table.

They finished their meal in silence.

The Headmistress’ office truly looked like a room of a museum with all the portraits of famous Russian magicians hanging on the walls, oaken furniture, encrusted with amber and heavy white and golden curtains, covering a huge window with a view on the school’s yard. If sun blessed this place with its presence, flecks of sunlight danced across the room and all in all, it never had a mood for serious talks. Maybe that’s why the headmistress was so surprised, seeing Zoya, Masha and Lilya pretty scared as they walked in.

“Girls, relax,” she suggested when they sat down on a couch, offered for them. “No need to be tense, I’m not telling you off!”

“So we’re not in trouble?” Lilya asked and when Natalya, the headmistress, shook her head, letting out a short laugh, breathed out in relief. “We just thought that maybe we did something wrong.”

“No, of course not. Actually, to the topic now.” Natalya leaned a bit forward, her hands on the table in front of her. “First of all, tell me, is taking part in the exchange program in your plans?”

Girls exchanged looks.

“We haven’t thought about it to be honest,” Lilya began, scratching the back of her head, “but…”

“I don’t think we would be able to handle it so we’re not doing this,” Zoya interrupted her. She was genuinely afraid that her crazy redhead friend would agree. “Sorry if that’s why you called us, professor.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t call you to make you participate. I would like to send you though, you’re one of the top students, but that is also precisely the reason you’re here.” The woman paused for a second to take a deep breath in and then continued. Girls stared at her with now great interest. “It would be great if you would agree to accompany these students from Hogwarts. Show them everything, tell what they’d want to know, explain things… What do you say?”

She finished and her expectant look focused on the girls.

“Why us?” Lilya blurted out, after what Zoya shushed her, whispering “And that’s all you can say?”.

“No, her question is absolutely normal,” Natalya defended Lilya. “As I’ve already mentioned, you’re one of our best students, and if I’m not being wrong, your English is pretty fluent, right?”

“It is,” Zoya confirmed, getting more and more involved and ignoring Masha, pocking her in the arm. “When are they arriving?”

“So you’re in?” headmistress asked, just to be assured by Zoya’s frantic nodding. “The day after tomorrow, at nine in the evening. You’ll have to meet them as well by the way.”

“We’re fine with that.”

“Good then. I’m counting on you, girls! Oh, and the last thing,” Natalya added, looking through some pieces of parchment. “Their names are… let me see… Sirius Black, James Potter and Remus Lupin.”

“Okay but why?” Masha wondered when they the door of the office closed behind their backs.

“Why not?” Zoya simply answered, grinning. She already had a feeling that something very exciting was coming their way.

Translation box:

¹ - “Tablecloth, feed us our breakfast!“

² - “Ladies and gentleman!“ but an elder version.

Tag List: @padfootagain @giggleberts @starless-skyox @furmicl

[fadefromthelight]

No. 15 - Science Gone Wrong

Summary:  Something’s gone wrong with Lucien’s magic. It was twisted and jagged and undeniably not his own.

Read on: Ao3

The lights buzz overhead, the few that were left on after hours. The harsh white light casts even harsher shadows that creep into the corners of the halls. Lucien’s steps echo through the hall, the muted clack of his boots against the off-white tile. He flips through the folder in his hand, mentally running through the calculations Cassidy left him earlier. They were close.

Lucien pushes through the double doors at the end of the hall, letting them slam behind him. He drops the folder onto the table and releases their most recent specimen from the suspension. The feathers are a pale green, appearing soft but brittle in his grasp. He gently removes one, collecting a small amount of the barbs in a dish. He grinds them into a fine dust before shaking it into a solution and setting it to vortex.

While the cells are separating, Lucien removes a few more barbs and secures them on a slide. He places the specimen underneath the microscope and flips it to the strongest magnification. He gently shifts the slide and adjusts the focus until the image sharpens.

Even now, he can see the decay along the barbs. Magic flakes off with each passing second and the edges the sample are starting to peel. He steps back and sighs. They still couldn’t get the magic to stabilize within the clones. It starts to decay and unravel almost instantly and they’ve only had a sample last for a day before it completely disintegrates.

Unfortunately, this one doesn’t look like it’ll last the night.

Lucien stops the vortex and removes the vial. He pours the sample into a salt solution and stirs in some detergent. He filters out some of the cellular debris and sets the sample in a rack. He opens the freezer and removes a small amount of ethanol. He pours it into the sample and gently stirs it.

A thin white spool of DNA collects and he removes it, placing it in another solution. He starts the slow process of sequencing the DNA. He finds the small section he needs for comparison and waits for the computer to compute the output.

Once it’s completed, he opens the original DNA sequence and projects it on the board next to their sample. It’s close, painfully so. But even now, he can see the degradation of the E and M nitrogenous bases, places where they’ve either broken down or are completely missing. The rest of the bases will be soon to follow.

He slams a fist into the table, rattling the computer equipment. His magic arcs off his skin. It was frustrating to be so close and still fail due to something they’ve been working on since the start. Magic in this state was inherently unstable and without the support of the human base, it degrades.

Something twists inside of Lucien and hot tar coats his throat. He stumbles away from the table and vomits into the nearest trash can. His hands tremble as he clutches the rim of the can, his own magic turning his stomach. Sweat drips down his face and his vision lurches.

When Lucien can finally regain his bearing, he realizes what exactly he was retching. Magic, his magic, drips from his lips. It’s a tainted green, what once was a vibrant pure color is now flecked with a muted grey. He sits back and pulls on his magic.

It spasms and he almost vomits again. But he draws in a shaky breath and pools his magic in his palm. A small crystal forms, misshapen and nowhere near his usual precision. The green is threaded with tendrils of the dull grey. Normally his magic is vibrant and reflects magic like light, but now it’s muted and pale.

He clenches his hand into a fist and the crystal shatters, the shards dissipating before they land on the ground. It’s too brittle. He prods his magic, testing how far this illness has spread. It was a lump resting against his lungs, intertwined within his magic. He hadn’t realized how much his magic has warped, the process so slow that he didn’t notice it.

He drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to the laboratory equipment. His hip rams into the table but the pain’s muted. He shakily grabs a knife and tears into his skin. His blood runs down his arm, still a brilliant ruby red, and into the dish he hastily shoves beneath it. As soon as it’s filled, Lucien pulls down the sleeve of his lab coat and presses it against the wound. That’ll have to do for now.

He separates the blood into three vials. He sets one on the vortex machine and starts it up while extracting blood from the others. He places one in a machine to measure his magic signature and the other in an EAS. While waiting for the results, he returns the cloned sample to the suspension. He didn’t have the time to completely analyse it. Despite his growing concerns (fears) about the wings, he couldn’t risk losing them. Alden and Cassidy would never let him hear the end of it.

His chest aches as he summons the magic for the suspension and he doesn’t look at it for too long. He couldn't understand how it took him this long to realize something was wrong.

The EAS finishes first and he skims the report. It detected a value of 27.82, which wasn’t low by any means but significantly lower than his usual value of 36.26. The weight was an approximate but that shouldn’t account for this large of a discrepancy. He draws out another sample and runs it again, just be sure.

It spits out the same number.

He records the value, he has to, he’s a scientist. He jots down the comparison and pulls up the value he got a few years ago to act as a basis. He needed to cover all his bases if he wanted to prove anything.

Just before the magic signature finished reading, he pulls the vial out of the vortex and repeated the same process as he before, extracting his own DNA and setting it to sequence. He opens the reading for his magic signature and brings up his from a few years ago. He projects them onto the board and looks between them.

The main spikes and dips are the same but something minutely has changed. Some of the spikes are no longer quite as tall nor are the dips quite as deep. Some of the smaller spikes have warped into dips and visa versa.

Shakily, he drags up the signature for the decayed magic, one that every sample of magic they’ve taken becomes. He finds the discrepancies and traces them with his eyes.

He staggers into the table, a vial of his blood shaking and tipping over. The blood coats his fingers, sticky and nauseatingly warm. He barely suppresses the urge to vomit.

His signature was slowly conforming to the decayed magic’s signature. He can feel it now, the slow twisting of magic becoming something he doesn’t recognize. Something that isn’t his.

He turns to his computer as lines of DNA are spat out. He pulls the signature away, saving them because he can’t bring himself to do anything else. He drags up the small section that was deciphered and filters through the DNA he had decoded for himself at the start of this. They determined that his magic was too powerful (unstable) to be used at the start of this.

Most of the bases were undamaged, aligning with the code he had before. But along the edges of the E and M bases, he can see where it’s starting to break down. The readings are only slightly less powerful than the previous readings but it’s enough to cause this twisting feeling that settles in his bones.

He saves these as well. If he’s to report any of this, he’ll need to annotate the images to show how his magic has changed but he can’t even stand to look at them.

He’s feeling lightheaded and he has no idea if it’s from the magic corruption or from the blood loss. He leans against the wall, sinking down the floor. He rests the heels of his palms against his eyes, digging his hands through his hair. Everything was piecing together into places he doesn’t want, fitting too well for him to have missed it.

This is what he gets for playing with something he shouldn’t have. When you play with fire, you will get burned.

Lucien doesn’t know how long he sat there trying to reign in his breathing and not think about the withering mass twisted into his magic. But he jolts out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening. He raises his head to watch Cassidy and Alden walk in, confusion dusting their expressions. Cassidy broaches the subject first. “Lucien, what’s going on?”

He can feel her gaze rake over him, taking in the dark brown stain on the sleeve of his lab coat and the way that he can barely keep himself sitting up straight. Lucien drags himself up from the floor, leaning heavily onto the table. He unsteadily walks around to the computer. “There’s something you need to see.” He couldn’t keep the urgency and desperation of his voice.

Alden glances around the lab, frowning at the mess of Lucien’s blood against the table. “What happened to the wings?”

“They’re in the suspension.” Lucien gestures in the vague direction of the samples, not willing to look at his own magic coating them. He opens the reports of his magic signatures and the one of the magic decay. “Look at this.”

Cassidy’s gaze scans over the images, her confusion only growing. “It’s only your magic signature against the one of the decay. I don’t know what you want me to see.”

“This one is my signature from three years ago.” Lucien uses the cursor to emphasize the points he’s trying to make. “This one I took a few hours ago. It’s subtle but the signature has changed.”

Alden looks at him with an expression thick with a strange form of pity mixed with a condescending edge. As if he thinks Lucien’s finally fallen off the edge of sanity. “Signatures can change over time.”

“Not like this.” Lucien’s hands are shaking, his magic trembling beneath his skin. “Spikes and dips don’t flip.” At receiving a twin set of blank looks, Lucien points at the magic decay. “It’s mirroring the decay. Magic signatures don’t change like that.”

Cassidy glances between the places Lucien gestured at, intrigue written over her face. But Alden's expression doesn’t shift from the doubt. “It could be a coincidence. You could be looking for a pattern where there isn’t one.”

Lucien drags the images away despite the yelp of protest from Cassidy. He opens the ones containing his DNA. Almost as an afterthought, he opens the one from the specimen he took last night. He circles the decay on the M and E bases. “You want to call this a coincidence?”

“Wait Lucien,” Cassidy glances away from the images, something akin to fear fluctuating in her voice. “Is that your DNA?”

Lucien grips against the edge of the table, drawing in a shaking breath and willing the room to stop spinning. “Yes.” His voice is less steady than he would’ve liked.

“When did this start happening?” Alden steps up to the board, glancing between the three images.

“A while.” Lucien chokes out, suppressing the desire to sink down to his knees. “But I only realized it now.”

“This is unprecedented.” Cassidy steps up with Alden, studying the images with him. “Look at the level of the decay on this M base. It must be a source spot. The decay spread away from it.”

Alden runs his fingers along the M and E bases. “It only affects these bases. If left untreated, would it degrade to the level we’ve seen?”

“Wait.” A sinking feeling settles deep within Lucien’s chest. It devours the air he pushes in his lungs and he can’t get anything past it. They aren’t seeing what he’s seeing. “This isn’t some natural illness.”

Cassidy turns around. “What do you mean? How else could this happen?”

“It’s from our exposure to magic decay.” Lucien swings a hand out wide to gesture at the lab. “We’ve been poisoning ourselves.”

“Why are you so certain about that?” Alden walks over to Lucien, giving him that condescendingly pitying smile. “You don’t see either of us almost keeling over like you are.”

“I don’t know.” Lucien’s voice sounds weak even to him, wavering with thick confusion that’s settling over him. “But it isn’t something we should test.”

Cassidy’s joined them. “You should rest, you’re not looking well. Afterwards we can figure out what we should do.” There’s a solemn edge to her voice and Lucien realizes she thinks he’s dying.

He can’t find an argument to say he isn’t.

“No.” Lucien shakes his head, stepping back. He collides into the edge of the table. “We can’t let this go on any longer. You have your son and I—” The words choke in his throat.

He can’t bring this home to Julian.

“We’re not stopping.” Anger boils in Cassidy’s words, mixed with a raw desperation. “We're so close to figure it out.”

“Not if it’ll kill us!” Lucien shouts, his words sputtering into a coughing fit. Both of them watch him.

He pulls his hand away and it’s stained with the plasticky green that his magic’s been warped to. He holds it out for both of them to see. “Look at what this has done to me. I can’t continue.”

“Nothing’s forcing you to.” Alden says, unable to keep his gaze from the bloody magic dripping off Lucien’s hand. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“You think I’d just leave you guys?” Lucien’s voice is low and scratchy. He swallows the bitter taste of magic against his throat. His stomach turns. “After learning you’d be destroying yourselves?”

Cassidy grabs a cloth and wipes off the magic from Lucien’s hands. She closes his fingers and holds his trembling hand in her steady grasp. “You’re overreacting. While all the data you gathered is fascinating, it’s only correlational. This could be a bad case of lisatheo. When was the last time you used your magic?”

Lucien tears his hand from Cassidy’s grip. “Lisatheo? Is that all you think this is? When have you seen someone with lisatheo cough up magic?”

“Magic?” Cassidy echoes. She glances between the rag and Lucien.

“Lisatheo can cause hallucinations.” Alden adds, his narrowed dangerously. “This could all be a misunderstanding.”

“This isn’t a hallucination.” Lucien tears the rag from Cassidy’s grasp and holds out to them. The bloody spots mock him. “The twisted magic within me is real.”

“What do you mean?” The thin layers of concern filter through Cassidy’s voice.

“You don’t sense it?” The air is squeezed from Lucien’s lungs and he struggles to draw in a breath. The withering mass within him burns.

Cassidy shakes her head, an odd hesitation filling her expression. Alden watches him, a detached confusion resting in his gaze. He glances between the signature on the monitor and the DNA on the board. “Lucien, I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“No.” Lucien hates the clawing desperation that invades his voice. “I can’t leave.”

“Try to take some of the magic allievers.” Cassidy slowly removes the rag from his grip and places it on the table. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, we can talk.”

Lucien shakes his head, tightening his grip against the table. The corner digs into his back. “You can’t force me out. This is my lab.”

Alden grabs onto Lucien’s arm and drags him to the door. Lucien can barely protest, pain shooting through where Alden touches him. “We can’t have you compromising our research.” Alden shoves Lucien out the door and Lucien stumbles into the wall to stay up right. “This isn’t permanent. You just need some time to get your head on straight.”

Alden shuts the door in front of Lucien, the sound echoing through the otherwise empty lab. Lucien sucks in a shuddering breath and picks himself up from the wall. He can’t let them continue this.

He can’t let them slowly kill themselves like he has.

[clove-teasdale]

the ticket out

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

A/N: practice challenge numero one guys. barely edited really cause  t i m e. hope you enjoy it though! I’m trying present tense and a voice I’m not used to, so sorry if this sucks lol. there are some jumps in time in this just so you know

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

So, you all know those power walks TV shows always have with amazing background music that makes the main characters look as cool as possible, right?

You probably also know those don’t happen in real life. Sadly, we don’t have music to create perfect atmospheres every time our lives decide to have a scene and be dramatic—also there’s the fact normal people shouldn’t look that good while walking—but in my head I still do them.

Music blaring in my ears as I walk with my backpack slung over my shoulder in the school’s hallways. It does help that people tend to recognize me when they see me, even when I don’t want them to. It can’t be as nice without the beat my headphones add, however.

Pity...but I don’t really mind.

If you feel confident you look confident.

Unless you’re Wilson. The kid wouldn’t look good even if there were actual music and editing involved. Thinking about the little brat makes me look at my watch out of habit. 7:15. He should be here soon so I take an earbud out, letting new sounds mix with my background music. 

Laughs bubbling out of people’s mouths and different voices overlap each other, more than in your average high school weekday. Anyone can tell the school year is coming to an end and that’ll mean college in a few months for many. I’ve been one of the few who decided to wait another year before starting. Taking a gap year for the fun of it is as good as any excuse. No one really needs to know about my indecisiveness over a major. If I don’t figure it out film student is still at the top of my list.

Just as I’m thinking about the other options I’ve always considered and open my locker, Wilson appears next to me, shoving the book I lent him yesterday in my face.

“You owe me five bucks.”

I spare him a glance and notice his black hair is a bigger mess than usual. “I don’t owe you anything.”

He leans on the locker next to mine, eyes fixing on the opposite row of lockers across the hall. “You said, and I quote: I bet you can’t finish this book in a day.”

“That was a rhetorical bet.”

“You're too literal for rhetorical. I took it as a real bet.”

“So your excuse is that I should pay you because I usually mean what I say and therefore you thought I was daring you to do it?”

“Yes.”

I try not to laugh at his reaching there. “You let your hair be a mess just to finish the book in the morning didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s five bucks you’re never getting, kid.”

“But I didn’t sleep to finish it!”

I snatch the book from his hand as he points accusingly at me with it, then close my locker after putting it inside with a smirk. “And that’s my problem because?”

“Whatever,” he mumbles with an eye roll. However, after a while of walking along the hallway, he adds, “okay, but can you lend me five bucks then?”

I stop before we turn around a corner, suspicion taking over. “Did Cooper steal your lunch money again?”

He clenches his jaw at the name, yet shakes his head. “No, I just lost my money on a bet.”

Glaring, I push him into the hallway his classroom is in before spinning around on my heel.

Taking a peek through the velvet curtain in our suite reveals reporters at the ready. Cameras or portable recorders in hand even though it’ll only take us a few seconds to get to our waiting car. They seem to believe they’ll get to make some questions. They always seem to believe that, but the best they get is a picture of Dad smiling as he walks, his arm behind my back as if to make sure no one gets too close.

The reporters are lucky enough to get that really. Usually, royal advisers avoid the public media unless it’s planned. Dad just happens to be incredibly photogenic and friendly. He could be in the middle of eating the biggest hamburger available, entirely focused on it, and still manage to look frame worthy.

Doesn’t mean there aren’t times when he can’t look good from any angle though. When he’s being stupid for example.

I look over my shoulder to reassure that fact and find him sitting on the sofa, glaring up at Mom as she argues with him in hushed tones. Definitely not picture worthy. He takes a deep breath and looks away from her with irritation before replying back like she’s being irrational. She isn’t. I know that even though I’m not bothering to read their lips. More often than not, he’s in the wrong and just doesn’t want to listen.

One of the downsides of taking a gap year is that now I don’t have an excuse not to go with them on work-related trips, the kind of events where arguing happens easily. I hadn’t thought that through, forgetting how bad things can get quickly, but at least they can’t really yell right now. The risk of being heard by a passing guest in the hotel is too high to take. That’s good news for my eardrums since the volume can stay at a reasonable level and it's sufficient enough to drown their voices out.

Mom proceeds the discussion by pointing at Dad, jaw clenched. That’s the moment my sight drifts back to the window. Before I get too curious about what she’s saying and lower the volume of my music. When she looks that upset she tends to mention the saddest truths.

With some time I learned hearing them fight wasn’t that bad until they got to that breaking point. I can pretend not to care until then, even without headphones. When mom’s voice breaks and her eyes get glassy though, it’s time to push curiosity away. Push it away before you start thinking about how nice it can be when the three of us are in harmony. All jokes and games and laughs. When the broken pieces aren’t overwhelming. The normal family everyone thinks the Teasdale’s are.

That’s what really hurts.

I gulp the lump in my throat and try to focus on the music again, picturing a scene in one of the projects I have in my head at the moment. If only I ever got to writing an actual script instead of leaving it in my head.

Wilson has decided to ‘be more healthy’ and take morning walks with me on weekends now. I take that as his excuse to hang out more with me since I’m not in school anymore.

“So did you receive the letter from the one and only?” He says, completely changing our topic. I pretend not to be fazed by the fact that he’s changing our line of conversation to stop me from prying about this girl he’s probably crushing on in class.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Selection? Come on, Clove. Half the girls in class are sulking about what a bummer it is they’re not old enough to apply, while the other half is squealing about how they could get a chance to meet prince Nate.”

There’s a hint of annoyance in his tone I’d probably identify with if I were in his grade. Still, I elbow him with a smirk and ask, “In which group is our mystery girl?”

His cheeks heat up in a matter of seconds and he looks at the trees around the park. “I asked you first.”

“Well, I don’t really know. I hadn’t considered it.”

“Don’t you already know the dude and all?”

Yeah, before puberty hit hard.

“That’s not really an advantage. I stopped going on trips to the palace with my dad years ago and on important events, the prince is the center of attention so...”

“You stay away, yeah, yeah.”

I look at the neat envelope in my hands and then at my mother again.

“You really think it’s a good idea?” The suggestion is kind of unexpected as she sits on the chair in front of my desk and I get closer to the edge of my bed.

Her lips turn into a thin line at the question. “It could be interesting….”

“But this would mean leaving Columbia to go to Angeles... hypothetically.  If my name gets picked over the other million girls.”  

“I know.” She smiles a bit sadly at the thought, which isn’t a surprise and is why the suggestion strikes me as odd. My confusion is evident and she takes a deep breath. “It gives you a chance to leave the house earlier. No need to wait for college.”

My brows furrow. “What are you—”

“Your father and I have been arguing more lately, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

I scratch the back of my head awkwardly at that but nod.  

“I… I’m very sorry about that.” She adds with a sad glance at her hands, a sigh escaping her lips before she runs a hand through her hair. I tell her it’s fine. Sometimes it feels wrong to expect her to apologize when she doesn’t really plan for things to become a discussion anyway.

“It isn’t fine. Though it’s become inevitable lately.” She stares at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. “He’s stubborn and I’m done with trying to make him understand simple things, but sometimes I can’t let it slide or he’ll really mess up. Sadly, I can’t let that happen yet.”

I nod again. Whether he admits it to himself or not, Dad wouldn’t be what he is today without mom’s help over the years. “What does this have to do with me applying for the Selection though?”

“I’ll have to deal with your father for a while longer Clove… but you don’t need to be here in the heat of it all… The Selection is your early ticket out of this mess since you’re not leaving for college yet. Your chance to be independent. Or as independent as possible.” When I just stare at her she adds, “I know how overwhelming it can be sometimes when I… disagree on something with him. I know that it’s hard in the moment…” She reaches for my hand with a small smile. “I made a few mistakes and I have to deal with them now, but you don’t have to. You can live your life better than I did, find your own path and maybe even have some fun.”

“With the Selection?” I mumble, skeptically staring at the envelope once more. High-quality paper wasted on something I can’t even reuse.

“Why not? As long as you’re careful not to be fooled by pretty royal smiles...” She teases and I make a face. That earns a laugh from her. “Give it a shot if you want, that’s all I’m saying. You did always say you liked Angeles better and it’s free of your annoying parents.”

“Alright… I’ll think about it.”

And so I found myself filling a form the next day. Taking a picture like hundreds of other girls around the country. 

Maybe I’ll get to see how much Illea’s golden boy has changed.